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May 2008

Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead

Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead Philip Seymour Hoffman, Ethan Hawke, Albert Finney, Marisa Tomei 4 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

“Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead” opens with one of the most disturbing scenes I’ve ever witnessed (and I’ve seen “Caligula”). Blotchy, bloated Phillip Seymour Hoffman, playing an emotionally bankrupt corporate accountant, is having sweaty monkey sex with Marisa “oh my” Tomei (who plays Gina, his love-starved wife) in a filmy bedroom in Rio. Tomei’s obviously been to the gym more recently than Phil. It’s like watching W.C. Fields ravage Ava Gardiner. It’s very, very wrong, and it’ll make you feel like you’re going to need a shower with a high pressure hose and an exorcism in order to expunge the memory from your mind. The next time someone says there ought to be a more proportional split in screen nudity between men and women, remember this scene. Fortunately the film takes a quantum leap in quality and you’re spared further views of Hoffman’s pasty backside.

“Devil” is about money and the despair its pursuit can cause. Hoffman, his first-rate acting chops on display, plays larcenous, trapped Andy Hanson. Andy’s been judiciously dipping in his company’s till in order to maintain his Beemer lifestyle, placate Gina, and drug his troubles away. But now his cooked books are about to come to a boil. He needs some long green to replace what he’s swindled before the auditors figure out how much is missing. He brainstorms a plan to rob a jewelry store, commandeering Hank, his luckless, alimony delinquent brother (a smudgy, beaten down Ethan Hawke), to pull the job. There’s one catch – the store is owned by their parents.

Andy assures his brother that no one will get hurt – the jewels are insured and Doris, the store manager, won’t put up a fight to protect baubles she doesn’t own. Guilt ridden, cowardly and nervous, Hank can’t face the prospect of ripping off his parents. So he hires a pro, ruthless ruffian Bobby Lasorda (despicably on target bad boy Bryan F. O’Byrne), to do the deed. But Doris has taken the day off, and the Hanson’s mom, Nanette (charming character actress Rosemary Harris), is manning the cash register. Nanette’s more than willing to protect what’s hers, whipping out a gun as Lasorda scrambles for the door. Nanette plugs Lasorda and he returns fire, dropping Mrs. H. But mom’s not finished. Before passing out, Nanette fires a fatal last fusillade, putting an end to Lasorda’s criminal career. When Lasorda’s dead carcass crashes through the front door and hits the pavement, the brother’s plans for an infusion of quick cash die with him.

The brothers have to hope that Charles, their grief stricken father (the always interesting Albert Finney), can’t connect the dots before they can cover their tracks. Charles has to decide whether to pull the plug on Nanette, the family’s lynch pin and the only person he truly loves. With his wife gone but certainly not forgotten, Charles has to face his sons without Nanette’s motherly smoke screen. He’s had little to do with Andy, his successful son, who harbors a grudge against his father for a lifetime of neglect. And Charles treats his younger son as the hopeless failure he believes he is.

The brothers ignore the potentially disastrous outcome headed their way. Hank takes shelter in Gina’s arms, while Andy goes to his drug dealer’s swanky apartment to anesthetize himself:

Hank (to himself): I’m not the sum of my parts. All of my parts don’t add up to one. Whatever one means, I guess.

Dealer: Get a shrink or a wife.

Hank: I’ve got a wife.

Dealer: Then get a shrink.

The brothers façade as dutiful mourning sons begins to crumble when Bobby Lasorda’s widow Chris (tough chick Alleska Palladino), and her thuggish Marx Brothers obsessed sibling Dex (lantern jawed Michael Shannon), track down Hank and deliver an
ultimatum -- give us $10,000 or we’ll go to the police. Andy gets an equally distressing message from his office -- the auditors want to discuss the serious discrepancies in his records. Unbeknownst to the brothers, William, an embittered rival jeweler (knarly Michael Cimino), has shown Charles proof of his sons’ involvement in the robbery. William has spent years harboring his resentment for Charles, much in the same way Charles’ sons deplore the way he’s treated them: “What some people will do for money…Well now you know the world is an evil place, Charlie,” William says. “Some of us make a living off of that…and others get destroyed.”

Cornered, Andy comes up another desperate, daring robbery. The plan will either rescue the two brothers, or put them on the fast track to the state pen.

“Devil” employs the “Pulp Fiction” method of storytelling, using flashbacks to great effect. The story and aftermath of the robbery is told and retold through Andy, Hank, and Charles’ points of view, in sections titled “Andy: Four Days Before the Robbery,” or “Charles: One Week After the Robbery,” etc… Seemingly insignificant clues and events, such as the broken glass outside of Hank’s apartment, or the identity of Gina’s mysterious caller after her mother-in-law’s funeral, are revealed in enlightening flashbacks, giving the viewer the satisfaction that a tragic puzzle is slowly being pieced together and their questions are being answered. (This movie is the anti-“Lost!”)

“Devil” was directed by Sidney Lumet, who’s been in the biz for 50 years and has helmed cinematic classics such as “12 Angry Men” (the original, with Henry Fonda, Lee J. Cobb and Ed Begley, Sr.), “Serpico,” and “Dog Dew Afternoon,” (okay, “Dog Day Afternoon”). But Lumet is no old school moustache Pete. He’s gamely embraced today’s technology and shot “Devil” in Hi-Def.

Phillip Seymour Hoffman is a great character actor, but he’s not a leading man, and certainly not a romantic one. The way the script pans out, Hoffman doesn’t have to carry the full weight of a marquee attraction; the action gets divided almost evenly between Hoffman, Ethan Hawke and Albert Finney. Hoffman marshals his skills at crucial moments in the film. Initially his character is an unflappable, confident mastermind who’s got every move figured out. But as the mistakes mount, Hoffman’s Andy turns into the Dutch boy desperately trying to plug a dozen leaks in the dyke with ten fingers. At one point his body shakes with frustration as he attempts to control his anger to keep from braining his inept brother. I’ve seen that type of reaction, inspired it in others, and felt it myself. Hoffman’s character is all about self-control, and when his life begins to fall apart, the only thing he has left to control is his emotions. When knows he can’t control himself anymore, he’s doomed. His crying, drooling melt down behind the wheel with Tomei, in which his pent up anger and hurt over his father’s neglect spews from every pore, is masterful.

Ethan Hawke also gives an excellent performance as Andy’s sad sack, spineless younger brother. The only thing that doesn’t ring true is seeing Hoffman and Hawke play characters that are the opposite of what we’ve come to expect from them. Hoffman is the rock (at least for most of the film), the one with Antarctic ice running through his veins. Hawke is a sheepish, skittish screw up. Based on their resumes and physiques, if I had written the script their roles would have been reversed. But you won’t be disappointed watching these two talented actors challenge themselves by going against type.

On the other hand, Marisa Tomei is so miscast as Gina Hanson, I had to wonder if she’s as airheaded as the character she plays. (The extras show she clearly is not.) I’ve been giving Tomei a pass ever since “My Cousin Vinny,” in which she displayed the comedic timing of Lucille Ball and the wrecking ball lingo of Leo Gorcey. But that was eons ago. Tomei’s credible output since then has been zilch. I kept waiting for her neglected Gina to display a modicum of intelligence, grow, regress or collapse in the way the other characters did, but she’s sent packing before the film’s over, with the indication that only her location will change. Tomei basically plays a sex object. Great for me, maybe bad for you. She spends most of her screen time topless – wondering if her love life is going to get better. (Again, great for me, maybe bad for you.) We never really learn what’s going on in her empty head, a fault of the script, not Tomei, but c’mon, Marisa, you really need to tend to your career. If nothing else, I really hope you got a sizeable bonus for making Phillip Seymour Hoffman look like Ron Jeremy.

Albert Finney can add his portrayal of Charles to his long and impressive list of memorable characters. Finney, proud but beaten down (particularly after the death of his beloved spouse), makes a very believable tough-love dad. He’s got his physical ills – his bad vision requires him to take an eye test at the DMV the day his store is robbed and his wife is shot. Finney, rheumy-eyed and bent, harnesses his character’s old school stoic exterior as he tries to make sense of Nanette’s death and still give the impression he’s in control of his emotions (unlike his eldest son, he is). He’s poured all of his energy into his business. As a result he’s a dispassionate stranger to his first son, and a cruel sadist in the eyes of his second boy, whom he refers to as “a baby.” After Nanette’s funeral, he makes an awkward attempt to reconcile with Andy, who’s too embittered from years of neglect and abuse to forgive him “just like that.”

Charles: I’m sorry I wasn’t able to be the father you wanted. But I thought it would
help you be better than me.

Andy: I’m sorry for not being the son you wanted me to be.

Charles: Hank needed us more.

Andy: I never felt like I was part of the club. The beautiful birds of a feather. You sure I’m your son?

Charles’ response demonstrates that despite finally breaking through and having a heart to heart discussion with Andy, he still feels he doesn’t have to justify his actions and won’t stand still for any criticism.

Finney’s transformation from grieving husband to vengeful sleuth gives the film’s credibility a boost at a time when Hoffman and Hawke’s characters debilitate into desperate, doomed dunderheads. Charles becomes the moral center in a film crammed with broken, dysfunctional characters, so much so, that even his cold-hearted solution to his son’s problems seems like a righteous, justifiable act.

Two other actors give dead-on performances. Amy Ryan, phenomenal as hard living Helene McReady in “Gone Baby Gone,” plays Hank’s fed up, tough-as-a-rusty-nail ex-wife, Martha. When Hank comes to her looking to borrow $10,000 to save his hide, Martha reminds him he couldn’t even come up with $110 for their daughter’s field trip, and says the next time he shows up it had better be to pay the back alimony he owes her. She’s harsh, but believable, and Ryan once again displays her ability to play a strong willed woman.

I’m not sure who plays Andy’s Asian-American drug dealer – he doesn’t appear to have a name or I flat out missed it (!), but he’s worth paying attention to in his three brief appearances. His gaunt, fey body language and shockingly red hair gives him the type of look David Bowie paraded during his “thin white duke” period, but the writers fortify the dealer’s his sickly visage by giving him Don Rickles’ rapier wit.

Devilish Extras

The movie’s extras are plentiful and enticing, including the theatrical trailer, audio commentary by Sidney Lumet, Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Ethan Hawke, and the feature “Directed by Sidney Lumet: How the Devil Was Made.” Its obvious Lumet assembled an intelligent and talented cast who fed off of his meticulous style of film making. The cast rehearsed for two weeks before shooting, giving them the opportunity to create, learn and absorb every facet of their characters personalities. “I felt like the film was already made when we started shooting,” comments Hawke. In addition to praising Hi-Def film, Lumet offers an insight on how he could get the audience to focus on the actor’s performances: “I purposely shot on forgettable sets,” he says, “a shopping mall, Hawke’s bland apartment. The only places that are visual are the apartment in Rio and the drug dealer’s apartment…Which is what Andy craves.”

“Devil” isn’t for those of you with oedipal complexes, or anyone uncomfortable with matricide, drug use and especially anyone unprepared for the sight of Phillip Seymour Hoffman in the buff. But with top rate performances, dripping irony, and an ending that serve up generous portions of just deserts, you’ll have a devil of a time.

Posted May 29, 2008 Permalink

September Dawn

September Dawn Jon Voight, Trent Ford Christians and Lions - 2.5 out of 5 stars Mormons - 1 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

If ye be of the Mormon faith you’ll undoubtedly be offended by “September Dawn,” a 2007 film based on the September 11, 1857 Mountain Meadows Massacre in Utah. The film gives a fictionalized/historical account of a little known incident in which 140 men, women, and children paid the ultimate price for trespassing.

The plot takes a few liberties with the actual events in order to support a fictional love story between emigrant ingénue Emily Hudson (corn-fed Tamara Hope, looking as if she stepped out of an Eddie Bauer catalogue), and teenage mutant Mormon heart throb Jonathan Samuelson (prairie Tarzan Trent Ford). A wagon train bound for California led by Captain Alexander Fancher (comfortable cowboy Shaun Johnston), mosies into a fertile valley belonging to the Mormon Church. The acreage is ruled by Bishop Jacob Samuelson (Jon Voight, as slithery as a snake in Eden. Oops wrong denomination). Fancher asks the Bishop if his 200 head of cattle and expensive horses can graze for a spell. In the tradition of keeping one’s enemies close, Samuelson, who harbors a hatred of gentiles, seemingly extends his hand in friendship, proving once again that guys with chin beards and no moustaches not only look creepy, they are creepy. Samuelson charges his eldest son, Jonathan, with the task of keeping an eye on the emigrant’s mares, but the only Philly he’s interested in is young Emily. The two quickly fall in love, make plans to marry and head to Californee.

When Samuelson tells head Mormon Brigham Young he has a rich wagon train in his clutches, yammering Young sharpens his smite stick for a holy war. Young’s been waging a war of ideologies with the government, which frowns on the head Mormon having 27 wives and 57 children. (Although I think the Beatle haircut Stamp sports should have been a sticking point too.) Tired of talk, and if you believe the film’s point of view, as unhinged as a shutter in a Kansas tornado, Young declares marshal law: “I am the voice of God, and anyone who doesn’t like it will be hewn down. God has revealed to me that I have the right to call down curses on anyone who invades our lands, and I curse the gentiles.” I’ve never been hewn, but I could tell from Young’s demonstrative tone he wasn’t going to organize a barn dance to welcome Fancher and friends to the back forty.

Jacob Samuelson has his own reason for wanting to eliminate the emigrants. They’re from Missouri, the same state of origin as the people who murdered John Smith (charismatic Dean Cain, perforated in a flashback). Smith was a Mormon preacher deemed a prophet who also happened to be Samuelson’s mentor.

Young sends his adopted son, John D. Lee (“Lost” alumni Jon Gries, in grim reaper mode), and Samuelson to try and convince the Pawnee Indians to join them in an attack on “God’s enemies.” The fate of Fancher and his frontier folk may be sealed, but what of the two young lovers? Will Emily’s bones bleach in the sun alongside her fellow travelers? Or will Jonathan get to play connect the dots with her freckles as the couple sires religiously conflicted children? The film’s opening offers a hint. Hopefully, despite the numbing romantic plot, you’ll still have enough cognitive powers to follow the events leading up to the climatic confrontation between Lee’s Mormon militia and Fancher’s unsettled settlers.

Even a film as one-sided as “September Dawn” could have been more entertaining if the younger members of the cast had paid more attention in drama class. Square-jawed, steely-eyed Jon Voight is as vengeful as a plucked eagle as Jacob Samuelson. You don’t want to turn your back on this man in black when he calls for a blood atonement (the equivalent of putting a hit on everyone who isn’t a Mormon). Voight could have played Samuelson completely wild-eyed and over the top – instead he turns the Bishop into a cool, calculating autocrat who cares deeply for his sons and his brethren, but will stop at nothing to see that the edicts of his prophets are followed without exception. It’s interesting to see how soft spoken Jon Voight is in the extras, because he’s so convincing as a Mormon Joe Stalin you’d think twice about saying hello to him on the street.

With a Lincoln-esque beard and bare upper lip, Terrance Stamp may look like he belongs on a Smith Brothers cough drop box, but his portrayal of Brigham Young is nothing to sneeze at. Stamp probably had the time of his life playing the grim, frowning leader of the Mormons, and at times does such a commendable job of making Young sound as if his sanity’s bolted the corral and he’s ready for a butter churned tranquilizer cocktail. Although the events leading up the massacre make Young look like a frothing fanatic, Stamp is able to hammer home his character’s singular belief that the Mormon way of life must be preserved, even if means going to war with the rest of the country. Stamp may look like Moe Howard with a beard, but he shows Young is no stooge when it comes to motivating his followers, and he’s skilled at flashing his thousand yard blue-eyed stare at the camera while quoting some of Young’s actual speeches. Most of the time his stare resembles the same death-dealing crazy as a loon expression you’ve seen painted on abolitionist John Brown in history books, which is bound to cheese off today’s practicing Mormons who revere Young as a dedicated, benevolent saint.

Stamp and Voight’s characters come off as unrepentant, fanatical villains who are blind to their heinous deeds, and worse, they’re wrong. Jon Gries (John D. Lee, the local authority who actually carried out the massacre), is painted as a man with a conscience rather than a storm trooper blindly following orders. The fact he carries out Young’s edict demonstrates that faith can indeed be blind and often trumps guilt. Lee knows what he’s about to do is wrong -- his pained expressions and initial resistance are proof – yet he wrestles his doubts to the ground and completes his mission. When Gries grimaces, pointing his gun at Shaun Johnston (Captain Fancher), and quotes Lee’s actual
words – “Mormons do your duty!” – you can see and feel the anguish in his eyes. Gries doesn’t have a lot of screen time, but he’s able to give his character emotional depth. Young and Samuelson live a black and white existence – it’s the Mormon way or no way. Lee sees the shades of grey in between and he has to struggle to keep his doubts from tearing him apart.

The leads, too handsome Trent Ford (Jonathan) and comely Tamara Hope (Emily), are asked to carry a wagonload of weight by making the Romeo and Juliet on the lone prairie love story believable. From the moment Jon boy nearly falls out of his saddle gawking at Emily, you know they’ll be on each other like flies on a pasture patty. The predictable plot puts a lot of groan worthy lines in the mouths of the two young actors:

Emily: I didn’t think you were coming to meet me.
Jonathan: I’ll always come back to you. No one, nothing, will come between us.

Ford can ride (or at least his stunt double can), but he can’t act. This prairie Patrick Swayze goes hoarse halfway through the picture as he screams out in defiance of the Mormon counsel’s decision to save the emigrants souls by helping them cast off their mortal coils. What, somebody could get the kid something to drink so he could irrigate his vocal chords? There’s more hope for Tamara, only because the script makes the Mormons look like puppets in bizarro world. Hope is a bit more scrubbed and walkway ready than the other gals in the wagon train – and also she appears to be the only teenager in the whole group. The other women are either babies, pre-teens, or tired looking women holding babies. Samuelson raises a real magilla over Lolita Davidovich’s character, Nancy Dunlop, because she wears pants and carries a gun. Despite her strength of character, and because of it, you know Davidovich’s character is going to exit the movie in a wrath of God manner, and that’s what’s wrong with “September Dawn.” This oater is predictable as Marshall Matt Dillon winning a showdown.

The historical liberties are balanced by the plot’s overall accuracy. Voight’s Bishop Samuelson is a composite of several members of the church council; Young’s documents and testimony by John D. Lee indicate he made contact with Colonel (not Captain) Fancher and carried out the Mormon’s vengeance. Young testified he knew nothing of any plans to harm Fancher and his people, effectively throwing Lee under the wagon. Lee was the only person held accountable and his fate is accurately portrayed in the film.

More Massacres…The Extras

“September Dawn” clubs its way through two extra features that are as entertaining and informative as the film: “Descendants: Remembering the Tragedy,” and “True Events: A Historical Perspective.”

Present day kin of the Fancher wagon train are interviewed in “Descendants,” including Bob Fancher and Cheri Walker Baker, whose relatives led the ill-fated trip. Needless to say, time has not healed their wounds. Historian Will Bagley adds factual meat to the Mormon bashing, concluding: “The Mormon Church can never shake Mountain Meadows until it owns up to it.”

“True Events” features further comments from Bagley, writer Carol Wong Schulter, and cast members Voight, Stamp, Davidovich, Cain and Greis. Schulter draws a parallel between the massacre and today’s global picture: “It seemed to me that this was an event that not many people had heard of…There are relevant scenes that relate to today’s world. Scenes that are happening in mosques today.”

You don’t have to know anything about the real massacre to know how “September Dawn” is going to turn out…The settlers are gonna get their acres of land alright, they’re just gonna be spread all over it. We all knew from the start how “Titanic” was going to end – big ship hits big iceberg – big trouble, lotsa people die – yet the writers made the known facts more interesting by getting into the heads of the characters and somehow making a wholly unbelievable love story attractive. With “September Dawn” writers Christopher Cain and Carol Wong Schulter even had the advantage of telling a story few people had heard about. They not only turn the villains into parable spitting fanatics, they rip off Shakespeare’s best known plot, slap some mud on it and stick their hands out waiting for their Oscar. It don’t work that way, pardner. When Jon Voight, Terrance Stamp and Jon Gries are on the screen, “September Dawn” rises toward the high sierra into the realm of good storytelling and fine acting. It sinks into the suet whenever the junior league actors have to try and deal with a pedestrian love story that’s about as pretty as a three-legged pig at a county fair. For the most part, “September Dawn” is a real massacre.

Posted May 29, 2008 Permalink

Resurrecting the Champ

Resurrecting the Champ Samuel L. Jackson, Teri Hatcher Split decision - 3 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

Fight films are as diverse and as hit or miss as real life boxers. Some films, like the feel good underdog story of “Rocky,” float like a butterfly and sting like a bee. Others bloat like a butterball and sting like a flea, such as Barbara Steisand’s punchless pugilistic spoof “The Main Event.” Then there are gritty, fact-based dramas like “The Harder They Fall,” “The Great White Hope,” and “Raging Bull,” films that successfully mix the brutality of the sport with the realities of life. “Resurrecting the Champ” mixes fiction with fact and is more pretender than contender, but it features a knockout performance by Samuel L. Jackson that deserves a ringside seat.

The son of a legendary radio personality, Denver Times sports reporter Erik Kernan (a bland Josh Hartnett), has an impressive pedigree, but lacks a killer’s instinct in his own articles, so much so that his editor, Ralph Metz (an equally nondescript Alan Alda) says, “I forget your pieces while I’m reading them. A lot of typing, not much writing.”

Erik is similarly floundering in his role as father to his adorning son, Teddy (annoying moppet Dakota Goyo), lying that he knows celebrities like John Elway in order to win his love. He’s already failed as a husband. His inability to deal with his wife’s success as one of the paper’s most respected reporters has left them living under separate roofs. Having taken too many of life’s low blows, Erik knows he needs a haymaker to save his family and career.

His chance at the big time arrives in the person of a man everyone calls “Champ” (Samuel L. Jackson, giving a heavyweight performance). When they first meet, Erik chases away a group of drunken teens beating on the dreadlocked, homeless old man. “Everybody likes to beat the champ,” he says. Erik discovers the man was once a professional boxer, “Battlin’” Bob Satterfield (“Number three in the world”), who’s long believed dead. Satterfield was a crowd-pleasing, bruising boxer in the 50s who fought Ezzard Charles, Jake LaMotta, and Floyd Patterson. The three aforementioned boxers were champions. Despite being called “Champ,” Satterfield never got a chance to fight for the heavyweight title. One of the hardest punchers to ever step into the ring – he was nicknamed the “Chicago Sleep Inducer,” and was said to have embalming fluid in either hand. But Satterfield had a glass jaw…. It was chill-or-be-chilled. Every time Satterfield got close to a title shot he’d lose a big fight in entertaining fashion. A detached retina ended his career. High living, a busted marriage and booze nearly ended his life, and eventually left him sleeping on the street. He used to dine in fine restaurants, now he’s eating out of garbage cans.

Erik senses Satterfield’s story could be his chance at a championship payday. Bypassing Metz, he offers the story to the Denver Times Sunday Magazine, where it’ll get more visibility. The story of Satterfield’s rise and fall will make Erik as famous as his dad, and give Champ another chance to hear the roar of the crowd again. Erik gets most of his background information from following Champ around Santa Ana. Despite Satterfield’s dissipated appearance, he vividly remembers breaking Rocky Marciano’s nose in training camp, losing a two rounder to Ezzard Charles, and hitting Jake LaMotta so hard “The Raging Bull” never forgot the impression he left on his jaw. Erik’s perplexed by Satterfield’s son’s dismissive anger at the idea of being interviewed, but he does manage to get in touch with one of Satterfield’s most famous opponents -- LaMotta:

Erik: Mr. LaMotta… I’m writing a story about an old opponent of yours, Bob Satterfield.

LaMotta: Bob Satterfield was one of the hardest punchers who ever lived.

Erik: Well, I met him out here in Santa Ana. He’s hit some hard times and he’s sleeping on park benches.

LaMotta: You sure it’s him? I heard he was dead.

The article lands on the front page of the Denver Times Sunday Magazine and is an instant sensation. Erik’s sudden fame seems to solve his problems. Offended he wasn’t offered the story first, Metz nonetheless admits Erik’s article is an exceptional piece of writing. The attention the article generates helps him mend his relationship with his wife, and Teddy’s so proud of him he volunteers his dad to speak at his class career day. Andrea Flak (campy Terri Hatcher), a producer for ESPN, offers Erik a high profile boxing commentator gig. Suddenly it’s good to be the King…

Then Erik’s reputation and his rise to fame gets KO.’ed by a punch he never saw coming.

A phone call from Ike Epstein, one of Satterfield’s former promoters (a heavily disguised Peter Coyote, giving a championship caliber performance), plants a credible seed of doubt. Like LaMotta, Epstein says Satterfield’s dead, and he can prove it.

Samuel L. Jackson, who’s been mailing it in a bit too much lately in inane films like “Snakes on a Plane,” and “Black Snake Moan” (stay away from reptiles, Sam), gives a gold glove performance. Is a he a man living a lie, or the real Battlin’ Bob?

Jackson did his research in preparing for the role. Many ex-boxers develop some form of dementia (I’m looking forward to that one!) and their voices get raspy from the repeated blows they take to the head. Jackson’s “Champ” has a sandy, whispery delivery. He moves and bounces on his feet like an ex-fighter still dodging his opponents in the ring, bobbing and weaving, even as he pushes the shopping cart containing his belongings. Jackson’s portrayal is heartbreaking and absorbing. Had the film fared better he might have been nominated for an Oscar.

Having boxed -- (11 knockouts in 11 fights and 20% vision in my left eye to prove it), I can vouch for Jackson’s accurate portrayal of an “opponent,” the type of boxer you bet on on the way up and bet against on the way down. He’s game, he’ll always put on a good show because he hits like an angry mule, but he’ll never be champ because he can’t take a punch. One of my proudest – and saddest – moments as an amateur boxer was winning a battle of undefeated power punchers by stopping my opponent’s advance with one well placed shot to the Adam’s apple. The blow caused him to automatically raise his gloves to his throat, leaving him defenseless long enough for me to deliver the best left hook I ever landed. He fell like an axed Redwood, landing so hard he broke his nose, and was unconscious for the longest ten minutes of my life. Years later I saw him at a fundraiser. I thought he’d want a rematch right there in the rotunda. Instead he introduced me to his wife with pride, because he’d been the only boxer to last into the third round against “Mad Dog” Jefferson, and like Rocky Marciano, I’d retired undefeated, a “champ.” (Yes, they called me “Mad Dog.” But I was more like angry puppy.) Jackson’s “Champ” has the same respect for the men who trashed him, and he still loves the sport, even though it left him penniless and homeless.

Part of the film’s failure to go the distance at the box office can be thrown at the feet of the other actors. Josh Hartnett’s Erik is as empty as the limp prose he passes off in his columns. Hartnett’s career has benefited from his heartthrob looks and an occasional passable performance (check him out as the hero in his next film, the frozen north vampire thriller “30 Days of Night”). In “Champ,” he’s a fringe contender. His performance shows promise, but he’s workmanlike and fades in the later rounds.

As Joyce Kernan, Erik’s estranged wife, Kathryn Morris is given little more to do than say “I told you so” when Erik’s credibility is on the ropes. Playing Ralph Metz, Alan Alda checks in with another wholesome but snore-inducing performance. Alda’s best facet doesn’t show up on screen. In interviews the rest of the cast complimented Alda for being such a sweetheart to work with. Rachel Nichols (star of the recent stalker film “P2”) gives a peppy performance as Polly, the newspaper’s resourceful researcher who develops more than a passing interest in Erik.

Aside from Jackson, the one actor who holds his own in the ring is Peter Coyote, barely recognizable as crusty fight promoter Ike Epstein, a relic from the 50s who arranged some of Satterfield’s fights. I saw Coyote’s name in the credits at the beginning and didn’t realize what role he’d played until the movie was over. Pasty, gruff, with a bad haircut, plastic glasses and a wardrobe the Salvation Army would reject, Coyote’s half Jewish, half gob accent and mannerisms hit home. I used to run into flesh peddlers like Epstein in gyms; they usually had a fifth grade education, owed some bookie a mint, and were as hardheaded as a granite statue. They either robbed their boxers of everything but their trunks, or treated their charges better than their own sons. Coyote’s character represents the latter. When he sees Erik’s article on Battlin’ Bob Satterfield, he sets out to clear his fighter’s name. Like Jackson, Coyote obvious studied for his role. As a result, his brief appearance is the only Jackson-less scene in the film worth remembering.

For the sake of the storyline the writers, Michael Bortman and Allison Burnett, feigned to the left of truth with some of the facts. The movie is indeed based on an L.A. Times magazine article by writer J.R. Moehringer, who initially believed he’d found former fighter Bob Satterfield in 1997. But before he turned the article in, Moehringer checked his facts and discovered that his “Champ” was actually one of Satterfield’s opponents, Tommy Harrison. Harrison not only borrowed Battlin’ Bob’s name in the ring, he’d also posed as him on the street, raking up a few arrests while Satterfield was enjoying his retirement in Paris. In the film, it’s Ike Epstein who throws the first counter punch at Erik’s credibility; in reality it was boxer Ernie Terrell (his sister, Jean, replaced Diana Ross in the Supremes) who cast the initial doubt.

That leaves me to ask one big honking question about “Resurrecting the Champ.” If Polly, the Times’ crack researcher, can find background information on Satterfield’s career and can even come up with extremely rare footage of one of Satterfield’s fights, how come she couldn’t locate his obituary? Yeah, I know. It would have really messed with the plot.

“Resurrecting The Champ” begins as a boxing film…see how the mighty have fallen. In the middle rounds it shifts to a story about fathers and sons as Erik tries to repair his relationship with Teddy, and the Champ relates his woeful tale of how his own son turned his back on him. In the final rounds it becomes a story of redemption, successfully bobbing and weaving it’s through some obvious factual pitfalls. The ending isn’t a knockout; it’s more like a split decision, but Jackson and Coyote’s performances make “Resurrecting The Champ” a worthy contender for your attention.

Posted May 29, 2008 Permalink

Even Money

Even Money Kim Basinger, Danny DeVito 3 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

A bad actor can screw up a really good film (Elias Kotteas, Nicholas Cage, Pauly Shore anybody?) and a good actor can save a bad film. “Even Money,” a crime drama filmed in 2006, has seven great actors, and half a dozen of them get to rise above the safety first script that turns what should have been a winning film into a push.

The plot centers on the denizens in an unspecified city all looking for one big jackpot. There are four subplots that you know will somehow intertwine, and could even result in some of the characters criss-crossing into one another’s worlds. Carol Carver (Kim Bassinger, giving a winning performance), a respected fiction writer, has been spending her afternoons trying to get the slot machines to pay off when she should be tapping out her next best seller. As her family’s bank account dwindles, the lies she feeds her husband Tom (Ray Liotta, wasted in weak role), begin to mount. Worried Carol may be having an affair, Tom plays detective, following her to a casino and digging into her personal files, where he discovers she’s lost nearly $80,000, including their daughter’s college tuition. Desperate, Carol befriends Walter, a down and out magician who teaches her how to play Blackjack. The pair scores big at the tables, but Carol loses all of the money the next afternoon. Smitten with Carol, Walter tells her he has a way for her to win all her money back. He’s been given a tip by loathsome local crime wave Victor (a reptilian Tim Roth) that the St. Francis basketball team is going to lose its championship game against Loyola College….

The second plot involves Clyde Snow (acting machine Forrest Whitaker), whose younger brother, Godfrey, is the star shooter for St. Francis College. A self-employed handyman, Clyde isn’t very good at handicaps, and owes Ivan, Victor’s mysterious boss, $12,000. Clyde’s only hope is convincing his brother to throw the championship game. If he doesn’t, Clyde will need his own handyman to reassemble his body parts. If he does, Godfrey may throw away his chance at N.B.A. stardom…

The third story follows an ambitious bookie, Augie (a zippy Jay Mohr), and his love struck partner, Murph (a miscast Grant Sullivan). Battling a painful ulcer, Augie is entertaining Victor’s offer to partner up and move in on Ivan’s territory, but he’s also double-crossing Victor by wearing an F.B.I. wire during their conversation, hoping to get Victor to admit he killed rival bookie Wing Lo. Murph is too enthralled with Veronica (convincing Carla Gugino) to pay much attention to business. Their relationship craps out when she’s told what he does for a living. “Normal people don’t beat people up because they owe them money,” Veronica says to Murph, and she gives him an ultimatum – change professions or you’ll never see me again. Murph seeks solace from his best friend, but Augie can’t offer him the type of sympathetic advice he’s looking for:

Murph: It hurts like hell, Augie.

Augie: I know, I’ve been there. Pretty soon you won’t remember her name.

Murph: I’ll never forget her name.

Murph is faced with an age old dilemma – will he chose loyalty or love?...

The thinnest plot briefly centers on Tim Roth, who’s violent, crass Victor is the bridge to the other stories. Victor’s underdeveloped storyline involves disheveled, handicapped Detective Bremmer, (Kelsey Grammer, looking as if the make up department has a vendetta against him, and spouting lines that indicate the writers are in on the conspiracy). Bremmer is convinced Victor was responsible for Wing Lo’s watery retirement, but can’t prove it. He noses around for the first few minutes, and then disappears until it’s all over except for the eulogies. By then you’ve forgotten Grammer was ever in the film.

The script won’t surprise you. Most of the characters get what’s coming to them. Forrest Whitaker’s Clyde is already getting treated like he’s wearing a “Kick Me” sign at the beginning of the film, so the odds of him walking away whole (more like holed) are slim. And it’s a good bet love will conquer all as far as Veronica and Murph are concerned.

The movie’s all-star cast performs like split aces in a game of Blackjack. One hand is bound to be a winner and the other is destined to go bust. The winning hands belong to Bassinger, Whitaker, Roth, Gugino and Mohr. As author turned gambling addict, Kim Bassinger gives her best performance since she played a Veronica Lake look-alike in 1997’s “L.A. Confidential.” Forrest Whitaker has made a career playing easy-going blue collar guys muscled into a corner. You sympathize with his character because despite failing to realize his own dreams, he still wants his brother to achieve his – even if it at the cost of his own life.

Tim Roth may not look imposing, but subordinate weasels seldom do. Roth has made his acting bones playing despicable villains (he played an unsophisticated Dutch Schultz in “Hoodlum,” the barbaric ape commander Thade in the remake of “Planet of the Apes,” and the abusive Ringo in “Pulp Fiction”) so violent Victor fits his dance card. There’s nothing redeemable about Victor, particularly his shabby, patronizing treatment of Walter, so Roth gets a thumbs up for making his character believably hateful. Jay Mohr’s portrayal of the hustling, two-timing Augie is on the money. (C’mon, I had to say that at least once.) Carla Gugino has two functions in the movie: She’s Murph’s love interest and abides by the unshakable moral code that her boyfriend shouldn’t bludgeon people for bucks. Her character’s unwillingness to accept Murph’s line of work rings true, but you’ll probably wonder what she sees in a loser like Murph in the first place. And watch out for an uncredited Charles Robinson (sweater wearing clerk “Mac” on TV’s Night Court”), who plays the basketball coach. When he confronts Godfrey Snow (Mr. Mariah Carey, Nick Cannon, shooting blanks as an actor), about point shaving, Robinson’s barely controlled reaction to Snow’s betrayal is one of the best scenes in the film: “If you shave points, I’m not your coach. I’m not your friend. And boy, so help me God, don’t make me your enemy.”

The rest of the cast rolls snake eyes. Grant Sullivan’s Murph is too trusting and stupid to have made it to adulthood. Sullivan’s character also called for a much tougher looking, more assured actor. Sullivan plays Murph like Lenny from “Of Mice and Men” – dumb and a doof. I guess I just can’t stand morons who luck through life and get the girl just because they’re good looking – Murph has all the substance of tapioca. My assessment of co-producer Danny DeVito’s Walter is tainted by my dislike of the actor whenever he takes on a sympathetic role. He’s still mean-spirited Louie DePalma to me. Why? Because nasty is what he does best. Frankly, I don’t notice or care about his diminutive size as much when he plays it mean. If you remember Michael Dunn (Dr. Loveless on “The Wild Wild West”), the baddest height challenged man ever, then you know where I’m coming from. Go with your strengths, Danny Boy. When DeVito plays a nice guy, it’s usually a pushover, a pathetic, luckless loser like Walter. A retarded puppy would have served just as well, although it would have been hard to teach a mutt with no opposable thumbs the magic tricks that DeVito performs. Because Walter’s such a perpetual loser, it’s hard to buy into his relationship with Carol; he goes from offensive oaf to confidant with one sleight of hand.

At one point in the movie, Bassinger’s Carol accuses her husband, played by Ray Liotta, of being too perfect. In essence, that’s what’s wrong with his character. He’s too “Gee willikers,” too squeaky clean. The script takes a talented actor and gives him nothing to do except react transparently, like he’s living in the 1950s. C’mon, this guy held his own against Robert freakin’ DeNiro in “Goodfellas,” shot holes through the traditional cop story in “Narc,” and you want him to play a lukewarm college professor? What a waste. Carson Brown, who plays his daughter Nicole, not only has better lines – her character figures out what’s wrong with the family’s Donna Reed existence faster than dad does. Kelsey Grammer may simply be in the film because he worked with the producer’s wife (Rhea Perlman) for eight years on “Cheers.” Grammer shows up at the beginning of the film wearing a hideous fake nose and chin that make him look like he should be performing with the Muppets. Not only does Grammer’s Detective Brunner serve no real purpose (okay he’s the narrator, but this flick doesn’t need one), he’s a hack when he’s on the screen – diet Sam Spade with no fizz.

It’s even money whether you’ll like this film. If you’re a fan of Kim Bassinger, Forrest Whitaker, Tim Roth or even Charles Robinson, then you’ll think “Even Money” is a winner. If not, then the loaded plot will make you feel like you’re betting against the house.

Posted May 29, 2008 Permalink

Drew Hastings -- Irked and Miffed

Drew Hastings -- Irked and Miffed Drew Hastings 3.5 out of 5 stars Reviewed for Coffeerooms by Mike Jefferson

I’ve always believed the stereotype that people from Ohio look and act like the pinched, pitchfork yielding farmer and his plain Jane wife depicted in Grant Wood’s “American Gothic” painting. Acerbic comic Drew Hastings has changed my mind. Encased in a black designer suit, wearing Elvis Costello glasses topped off with a twisted 80s haircut, he looks like a grumpy Barry Bostwick with a tossed salad on his head, and acts as if he’s a citified, sarcastic Bohemian. “How do you like my new glasses?” Hastings asks the audience. “These are my Al Sharpton glasses. Big, black, you can see right through them.”

Hastings’s neurotic stage presence stems from his incongruous upbringing and the diverse places he’s lived in. He was born in England and moved to Ohio at a young age. (“Anyone a child of English parents? One? Very few of us survive.”) After living in Cincinnati, New York City, San Francisco, and Hollywood, Hastings tired of urban life and bought the farm in Ohio. He’s been a comedian/farmer for about four years, and his blue thumb (“I have a fifty percent kill rate”) provides him with some of his most creative material.

You might be shocked at how far over the line of decency this harmless looking comic is willing to go, but you’ll laugh too. Hastings’ 63-minute DVD starts off slowly, but the humor picks up when he begins to lampoon what he knows best – farm life, hunting, and sex. Hastings isn’t always a top-notch storyteller. For instance, his admiration for the 80s Robert Wagner/Stephanie Powers TV private eye show “Hart to Hart” takes a while to reach a weak punch line, and he sometimes seems to drop the F bomb just because he knows he has the freedom to do it.

Hastings best routines are hardly routine, as indicated by the titles “The World According to A.A.R.P,” “Deer Hunting With My Cat,” “Chain Saws and Swine Production,” and “Third Day of A One-Night Stand.” His funniest moments are invariably personal ones, such as entertaining the idea of being a father at 50. Holding out his wobbling hands, he says, “I’d end up shaking the baby to death!” Commenting on his talents as a farmer, he brags, “I get subsidies…From the farmers on either side of me. They pay me not to try and grow anything.” One of his funniest bits tweaks Ohio’s less than exciting rural life: “I took my girlfriend on a hayride. There were loose bales of hay all around us and everybody’s smoking! We were on the hayride to Hades! I spent the entire ride looking for compatible skin graft donors! I told the hay ride driver, ‘Why don’t you just drive us to the f***in’ Shriners burn unit?’”

Hastings also pokes fun at his own sexual experiences, including experimenting with Viagra: “You may have the erection of a nineteen year-old, but you still have the lungs of a fifty year-old smoker.” Erotic asphyxiation hardly seems like a knee-slapper, but by talking about it from his inexperienced point of view, Hastings doesn’t choke on the subject (sorry).

Be forewarned – Hastings will never win any awards for his feminism. He’s a bit crude when describing his sexual encounters, and his funniest routine, comparing naughty bits to a Starbuck’s coffee cup, is something I won’t repeat here. But he does try to make up for his seeming lack of sensitivity by poking fun at his own stupidity. And you’ve gotta love a guy whose favorite song is Traffic’s “Low Spark of Heeled Boys.”

You won’t necessarily launch into uncontrollable fits of hysteria watching Drew Hastings’ “Irked and Miffed,” but it may make you happy that Ohio can be a state of mind instead of your home state.

Posted May 29, 2008 Permalink