The Good Dinosaur Review: Meh

The Good Dinosaur is a huge step forward technologically for Pixar, a company famous for such breakthroughs, but cannot compare to the powerful storytelling of its best films, such as Inside Out, Toy Story 3 or WALL-E.

Pixar’s The Good Dinosaur is set in a world where the meteor which is popularly believed to have wiped out the dinosaurs narrowly misses planet Earth. “Millions of years later,” as the title card informs us, dinosaurs and not humans have evolved into the dominant species, as cowboy T. Rexes, farmer apatosaurs and unbalanced pterodactyls co-exist uneasily in a dino version of the frontier Old West.

Meanwhile, homo sapiens have been relegated to a wolf-like pack existence, eking out their survival on the fringes of this society. The Good Dinosaur, directed by Peter Sohn and with a screenplay by Meg LeFauve (although four other people hold story credits), focuses on the relationship between one such human child and our hero Arlo, a knobby-kneed adolescent dinosaur who is forced on a quest to find his way home with “Spot” - a little wolf-boy he catches eating his family’s whole winter store of corn - as his only companion.

Unlike the animated features from other studios - DreamWorks, Fox Animation, even Disney - Pixar releases are invariably compared to their predecessors. In this light, The Good Dinosaur suffers, as it arrives in the wake of the enchanting and emotionally complex (for an animated movie aimed nominally at kids) Inside Out, which is destined to be remembered as one of the studio’s greatest releases. In comparison, The Good Dinosaur is far more straightforward and simplistic in its storytelling. As a showcase for a startling technical achievement in 3D animation, however, the film sets a new bar for the medium.

The Good Dinosaur follows Arlo (voiced by Raymond Ochoa), the smallest sire of his Poppa (Jeffrey Wright) and Momma (Frances McDormand), perpetually in the shadow of his siblings. Clever Libby (Maleah Padilla) and stout, strong Buck (Marcus Scribner) have carved out helpful niches on the family farm and have made their “mark” - a muddy footprint on the stone silo next their parents’ - but Arlo is constantly terrified. When his loving but exasperated father has him follow the tracks of the “critter” raiding their stores out into the wilderness, tragedy strikes. Stranded and lost, Arlo must survive on his wits and with the help of the feral boy Spot, and their bond grows during their adventure.

It’s all pretty simple and features entertaining (if ultimately underwhelming) celebrity voice cameos by Sam Elliot as a helpful T. Rex and Steve Zahn as an antagonistic pterodactyl. The production upheavals which delayed The Good Dinosaur’s release by 18 months (such as the removal of original director Bob Peterson) echo in the overall hollow nature of the narrative, traditionally one of Pixar’s strengths since Toy Story.

The central relationship - a dinosaur and his boy - probably seemed charming on the page and even in storyboard form, but as 3D-animated characters, Arlo lacks in charisma and Spot is just strange. There’s something borderline offensive about the dog-like little boy, rendering him unbelievable. This from a studio which gave us a lost clownfish, cowboy and spaceman toys, a love-struck robot, and a pair of goofy monsters, all of whom are now considered iconic. 

The lesser Pixar releases - the Cars franchise, Brave, and now The Good Dinosaur - share the same overall traits: a thin premise and story, but with endearing characters that prove popular when translated into merchandise. Arlo and Spot rank at the lower end of this scale, even when compared to the anthropomorphized automobiles of Cars and Cars 2.

Still, The Good Dinosaur’s visuals are marvelous. The photorealistic CG backgrounds and environments - modeled on the famous Western movie backdrops of Monument Valley - become the main character, providing a unique sense of place that is immersive but cannot overcome the bland characters and muddled narrative. 

C+ 

Photos - Agents of SHIELD - Season 2 - Promotional Episode Photos - Episode 2.11 - Aftershocks - 137811_6550_pre

Photos - Agents of SHIELD - Season 2 - Promotional Episode Photos - Episode 2.11 - Aftershocks - 137811_6550_pre

Aaaaand He's Back!

After spending too much time trying to launch a WordPress blog that I then forgot about, I'm returning to my hallowed ground on Blogger.

Did you miss me, Digital Void?

I missed you.

And I came up with an idea to actually make the title of this blog relevant. The first entry will be forthcoming.

Love, Anthony

Good Morning, Interwebs

It's been a long, long time since I posted here. And somehow, probably due to the enduring popularity of Superman, I still get pageviews. NOTE: Expect an update on that 2-year old Superman post, for all you legions of admirers following the progress... of all this.

Well, after an abortive attempt to move to Wordpress (which is kind of annoying unless you have a paid skin like ScreenRant.com, a site I've been writing for since May, as a totally unconnected aside - read my articles here), I realized that this platform is a better fit for me. It's easier to use, it's kind of more fun, and I miss it.

It's nice (and fun) to be able to write about movie news, but I miss writing reviews. So expect more of those in the days and weeks to come.

As for updates: I moved to San Francisco with my lovely girlfriend +Megan Fischbein, in a pretty great place in Laurel Heights (for a bargain), and I can't remember ever being this happy. I'm almost 35, and in a good place in my life. I was bitten by a mosquito on my left eyelid and now my eye is swollen. Everyone at work asked if I was in a barfight, so I just say yes.

It's good to be back.

Underrated: IN TIME - Fritter And Waste The Hours In An Offhand Way...

As Rolling Stone's venerable senior film critic Peter Travers once pointed out: critics can be asses. Gattaca and Lord of War writer-director Andrew Niccol's In Time was in and out of theaters so fast that I had no chance to catch it until recently. What the hell is wrong with people? (That's a rhetorical question, and the easy answer is: "Dude, so, so much!") The film has a 37% rating on RottenTomatoes.com, ("rotten") and only a slightly-better rating on Metacritic: 53 (the "yellow-zone"). So to reiterate: critics can be - and mostly are - asses. Even when viewed within the narrow margins of the "genre film," In Time is clever, fun and impeccably shot.

So here's my freakin' two cents: it's an entertaining, slightly-silly futuristic take on Bonnie & Clyde. How did the reviewers miss this? Even Roger Ebert's essentially positive take on the film missed the clear parallels to Arthur Penn's great 60's crime flick. Maybe the wonky sci-fi elements - sleek and elegant in Niccol's great Gattaca, somewhat clunky and incongruous here - threw people off. The opening monologue sets up the world: people are genetically engineered to stop aging at age 25, but they died a year later. They can borrow, bargain, steal or work for more time, but their ticking clock is ever-present, in the form of big green numbers counting down on their forearm.

Will Salas (Justin Timberlake, in another strong - if less demanding - performance after his impressive turn in The Social Network), is "25 plus 3," and lives with his 50-year old mother (Olivia Wilde, still young-looking and sexy) while working a dead-end factory job in a Los Angeles ghetto. The time period is vague - it's one of the main (and valid) complaints in most reviews: is this really the future? Everything seems fairly contemporary, from the clothing and furniture to the slightly-altered muscle car the Bad Guy drives. I actually think the film is set in a parallel universe... the opening narration does not explain how or why humans have this in-grown ticking clock, and Niccol wisely never tries.

While drinking with possibly his only friend Borel (The Big Bang Theory's Johnny Galecki, playing a slovenly scumbag like only he can), Will meets Henry Hamilton (Matt Bomer), a rich guy slumming it in the ghetto. Will saves him from almost certain death at the hands of a couple of prostitutes and then from the street-trawling Minute Men, dapper gangsters who corner timid slum-dwellers and drain all the time they can. Henry has been 25 for far too long, and wants nothing more than an end. As Will sleeps, Henry transfers his remaining years - over a century - to Will. The transfer process seems to consist of grabbing the others wrists, turning them slightly, and time transfers over. How, exactly? The process doesn't seem physiologically possible, but if you're willing to swallow the premise, this should go down easy.

There is something about film which puts people off - maybe the tone, which is in line with Niccol's usual somewhat antiseptic style. The whole film is somewhat distant and chilly, and even the marvelous cinematography by Roger Deakins gives off a chill, unusual for this great, Oscar-winning DP. Niccol and Deakins make fascinating use of the Los Angeles locations, which exude a distinctly-SoCal aura of urban decay.

I can see how plenty of audience members could be confused - the whole thing suddenly shifts halfway through. Will spends years of Henry's gift of time just getting through the different "Time Zones" which separate the classes. This layout and system is never explained - nor are we given any overall sense of organization or government of this apparently parallel reality. Not that we really need it, but some kind of overview would have helped to orient the audience. By the time Will meets Sylvia Reis (Big Love's Amanda Seyfried), the lovely and beguiling daughter of mega-rich Phillipe Reis (Mad Men's suave little SOB Vincent Kartheiser, effortlessly owning his scenes and proving that he'll be a welcome presence in features). Phillipe has been 25 for over eight decades and may (or may not) possess a legendary amount of years... and his name seems to be on every building in Will's ghetto.

The first half of the film sets up the rules of this world (albeit a little too vaguely, as I've mentioned), and the second half takes off in a new direction, with Will and Sylvia on the run and Cillian Murphy's cold-eyed Timekeeper on their heels. The eternal-youth and time-as-currency themes are all-too-relevant in this era of faster-faster-now-now-hurry-hurry... this is a time where we get agitated if our internet browser takes too long to load our porn - I mean, our local news website. I wonder if Niccol has a director's cut hidden up his sleeve which fleshes out the overall world a little more. Even if we don't see that film, the one we have is worth checking - it's fun, clever and thought-provoking.

Taped Shut

Sometimes, I wish
my mouth was taped
shut,
that way
I wouldn't be so
horrifically wrong
all the
time.

Mr. Faded Glory - Pearl Jam: Twenty

I'm nostalgic about the 1990's. It's not that I miss high school. At fucking all. As a graduate of the Rio Vista High School Class of '97, I can say with absolute certainty that those four endless, hellish years I spent in that house of horrors the city fathers for some reason called an institute of learning were definitely some of the worst of my life... and I once lived in a shed in the middle of the Washington state woods with an insane hippie chick.

I'm sentimental about the music, I guess, but I didn't know that until I watched Cameron Crowe's wonderful documentary Pearl Jam: Twenty. Crowe was given extraordinary access to a band that has outlived the "grunge" pop-culture craze which practically haunted every band to come out of Seattle in the wake of Nirvana, and indeed is the last of those bands still touring and recording with their original line-up (minus Pearl Jam's bizarre list of former drummers, recounting in a very funny, This Is Spinal Tap-sampling montage) - Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, Mother Love Bone, Hole... all gone. The film is a little too exhaustive in closely chronicling the band's timeline, and it comes at the expense of incisive insight into the band's in-fighting and personality clashes. Still, to see this great American rock band's life captured like this, and by Cameron Crowe (whose second feature film, Singles, featured members of Pearl Jam and Soundgarden in cameo roles), is an amazing experience.

I can't imagine anyone under the age of 25 or so really appreciating this film or even understanding it. Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Nirvana, Alice in Chains, Smashing Pumpkins, Red Hot Chili Peppers... these bands were the soundtrack to my wretched high school years. Did I mention how much I hated high school? (I did? Really? Shall I beat that shit right into the ground? I was unpopular, insecure and had few friends. I'm grateful for all that, looking back... I know too many people whose high school years turned out to the best years of their life. I like to think that mine are still ahead of me.) Pearl Jam: Twenty is clearly for Pearl Jam fans, but it reflects the shifting realities of an entire generation.

I turned 33 years old on November 22, 2011. Typing that sentence was not quite as painful as I thought it would be, but it's still a reality I'd like to somehow negate. As George Clooney's character said to Sam Rockwell's Chuck Barris in Confessions of a Dangerous Mind; "You're 32 years old, and you've achieved nothing. Jesus Christ was dead and alive again by 33. You better get crackin'." He could be talking about me, or damn near everyone I went to high school with. Or almost anyone my own age. Mine is a generation full of late-starters... I don't know why, but it might have something to do with Pearl Jam.

I'm kidding. Kind of. In an indirect way, it's all Eddie Vedder's fault. For a very, very short while I sang in a garage band, and one of the songs the guitar player insisted I sing was Pearl Jam's "Alive." So I did, quite a few times, but I guess I was trying too hard to sound like Eddie, I didn't really have the "self-balls" (as the guitar player told me) to be a frontman for a band at the time, so they fired me. Oh well. Early success didn't really turn out too well for Kurt Cobain, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Amy Winehouse, Janis Joplin or Robert Johnson, did it? And life ended badly for Andrew Wood, as well.

The story of Pearl Jam exists in the shadow of the influential Seattle band Mother Love Bone. That band featured future Pearl Jam members Jeff Ament and Stone Gossard, and its lead singer was a fireball named Andrew Wood. Amazing archive footage reveals Wood as a charismatic, glam-influenced frontman, relentlessly "on." Wood's tragic death at age 24 from a heroin overdose still affects the surviving members of Mother Love Bone. Stone Gossard thought his career was over, but he approached Mike McCready, a Seattle lead guitarist, who insisted that Stone hook up again with Jeff Ament. The founding lineup is complete when they hear a demo recorded by a San Diego surfer and musician, who laid his vocals over one of Stone and Jeff's instrumental tracks. According to the film, the song would end up being the haunting, bluesy ballad "Footsteps." The singer, of course, was Ed Vedder.

Circling back to that abortive attempt to start a band in high school: on at least one occasion, the guitar player would put on Pearl Jam and tell me that this was how I should be singing. The problem: despite the countless soundalike ciphers that would follow, only Vedder really sings like Vedder, which is how it should be. We were handicapped by ludicrously high expectations, and I was hamstrung by my crippling shyness and insecurity. I'm somewhat happy to report most of that shit has been sloughed away - mostly by life itself, partly by film school... you can't be a withdrawn loner and expect to get any movies made. Well, you can, but they'll be really shitty movies.

Watching Pearl Jam: Twenty made me wish I'd been far more hungry and confident in high school - but that's probably the most common regret in America. (Aside from the Democrats nominating John Kerry in 2004 - we really should've stuck with Howard Dean.) I've come a long way from the core group of "alternative" rock bands I used to endlessly listen to from 1992 - 97; I discovered Tom Waits, delved deep into the Grateful Dead, Bob Dylan, Neil Young and jazz greats like Miles Davis, John Coltrane and Thelonius Monk. I was gripped by a bizarre urge to the get to the bottom of the Great American Blues Myth, and studied up on Robert Johnson, Muddy Waters, Howlin' Wolf, and all the monstrously brilliant men and women who shared the stage with these people (including Charley Patton, who happens to be the proto-Jimi Hendrix. Playing the guitar with your teeth? Upside down? Around your back? Charley did it all first.) Lately I've been listening to the new Black Keys single "Lonely Boy" and the Trent Reznor/Karen O/Atticus Rose cover of "Immigrant Song" over and over again, but this movie has reignited my love of Pearl Jam, and my appreciation of the music of the 90's.

My favorite scene: at the band's tenth anniversary concert in Las Vegas, Eddie Vedder sang the great Mother Love Bone song "Crown of Thorns." The story of Mr. Faded Glory, a somewhat death-obsessed worldview, and a love that leaves me alone. Vedder acknowledged the past with that performance, and the song has remained in their concert set list ever since. You can disagree with their politics - and indeed, they're not exactly known for their crowd-pleasing sense of humor (take the much-booed rendition of Vedder's protest song, "Bu$hleaguer," featuring a George W. Bush mask impaled on a microphone stand as Vedder intones the not-that-clever lyrics while pouring alcohol in the mask's mouth.), but they scaled back their career, and have survived.

Twenty years. Holy fuck. Love it.