Fleet Foxes: Helplessness Blues (Release Date: 5-3-2011)

        In all seriousness, I fully expect a massive overhaul of radio music in the next several years. With internet buzz yielding so many musical treasures, I can't help but think it's only going to become harder to keep good music down, and even more difficult to prop bad music up. Perhaps you think I'm being optimistic, and maybe I am, but consider just how different the broadcasted tunes of the 90's were from present day. They started with hard-hitting, grungy rock, and ended with uninspired, derivative snoozers. When the power-chorders started to lose their luster, the MCs took over, and still sit atop the throne today. But as long as every-other song is an auto-tune-stuffed mess, I can't help but think their number might be coming up soon, especially with indie-music's ever-increasing popularity. Last year, Vampire Weekend and Arcade Fire each saw their albums reach number one on the Billboard charts, their fantastic discs realizing the promise of the three albums that the two bands had previously released without quite as much spotlight on them (two for AF, one for VW). This year will see a few bands in similar situations, starting this Tuesday with Fleet Foxes' Helplessness Blues, the follow-up to their now canonical debut, Fleet Foxes, and first bid for real, lasting stardom.

        Despite their seemingly information-age free love of yesteryear imagery and pastural allusions, the band is not the least oblivious to their growing notoriety. While listening to Fleet Foxes was like hearing someone recite a long-forgotten tale, Helplessness Blues, as it's name would suggest, is quite a bit more world-weary. You hear this right out of the gate, as the spring-time channeling guitar strums of Montezuma lead into front-man Robin Pecknold's opening remark, "So now I am older/than my mother and father/when they had their daughter/Now what does that say about me?/Oh, how could I dream of/such a self-less and true love?/Could I wash my hands of/just looking out for me?" Right away we have more of Pecknold than their whole first disc contained, his words forming a mediation between the band's old-timey sounds, and the concerns that the man is presently saddled with. It's quite the tight-rope to walk, but it's one that Pecknold and company know just how to navigate, simultaneously declaring HB as both modern and classic in composition.

        Another thing becomes clear by the end of Montezuma; The band knows that they don't have to go big to impress. Where Fleet Foxes opener Sun It Rises built steadily to a guitar-driven grand finale, Montezuma never spikes in any real way. What might have seemed anti-climactic in less sure hands is lent an air of complete confidence, as if the band is well aware of just how good the song is already, and doesn't feel the need to tamper. Same goes for follow-up Bedouin Dress, another sunny harmonizer (from them? No Way!) which favors a whistle-ready, ear-worm of a fiddle part over any sort of bombastic conclusion. Where most band's consider getting bigger as their ticket to the big time, Helplessness Blues sees Fleet Foxes as meticulous craftsmen, as interested in not wasting as they are in impressing. Need evidence? Just check out Battery Kinzie, a tune whose warm rumble has little to no trouble in drawing out a contented grin on a listener's face, doing so in under three minutes, without any of the second-half heroics of Ragged Wood or Blue Ridge Mountains. It's a more simple musical incarnation of the group, coming to life just as their lyrics and concerns become more complex.

        There was a hint that this was coming way back when the band released the album's first single, the title-track Helplessness Blues. Though the song is presented in two parts, each is composed of some pretty simple stuff, the sturdy strum of the first half giving way to the spacious slow-down of the second. Once again, it's Pecknold's lyrics where the real complication lies, declaring his modern-day disillusionment in the opening stanza, "I was raised up believing/I was somehow unique/Like a snowflake/distinct among snowflakes/unique in each way you can see/And now after some thinking/I'd say I'd rather be/a functioning cog in some great machinery/Serving something beyond me/But I don't, I don't know what that will be/I'll get back to you someday soon/You will see."It's an awfully existential claim coming from a guy who names songs after mountain ranges more often than not, but the truth is that Pecknold is simply growing as a lyricist, able to put more of himself into each new song without ever crossing over into cloying territory. Pair that with his innate understanding of what words and rhymes will sound best when played off of each other ("The borrower's debt is the only regret of my youth," "In my dream, I could hardly contain it/All my life I will wait to attain it"), and you have the most well-written album of the year so far.

        Or maybe just the best album of 2011, period. It's awfully hard to think of anything that has held a candle to it so far, the band's sky-scrapping, four-part harmonies still every bit as elating as they were the first time around, still the most captivating vocalists in today's musical landscape. On first listen or two, one could be disappointed by the lack of any real single-ready, bread-winning track, but when your album literally only has one song that's anything less than great (The Shrine/An Argument, and even that tune has an absolutely stunning mid-section), stand-outs start to feel unnecessary. Instead, we're handed an album featuring many facets of a sound that is now defined: A Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young harkening number (The Plains/Bitter Dancer), a couple stripped-down, lovely ditties (Someone You'd Admire and Blue Spotted Tail), and one breezy, May getaway after another (Lorelai and Grown Ocean, among others). Those looking for the more mythological group presented by Fleet Foxes might be disappointed at first, but a few listens makes clear the album's impossibly high level of quality. It's no mistake that Helplessness Blues is being released just as the summer starts to roll around: It's an incredible outdoor listen, as warm, peaceful and assured as the season itself. So go out and get this album as soon as you can, or your friend who was just bumping Rihanna's newest might just beat you to it. They're going to be big; just watch.

Grade: A

Meek's Cutoff (Limited Release Date: 4-8-2011)

        I have a long standing opinion that the very worst movie is that which does not entertain. It's an opinion that ruffles a few feathers, mainly because it allows me to rank an occasional complete mess over something that is more polished, but easier to fall asleep to. But entertain is a loaded word, and sometimes more fast-paced products have no where near the intrigue of something more methodical in nature. But where my own philosophy manages to trip even me up is in the case if movies that make a point of displaying boredom and/or suffering (and their effects) by enacting them upon their audience. Over the last several years, i've witnessed no movie better to discuss in this vein than Meek's Cutoff.

        Bruce Greenwood plays the titular Stephen Meek, a guide who has been hired by three married couples to lead an Oregon Trail expedition in 1845. Despite Meek's claims of getting ever-closer to their destination, the group begins to lose faith in their eccentric, big-talking tour guide, and the despair of being lost in a desert wasteland begins to set in on them. Leading the dissention is Emily Tetherow (Michelle Williams), whose steely, stoic exterior thinly veils an ocean of contemplation. She and the other girls have no choice but put their trust in the collection of four men (Will Patton, Paul Dano, Neal Huff, and Greenwood) who hardly involve them in decision making at all. But when a sudden twist occurs in their journey, everyone must decide where their alliances lie.

        If you're the type that decries movies for being too languid in pace, you can literally just stop reading this right now. Meek's Cutoff's pace is glacial at its fastest, as Director Kelly Reichardt and Writer Jonathan Raymond do everything in their power to make you feel the boredom and isolation of the wagon train. With its largely uneventful plot, Meek's is just the kind of artfully-made movie that the less patient will dismiss as being boring, and never consider again. The mind tends to wander during the course of the movie, but in some strange way, that's almost fitting. Even when quiet stretches (and their are many, including a gorgeous opening sequence) send one's thoughts in random directions, the aesthetic of the movie is ever dominant. One can almost feel the dust in their nostrils, or the frustration of never actually knowing your degree of progress. While not exactly a rollicking good time at the flicks, the slow-motion trudge of Meek's Cutoff proves wholly effective in prying a physical reaction from its viewers, which is a pretty damn impressive feat.

        Though the movie is often too focused on its purely observational stance to develop characters with much depth, the actors on hand give performances that stick. The husband and wife chemistry between Patton and Williams is perfectly observed, as is Williams' general sense of stead-fast autonomy and determination. But it's Greenwood who really steals the picture, complete with showy, gravely accent and enormous, mountain-man beard. I understand that facial goes a long way in disguising an actor's identity, but Greenwood here is among the most unrecognizable that I've seen an actor in years, as invisible as Heath Ledger was in The Dark Knight, if not more so. 

        Though working in the industry for many years, this is Cinematographer Chris Blauvelt's first feature film, and it shows about zero percent of the time. Boldly shot in a 1.37:1 frame (a box with rounded corners that only occupies a slight majority of a present day movie screen, a la early films from the 20's-40's), Blauvelt's observation of endless, desolate plains is as beautiful as it is agonizing, and his use of light and the lack there of is nothing short of masterful. The score, written by Jeff Grace, harkens back to the screw-turning numbers of the similarly set There Will Be Blood, and just as in that movie, it's a constant reminder that there's more eeriness afoot than the minimal words of its characters would suggest. Meek's Cutoff is deeply steeped in analogy and philosophy, but to muddy the knowing ambiguity of the film with my own perceptions would be all wrong. What one sees in this tale of the lostness of yesteryear travelers is clearly meant to be up to the individual to decide, the boldest move in a movie full of them. I'm still working through the movie myself, and wouldn't be the least surprised if my final opinion of it turns out to be decidedly different than the one I've arrived at presently. Regardless, Meek's Cutoff is a fascinating watch whose implications will rattle around in your head for weeks to come. That is if you have the patience to take the journey.

Grade: B+

Super (Limited Release Date: 4-1-2011)

        For some strange reason, it seems that odd duck, genre specific movies sometimes come out in groups. Back in 2006, the movie world was treated to two magician-centric period dramas within months of one another (The Illusionist and The Prestige). Between 2007 and 2008, there was a string of four (FOUR?!?!) pregnancy-themed comedies (Waitress, Knocked Up, Juno, and Baby Mama). What else was a strange coincidence in 2008? Try two mall cop comedies (Paul Blart: Mall Cop and Observe and Report). Movies take far too long to make for each of these flicks to just be copying their predecessor. Besides, all similarities between Waitress and Knocked Up, or Paul Blart and Observe and Report, are only on a superficial, surface level. The same could be said for the current string of regular-guy-becomes-a-superhero movies. Depending on how you see it, the initiator of this trend could be Batman Begins, or even its much more popular sequel The Dark Knight. Keeping with the dark natured drama theme, 2009 brought us Watchmen, but what's perhaps more to the point is the collection of comedy-leaning flicks the sub-genre has produced of late. Last year, it was Kick-Ass and the virtually unattended Defendor, and here comes Super, the newest twisted take on what goes on in the mind of a mere mortal who dawns a costume to roams the streets at night.

        In his first starring roll since 2008's mega-flop The Rocker, Rainn Wilson plays Frank D'Arbo, a cook at a local cafe with a lot on his mind. In a pre-credits opening backstory, we learn that D'Arbo has essentially been miserable since birth, abused by family and peers alike for his awkward looks and personality. Despite these faults, D'Arbo has somehow managed to marry the beautiful Sarah (Liv Tyler), a fact that he essentially observes as being his existence's lone redeeming quality. But when she disappears with a beyond-smarmy drug-dealer (Kevin Bacon), Frank decides (through methods that I would never want to spoil) that he must become the costumed crime fighter Crimson Bolt. Dressed in the single ugliest superhero costume ever conceived, and armed with only a pipe-wrench, D'Arbo sets to the streets to warm up for his real bad-guy-busting adventure.

        After ducking out into TV after the poor performance of his hilarious, gross-out alien slug invasion  comedy Slither, James Gunn returns to the feature-film directing chair with a flick that seems intent on upping the ante of everything he's done before it. While Kick-Ass and Watchmen were both rated-R for good reason, their vulgarity pales in comparison to Super, a movie that seems to take pride in the fact that it covers all four inappropriate bases (language, sexuality, violence, and drug use) within its opening few minutes, not one left on the table before the opening credits roll. Some of this hard-hard R stuff really works, the majority of the film's awesomely off-putting moments occurring when Ellen Page enters the movie as Crimson Bolt's side-kick, Boltie. But it's just as often that the movie's explicit nature seems forced and smug, occasionally rubbing the audience's nose in ultra-violence as if to say, 'see, see, this is what violence really looks like.' I get the joke/message, and it's not an in-valuble one; It's just one that I've seen explained in far more graceful and clever fashion in the past, not to mention being tarnished by the tonally confusing comicbook-style word-bubbles that occasionally accompany it.

        While Gunn's screenplay can be kind of spotty here and there, his rapport with actors is in fine form. While Tyler doesn't have much to do besides act extremely drugged out, Bacon's baddie is deliciously over-the-top, all twitchy, mean-spirited, and gold-tooth sporting. As previously alluded, Page is stellar in the movie, used as the cast's lone connection to the ADD, mile-a-minute speakers that arrived a generation after them. And then there's poor Wilson, here giving us a twisted, damaged and ever-compelling maniac, and still being mistaken for The Office's Dwight Schrute. Unfortunately, Super is likely the final, damning proof that Wilson's face and voice will forever be likened with that iconic television character, though the deranged sympathy and disgust that he can pull from the audience at alternating turns is more than worth mention. It's the most inspired I've seen the guy since his famed sitcom's early days, and maybe even better. Super is a movie with some OK ideas, some good laughs, and some great performances. While its unlikely to make a house-hold name of either Gunn or Wilson, it's a worthy addition to a strange, ever-growing sub-genre. Just don't be surprised if you're feeling a bit queasy on your walk out of the theater.

Grade: B-

Explosions in the Sky: Take Care, Take Care, Take Care (Release Date: 4-26-2011)

        As long as I've known what the words, 'Post-Rock,' meant while seated together, Explosions in the Sky has been the figurehead of the genre. I'm fully aware that they are neither the first nor the last of their kind, but they were my first real exposure to the kind of long-playing instrumental rock that they and their genre contemporaries trade in, and remain my favorite example (Sorry, Mogwai fans). Their languid song structures and attention to detail have always ensured that each of their build-ups is just as captivating and gorgeous as the eventual climax. Whoever tapped them for the Friday Night Lights movie soundtrack was really on to something; This is cinematic music at its most effecting.

        The Texas four-piece has let up on next to none of their dramatic grandeur on their latest disc, Take Care, Take Care, Take Care, as their hearts still rest on their sleeves in often stunning fashion. Human Qualities, for instance, builds on a playful, nostalgic little rumble for over three minutes before its bass-drum led calm-before-the-storm. When the tune finally explodes, it's as cathartic and rapturous as always, crashing symbols and once twinkling guitars suddenly set to fiery bouts of passion. It's not music for those who need instant gratification; All but one of the album's six tracks is over seven minutes long, and tunes like Qualities wait up to 80% of their runtime before really reaching their climax. In other words, it's an Explosions in the Sky album.

        And therein lies the rub: While Take Care will serve as an undeniably good listen for those who like the band and their style of music, it's extraordinarily familiar at every turn. While Explosions has never been a band with a very wide range, past efforts have managed to distinguish themselves in one way or another. Their first proper studio release, Those Who Tell the Truth Shall Die, Those Who Tell the Truth Shall Live Forever, was a far dirtier version of the sound that they now inhabit, opener Greet Death ripe with the kind of extra-distorted guitar sound that the band now primarily shies away from. Follow-Up The Earth is Not a Cold Dead Place stretched out song structures, and focused more closely on beautiful melodies than the chaotic conclusions that they foretold. Finally, their last full-length, All of a Sudden I Miss Everyone, navigated the distance between the two on its way to being its own unique entity. Even their EP (The Rescue) and their collection of leftovers (How Strange, Innocence, recorded before Those Who Tell the Truth), had a sound world that, while clearly belonging to Explosions in the Sky, could rightfully be called their own. No such claim could be made of Take Care, Take Care, Take Care.

        Opening number Last Known Surroundings is epic and life-affirming, and had I never heard The Birth and the Death of Day, perhaps it would move me as much as the actual notes themselves should. But I have heard that song, and while Surroundings is a good tune in its own right, it lacks the sparkle of new inspiration that its predecessor has in spades. The same could be said for the romantic slow-build of Postcard From 1952, which would sound like quite an accomplishment if I hadn't already heard them do the same thing to astonishing emotional effect in the form of Your Hand in Mind. I understand that it's kind of faint praise, but that's all that I can really give Take Care, Take Care, Take Care. Like the newest releases from the aforementioned Mogwai and even Radiohead, the newest Explosions album is a good record that perfectly exemplifies how hard it is for a band whose been great for a long period of time to continue to shine and surprise. If you've never heard an Explosions album before, get ready to have your socks knocked off. Even if you have, this one is more than worthy of a few spins, it's just kind of hard to get excited about.

Grade: B

The Conspirator (Release Date: 4-15-2011)

        Congratulations! You’ve made it to a point in your career where your name really means something. So... now what? It’s a question that has plagued many an artist in the past, a tendency that shows no signs of slowing. Scorsese=Gangster Movie. Eastwood=Intimate Drama. The list goes on and on. It’s no wonder why people like Robert Redford, who find their names connoting quality and meaning, decide not to make movies quite as often as your average film-maker. Any movie by Robert Redford becomes more than just that; It’s a Robert Redford movie. So after the critical drubbing of his last political-posturing-by-way-of-a-movie Lions for Lambs, the man took what I only can imagine was a well-needed break. But now he’s back with The Conspirator, another flick that makes no buts about earnestly asking an audience to take a hard look at a current issue, and take a stand. In other words, it’s a Robert Redford movie.

        The Conspirator stars James McAvoy as Frederick Aiken, whom we first meet as a a soldier in the Northern Army during civil war time. After the battle is over, Aiken returns home to pursue a budding career as a lawyer, his best friend from the war (Justin Long) and his sweetheart (Alexis Bledel) still at his side. But Aiken’s run of good luck reaches its end when President Lincoln is suddenly assassinated, and Aiken’s boss and associate Reverdy Johnson (Tom Wilkinson) appoints him to the defense of a Ms. Mary Surratt (Robin Wright), a keeper of a boarding house suspected of contributing to the conspiracy to take Honest Abe’s life. Beyond begrudging at first, Aiken takes the case, but as more is revealed to him, his hard, northern heart begins to soften.

        The average American (myself previously included) knows this much; John Wilks Booth killed Abraham Lincoln, end of story. The Conspirator get points for observing a critical piece of American history that has been largely glossed over by text books and time, but The Conspirator’s aspirations are more far-reaching than a mere history lesson. Much of the movie is focused on just how stacked the deck was against Surratt from the start, the Union’s War Committee assigned to the case rather than a jury, all with an emphasis on delivering expedient justice to a wounded America. If the words, ‘Patriot Act,’ don’t immediately come to mind when you read this, then I would have to imagine that you call the bottom of a rock home, or at the very least haven’t seen the movie in question. The stance that the constitution should be observed regardless of circumstance strikes me as an agreeable one, but after being constantly force-feed political positions for over two hours, it’s kind of tough not to gag. Redford’s heart is, by my estimation, in the right place, but the political messages of The Conspirator have all the subtlety of a Looney Tunes episode.

        The actors don’t fair much better, McAvoy giving a semi-inspired performance that manages to far outshine the rest. Wright is steeped in full-on Virgin Mary symbolism, nearly always hooded, with rosary, and appearing to carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. Such an over-the-top character/performance likely has more to do with script and direction than actor, but that doesn’t make her ever-lasting torment any less cartoonish. Long and Bledel are in way over their heads, their lack of accents and olden-time mannerisms completely obliterating any credibility in as far as time and place are concerned. Even Wilkinson, whom I’ve never before seen give a poor performance, only sports an accent in every other scene, which proves both confusing and distracting.

        The art direction is also somewhat wayward, though not as lost as the thespians. Cameras and costumes alternate between attempted realism and striking stylization, never fully failing nor flying in either stance. The Conspirator is the kind of movie that many will see and rave about because it tells an unfamiliar story in a certain political climate. But no matter how much you love this film, The Conspirator loves itself more, its pride-filled grandstanding not once exiting the frame. I suppose you should bare affection towards your own work, but The Conspirator goes a step beyond that: It’s smug, self-satisfied, blunt, and, worst of all, not terribly engaging. Ask me to sign a petition to ensure civil liberty during times of war, and I’m there. Ask me to sit through The Conspirator again... not so much.

Grade: D+

Sidney Lumet: The Best Director You've Never Heard Of

        Eleven days ago, the film world was dealt a devastating blow in the passing of Sidney Lumet. To be sure, the, "Best Director You've Never Heard Of," tag that I'm posting this under is untrue for many people, but when the scope of the man's accomplishment is considered, one would have to think Lumet (pronounced Loo-Met) has every reason to be a house-hold name. One of the first Directors whose work I really gravitated towards when I started getting more seriously interested in movies, the news of Lumet's death has filled me with great sadness, but is also now providing me with an excuse to speak at length about one of my favorite film-makers. I'm no where near as qualified as some, having only seen six of his films, but I wanted to take the opportunity to discuss the pieces that I have witnessed, and also speak a bit about his various accomplishments and importance in the world of cinema. Here we go:

12 Angry Men (1957)
        Though Lumet had been working in television for some time before, 12 Angry Men marks his feature debut as a helms-man, and is widely considered one of the greatest first-movies ever made. Henry Fonda stars as Juror #8, one of the movie's titular 12 who are tasked with deciding whether a young man is guilty of murder, and the lone member who's not wholly convinced of the boy's guilt. Set almost entirely in a deliberation room, 12 Angry Men is an early look at Lumet's mastery of filming in tight spaces, neither his plot nor his visuals ever becoming dull despite never changing locations. The movie could genuinely be described as inspirational, a term that has been re-appropriated in our modern world to mean cheesy, predictable, and often founded on White Guilt. 12 Angry Men is none of these things: It's the simple, stripped down story of one man who believes that everyone deserves a chance, and does everything in his power to ensure that the accused gets one. Nominated for Best Picture, Best Director, and Best Adapted Screenplay, 12 Angry Men would go home empty handed on Oscar night (Losing each award to the similarly sensational The Bridge on the River Kwai), but people took notice then, and still have yet to forget. The film currently sits at #6 on Internet Movie Data Base's Top 250 movies of all-time as voted by users, a whopping twenty two slots ahead of the next highest-rated, English-language movie from the 1950's (Rear Window).

Serpico (1973)
        If you're tired of the one-cop-against-the-world cropping up in every movie, Sidney Lumet's right around the first person you should blame. Serpico is the earliest example of this that I've seen, wherein Al Pacino stars as the movie's namesake, an honest NYC cop who goes under-cover and catches the baddies only to realize that his fellow officers are no less corrupt than the crooks he sets to capturing. Released one year after The Godfather and the same year as Martin Scorsese's Mean Streets (the first of his movies to delve into the world of crime and corruption that would eventually make him famous), Serpico sits at the forefront of the 70's fascination with the seedy under-bellies of big cities, not to mention inspiring a spin-off TV show back when that wasn't just common. Pacino earned only his second Oscar nomination for the role, and first in a leading roll, though the film would lose that award, along with its other bid, Best Adapted Screenplay.

Dog Day Afternoon (1975)
        Returning to the world of tight spaces that made him famous, Dog Day Afternoon again stars Pacino as real-life small-time bank robber Sonny Wortzik. After a hiccup or two disrupts their plans, Sonny and his partner Sal (John Cazale) find themselves surrounded by police officers, and engage in a stand-off that lasts all day, a media frenzy revealing things about the crooks' past all the while. Presently my second favorite Lumet movie, DDA is tense and sweat inducing, but it also boasts of style, humor, and an incredible amount of empathy for its lead characters. The movie would gather six Academy Award nominations, winning just one (Best Original Screenplay), but the way that the movie has stood the test of time says far more than a few 70's voters ever could. Pacino's performance is widely considered to not only be one of his greatest achievements, but also stands as a mainstay on every Best Performances Ever list that you will ever come across (Just try Googling one that doesn't name it, I dare you). The frequency of its appearances on said countdowns is only matched by the likes of Meryl Streep in Sophie's Choice, Peter O'Toole in Lawrence of Arabia, and (most importantly) Marlon Brando in On the Waterfront. What's more, writing about the movie provides me with a perfect platform to rattle off my favorite movie statistic of all time: DDA stands as Cazale's fourth feature film appearance, and though he would only get to be in one more before his untimely death at the age of 42, each of the five movies that have his name in the credits received an Oscar nomination for Best Picture. How's that for choosing your roles?

Network (1976)
        My favorite work in the Lumet canon, and not to mention one of the best movies from the greatest decade that American Cinema has yet to see, I can say without the least bit of hyperbole that Network is far and away the most prophetic movie I've ever seen. Set in the world of 1970's television, Peter Finch stars as Howard Beale, a long-time anchor man who starts to lose it in his old age. When his un-scriped ramblings about a decaying world garner a huge spike in viewership, power-driven career woman Diana Christensen (Faye Dunaway) over-halls the whole network in his image, opting for shocking, minimally scripted programming while the other stations stick with standard fare. The reflections of both The Daily Show and Reality TV as a whole are clear to see, as the movie is mind-blowingly perceptive of the impending change in how people would soon prefer their media. The movie would grab an massive ten Oscar nominations, including an astounding five acting nods, including three victories (Finch, Dunaway, and Beatrice Straight for Supporting Actress... and yes, that means it only lost in one acting category). Much like Pacino's Serpico performance, scribe Paddy Chayefsky's script is right at the summit of every Best Screenplays Ever list that the internet can dream up, its pseudo-dystopia clearly inspiring any number of time-and-place critics that came afterwards.

The Verdict (1982)
        This influential courtroom drama stars Paul Newman as Frank Galvin, a hard-drinking, down-on-his-luck lawyer who takes on a negligence case against a hospital who's beyond equip to fight him in court. A character study more so than a morality tale, Lumet transposes his grainy 70's style to a new decade in order to show the motivations and demons behind Galvin's every move. While not the ground-breaker than many of his early works still stand as, The Verdict is supremely well acted, expertly constructed, and gripping and unpredictable to the very end. Newman is so good at playing past his prime that I set to wondering if this had been his last nominated performance. Turns out the guy had three more in him, winning his first acting Oscar only a year after receiving one for lifetime achievement.

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead... (2007)
        Yes, you read that right: At the ripe old age of 84, Lumet directed his last movie, exactly fifty years after he helmed his first. But while most directors at that age tend to look for more quiet and/or uplifting stories to tell, BtDKYD is nothing of the sort. Ethan Hawke and Philip Seymour Hoffman star as a couple of struggling brothers who decide to rob their parents' jewelry store for some extra cash. Things go awry, and their father (Albert Finney) and mutual squeeze (Marisa Tomei) get caught in the crossfire. Chuck-full of violence, swearing, and a slew of age-defying, eye-popping, and just plain super-smokin' nude scenes featuring Tomei, it's about the last think that you'd expect a human in their ninth decade of life to be interested in, but his vitality is all over the thing. As searingly intense as it is morally ambiguous, The Devil is ample proof that Lumet would never let a silly thing like age effect his directorial choices, or the kinetic, electric feeling of his work.




        As I said earlier, I am no where near as qualified to speak on Mr. Lumet as I wish that I was, but the head-spinning prolificness of the man makes it nearly impossible to be a genuine expert. Not counting his television or documentary work, Lumet directed a grand total of forty-three movies during his fifty year career. This absurd level of productivity is said to bring down the overall quality of his filmography, keeping him off the short list of best 70's directors where he so clearly belongs. Stacking Lumet's best movies right next to those of Scorsese, Coppola, and Kubrick reveals a shockingly slight discrepancy, if any at all. Though the only Oscar that Lumet himself ever took home was for Lifetime Achievement, the man guided four performers to statuettes, and more importantly, directed a staggering total of eighteen nominated performances. If you're looking to study up (and obviously, I'd say you should), twelve of his films are available on Netflix instant watch as of this posting, including each film listed above beside 12 Angry Men and Serpico. So next time you're thinking about the film-making greats (or looking for a classic to catch up on), don't forget Lumet. The film world never will.

Scream 4 (Release Date: 4-15-2011)

        In a world riddled with sequel after sequel, Scream 4 actually stands as something slightly unique. Scream 3 was released back in 2000, the gap between the two being far greater than that of most sequels, but not nearly as long as many long-belated forth entries (Indiana Jones, Star Wars, etc.). The unfamiliar gap between the movies sees Scream 4 walking a tight-rope strung up between genuine sequel and reboot. And while most film series struggle through three chapters, let alone four, the horror genre seems to be a bit of an outlier. Four movies might be kind of a lot, but it's nothing compared to seven (Saw), nine (A Nightmare on Elm Street), ten (Halloween), or twelve (Friday the 13th). In other words, Scream 4 deserves its existence; It's an interesting property at an intriguing point in time, and by genre standards, its a far cry from done to death. Now all it needs to do is be good.

        The same eleven years that have transpired in real life since Scream 3 have passed in the lives of Sidney, Dewey, and Gail. The later two (David Arquette and Courteney Cox, respectively) are now happily married, Dewey the Woodsboro Chief-of-Police, Gail the author of a famous series of books about the Ghostface murders. Sidney (Neve Campbell) has become an author as well, and as the movie opens, she is rounding out the promotional tour for her new self-help novel in the small town that started it all. Unfortunately for Sidney, she is the only person in the universe that isn't aware of the fact that her coming to Woodsboro necessitates that some new sicko dawn the mask, and this time is no different. A string of brutal stabbings is set into motion, and it's up to Dewey and Gail to stop the sleigher before he finally gets to Sidney and the unsuspecting high schoolers in the area (Emma Roberts and Hayden Panettiere, among others).

        Without spoiling too much, Scream 4 begins with an extended sequence that wholly and completely obliterates any notion that the movie doesn't know exactly what it is. The notions of repetition, overkill, torture porn vs. suspense scares, and filmic and/or sequel rules are all put out into the open, no holds barred. The Scream series has always been pretty meta, commenting on exactly what it is smack dab in the middle of its runtime, but the latest entry sees this tendency to new heights that one might not have thought possible. On one hand, this lends it with a particularly accomplished B-movie feel, serving as a steady safe-guard against the rolling of eyes. On the other, it just about eliminates any sense of fear or dread through-out the movie. This is not so much a critic as an observation; the movie doesn't really even try to scare its viewers, which is a shame. The best moments of the original series were all about messing with expectations, hiding wether each new scene was designed to elicit laughs or shouts until the last possible moment. This one functions almost exclusively in the realms of comedy and parody.

        There's real no point in discussing the performances of the original three members of the cast. If you've seen any of the originals, you know exactly how their characters act and react, and nothing at all has changed (and if you haven't seen the originals, you would be wise to avoid Scream 4's avalanche of self-reference). The movie's teens, lambs to the slaughter as always, also give familiar turns, Erik Knudsen and Rory Culkin stepping into the kids-who-describe-the-rules-of-horror-movies roles with little effort, Panettiere playing spoiled, horny high schooler with the greatest of ease. When the more dramatic/defining moments come to pass, Roberts flounders more than the rest, but for a movie of its type, Scream 4 boasts of an ensemble found in campy paradise.

        What makes Scream 4 a somewhat difficult movie to review is the fact that, outside of its increased levels of humor and self-awareness, it's a movie that we've all seen already. While many sequels and reboots tend to re-trace the steps of their predecessors, S4 often borders on being a remake of the original, individual scenes and characters directly lifted from one movie to another, the story arch hitting each and every single one of the same beats. The comedic aspects make it seem like a take-down more often than not, and one wonders if there isn't a little bit of frustration behind the film's endless pleas that we understand Scream 4 as a trivial thing, and consequently treat it as such. Trust me, you won't have any trouble obliging. Perhaps more so in the case of this movie than any other that I have reviewed before it, my recommendation all comes down to your desires. If you're pining for another ride on the Scream machine, you won't be disappointed. If you're wavering, I'd save my money.

Grade: C+