by Joyless Staff
For many moviegoers, the review exists to answer the question, "Do I really want to spend ten bucks on this?" We at Joyless Creatures put ourselves on the frontline, subjecting ourselves to a wide swath of movies every year. Some are really bad. (Seriously) But then, among the most critically maligned there are a few diamonds in the rough, misunderstood films that slip through the cracks and fall into undeserved critical disdain. Here is our attempt to rejuvenate a few of those films that were wrongfully condemned as stinkers. Here they are, 2015's best of the worst.
American Ultra
| Directed by Nima Nourizadeh |
An easy film to miss, American Ultra lost about $15 million in the box office. That's understandable given the impressively high caliber of its acting talent and the tepid critical response. (To leads Jesse Eisenberg and Kristen Stewart add Topher Grace, Connie Britton, John Leguizamo, and Bill Pullman.) Director Nima Nourizadeh's second feature takes this Oscar-bait-quality ensemble cast and thrusts them into a goofy stoner action comedy. It's an odd fit to say the least. But through some kind of alchemy and a terrific script from Max Landis (Chronicle), American Ultra walks the tightrope between lighthearted comedy, taut action, and emotionally moving romance. There are jokes, action set-pieces, and cheesy romance in equal measure, but somehow almost all of them land.
The plot tying it all together is (admittedly) extremely dumb. Mike (Eisenberg) is a neurotic stoner living in a small town with his extraordinarily generous girlfriend (Stewart), but unbeknownst to him he is also a highly trained secret agent who needs only a codeword to unlock his lethal potential. But none of that really seems to matter as we are whisked through tense action that incorporates nearly every element of set dressing. (Everything from ramen packets to kettlebells plays into the well-choreographed fight scenes.) The film's emotional climax--a marriage proposal that has been foreshadowed since the film's first scenes--is both a perfectly timed punch-line and an emotionally touching moment. Most critics were put off by the film's multivalence but that's really its most remarkable aspect—it is an action movie and a comedy with a strong romantic core. What makes it one of our Best Worst movies is how it perilously balances between those genres without losing its equilibrium.
The plot tying it all together is (admittedly) extremely dumb. Mike (Eisenberg) is a neurotic stoner living in a small town with his extraordinarily generous girlfriend (Stewart), but unbeknownst to him he is also a highly trained secret agent who needs only a codeword to unlock his lethal potential. But none of that really seems to matter as we are whisked through tense action that incorporates nearly every element of set dressing. (Everything from ramen packets to kettlebells plays into the well-choreographed fight scenes.) The film's emotional climax--a marriage proposal that has been foreshadowed since the film's first scenes--is both a perfectly timed punch-line and an emotionally touching moment. Most critics were put off by the film's multivalence but that's really its most remarkable aspect—it is an action movie and a comedy with a strong romantic core. What makes it one of our Best Worst movies is how it perilously balances between those genres without losing its equilibrium.
By the Sea
| Directed by Angelina Jolie |
Critics had their knives sharpened for Angelina Jolie’s third feature, calling it a vapid vanity project with an inflated sense of its own importance. Indeed, this unabashedly arty relationship drama—in which two Americans in a dying marriage (Jolie and husband Brad Pitt), both fading artists, resurrect their relationship in an idyllic French village—was destined for a gleeful critical smackdown, what with its slow pace and faux-Antonioni style. It’s also set in the mid-1970s for no real reason other than to play a few Serge Gainsbourg songs and wear retro couture. Pretentious and self-important this movie might be, but it’s also fascinating and lovely to look at, thanks to sun-drenched cinematography by Christian Berger (Michael Haneke’s go-to collaborator).
Many reviews seemed to take offense at Jolie’s presumption that the world would be interested in a meta-textual depiction of the ubiquitous stars’ marriage. But By the Sea isn’t just a tabloid indulgence in Hollywood-royalty mystique; it has valid and clever points to make about the mythical allure of movie stars, a theme that becomes explicit when Jolie and Pitt’s characters begin spying on a young French couple in the next hotel room, their spectatorship mirroring the audience’s. By the Sea is the definition of self-absorption, but that’s not an entirely bad thing; it offers us an acute self-deconstruction by one of the movie capital’s most powerful figures.
Many reviews seemed to take offense at Jolie’s presumption that the world would be interested in a meta-textual depiction of the ubiquitous stars’ marriage. But By the Sea isn’t just a tabloid indulgence in Hollywood-royalty mystique; it has valid and clever points to make about the mythical allure of movie stars, a theme that becomes explicit when Jolie and Pitt’s characters begin spying on a young French couple in the next hotel room, their spectatorship mirroring the audience’s. By the Sea is the definition of self-absorption, but that’s not an entirely bad thing; it offers us an acute self-deconstruction by one of the movie capital’s most powerful figures.
Chappie
| Directed by Neill Blomkamp |
Like Blomkamp's earlier films (District 9 and to a lesser extent Elysium) Chappie is an action thriller with intellectual and philosophical heft. The titular Chappie is a police robot given self-awareness by a brilliant programmer. Yet unlike so many artificially intelligent movie figures, Chappie isn't evil or destructive, and he's no more or less intelligent than we are. He enters the world with a convincing blend of innocence and terror--like an infant in a nearly-indestructible metal carapace--and the most interesting parts of the film follow his emotional development and maturation into a self-sufficient being. It's really a coming of age story or maybe a Frankenstein for the digital age, with all the compassion of Mary Shelley's original novel. Chappie is a tragic figure; like all of us he is brought into this cruel world alone, without any choice in the matter.
The film's tumultuous plot is centered around an attempt to weaponize and mass produce Chappie's consciousness, and Blomkamp's focus on this juvenile melodrama certainly lessens its appeal, as does his pre-modern portrayal of a world made up of strictly good and bad figures. (His heavily classist approach shows Johannesburg as a city entirely populated by two distinct types: innocent white-collar workers and brutally cruel criminals eager to terrorize the city for profit.) It's another miss for Blomkamp as a designer of a compelling, immersive universe, which might explain why critics hated it on the whole. But despite its faults, this is actually a fairly profound film about what it means to be human. It's closer to Her than it is to I, Robot and should be on the shortlist for the most nuanced film about artificial intelligence ever made.
The film's tumultuous plot is centered around an attempt to weaponize and mass produce Chappie's consciousness, and Blomkamp's focus on this juvenile melodrama certainly lessens its appeal, as does his pre-modern portrayal of a world made up of strictly good and bad figures. (His heavily classist approach shows Johannesburg as a city entirely populated by two distinct types: innocent white-collar workers and brutally cruel criminals eager to terrorize the city for profit.) It's another miss for Blomkamp as a designer of a compelling, immersive universe, which might explain why critics hated it on the whole. But despite its faults, this is actually a fairly profound film about what it means to be human. It's closer to Her than it is to I, Robot and should be on the shortlist for the most nuanced film about artificial intelligence ever made.
Don Verdean
| Directed by Jared Hess |
How interesting that Jared and Jerusha Hess (Napoleon Dynamite, Nacho Libre, Gentlemen Broncos), whose understanding of what it feels like to be a committed weirdo is perhaps unrivaled in contemporary comic cinema, have made a film focused on those who are anything but on the margins—white Christian men. Don Verdean (Sam Rockwell, who also produces) is a “biblical archaeologist” who sources artifacts from the Holy Land that correspond with biblical passages; at the beginning of the film, he’s ten years removed from his last success and there’s some serious question of him being a fraud. He teams with a similarly down-on-his-luck megachurch minister named Tony Lazarus (Danny McBride) in the hopes of revitalizing both of their ministries. Throughout, the words “saving souls” seem to be used interchangeably with “making money,” but you’re never fully convinced of anyone’s insincerity. When Don admits to someone who trusted him that he has acted as a charlatan, you believe he’s truly sorry.
The movie takes us places we haven’t been before: strip-mall format night clubs in the rural mountain West, the Wikipedia page for a fictional wrestler named Johnny Jerusalem, and perhaps the inside of Don’s soul (which seems to resemble the small loft bed in his camper van). At times the humor feels less than fully realized: the film spends a lot of time on exposition before getting where it’s going, barely seeming to earn its 80 minute runtime. But we joyless creatures will let whoever is without sin cast the first bad review. Don Verdean is, like many of the Hesses’ protagonists, committed to its own strangeness and richer for it. It stirs the viewer’s moral imagination instead of inviting their moral judgment, and that makes it, sneakily, one of the year’s smartest movies.
The movie takes us places we haven’t been before: strip-mall format night clubs in the rural mountain West, the Wikipedia page for a fictional wrestler named Johnny Jerusalem, and perhaps the inside of Don’s soul (which seems to resemble the small loft bed in his camper van). At times the humor feels less than fully realized: the film spends a lot of time on exposition before getting where it’s going, barely seeming to earn its 80 minute runtime. But we joyless creatures will let whoever is without sin cast the first bad review. Don Verdean is, like many of the Hesses’ protagonists, committed to its own strangeness and richer for it. It stirs the viewer’s moral imagination instead of inviting their moral judgment, and that makes it, sneakily, one of the year’s smartest movies.
Jellyfish Eyes
| Directed by Takashi Murakami |
Nominating Takashi Murakami’s Jellyfish Eyes as one of the Best Worst Films of 2015 may be a misnomer. Claiming that title would first assume that it has enough critical mass in the form of viewership to earn an evaluative assessment, but, released in the US two years after premiering in Japan to the tune of an $8,000 box office gross (average ticket price in NYC is $14—you do the math), the jury is not only out on Jellyfish Eyes, they also failed to show up for the trial. For the handful of people that did show up, they were handed a family friendly homage to Japanese pop culture that riffs off of everything from Tamagotchi to kai-ju, Miyazaki to Miike, and Fukushima to Aum. Murakami is best known as a prolific multimedia visual artist who spearheaded the Superflat movement and coyly walks the line of so-called low and high art. Jellyfish Eyes, his feature film debut, relies on a narrative that is about as chaotic as some of his paintings. After the death of his father, Masashi and his mother move to a small town where a large company is up to something fishy and all the children have fantastical pets (unmistakably designed by Murakami) invisible to adult eyes. Needless to say, these two factors are related, as the story bends and flows with little care to conventions. Tapping into adolescent angst and the evils of corporate culture, Jellyfish Eyes audaciously presents a bizarre loopy universe with sincerity that seems both naïve and brave. Chaos this fun and strange is a rare creature that should not be ignored.
The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
| Directed by Guy Ritchie |
Unflagging in its quest to resurrect every semi-marketable TV show from the sixties onward, Hollywood has given us The Man From U.N.C.L.E., enlisting Guy Ritchie to “update” the material—in this case, mostly through faster editing and a tongue-in-cheek, retro-chic style. The spies from opposite sides of the Iron Curtain are here played by stone-jawed Henry Cavill, as the American Napoleon Solo, and Armie Hammer, somehow both hulking and graceful as the Russian Illya Kuryakin. Neither actor can be described as natural, but their chemistry here—with Cavill enjoying his suave, wisecracking demeanor and Hammer required to do little more than look good—remains entertaining. Forced to team up during the peak of Cold War hysteria, the agents are tasked with protecting a beautiful German woman (Alicia Vikander) whose father is a former Nazi rocket scientist. Although eventually a couple forms out of this love triangle, the movie is surprisingly frank early on about the mutual attraction between all three of these impossibly beautiful people.
Most of the negative reviews of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. point to its slathered-on 1960s trappings (a blatant cash-in on Mad Men, say the critics), the kinetic style of Guy Ritchie, and the poor performances, which lead to caricatures instead of characters. But Hammer’s awful Russian accent and the entirely surface-appeal of most of these characters simply make the movie more endearingly silly, as does Ritchie’s sparkly, anything-for-a-buck style, which seems more light-handed than usual. As for its mod 1960s nostalgia, it’s not all Patou dresses and Trabant automobiles; this was the peak of rabid Cold War paranoia, the movie reminds us, making the superspies’ bitter friendship surprisingly moving. This isn’t to say the movie takes this theme very seriously. In fact, not much is serious about The Man from U.N.C.L.E., which is entirely the point. Of course it’s a cash-hungry reboot of a pop-culture artifact; but compared to overly serious superhero epics and bloodthirsty action-thrillers that revel in their manliness, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is a lively trifle worthy of some box-office dollars.
Most of the negative reviews of The Man from U.N.C.L.E. point to its slathered-on 1960s trappings (a blatant cash-in on Mad Men, say the critics), the kinetic style of Guy Ritchie, and the poor performances, which lead to caricatures instead of characters. But Hammer’s awful Russian accent and the entirely surface-appeal of most of these characters simply make the movie more endearingly silly, as does Ritchie’s sparkly, anything-for-a-buck style, which seems more light-handed than usual. As for its mod 1960s nostalgia, it’s not all Patou dresses and Trabant automobiles; this was the peak of rabid Cold War paranoia, the movie reminds us, making the superspies’ bitter friendship surprisingly moving. This isn’t to say the movie takes this theme very seriously. In fact, not much is serious about The Man from U.N.C.L.E., which is entirely the point. Of course it’s a cash-hungry reboot of a pop-culture artifact; but compared to overly serious superhero epics and bloodthirsty action-thrillers that revel in their manliness, The Man from U.N.C.L.E. is a lively trifle worthy of some box-office dollars.
Maps to the Stars
| Directed by David Cronenberg |
Remember when David Cronenberg’s Maps to the Stars was in theaters? No, probably not, because it barely made an appearance. Rumor had it that its release was shuttled from fourth quarter 2014 to first quarter 2015 to make way for Juilanne Moore’s Oscar run for Still Alice. Perhaps that was a good decision—Moore ended up winning Best Actress in a Lead Role—but Cronenberg’s delightfully batshit-crazy take on Hollywood got buried in the limited-release-VOD netherworld, right where it remains today. With a string of movies like A History of Violence, Eastern Promises, and A Dangerous Method, it’s easy to forget Cronenberg’s bizarre world of Scanners, Videodrome, Dead Ringers, and, most recently, Cosmopolis. Maps to the Stars has the bland veneer of the former group of films but the space oddity of the latter. The narrative weaves its way through the interconnected lives of an aging actress (Moore) who spends every waking moment fighting the tide of being washed up, a recent transplant to L.A. (Mia Wasikowska) who wears long black gloves to hide her burn scars, and spoiled child star (Evan Bird) who, no older than 13, has already been through drug rehab. Cronenberg along with screenwriter Bruce Wagner work very carefully to spin a thick and mysterious web within this triangle and then allow it to implode in bursts of surreal violence. Although never far from parody (a movie about movie stars with movie stars), Maps, something of a companion piece to Mulholland Drive, is anchored by much darker forces of the human ego that, in any other director’s hands, would seem flagrantly ostentatious.
No Escape
| Directed by John Erick Dowdle |
For all the scorn heaped on the Dowdle Brothers for No Escape's cultural ignorance and alleged jingoism, few critics appreciated the film's not-so-far-fetched premise about Americans trapped abroad after a coup. Even fewer addressed the thought-provoking "What would you do?" allegory, opting instead to focus on what they considered its "reprehensible", "morally rank", and "xenophobic" characteristics.
A classic example of cinematic good intentions gone awry, No Escape was a no-win scenario for the Dowdle Bros. from the beginning: center the story around real-life events and be accused of revisionist history, or avoid national and cultural specificity completely and be accused of racist generalizing. They opted for the latter and messily blurred the lines between Cambodia and Thailand (where it was filmed). Making things worse, the white Americans in the story are faultless and heroic while the nameless foreigners are evil and, usually, dead.
There's no excusing this tired cliche, but No Escape's acting and production value still bring it a cut above its peers. Even despite the occasionally bizarre use of slow motion, the frenetic pace makes No Escape the most consistently white-knuckle ride of the year after Mad Max: Fury Road. Through it all, Luke Wilson and Lake Bell convey surprisingly realistic horror and helplessness as the situation worsens.
No Escape isn't a great movie, and it's barely a good movie. But for so many Americans who generally lack knowledge of geopolitics and can't imagine what it would be like to be, for example, a refugee, it's arguably an important movie.
A classic example of cinematic good intentions gone awry, No Escape was a no-win scenario for the Dowdle Bros. from the beginning: center the story around real-life events and be accused of revisionist history, or avoid national and cultural specificity completely and be accused of racist generalizing. They opted for the latter and messily blurred the lines between Cambodia and Thailand (where it was filmed). Making things worse, the white Americans in the story are faultless and heroic while the nameless foreigners are evil and, usually, dead.
There's no excusing this tired cliche, but No Escape's acting and production value still bring it a cut above its peers. Even despite the occasionally bizarre use of slow motion, the frenetic pace makes No Escape the most consistently white-knuckle ride of the year after Mad Max: Fury Road. Through it all, Luke Wilson and Lake Bell convey surprisingly realistic horror and helplessness as the situation worsens.
No Escape isn't a great movie, and it's barely a good movie. But for so many Americans who generally lack knowledge of geopolitics and can't imagine what it would be like to be, for example, a refugee, it's arguably an important movie.
She's Funny That Way
| Directed by Peter Bogdanovich |
Peter Bogdanovich is no stranger to screwball comedy. In 1972, he had a smash hit with What’s Up Doc? It’s now been fourteen years since moviegoers last heard from the estimable director, so naturally, you’d think a new Bogdanovich picture would be greeted with warmth and enthusiasm. But alas, after a limited release in NY, She’s Funny That Way disappeared amid lukewarm reviews and fatefully headed straight to DVD. Conceived over 15 years ago, Bogdanovich's screwy romp finally saw the light of day thanks to the help of executive producers Wes Anderson and Noah Baumbach, both longtime admirers of the director’s work.
The story revolves around a young call girl (played snappily by Imogen Poots) who longs to be an actress. In true screwball fashion, she fortuitously turns a trick for a Broadway director (Owen Wilson). After taking her to bed, he offers her $30,000 to get out of the escort business and pursue her dreams (which becomes a running gag, as former escort girls turn up left and right as the film unfolds). Wilson’s director is part saint, part sinner, and later in the film, he hilariously describes what he does as feminist. The next day he’s casting a play that stars his wife (Kathryn Hahn) and her ex-lover (Rhys Ifans). He’s taking auditions for one last role, the part of a hooker. Need I mention who shows up? Let’s just say it’s someone who could bring a “method” touch to the performance.
You’d have to be impervious to Hawksian comedy and Woody Allen’s NY films to not find this picture completely charming and quietly funny (I couldn’t help but smile throughout it). Like the best screwballs of yesteryear, She’s Funny That Way is a picture about happy endings, dreams that cannot be dashed, and the magic of the movies themselves.
The story revolves around a young call girl (played snappily by Imogen Poots) who longs to be an actress. In true screwball fashion, she fortuitously turns a trick for a Broadway director (Owen Wilson). After taking her to bed, he offers her $30,000 to get out of the escort business and pursue her dreams (which becomes a running gag, as former escort girls turn up left and right as the film unfolds). Wilson’s director is part saint, part sinner, and later in the film, he hilariously describes what he does as feminist. The next day he’s casting a play that stars his wife (Kathryn Hahn) and her ex-lover (Rhys Ifans). He’s taking auditions for one last role, the part of a hooker. Need I mention who shows up? Let’s just say it’s someone who could bring a “method” touch to the performance.
You’d have to be impervious to Hawksian comedy and Woody Allen’s NY films to not find this picture completely charming and quietly funny (I couldn’t help but smile throughout it). Like the best screwballs of yesteryear, She’s Funny That Way is a picture about happy endings, dreams that cannot be dashed, and the magic of the movies themselves.
Spectre
| Directed by Sam Mendes |
When did our standards for Mr. Bond grow so high? I’m thinking the success of Casino Royale went to everybody’s head. We were given a spectacular vision of a James Bond film that wasn’t campy, but instead felt raw, romantic, exciting, and above all, cool. James nearly gets killed in a bathroom fistfight in the opening shots. A guy with a knotted rope and sadism issues ties him to a chair and makes mashed potatoes out of his testicles. His love interest doesn’t just mysteriously disappear after the movie. (Where do all those Bond women go, by the way, when they survive the movie but don’t show up or get mentioned in the next? Does Bond dump them, or do they dump Bond? Is there a support group? Do they annually get together in a hotel conference room and swap gossip and laugh ruefully about their stint with James?) Instead, his love interest drowns directly in front of him. We saw an image of James Bond as a mortal being, capable of being hurt, and we worshipped his newfound vulnerability.
But gentle reader, that Bond was a false idol. This is a 53-year old franchise based on the premise of a 007 who can do no wrong. He can never die, despite dozens of shootouts per movie. He’s somehow the world’s most successful spy, despite always being recognized by the villain about six minutes into every disguise he’s ever worn. He’s convinced generations of overly impressionable young boys that the surefire way into a beautiful woman’s heart is a well-pressed tuxedo, a world-weary smile, and incredibly cheesy double entendres peppered into every conversation. James Bond is so preposterous that any attempt to make him feel “real” is, in itself, preposterous. I don’t want another gritty post-Batman remake. I want silly escapist fun that looks gorgeous and makes me feel eight again, excited to grow up, wear white tuxedos and make questionably sexy puns. On that criteria, Spectre does a very passable job.
But gentle reader, that Bond was a false idol. This is a 53-year old franchise based on the premise of a 007 who can do no wrong. He can never die, despite dozens of shootouts per movie. He’s somehow the world’s most successful spy, despite always being recognized by the villain about six minutes into every disguise he’s ever worn. He’s convinced generations of overly impressionable young boys that the surefire way into a beautiful woman’s heart is a well-pressed tuxedo, a world-weary smile, and incredibly cheesy double entendres peppered into every conversation. James Bond is so preposterous that any attempt to make him feel “real” is, in itself, preposterous. I don’t want another gritty post-Batman remake. I want silly escapist fun that looks gorgeous and makes me feel eight again, excited to grow up, wear white tuxedos and make questionably sexy puns. On that criteria, Spectre does a very passable job.
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