The cinetrix has been combatting the traumatic post-postseason malaise that sent her to all those art houses by taking in some actual new[ish] releases this weekend.
First up, I got schooled by Jack Black. A friend had warned me that "without Jack Black it would have been painful, not unlike Mr. Holland's Opus." Sage words, but after its sluggish start, I really enjoyed the movie. Who can resist the comedic stylings of Joan Cusack? And is it just me, or is there a surfeit of cute jailbait girl bassists these days?
Saturday night the crew played movie bingo. Shut out of Kill Bill, we opted for the next showing of Mystic River.
Before I go any further, it might be useful to outline some designations my old pal Lorenzo came up with years ago. A "flick" is a cheesy, lowest-common-denominator entertainment, like Charlie's Angels. A "movie" inhabits a liminal space where something elevates it above the flick but does not allow it to arrive in the Valhalla where a "film" resides. The perfect example of a movie, under these terms, is Out of Sight. The presence of Soderberg and some fancy camera work give it airs and polish, but its generic roots in Elmore Leonard come straight from the flicks. So an argument could be made for School of Rock as a movie because of the pedigrees of director Richard Linklater and screenwriter Mike White, as well as Black's Tenacious D cult following. Mystic River, by these standards, is clearly and determinedly a film.
And how. Somber. An A-list director and a cast aimed straight at the heart of Oscar. Mournful, autumnal camerawork and music. You can see wrinkles on Spicoli's face, folks. I shouldn't be so flip because it is a very well-done film. I didn't think that Tim Robbins looks just like Baby Huey even once, which is my personal litmus test for his acting. And Kevin Bacon could be a thousand guys in Charlestown and Eastie and Southie. Plus, Lawrence Fishburne makes us forget his Jabba-rivaling turn as a pudgy and ponderous Morpheus in the second Matrix and remember roles like Mister Clean in Apocalypse Now.
Here's my problem: the accents. Used to be, everyone thought folks in Massachusetts sounded like the Kennedys [yeah, I'm talking about you, Rob Morrow, in Quiz Show]. People, I've got news for you. Nobody talks like the Kennedys except the Kennedys. And Mayor Quimby. Then along came a little movie called Good Will Hunting, and now everyone thinks a Boston accent sounds like Will Hunting. Or worse still, Affleck's Chuckie Sullivan. Not so. If anything, try Lenny Clarke. Or Click and Clack, with less chortling.
Don't get me wrong. The accents are really, really close. Laura Linney worked hard. They all did. But they want you to feel the effort, like when Gwyneth whips off another Brit-flick role. Why is the British accent somehow easier than a Boston accent? They're related, or used to be, to the point where the Parent Trap update of a few years back had to move the mom [played as a Boston Brahmin by Maureen O'Hara with all of her glorious red hair pulled tightly back] to Miranda Richardson in London to approximate the levels of uptightness and diction in the original. Which is saying something about Boston's image in the film world today. I'll let my sage pal take over once more:
It seems we are destined to be portrayed as poor white trash to the rest of the world whenever there is a movie set in Boston. What about all the Eurotrash on Newbury Street and the WASPS in Concord and Lexington-can't we see them for a change?
And that's the news from Cleveland on the Charles...
