KICK-ASS KICKS ITS OWN …

"Whatever life holds in store for me, I will never forget these words: "With great power comes great responsibility." This is my gift, my curse."

Peter Parker/Spider-Man

From the onset of Writer/Director Matthew Vaughn’s adaptation of the Marvel comic book of the same name, KICK-ASS, we’re immediately thrust into an opening credit cloud reminiscent of Richard Donner's in SUPERMAN where production companies “Marv” and “Plan B” zoom past us in a New York City skyline which resemble obliterated fragments of Superman’s native Krypton. It’s fitting that the primary colored “Marv” seems like a dilapidated namesake of the popular comic book publisher “Marvel”, but as a cinematic marvel, KICK-ASS ain’t. What the film is, however, is a wholly manufactured male fantasy replete with animated violence a gogo, a fetishized Catholic schoolgirl uniform and enough foul language to satisfy anyone suffering from vulgarity withdrawal. As a film that is assumedly studied of the vast and ever-evolving comic book universe, its own attempts at originality are futile and clichéd with thematic ideas that come across as something the writers may have overheard in a middle school hallway peopled with comic book aficionados. That the film opens in the clouds is just where the writers’ minds exist and where the film belongs confirming this element of heightened fantasy.

Enter the narrator, Dave Lizewski (Aaron Johnson), the ordinary alter-ego of the titular and not-so-extraordinary “Kick-Ass” and a self-proclaimed lover of comic books who is frustrated by the fact that everyone in his orbit gives in to thugs and that no one stands up for the common people when danger is imminent. After a run-in with a pair of lowlifes (and a car!) that nearly cripples him (simultaneously displayed as a ‘kids-don’t-try-this-at-home’ warning against vigilantism), David undergoes a surgical procedure that provides him a metal skeletal structure that helps secure his mortal superiority which he likens to Wolverine’s internal mechanics. Like the costume that he dons, David is still a little green and like the stripes that adorn it, he’s still a bit yellow, but even as he fumbles, he’s not entirely a coward either. But neither was Travis Bickle in Martin Scorsese’s classic, TAXI DRIVER, which the film has more in common with than say, BATMAN, SPIDER-MAN or SUPERMAN. At least these films (and comic books) contained a city/nationwide and/or global threat with scores of multiple lives at stake compliments of a deranged nemesis.

Kick-Ass’s nemesis: Frank D’Amico (Mark Strong), a stereotypical Italian kingpin with a penchant for orange (clothes, furnishings and interior design) and whose employees’ only value to the film is to supply an ample body count upon their demise. His taste in art is equally grisly as he owns an ochre-colored painting/lithograph of a skull that graces his kitchen wall and a pair of Andy Warhol’s “Gun” in his private office that together celebrates the film’s reflexivity of violence. Frank’s inside man in the police force has an even more intimidating moniker: Detective Gigante (Xander Berkeley). D’Amico’s characterization is introduced in a scene suggestive of the one in Director Sam Raimi’s DARKMAN when the crooked Robert Durant (Larry Drake) removes a man’s finger with a cigar cutter. Frank inflicts the same pain upon one of his own with a pair of heavy-duty pliers which becomes the crux of the film’s threat-less agenda and possibly the film’s greatest flaw - - that there is no ultimate threat to mankind or the Gotham where the film takes place - - D’Amico is not only hell-bent on taking out Kick-Ass, but his only other intention is to protect the integrity of his drug-ring while simultaneously killing his own men in his lumber yard which acts as a front for his cocaine-running organization.

David’s superhero status is anything but super, yet his exploits spawn a comic book series, a costume line and even “Kick-Ass Cappuccino”. His fame reaches the world wide web wherein he inspires a father and daughter duo, widower Damon Macready a.k.a. “Big Daddy” (Nicolas Cage) and Mindy Macready a.k.a. “Hit-Girl” (Chloe Moretz), the latter of whom has a battery of foul language that is as hard-hitting as her fighting abilities, to publicly show off their own superhero-like outfits while engaging in their own brand of renegade vigilantism. It becomes a detriment that Hit-Girl’s course profanity and shameless killing sprees nearly hinder the charm that she so obviously exudes. The Macready’s relationship when compared to the Lizewski household is a peculiar one in that there exists no mother figure in either - - which probably accounts for the film’s numbing barrage of expletives that pass every character’s lips like bullet-fire from a pistol. Elizabeth McGovern, a fine actress in her own right, is given less than 15 seconds of screen-time as Dave’s mother before succumbing to a fatal aneurism over breakfast. The late Mrs. Macready is featured as a drawn character in the film’s only animated sequence whose inability to pay the bills after her husband is wrongfully sent to prison (c/o the corrupt D’Amico) abuses drugs to the point of suicide prior to giving birth to their daughter. The Macready’s interaction with one another resembles that of a father and son playing catch at the ballpark more so than the healthy rapport a father figure has with his daughter. This is later intimated when D’Amico (while holding a pistol to Hit-Girl’s forehead) exclaims how much he wishes his son, Chris a.k.a. “Red Mist” (Christopher Mintz-Plasse), were more like her and had the capacity of her highly-skilled fighting talents.

The violence that ensues verges into Tarantino-esque territory (punctuated in one fight scene with soundtrack-sampling by Ennio Morricone), although what unfolds can only be characterized as senselessly mind-numbing, contemporary video-game warfare that traps so many films of this caliber by making their characters worthlessly expendable while getting a chuckle out of audiences. What makes a film purely Tarantino-esque is that characters in Quentin’s films engage in ‘higher’ (left-) brain processing and that their destruction is dependent on not only their physical actions, but how they engage in a dialogue with one another. Another highlight to QT’s films is that his characters are so memorable that they become something of a legend which is achieved compliments of a strong screenplay. When it’s all said and done, there is nothing entirely redeemable about KICK-ASS in the least. His adventures are hardly inspiring to any audience member wanting to become a superhero or even an above-average hero especially after undergoing various tortures such as being stabbed in the chest, run over by a car, beaten with a baseball bat, a pair of brass knuckles ...... Even Dave’s bumbling as a normal guy-cum-superhero comes with its own baggage of adolescent awkwardness. And not only does he have to wrestle with two identities, add to the mix a third sense of self as he pretends to be gay to get closer to the girl he loves, Katie Deauxma (Lyndsy Fonseca), which predictably releases a series of immature jokes at Dave’s expense from his peers - - and invites more chuckles out of the audience.

Cursing throughout the film is not only habitual but almost as present as automatic speech fillers like ‘er’ and ‘um’ which makes more valid the lack of language abilities and ‘lower’ (right-) brain functioning of its characters. Neurologists have also released studies confirming that ‘illiterate’ swear words are about four times more remembered than ‘educated’ words in traditional language. So apart from its other major accolades and accomplishments GONE WITH THE WIND has amassed since 1939, it’s line, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.” was chosen as the #1 movie quote by the American Film Institute and cost producer David O. Selznick a legendary $5,000; more of a risk to include in the film against the period’s stringent Hollywood Production Code than the contemporary rapid-fire assault on the senses and the ears of current audiences, wouldn’t you say?

After the film’s bloody conclusion, Red Mist alters the color scheme of his costume to orange (continuing his father’s color of choice) as Kick-Ass and Hit-Girl literally fly off into the sunset like a classic Western but with aerial technology. Life seems back to normal before Red Mist (rather resembling the tortured character of James Franco as “New Goblin” after his father’s death in SPIDER-MAN 2 & 3) pulls a gun on the audience and fires at point-blank range as the screen goes black - - which maintains the film’s treatise and just about makes all the violence that happened before it consistent; this time, inflicting more on its viewers. *Regrettable sigh*

If one were to disavow their suspension of disbelief (which I did on numerous occasions), another curiosity is the film’s depiction of vanity license plates. Is the significance of the “Kick-Ass” license plate affixed to the cab destroyed in the film’s opening minutes supposed to support the fact that Kick-Ass himself has become a Gotham icon? How does Red Mist get his “Red Mist” vanity plate so quickly when it typically takes 6-12 weeks to get one delivered in the mail?

P.S. As an aside, keep in mind that no screen ‘daughter’ in the history of cinema kicked more ass than Ann Blyth’s “Veda Pierce Forrester” in MILDRED PIERCE - - all without uttering one obscenity.

GREENBERG, Los Angeles: An awkward town with an abundant soundtrack

“Life is wasted on … people.”

Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller)

Imagine a malcontented Alvy Singer (Woody Allen, ANNIE HALL) stranded in Los Angeles after recovering from the hospitalization of a mental breakdown whose only solace is bringing misery to those in his orbit and drafting correspondence to various heads of corporations whom he feels are responsible for the breakdown of American culture and values. Therein lies the premise of Noah Baumbach’s study of Angeleno neuroses: GREENBERG. The film has all the makings of being categorized under the low-grade production aesthetic of the Mumblecore movement but instead has a balanced mix of celebrity and non-professional talent making observations of their adult (and young adult) lives while having a studio polish c/o Focus Features under the NBC/Universal Pictures brand and a soundtrack so massive that its CD accompaniment would far outlast the film’s running time. Add to that a continuation of the stereotype of the smug yet struggling Santa Monica Farmer’s Market shopping, art-house theatre patronizing (FYI: the Laemmle Monica 4-plex movie theatre is located at 2^nd Street and Santa Monica Blvd. adjacent to the popular organic street market) aspiring Hollywood singer/actress sure to satisfy the film’s core audience.

The film’s greatest detriment is its consistently awkward screenplay wherein characters’ dialogue with one another drips with acid and cynicism when it’s not being clumsy or wrought with despair. Since a dramatic film of this type is only as strong as its characters, it’s difficult to appreciate the experiences that unfold when they and the characters that populate them are thoughtlessly and unfairly scrutinized. And what could have been insightful and honest observations of topics that run the gamut of struggling with a music career to get a recording contract, caretaking for an animal diagnosed with depression or conversing with impressionable teenagers about the arts and career paths (while abusing cocaine, valium and hard liquor) result in long-winded, angry, often-times profanity-laden diatribes compliments of the titular Roger Greenberg (Ben Stiller). Anyone who has lasted one month in Los Angeles will no doubt be aware of the existence of these types of misanthropes. Knowledge of such characters is only heightened upon working in the Entertainment Industry.

Stiller’s oeuvre can only be characterized as excessively screwball where jokes are more often than not directed at his characters’ expense; with regards to his cinematic personae, one has to wonder whether he has a really thick skin or is just not very bright. What differs in his performance of Greenberg, however, is that he is more genuinely human than comical, albeit flawed over multiple fronts:

• he can’t maintain or complete a healthy/logical conversation with anyone (see the series of jump cuts during his face-to-face talks with other guests at the children’s birthday party);
• he sets a weak precedent to a group of twenty-somethings twice his junior by ridiculing their taste in music (Korn) and their (skillfully positive) ability to adapt to new technologies and social networking tools (while doing a line of cocaine and excitedly and rudely hopping over guests to change the music selections at a party);
• he doesn’t engage in efforts of intimacy with his love (hate?) interest, Florence Marr (Greta Gerwig) (their first sex scene when he literally dives head-first into her vagina is not only awkwardly choreographed, but leaning toward offensive - - especially since he demeans and walks out on her after each sexual encounter); he also offers her a cheeseburger immediately after she’s had an abortion;
• and he’s unable to recall the name of the child and girlfriend of his close friend (with whom he’s known for over twenty years).

Details such as these are not only not verging on slapstick when delivered by a supposed comedic actor (Stiller), but intimates a reaction of awkward silence in any sophisticated audience member - - especially during the particularly anti-climactic scene when one of the letters which Greenberg had focused a majority of his attentions in his correspondence with several franchises and corporation heads is printed in the newspaper … and is quickly forgotten about so as to amble into the next scene. There is also something tragic in the fact that Florence (Greenberg’s brother’s trusted personal assistant), an ambitious singer in Hollywood, no less, isn’t familiar with such popular songs as Albert Hammond’s, “It Never Rains In Southern California” or Oliver Stone’s classic film examination of ‘80’s excess and greed, WALL STREET. In her favor, that Florence is not familiar with the latter only more strongly suggests her innocence as she is pitted on the spectrum opposite the corruptible Greenberg. Upon deeper examination of the film, one might draw a parallel with regard to this innocence that Florence shared with Jennifer Jason Leigh’s character - - not so much of the character, Beth, herein, but rather, Brad Hamilton’s younger sister, Stacy, in Amy Heckerling’s FAST TIMES AT RIDGEMONT HIGH where she was impressionable to the peers in her circle, how she engaged in sex with multiple partners complemented by unusual acts of coupling and most particularly, the abortion that both experienced in the finale of both respective films. Leigh, who created the story with fellow writer/director Baumbach (also her real-life husband) perhaps wanted to add a bit of cinematic self-reflexivity which is nearly unmistakable.

Los Angeles has been exploited for its natural, rugged beauty, perennially fair weather climate and ravishing vistas ever since “Uncle Carl” Laemmle took the Twentieth Century Limited train ride West from his New York office to Los Angeles to put Universal Pictures into commercial operation. Many films since that epic trip have shot on location in Los Angeles, but few have turned their cameras inward to catch the city at its most candid and intimate than such classics as: SAFETY LAST; DOUBLE INDEMNITY; IN A LONELY PLACE; THE BLUE GARDENIA; REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE; STRANGERS WHEN WE MEET; IT’S A MAD MAD MAD MAD WORLD; MODEL SHOP; MYRA BRECKENRIDGE; BEYOND THE VALLEY OF THE DOLLS; CHINATOWN; SHAMPOO; HELTER SKELTER and contemporary classics: THE PLAYER; SHORT CUTS; JACKIE BROWN; BULWORTH; MULHOLLAND DRIVE; TRAINING DAY and COLLATERAL - - complete with expansive views of cityscapes, gorgeous beachfront properties, haunting alleyways and street corridors with shots close enough to see the grit or blood-stained pavement that immerses the viewer in its surroundings - - a cinematic womb of the City of Angels - - that is at once trapping, seductive; haunting and comfortable. One of the most strikingly evocative films of modern-day Los Angeles is GRAND CANYON, a studio picture (Twentieth Century Fox) directed by Lawrence Kasdan that deftly captures the tragedy, extra-marital love, possibility of miracles as well as one of the most cleverly uttered phrases in cinema with regards to watching films and its relevance to answering life’s riddles.

In GREENBERG’s attempt at becoming a ‘Los Angeles picture’, that the film’s overall mood is grim and listless gives little hope for the viewer in appreciating its multiple settings. One of the film’s singularly remarkable sequences is when Greenberg climbs into a swimming pool at his brother’s Hollywood Hills home just as a helicopter buzzes overhead. The camera follows Roger’s side profile into the deep end and as the buzzing of the copter’s blades intensifies, Greenberg’s paddling against and slapping of the water grows until he repeatedly strokes for and reaches the safety of the pool’s stepladder. He can’t seem to do anything swimmingly for himself and like his brother’s ailing dog, Mahler, needs constant attention. When the attention of Florence satisfies him, he enters into a tantrum which occurs repeatedly throughout the film and is anything but humorous. The emotional disorder/nervous breakdown card is an easy out for an actor/filmmaker when depicting a character’s helpless state. After the climactically wandering voicemail message which Roger leaves for Florence, the only redemptive act he engages in as a form of apology to her for all of his prior improprieties is his willingness to measure, nail and properly frame a picture for her into her studio apartment wall.

Greenberg’s pretension and condescending nature to those in his sphere (who also refers to L.A. patrons in the local bars as “bridge and tunnel” when there is no bridge or tunnel comparable to those that exist in Manhattan regarding the derogatory East Coast phrase) is compliments of the film’s writer, Noah Baumbach, a native New Yorker himself, who provides the film with no positive core values whatsoever and possibly Ben Stiller’s most irritated (and irritating) character to date (save for his Orderly in HAPPY GILMORE). It is with this that I charge Baumbach for not fleshing out his protagonist and supporting characters in a script that lacks not only redeeming value but also risk; what there is no end of are awkwardly misguided conversations accompanied by commonplace camera-work and lackluster set-design (see Mumblecore). For all of Roger’s flaws, one never gets the sense that he’s sincerely ‘crazy’ or emotionally disturbed. He takes on a vow to do nothing so why should anyone care to take the opportunity to join him in his adventures and pursuits through this brief portion of his screen life? Morbid curiosity? Get one’s admission’s worth?

Roger continues to walk in Los Angeles (on one occasion, passing a FAST & FURIOUS [another Universal Picture] movie poster which dates the film) as he did in New York. He relies on others for transportation because he doesn’t own a car (meanwhile his brother is a wealthy hotelier who can’t provide one for him?) when he’s not engaging in erratic behavior as is personified in the tube dancer he passes on multiple occasions at a nearby car lot. If it was Baumbach’s intention to depress his audience for living (or who happen to live) in Southern California, he absolutely succeeded. At least when Alvy Singer (Woody Allen, ANNIE HALL) arrives in Los Angeles, he has such a deep-seated aversion to Southern California that he becomes ill and immediately has to return to New York - - that’s funny! Hint: Greenberg?

Next to Gerwig’s undeniably affable portrayal of Florence Marr, the ever-quirky Rhys Ifans who plays Ivan Schrank, Greenberg’s confidant and “man” gave the film’s strongest and most believable performance. In a landscape of eccentrics and classifiable oddballs, for once, the expectation that Ifans would also exhibit goofy tendencies was soon obliterated giving him an edge that took him by way of the high road as he mingled with Greenberg’s quirks and was able to come out the straight man. Like George Bailey’s, Clarence Oddbody or Pinocchio’s Jiminy Cricket, Schrank is more than just Greenberg’s conscience and mortal guide, he is his closest friend who tries to help Roger regain some semblance of normalcy in an existence clouded by misery and ever burgeoning doubts of his family and friends. Schrank is the antithesis to Greenberg in that both failed in their combined efforts to succeed in the music industry, but the former was able to maintain a family and not let life’s worries affect his character; Greenberg on the other hand, chooses to hold a grudge against society and becomes the eternal bellyacher.

The unresolved conclusion leaves open the possibility that Florence may accept Roger and give him the attention for which he yearns. Personally, I would have thought it terribly amusing if Greenberg had left the voicemail for someone else. At least it would have kept the comedic tone consistent. On another personal note, I appreciate that Baumbach and the Music Supervisor approved the inclusion of Duran Duran’s “The Chauffeur” - - it’s a great song (and has a stylish video). Regrettably, I think that’s why it was chosen for the film i.e. there is no underlying significance (which I’d go so far as to say that it could have referred to those persons who give Roger a lift in their car) and fits the mood of the scene in which it was used: reminiscing, Greenberg listened to it when he had done cocaine in the ‘80’s. Deep.