Film Review: Toy Story 3

Toy Story 3. 108 minutes. Rated G. Directed by Lee Unkrich. Screenplay by Michael Arndt. Based on the original story by Lee Unkrich, Andrew Stanton and John Lasseter.

It will come as no surprise to discover there’s a lot going on in this third (and apparently final) entry into the popular Toy Story franchise from Pixar and Disney. Pixar supremo John Lasseter is credited with the original story. So, too, are Andrew Stanton and Lee Unkrich. Then there’s the ‘story’ credits, which also belong to Stanton and Unkrich. If ever there was an example of a fantastic recipe spoiled by too many cooks, then this grim and surprisingly humourless film is it.

Young Andy is off to college, and the time has come for him to allocate his wordly possessions into one of the following boxes: trash, attic (for storage) or college. Needless to say, our lovable rogues gallery of toys are duly separated from each other – and the film then focuses on how they all get back together. It’s a well-worn Toy Story formula that has now officially out-stayed its welcome. It suffers, too, from a peculiarly long and dreary set-up, which had the capacity audience of birthday party-celebrating littlies squirming in their seats with boredom.

The unquestionable charm of the ground-breaking original, released in 1995, was that it catapulted us into the delightful, pint-sized world of a group of toys who, in spite of our world-weary cynicism, had undeniably come ‘alive’. The use of toys that, as adults, we affectionately remembered from our childhoods (Mr Potato Head was a particularly inspired choice), were suddenly given renewed leases on life as movie-stars, while the new generation were suddenly as obsessed with slinky dogs, cowboys and little plastic green soldiers as we had been. It was a brilliant masterstroke of generational cross-over and audience engagement – and the resulting global success and acclaim was well-deserved.

It was also the first film to be made entirely of computer generated imagery – and Pixar would use the opportunity to dazzle us with their creativity, imagination, story-telling prowess and, while they were at it, set the benchmark for every film that would follow (A Bug’s Life, The Incredibles, Wall-E to name just three). With Toy Story 3, however, the magic has dimmed. As audiences for these kinds of technological adventures, we are now a great deal harder to impress. Yes, there are some exhilarating sequences of dare-devil escapades and the CGI animation is typically flawless. But perhaps Pixar have spoiled us rotten with their abilities – because much of that eye-popping wonder is now just expected.

There’s a determined effort to capture the teenage market with some of the more risqué scenes starring Ken and Barbie (which are hilarious), and a throughline featuring an evil, abandonded teddy bear who rules the Daycare Centre (where our cast eventually end up) as some kind of Alcatraz for toys. It’s really dark territory – and the scenes where the toys prepare to face extermination in a burning pit of fire are just plain cruel and extreme.

When it finally capitulates into long, drawn-out, emotional manipulation, we’re left with the really uncomfortable feeling that the toys in Toy Story 3 are not the only things to have been played with. It’s going to take something else entirely to recapture our imaginations. I don’t doubt Pixar will discover what that might be – but it’s certainly not this.

Cabaret Review: The Truth About Fairytales

The Truth About Fairytales. Performed by Sharon Kirschner. Accompanied by Trevor Jones. The Butterfly Club, Melbourne.

I tip my hat to anyone who dares get up on stage to perform on their own. Anyone who has ever done it knows how terrifyingly exhilarating it can be. I am also always especially thrilled to have the opportunity to see young performers taking to the stage of Melbourne’s cabaret gem of a venue – The Butterfly Club. Here, in spite of its glittering façade, welcoming bar, utterly charming staff, and a fascinating and enviable collection of bric-a-brac, is a stunning little cabaret room and tiny stage that forgives nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Deceptively compact, The Butterfly Club presents a huge range of obstacles to the less-experienced performer. There’s the question of audibility when the piano (and the pianist) shares the stage with you in startlingly close proximity. Then there’s the question of acoustics, diction and projection – both of character and lyrics. There’s also the glaringly obvious and incredibly necessary stage presence – and even though it is a tiny space, it’s a space that demands to be filled. And it becomes very obvious when it isn’t.

Australia is also blessed with astonishing range of cabaret and music theatre talent. And now, with some further dedicated and determined vocal training, we can add one more – Sharon Kirschner. The premise of Ms Kirschner’s self-penned The Truth About Fairytales is faultless. Bursting into the room and bounding onto the stage as a wide-eyed, hyperactive children’s storyteller, Ms Kirschner confesses that she can’t stand regurgitating folklore from yesteryear, and before long, we depart on a delightful journey as Little Red Riding Hood and friends are deconstructed, reimagined and retold. It’s a marvelous conceit, and Kirschner is always in complete control of the telling. Her doe-eyed line in comedy is never less than divine and utterly engaging. Her Facebook Stalk You lyrics (sung to Everthing I do, I do it for you) is the unquestionable highlight, as is her proficient and delightfully self-deprecatingly humourous handling of a cute audience participation moment with a script-reading likely suitor.

The Truth About Fairytales is also a refreshingly Sondheim- (ironic given the luxury of material in Into The Woods) and Kander & Ebb-free zone. Instead, Michael Jackson’s Smooth Criminal is brilliantly adapted to the story of Goldilocks, while Sleeping Beauty tries desperately to get back to sleep (Pills, Pills, Pills) after waking to discover her Prince Charming is a complete dud. Poor old Cinderella deals with her Prince’s tendency for Premature Ejaculation, while dramatically, the highlight was when the Rapunzel story took on new light with a marvelous rendition of Maybe I like it this way. This was also this point at which Ms Kirschner’s considerable acting training came to the fore – and throughout the potent, perfect stillness of her performance, you could have heard a pin drop. Here, and in fact throughout the entire performance, Mr Jones was the perfect accompanist, and the timing of his sly and witty vocal interjections was equally good.

Ms Kirschner (a NIDA graduate) has the makings of the perfect ingénue, even though her light, lyrical voice – at this point in her development – lacks range and power. Most of the early efforts to reach notes in her lower register were unsuccessful and the notes in her upper register were clearly an effort. I actually wondered why it all hadn’t been transposed into a more suitable key. While she was most obviously comfortable in her middle register, that on its own is never enough to take on a popular and/or music theatre repertoire of any description. There is also the issue of direction, which solo performers in any performance form, ignore at their peril.

But when you find yourself reaching up to catch glittering fabric hearts, tossed joyfully into the air and literally buzzing about the charming, effervescent performance for hours afterwards, you know you’ve experienced something special. And Ms Kirschner is certainly that.

This review was commissioned by Stage Whispers and was published online @ stagewhispers.com.au

DVD Review: Edge of Darkness

Edge of Darkness. 116 minutes. Rated MA15+. Directed by Martin Campbell. Screenplay by William Monahan and Andrew Bovell. Based on the television series by Troy Kennedy-Martin.

Ranked 15 on the British Film Institute’s TV 100 (a list of greatest British television programmes of any genre ever screened), the six episodes of Edge of Darkness (1985) followed policeman Ronald Craven as he confronted a toxic mix of corporate and government conspiracy within Britain’s nuclear industry in an effort to uncover the truth behind the ruthless slaying of his activist daughter Emma.

Essentially a considerably abridged cinematic remake of the series, Edge of Darkness has something going for it as an edgy, politically-motivated crime drama – even if it doesn’t really classify as a thriller, because it isn’t ‘thrilling’ at all. While it starts well and features a couple of moments of genuine suspense and one outstanding action sequence, Monahan and Bovell’s clunky, disjointed screenplay constantly gets bogged down in all sorts of mumbled, conspiratorial hyperbole before abandoning us in disappointingly familiar ‘we’ve seen this all done so much more effectively a hundred times before before” territory.

Disappointingly, Campbell (who directed the television series and the fantastic James Bond instalment Casino Royale) has obviously struggled with the transition to the rigours and possibilities of the big screen. In spite of the efforts of his reunited Casino Royale team (Phil Meheux and Stuart Baird return as cinematographer and editor respectively), we are constantly reminded of the story’s televisual origins in the way that the film consists of one neatly packaged, tidy little scene after another – all shot in comfortable, medium close-up.

Most peculiarly, there is nothing of 2006’s Casino Royale’s fantastic cinematic adventurousness (just think about that climactic sequence in Venice as one example). And while it might seem unfair to compare the two films, the way in which Edge of Darkness just plods along, by comparison, becomes increasingly difficult to comprehend given the talent involved. Howard Shore’s (The Lord of The Rings, The Twilight Saga) score, too, is similarly serviceable.

Mel Gibson (as Boston detective Thomas Craven, pictured) certainly has his moments as the grim, grieving father and NIDA graduate Bojana Novakovic is great as his doomed daughter. Ray Winstone tries his hardest to make the cryptic and obscure character of Jedburgh work, but Danny Huston (King Richard in Ridley Scott’s Robin Hood) struggles to make his mark as the dubious and evil nuclear weapon corporation chief Jack Bennett. Shawn Roberts (as Emma’s boyfriend David, also pictured) and Caterina Scorsone (as her friend Melissa) are both outstanding as terrified pawns in the game of life or death.

Ultimately, though, it’s really hard to care – and given we’re discussing a DVD, maybe just watch Casino Royale instead. Now that’s a film!

Film Review: The Twilight Saga – Eclipse

The Twilight Saga: Eclipse. 124 minutes. Rated M. Directed by David Slade. Screenplay by Melissa Rosenberg. Based on the novels by Stephenie Meyer.

Having sold over 100 million copies worldwide, there can be no denying the immense popularity of Stephenie Meyer’s award-winning, vampire-based fantasy romance novels that began in 2008 with Twilight. Written specifically for young adults, the stories focussed on life, love, fantasy and – most pertinently – romance. And just like with James Cameron’s Titanic, romance-starved young audiences the world over were captivated.

Traditional (the cynics might prefer ‘old-fashioned’) values of love, faith, honour and respect were interwoven into a supernatural tale about young Isabella "Bella" Swan (Kristen Stewart), a 104-year-old vampire Edward Cullen (Robert Pattinson) and werewolf Jacob Black (Taylor Lautner).

This latest instalment begins with Bella and Edward negotiating the conditions of their relationship. Meanwhile, in Seattle, Victoria (Bryce Dallas Howard) begins to assemble her army of ‘newborns’ (humans recently turned into vampires) to do battle with the Cullen clan in revenge for the death of her mate James (who was killed in Twilight). The life they seek, in return, is Bella’s.

Where HBO’s True Blood plays hardball with the vampire/shape-shifter genre, Twilight plays softball, with the ever-popular team of impossibly beautiful people back for more teenage angst, thwarted passion, shape-shifting – all held together by some fantastically sharp editing from Art Jones (Hard Candy) and Nancy Richardson (Twilight). And while the audience registered their considerable approval when Mr Lautner finally removed his shirt, Ms Rosenberg's script (with the exception of one hilarious scene between Bella and her father Charlie, played by Billy Burke) eventually somersaults into self-reverential parody and, ultimately, unrelenting tedium.

Slade (Hard Candy), who famously Twitter-slammed the first movie, manages to make his mark with a sensational, rain-soaked opening sequence (starring Australian actor Xavier Samuel – pictured – who acts everyone else off the screen in his big Hollywood debut), before being numbed into submission with more of the franchise’s signature flowing ‘flowering meadow’ scenes, tree-hopping vampire sequences, and vampire vs vampire vs werewolf battles. There’s yet more shots of the cast standing around in the epic, beautiful locations pondering their future – which one gets the unfortunate feeling they don’t actually comprehend.

The fractured proceedings are all underpinned by Howard Shore’s (The Departed, The Aviator) particularly atmospheric score and Cinematographer Javier Aguirresarobe’s (The Road, New Moon) beautiful photography.

There is much to respect about Ms Meyer’s commitment to the value of genuine and meaningful inter-personal relationships, but one cannot but help feeling as though there is just not enough to it all to warrant what will become five films (The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn – Part 1 is scheduled for release next year with Part 2 due in 2012.)

So while it would seem that young, predominantly female, audiences simply cannot get enough of Twilight, let’s hope the filmmakers haven’t seriously under-estimated their young, demanding audiences’ patience. Or their intelligence.

Theatre Review: Dead Man's Cell Phone

Dead Man’s Cell Phone by Sarah Ruhl. Directed by Peter Evans. Melbourne Theatre Company, Sumner Theatre, Melbourne until 7 August.

‘Magic Realism’ is a magnificent concept. When it exists in its most startlingly pure, unadulterated form, both the ‘magical’ and ‘realistic’ elements flawlessly blend together to enhance our understanding and appreciation of not only where it is possible to ‘be’, but how it is possible to ‘feel’. Tony Kushner’s Angels in America and Peter Jackson’s The Lovely Bones (from Alice Sebold’s novel) are my definitive examples, to date, of its existence in the theatre and cinema respectively. In both of these examples, the elements – combined – had the extraordinary power to alter my comprehension and experience of time and place.

Obscurity and self-indulgence, the perilous traps into which artists exploring the abstract and surreal metaphysical worlds constantly risk disappearing into, are the arch-enemies of the world of magic realism. To avoid them, every opportunity must be fully explored, resolved and embraced – with clarity of imagination, intellect, heart and soul – to ensure that we’re not able to see the cracks and joins that are required to elevate us to this fantastical metaphysical realm.

Sadly, missed opportunities abound in this deadly, tram-crash of an offering from the MTC. As a result of Mr Evans’s determinedly stage-bound and unimaginative staging, Ms Ruhl’s self-reverential play is revealed to be much worse than it is (although I actually suspect it’s not that great anyway). Even fully-laden jumbo jets eventually (and magically) get off the ground, but Dead Man’s Cell Phone lumbers along the runway courtesy of questionable structure, a teeth-grindingly twee scene in a stationery shop, a overly camp airport terminal sequence accompanied by some unconvincing stage-fighting (even though the man sitting behind me was audibly quite impressed by the sight of two women fighting), and interminable scenes of psychology for pre-schoolers.

Jean (Lisa McCune) is in a Laundromat when she discovers that the reason Gordon (John Adam) won’t answer his cell phone is because he’s dead. When she continues to answer his incessantly ringing phone, she rather conveniently finds herself introduced to his family – all of whom have been scarred by Gordon’s apparent rampant narcissism. And on and on and on it goes.

Ms McCune skips along the pantomime route and never gets under the character’s skin – sacrificing all the wonderful myriad of possibilities for lots of cute, loveable nervously apprehensive acting, which had the audience tittering with affection. The simple fact, however, is that Jean is far from cute. She is a sad, tragic, desperately lonely young woman, and Ruhl’s ultimate sacrifice of her on the altar of impossibly trite and banal romantic convention is utterly disappointing. Sue Jones (as the matriarch of the family) was great – even though I couldn’t help wishing I was watching her play “Auntie Mame” or Arnold’s mother in Torch Song Trilogy (both of which she’d be perfect for). John Adam, Sarah Sutherland, Daniel Frederiksen and Emma Jackson all acquit themselves beautifully within the incredibly limited (and limiting) director’s vision, but after seeing Mr Frederiksen in the equally unfortunate Rockabye, it’s really time for the MTC to offer him something decent.

Claude Marcos’s momentarily clever Laundromat design refuses to get out of the way or effectively transform into anything other than a really expensive props table. That the actors have to wander around moving chairs and tables in the scene-changes like they used to when it was considered creative, becomes really tiring and derails whatever hope there was ever going to be for decent pace. Paul Jackson’s lighting design tries hard to take us somewhere, but never really had a chance because the big, ugly, green-walled Laundromat steadfastly refuses to budge.

Whenever people bemoan the fact that I chose when (and when not to) answer my mobile telephone, I always inform them that “my mobile phone exists for my convenience, not yours”. It’s that simple really. That this little golden rule negates much of Ms Ruhl’s thinly-structured, ‘other-wordly’ and pretentious mumbo jumbo about mobile telecommunications polluting the after-life is just one of the many points at where my interest in the proceedings simply evaporated, never to return. But I did rush home and do my washing.

Pictured: Lisa McCune in Dead Man’s Cell Phone. Photographed by Jeff Busby.

Theatre Review: Blood

Blood by Sergi Belbel. English language translation by Marion Peter Holt. Directed by Scott Gooding. A Vicious Fish Theatre production at Theatre Works, St Kilda until 4 July.

Trust and honesty, like truth, are devilishly slippery touchstones in the theatre, and if this ambitious Vicious Fish Theatre production didn’t quite manage to raise the stakes high enough on opening night, there is little doubt it could. And if it does, it will be something to behold. Watching it tentatively unfold on opening night, it was obvious that the company had the permission to fearlessly explore within Mr Gooding’s beautifully crafted direction, but – with a few notable exceptions – the cast remained almost uniformly apprehensive and tentative in a piece that demands the exact opposite: a primal scream of fever-pitched fear so real you can taste it.

Belbel’s searing, unsentimental play about the circumstances and consequences of a politically-motivated kidnapping, is an absolute ripper – efficient, perfectly structured, bitingly succinct and powered by flashes of brilliant observational satire. And in a week where we had our own particular brand of political blood-letting, Blood’s quintessential theme of unwavering belief in one’s right to self-determined rule over others in any given dominion, appeared to not have originated in Spain at all – but just a few hundred kilometers north in our own national capital.

Janine Watson, as the kidnapped wife of Jon Peck’s politician, delivered a beautifully complex and committed performance, while Peck, too, was excellent in his dual roles of a hapless policeman and the morally-bankrupt politician. Theatre Works’s notoriously cruel acoustics took much of Kassandra Whitson’s big monologue moment prisoner, but her performance as the politician’s mistress and a pregnant policewoman revealed the essence of a really outstanding performance. Alison Adriano, Chloé Boreham and James Tresise all seemed a little unsure and ill-at-ease – with choices, voices and character seeming to almost evaporate within the huge, stark and demanding space.

Rose Connors-Dance’s superb lighting design made much of the distracting and unnecessary set redundant. (I actually still don’t understand why this show had a set.) Connors-Dance’s obvious understanding and appreciation for the definitive power of shadows and darkness was risky, but flawlessly realised – supporting and, in fact, defining the space perfectly. ‘Because of Ghosts’ contributed some disappointingly fleeting moments of intriguing musical soundscape that seemed to exist almost to have lit the flame under the entire performance. That it didn’t quite take on this particular occasion takes little away from the fact that Vicious Fish are an independent company to watch out for. And if everyone has resolved to accept their entire share of responsibility for what could be a rivetting performance of a fantastic play, it would qualify as the show to see.

Pictured: Kassandra Whitson in Blood. Photographed by Paul Dunn.

Film Review: Get him to The Greek

Get him to The Greek. 109 minutes. MA15+. Written and directed by Nicholas Stoller, from the Forgetting Sarah Marshall characters created by Jason Segel.

The world of rock ‘n’ roll – both onstage and behind the scenes – has resulted in a veritable goldmine of unforgettable films including A Hard Day's Night, The Rose, Almost Famous and This Is Spinal Tap. Something deep within the abyss between the drug-addled, booze-soaked, carnivalesque existence of rock musicians and the inspirational and unique concert performances that feed their souls, can fire an audience’s imagination like little else.

With his latest song and music video “African Child” labelled "the worst thing to happen to Africa since apartheid" and then banned, Aldous Snow (Russell Brand, pictured on the right) suddenly finds his previously lucrative career charting toward oblivion. Meanwhile, Pinnacle Records talent scout Aaron Green (Jonah Hill, pictured left) remembers a time when Snow was a big star. When Pinnacle boss Sergio (Sean ‘Diddy’ Combs, pictured in the background) charges him with delivering the luckless Snow to the Los Angeles concert venue “The Greek” for a comeback concert, Aaron must race against the clock to ensure Snow makes it onstage for the most important gig of their lives.

With lashings of irreverent charm and laugh-out-loud hilarity, Get him to The Greek is a refreshingly unpretentious gem that plays it big, vulgar and broad from start to finish. The fantastic cast make absolute meals out of Stoller’s wicked screenplay, with Brand (who first played Aldous Snow in 2008’s Forgetting Sarah Marshall), turning in a powerhouse performance as the bewildered, recalcitrant rock star. Hill is magical as the earnest but determined young talent scout, and it is this unlikely pairing that provides the film with its big-hearted, Laurel and Hardy-esque core.

Australian actress Rose Byrne does some of her best work to date as Snow’s girlfriend ‘Jackie Q’ – revealing a flawless talent for perfectly-timed comedy, while Elisabeth Moss (Peggy Olsen in Mad Men) is equally ideal as Aaron’s girlfriend ‘Daphne’. Cinematographer Robert Yeoman (Whip It) keeps us deliciously on the spot with all the action, while William Kerr and Michael Sale’s (both back from Forgetting Sarah Marshall) editing ensures the film clips along at a marvellously engaging pace.

While Stoller’s skilful and assured guiding hand certainly holds the hedonistic and narcissistic rock star world to account with some brilliant observational comedy (the 'African Child' music video and the Today Show sequence in New York are just two brilliant examples), he does so with genuine affection for the very human element that ties it all together – honesty. Yes, there is the universality of music and its power to unite us in a rare and uncommon ecstasy – but there is also the attendant power to exploit our unconditional surrender to its multi-faceted intrigues.

As Get him to The Greek powers along to the possibility of a big concert conclusion, it unexpectedly reveals itself to also be concerned with the importance and value of honesty – both to oneself and each other. As our rock star idols take to the stage and perform, they do so with the purest of intentions: to create and share with us the power of a thrillingly raw, loud and inhibition-shedding connection with honesty – both in the music and of the moment.

This review was commissioned by the Geraldton Newspapers Group and was published in the print edition of the Geraldton Guardian.