Foxcatcher

A true crime story that rings about as true as a soap opera plotline, a character study of flat, unvarying characters, and a drama that aims to say a lot but doesn’t even manage the dramatic part, Foxcacher is one bad movie. Nearly every element of it is done poorly, turning what could have been an interesting tale (and it is an interesting story) into a sleepy, depressing bore of a picture.

The story is that of John du Pont, the heir of a wealthy family who founded a wrestling training center in the late 1980s that attracted the Olympic athlete brothers Dave and Mark Schultz. Nearly a decade later, this arrangement ended in a tragic murder. The film sets to explore why this happened (highly speculatively, I should add), focusing mainly on Mark Schultz (Channing Tatum), who despite his success still feels trapped in the shadow of his brother Dave (Mark Ruffalo). When rich fan of the sport Du Pont (Steve Carell) offers to sponsor him and provide him the space to train, he sees his chance to make a name for himself and takes it. Things start well enough, but eventually Du Pont’s demons turn the relationship toxic.

Tatum is one of the few positives in the picture, with the convincing physicality of a wrestler and a terse intensity that’s effective. His snarl and facial features convincingly convey jealousy, inadequacy, pain, and drive without even saying a word. It’s an interesting view at the darker elements of an athlete’s competitive spirit, rather than the uplifting inspirational stuff too often seen in sports movies.

Carell’s acting, on the other hand, seems to consist of little more than latex and Valium. His publicized prosthetic nose seems engineered to always look like he’s looking down it (it doesn’t help that he seems to tilt his head back in half his scenes), as if to suggest some element of class conflict (further exploration of this theme is not as unsubtle but equally simplistic). Every delivery of his is weak and tired. When it’s his character’s time to show some emotion or intensity, he comes off like Brick Tamland from Anchorman, only not funny. Except for one scene (albeit unintentionally), in which he and Tatum share cocaine, and the tone can’t seem to decide if it’s a dark turning point in the story or a tender moment between the two.

The film plays up the latter angle, that Schultz and Du Pont are sort of kindred spirits trying to escape the shadow of their families, and it just rings so false. Even if you don’t know the ultimate outcome, it’s highly obvious from the second the two meet that something about this relationship is off. Every bit of pathos between the two is empty and forced, draining the narrative of any emotional resonance and the final tragedy of any weight. And it’s kind of a moot point, but the conflict that leads to such an end—mommy issues between Carell and Vanessa Redgrave’s little-seen crusty, proper snob—is pretty passé plotting, as well.

The movie is obviously angling to be a prestige picture, and has all the aesthetic trappings just begging for award show recognition: actors undergoing physical transformation, dead serious highbrow subject matter, a somber piano score (as if relentless dreariness automatically translates to dramatic depth), those not-quite-slo-mo sequences with no sound to emphasize emotional intensity. But like Carell’s Mr. Burns schnozz, these trappings can’t conceal the fact that what’s underneath is subpar. With its bad melodrama and simplistic analysis of characters and events, Foxcatcher is the macho male equivalent of a bad Lifetime movie.

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies

I guess you can’t really blame the studio for wanting to stretch The Hobbit into three high-grossing movies, especially considering the project’s hefty price tag. But from a narrative standpoint, the trilogy could have easily been trimmed quite a bit and condensed into just two films. That fact is more apparent than ever in The Battle of the Five Armies. Even though it’s by far the shortest of Peter Jackson’s six J.R.R. Tolkien adaptations, it still seems unnecessarily long and inflated.

After the first two entries, there isn’t a whole lot left from Tolkien’s novel to film besides the eponymous battle. The movie does wrap up the cliffhanger involving the dragon Smaug (voiced by Benedict Cumberbatch) from last year’s film (a little anticlimactically, unfortunately). It also brings to conclusion all its added-on prequel elements leading into the events of Jackson’s other trilogy, which are promptly forgotten once finished (makes you wonder why they even bothered with them in the first place). Otherwise, its focus is squarely on the battle, pitting the Dwarves of Erebor and their kin against the Elves of Mirkwood and the remaining citizens of Lake-town, then all of them against two armies of orcs, trolls, and other nasty servants of Sauron. When the sides aren’t engaged in combat, the characters are discussing and priming for battle, or glumly reflecting on those lost in it afterward. And any dangling subplots are either finished on the battlefield or left in the dust without a satisfactory completion.

Even Bilbo (Martin Freeman) is somewhat brushed aside. Instead, the driving character arc is that of Richard Armitage’s Dwarf king Thorin, whose lust for riches ignites the whole conflict. Herein lies the only bit of substance in the picture, exploring the character’s madness of greed. A great sequence—probably the only use of special effects that doesn’t involve fighting or destruction—hauntingly illustrates his sanity lost in (quite literally) a sea of gold. This turn, however, is more than a little jarring. Thorin was a tortured but honorable character in the first two films, but is suddenly cold and paranoid in this one. His downfall festers a little too quickly to believe. It’s little matter, though, as he just as quickly reverts back to action hero mode to join in the combat.

The battle scenes are reasonably entertaining, if not nearly as impressive as those we already saw in Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings trilogy (not sure if it’s the high frame rate or the 3D, but the armies look more obviously like CGI). Eventually, though, it gets a little tiring as it goes on and on and on. You can really feel the filmmakers reaching to expand every element they can to justify a third movie, and the final result is very bloated. And while Jackson is good at staging a memorable action sequence, a couple here—a swordfight on ice (seriously), and especially a duel inside a structure as it falls to pieces faster than a Jenga tower—reach a stratosphere of ridiculousness only someone with unlimited money and no one to tell them “no” could possibly reach. By the time the film finally reaches its end, there's more of an exhausted relief than emotional or narrative payoff.

Contrast that with The Lord of the Rings’ long but very satisfying final chapter The Return of the King (deletion of Saruman aside), and you have the biggest difference, I think, between Jackson’s two trilogies. The Lord of the Rings had an epic scope while still making time to tell strong character stories, in addition to being a great action and special effects spectacle. The Hobbit trilogy has ultimately been only a spectacle. It was an enjoyable spectacle with a lot of fun stuff (the second movie The Desolation of Smaug being the best of them). But while its big brothers are film classics, The Hobbit rings a little hollow, this entry most of all.

The Theory of Everything

The Theory of Everything doesn’t actually delve much into the theories or scientific work of Stephen Hawking. Mentions of his work are peppered throughout, but on the whole, this isn’t a look at the brilliant mind the general public knows. Its focus is on the man they don’t, specifically the trials of his disease and its effect on his family life. On account of the talents involved, it’s a wonderful, emotional portrait of that life.

Based on the memoirs of Hawking’s first wife Jane (played by Felicity Jones), the film depicts their meeting as students at Cambridge in 1963. That same year, Stephen (Eddie Redmayne) is diagnosed with motor neuron disease, but the two get married nonetheless. Despite his physical deterioration over the years—from unable to walk, to unable to move at all, to eventually unable to speak and having to rely on his famous vocal generator—they manage a mostly happy life, having three children and trying to live like a regular loving family. But in addition to his ever-worsening disease, the marriage is tested by both of them developing feelings for others, her for their mutual friend (Charlie Cox) and him for his live-in nurse (Maxine Peake).

Redmayne is almost uncanny as Hawking. Besides looking so similar, his physicality in the role is very convincing. Every step of his character’s regression, from just initially affecting his walking motion to full paralysis, looks as authentic as the real thing. It’s excruciating, at times physically painful to watch, as well as saddening. He also displays the real Hawking’s ability to express emotion through tiny, subtle facial movements. Also deserving of praise is Jones, who’s a pillar of strength as his wife. And yet, her performance is likewise an exercise in subtleties, suggesting great pain and emotion, even inner torment, despite never breaking on the exterior. Even though it’s always measured and restrained in its expression, the film’s main dynamic between the two is one of great feeling.

In addition to the performances, the movie is also a beautiful film, with lush visuals and cinematography despite its intimate scale. Often in biopics, form takes a backseat to performing; it’s more about the actors than narrative. Not so here. Instead of a cliff note representation of Hawking’s life, director James Marsh instead frames things as a relationship drama. Such gives the picture an engrossing pace even with its decades-long scope. And instead of piling on the sentiment, Marsh lets the emotion simmer and fester and come to fruition naturally.

It’s sometimes a heartbreaking film, but it’s also a host of good emotions, most of all uplifting. And it’s all the more effective because the film understates Hawking’s fame. The real Stephen Hawking is an inspiration because despite his debilitation, he’s not only an accomplished man of science but a bona fide celebrity (the man's been on The Simpsons and Star Trek, among other things). The Theory of Everything is inspiring because it shows such limitations don’t stop one from having a full, happy, intimate human experience, either.

South Park, "#HappyHolograms"

Briefly, the first few minutes of this episode seemed like, after flailing last week between so many seemingly unconnected threads, the story was finally zeroing in on the point is was trying to make. Turned out that grasp was short-lived, as the episode kind of crashed into another big meta mess. It wasn’t as big a mess as last week, but it was far from a great episode.

It kind of forgets about the Randy/Lorde subplot without much conclusion, and doesn't explain what the deal was with all the holograms of celebrities. The one arc it does wrap up was Kyle’s loneliness from his brother Ike watching PewDiePie and parents being glued to their social media instead of sitting together and watching TV as a family. A rather sly commentary on the nature of technology taking over our lives for viewers who remember when people lamented that television was replacing quality family time. But, that was all relegated to the very first scene.

Kyle’s solution to bring his family together again is participating in a big Christmas special, and along with all the subplots (and in some case, instead of them), the episode crams in segments from that fake special, all narrated by Cartman’s online alter-ego. All this did was make things murkier. Matt Stone and Trey Parker should have just done another episode like “Mr. Hankey’s Christmas Classics” if they wanted to do a spoof of seasonal specials (they could have even continued with the interconnectedness of the whole season with acts referencing each episode). But then, none of the Christmas skits were all that funny, settling for just a lame extension of a sight gag involving Iggy Azalea, and a Bill Cosby joke that could have been so-awful-it’s-hilarious but was badly executed.

The one element that did click was the reference to all the recent police killings that have dominated the news. At first dealing with it with the understated, passive ruthlessness of which the show is sometimes capable, the episode builds on the joke to make a very biting comment on institutional racism. It would have been interesting if the show made a whole episode on that subject, but alas, it was only a small part that shined in an overall scattershot episode.

As a whole, my feelings about this season are lukewarm at best. I can’t really say if the show’s getting worse, as throughout its run there have been bad episodes mixed in with the good (“Pip” comes immediately to mind). But, none of the good ones were great, and the bad really seemed to stand out. Maybe it was harder to move on from a bad idea because all the episodes were connected, or the fact that the continuing narrative experiment didn’t quite work. That’s what I’m hoping, at least, that and that this season isn’t the first sign of a decline. Still, this is the first year where my feelings overall weren’t positive.

The other (sort of) Tolkien film trilogy

Next week, The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies will conclude Peter Jackson’s trilogy based on J.R.R. Tolkien’s novel, and may be the last Tolkien adaptation we see for a while. But audiences may be surprised to know that in addition to the New Zealand director's six movies, another Tolkien film trilogy already exists. Well, kind of.

A whole generation before Jackson turned his homeland into Middle-Earth, two different parties produced three animated features that, together, adapted The Hobbit and all three volumes of The Lord of the Rings. They can only loosely be called a trilogy, though, as the three don’t consistently sync with one another. As for their quality, let’s just say Jackson has no competition to fear for the definitive motion picture portrait of Tolkien’s world.

The Hobbit (1977)

Tolkien’s novel is sometimes classified as a children’s book, though it’s been enjoyed by readers of all ages. However, in the hands of Rankin/Bass Productions (most remembered for their perennial Christmas specials), the tale was tinkered specifically for youngsters in this TV movie. As such, several characters and plot points are simplified, reduced, or eliminated. Bilbo (voiced by Orson Bean) talks us through every step of the way, lest the little ones watching lose track of things. Gollum and the orcs look more amphibious than hideous, and Smaug is only slightly more threatening than Pete’s Dragon. There’s very little scariness or battles, but plenty of singing (much of it adapted from the book’s songs). For what it is, it’s a decent production, but viewers above the age of, say, six or seven will likely find it flavorless and unengaging. It might also be hard to keep a straight face if you’re a South Park fan, as the main theme sounds an awful lot like a song about a certain gerbil.

True to the book, though (truer than Jackson’s version with all its added-on prequel elements), there’s little mention of the events to come in The Lord of the Rings. That story would be told the following year, albeit by a different studio, in...

The Lord of the Rings (1978)

Contrary to the kid-friendly tone of Rankin/Bass' The Hobbit, the first film adaptation of Tolkien’s seminal trilogy was the work of cult animator Ralph Bakshi, best known for his more adult-oriented features in the 1970s and early 80s. Bakshi’s style heavily utilizes rotoscoping, a process of animating over live-action footage. He’d employ this technique more successfully in other movies around the same time, but the results here are mixed, and that’s putting it nicely. Some of it is quite good (a few of the more impressive sequences clearly inspired scenes in Jackson’s adaptations). Some looks like a badly colorized black-and-white movie (the Balrog in the Mines of Moria is particularly awful). We do get a decent if highly compressed adaptation of The Fellowship of the Ring, but the narrative crumbles when it moves onto the events of The Two Towers, becoming hard to follow even if you know the story.

The film ends partway through the second book, and Bakshi intended to make another movie finishing the trilogy. That didn’t happen, leaving the task of resolving the story to...

The Return of the King (1980)

Rankin/Bass took a second stab at Tolkien with another telefilm, but it can barely be called an adaptation of the trilogy’s final book (and really doesn’t work as a follow-up to Bakshi’s picture, either). Legolas and Gimli are cut completely, and even Aragorn is marginalized, despite being the king mentioned in the title. Instead, the storyline is reworked into a sequel to The Hobbit of three years prior, and mainly follows Frodo (Bean, again) and Sam’s (Roddy McDowell) long walk to Mount Doom. Sounds simple enough, but the production’s selective elimination of significant plot points leaves so many scraps of story that become tangled and confusing. The few darker elements from the book that made it in are extremely watered down (the Ringwraiths are less terrifying than the average Scooby-Doo villain), or undercut by incredibly lame musical numbers. If they don’t get stuck in your head, this one’s completely forgettable.

South Park, "#REHASH"

This season isn’t actually the first time South Park has featured a continuing narrative. In addition to some two- and three-parters, there have been moments where episodes hint at an ongoing in-show continuity. The season has been much more deliberate and upfront about it, though. And this episode, which attempts to tie all the pieces from the season together, ends up making an absolute mess.

It’s hard to really nail down any one thing that the plot is about. It features Randy returning as Lorde and having a personal crisis over sexualizing his (her?) image (as well as digs at Iggy Azalea, Nicki Minaj, and Miley Cyrus for doing the same), Cartman imitating YouTube star Pewdiepie, Stan and Kyle feeling out of touch with Ike and other younger kids' interest in YouTube commentary videos, and musician holograms on the loose. Yes, the show that makes waves for being so timely is not only making jokes about something from two-and-a-half years ago, but also trying (and failing) to mine humor from Michael Jackson jokes that are close to a decade out of date.

There’s not much that’s funny, and not much of a point, either. If there’s one at all, it’s that Trey Parker and Matt Stone hate today’s pop culture. However, they're not only simply rehashing the great 2011 episode "You're Getting Old" (badly, I might add), but they're revealing that their own outlook is even, shall we say, crappier than Stan's was in it. If Kyle and Stan speak for Stone and Parker (and as the show’s voice of reason, I think it’s fair to say they do), then the show’s creators are coming off like grumpy old men, this episode nothing more than a wrinkly fist of rage at kids these days.

At one point, a nameless evil corporate character says that “commentary is the content.” Judging by the tone of this episode, I’m guessing Stone and Parker disagree. But if they feel that way, why did they make a whole episode so devoid of humor or substance and settle for just trashing current entertainments they don’t like? Maybe there is a point, and we’ll have to wait and see what it is next week (between the abrupt ending and the fact that this whole season has been connected, I’m assuming the season finale will conclude everything). But it’s going to have to be a great episode to make up for this pitiful penultimate chapter.