SEX AND THE CITY 2: A frigid, fashionable faux pas & holy hot mess

Apart from the film’s title being an undoubted misnomer, SEX AND THE CITY 2 fails on many fronts, not the least of which is that many of the proceedings don’t even take place in “the city” of New York from where the Candace Bushnell-penned franchise had pumped its essential lifeblood. Instead, the island of Manhattan is literally just that: a metaphorical island to where the film’s protagonists (Carrie Bradshaw, Miranda Hobbes, Samantha Jones and Charlotte York) travel between exploits at a Connecticut estate and the resort mecca of Abu Dhabi. And for all of the luxurious regalia as well as the overweight price tag of the couture on display, the experience received upon watching Writer/Director Michael Patrick King’s latest flicker verges on valuelessness.

The film is purely high fantasy: not in the epic sense as found in the works of C.S. Lewis or J.R.R. Tolkien, but with elements that are just as wholly unbelievable. For instance, in a hard-hitting economy that has been likened to a global Depression and economic apocalypse, anyone would be hard-pressed to resign from a career (with potential six-figure earnings) simply because one’s employer rudely ignored an employee (Cynthia Nixon) in a staff meeting. At least Miranda clocked out of her busy law firm with plenty of time to grab a cab and arrive at her son’s grade school to witness his being awarded first prize for a mouse maze he created. Sewn throughout the film is plotting just as contrived. All’s well that ends well in the fantasy realm of this New York City where an executive can make such a decision, however, it is not justified or a logical choice to employ in the real world. Just as curious is the fact that a trader on Wall Street, Mr. Big (Chris Noth), unwinds almost to the point of obsession to classic black and white movies. Even as he expresses regret at the Dow dropping one hundred points in the market, he exudes a lackadaisical charisma comparable to Jack Donaghy on television’s “30 Rock” who rarely takes anything seriously and makes the term ‘high-powered executive’ sound like an oxymoron.

The most fantastic aspect and the film’s ultimate blaspheme is the import of sex to the city of Abu Dhabi where the visual feast of the female flesh (primarily outside of the hotel’s “free zone” e.g. the hotel grounds) is frowned upon and any public display of the physical act of lovemaking invites one to serving time in prison or worse. Whether the fearless foursome of femmes are belting out “I Am Woman” in a karaoke club located in one of the most misogynistic countries in the world or laying out poolside with their erotic zones exposed (when they could have donned a “burqini”) or even when Carrie employs a tactic from IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT to hail transportation in a Moroccan market with her nude leg proving “that the limb is mightier than the thumb”, the inclusion of such details in the script not only borders on the absurd, but sets a dangerous precedent for anyone (especially impressionable teenaged-girls) who may want to imitate such a trip ala “Girls Gone Wild” - - unlike Spring Break in Miami Beach, such a pleasurable yet risky peregrination on foreign soil would assuredly result in a similar re-“hash” of events previously laid out in grisly detail in MIDNIGHT EXPRESS or BROKEDOWN PALACE where one’s sex as opposed to stimulants is peddled and an unfortunate climax (no pun intended) is achieved.

Sex (the act of love-making, not the gender), as it is portrayed in the film, is performed in a raucous and noisy manner and in one edited transition is juxtaposed to a pair of screaming children writhing in and amongst their parents in bed. Romance is sacrificed for a deafeningly, flamboyant and vulgarized act. It is sweaty, loud and only involves a woman skirting menopause (Samantha Jones) with both a middle-aged and a bronzed Adonis. And on one occasion, an unimaginative homage is paid to Hitchcock’s TO CATCH A THIEF as Samantha reaches her sexual apex with her partner as fireworks are released (from an unknown origin) beachside. Similar to the crassest (teen) comedy one might find in the Judd Apatow camp, the lack of refinement is further perpetuated with such ill-mannered phrasing as “Lawrence of my labia” and “Charlotte has a sand-wedge” when referring to Charlotte’s nether region as she sports a tight pair of slacks. This is not to argue that grown women aren’t allowed to engage in such fancies, let their hair down and shake some action, but in the landscape of SEX AND THE CITY 2 where the girls have not only amassed multiple fashionable frocks (certainly not held up by modesty), absorbed unlimited libations and had illimitable access to sex, it’s very apparent their eyes are larger than their stomachs and have devoured more than their fair share of the proverbial cake.

What’s more offensive in a film that obsesses over the superficiality of sex as if it were a new style of fashion that comes and goes with the change of seasons, is that the women in the film aren’t totally confident in their abilities to both have sex or engage in decent human behavior. Coupled with dialogue that makes naughty references to sex abounding in clichéd double entendre a go-go and speaking objectionably to one another veers into a realm of self-deprecating excess. Whether for male or female audiences, this is not the feel good movie of the year. Far from a character study where there might be a sophisticated attempt at a proper analysis into their own respective developments, these women appear as though they’re in their own version of DEATH BECOMES HER and are literally falling apart at the seams; a Venus de Milo personified. Even when her hormone pills and creams are confiscated by airport security, Samantha’s dependency on the medical product turns her into a hormonal junkie as she massages her body with yams and devours hummus for its natural enzymes before menopause overtakes her. Comic relief wanders into the pathetic.

Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda are each but a canvas for its writer to paint upon (and accessorize compliments of Dior, Valentino, plunging necklines, sequins and the latest trends; in that case, the benefit of their cinematic existence is that they help stimulate the economy). Whereas the former three relentlessly journey into shallow terrain bursting with artificiality as they partake in discussions regarding haute couture, a potentially cheating husband and wanting to escape the responsibility of marriage for two days a week, fortunately, Miranda (Cynthia Nixon) has an air of modesty about her character and quite possibly shares the least abysmal dialogue with those in her network. She then abandons this strong characterization momentarily as she texts on her cell phone (absent presence) while others are trying to enter into a dialogue with her. To her advantage, she at least tries to ingratiate the group into the culture of Abu Dhabi by discussing the language and showing consideration to others at every turn. Not soon after, Samantha mars any possibility of a positive affiliation with the natives when she is caught publicly having sex on a beach thereby revoking their hotel privileges. No matter, they manage to procure Business Class tickets on a departure flight returning to the U.S.A.

I don’t see how this franchise can continue any further. Firstly, it is the men of the film (from the Wall Street Executive, Mr. Big, to the faithful Moroccan man servants) who exhibit any confidence and strike up a meaningful rapport with those around them. It nearly always seems like a chore to complete a conversation with any of Carrie’s crew and to do battle with their neuroses. And it’s difficult to admire or follow along in anyone’s adventure who constantly produces an endless stream of ennui and apathy. The female protagonists of SEX AND THE CITY 2 have no control over their surroundings even though they like us to think they do i.e. survival in any city takes more than just being able to successfully hail a cab or order the next round of Cosmopolitan cocktails. Unfortunately, Carrie and her girls prove that it really is a man’s world when they end up conducting themselves as tragic, hapless clowns. If Carrie is such a studied guru of relationships, why does her character revel in avoiding to share advice with her friend concerned for her potentially crumbling marriage; or when she selfishly tries to control Mr. Big’s itinerary complemented by her own gluttonous indulgences of sex, shopping for clothes, shoes, jewelry and making dinner reservations.

Even the original SEX AND THE CITY film opened with Carrie discussing how girls come to New York looking for “labels and love”. It’s self-indulgent fantasy, pure and simple. There is no better visual display of the fantastical than in the Busby Berkeley-esque staged sequence that appears during “the gay wedding” in the film’s opening. Although it’s not as cunningly lyrical as Berkeley, the set-design and the overall choreography is really entertaining and shows King comfortable in this gay element. The appearance of Liza Minnelli is merely the frosting as she channels Beyoncé (as embarrassing as it might come across) in a vigorous dance routine. (Icon-status aside, there’s just something inappropriate and distracting about someone not acting their age. On the opposite end of the spectrum, I was reminded of the tasteful and glorious dance number in MYRA BRECKENRIDGE featuring a booming-voiced Mae West that captured the right amount of sex appeal, sophistication and maintained an edge so campy that imitation is imminent. See for yourself.) With a subtle, yet humorous delivery, Mario Cantone, the gay bridegroom and probably the most talented and accomplished entertainment hyphenate in the cast, grows concerned when he thinks Liza is going to have a heart-attack. As for the audience in my theatre: total flatline.

FRIGHT NIGHT: An Appreciation

Soft voices, seduce you

A butterfly in a spider's web

Infectious, behavior

You're damned to do it all again (and again and again and again...)

Lyrics to “Good Man In A Bad Time” by Ian Hunter

Growing up in the early ‘80’s, most fortunate, suburbanite children like myself were treated by their parents or easily-swayed babysitters (although they often went by their own volition) to screening, at their local multiplexes, such popular box-office blockbuster event movies including those of the STAR WARS franchise, E.T.: THE EXTRA-TERRESTRIAL and GHOSTBUSTERS. So it’s no wonder I was easily and immediately engaged into the world of sci-fi fantasy and cinematic fiction. I don’t have an exact reason why it had befallen that horror films would be my film genre de choix during those early maturing years, but it didn’t seem to bother my parents and I figured that if I could handle knife-wielding maniacs, decomposing bodies, exploding heads or zombies running amuck, I could handle any of life’s aggressions.

Because watching R-rated films was taboo in our household, being able to sneak into a corner of the house (or that of a friend who shared similar passions for the paranormal and/or glutton for gore) to watch such films was complemented by an excitingly heightened and rebellious form of danger of getting caught by one’s parental figure. As its images fascinated me, my imagination grew and my innocence likely lessened. Nowadays, there aren’t too many networks on television that cater to horror/fantasy film fans despite a few channels such as Chiller, SyFy (formerly known as Sci Fi Channel), ThrillerMax (of the Cinemax brand) and occasionally, AMC. But en vogue during those formative years was late night and afternoon horror film marathons with programmed classics (DRACULA), psychological thrillers (PSYCHO, THE BIRDS) and schlock (MONSTER IN THE CLOSET, THE TOXIC AVENGER). For those living in New England at the time, my personal TV-network favorites teeming with such horror fare (featured most often on Saturdays) were WPIX 11 (based in New York), Spine Tingler Theatre on Channel 20 and USA Network’s Up All Night.

Parents are pretty formidable gatekeepers when it comes to a kid satisfying his or her own passions, but every so often when their guardian’s defenses are down, a kid’s urges can be indulged. It’s never taken a lot to make me happy, so besides the family-friendly television commercials of horror films that amused me as a youth that I knew I would never have a chance of seeing in theatres or the glorious posters of such films secured in Plexiglas cases underneath the marquee of said film, the only other social media of the day that I could actually get my hands on were newspaper advertisements usually found near the middle of the Sunday Paper.

And so it was here, faithful readers, that I caught my glimpse of the image that would be instantaneously burned into my brain: that of the poster inset and local showtimes of Tom Holland’s contemporary horror classic, FRIGHT NIGHT (1985). Perhaps it was the yawning blue face of the creature hovering over the ominous home of its vampire owner, Jerry Dandridge (Chris Sarandon), complete with a fanged dental makeup that looked unlike most vampires I had ever seen in the movies. Its cerulean face resembled a modern-day Medusa with snake-like extensions moving about in every which way under a full moon. The poster’s iconic image was simple, frightening and effective. The font-type of FRIGHT NIGHT was equally as clever with the extended “F” and “T” simultaneously resembling fangs and stakes. The chilling creature, apart from being a reproduction of one of the characters seen in the film’s climax, was also a puppet manufactured by the special effects crew originally used as the “Ghost Librarian” in Ivan Reitman’s GHOSTBUSTERS (released by the same distributor, Columbia Pictures, a year earlier).

It is ironic that the cleverness behind FRIGHT NIGHT is its acknowledgement that films about vampires are no longer fashionable, as Peter Vincent (Roddy McDowall) tells Charley Brewster (William Ragsdale), an impressionable teenager and fan of horror movies who is convinced his new neighbor is a bloodsucker. The film’s inventiveness is also found in its transparency of vampire lore and the knowledge of such concepts is strategic in helping the protagonists thwart the fanged nemeses. For those not familiar with FRIGHT NIGHT, one might call it a mash-up of DRACULA, REAR WINDOW and GALAXY QUEST where compounded into the film are these elements: a young man spies on a mysterious neighbor which leads to trouble for him and his girlfriend; an aging former actor, fearless Vampire Hunter and host of a popular horror television program, “Fright Night”, uses his props and knowledge of vampire concepts in expelling the ‘creatures of the night’ and the romantic poeticism of a thousand-year-old (confirmed by Jerry’s sister, Regine, in FRIGHT NIGHT 2) vampire trying to (re-) connect with a woman who resembles a lover he knew in his past.

As the film mocks or rather dissects the classical themes in vampire popular culture, the film’s cast and crew walks a fine line between farce and sincerity in scenes that are nuanced, stylish and blend into each other so effortlessly that it appears as if the film writes itself without having to move a muscle. Complemented by masterful economics of shots where no scene seems overwrought with comical touches that are elegantly over-the-top, FRIGHT NIGHT is a perpetual and accessible horror delight likely to gain momentum in the current climate where exists a resurgence in vampire curiosity. A few recent events possibly responsible for this spate of fanged fiction: the cult following of Anne Rice’s popular bestselling novels, some of which have been adapted into films; two successful series of books brought to the big and small screen, respectively, TWILIGHT (which caters to young children) and TRUE BLOOD (targeting young adults and older audiences) and clothing stores attracting those individuals of the gothic-obsessed culture e.g. Hot Topic. In a similar vein, the immortally named Forever 21 exudes everlasting connotations. FRIGHT NIGHT was a surprise hit of 1985 and became the highest grossing horror film of the year, surpassed only by the second sequel of A NIGHTMARE ON ELM STREET. It has since achieved a cult status amongst fans - - and a 2011 re-make of the film is imminent.

The film takes place in Anytown, U.S.A. and if it weren’t for some rather dated fashions of the period, it would also likely be anytime. But thanks to this lack of time-affirming notes makes itself a timeless motion picture. Classic vampire horror motifs are on full display - - crosses, holy water, mirrors and stakes - - and each are analyzed in their relation to exposing or destroying a modern-day vampire: crosses can be used to reject a vampire, but only if its owner has faith in it; blessed holy water can purify a vampire, but it can be desensitized if held against a warm fire; no vampire can cast a reflection in any mirror which is fitting that Jerry’s home contains not a one; and stakes used in the film prove that wood driven through any part of a vampire causes pain, be it the chest or the hand and can take the form of any broken wooden fragment such as the leg of a chair to a Number Two pencil.

Charley Brewster’s post-make out session with his girlfriend, Amy Peterson (Amanda Bearse), is interrupted when he catches sight of his handsome new neighbor, Jerry Dandridge and mortal man servant, Billy Cole (Jonathan Stark), a modernized Renfield, carrying a coffin into their basement. As the days ensue, the town’s population starts shrinking and from Jerry’s bedroom window with drawn shade, Charley hears shrieking. He calls on the authorities to drop in on Jerry one day who is conveniently unavailable to meet with them. Billy is not happy with Charley’s potential disruption of his boss’s afternoon slumber and affects a fatal glare while in the officer’s presence in the form of a silent warning. Upon Charley’s first meeting with Jerry, another classical element that vampires can only be invited into an owner’s rightful home is confirmed when Mrs. Brewster, Charley’s single mother, invites Jerry over for cocktails. But it is Charley’s blood that Jerry would rather be drinking and makes it clear that he plans on dropping by whenever he feels like it “with [his] your mother’s permission, of course”.

Jerry abuses his welcome and returns the same evening appearing through Charley’s mother’s bedroom window. He walks directly to Charley’s room past a mirror on her dresser which refuses to show his reflection. In the film’s first of several well-choreographed and edited sequences, Jerry enters Charley’s bedroom without his knowing. A brief and nearly silent (so as not to wake up mother) struggle between man and monster begins. Jerry captures Charley holding his throat in a death grip and upon slamming Brewster against the wall, white powder from the crumbled wall dusts Charley’s hair which immediately resembles one being aged by fear - - his hair literally turns white! The struggle intensifies as Jerry guides Charley by the neck out of his second-floor window and in the heat of battle, Brewster reaches for a framed-picture of his girlfriend which he accidentally tosses from the window as it is staked and shattered by the picket fence below (a foreboding element?). This in turn awakens Mrs. Brewster and Jerry spares Charley’s life as he turns, walks out of Charley’s bedroom and materializes into a bat to escape out of the hallway window.

Before his life is conceivably destroyed, Charley is unable in his attempts to enlist the help of his friend aptly named “Evil” Ed Thompson (Stephen Geoffreys) who is as equally enthusiastic about horror and gothic culture as he is. Charley’s only alternative for support is Peter Vincent (whose namesake is a combination of renowned horror actors Peter Cushing and Vincent Price), host of Charley’s favorite horror television program, “Fright Night” and legendary vampire killer. He hatches a plot to kill his neighbor whom he is convinced is a vampire. At first, Vincent is reluctant to help poor Charley when he is regrettably fired from his nightly television program (cleverly and like Dandridge’s sleeping hours, filmed in a studio during the day) before finding out he is to be evicted from his apartment. He imparts to Charley that contemporary audiences would much rather watch maniacs in ski masks chop up young virgins as opposed to watching the types of films that make up Vincent’s lifelong oeuvre: surrounding that of the vampire; in a scene that subtly balances humor and romanticizes the classical cinematic craft in which McDowall himself had acted for nearly a half of a century. In a brilliant turn of events during Peter’s first encounter with Charley’s neighbor while accompanied by Ed, Amy and Charley, Dandridge’s inability to cast a reflection in Peter’s mirror awakens in him a rebirth of courage to believe in and eventually fight the attractive vampire. This startles him so much that he drops his pocket mirror to the floor simultaneously crushing the film’s earlier treatise against the self-reflexivity and existence of the vampire film - - and then the fun begins. Another element of duality appears in the form of Charley’s girlfriend mirroring that of Dandridge’s former lover in a painting in Jerry’s parlor. Although there is no mirror present, the likeness between the two women connected through the framed artwork is remarkably uncanny.

Once Dandridge’s secret is foiled, the protagonists safely flee his home, but not before Jerry steps on a sliver of glass left by Peter’s broken pocket mirror. Dandridge disregards Vincent and chases the trio of youngsters into the city confronting Ed separately from Amy and Charley. Through a dynamic sound design and the assistance of a craned camera, Jerry is able to walk along a metal fire escape several feet from the ground overhead of “Evil” and gracefully appear on the floor of the alleyway in one continuous take. Ed’s demise is imminent. After hearing what they believe is Ed’s screaming a few blocks behind them, Amy and Charley race into a downtown club setting into motion (literally) one of the film’s signature sequences in which music, dance and light combine to make a scene of incredible power enhanced by the seductive energy of Dandridge over every living thing in his orbit. Women reach out to touch him. Jerry seems to glide through the rabble. He exudes total sexual magnetism. While Charley tries to reach Peter on a telephone, Amy is compelled to join Jerry’s side through a noisy and crowded dance floor as the musical notes of the film’s soundtrack match the characters’ movements just as well as the beats present in just about any classical film musical number. The dance begins. Watch closely his hand as he reaches out for Amy’s shoulder. Amy falls under her Master’s spell as he obviously tries to rekindle in her feelings he once had for her long since deceased double. They perform all of this without uttering one word. The scene proves a picture (or series thereof) are worth thousands of words and the blocking of the characters and direction of the action comes compliments of a deft hand. They rhythmically waltz through the crowd past several mirrors which ironically reveals his true identity to Amy. However, she is helpless. Charley, likewise, is helpless in garnering Peter’s support and returns to rescue Amy. Jerry, unable to kill Charley in public (another devout law of vampirism), advises that if he wants to see Amy (alive) again, he and Peter need to rendezvous at his home that evening.

What follows in the film’s second and far gorier half, is a series of incredible creature effects transformations compliments of visual effects producer, Richard Edlund, of STAR WARS, POLTERGEIST and GHOSTBUSTERS fame. As FRIGHT NIGHT itself is a type of compendium of vampire lore, the true-to-life special effects that are realized at this moment in the film satisfy its chronology in the historically cinematic vampire timeline. Whereas in the beginning of the film, the implication is that characters have been murdered and so the audience sees what resembles bodies sealed in plastic bags. With real horror in the world and in the news, we have a good sense of how a human is killed. Shown in vivid detail in the film, however, is the destruction of each of the film’s monsters and is not so much gory as it is a fabulous example of a master craftsman and effects team at work with paints, creams, gelatin and pyrotechnics. Some of the marvelous effects realized in the film’s closing chapters include a sacred cross pressing against and melting a vampire’s forehead as if the religious object were a hot iron; a remarkable metamorphosis of an injured half-vampire/half-wolf that crashes through a chandelier from a second-floor landing to the floor below before returning to human form; and one of the more elaborately-choreographed mutations involving a stake subduing Jerry’s servant on a stairwell resulting in his flesh melting down to his bones as a Prell shampoo-like substance oozes from his pores prior to turning to dust as his rickety skeleton falls and shatters into several hundred pieces. Watch how they did it.

The stage is set for the final showdown in Jerry Dandridge’s suburban palace. Undoubtedly a nod to the campy, highly-stylized and Gothic horror films produced by Hammer during the two decades beginning in the 1950’s, the climax features lavishly-designed set pieces including a modified version of Jerry’s home that literally breathes white fog and creaks as if it is a ship devoid of passengers and cargo while floating at sea. As a bitten and mortally wounded Amy begins her own transformation into a vampire in Jerry’s bedroom, Charley and Peter face off with the head (vampire) of the household with their blessed armaments intent on fighting tooth and nail. Dawn approaches and Amy’s fate is surely sealed. The nearly two-dozen cuckoo and antique clocks scattered throughout Jerry’s home start to sound their deafening chimes as the sun’s early rays pierce through Dandridge’s stained-glass window. Jerry leaps into mid-air and transmogrifies into a vampire bat encircling his prey at the bottom of the stairwell before taking refuge in the basement (modern-day horror’s version of the dungeon). Daylight fills the upper (berth) floors of the home as the pair of vampire hunters follow Dandridge into his lair only to find his ages-old coffin has been sealed shut from the inside. As Peter aggressively pounds away at the metal slats of Dandridge’s wooden cocoon, Charley is distracted by a viciously revamped Amy who similarly wants to drive her fresh fangs into his neck as she violently plows through the belongings in Jerry’s basement towards her human target. Managing to break through the coffin’s shell, Peter repeatedly hammers a stake into Dandridge’s chest as he quickly rises from his resting state to Peter’s dismay. He forcefully pulls the makeshift stake from his heart and throws it across the room accidentally breaking one of the darkened windows that his dutiful assistant had painted black. Unable to return to the safety of his coffin, Peter and Charley destroy all of the windows throughout the chamber flooding the entire room with light thereby neutralizing Dandridge as he is sent hurling to the cement wall and bursts into flames. Amy returns to her original human form as Dandridge’s reign of terror and the most frightening of nights comes to an end.

Peter Vincent obligatorily returns to his job hosting “Fright Night” as Charley and Amy embrace while watching their friend’s late night television program. Across the property, Charley notices what looks like a pair of red eyes flashing from inside Dandridge’s uninhabited bedroom which he shrugs off. The unexplained ending leaves itself open for a sequel which would come three years later as Jerry’s sister, Regine (Julie Carmen), takes revenge on those who killed her brother. A fine film in its own right, the sequel and several cinematic imitators can’t hold a candle to the true originality of the very first FRIGHT NIGHT. Holland’s film also relished in showing a quirk on the part of Dandridge regarding how he ate and treated his teeth ‘between meals’: he ate lots of apples. In addition to practicing good hygiene, Jerry Dandridge may be, without a doubt, the most handsome and suave of cinema’s vampires. What sets mostly ingratiating horror villains such as vampires apart from other movie monsters is that besides being seductive and perpetually well-groomed, their ability to engage in a dialogue with characters (whether good or evil) in their shared screen space is a lot more favorable to watch than a deranged maniac donning a hockey mask or any other type costumed-gimmick determined to reach a high body count who often has very little (if anything) to say which proves a point: they’re brain-dead.

Despite all of the “trappings” as Regine Dandridge refers to them (i.e. crosses, roses and holy water), since the dawn of the earliest vampire film, those that have engaged in this lifestyle have slowly evolved and built up an immunity and may continue to do so until possibly becoming more human. Wouldn’t that be scary? Now if they would refrain from ‘feeding’, that would be an interesting development. The unfortunate fact behind such creatures as THE WOLF MAN is that their transformation into the beast is often outside of their control (i.e. the appearance of a full moon) and in order to become more human, their character needs to die. Vampires are culturally sensitive to sunlight, but as found in the TWILIGHT series of films, daylight instead makes their skin sparkle. If mankind has anything in common with the movie monster, it would most certainly be that of the screen vampire: occasional cognizance of sunlight; sudden surges of almost superhuman strength; I suppose one may often check their reflection in a mirror not to engage in narcissism but to make certain they are still human. Man, like the common horror film and the characters that populate them, will always be in a state of constant evolution. Thankfully, films like FRIGHT NIGHT developed earlier than most films of this caliber and have a right to an eternal rest.

P.S. It’s easy to miss, but as Peter Vincent bares his soul to Charley about how much of a coward he is in fighting the undead, he reveals that Peter Vincent isn’t even his real name - - a modicum of poignant information that goes further unexplained adding depth and mystery to his character.

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.