Cinema de Gym: 'Minority Report'

Kurt here. (Surely many of you recall that Michael C. just recently offered an Unsung Heroes post on the Minority Report think tank, so allow me to pre-arrest myself and apologize in advance for the déjà vu.) Minority Report turned out to be a perfect movie to watch in my gym's cardio theater, each of us exercisers piloting our own personal machines like hovercraft-riding Spielbergian cops. Like most, I adore this film in all its blue-filtered beauty, and I'm happy to report that I was lucky enough to walk in for one of my favorite scenes: Tom Cruise's eye transplant surgery.

Surely the dirtiest segment of this very sterile sci-fi noir, the scene, which sees Peter Stormare's ex-con play doctor with Cruise's fugitive, John Anderton, is squirmingly tactile and visceral, greatly conveying the nightmarish ickiness of its atmosphere. Within the apartment unit, a setting of uglified modernity most evocative of Ridley Scott, the great Stormare enhances the dread tenfold with his mad-scientist line readings, which reveal that he was once arrested by John...for burning his patients. With that stirring revelation, we're invited to sit back and relax in the operating chair, seeing Stormare and his nurse – if I remember correctly – through John's eyes, which, y'know, are about to leave their sockets.

When John awakes, the nightmare continues, as the good doctor has playfully misled him as a means of mild, yet nonetheless grotesque, revenge. Blindfolded, and forbidden to remove his bandages lest he actually go blind, John has a string tied to each arm to lead him to the kitchen and bathroom, which – again, if memory serves – have been intentionally mixed-up. The new scene conjures a sort of schoolyard-bully terror, never greater than when John finally heads for the refrigerator. Reaching for the sandwich and milk his caretakers promised him, John instead grabs a brick of mold-covered grossness, and after spatting it out, attempts to wash out the taste with a big swig of green god-knows-what. Gaaahhh, I can feel the shivers now. It's such a repulsive moment, for which, of course, I tip my hat to Mr. Spielberg.

Minority Report supports one of my favorite Tom Cruise talking points, a theme that can be traced through much of his '00s filmography. To help boost John's post-op anonymity, Stormare's doc gives him an emergencies-only, taser-like device that, if zapped under the chin, will turn his face into an unrecognizable glob of Quasimodo skin-putty. If it hadn't been already, vanity was surely the Tom Cruise motif of the new millenium. Everything from the Mission: Impossible franchise to Valkyrie involved some degree of covering up or disfiguring Cruise's million-dollar mug, as if to say there was no greater sin or provocation in mainstream movies. Certainly, Cruise used it as a way to both be self-indulgent and shallowly work against his icon status, superficially striving for character-actordom by obstructing – or, god forbid, destructing – his pretty face. Minority Report came on the heels of Vanilla Sky, wherein this theory is surely most apparent, with Cruise Vanity essentially serving as its own subplot. What does it all mean? Ultimately, I prefer to think of it as eerie foreshadowing, an inundation of Cruise defacement amidst a career climax, after which his face would never be the same.

Conclusions?

1. Though not exactly one for always putting a distinct stamp on his work, Spielberg sure can draw you into the moment.
2. Though not exactly one for pushing the boundaries of foulness, Spielberg sure can gross you out good.
3. Though often reduced to a negative Russian stereotype, Stormare can bring a whole lot with very little.
4. Though his need to remind us did indeed grow tiresome, Cruise does have one killer face to deface.

If the '00s marked the era of Cruise vanity, which Cruise era are we in now?

Cinema de Gym: 'Blue Collar Comedy Tour Rides Again'

Hello, friends. Kurt here. Boy, oh boy. Where to start? In this very space, I've already been called out for snobbery for sticking it to lowbrow comedy and the people who love it, so I'm gonna try to keep the snark to a minimum. But I definitely stopped dead in my tracks when I walked into the gym this week and saw that the movie du jour was Blue Collar Comedy Tour Rides Again, the straight-to-video sequel to Blue Collar Comedy Tour: The Movie, a feature presentation of below-the-Mason-Dixon comics delivering below-the-belt jokes. My first impulse was to disregard the movie altogether, and just go with another day's title (okay, there was only one other day at the gym this week). Then, the more I thought about it, the more excited I got: this could turn out to be a whole lot of off-the-beaten-path fun, like getting a free glimpse of hell without the threat of damnation.

I exaggerate, but I'm certainly not kidding when I say that the Blue Collar quartet – Jeff Foxworthy, Ron White, Bill Engvall and Larry the Cable Guy – generally make my blood run cold. The latter is by leaps and bounds the worst offender, and his “Git-R-Done!” is, no exaggeration whatsoever, my most reviled catchphrase in the English language. That he is very much viewed as a role model in many parts says horrible, horrible things about our country (I happily missed Cars 2, thank you very much). Engvall and Foxworthy seem like nice enough guys, the former boasting the least identifiable, and therefore most benign, schtick (I couldn't even tell you what it is). Foxworthy has surely been the most successful, as he has the savvy to parlay his white-trash brand into big-time crossover appeal (how many TV shows is he hosting now?). His “You Might Be A Redneck If...” gags are Blue Collar's best because they are the most shrewdly self-effacing, at once told from the inside but also distanced from it. Many are made up, sure, but you get the sense that folks back home are regularly pissed for being anonymously exploited, while Foxworthy can always snap back with, “well, at least I made something of myself.”

But no matter how large the grain of salt with which it's taken, all of this promotes a proudly ignorant way of life that very realistically puts people like Michele Bachmann into positions of power. Don't tell me it's just comedy – it's spoon-fed blinders for pig-in-mud fools and bigots. The segment I saw, which followed a healthy string of “You Might Be a Redneck If...” fan favorites (“If your mother can tell off a state trooper without taking the Marlboro out of her mouth...”), was a lengthy bit with Ron White, whose most fascinating characteristic is that he's still alive despite never being without a cigarette or a scotch-filled tumbler. White's jokes slid from the obvious to the obscene. None were funny. Some simply poked fun at the absurdity of his agent's decision to fly him to a gig that was an easy car ride away, but most just underscored a reckless contempt for women. Commenting on recent De Beers campaigns (this film hit shelves in 2004), he observed that the diamonds are basically designed to shut women up (“Take her Breath Away,” etc.), a notion that everything about his delivery endorsed, not condemned. He also went on about boobs in bars and wanting to see every woman naked and then wanting to vomit after looking at the ugly ones.

Ron WhiteI know rudeness is White's M.O., and I know I'm just not the audience for this. But, as I said, we're dealing with some seriously unproductive stuff here, the ripple effects from which don't just linger inside some smoky, small-town Arizona venue. Worst of all was how willfully the females in the audience guffawed at White's cutting humor, conditioned to think that it comes from a place of wink-wink love, and isn't carelessly condescending. The camera kept cutting to jolly ladies bursting out in giggles, and even the woman on the elliptical beside me laughed hard at the De Beers cracks. Wake up, ladies! Don't better yourself at the gym only to give your thumbs up to entertainment that craps all over your gender! Don't laugh at Ron White, whose closing joke invited roars of applause for exalting Texas death penalty laws! Be better than Blue Collar!

Conclusions?

1. If the Blue Collar guys were to be ranked in order of tolerability, it would go like so: Jeff Foxworthy, Bill Engvall, Ron White, Larry the Cable Guy.
2. This post ain't gonna get me any friends in the Bible Belt.
3. If you walk into a gym and recoil at the sight of a marquee that reads, Blue Collar Comedy Tour Rides Again, you might be a film snob.

Can I get an “Amen” in here?

Cinema de Gym: Forrest Gump

Kurt here. On the day Forrest Gump was playing at my gym, it seemed only right that I swap out the elliptical for the treadmill: Run, cinephile! RUN!! In truth, part of me wanted to run right out of the building (this is a behemoth of a movie to chip away at with my modest column). But, I stuck it out, and I tip my hat to the gym's programmers, as I've never been so inspired to burn off as many calories as possible.
Forrest Gump tends to have that effect on people, ever since it ran away with every trophy in sight at the end of 1994. It's a you-can-do-it movie, through and through, with Forrest boasting Oprah-level propulsion – too busy to look back for more than a brief glance. The film itself doesn't wow so greatly the smaller it gets in the rearview, no matter how large it looms on the marquee and no matter how well it urges one to keep up with its star runner. Such is the plight of the overhyped phenomenon.
I like Forrest Gump just fine, but I think it works better as a capsule of Americana than as a movie. And, of course, to be a capsule of Americana is a big part of its aim. It's essentially 141 minutes of milestones and iconography, landmark moments and famous faces. Its underdog-rewrites-history conceit is a good one, always teetering on the edge of magical realism but too awash in actual events to truly show it. That vicious, wonderful – and very viral – review of Transformers: Dark of the Moon stuck it to Gump for being the evil initiator of archival footage manipulation, but it's hard not to find charm in the film's grainy tour of suddenly resurrected legends (JFK, John Lennon), however buffoonish the tour guide may be. I think my personal favorite thing about the film – if I may be so broad – is its sociopolitical Vietnam-era backdrop, which multiple films have since tried and failed to depict with the same buzzing cultural potency (ahem, Across the Universe, ahem). It's what pumps awesome power into Forrest and Jenny's Washington Monument reunion, surely one of the most iconic hugs in contemporary cinema. It's not strength of narrative, but strength of context that gives you butterflies – a movement and an era defined in an embrace. 

Hug it Out

And that's just one moment.
In its tireless forward motion, Forrest Gump, covers an awful lot of ground, each episode another page in the history book. So nimble is its pace that to tell you what I saw during my quick workout is to offer you a clip reel: the rise of the ping pong master, the boiling resentment of a legless Lieutenant Dan, the newsreel mooning of LBJ, the breaking up of the Black Panther “party” and, of course, that lovely aforementioned hug. All scenes that, appropriately, have now found their own places in the pages of history. However you feel about Forrest Gump, few films have so firmly cemented themselves into popular conversation, achieved such immortal quotability, and made themselves known to what seems like every adult media consumer. As I write this, I'm in a house with a ping pong table in the basement. Is it possible to play the game without thinking of a rubber-limbed Tom Hanks? Is it possible to open a box of chocolates without envisioning Sally Field, or a white bench in Savannah, Georgia? 

It was nice to revisit this movie after the major Hanks misfire of Larry Crowne, which won't put a dent in the smiley star's career, but surely bruised his credibility as a filmmaker. There will be no higher peak for Hanks than Forrest Gump, no better instance of his massively, uniquely beloved everyman/leading man persona. I wonder if he knew this when he was making the press rounds with Robert Zemeckis and Robin Wright, or when he collected his Oscar – that this was it, the summit, the key page in his history. I wonder if he wanted to stop and freeze instead of just keep running. 

Conclusions?

1. See above.
2. Movies about running are even better motivators than Matthew McConnaughey's abs. (Should I recommend Prefontaine to the gym programmers?)
3. Admittedly, the whole “box of chocolates” thing is pretty counterproductive here.
4. Qualms aside, Forrest Gump is something of treasure.  

What do you think of the film? Despite everything, it's surprisingly divisive, especially given the whole Pulp Fiction / Shawshank Redemption Best Pic defeat. 

Cinema de Gym: 'Opportunity Knocks'

Kurt here with a new Cinema de Gym, the first to focus on a movie I never knew existed before my cardio session. Is everyone familiar with Opportunity Knocks? It's a 1990 comedy noteworthy for being the breakout film for SNL alum Dana Carvey. With his straw-blonde hair styled into what I remember to be an almost-mullet, Carvey plays Eddie Farrell, a California con man whose slovenly style (oversized shirts, khakis with sneakers) is used to convey an enviably carefree outlook (as opposed to Steve Carrells's version of the same style in this week's Crazy, Stupid, Love., which is used to convey unenviable cluelessness). I entered the movie just as it was starting (another first), and got to see the unremarkable opening credits blip onto the screen as Carvey strutted down the street in his lazy dude's attire. There was no telling why he was carrying a potted plant. 

Turns out it was part of the character's introductory ruse, which also involves two nuns, a female pedestrian and a rich man in a flashy car who's tricked into believing he almost killed someone. I'm tiptoeing around the details because, in truth, I'm forgetting them, but what's important to note is the scene ably reveals the character's nature without heaps of exposition, and it also introduces his partner, Lou, played by Todd Graff, who's best known to me as the other-guy crew member in The Abyss. The buddies work as a team, scamming suckers in such amusing ways as pretending to be plumbers and then stealing the family TV. One house they come upon is empty, and while rooting through the rooms, they hear a voicemail from the intended housesitter, who must renege on his responsibility. Suddenly, the crooks are able to use the glorified suburban bachelor pad as their home base, its game tables and stocked fridge perfect for passing time between jobs. 

Something else happened involving a mobster and a stolen car, but that's about all the synopsis I'm prepared to dish out. Besides, what I took away from this movie wasn't plot details, but early '90s nostalgia. Ever the deliverer of exaggerated accents and impersonations (plenty of which turn up here), Carvey was a youthful 35 when this movie was released, making him 56 today. That's somehow an astonishing number for me to process, I guess because it's tough to imagine the goofy comedians of your youth as being over the hill. In any case, the thought marks the first time I've felt a pang of longing for the Wayne's World days, which closely followed in 1992. The same sensation is tied to my being charmed by the gloriously dreadful look of this movie – that grayed, washed out, VHS aesthetic that doesn't look any better just because it's been transferred to DVD. There's a whole catalog of late-'80s and early-'90s titles with that same oddly cozy drabness, which is funny, considering it's an era usually defined by neon and excess.

The future Mrs. Billy ChristensenThe strangest revelations the film offered came during the post-gym research process. A few clicks on Wikipedia unleash a crazy batch of facts regarding what the cast and crew have been up to since. We're all pretty up to speed on Carvey (who can forget The Master of Disguise?), but how about co-star Julia Campbell? She's a busy TV actress, but you know her as none other than A-Group leader Christy Masters from Romy and Michele's High School Reunion. And director Donald Petrie? Most recently, you have him to thank for Welcome to Mooseport, Just My Luck and My Life in Ruins. As for Graff, he boasts the most startling resume by far, at least to this moviegoer. A musical theatre vet, the actor-turned-director is the guy behind Camp and Bandslam, and his next project – get this – is Joyful Noise, a 2012 gospel musical with Queen Latifah and Dolly Parton. How do I not know about the latter? Here's what its Wiki page says: “Two strong-minded women are forced to cooperate when budget cuts threaten to shut down a small-town choir.”    ...I'm sorry, what were we talking about again?

Conclusions?

1. Yesterday's casual is today's embarrassment, as evidenced by Carvey and Carrell.
2. Sadly, comedians age just like everybody else.
3. Ugly is endearing if you happen to be a movie from the late-'80s or early-'90s.
4. Todd Graff is our new Steve Antin – an out former actor about to unveil the unofficial sequel to Burlesque.

Oh, what to ask you? This post is one mixed bag. What jumped out at you? I can only guess...

Cinema de Gym: 'Juno'

Kurt here, back with another installment of Cinema de Gym. Y'all didn't have much to say about the last two episodes, so I'm happy to return with a movie that's more actressy and Oscary, for better or worse. Hopefully it'll get folks talking. Juno is a film that has not sat well in my memory – a hipper-than-thou pin cushion for all my Quirk Cinema complaints. When a post-2007 indie gets under the skin with all its precious, self-negating eccentricities, Diablo Cody usually proves the perfect scapegoat. What hath she wrought with her Millenial-surrealist dialogue, best described as Kevin Williamson by way of the Urban Outfitters library? Well, probably half of what's now in the Urban Outfitters library, for one. Her words are sticky pop contrivance glazed over genuine depth of feeling, a concoction that was wildly validated by everyone from Oscar to Ebert to an army of young adults, who'd found their Clueless – a comedy that shaped their vernacular.

Which, in all fairness, is no small feat, and I tip my hat to Cody for having the wherewithal to tap into the voice of a generation (or, at least, the pseudo-emo white-kid leg of it). But her hyper-stylization is certainly not without its drawbacks, and Juno sees many an honest moment neutralized by an on-cue Codyism. The argument, of course, is that the lingo is what makes the film unique (and, to many, what makes it great). My retort is that its success is hinged on the direction of Jason Reitman (a near-virtuoso among young American filmmakers) and the performances from the cast. Though he operates on the same tonal plane as his screenwriter, Reitman's visualization of Cody's script is what truly shapes the film's identity, speaking to you in a singularly authentic way the words cannot. And the impeccably chosen actors, though no doubt thrilled to have been handed such colorful material, do some astonishing weight-lifting in terms of helping to substantiate the language. Their work, and Reitman's, will make this film watchable in 20 years. Cody's will always live in the "whoa dream big" world of 2007.

I'll admit I rolled my eyes when I saw that Juno was the film of the day at the gym. My retrospective qualms with it tend to blind me of its charms. The segment I caught was highly representative of the film entire: a peaks-and-valleys stretch of time riddled with poignant moments and Codyan pratfalls. I got to see the bit where Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner's relationship ends, the part where Juno tells Jennifer "I'm still in if you are" (excuse me while I freely mix actor and character names), and the part where Juno professes her love for Paulie Bleeker. This, unfortunately, also means I had to hear an in-labor Juno declare that "Thundercats are go!"; a lovely speech undone by the line, "You're golden, man"; and background song lyrics that whisper, "I like amputees with stamp collections" (though I guess I can't blame Cody for that one). That's Juno for you: it giveth and it taketh away.

Before I go, I wanted to say a word or two about Garner, who's never been lovelier or more assured as an actor than she is in this movie. A fine candidate for Michael C.'s Unsung Heroes series, her performance – easily overlooked upon first viewing – is all heart and earnestness, and she's very much the straight gal to everyone else's buzzing one-linerocity. Does that mean she doesn't do as much weight-lifting? Hardly. Garner more or less carries this movie's weight. I was happy to exit during the scene where she enters the delivery room and picks up her son for the first time. "I think he was always hers," says Juno's narration. It's a perfect metaphor for how I feel about this film: Cody may have carried Juno in the womb, but it's surrogates who stepped in and raised it to its full potential.

Conclusions?

1. Movies may often start with the screenwriter, but they certainly don't end with them.
2. Jennifer Garner should have had a much greater presence in the 2007 awards discussion.
3. I am not exactly looking forward to Young Adult, aka Reitman-Cody Partnership, Part Deux.
4. Just for kicks: Google "Paulie Bleeker" and what do you find? Paulie Bleeker Halloween costumes. I am really tempted...

So, how 'bout it? Has my Juno post left you pregnant with responses?