Film Review: New Year's Eve

New Year’s Eve. Rated M (infrequent coarse language). 118 minutes. Directed by Garry Marshall. Screenplay by Katherine Fugate.

There are some fantastic movies about New Year’s Eve and all its attendant, high-stakes emotional drama. The first one that springs to mind is The Poseidon Adventure (1972, pictured), in which a glittering cast of Hollywood A-listers find themselves fighting for survival when the majestic SS Poseidon is capsized by a freak wave right on the stroke of midnight.

And then there’s New Year’s Eve.

Just as he did with Valentine’s Day, Mr Marshall (Pretty Woman, The Princess Diaries, Beaches) lines up the ducks and shoots them in this trite, formulaic and laugh-less affair. At its worst – which is most of the time – it’s the cinematic equivalent of watching paint dry. At its best – largely due to engaging turns from Zac Efron (as a delivery boy) and an unrecognisable Michelle Pfeiffer (as an eccentric woman with a bucket list) – New Year’s Eve only ever threatens to sparkle and sing.

Ms Fugate’s (Valentine’s Day) bloated screenplay contains fleeting whispers of originality, while mostly being bogged-down in one tedious ‘festive season’ cliché after another as a bunch of Hollywood’s finest email in performances of incomprehensibly one-dimensional dullness.

There’s the terminally-ill Stan (Robert De Niro), who may not live to see in the new year. There’s the cynical Randy (Ashton Kutcher) who gets stuck in a lift with songbird Elise (Lea Michele). Then there’s Claire (Hilary Swank) whose job is to make sure that New York City’s famous Times Square ball drops. Then there’s neurotic mom Kim (Sarah Jessica Parker) and Ms Parker’s real-life husband Matthew Broderick (who gives the appearance of having dropped in to film his cameo while on the way to the 7/11). And on and on it goes.

Not only is New Year’s Eve a monumental waste of talent and time, its opportunistic, manipulative and cynical exploitation of some grand themes (the Iraq war, terminal illness, loneliness and despair at this time of year, and so on) borders on offensive. Just as well there’s some unintentionally bizarre curiosities to distract us all from the terminal boredom – of which watching Jon Bon Jovi trying to act is the absolute winner.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspaper Group.

Film Review: Me and Orson Welles

Me and Orson Welles. 114 minutes. Rated PG. Directed by Richard Linklater. Screenplay by Holly Gent Palmo and Vincent Palmo Jr. Based on the novel by Robert Kaplow.

There is a marvellous synergy about Richard Linklater's sparkling little gem of an independent film that tells the story of a week in the life of teenager Richard Samuels (a perfectly captivating Zac Efron).

At the height of the Great Depression, young Richard finds himself cast in Orson Welles’s (an unerringly brilliant performance from Christian McKay) Mercury Theatre production of Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar – performances that would become known as one of the most important theatrical events in history. The undeniable synergy is that, throughout his career (including 1941’s Citizen Kane and a notorious radio broadcast of H G Wells’s The War of The Worlds that convinced New Yorkers that Martians really were invading their city), Welles waged an unrelenting battle with the influential Hollywood studios of the 1930s and ‘40s for his right to complete creative control. His passionate audaciousness and pure creative genius is brilliantly realised in this film that has been made and distributed without the support of a major Hollywood studio – even if it has taken two years to get here!

Kaplow’s novel, (based on a true story), has provided Palmo and Palmo Jnr with a marvellous story about the power it takes to pursue one’s creative dreams – and their screenplay doesn’t miss a beat. Dick Pope’s (Topsy Turvy) cinematography is superb, as is Laurence Dorman’s perfect production design (the intimate and detailed recreation of every nook and cranny of The Mercury Theatre is, in its finite detail, astonishing). Bill Crutcher (Nanny McPhee and the Big Bang), David Doran and Stuart Rose’s (both of whom worked on The Prince of Persia: The Sands of Time) art direction is beautifully-observed, while Nic Ede’s (Nanny McPhee) consummate costuming generates both a magnificent period feel but also a wonderful individuality that flawlessly serves the film’s bold, theatrical adventurousness. Linklater’s frequent collaborator, film editor Sandra Adair, establishes and maintains a sublime pace that never falters.

Zoe Kazan (as a delightfully optimistic young writer, Gretta) is a revelation, with a performance of immense range, power and conviction, while Claire Danes is perfect as Welles’s ambitious assistant, Sonja. Ben Chaplin (Dorian Gray) is equally good as Mercury cast-member ‘George Coulouris’, and his stage-fright scenes immediately prior to the nerve-shattering opening night performance (in which he is playing Mark Antony) are rivetting.

This is a film for lovers of the theatre, radio, film – a film that will amply reward the time you spend in its richly engrossing, compelling, and vastly entertaining company.