Jack Reacher

Jack Reacher is a solid procedural with a strong lead, great supporting work, and the best car chase I've seen in recent memory.

I started out disliking this movie. It begins with a sniper picking off random innocents out enjoying the day in downtown Pittsburgh. It's a powerful scene, alternating between the sniper's cool professionalism and the panicked flight of people unlucky enough to find themselves in his kill zone. See, I lived in DC during the Sniper Autumn of 2002. I recall unpacking boxes in my new home as a police chopper orbited overhead a crime scene just a mile away, where the sniper had shot some poor lady for the crime of vacuuming her car at a local service station. And here was Jack Reacher, mining such a scenario for a Tom Cruise thriller. To heck with that.

But I plowed ahead, mostly because a friend and fellow film buff had endorsed the film. Just a few minutes later, the great character actor Richard Jenkins showed up as the DA set to prosecute the case, and I knew everything was gonna be ok. As a general rule, Richard Jenkins does not make bad movies.

[Digression]Richard Jenkins is such a wonderful actor. If you haven't yet done so, you really owe it to yourself to queue up TheVisitor. He can do so much, create such complete characters with just body language and the way he sets his eyes, that watching him is like watching a master's class in understated perfection. You also should see The Cabin in the Woods, in which Jenkins plays a crucial supporting role. This guy is, as my kids would say, awesomesauce.[/Digression]

Soon, Tom Cruise shows up as the kind of guy my teenaged boy thinks everyone in the Army must be: he's a retired Army cop who just happens to be a sniper, a black belt, a knife fighter, a combat driver, and an an all-around invincible dude with a great plastic surgeon, a personal trainer, and an HGH prescription. Since most of us only have enough time in our lives to get really good at one or two things, Cruise's character is basically Fantasyland. But hey, it's Tom Cruise: say what you want about the man's personal life, he's an incredibly magnetic screen presence. In the film, Tom smells a rat: the case against the accused, an ex-Army sniper with whom our hero has history, looks a little too pat. There must be more to the story.

And we're off, with Tom running and driving and shooting and fighting and Sherlocking his way through about two hours of big-budget pablum – he even gets a noirish monologue about halfway through that would've done Robert Mitchum proud. Jenkins shares supporting credit with a major icon of American cinema whose name I'll withhold because his appearance came as such a pleasant surprise, and both gentlemen class things up wonderfully. The aforementioned car chase, featuring a classic muscle car against a modern speedster, is exciting and inventive and a great deal of fun.

In short, Jack Reacher is pure entertainment – so much so that I forgot my initial revulsion and enjoyed the ride for popcorn-muncher it was. If you like guns and cars and watching some dude the size of a hobbit beat up 6'5” bodybuilders, Jack Reacher makes for an interesting proposition. Toss in Richard Jenkins being quietly awesome, and I don't see how you can pass it up.

Aguirre: The Wrath of God

If Werner Herzog had been born millenia ago, he'd have been a desert mystic, a prophet telling those with an ear to listen that all is vanity. He's of our time, of course, and his is a different medium than the Wisdom Scroll. AGUIRRE: THE WRATH OF GOD, a dark and beautiful meditation on the futility of ambition, sinks deeply into our psyche and lingers there, compelling us to ponder Ecclesiastic insights even as we dwell in memories of the stark and beautiful jungle of Herzog's film.

"All the rivers run into the sea," says _Ecclesiastes_, "yet the sea is not full: unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again." AGUIRRE: THE WRATH OF GOD, takes place upon the eternal, unnamed river. It is 1560, and Pisarro's expedition to find the legendary golden city of El Dorado teeters on failure. Exhausted and running out of options, Pisarro directs a small party to scout down the river which has already claimed one raft full of men. The party's orders? Find El Dorado, or civilization, or both. It never occurs to him that, by definition, El Dorado is civilization. He puts a trusted man in charge. He appoints, as second in command, Don Lope de Aguirre. He sends a priest, a noble, soldiers, and slaves. If they don't return in a week, Pisarro will call off the expedition and leave without them.

The men set off, afire with ambition. But the jungle, the river, is implacable. The sun bakes the men in their steel helmets. Poison-tipped darts shoot from unseen assailants on the riverbanks. The men find a village, its denizens cannibals. The fire of ambition consumes Aguirre all the more, goading him toward treason, murder, and insanity. And the sun beats down, and the birds whistle and caw, and the rodents and the monkeys claim all that vanity holds dear.

Herzog views the tale with the dispassion of the river. He extends no quarter, not even with the indigenous interpreter who laments, "I used to be a prince. Men used to be forbidden to look upon me. Now I am in chains." The royal enslaver is now slave, and all is vanity. Klaus Kinski, as Aguirre, is all the madness of human endeavour in one man. The church is the servant of the powerful and the river gives no quarter. This is life, Herzog seems to say. This is vanity.

Encounters at the End of the World

I've had some time to cogitate on ENCOUNTERS AT THE END OF THE WORLD, and I appreciate it even more now than I did right after I saw it.

ENCOUNTERS AT THE END OF THE WORLD begins with a jaw-droppingly beautiful shot of scuba divers under the Antarctic Ice, segues into a silly visual of a monkey riding on a goat, and gets us thinking with an interview with one of the many denizens of Antarctica's McMurdo Station. And the film just goes from there, weaving a tapestry of people, stories, projects, and visuals in its portrait of a little place at the end of the world where the smart, hardworking, and adventurous come to explore the world and mankind's potential.

In the process, it gives us a film that pushes all our buttons: it's beautiful, enlightening, and thought provoking, and it lingers in our consciousness long after the credits end. It makes me regret that I made my "Best of 2008" list before I saw it: this film would surely rank at #1.

Rescue Dawn

In RESCUE DAWN, Christian Bale gives another one of those performances that reminds that he's a quality, quality actor who happens to lack that certain something that makes us connect with him on a visceral level.

In the film, Bale plays Dieter Dengler, a real-life Navy pilot who has the misfortune of getting shot down over Laos on his very first mission. His story, from capture to rescue, feels believable on both technical and personal levels. The movie gets the Navy stuff right. It gets the aviation stuff right. It gets the personal interactions between Dengler and his squadronmates, captors, and fellow captives right. It's shot magnificently. The music is excellent. Even the supporting work by Steve Zahn and Jeremy Davies is absolutely (and career-enhancingly) first class.

But there's something about Bale. I never didn't buy him as Dengler, just as I accept him in all his roles. I never particularly liked him, either. Sure, I sympathised with him. I respected him. But if he were in my squadron, he isn't one of the guys I'd go out of my way to go on detachment with (but neither would I go out of my way to prevent it). And while that didn't take away from the character or the journey of that character, it detracted from my investment in Dieter Dengler. When he finally got rescued and I was supposed to feel relieved, or happy, or something, I felt nothing at all.

I can see them screening RESCUE DAWN at Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape School. But though I respect the film, I can't say that I like it. But I'll keep watching Bale because I respect his craft and his dedication. Perhaps I'll connect with him in his next role.

Grizzly Man

I'm trying to decide whether GRIZZLY MAN is a very good movie or a downright brilliant one.

The photography alone is very good; Herzog's calling our attention to the photography is brilliant. The insights into Timothy Treadwell are very good; Herzog's editing of Treadwell's soliloquoys is brilliant. The film's balancing on the thin line between fascination and morbid voyeurism is very good; Herzog's occasional steps across the line are brilliant.

GRIZZLY MAN is a collaboration between Herzog and a dead man, a dead man who left hundreds of hours of (mostly self-shot) footage behind. Timothy Treadwell, Herzog's collaborator and the titular Grizzly Man, is disturbed, sympathetic, angry, profoundly innocent, and absolutely in love with Nature. Treadwell's the kind of guy who would've loved MARCH OF THE PENGUINS. He anthropomorphizes bears, foxes, even Alaska, seeming to believe that if he just loves them enough, they'll love him back. But bears are bears and nature doesn't love him back. It's a lesson Herzog understands but Treadwell may never have learned.

GRIZZLY MAN'S power comes from the juxtaposition of Treadwell's innocence, Herzog's wisdom, and the stupendous beauty of Alaska and the grizzlies Treadwell was foolish enough to try to befriend. Because Treadwell was a fool, he shot footage of these bears unlike anything I've ever seen. He got right up next to them. He talked to them, scolded them, even swam with them. He seemed to make something of a pet of a local fox. He lived his dream, right up until he (and his apprehensive girlfriend) died in a grizzly's hungry maw. Amazingly, Treadwell's camera was running (lens cap on) at the time of his death, and Herzog shot some oblique footage of himself listening to the couple's final minutes. In the end, Herzog doesn't share those minutes with us. Instead, he advises the keeper of the tape to destroy it, as it's simply to horrible to own. It's better to remember Treadwell as he was: innocent, foolish, and enveloped in beauty.

And it's that beauty I'll remember long after I've forgotten Treadwell's name. Thank you for a brilliant movie, gentlemen.