Showing posts with label Karl Urban. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Karl Urban. Show all posts

Tuesday, 6 November 2012

Skyfall review and my hopefuls for the next James Bond

Directed by Sam Mendes
Starring Daniel Craig, Judi Dench, Javier Bardem, Ralph Fiennes, Ben Whishaw, Naomie Harris, Bérénice Lim Marlohe, and Albert Finney

Part I: The Review

It’s 2012; colour me disappointed. All the big movies this year, the ones I’ve championed for months prior to release – to the point of telling friends “this is the only movie” – have let me down. The Dark Knight did not rise to the occasion, Looper was sluggish and ineffective, Taken 2 paled in comparison to the original, and Prometheus lit a mighty dull fire.

And now the new Bond film, Skyfall, is a bit too “whatever” for my liking – especially when you consider the unanimous critical praise it has received. Sweet Jesus is this movie mediocre. Towards the end of its Titanic-esque runtime it had me longing for the days of Pierce Brosnan’s para-ski-doos and CGI’ed windsurfing antics.

Following a yawn-inducing opening chase, less involving and mysterious than the one in The World is Not Enough, Bond is shot and presumed dead while on mission in Istanbul. He goes underground. His target escapes with a list of secret identities belonging to all MI6 agents serving undercover in terrorist organisations. Ominous techno-terrorist Raoul Silva is behind its theft and later commits shocking attacks on British soil that summon Bond back from self-exile and into active duty.

Critics and audiences went on bloody murder about Quantum of Solace, which for my money is a better Bond movie than this. The action set-pieces were more kinetic, invigorating, and energetically edited. The Bond girls in Quantum felt like real people, not ciphers used to expedite the plot before being discarded or lost in the scenery. Most importantly, it felt like Bond was grappling with forces much bigger than himself and still only seeing the tip of the iceberg (the enormity of shadowy organisation “Quantum” is only alluded to). Plus Bond is so much more of a devil-may-care badass in that one, dropping henchmen off roofs and stranding key hostages in the middle of the desert as if giving a fuck just wasn’t on the menu.

Oh, and because Olga Kurylenko is a goddess.

Skyfall is lacklustre on almost every proto-Bond movie front. It doesn’t have the globetrotting allure of previous instalments. For all the praise Javier Bardem gets on his performance of baddie Silva (which, I must admit, is pretty strong), his screen time is limited and his dastardly plot is not very dastardly at all, nor is it executed with the grandiose villainy that you’d expect of a legendary Bond nemesis. Silva is merely okay.

Skyfall is also perplexingly being touted as the least sexist Bond entry to date, when really it is anything but. For fear of spoiling the movie, I’ll say but this: every female in the film, true to 007 standards, is either less competent than Bond at Bond-like activities or requires Bond to save her. In other words, business as usual. The only difference is none of them wears a bikini this time. Yay feminism.

To the film’s credit, Roger Deakins’ photography is sublime (although such praise is akin to dining at a five-star restaurant and saying “Wow! The food is really good here!”) and Adele’s “Skyfall is the best Bond title song since the Shirley Bassey days. Pretty much everything else fizzles. Sub-plots are abruptly dropped, the movie is lined with characters that don’t matter, the action sequences are not involving or suspenseful, and the villain is not nearly as scary as he’s intended to be. On the whole, Sam Mendes’ directorial style is far too detached and the entire production crew, much like Craig’s grizzled hero, seems to have forgotten how much fun James Bond is supposed to be.

Part II: The Future of Bond

Skyfall also marks the addition of recurring characters Moneypenny (Naomie Harris), Garreth Mallory (Ralph Fiennes – who is in top form, as always) and the re-introduction of the Q character (who, thank fuck, is expertly played Ben Whishaw rather than the oafish, risible John Cleese). Make no mistake, MGM is laying long-term groundwork for this franchise, and with good reason: it makes a shit-ton of money. Daniel Craig has overcome a lot of backlash and delivered a superb Bond over three films, but all good things must come to an end. I reckon he still has two picture left in him, as he’s in much better shape than any of his predecessors were at his age… except maybe Roger Moore.



Who knew?? Right?


So let’s assume Dan exits stage left by 2016-2017; the Bond mantle will fall to another. Who’ll it be?

Everybody’s got their predictions, some better than others. It’s a shame that a lot of strong contenders are from Craig’s generation, and will thus be well over the hill by the time they recast the role. (I’m thinking of Dougray Scott, Gerry Butler, and Eric Bana, primarily).

My prediction is that they’ll find another Dalton, a more mature actor who’ll crank out 2-3 pictures before calling it quits. With that in mind, my list covers a broad age range, leading with the youngest at the probable start of filming (I posit 2017). I’ve kept criteria from MGM’s previous selections in mind, meaning likely candidates are from the UK and Oceania (I doubt they would select a North American) and not huge, global film/franchise stars (as a clever friend recently pointed out to me, this gives the studio more leverage with their salary and contract).

Oliver Jackson-Cohen
Age (2017): 31
Nationality: English
Best known for: Killer in Faster

Pros: Tall, dark, handsome, and unafraid of physically demanding roles, Jackson-Cohen would be a strong choice. With popular support he could ably out-do Roger Moore’s 12-year stint as Bond, and he has the acting chops to lend the character the same gravitas as Craig did.

Cons: My only concern is that he is too young and too handsome (seriously, this cat is fucking gorgeous, people) for audiences to accept him as the lean, mean soldier that Craig has created. 

Chiwetel Ejiofor
Age (2017): 40
Nationality: English
Best known for: “Hey, it’s that guy from Love, Actually!”

Pros: He’d be my top contender were it not for the main con (below). He’s the appropriate age, a handsome, charismatic, chameleonic actor, far enough below the radar, and has proven, demonstrable ass-kicking ability from Serenity and Redbelt.

Con: He’s black and the world may not be ready for a black blockbuster star who isn’t Will Smith. And, seriously, fuck the world for being that way because Chiwetel would be a fucking God among insects if it were otherwise.

Jonathan Rhys-Meyers
Age (2017): 40
Nationality: Irish
Best known for: Being The King -- TV’s The Tudors and playing Elvis (like a boss)

Pros: Back in the mid-2000s, rumours circulated that a young gun named Jon Rhys-Meyers would follow in Brosnan’s footsteps. Rhys-Meyers dismissed his chances of playing Bond, at the time saying he was too young but, given the chance, he’d be thrilled to.

Well, 13 years later he may get that chance. I realise that the fresh-faced, slender Irishman would be a dark horse in this category, but he has the looks, the wit, and the resume to hold down the saga for at least a few pictures.

Cons: He doesn’t have the rugged, square-jawed masculinity or the sultry baritone that we’ve come to associate with Bond. 

Andrew Lincoln
Age (2017): 44
Nationality: English
Best known for: “Hey, it’s that other guy from Love, Actually!”

Pros: Yep, he and Chiwetel fought for Keira Knightley in Love, Actually and now they’re fighting over the coveted 007 title in Boozy Movie Chronicles. Whooda thunk it?

Lincoln is suave and, not unlike Craig, has a fierce intelligence behind those pale blue eyes. Currently a small-town sheriff/expert zombie killer on AMC’s phenomenal The Walking Dead, Lincoln’s TV contract will likely be up around the time Bond is recast.

Cons: Granted, the rather slight, 5’10” Brit would have to bulk up for the role, but crazier things have happened. (Anyone remember Adrian Brody in Predators? Holy fucknuggets.)

His hairline also can’t recede much farther if he has any hopes of landing Bond and his increasingly high-profile TV performance as a Southern lawman might put him out of the running.

Karl Urban
Age (2017): 45
Nationality: Kiwi
Best known as: Star Trek's Leonard "Bones" McCoy

Sure, he’ll be 45 but he’s the motherfuckin Law. Try thinking of a movie where Karl Urban doesn’t rule shit. Oh, wait, that’s right: there is none. This cat comes within inches of pwning Jason Bourne TWICE, which places him on a short list of 21st century King Badasses in my books.

Cons: We’ve only seen a non-UK Bond once and only for one picture. Again, the world may still not be ready. Also, as a sex symbol he is really an acquired taste (but then again so was Daniel Craig).

His Star Trek appearances don't seem to be getting him typecast, but in the next few years he may become too well-known and bankable a star for the Bond role.

Guy Pearce
Age (2017): 50
Nationality: English/Australian
Best known for: Being the pre-eminent character actor of his generation

Pros: Pearce looks remarkably good for his age and, as this year’s Lockout showed us, he is still in phenomenal shape. His versatility as an actor would also mean that he could take the role in any direction and do so convincingly.

Cons: Starting at age 50 he would likely only do 2 movies and, more importantly, he probably has zero interest in the role.




Got thoughts on who the next Bond could be? Leave them below.



Tuesday, 3 January 2012

DOOM -- stay-at-home boozy Hannukah edition

Directed by Andrzej Bartkowiak
Starring Karl Urban, Rosamund Pike, Raz Adoti, Ben Daniels, and Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson

*** WARNING: VERY MINOR SPOILERS *** (as if you’re going to watch this trash, right?)

Oscar season is probably my least favourite time of year. Sure, the holidays are great, but the preponderance of films released tactically in November/December, ushered shamelessly into theatres to drive a Hollywood lobby around them, drives me fairly batshit. The audacity of studios – contemptuous enough towards audiences that they feel comfortable telling us what a “good movie” is or should be – is an annual affront that only becomes more offensive as the movies become more shittier. Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close? Please. I’ve seen better film form atop hollandaise sauce.

So instead of spending a small fortune to see a useless piece of art that will vanish from institutional memory faster than Shakespeare in Love (although, to be fair, Gwyneth Paltrows funbags are permanently seared into my brain), guest movieboozer Patrick and I combined class and crass by making some delectable Chase vodka martinis and watching a 1½-star movie about Martian beasties. Mondays get the boozy treatment FOR SERIOUS.

This is what credibility looks like. Fuckers.
Shore leave is cancelled for a small team of tougher-than-tough, futuristic Marines when Sarge (The Rock) receives orders to respond to a distress call on Mars. Scientists are apparently missing, there’s talk of an emergency quarantine, and things at the Olduvai research facility seem to have gone altogether tits-up.

There’s a bunch of talk, a bunch of “let’s split up, you two guys search this area, you two guys search this other area, find the civilians, and kill everything else so we can all go back home and get some PROTEIN,” and then beasties introduced through some very loose scientific justification.

*** NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION EXTRA ***: See back there how I used the words “very loose” without drawing a parallel to or making a joke about Lindsay Lohan? Bam. New Year shizzle. I’m becoming a less belligerent person. Resolved.

You’ve played the video game. You know what’s up. A movie of this nature and at best tenuous quality can only truly hit the mark if everyone it in dies. No. Not merely dies, but gets pwned in thorough fashion. Like do y’all remember how hard Benicio del Toro gets pwned in Sin City when he flies off the handle at Brittany Murphy and a bunch of hookers? That level. That’s the level this movie needs.

The movie never reaches this level.

Worse still is that your main guys aren’t dealing nearly enough damage either. Doom is basically a 90-minute invitation to get drunk and watch a group of juice-monkeys fire senseless amounts of bullets and then get their shit ruined by aliens. It’s not complicated. Jim Cameron had no problem accomplishing this and that guy made Titanic, which I take as testimony that he’s borderline retarded. To spend $200 million on a sinking ship and a Céline Dion showcase is strong evidence (although, to be fair, Kate Winslet’s funbags are permanently seared into my brain).

Karl Urban is a satisfying action hero but essentially has no reason to exist in this movie. No one has any reason to exist in any movie The Rock is in. This guy takes keeping it real to the next level. A former boozy Tuesday excursion to Faster is a fine example. The Rock was released from jail and went on a grudge-killing spree while I went on a Pabst Blue Ribbon drinking spree. Me and The Rock we’re bonded deep.

True enough. What they don't do, however, is PWNAGE.
Which brings me to my next point: The Rock seriously does nothing in this movie. I stayed in a had, like, six vodka martinis to escape movies that treat me with contempt and at the apex of my drunk I realize that the most that Rock will ever do in this movie is yell at people. Don’t get me wrong, his freakouts and one-liners in this movie are totally epic; they are in fact pretty much the only reason to watch it. But when you cast The Rock as a special ops Marine in a movie about Martian beasties, I want to smell what he’s fucking cookin’. I want to see him do 20+ neck-breaks and connect Hell Knights anus to mouth (like a centipede). I paid £5 for this DVD so I feel I am entitled.

Possibly WORSEST is the under-use of Ben Daniels as Corporal Eric "Goat" Fantom. For starters, and I don’t think a great many would disagree with me here, but a special forces dude nicknamed Goat makes my nipples erect. It’s badass.

Second, this particular special forces dude is revealed to be a bit of a Godbag and at first you’re like “whatever, so was Britney Spears and we all know how that turned out.” Okay, right, I know, but then this cat knocks over an oxygen tank while patrolling and takes the Lord’s name in vain and as penance for his sin he CARVES A FUCKING CROSS INTO HIS ARM WITH A BUCKNIFE! He’s got a collection of Jesus scars! I know, right? Iciest coldest motherfucker alive (after Vin Diesel and Justin Timberlake, of course).

Full kit, no cleave. Thanks.
Third point: once he gets infected with this strain of zombie monster disease he commits suicide by bludgeoning himself to death against a plate-glass window. Dude bites the dust a third of the way into the film having fired less than a magazine of ammo and clocks zero kills. This all upset my drunk to such a point that I had to strangle a hobo on my way home just so that my evening would break even.

Plus Rosamund Pike doesn’t even take her gear off. I paid £5.

Damage: 5/10 (6 x Chase vodka martinis, probably around 2.5 oz of booze and 4 olives to each)

Boozy rating: 2/10 (I gave it a point above utter failure because there are two classic one-liners and it was Hannukah so I was feeling generous)