Forgetting Sarah Marshall (3 stars)
Directed by Nicholas Stoller. Written by Jason Segel. With Jason Segel, Kristen Bell, Mila Kunis, and Russell Brand. (R)
It's hard to believe that so much has been made of a single scene of male nudity, but the publicity surrounding Forgetting Sarah Marshall, a sweet if raunchy new comedy from producer Judd Apatow (Knocked Up, The 40 Year Old Virgin), makes it impossible to mention the film without reference to its infamous "naked breakup" scene. To get it out of the way early, the rumors are true: buy your ticket and you will get to see a fleeting shot of a man's penis. That said, the penis does its best work offscreen, while some evocative sound effects fill in the blanks.
The genitalia belong to Peter Bretter (Jason Segel), whose attempt at welcome-home seduction is cut short when his returning girlfriend Sarah breaks up with him. Sarah Marshall (Kristin Bell) is the prime-time star of an overcooked crime show who has had enough of her schlubby, sweats and T-shirt boyfriend. Trading up, she throws him over for Aldous Snow (Russell Brand), a hypersexual British rocker whose ridiculous earnestness is displayed in his music videos, where his Dylanesque flip cards read, "Sodomize Intolerance."
Peter's job as composer for Crime Scene: Scene of the Crime means he's forced to watch his ex on the big screen every day he goes to work. The film nails the vapidity of CSI-style shows, pairing Bell with Billy Baldwin as a hard-boiled cop who delivers lines like, "I think it's going to be hard for her to re-enter the pageant—without a face." It also does a good job of skewering Access Hollywood, paparazzi culture, and other Tinseltown tropes without seeming holier than thou. It's a fine line and an important distinction; we are, after all, still watching a Hollywood comedy, but the film rarely overdoes it. Indeed, many of the funniest bits in this film come at the end of scenes, little tossed-off lines that would have been put front and center and hammered home in a lesser movie.
After a period of wallowing in the company of step-brother Brian (Bill Hader, good in what could have been a throwaway role) Peter decamps for Hawaii to get away from the constant reminders of Sarah, only to find she and her new beau are staying at the same resort. A sympathetic staff (led by Mila Kuniz as Rachel) takes Peter under their wing—a man alone in their hotel is like a wounded puppy—and helps him get over Sarah. "Get out of your head!" says Rachel, trying to awaken him to the beauty he's sleepwalking through.
As a tentative romance blooms between Peter and Rachel, Aldous provides the biggest surprise. Defying the rock-star stereotype, he may be the most sincere character in the movie. Yes, he's basically a walking sex urge, but he's also surprisingly honest, open, and even—once in a while—insightful. His carnal instincts even manage to save a marriage. By the time he leaves, we're sorry to see him go, and surprised to feel that way.
Forgetting Sarah Marshall is interesting too in its casting; almost every major role is filled by an actor currently on television (though Kuniz's That 70s Show days are over, she does a lot of voice work in animated series). As the difference between the big and small screen grows smaller, it's likely that we'll see much more of this kind of crossover. Whether that's for better or worse—will TV become more cinematic, or will film become overblown television?—remains to be seen.
88 Minutes (1 star)
Directed by Jon Avnet. Written by Gray Scott Thompson. With Al Pacino, Alicia Witt, Leelee Sobieski, Amy Brenneman, and William Forsythe. (R)
In looking over my notes from a recent screening of 88 Minutes, I noticed that I'd scribbled down the term "banty rooster" as a description of the actor Al Pacino. After giving so many wonderful performances over the years, the once-great actor—whose last fully realized role dates to 1997's Donnie Brasco—seems unable to let go of the testosterone of youth. In his latest film, Pacino struts around barking orders and wooing women half his age as bullets fly around him, and none of it comes close to being believable, though it is painful to watch. When, later, I looked at his upcoming films, I found that his next release is a police story with Robert De Niro, where Pacino plays a tough-as-nails detective. The detective's name? Rooster. I can only hope he's in on the joke.
Here he's playing Dr. Jack Gramm, a forensic psychiatrist and university professor who helps the FBI profile serial killers. In the film's early scenes, we see Gramm giving testimony for the prosecution in the trial of Jon Forster, also known as "the Seattle Slasher," a serial rapist/murderer. His expert opinion gets Forster put away, and when the action picks up again nine years later, Forster is scheduled to be put to death at midnight. Suddenly, Gramm gets an anonymous phone call telling him he's got 88 minutes to live. It's that sort of movie, where the criminal mastermind waits until the day of execution to put his plan into motion.
As Gramm and his trusty band of students race around Seattle trying to solve a new spate of Slasher killings, things get ludicrous. The university teacher tells his secretary to "put a tap and trace" on his incoming calls, orders around senior FBI agents, demands and gets warrants, and talks about his "risk assessment files" that he keeps in the "Restricted Access Room, with the highest security measures." Did I mention he's a teacher? It doesn't seem to matter; everyone fawns over him, and he seems to expect it. Gramm can simply pick up a cell phone and say, "Get me MSNBC!" and it happens.
To be fair, his antagonist is just as cartoonish. To make the most of the title, he leaves Gramm messages counting down the minutes until his planned death—in reality, they function more as a means of telling the audience how soon they can leave. They're worked into his PowerPoint display and written on his car; somehow the villain knows exactly where Gramm will be at any given minute. When his Porsche is blown sky-high by a car bomb, he asks, "What next?!?" and we can only wonder the same thing ourselves.
Here's a hint: part of the story turns on Gramm's supposed sexual exploits with a co-ed. Again, this sort of Peter Pan syndrome is sad to see, and more so when it's Pacino; there were more than a few times during this film when I burst out laughing at something onscreen that was clearly meant to be an expression of Pacino's power, and I actually felt guilty about it. Luckily, I don't think I bothered anyone—word seems to have spread about 88 Minutes; when I walked into the theater, I was the only one there.
Deception (2 1/2 stars)
Directed by Marcel Langenegger. Written by Mark Bomback. With Hugh Jackman, Ewan McGregor, Michelle Williams, and Lisa Gay Hamilton. (R)
Deception is a crisply shot, tidily edited film that manages to raise itself above its formulaic story, at least for a time. In the end, the filmmakers don't have the courage to make it something unique—it's a triple-cross con game with a splash of erotic frisson—and it comes off instead like a lesser entry from the David Mamet catalogue of Games Men Play.
Ewan McGregor stars as Jonathan McQuarry (a perfect name for a mark), an accountant who handles the annual audits of some blue-chip corporations in New York. It's a lonely life; he works at night, and the cleaners are his only company, but they're too busy having sex in the company washrooms to take notice of him.
Wyatt Bose (Hugh Jackman), a lawyer in the building who drops in on McQuarry one night, is his polar opposite: charming, talkative, and perfectly at home in his easy masculinity. When the two strike up a friendship, McQuarry is obviously smitten, as attracted to the confidence of Bose as he is to the women who seem to orbit the man. An unexpected bonus is The List, a sort of phone tree for bigwigs looking for anonymous sex that McQuarry stumbles upon when he and Bose mistakenly swap phones.
But was it a mistake? With Bose abroad on business, McQuarry enjoys the benefits of The List for a time—a surprising cameo by Charlotte Rampling is a high point—but when a woman he's with (Michelle Williams, in a curiously under-developed role) disappears from a hotel room and he's attacked, things get cloudy. The law firm Wyatt supposedly works for has never heard of him, and when McQuarry goes to Bose's apartment, he finds an old woman who has lived there for years. "First impressions are everything, don't you think?" asks Wyatt, a question that increasingly takes on a sinister meaning.
When Bose resurfaces, it's clear that little has been what it seems, and the onetime friend turns icy. Part of the joy in films like this is figuring out the con, and as we replay earlier scenes—Wyatt laughing with lawyers in the lobby of the firm, or talking to an elderly art dealer in his building—the off notes ring more clearly. Why did a coworker seem to do a double take when Wyatt called out to him, and why did that art dealer seem to be befuddled by Wyatt's speaking to him in German?
That "art dealer" is actually Dante Spinotti, the film's cinematographer, and it's his work that gives Deception most of its impact. Working with a palette of gunmetal hues, the veteran cameraman (L.A. Confidential, Heat) lifts the film above its somewhat familiar plot, making it visually arresting even when the story sags. And sag it does. While Jackman is well cast as the charismatic alpha male—his smile could launch a thousand ships—McGregor is an odd fit for the wilting accountant, and all his shoulder hunching doesn't make it go down easier. Williams' character, the pivotal role, is simply unbelievable as written, amounting to little more than another take on the gold-hearted hooker convention. Once Jackman becomes the villain, most of the vitality leaves the film, and it becomes more reliant on cloak-and-dagger tropes than character study. Bank transfers, false passports, assumed identities—they're all there, exactly when expected, and it's dismaying to see the film become just another watered-down version of something we've seen so many times before.
