The Problem

Once upon a time, there was an actor who had a problem. Tell me if this tale sounds at all familiar.

He was a brooding young star whose rock-star lifestyle and “bad boy” persona earned him a rocky reputation along the West and East Coast and everywhere in between. He was born the son of a respected actor and had a family submerged in the entertainment business, both on the screen and off. He had a string of exceptional performances in comedies and dramas through the late 1980s and 1990s. He was offered roles alongside A-list actors and award-winning directors and pursued his craft with versatility and dedication.

Then, the dark days came. His ostentatious party days caught up with him and he got into trouble with the law. He was arrested for the possession of heroin and driving under the influence of alcohol. He was reprimanded to check into a drug rehabilitation centre to curb his habit. The famous creator of the TV series he was starring on dropped him from the show, despite him picking up Golden Globe and Screen Actors Guild awards for his performance.

The movie star’s exploits and dangerous habits ended up shining in the spotlight more than the consistently solid level of comedic and dramatic work he had offered the industry for the decade before. It almost ruined him.

The actor’s name is Robert Downey Jr.

More than a decade after drug and alcohol abuse almost marred his promising career, Downey Jr. is now one of the biggest draws in Hollywood. If he’s not jump-starting a franchise a la Iron Man or Sherlock Holmes, he’s offering scene-stealing turns in films such as David Fincher’s Zodiac.

Why do I tell you this story? Because it bears considerable similarities to another figure currently in the limelight.

I am trying to imagine what would happen to Robert Downey Jr. if his demons finally caught up to him right now, instead of in the late 1990s. It is hard to think of any actor who has persevered in the film business despite such career-imploding setbacks as Downey Jr. It is even harder to think of any resilience happening in the future for a certain man named Charlie Sheen.

I bring up this comparison for one simple reason: to highlight the changes that ten years have brought to entertainment journalism and celebrity culture. In the last decade, entertainment news programming has turned into a massive sinkhole that drowns out the art while championing the artist.

Downey Jr. was able to defibrillate his career because he was: A) a versatile actor with oodles of talent and charisma, and B) one who reinvented himself by choosing good projects with good directors. He gained the respect of the public back through the work he did. When he was on the cusp of coming back to Hollywood, he chose to do so through the arts.

What is Charlie Sheen doing? He’s trying something completely different, and he’s succeeding at it wildly (no, I will not type the “W” word to describe his accomplishments). He’s trying to gain the respect of the public through his own persona. Even though this is currently working, he is unlikely to siege a comeback with any of Downey Jr.’s gusto or, well, concern for craft.

That’s because we currently live in a time where our cultural industries are pushing more of their prime efforts into creating a celebrity brand for mass consumption than into their own cultural products, such as films, music, and television series.

It’s cheaper, faster, and more shamelessly fun to follow a celebrity on a ubiquitous vehicle such as Twitter than it is to chronicle their highs and lows on the big and small screen.

It’s all about the artist and their own faculties, not the art, that has encapsulated much of pop culture in the last year or so. Imagine Justin Bieber without his hair, Susan Boyle without her frumpy housewear, Kanye West without his sharp tongue, or Lady Gaga without her, well, eclectic fashion sense. These figures wouldn't sell too well without these factors, and sadly, these elements of their stardom have begun to overshadow their own abilities as musicians.

The celebrity in 2011 is remarkably different from what a celebrity looked like ten years ago. Celebrities no longer have to prove that they’re worthy of our attention, like Downey Jr. has spent the last decade doing. They can garner a mass following on Twitter and campaign themselves through every medium imaginable – without really trying to leave their mark with any form of artistic merit.

Justin Bieber’s 3D concert flick, for instance, may have inspired lots of kiddies to follow their dreams, but it was first and foremost, a shameless advertising bonanza to address the cult of his fans and capitalize on their love (or lust) for the pop idol. Ditto for Disney Channel staples Miley Cyrus and the Jonas Brothers, whose teenage dreams faded as soon as their respective concert films left the theatres. These celebrities fed their gluttonous audience with their transcendental celebrity status. The problem began when there was no longer an appetite, and Bieber will likely be facing this challenge soon.

I now wonder what’s in store for two of the most unprecedented celebrity stories of the year so far: Rebecca Black and Charlie Sheen.

Rebecca Black’s blast to stardom was unequivocally the strangest leap into the spotlight I can remember. One day this winter, the 13-year-old’s parents went to an independent Hollywood-based firm called the Ark Music Factory, a place where children hope to be turned into virtual pop stars. Black’s parents gave Ark $2,000 to write a song for their daughter and shoot a music video of this single – what has now become the infamous debacle known as “Friday.” The music video has received more than 30 million hits on YouTube since its viral explosion two weeks ago.

Rebecca Black did not become famous for writing a pop song. Heck, she didn’t even write the song. But what’s most incredible about her celebrity stature is that the entire concept for “Friday” had nothing to do with partying on the weekend, eating cereal or choosing to sit in the back seat (notice how none of the teens in the video are wearing seat belts).

It had to do with manufacturing a celebrity, creating a star and creating "art" from which that person could soon personify as their own. Rebecca Black did not write the song or come up with its concept, but it was given to her. It’s no wonder her song has been so mocked in the social media – she isn’t a musician at all. Black is one who has the appearance of a pop star but cannot suffice the credentials that correspond to the job.

She’s neither the next Justin Bieber nor the next Tommy Wiseau. She’s just another manufactured celebrity who has become a notable figure in society due to what I call the "American Idol" theory. This theory establishes that you can create a superstar based on the flimsiest, most superficial qualities available, and the public will eat it up. Isn't it strange that many of those who appear on American Idol seem to be incapable of writing their own music – the cornerstone of that artistic medium in the first place?

In that way, Black doesn’t fall too far from the tree that Charlie Sheen has been sleazily hanging off of. Sheen already was a superstar as the highest-paid actor on the most-watched comedy series on American television. Depending on who you speak to, though, his career has either reached its summit or it has descended into a virile (or viral) low. Like Black, he is now a manufactured celebrity persona, but one that oozes off vibes of narcissism so potent that he has started to look shamefully desperate.

Sheen is shameless, and he needs help. Recent public appearances are frightening not because of the curiously bipolar state that he has inhabited, but by how nonchalantly he has emitted and dismissed his own drug-riddled habits and obsessive behaviours as normal faculties within himself.

He is a domestic abuser, a drug-addict and an alcoholic. If he weren’t a massive superstar with legions of fans and a massive Twitter following, he would be sinking to his own stench of reeky substance abuse. He could have died from the toxins that he’s put into his system. Instead, he has reincarnated himself as a sort of holy figure to entertain the masses.

Sheen is, himself, turning into his own drug, simultaneously craving, stimulating and satisfying his own ego. As he told ABC News, he is currently on a drug called “Charlie Sheen.” This new kind of medicine has already addicted 3 million Twitter followers and countless others who thrive on watching Sheen cruise his ego to unheralded heights.

What’s sad is that Charlie Sheen’s immature, provocative behaviour – on top of his drastic turns to substance abuse and domestic abuse – is a cry for help. But instead of his fans and his followers cracking down on Sheen to seek help, they are getting high with the same drug the ex-CBS star is on: celebrity.

If Charlie Sheen was not famous but a close friend or family member to anyone who has championed his irrefutable lifestyle, that person would have checked him into rehabilitation long ago. Sheen is a dangerous person who cannot see the void that his life has become because he is so overpowered by the excess of his own celebrity.

We are surrounded by the popular culture, but as intelligent, informative people, we do have a responsibility in terms of the arts and entertainment that we consume. We, as a community, have to stop fueling huge stars who thrive mainly on their own ego and popularity instead of the creative substance that the arts and entertainment world promises.

With celebrity news veering into overdrive in the social media and on 24-hour news channels, we have to expect better: better from the stars themselves and better from the journalists who report on arts and entertainment.

If we keep requesting to see junk and follow the trashy lifestyles of the rich and (in)famous, the stature of our popular culture is going to diminish. If we stop paying attention to people who thrive mainly to seek our attention – such as Sheen or the cast of Jersey Shore – then maybe celebrities will come to realize that the only way to get our approval is through the performances on the screen or on the radio, and not anywhere else.

You see, maybe the problem isn’t in our stars, but in ourselves.

Karma Chameleon

Rango

***1/2 out of ****

Directed by: Gore Verbinski

Featuring the Voice Talents of: Johnny Depp, Isla Fisher, Bill Nighy, Ned Beatty and Abigail Breslin

Running time: 107 minutes

The jokes in Rango are refreshingly crass, the protagonist is an existentialist, the action sequences are archaically violent and the characters smoke and liquor up as often as they speak. One even walks around with an arrow thrust through his eye socket. This may be an animated western, but the emphasis is firmly on the “western” half.

A hybrid of Johnny Depp’s colourful zaniness with Sergio Leone’s iconography, Rango breathes to life in an environment that is simultaneously breezy and dark. It’s a film that feels like it’s 90% Wile E. Coyote and 10% Hunter S. Thompson (whose Raoul Duke makes a brief cameo early on, this being a Johnny Depp feature).

Our cowboy hero is a charismatic chameleon voiced by Depp. Wide-eyed and donned in a red Hawaiian shirt, he performs many tall tales in a terrarium tank – like a quirky, classically trained version of the Geico mascot. When the tank falls out of his owner's van and shatters, he finds himself stranded in the middle of the sun-baked Mojave Desert.

He finds a small shanty-town named Dirt in the middle of the dry wilderness. An outsider in the savage village, he is warned by a little mole (Abigail Breslin) that he is not welcome in town and that death awaits him.

Regardless, upon entering Dirt’s saloon, our chameleon uses his bravado acting experience to forge a bold tale about his adventures as a gunslinger. He is cheered by the townspeople (well, towns-creatures) and adopts the name Rango – or as the residents eventually call him, Sheriff Rango.

But, there’s trouble in the West, as Dirt's water reserves are dripping away dangerously fast. A feisty, bug-eyed frontier gal, Beans (Isla Fisher), is horrified to think what a wasteland without water could hold for her poor father’s ranch.

Rango speaks to Dirt’s shifty mayor (voiced by Ned Beatty, with a smooth Southern drawl purposefully akin to John Huston’s from the similarly-themed noir Chinatown) to persuade him to spread the water amongst the town’s citizens and help out Beans.

What follows is a wickedly funny and wonderfully offbeat adventure where Rango and his compadres journey further into the wild west to fetch some liquid for the community. The gang is accompanied by a mariachi band of owls, a form of Greek chorus that forewarns of dark days ahead.

Rango made me harken back to 1998’s Antz, which also featured adult themes amidst childish slapstick, sly, sophisticated dialogue, and a diverse palette of stunningly designed settings.

It is the first animated film by the special effects wizards from Industrial Light and Magic (ILM). Staying true to the qualities that ILM founder George Lucas often brings to his films, the creatures’ designs are usually more layered than their own personalities, save the protagonist.

The film’s central action set-piece, a thrilling chase scene with Dirt’s citizens fleeing an army of mad, tyrannical rodents (which directly homages Lucas’s own Star Wars) is arresting. The sequence raises the stakes for what a chase scene can offer in terms of visual dazzle, and with the limitations of the PG rating with its pervasive gun-slinging.

Rango may be stuffed to the brim with allusions to classic films (from High Noon to Apocalypse Now), but it rarely feels slacken in its storytelling. John Logan's (Gladiator, The Aviator) wry script takes advantage of the animated format to offer fresh variations on the conventions of the western genre - from the loopy, insatiably weird protagonist to the cheeky slapstick situations.

The storytelling is also rather impressive since it treats a dark and dire impending tragedy with a tongue stuck firmly in its cheek. Rango walks by a cemetery where past sheriffs have gone to rest, and the gravestone reads: “Thurs. – Sat.”

Later, when he casually asks Dirt’s citizens if they have guns to defend themselves, everyone whips out a pistol – even the little ones. This bizarre balance of dark and light humour is one of the film’s most wicked delights.

Rango is the first mainstream release of 2011 that’s worth handing over a fistful of dollars for – with no extra, desperation-reeking 3D surcharge, either. It’s interesting to note that the two biggest blockbusters of the last few months – this and True Grit – stem from the same genre. I guess all is no longer quiet on the western front.

Life During Wartime

Of Gods and Men

***1/2 out of ****

Directed by: Xavier Beauvois

Starring: Lambert Wilson, Michael Lonsdale, Olivier Rabourdin, Philippe Laudenbach and Jacques Herlin

Running time: 120 minutes

It is one thing for a film to be timeless, and another for it to be timely; however, Of Gods and Men, a French film that won the Grand Prix at last year’s Cannes Film Festival, marks that rare occasion when a motion picture encompasses both descriptions.

A group of devout men stand up to the religious persecution of an unstable power by sanctifying their belief and protecting their people: this is the timeless aspect, a tale of devout religious following that has been the subject for much folklore and history, from the Maccabees to the Counter-Reformation.

However, given the tumultuous state of recent affairs that have rocked the Middle East and Northern Africa, the events in Of Gods and Men feel especially resonant today. The film is based on real events, about a collective of Trappist monks in Algeria who stood up to an Islamist insurgency.

In the mid-1990s, the Armed Islamic Group rose up against their government after the ruling party’s military denied the victory of the country’s largest Islamist opposition party. They preceded to plan guerilla attacks against the ruling party and their supporters.

But, enough with the history, especially since Of Gods and Men doesn’t put its emphasis on the chronology of Algeria’s civil war. Instead, it is a haunting, humanizing, albeit lethargically paced account on how war can make men fraught but not tamper with his spirit (since the monks are entirely male, forgive the focus on just one gender).

The monks lived harmoniously with the Christian and Muslim populations in Algeria until the war came. When a surprise infiltration by the insurgents shakes up the spiritual congregants, there is a major dilemma: Should the monks risk their lives and stay in Algeria, continuing their prayers while offering hope to a stricken community, but in fear of death? Or should they leave, alive but losing their connection to the people who matter?

These important questions serve the crux of the film. On a few instances, we sit in on their group meetings as they discuss the benefits and consequences of an impending departure.

One of the monks, an aging man named Luc (Michael Lonsdale), runs a busy medical centre where he grants prescription drugs to poor families. If the monks leave, where will the townspeople get their medicine? Then, you get Christophe (Olivier Rabourdin), who disagrees, arguing that dying as a martyr is not a Christian imperative.

Although they have a prior, the aptly named Christian (Lambert Wilson, most familiar to Western audiences from his role in the Matrix sequels), he is having difficulty getting a group consensus. At the same time, he is trying to seek a deeper connection to faith within himself.

The daily rituals of this congregation provide the film’s structure – Caroline Champetier’s cinematography soaks in the austere monastery and serene gardens outside, while letting the camera remain still during the elegant rituals, especially the group prayer.

Director Xavier Beauvois chooses to return to the congregants chanting at several points throughout the film as a way to show how external factors are not binding the internal souls of these men. In one scene, a helicopter roars outside at a deafening volume, but the monks combat this by raising their voices and putting their arms around each other.

In perhaps the film’s most memorable sequence, the monks sit down for a dinner together after tensions have been mounting in the villages nearby. During their “Last Supper,” one of them puts on a record of Tchaikovsky’s "Swan Lake."

Beauvois employs the close-up, swallowing up each man and his reaction to the glorious, suspenseful music. As the song crescendoes, we see the monks become more conscious of their desire to remain strong and overcome the mounting fear.

Of Gods and Men is a war picture about two sides of religious extremism fighting each other. But, it doesn’t take place on the battlefield; instead, the conflict ranges in the spiritual belief of the citizens. It is not just one of the year’s best films, but also its most important thus far.

Insuring Some Big Laughs

Cedar Rapids

*** out of ****

Directed by: Miguel Arteta

Starring: Ed Helms, John C. Reilly, Anne Heche, Isiah Whitlock Jr., and Sigourney Weaver

Running time: 87 minutes

A wholesome insurance salesman travels to the heartland to make his debut at an insurance convention only to find the sleazy undercurrents of corporate America waiting for him.

It sounds like an early contender for next year’s Documentary Short Subject Oscar, but is actually a sweet-and-sour comedy starring the endearing dweebiness of The Office star Ed Helms.

What does the “sweet-and-sour” refer to? The blending of R-rated raunch and pure sentimentality, a formula frequently championed by writer/director Judd Apatow (who was not involved in the making of Cedar Rapids).

The film, instead, is a large rebound for comedy director Miguel Arteta, whose last project, the insipid and unfunny Youth in Revolt, only pulled off the lowbrow crudeness of the mixture.

Here, Helms is the blissfully naïve Tim Lippe (rhymes with “nippy”), a respected insurance man from the tiny town of Brown Valley, Wisconsin. After his superior dies in an embarrassing fashion, Lippe is suddenly asked by his boss (Stephen Root) to replace him in an annual industry convention in Iowa.

To add to the protagonist’s worries, he is pressured to win the coveted Double Diamond award, a prestigious trophy that was given to his company the two years prior.

Upon his arrival in Cedar Rapids, Lippe shacks up in a junior suite with the naughty Dean Ziegler (John C. Reilly, in all of his buffoonish glee) and the sweet-natured Ronald Wilkes (Isiah Whitlock Jr., in all of his deadpan glory). But he is instantly drawn to the wry, flirtatious bundle of fun that is Joan Ostrowski-Fox (Anne Heche, rarely better).

The three insurance conventions specialists tell our couth protagonist that what happens in Iowa… well, you know the rest.

While most comedies would now choose to highlight the zany, situational comedy (The Hangover, another hit for Helms, comes to mind), Cedar Rapids downplays the wacky theatrics and instead focuses on the interactions between the characters.

Anchored by an excellent cast of strong comic performers who work off each other wonderfully, including extended cameos from Alia Shawkat (Maebe from Arrested Development) and Kurtwood Smith (Red Forman from That 70’s Show), the comedy hits hard and the drama moves forward without seeping too much into the light fabric.

Any of the actors could have stolen the film by themselves, but Cedar Rapids happens to work better because the hilarity is the worthy sum of a group component.

In his strong debut, scribe Phil Johnston understands that comedy can only develop if the characters grow with it. Joan and Dean, whose first impressions are as one-dimensional floozies and sleazes, respectively, get the opportunity to show both their wild side and their troubled dilemmas through their frosty marital problems.

It takes Johnston and Arteta about 20 minutes to get on the same page of how to blend raunch with sweetness, and the film’s opening scenes feel awkward, without much flair for comedic or dramatic timing. For instance, Sigourney Weaver’s brief stint as Tim’s old schoolteacher who is now bedding him, feels tacked on. The death of a minor character near the start also feels like a wasted dramatic opportunity that is sadly skimmed over.

Regardless, the writer and director finally find their rhythm. When one of the lines uttered toward the end is an invitation to anal sex but is delivered with a tone that can be best described as poignant, they reach the jackpot.

It helps when you have a fine ensemble of character actors who bring both dramatic depth and comedic panache to their roles. This Iowa-set picture isn’t perfect, but it isn't far from comedy heaven, either.

Lame, Lame Liam Neeson

Unknown

*1/2 out of ****

Directed by Jaume Collet-Serra

Starring: Liam Neeson, Diane Kruger, January Jones, Bruno Ganz and Frank Langella

Running time: 113 minutes

There reaches a point in many lauded actors’ careers when they stop taking meaty, dramatic parts and opt for roles outside of their comfort zone. A good example of this is Liam Neeson, who seemed to be having a successful shift from heavier fare to genre pictures in recent years.

But, the hot-blooded fervor he brought to 2009’s Taken and the crackling charisma he showed off in The A-Team last year has been erased into cold, robotic monotony in his latest star vehicle, a trite and frustratingly standard thriller with an equally generic title: Unknown.

Neeson is the blandly named Dr. Martin Harris, who flies into Berlin with his wife, Liz (the stony January Jones, from AMC’s Mad Men) to give a speech at a biotechnology conference. When he mistakenly leaves his briefcase at the airport, he hails a taxi to retrieve it. But, before it can reach their destination, the taxi swerves to avoid an oncoming accident and ends up smashing through a wall and falling into a river.

Harris wakes up from a coma a few days later to find that his memory is hazy. He heads back to his hotel, but finds that another man (Aidan Quinn) claims to be him. To add to his chagrin, Liz doesn’t recognize him either.

He ends up trying to piece together this unwelcome bout of mistaken identity with the help of a former Stasi officer (Bruno Ganz) and the cabbie who he saw three days earlier and fled from the scene (Diane Kruger). This means one thing… time to cue up the Hitchcock homages.

The sad part is that it isn’t only Liam Neeson who seems to be in a bewildered state throughout – his line readings are often botched in a kind of emotional paralysis – but the script suffers from its own identity crisis.

When the twist ending is finally unveiled, Harris later behaves in a way that is exactly the opposite of what we have come to expect from the big reveal. This destroys the legitimacy of the twist while evaporating any sense of credibility the story had to begin with. What a pity.

Even beforehand, Unknown moves through the motions of the thriller genre without throwing anything fresh or unexpected at the audience.

At the times when it doesn’t borrow from superior thrillers, such as The Bourne Identity and Frantic, it fails to enhance its dim protagonist or offer a nice variety of red herrings to engage the audience. Without a compelling lead to follow or an intriguing mystery to keep us guessing, the film becomes rather suspense-less.

Interestingly, one of the film’s writers, Stephen Cornwell, is the son of suspense novelist John Le Carre. You'd think his genes alone would give us something unique, but this isn’t the case.

Story quibbles aside, Unknown is perfectly watchable for about an hour due to assured direction by Jaume Collet-Serra (who last helmed the horror flick, Orphan). He doesn’t submit to the shaky-camera mayhem in the action set-pieces, which are often thrilling. Collet-Serra also nicely applies a drab, muted visual palette for the city of Berlin, while bright green and yellow blends are used for the serene flashback sequences.

Unfortunately, his often enthralling direction does little to mar an uninspired script that keeps a riveting ensemble – which also includes the wonderful Frank Langella in a thankless role – frustratingly limited. Nary a strong emotion appears in Neeson’s voice or on his face throughout. This is the same Liam Neeson that portrayed Alfred Kinsey and Oscar Schindler to perfection. I mean, it is him… right?