drqshadow-reviews

Frank Capra had been perfecting this formula for more than a decade before It's a Wonderful Life. Earnest, uplifting stories that emphasize a few recurring points: the importance of family and community, the scummy presence of bad actors at the top of the food chain and the imperative for the former to oppose the latter at every opportunity. Don't settle for the fatcat's scraps, in other words, and don't let him box you into living, acting or doing business the way he deems most appropriate. Mr. Deeds Goes to Town brought us the same type of naïve protagonist, thrown into deep financial waters against his will. You Can't Take it With You portrayed a similar big-bucks property grab and popular backlash. Mr. Smith Goes to Washington showed us the power of one staunch, convincing voice against corruption. All three featured a plucky, likable cast with quaint little quirks and a stern sense of resolve.

We get all of the above, plus a heavy dose of snowy holiday feelings and a loose Dickensian adaptation, in It's a Wonderful Life. George Bailey (James Stewart) is an admirable young man, the rare banker-with-a-heart, who takes a personal interest in the character of his little town. Despite private hardships and economic downturns, he maintains a steady ship, convincing neighbors to chip in, do their part and strive together for a better tomorrow. His is a wonderfully optimistic ideal, especially in uncertain political or economic times. See the best in people and they'll also see it in themselves. Do the opposite and, well... you know the rest. There's a visible dichotomy between his crew, who believe that a rising tide lifts all boats, and that of the embittered opposition, threatened by the possibility of the next guy getting a better deal. They're both anxious, worried about the future, but one side builds and sacrifices while the other hoards and divides. Some disputes are timeless.

So is the concept of a well-intentioned doormat. Poor George is so caught up in the idea of improving his neighbors' lives that he neglects his own. When a run of bad luck calls his precarious position into doubt, he responds like I suspect most would. He bares his frustrated side, his resentful side, his human side. Nobody's perfect, after all, and George has his share of faults. I love that this film takes the time to demonstrate those, to rebuff the model of a perfect man and note the cracks in his facade. I'm less impressed by how easily that dilemma is resolved. The happy ending vibes are lathered on awfully thick and the heavy-handed religious metaphors may as well have been wedged in with a crowbar. Light and dreamy, the climax stands in stark contrast to the vivid, realistic moral fiber of the first two acts. I didn't want to see George lose everything here, but Capra and company put in the work to get us this far. Why the easy exit?

That's a minor gripe, anyway, and one I know I don't share with most viewers. And I'll admit, the sudden rush of optimism plays well with the expected seasonal emotions. Despite the tagged-on feeling of that home stretch, I can recognize that the good of the preceding two hours far outweighs my own private niggles. A great picture, and a justified holiday classic, that lands a step or two below the director's other cornerstones.

A scant, observational documentary about various breeds of insect and the unusual ways they go about their business. Produced in tandem by several international film companies, Microcosmos skirts the language barrier by opting for almost no narration - just a short, poetic introduction and a bookended farewell blurb - which leaves plenty of room for the audience to add their own. That's the way I took it, watching on the couch with family over the Thanksgiving holiday and marveling at how little we know about the tiny worlds beneath our gaze. It's excellent curiosity fodder / conversation starter.

I don't need my hand held for this kind of material. Limited-narrative films like Baraka and Koyaanisqatsi are on my all-timer list. I've happily devoured a majority of David Attenborough's catalog, including at least a dozen viewings of Planet Earth. By comparison, Microcosmos is like aimlessly leafing through a glossy nature magazine. Its sharp, detailed visuals are mesmerizing, but that's pretty much all it has to offer. There's no segue between subjects or loosely-overlapped chapters, no knowledge or general enlightenment beyond what we can see and surmise for ourselves. In the blink of an eye, it'll absently bounce from watching a freshly-born butterfly dry its wings to tailing a tumbling dung beetle through the desert. No rhyme, no reason, just pure fickle distraction.

This makes for very light, relaxed (if vacant) viewing. Hey gang, let's go stare at the pretty pictures for a while. Even with the sometimes-ugly subject matter, it's good for at least that much. Extreme close-ups and careful time-lapses speckle the screen; expert photography that nears the level of those top-notch docus I mentioned above. You'll get a great idea of what it looks like when a wasp larva seals itself up before undergoing its metamorphosis, but not how or why that change occurs. It just does.

I didn't have kind memories of this one. A cheap, light comedy with a softball concept, reliant upon a very specific time and place, starring Pauly Shore? Brendan Fraser as a mostly nonverbal caveman in sunglasses and jam shorts? Lord have mercy. Imagine my surprise upon discovering it was halfway decent. Make no mistake, Encino Man is no landmark of cinema. It's easy laughs and transparent setups, all the way. Even a cro-magnon could predict where the plot's going. One visual punchline is so absurdly stupid, it's become a lasting meme (imagine the single worst dusted white boy flattop of all time). But there's also a unique charm to it, a loose sense of humor that just does its thing and hits its notes without worrying about what any outsiders might think.

Encino Man was Shore's first big shot after catching eyes and ears on MTV, so it's hardly surprising that he lathers it with as much Totally Pauly valley boy attitude as he can muster. Keep riding the horse that got you to the race, right? That character wouldn't have a very long shelf life - he'd nurture full go-away heat within the year - but as a herald of the '80s hangover, the ultimate affable SoCal stoner, his act actually sort of... works? Maybe because I hadn't seen it in a long, long while and ninety minutes wasn't enough for it to beat me over the head. He's certainly the fuel behind this fire, lording over the high school arena and dusting it with a certain sense of skunky authenticity. Surrounded by so much outlandish culture and fashion (almost every scene includes at least one ensemble garish enough to elicit gasps and snickers) he seems right at home. He's often a little above the melee, actually, snickering and cajoling like a slim, pink-headbanded pixie.

Is this going to move you? No. Will it give you cause to roll your eyes? More than a few times. It did popularize the phrase "weazin' the juice," after all. Will it bore you, insult you, drive you to verbal violence? Nah. It's silly but harmless, a mindless dose of inoffensive entertainment with more quality laughs than you might expect. Victims of Pauly Shore overload who are still coming to terms with their PTSD should steer clear, however: he's everywhere, and he's exactly how you remembered.