Movies/ Mouthing Off/ A Miscellany

Movies/ Mouthing Off/ A Miscellany
Movies/ Mouthing Off/ A Miscellany
Showing posts with label Emma Stone. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Emma Stone. Show all posts

Thursday, June 4, 2015

The Great Aloha Disaster of 2015 | Aloha Movie Review




By now Aloha is a widely recognized disaster. All that’s left is to sort through the rubble, draw lessons for future skirmishes (i.e.movies), and to debate whether or not Cameron Crowe’s career is in fact unwinnable. And though some of our finest military minds are all already on it (Amy Pascal: “I’m never starting a movie again when the script is ridiculous and we all know it”), I figured I should put in my two cents as a doctor of literature.
Most of the early attention has gone to the fill-in-the-blank -- clueless? -- typical? -- casting of Emma Stone as the part Chinese, part Native Hawaiian love interest of military contractor Bradley Cooper.
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Emma Stone weeping part of actual movie, not movie fallout

In hindsight casting of haole-er than thou,  Emma Stone as Allison Ng (“like ring, without the R,” as Emma Stone informs us) was wrong on various levels. Wrong for Cameron Crowe’s image (you're supposed to be a sensitive guy) and also wrong on a moral level (based on this movie not an actual concern).
Crowe has defended himself in a recent blog post by claiming that Ng is based on a “real life, red-headed local.” And it is indeed a running joke that Allison Ng, while claiming Hawaiian ancestry, does not convincingly look the part. Not a terrible joke in itself, but given the context of Hollywood movies forever casting Caucasian actors even in the few ethnic parts that come up, almost the definition of “punching down.” Not a good look, C.C.


But Cameron Crowe, for a guy who casts himself as a scruffy, alternate lifestyle, writer type (Singles, Almost Famous) has always been deeply attracted to power. Seriously, who else writes movies about successful sports agents (Tom Cruise) and successful sports shoe designers (Orlando Bloom)? The distinctive Crowe plot of a corporate-guy-gone-temporarily-askew-but-coming-back-as-an-even-more-lucrative-independent-contractor is very much in evidence in Aloha, a movie cluttered with powerful aging actors ←-male that is. The women remain distressingly a good 10 years younger than they should be reality-wise. In short, basically what you'd expect from a star reporter for Rolling Stone.


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Bill Murray as Aloha's Spirit Animal, Carson Welsh


The love affair with power which forms the true story of Aloha, romantic comedy trappings aside, finds its true spirit animal in the character played by Bill Murray. “Carson Welsh” combines traits of Steve Jobs, Richard Branson, and Bill Murray collecting a big paycheck for a few days sketchy work.
In a culture devoid of anything sacred, Billy Murray has become our bowling alley Buddha, dispensing wisdom and Bud Lights, as seen on Instagram. His appearance in Aloha is very much in this spirit, trading on accumulated good vibes while he gives Bradley Cooper a long backrub (so generous in a mega-billionaire!) and boogies with Sergeant Ng to Hall and Oates. 
Alas, he turns out to be an evil plutocrat who wants to rule the world, but the movie’s iconography will have nothing to do with this minor plot point -- from his appearance as jolly Father Christmas (above) to when he is arrested by a bunch of military guys on a photographic isthmus, his beatific expression and white peasant shirt tell their own story of redemption and corporate jets.  He is, more or less, God as CEO, shining his benevolent hipster light on the 99%.


I musn’t neglect Bradley Cooper, the star of the film. He meanders through the film with the slightly incredulous expression he wore when forced to act in a Major Motion Picture alongside a plastic baby doll.



Forgive me, Clint Eastwood. You made a serious movie about war and post-traumatic stress disorder with one little lapse. Aloha  has borrowed your themes, your actor, and woven a lei of lapsed thoughts and fragrant bullshit.




Friday, February 7, 2014

Our Man in Manhattan



    Unlike Mel Gibson, who shouted uncontestably psychotic things and then, willingly or not, disappeared from public view, this Woody Allen situation will actually require a decision on our part. After all, this is the family member who has come to Thanksgiving every year since 1967. Magic in the Moonlight, starring Emma Stone,  will be showing up on your doorstep very soon. Are you going to serve it pumpkin pie?
     As for me, I was always weirded out that he had taken those naked pictures of his teenage not-stepdaughter, but the rest of the family seemed to forgive him, so I went along with it. But I began to feel a palpable disconnect from the critical establishment, who continued to view Allen as a vital and important force in cinema. Novelist Francine Prose summarized my feelings perfectly, in her (pre-second wave scandal) review of Blue Jasmine, "I've reread Manohla Dargis and David Thompson, whose criticism I respect. I've been trying to figure out how we could have seen such different movies. Was there something I missed?"
     Given the terms in which she couches her review, I suspect that  her personal distaste for Allen had begun to color her perceptions long before events of the last few weeks. I know it has mine. Are the films really this shallow and annoying, or are we distracted by the icky home movies forever running simultaneously in our heads? I'm long past the point where such questions can be answered productively. And while it's essentially true, as Allen advocates assert so smugly, that no new information has really come out with Dylan Farrow's letter in the New York Times, it does solidify the queasy feeling I've experienced for years on that annual family trip to the Cineplex. It smells so strongly of shark in there.