Film Review: Arthur Christmas

Arthur Christmas. Rated G. 97 minutes. Directed by Sarah Smith. Screenplay by Peter Baynham and Sarah Smith.

Even in spite of the occasional lapses in pace and a mountain of exposition, it’s impossible not to be won over by the originality and abundant charms of this post-modern riff on the story of the Claus family – led by an utterly charming turn from James McAvoy (Wanted, Atonement, The Last King of Scotland) who provides the voice of the title character.

As Santa (Jim Broadbent) prepares for retirement, his uptight and ambitious eldest son Steve (Hugh Laurie), with the help of an army of elves, oversees the military operation that ensures children all over world receive their presents. When a glitch in the hi-tech, space-age delivery system results in a little girl’s bicycle failing to be delivered, the youngest son and black sheep of the family Arthur (Mr McAvoy), sets off with his Grandsanta (Bill Nighy) and elf Bryony (Ashley Jensen), a gift-wrapping expert, to deliver the present using more conventional (and reliable) methods.

The animation from Aardman (Wallace & Gromit, Chicken Run, Flushed Away) is typically full of singularly engaging, oddball characters and situations, and the departure from their celebrated plasticine-inspired, stop-motion animation techniques results in some glorious picture-book settings and sequences. The good, old-fashioned ‘reindeer and sleigh’ sequences are bravura displays of consummate skill – even if the screenplay does become a little too bogged-down in unwieldy complications.

With its mixture of sci-fi inspired logistics (the running gag about a recalcitrant GPS is hilarious) and the reliance on more trustworthy, if outmoded, methods of transport, Arthur Christmas makes some fine and important points about values, consumerism and the joys of Christmas for children. The scene where Arthur watches young Gwen discover her bicycle under the Christmas Tree is, simply, quite beautiful – and a timely reminder that, more often than not, giving can be equally as rewarding as receiving.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group and the print edition is included below.

Film Review: The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn – Part 1

The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn – Part 1. Rated M (supernatural themes and medical procedures). 117 minutes. Directed by Bill Condon. Screenplay by Melissa Rosenberg. Based on the novel by Stephenie Meyer.

There’s no denying it. The intrigue of the Twilight Saga movie franchise has given rise to a veritable slam-dunk of opinion, debate, reverence and ridicule since they arrived on the big screen in the form of Twilight (2008). Fans (commonly referred to as Twihards) – of which there are many – have steadfastly refused to tolerate anything even remotely critical of their beloved Bella, Edward and Jacob. For everyone else, it would seem that nothing spikes the hate-o-metre faster than a Twilight Saga movie viewing.

In case you’ve just returned from five years residing on a distant planet, the final novel in the series – Breaking Dawn – has been divided into two movies, with Part 2 due for release this time next year. In Part 1, Bella Swan (Kristen Stewart, pictured) finally weds her vampire Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson), and werewolf Jacob (Taylor Lautner) honourably turns up to give his somewhat reluctant approval. A honeymoon on a remote island off the coast of Brazil ensues, and before you can say “O-negative”, Bella is pregnant with what appears to be the spawn of Satan. Protected by the Cullens from the marauding werewolf pack who want to destroy the unborn undead, Bella (to Ms Stewart’s unending credit) spends much of the movie looking absolutely shocking while awaiting the birth of her ‘child’. The big question is who will die defending the life of Edward and Bella’s unborn child?

Mr Condon (Gods and Monsters, Dreamgirls) stamps an undeniable authority all over the proceedings, while Ms Rosenberg’s (who has penned the scripts for each of the movies) screenplay suffers, mostly, from having to say in 117 minutes what might have been said in 17. Guillermo Navarro’s (Hellboy, Pan's Labyrinth, I Am Number Four) cinematography is entirely serviceable – with the interiors of the Cullen mansion, in particular, striking in their cold, clinical indifference. Virginia Katz’s (Dreamgirls, Burlesque) editing manages to inject some much needed pace into the first two-thirds of the film, while cutting loose in spectacular fashion in the race home.

Originally classified MA15+ in Australia (the gruelling birth sequence was the likely culprit), the revised M rating more than adequately covers much of the film’s tone. And while Mr Lautner fans should not be late under any circumstances, fans of the franchise more generally should remain in their seats for a sneaky mid-credits preview of Part 2.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group.

Film Review: Moneyball

Moneyball. Rated M (coarse language). 133 minutes. Directed by Bennett Miller. Screenplay by Steven Zaillian and Aaron Sorkin. Based on the book by Michael Lewis.

Well-made films, that there has been a diabolical dearth of this year, are becoming increasingly rare beasts. In their place, we’ve had mostly empty-headed and soulless action flicks and laughter-less romantic comedies. A kind of Diet Cinema.

So it’s almost impossible to know whether the superbly scripted, directed, designed and acted Moneyball is really the cream-filled, strawberry jam-topped lamington it feels like – or whether it shines more luminously in comparison to most of the green bean salads we’ve been served up this year.

General Manager Billy Beane’s (Brad Pitt) baseball team, The Oakland Athletics, is failing. His best players are being poached by other clubs with offers of more money than the club’s owner can match. With the help of a super-smart mathematics nerd Peter Brand (Jonah Hill), Beane sets out to play the man, not the salary cap.

Based on a true story, Zaillian (Schindler’s List, Gangs of New York) and Sorkin’s (The Social Network, The West Wing, A Few Good Men, Sports Night) screenplay achieves the almost impossible task of making the behind-the-scenes machinations of a baseball league absolutely compelling. Focussed on personal as much as professional ambitions, Mr Miller (Capote) elicits outstanding performances from his cast – with Pitt delivering one of the least showy and most involving performances of his career.

Jonah Hill (Get Him to the Greek) is superb as his jovial baseball and software-addicted sidekick, while Chris Pratt (pictured) is equally good as Scott Hatteberg, one of the washed-up players given a second chance to shine on the team.

Ultimately, what absolutely works about Moneyball is the grand and timely theme of believing that goodness – if not greatness – can sometimes be found in people who others have discarded as worthless.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group.

Film Review: The Three Musketeers

The Three Musketeers. Rated M (action violence). 110 minutes. Directed by Paul W S Anderson. Screenplay by Alex Litvak and Andrew Davies. Based on the novel by Alexandre Dumas.

While it’s certainly no masterpiece, there is much to enjoy about this rollicking and picturesque take on the age-old classic tale of swashbuckling, 3D derring-do between the French and English Courts that, to everyone’s credit, absolutely refuses to take itself too seriously.

Mr Litvak (Predators) and Mr Davies’ (Bridget Jones's Diary) buoyant screenplay plays rough and ready with the famous story of the French King’s musketeers – Athos (Matthew Macfadyen), Porthos (Ray Stevenson), Aramis (Luke Evans) and young D'Artagnan (Percy Jackson and The Lightning Thief’s Logan Lerman) – who must band together to defend the French Queen’s honour from almost certain disrepute, while trying to stay one leap ahead of the toxic Cardinal Richelieu (Christoph Waltz), the double-crossing Milady de Winter (Resident Evil’s Milla Jovovich) and the ambitious Duke of Buckingham (Orlando Bloom).

Stylishly photographed by Rambo and Resident Evil: Afterlife cinematographer Glen MacPherson, sumptuously dressed by Pierre-Yves Gayraud (The Bourne Identity, Perfume) and starring a couple of excellent airships (from designs by Leonardo da Vinci), Mr Anderson (the Resident Evil franchise) keeps all the bluff, bluster and skulduggery moving along at a mostly agreeable pace.

If the airship action sequences and the sword-fight between D'Artagnan and the Cardinal’s henchman Rochefort (Mads Mikkelsen) atop Paris’s Notre Dame Cathedral are standouts, it is ultimately Paul Austerberry’s (Resident Evil: Apocalypse, Twilight: Eclipse) lavish production design and the ideal locations (the film was shot in Bavaria) that provide most of the truly memorable highlights.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group and the print edition is included below.

TWTWTW #1

That Was The Week That Was

Over at Behind The Critical Curtain, the Margaret Pomeranz of The Theatre World continues to find himself dodging hate comments about his unceremonious slam of the Melbourne Festival’s Sight Unseen. But the winning comment of them all is Chris Boyd's “ … Prolier Than Thou faux-homeless in St Kilda" to the same, but different, event. Very post-traumatic.

The David Stratton of The Theatre World has been threatening to abandon her blog Theatrenotes for what seems like centuries now; and it would appear that this constant threat has finally become a reality. Ms TN is taking time off from her blog (for which, in case you didn’t know, she doesn’t get paid – unlike the rest of the world’s bloggers I suppose) to work on her art (for which she does get paid). It will, however, be fascinating to read Joanna Murray-Smith’s and David Williamson’s reviews of Ms Croggon’s theatre – reviews bound to be specially commissioned by The Australian, who will be desperately looking for content people actually want to read now that the pape has disappeared behind a paywall.

Also on the subject of things you can do without when you actually have to pay for them, The Sydney Festival has launched its program for 2012 and, rather alarmingly, suggested that there might have been something wrong with the score that was actually recorded for the soundtrack of Robert Wise’s West Side Story. Just in case you were wondering, there isn’t – and this could be described as a random act of cultural vandalism. If we cared enough about silly old Sydney to give it a second thought.

The Spoleto, sorry, Melbourne Festival Board, are killing time flipping calendar pages and wondering whether Ms Provan and her Melbourne International Comedy Festival luvvies will burn the Arts Centre to the ground if, as anticipated, the Melb Fest shoves its big, fat. over-produced arse into February/March as it is expected to do in 2013.

And while we’re on the subject of over-producing, Arts Victoria luvvies got off with slightly less printer cartridge toner on their hands than many had been anticipating this week, when someone found them not guilty of any improper dealings with the toner company who sold them enough toner to keep ten small independent theatre companies producing the complete works of William Shakespeare in repertory with entire casts on Award wages until the end of the world.

Which – on the odd occasion – just can’t come soon enough.