— Teaser coming soon —

A once-promising model (played by Hadley Holdorf) loses her fight with clinical depression. 

• Producer:  ?
• Director: Mariusz Zubrowski
• Writer(s): Dominic Serendip & Mariusz Zubrowski
• Director of Photography: ?
• Composer(s): 5th Element & Alcohol&Ecstasy 
• Editor:  ?

The first Christmas since Richard, my father, died, and the funk of stale liquor and vomit was replaced with the aroma of cinnamon scented candles. But the kitchen still stunk of fried fish and borscht as Mom prepared a feast. We had a plastic tree. Almost naked, the faux-fern was carelessly draped by a short string of cherry red ornaments. I sat on the couch, silent as she set the table. To my mother and me, Christmas had become a formality. To feel like a normal Polish-American family, we forced ourselves to prepare dishes neither of us enjoyed and decorate our cluttered apartment with 99 cent mistletoes and lights.

Holiday jingles and themed television shows didn’t excite me, but I couldn’t escape them. At school, the facility threw parties for the students before winter break. “How about some music?” my English teacher, Ms. Wilde would ask, fiddling around with the antique record player she kept at her desk. Eccentric, she rarely combed her hair and always spoke in high-pitched squeals. But at 13, when many of my peers listened to songs about sex and drugs, regularly viewed pornography, and experimented with the vodka in their parent’s private stash, having cardboard cutouts of Santa Claus in each classroom and dancing to “Frosty the Snowman” seemed like an attempt to reclaim our innocence.

Maybe I was bitter for never experiencing the cheer being advertised. Christmas never stopped Richard from coming home drunk. He would still hit my mother and voice his disgust. “You failure,” he’d shout, towering over me. I’d retaliated after he punched Mom. “This slime is my son?” His eyes were bloodshot and his spine bones poked from beneath from his skin. She clenched her stomach in pain, while Richard tugged on my ear and slapped the back of my head. “It’s because you were raised by this whore.” He pushed me away. “That’s why you don’t call me ‘dad.’”

He was my biological dad, nothing more. To my mother, he was a constant evil. But since childhood she’d safeguarded others: Whether it was her schizophrenic mother, who she kept from hurting himself, or protecting me from abuse. It gave her purpose. I overhead her telling Ching, who lived next door, about her loneliness. Following Richard’s death, she reminscened on the early days of their relationship. He would promise her the world. Coincidentally, it was after my birth that he began to question his life choices and drink away regrets. Now, Mom became embroiled in an endless cycle of going to work and coming home to an empty bed. “I’m grateful that Mariusz’s there, but some things you can’t talk to your child about.” 

“You need a man. It’s time to move on.” Ching was a social recluse, but she trusted us. Mom had invited her over for our holiday dinner, but gatherings weren’t her thing.

“All men are the same. I swear, if my son ever comes home drunk, I’ll hang myself. They say it’s genetic, you know? He already has his father’s impatience.”

That Christmas evening was cold and damp. I looked out the window. Our ancestors believed that waiting until the first stars were out before eating brought good luck. However, the horizon was blanketed with thick clouds. A storm just passed. Ornaments wrapped around our neighbor’s fire escape flickered on and off. It didn’t bother them.

There were two sets of silverware prepared. “Did you take your meds?” Her hands shook as she finished preparing the table, which was covered in a worn cloth. 

“Yes.” I was on anti-depressants. Mom insisted I speak to a professional. She self-medicated and took pills out of my prescription. She had become determined to avoid her mother’s faith, said to run in the family. To her, Prozac was the end-all-be-all. “Nothing,” I reported back, disappointed in Mother Nature’s reluctance to grant me the “perfect” Christmas.

“Forget it, come eat.” I trudged back to the dining room. Within seconds, Mom started to pick apart a piece of salmon. “I’m starving.” She squeezed a spoonful of lemon juice onto her plate. I started with the soup. Mushrooms floated atop the red liquid. I hated them.

I wasn’t interested in the food. The conversation between her and Ching had haunted me for weeks. To others, I was a bastard child, destined to become a statistic: Either I would become like my father, becoming a testament to the misfortune of genetics, or I wouldn’t, becoming a minority. Everyone told me that I was different, but was my own mother expecting me to fail? Or did she, in her own way, try to prevent that? I didn’t have the courage to ask. “Do you miss him?”  

“Even if I did, do you remember ever having a dinner like this? Nice and quiet, like a miracle.”

As the co-founder and administrator of The Corner Society, Mariusz Zubrowski is out to inspire creativity and the arts. He’s the creator of the “Momma’s Boyfriend” series, which is gearing up for its cinematic releases. And when he’s not writing or exploring Tumblr, he spends most of his time watching television with his cats (both of whom can vouch for the disastrous reality shows he has forced them to enjoy).  

Brandon G. is a full-time musician, a man of few words, graphic designer, alternative artist, and just an extraordinary young talent. And, as luck would have it, he’s also the latest addition to The Corner Society team. Based in California, the 18 year old makes a living through music and designing photos. He’s been kind enough to lend his creativity to the site by handling our aesthetics—namely the artwork that precedes each piece, which will be more sophisticated and professional from now on (truth be told, Mariusz’s poor attempts in Photoshop weren’t cutting it).

You can follow him on Tumblr  for links to his music and to purchase framed photographs.

The Ledge was screened in New York during a stand-off between supporters and opponents of gay marriage; some journalists even believed that the city, which was one vote away from legalizing marriage equality, was on the heels on “anarchism.” Luckily, it never came that far. Coincidentally, the film, Matthew Chapman’s directorial debut (he also pens the script), was inspired by his own experiences with negative reactions over his uncle’s homosexuality. In one interview, Chapman, who authored two non-fiction books, Trials of the Monkey—An Accidental Memoir and 40 Days and 40 Nights, recalls that he wasn’t “much older than ten” when he realized that “this hatred either came from or was justified by the bible.” Thus he made the film’s theme rationalism versus faith. Unfortunately, dry storytelling and in-your-face characterization cheapens an ambitious message.

As writer and director, Chapman believes that humor and suspense are “underused as vehicles for carrying serious themes.” His freshman effort is a manifestation of that belief … or at least it tries to be. The film opens with Hollis (Terrence Howard), a police Detective, finding out that he’s infertile. This is news to him as he’s already fathered two children, whom he thought were his. Whilst slouching around the office, planning his divorce, he’s called onto a rooftop, where Gavin (Charlie Hunnam), a hotel manager, is about to jump. Gavin admits that he isn’t married, doesn’t have a girlfriend (per se), and that he has to off himself or someone else will die.

The Ledge then flashbacks to Joe (Patrick Wilson) and Shauna (Liv Tyler), a new couple in Gavin’s building, moving in next door. At face value, they seem nice, spouting the obligatory “hellos” and “goodbyes” at each passing. The latter even finds work at Gavin’s hotel. It doesn’t take much for him to fall for her and at her request, is invited to a neighborly dinner, where he first butts heads with Joe, a fundamentalist Christian. We learn that the couple doesn’t drink (despite having alcohol in their home) and believe everyone (save for a few devoted folk) will go to hell. This doesn’t sit well with Gavin, an atheist, who decides to liberate Shauna from her domineering spouse. But looks prove to be deceiving when the usually introverted wife quickly becomes a sexual goddess, the God-fearing husband looks into more ‘effective’ ways of dealing with his lover’s infidelity, and Gavin, well, he’s being screwed regardless.

From a critically-acclaimed author, one should expect more from The Ledge. This film, however, is in shambles. Dialogue, especially, is not Chapman’s forte. Never should a movie that studies a group of present-day working folk have characters that sound like they’re reciting Shakespearian text. The majority of the film has Joe and Gavin arguing about religion (with both trying desperately to prove that the other is closed minded). These scenes are relentlessly didactic and occur in 10-to-15 minute spurts, ending with either character retaliating in a rage while being preached to. It’s almost ironic that in the same, aforementioned interview, the director states, “… if people are in suspense or doubled up laughing, they’ll ingest all kinds of stuff without feeling they’re being lectured to.”

But more importantly, what is Terrence Howard doing in this film? Sure, his performance is decent (and he must’ve been crowned the “Indie Film King” for a reason) but his character contributes nothing to the big picture, in fact, there’s about half an hour (and thousands of dollars) wasted in setting up Hollis’ superfluous backstory. But, with this quality of writing, even Tyler and Hunnam (known for his role in Sons of Anarchy) couldn’t have saved this faulty production (although Wilson is suitably creepy).

The Ledge takes bad to new heights.

(Source: thecriticalcritics.com)

Most scripts are divided into three acts: The setup, which introduces characters, plot-points, and locales; the confrontation, where both the antagonist and protagonist’s strengths and weaknesses are further examined — complicating the problem at hand — and finally; the resolution, which concludes the aforementioned conflicts. Larry Crowne, a love-story between an ex-Navy serviceman and his lethargic professor that’s co-written (alongside Nia Vardalos), directed, and headlined by Tom Hanks, is a one-act picture — it’s all cutesy build-up. Because, it seems, in the suburbia where the eponymous protagonist resides, there are no problems; it’s a place where the retail business is fun, motorcycle gangs coincide with scooter clubs, and all a man has to do to be successful is run a yearlong yard-sale.

Hanks plays the titular nice guy stuck in a difficult situation. Despite a less-than-luxurious job at a strip-mall and twenty years abroad, he loves his life. He’s won several awards for Employee of the Month and owns a wonderful house. But when U-Mart, formerly a big-box company, downsizes, Crowne is the first to go, for his lack of a college education. “In a way, you’re still Employee of the Month,” Jack Strang (Rob Riggle), one of the higher-ups, tells Larry, as he scarfs down a stale slice of pizza. Lamar (Cedric the Entertainer), one of Crowne’s neighbors who makes a living peddling used furniture, suggests community college and, for travel purposes, trades him a scooter in exchange for a flat-screen television (the height of the dramatic tension).

At school, he meets Talia (Gugu Mbatha-Raw), an environmentalist hipster who runs the college’s scooter club (which later formulates to clean up Crowne’s house, give him a new wardrobe, and a fresh haircut). But more importantly, he crosses paths with Miss Mercedes Tainot (Julia Roberts), a professor frustrated with her teaching career (which is going nowhere), and marriage to a sleazy author (Brydon Cranston), who surfs porn when she’s out. And while she’s, at first, disgusted with his dedication to a class that none cares about, the forty-something year-old proves that too many bedtime martinis can be the beginning of a number of unexpected relationships. Cue the scene where Hanks and Roberts gratuitously make-out at Tainot’s doorstep.

Note to self: This isn’t the ‘90s; films like Pretty Woman aren’t relevant anymore; Julia Roberts isn’t relevant anymore. Once America’s sweetheart, she’s now known as a home wrecker who treats fans and cast-members like garbage and has no respect for film sets. “A one trick pony,” many call her, scoffing at the fact that she demands top dollar for mediocre performances and recoiling every time she lets loose one of her obnoxious laughs. Understandably, she’s on the top of every man’s ‘most hated’ list. Larry Crowne is no different as the actress makes an already unbelievable pairing all the more so (it doesn’t help that Hanks has a distinct, Tarantino-esque foot fetish).

But it’s really the writing that lets the film down. Vardalos, since her critically-acclaimed debut, has fallen off the wagon, starring in garbage like Cougar Town and My Life in Ruins. The problem with the script is, ironically, the lack of a problem; there is no conflict that drives these characters — they drift around, spewing (somewhat) witty one-liners, without purpose. Crowne is too perfect to be a memorable lead and Hanks’ “do no wrong” shtick becomes increasingly tiresome. At least Cedric the Entertainer lends an idiosyncratic supporting act.

It was Hanks, who on the topic of Larry Crowne, once said that “movies are joyful enterprises.” That’s all fine and dandy, but the actor’s sophomore directorial debut takes it a step further and the result is bland and conventional — predictable from beginning to . . . uhm, end (which the film doesn’t really have). I’d, however, happily see a spinoff featuring Crowne’s self-absorbed Economics teacher, Dr. Matsutani (George Takei). But since that’s highly unlikely, I guess it’s time to make some calls to Universal Pictures.

(Source: thecriticalcritics.com)

A friend of mine once argued about the redundancy behind DC Comics; its name, he claimed, originally stood for Detective Comics, thus by adding an extra ‘comics’ at the end, one is left with the awkwardly titled Detective Comics Comics. Though, despite the discrepancy behind the publisher’s name, it has remained a powerhouse in the comic-book world. However, by offering darker, more humane characters (such as Batman and Superman), it never stood a chance to its chief competitor, the more colorful, Marvel Comics, especially cinematically (save for The Dark Knight). By promising DC a parallel to 2008’s Iron Man, Director Martin Campbell (Casino Royale, Edge of Darkness) planned on changing all that with Green Lantern. Unfortunately, although its hero can conjure up swords, machine guns, and flamethrowers on a whim, his powers can’t account for a confusing plot, bland characters, and flawed CGI.

Greg Berlanti, Michael Green, Marc Guggenheim, and Michael Goldenberg’s script spares no expense in introducing a convoluted narrative. The film opens with an almost undecipherable intergalactic battle between Abin Sur (Temuera Morrison), one of the galaxies’ Green Lanterns, warriors chosen by the power of Will to protect their respective planets, and Parallax, formerly one of the ancient aliens that divided the universe into smaller slices to ensure peace, now an embodiment of Will’s unstable counterpart, Fear. Fortunately on Earth, where Hal Jordan (Ryan Reynolds) resides, people have more modest lives. That’s to say, until the young playboy pilot, interested only in fast cars and even faster planes, finds himself chosen by a dying Sur, who hands him the ring — a weapon used to channel one’s imagination, turning thought into reality. But there’s a catch, its bearer must be fearless; now Jordan, whilst attempting to master his newfound strengths and earn the respect of his fellow Lanterns, must find that courage within himself.

Nevertheless, Hector Hammond (Peter Sarsgaard), a down-and-out scientist, makes things difficult for Hal. Despite not being respected in the field (and reduced to a life of teaching), his father, Senator Hammond (Tim Robbins), requests that he partake in Sur’s autopsy. Yet during the “routine” procedure, while digging into the alien’s wounds, the mustachioed genius is bestowed extraterrestrial might; with the ability to read minds, survey a person’s memories, and move objects telepathically, Hammond catches Parallax’s attention — a match that promises Earth’s destruction.

An unrecognizable Sarsgaard (most famous for his work in An Education) is the saving grace for Green Lantern. The Illinois-born actor, known for playing the disturbed and demonized, adds another layer to Hammond — one of fear and desperation. It’s a welcome touch, seeing as the production’s eponymous protagonist is so one-dimensional.

Then again, it’s expected. Except for Hammond, none of the characters feel organic; the collected composure they maintain while staring death in the face is appalling because even in fantasy, there needs to be a hint of realism. Campbell’s latest doesn’t have that. Hal’s reactions stick out especially; one particular scene, where he discovers Sur’s crashed spaceship, is all-too-damning — to think that one’s immediate reaction to seeing a purple, humanoid creature, lying in a pool of his own violet blood, would be to stare straight-faced and recommend hospitalization is laughable (I, for one, would be running in the opposite direction). It doesn’t help that Reynolds looks ridiculous in a computer-generated suit — most notably during flight, when the actor’s head is awkwardly placed atop the effects.

However, praise is due to the design team responsible for crafting the otherworldly planets and Green Lanterns, which range from being one-eyed giants to anthropomorphic fish and red-skinned Michael Corleone lookalikes (I am, of course, referring to Sinestro, played by Mark Strong).

But did I mention that there’s also a romance between Carol Ferris (Blake Lively), the daughter to a business tycoon, and Jordan? Sadly, it’s superfluous and their dynamic, as two childhood friends, now co-workers, who secretly yearn for each other, is far too clichéd. And although Lively is superb eye-candy, she overacts and makes her character the epitome of a teary-eyed sideliner, rather than the strong, intelligent, and fully-able woman meant (and deserved) to be portrayed.

In all, Green Lantern is a mixed-bag. It polarizes audiences with its origin-heavy storytelling, separating the jubilant diehards from a flock of baffled (ultimately unsatisfied) mainstream movie-goers and having a good-lookin’ but boring hero doesn’t help. Sometimes, potent (but problematic) visuals are enough to entertain; this is the case with the film’s third-act (glossed over by technology, the final battle is a spectacle). Unfortunately, due to a pair of bulky 3D glasses (significantly dimming the production) I wasn’t sure as if to take the film’s tagline, “In Blackest Night,” as a serious warning.

Set in Lillian, Ohio, J.J. Abrams’ (Star Trek, Mission: Impossible III) latest, Super 8 chronicles Joe Lamb (Joel Courtney), a young boy who struggles to connect with his depressed workaholic of a father, Jack (Kyle Chandler), the town’s Deputy Sherriff. He spends his time playing with monster makeup on the set of his friend, Charles’ (Riley Griffiths), short film, a no-budget zombie flick. Planning to enter a film festival, they plan the project alongside a ragtag troupe of amateur actors, actresses, and pyrotechnicians that includes Alice (Elle Fanning), who lives with her drunkard dad (Ron Eldard), and Cary (Ryan Lee), who has a certain admiration for cherry bombs, which are used to mimic gunfire and small explosions. But added production value isn’t all that the cast gets when a train derails during one of their shoots, instead, they become embroiled in a conspiracy that has the Air Force (led by Commander Nelec, played by a delightfully asinine Noam Emmerich) scrambling.

The film’s title refers to the Super 8 mm film camera used by the on-screen cast. Noted for its grainy recordings, the cameras were used on sets during the 1960s and ‘70s. At the advent of the Digital Age, they were replaced by video cameras. Thus there is an intentional divide between the character’s use of the aged technology and the professional multimillion dollar effects and IMAX special treatment that Abrams’ team employs.

The story, however, which pays homage to Steven Spielberg’s Close Encounters of a Third Kind and E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial, feels both timeless and fresh. It’s where the real depth is since believable character drama, more often than not, makes up for a clichéd and predictable mystery. And although the protagonists are idiosyncratic, they also feel human. Of them, however, Joe is left as the odd man out. He is less of a caricature than the rest of the cast and Abrams instead studies the void left behind by the death of his mother — symbolized by a locket that he holds onto and grips in dangerous situations. Then there is Charles, who, in his eagerness to craft the best story possible, exemplifies most aspiring filmmakers: The bipolar mania, perfectionism, constant complaining, and inflated self-importance. It wouldn’t be surprising if the character was influenced by Abrams himself, who broke into the business at the tender age of 16, when he composed for the Don Dohler film, Nightbeast.

But hiring young leads is incredibly risky. Without the training and life experiences of seasoned thespians, adolescents are often the blandest part of a production. This made casting for Super 8 problematic because, at the core, there is a story of unrequited love between Joe and Alice, who are torn apart by their fathers’ tumultuous relationship. For the film to succeed, this love interest needed to be well-executed. Fortunately, Courtney, a relative newcomer, has ample chemistry with Fanning (Somewhere), his more experienced counterpart. Griffiths, however, lends the most memorable performance; his comedic timing is on-point.

Adults are mostly absent from this coming-of-age fantasy and this strategy works unusually well as Abrams treats his young cast with sophistication and tenderness. As a storyteller, he fills his shots with nostalgic imagery as well as modern beauty but one thing that separates Super 8 from other summer blockbusters is that, amidst the explosions and gunfights, there’s also heart.

I hope nobody saw me smash Dennis’ car windows. Growing up in a household led by a neurotic mother and two nameless cats, there were never any secrets … nor were there many visitors. We weren’t antisocial; both of us wanted friendships but neither could stand the constant annoyances of intimate relationships. Her best friend was named ‘Ching.’ This was not her real name (only close family was allowed such privileged information). As a fan of conspiracy theories and pulp fiction, she’d devised a system of ringing our doorbell: to signify her presence, she’d ring thrice. This ensured that neither murderer nor tax collector could get close to us. A staunchly-built woman with tanned skin, ‘Ching’ was the nicest paranoid schizophrenic that we’d ever met. And although she kept her son’s report cards and medical records from first grade (he was now a successful dentist), used our refrigerator to save money on her electricity bills, and made us dye her deeply-rooted grey hairs, claiming that the local barber shop had “communist agendas,” ‘Ching’ was a nice woman, who showered us with dinner trays and pounds of limes on every holiday. The same couldn’t be said about Dennis Popinara, the buildings’ new superintendent—my momma’s new boyfriend.

One damp summer, the old Super retired. A tall, gaunt man, he’d roam the halls with a dull expression. “Gum, paper, candy wrappers,” he’d chant—three things commonly discarded in the hallways. He was replaced by his equally lifeless cousin, Dennis, a college-educated mathematician-turned-sanitation worker. Dennis spoke quietly and jumbled his words. He was married, with two sons. His wife was over demanding and walked like a duck; her billed face and large buttocks swung around with each step. His children however, resembled his primitive appearance. This wouldn’t bother my mother. He told her that he was in the “process of divorce.” Any attempts at rationalizing the situation would be moot for I, have indulged myself in the same convoluted love triangles.

At first he distributed the bills. “H-h-h-h-h-hi,” he would begin with the tone of someone choking on their own saliva. But bill distribution became afternoon coffee breaks; those intensified into daily encounters, nightly phone calls.

I would reminisce about how my teachers would mistake her for a sister during parent-teacher conferences. “You have to bring a guardian,” they’d remark. Moments later, the sirs and misses of P.S.99 complemented my mother’s youthful appearance.

“We’re like two drops of water,” she’d respond; same blonde hair, green eyes, and pudgy cheeks. But Mr. Popinara would show that we weren’t the same.I hated him. His dull posture and vague way of explaining things seemed off. His rush to establish a romantic relationship with my mother made me suspicious. The same qualities, however, allured her.

After Rich, my father, died, leaving behind a legacy of drunken apathy, she’d vow to never make the same mistake. But as I sat, about-faced, looking at the computer monitor’s reflection of Dennis, who gorged on chocolate and threw the wrappers on the floor, I realized that something had to be done. What I didn’t know was that it would take an unlikely ally to get my mother away from this monster.

But the question remained: Was I, like any ‘momma’s boy’ jealous about there being a new ‘man in the house’? Was I projecting the pain I’d experienced with my biological father on Dennis? Or was I genuinely doing this to protect my mother? I didn’t have an answer so I didn’t think about it.

‘Ching’ summed up my hate nicely, “The guy’s a scumbag,” she reassured me as we formulated ways to make his life miserable.

His license plate number was his last name—a red flag to any pompous lover. I had made it a routine to walk past his grey sedan each day. I traveled in circles, expecting to find an incriminating piece of evidence. One day, ‘Ching’ was walking back home with her groceries. She had stopped to ask me if I wanted an orange. She had reportedly bought for “one-third” of the retail price and was eager to share. I shook my head. She curiously inspected the vehicle. “Popinara,” she muttered aloud. “Is that the Super’s car?” I nodded. “That man’s a pig. He needs to keep his hands off your mother. That idiot can barely install an air conditioner, I swear, he put mine in backwards!” She picked up a rock and handed it to me. “Smash the window,” she said, with a smirk on her face. ‘Ching’ prepared to run away. Without thinking, I did as she commanded and ran after her. She gasped as we reached the elevator. For a 70-year-old, I thought, she’s pretty fast. Excited over my newfound revenge, ‘Ching’ grabbed me. “Look, don’t tell your mother we did th—“she interrupted herself, scanning the empty elevator for cameras or any other recording devices. “She’d kill me for she found out about this but,” she said, moving her face closer to mine, “I’ll tell her that I saw Dennis hitting another woman.” My eyes lit up. “He’ll never come close to her again.”

And the plan was a success. None ever found out. Occasionally, Dennis rung our bell but to no avail. ‘Ching’ would continue coming over. Whenever she did, we’d smile to each-other. It remained our dirty little secret.

* Mariusz Zubrowski is a published film critic and co-owner of The Corner Society. Accredited for his work on IMDB and LAMB, he is currently working on his first feature-length screenplay.

In anticipation for our review for Terrence Malick’s The Tree of Life, The Corner Society is holding its first official contest. The first place winner receives not only a copy of Desplat’s breathtaking score, but also Malick’s critically-acclaimed debut Badlands. Second-place, however, walks off with a $15 iTunes gift-card. Both pieces will be published. 

Participants are asked to write a short scene (any form of literature/film literature) in which you observe and describe the dawn of time as you see it. Works are asked to be between 500-800 words for short stories, 300 for poems, and 1000 for screenplays. Must be titled.

Submissions are to be sent as attachments to, cornersociety@gmail.com, along with your name and contact information. Deadline is June 18th.

Pieces not adhering to the aforementioned guidelines will immediately be disqualified.

The wolfpack is back in Todd Phillips’ sequel to his 2009 smash-hit The Hangover. Bradley Cooper, Zach Galifianakis, and Ed Helms all reprise their iconic roles as Phil, Alan, and Stu. This time in The Hangover Part II, however, the team assembles in Thailand for Stu’s wedding. But when he, already on poor terms with the bride, Lauren’s (Jamie Chung) father (Nirut Sirichanya), loses his soon-to-be brother-in-law, Teddy (Mason Lee), a 16-year-old Pre-Med student and the family’s “prized possession,” they find themselves in the midst of Bangkok’s seedy underbelly searching for him. Plans for a relaxing bachelor brunch (at iHop) and a pre-wedding beer are swapped for facial tattoos, shaved heads, drug-dealing monkeys, and Russian gangsters when the men awake in a cheap Taiwanese motel. Did I mention that, Ken Jeong (who attributes his success to the original’s critical-acclaim) returns as Mr. Chow? With that, this second installment had all the makings of a “sick night [at the movies].”

Cue the soundtrack’s slow, bluesy riffs because the city has been taken by storm. In their apparent drunkenness, the pack discovers their involvement with riots, crime dealings, kidnappings, and … transgendered prostitutes? Oh, I get it, Bang Kok. And it’s still not funny.

So the original must have been the celebratory drinking because its sequel is next morning’s headache. The Hangover Part II can be chalked up to the ‘ol case of same premise, different writers. Jon Lucas and Scott Moore are replaced by Craig Mazin (Superhero Movie, Scary Movie 3, Scary Movie 4) and Scott Armstrong (Old School, Semi-Pro, Starsky & Hutch), who took many of the first film’s trademark scenes and adapted them for the new environments. This, before Phillips jumped in to reshoot this shameless cash-in. Crueler, darker, and raunchier, this unnecessary reunion benefits from excellent leads.

All the main characters retain their idiosyncrasies whilst being expanded upon. However, most of the emphasis is placed on Allan. For the first time, we’re invited into his parents’ mansion, where the man hides in his room (he describes himself as a “stay-at-home son”): Printed photographs from their previous rendezvous splattered on the walls and a mini-fridge stocked with immunizations rests below his feet. Coincidentally, it’s here (and not in Thailand) that one of the film’s funniest scenes takes place. But Stu, the resident dentist and sensible adult, and the emasculated Phil, who just oozes cool, aren’t entirely forgotten.

Their respective actors maintain the same likeability. Regardless of their chauvinistic tendencies (alcohol can do that to a person), Stu, Phil, and Alan all have an inkling of heart. In fact, it’s almost painful to watch the gang blame the latter’s childlike clumsiness for their conundrum. That’s because Galifianakis makes his character’s need for friendship, a believable defining detail. Then again, one can’t help but empathize with the formers for having to pick up the slack.

Same can’t be said about fan-favorite, Jeong, who nonsensically hops around like the Asian energizer bunny. But thank your lucky stars because Chow spends a majority of the film locked inside a freezer.

Ultimately, The Hangover Part II had oodles of potential. With Bridesmaids setting the scene for this summer’s adult-themed comedies, Phillips’ latest could have proved to be a one-two punch for those seeking something spicier than the PG-13 dribble shoveled into theaters on a biweekly basis. This never happens. For diehards, at least there’s hope for the supposed third (and final) chapter in the series. Let’s just hope that it too doesn’t operate with the grace of a late-night bar fight.

Agree? Disagree?

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Originally on director Sam Raimi’s itinerary, but dropped in order to pursue his Spiderman adaptations, Thor, which was created by editor Stan Lee, writer Larry Lieber, and penciller Jack Kirby, has been on the backburner for years. Then when Matthew Vaughn also dropped the project, deciding to helm X Men: First Class and screenwriter, Mark Protosevich’s script had to be trimmed in order to soften the budget to a more manageable number ($150 million), all hope was lost. Fortunately, Shakespeare fanatic and acclaimed filmmaker, Kenneth Branagh (Hamlet, A Midwinter’s Tale, Henry V), on the eve of the much anticipated megahit, The Avengers, brought the production back to light his rendition, which penned by Ashley Edward Miller, Zack Stentz, and Don Payne, stars the Australian Chris Hemsworth (who prior to starring in 2009’s Star Trek reboot and the underappreciated A Perfect Getaway had worked as a construction worker) and Oscar-awarding winning actress, Natalie Portman, in the lead.

While studying atmospheric disturbances in Puente Antiguo, New Mexico, Jane Foster (Portman) and her team of scientists stumble upon a subtle aurora that quickly erupts into a spectacular lightshow. Perplexed, they decide to search the crash site, accidentally ramming their dilapidated RV into the eponymous hero (Hemsworth), who has found himself inside the explosion. Turns out that the God of Thunder has been banished from the mystifying realm of Asgard—the mosaic home of all-powerful deities—when he disobeys his father, Odin’s (Anthony Hopkins) wishes to maintain truce with the Frost Giants—otherworldly creatures hell-bent on destroying Earth by plunging it into another Ice Age that were defeated by the Gods, who killed their leader and stole their power source. Enraged by their attempts to reclaim the relic on the day he was to be crowned, Thor, with the assistance of a few trusted warriors—of which includes Sif (Jaimie Alexander), Fandral (Josh Dallas), and his brother, Loki (Tom Hiddleston)—and the aid of his trusted weapon, Mjolnir (a hammer made from a dying star that has the power to build and destroy), storms the enemy home-front, Jotunheim. Here, the Asgardians are outnumbered, and following an impressive action sequence (which shows Thor’s power in pristine detail), a furious Odin interjects, calling the team back to their realm, where Thor, charged with starting a war, is stripped of his power and exiled to Earth as unishment—here he befriends Jane, who becomes helpful in trying to reclaim Mjolnir (and thus his power), which rests—unmovable—atop a crater.

For the first time, S.H.I.E.L.D., the law-enforcement and espionage agency of the Marvel Comics Universe, has a major presence in a film’s plot. In Thor, the firm, which establishes an operating base around the hero’s grounded weapon, is represented by Agent Phil Coulson (Clark Gregg), who also made rounds in both Iron Man films. Hurt Locker star Jeremy Renner also appears as Clint Barton, who is widely known as the master bowman and Avengers member, Hawkeye. And those who sit through the film’s end credits are rewarded by another cameo by Samuel L. Jackson as the patch-eyed Nick Fury in a scene that the actor describes as “connective tissue” to Joe Johnston’s forthcoming Captain America: The First Avenger.

That’s not to say the film isn’t suited to be a standalone film or is inaccessible to those not familiar with the character’s history. The screenplay introduces casual audiences to Thor’s backstory with the right blend of humor, action, and drama, while diehard fans can expect to be thrilled with Branagh’s eye for detail in the film’s environment—especially Asgard, whose illustrious metallic architecture looks fantastic. The director himself has admitted that sculpting the hero’s homeland was the hardest part of the process—it was his job to make it recognizable to fans of the series, while taking artistic liberties to ensure a sense of realism. However, the earthly settings aren’t forgotten about. In fact, to serve as the fictional location for the film, an entire town was constructed in Galisteo, New Mexico.

And although the human characters lack the color of their immortal counterparts, the chemistry between Hemsworth and Portman make for a satisfying on-screen romance. The actor’s interactions with Hopkins also make for a realistic father-son dynamic—the reason why the acting legend (not being a comic book fan) signed onto the project in the first place.

For a film whose protagonist flails around powerlessly for the majority of its running time, Branagh’s latest—a departure from his earlier work—is a Thor-ougly entertaining blockbuster and a pleasant surprise.

(Source: geniuneadmirer.com)

Emily Giffin’s Something Borrowed is quintessential “chick lit,” a highly marketable genre of fiction that prides itself in depicting modern womanhood in a (mostly) humorous manner. And because it was an international bestseller with a built in demographic, a film adaptation was inevitable (although I thought it would have arrived sooner). Director Luke Greenfield’s eponymous production (penned by Jennifer Snyder) certainly lives up to its title — not necessarily in terms of quality though.

It opens with Rachel (Ginnifer Goodwin), an ordained law-student with a mid-life crisis — at her own birthday party, thrown by best-friend and seasoned narcissist, Darcy (Kate Hudson), she learns of Darcy’s plans to marry Dex (Colin Egglesfield), Rachel’s former crush and study partner. When Darcy drinks herself sick and is forced to punch out for the night, things between Rachel and the newfound groom heat up and, at the local bar over a few post-party Heinekens, he admits his mutual feelings for her, a confession that spills over to Rachel’s apartment, where she wakes up the next morning — naked — alongside Dex. The question quickly arises, what’s more important, romance or friendship? Now if only it weren’t asked with the aesthetic and narrative of a Lifetime feature.

Rounding out the cast are John Krasinski, as Ethan, Rachel’s straight-shooting emotional support, and Steve Howey, who stars as Marcus, Dex’s blockheaded consort. And when these characters are all brought to the Hamptons (on Darcy’s whim) to celebrate and relax, even more drama surfaces — including past romances, family troubles, and hidden demons. Cue Alex Wurman’s second-rate orchestral score.

A poor soundtrack is the least of this production’s problems; Goodwin and Egglesfield headline with the grace of a beached whale — and their dull romance is made worse by the latter’s overall creepiness in his role. This tasks the rest of the cast with picking up the pieces while somehow mustering up redeemable performances. Fortunately, for you and me, they do. With Krasinski’s overall likeability as the enlightened writer who has some secrets himself, and Hudson’s mesmerizing turn as Darcy, a character that exemplifies the production’s darkest themes of vanity and alcoholism, Something Borrowed becomes tolerable. Even Howey is somewhat charming.

But with a central love-interest that fails to inspire and lacks any chemistry, it’s no surprise that the film takes, what seems like, hours to reach its painfully clichéd climax: A passionate kiss in the pouring rain. Come to think about it, all of Luke Greenfield’s latest consists of story elements borrowed from other — so much more successful — romantic comedies.

(Source: thecriticalcritics.com)

In Super Size Me, he risked his health to expose the fast food industry, then in Where in the World is Osama Bin Laden, Morgan Spurlock upped the ante, deciding to travel to the war-torn Middle East (armed with just a camera-crew and some defense training). Now the director takes a less harmful approach to journalism; an insider’s look into the world of filmmaking and the advertisement (branding and product placement being common in many major Hollywood pictures) that accompanies it, but his latest, Pom Wonderful Presents: The Greatest Movie Ever Sold mixes in another trick — this documentary is financed completely by the aforementioned — a paradox meant to provide first-hand explanations for the subject matter at hand. And although this extra gimmick and Spurlock’s talents as an interviewer and narrator add entertainment value to the “docbuster,” the lack of research and abrupt ending leave much to be desired — a less than enlightening production that at times seems more like a behind-the-scenes featurette than a feature-length piece.

What is fantastic about the film is that throughout it, Spurlock learns with the audience. He isn’t afraid to face rejection, have contributors challenge his controversial body of work, or show the entire legal aspect of the project. His instant likeability in the role — standing as “the average Joe” amongst advertisers — makes him relatable rather than outlandish or pompous.

Because it’s such a controversial issue — some claiming that product placement (especially when done badly) is turning us into sheep to corporate America, whereas others see it as a harmless way of funding one’s work — Spurlock meets fellow filmmakers, Quentin Tarantino, J.J. Abrams, and social icons such as Donald Trump and Noam Chomsky, to hear both sides. His signature brand of humor adds color to these interviews, and Spurlock has excellent chemistry with all those involved, not once choking up or being star-struck. Endings, however, are not the director’s strong suit.

At one point during the third act, Spurlock claims that, “It’s just started, this is where the film really begins,” eluding that there’s much more to come. Unfortunately that isn’t true. Moments later, the credits start rolling, resulting in complete and utter dissatisfaction as scene cards detail the rest of Spurlock’s trip. This begs the question: Does that mean that the last hour or so that we’ve invested in watching the film were just build-up? In turn, what exactly was it building towards? Perhaps it’s to just show how damaging one line can be.

But ad placement is everywhere and Morgan Spurlock’s Pom Wonderful Presents: The Greatest Movie Ever Sold has the right idea — constantly referring to the increasing control that these co-producers have over an artist’s vision. However, the film’s lack of vital information and constant reiterating of established facts (i.e. marketing is used to make a film more money) hurts it in the long run. Nevertheless, the director’s dedication to outdoing himself — crafting increasingly grandiose films that expand on his human guinea pig technique of newscasting — is admirable. Here, Spurlock designs another enthralling documentary, whose clever set-up leads to many entertaining moments, but which is more often than not, popcorn cinema rather than the elucidative work that it could have been — and that’s more disappointing than Pom Wonderful’s hefty price-tag.

(Source: thecriticalcritics.com)