Movie Review: The Ugly Truth (2009)

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Whether they're deemed "chick flicks" or the now trendier "rom-coms," I think I understand one of the reasons that first men and now women have started to stay away from the genre in droves. And that is that aside from the smash success of Sandra Bullock and Ryan Reynolds' hit The Proposal-- it's because whether they're titled Bride Wars, He's Just Not That Into You, Ghosts of Girlfriends Past, or any number of variations, once you've seen one, you've usually seen 'em all.

And this is a shame since romantic comedies or in particular-- screwball romantic comedies-- where men and women speak a mile a minute equally matched in love and loathe throughout with fiery flirtation are one of my favorite genres and one of the most inspiring to me as a writer.

I catch glimpses of that wit now and again-- most recently evidenced in Magnolia's brilliant art-house festival favorite The Answer Man starring Jeff Daniels and Lauren Graham which is also opening this weekend following a video on demand presentation. Additionally it's also around in a few other comedies like Adrienne Shelley's Waitress that have also broken the mold but it's pretty rare.

While The Ugly Truth doesn't even begin to break the mold or any new ground, what it does do is rework the same cardboard cut-outs or cliched male and female types we're typically presented with in these films. Namely in one corner we have the control-freak female looking for Mr. Right in a role beautifully played by the beaming yet guileless risk-taking girl-next-door Katherine Heigl. So out of necessity, in the other corner, there's the beyond stereotypical playboy cad who even Sean Connery's version of James Bond may have felt like punching in the face, nicely portrayed by Connery's fellow Scottish countrymen, Gerard Butler.

Thus these over-used characters from the-- "man, they hate each other so much that inevitably this passion will explode into red hot romantic lust" dynamic are used as a starting point. And it's achieved via Legally Blonde screenwriters Karen McCullah Lutz and Kirsten Smith (who owed us a good movie after last year's House Bunny debacle) by attempting to make Nicole Eastman's story idea and first draft much snappier by going for the same extremes we would've found in the screwball era and in doing so they're somewhat successful and somewhat completely off-the-mark.

Of course, it does "screwball" without the class of an Irene Dunne and Cary Grant picture. For Grant would never have told Dunne that the only way to snare a man is with two particular body parts and by utilizing one act for which a certain former president almost received impeachment. And while you have no doubts you know exactly where it's headed as it spirals into a long conclusion that should've ended in a hotel instead of a CGI hot air balloon (don't ask), it's a damn sight more fun than most by-the-numbers studio genre pictures we've seen so far this year. Moreover, it's light-years better than the shudder-inducing Ghosts of Girlfriends Past which was so bad it actually disturbs me more than ads for the new movie Orphan.

Employing the requisite simple yet illogical premise of a rom-com, we're introduced to Heigl's award-winning Sacramento television morning show producer Abby Richter who explains that the secret to her success is "looking chaos right in the eye and telling it to 'eff' off," using her same ultra prepared manner at the workplace as in her dating life. This is evident from the start wherein she prints off a man's dating profile and runs a background check, further providing him with talking points and urging that they just go directly to number three after the conversation inevitably gets off to a shocked start.

Following the lackluster date, Heigl returns to her solo apartment to find that her cat has tuned into The Ugly Truth, the local public access show hosted by Butler's Mike Chadway where he spouts his own brand of misogynistic, chauvinistic logic that all women need to get a man is a StairMaster. One of those guys who shoots outward for humor-- Mike further philosophizes that women should burn their self-help books (however, I do agree with this one), and if they aren't seeing anyone... well, then, they're just plain ugly. And while admittedly that's lame, you can't exactly pretend you've never heard some men say this a million times before in their "it's all women's fault" rant.

Provoked by both a bad date and Chadway's insistence in the idea that his ridiculous shock-jock opinions should be held-up as facts (in a society where-- let's face it-- people do consider the opinions of people like Lou Dobbs, the nuts on Fox News Channel, Howard Stern and everyone in between as factual sources), Abby calls in to prove him wrong and defend her idea of the perfect guy who does believe in love. However, when he calls her bluff that he's imaginary, he calls her "Lassie" and ends the conversation.

Obviously, in real life the exchange would've ended there since as a public access host, he's not on a network that can get sued... until Abby discovers that to boost her sagging ratings, they've decided to bring Chadway on board a few times a week as a commentator to spice things up. And horror of horrors, the audiences love the sensationalism-- especially when he turns his negative views on marriage directly on married co-anchors Cheryl Hines and John Michael Higgins (hilarious as always).

While inevitably, Mike realizes that Abby was the woman who phoned in and takes back his "ugly" comment when he harasses her in front of the rest of the station, the two get off on a bad start, only to discover that they have to work together despite their differences and move it into the personal arena when Abby does meet a new neighbor (Eric Winter) who may in fact be Mr. Right. In another illogical-- only in the movies turn of events-- she employs Mike's help as a sort of "deal" not to blow it the way she's ruined every other date.

Sure enough their animosity grows into friendship and attraction as we begin to see other sides to Mike including his unexpected (to anyone who hasn't seen a rom-com, that is) sensitive side where his nephew is concerned. And while they take some of the shocking antics of Mike's confrontational verbal style into the visual realm with women wrestling in jello and one hilarious if dubious technological update of Meg Ryan's Harry Met Sally restaurant orgasm scene featuring a helpless Heigl-- all in all, despite its contrivances there's still a lot to like about the film no matter how hard we want to resist.

Intriguingly though, it's only Mike who is at least given the opportunity to be at least a bit more unmasked as the movie goes on even though poor Butler slips in and out of his Scottish accent briefly throughout. To this end, there's still some lingering questions we have about Heigl's Abby and perhaps why her need to be perfect or in control reigns supreme that I felt were ignored in favor of just asking us to simply buy into the workaholic female stereotype as opposed to exploring her on the same level as Mike.

Still, in lieu of this flaw of managing to improve on one traditional cardboard cut-out at the sacrifice of another (more or less although Heigl's charm helps endear her to us)-- the script again is still far easier to accept and root for than other recent works. Namely, the more serious offenders would be the women written into Bride Wars as well as the passive heroine of Ghosts of Girlfriends Past who would've been much better off solo than with a leading man so unlikable I wouldn't have cared whether or not his character had been hit by a bus.

Following a reschedule from its previous April opening date and coming off the heels of the success of the more all-ages viewer friendly Proposal as well as hitting theatres post-Potter and coinciding with the expansion of the unorthodox romantic sleeper (500) Days of Summer, The Ugly Truth may well be affected attendance-wise. And while it isn't perfect, Ugly Truth at least will manage to keep men awake more them some of the recent studio made rom-coms that have come before it, if only because you'll be in constant shock at the ridiculous things Butler manages to say with a straight face.

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RocknRolla (2008)

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I could begin one of two ways-- with the phrase “open mouth, insert foot,” or by crafting an open letter of apology to Mr. Guy Ritchie. Ritchie, whose tendency towards ADD hyper cuts, cliched gangster speak, and Scorsese, Tarantino, and Coppola rip-offs evidenced in his last few films irritated me so much that the phrase Guy Ritchie-esque or Guy Ritchie-like has been used more than a handful of times in a negative connotation when critiquing hyper-stylized violent films of the last decade.

However, I certainly wasn't alone in my distaste for the overrated writer/director whom Americans just didn't get as much as the Brits (despite my enjoyment of Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels and the far too similar, redundant but entertaining Snatch), especially considering that the horrific remake of Swept Away starring his soon to be ex-wife Madonna was widely known to be one of the worst films ever made. Yet, after viewing his latest opus, RocknRolla, I realized he's made his finest film since Lock, Stock.

Yes, it's still filled with his uniquely hyper visual style but this time it works exceptionally well to add an impressionistic subconscious level to the film, bringing us deeper into the story such as when we see the events inside and outside a nightclub where a musician performs and junkies beat the bouncer or in one of the finest alternatively epic and ridiculous chase scenes of the last few decades of filmmaking (right up there with Raising Arizona) as our anti-heroes led by Gerard Butler try to out-run, out-chase, and out-maneuver a group of Russians whom they'd just ripped off.

He fills an increasingly complicated plot with so many characters you fear that Ritchie should've supplied us with a cheat-sheet to keep them all straight, but luckily he adds at least one clever attribute to differentiate between the overwhelming lot whether it's the guy who always asks stupid questions or the one who likes Jane Austen movies, we're riveted by his attention to detail.

In a film that the press release reveals was inspired by the property boom occurring in London , Ritchie notes that he “wanted to take a humorous look at the consequences of the new school pushing in on the old school,” since he adds that “it goes without saying that because there's so much money involved, there are a lot of people taking advantage of the situation.” To this end, the film introduces us to several levels of players involved in the real estate market and those who are linked by mere association with the colorful group he creates.

The film is headed up by London's number one mobster and red-tape remover, Lenny Cole (the brilliant Tom Wilkinson) as the type of guy who argues that, “there's no school like the old school and I'm the f***in' headmaster." Of course, like all amoral kingpins, Lenny wouldn't be half the criminal he is without his sidekick, Archy (Mark Strong) who teaches his subordinates the art of the perfect face slap “to transfer” those they rough up back to their childhood. Additionally we're also introduced to the ambitious lower-level underworld group called “The Wild Bunch” (Gerard Butler, Idris Elba and Tom Hardy) looking to get into the property racket for themselves.

Thrown into the mix we encounter “the very gifted and financially creative” accountant Stella, played by Thandie Newton who sizzles with sex appeal (not to mention as a woman-- the miraculous ability to sashay her hips without breaking them with each entrance and exit). It seems that Stella's dull life crunching numbers and living with a gay husband sans children finds her all to eager to seek adventure among The Wild Bunch. Using confidential information from her newest client and Lenny's newest acquaintance, the Russian billionaire, Uri (Karel Roden), Stella interferes, leaking details of bags filled with unprotected cash to Butler's Wild Bunch.

Predictably, violence ensues, supplanted by both financial greed as well as the whereabouts of a much coveted painting which Uri travels with and lets Lenny take for a while in the hopes it will bring him luck. When Uri's lucky painting brings unlucky incidents to everyone whose hands it falls into as it changes owners and wall-space throughout the entire movie (although like the glowing briefcase in Pulp Fiction-- itself an homage to Kiss Me Deadly-- we're never quite sure what it looks like), all involved become desperate to track it down.

Also missing is Lenny's rumored-to-be dead junkie rocker nephew-- Johnny Quid (Toby Kebbell) who is not only alive but hiding out for maximum profits via the third erroneous “death report” of the year. Spending his days scoring dope, listening to Joe Strummer while his record sales skyrocket and avoiding his American music producers (Jeremy Piven and Chris “Ludacris” Bridges), Quid becomes embroiled in his uncle's scheme when the painting falls into his hands as well.

As producer Susan Downey aptly describes the situation in the press release, the film contains all of Ritchie's loved trademarks or more specifically “the eclectic mix of characters, the interweaving storylines that dovetail in ways you didn't see coming, the fascinating ensemble cast, the energy, the distinct visual style...But I also think it has an unexpected emotional layer and depth that I think sets this film apart.”

Similarly, I would add that there's a level of maturity and a tongue-in-cheek or rather less-pretentious air about the film than some of his “boys only club” pictures prior to this one as one character reveals his crush on Gerard Butler in a great, unpredictable scene and we meet a hoodlum who loves to watch Merchant Ivory productions like The Remains of the Day while parked in the neighborhood in his SUV.

Balancing out the surprises is his love of shock and awe whether it's Ritchie's torture device involving American crayfish or poking gentle fun at his countrymen via a robbery so polite that Butler has no problem asking for the keys to a getaway vehicle. Likewise, he uses cinematic references throughout as one junkie unexpectedly misquotes Julie Andrews's much loved tune “The Sound of Music” with the phrase, “the streets are alive with the sound of pain.”

More tightly focused than Ritchie's recent work such as Revolver which was so impossible to understand and over-the-top that I quit watching after only thirty minutes, it's more modern and relevant than his other work in depicting the current state of London as Ritchie described as “the middle of the world in the sense that it's often the last place you go on your way to America, and it's the first place you arrive before you get to Europe.” With a skyline “that's been altered beyond recognition,” as Ritchie continued in the press notes that “if you go to the top of any tall building all you can see are cranes... it looks as though the cranes are breeding...” he decided he wanted to portray the way the “Eastern Bloc nations have gained capital and influence... [thereby changing] the rules of business... [and] the rules of engagement.”

While of course, it's a humorous and off-the-wall look at the situation where extremes and exaggerations serve to up the entertainment ante, it's a much more fascinating scope for the picture from the point-of-view as an American, which is one of the things that turned Piven onto accepting the role as revealed in the release. Intriguingly, in a fictitious landscape of crooked businessmen, mobsters, rock stars, politicians, and thieves, ironically the most innocent characters are the two American record producers trying to get make a name for themselves in the music business who only serve as a gateway from one group of characters to another.

Fast-paced, highly energetic and inventively shot by multiple award-winning cinematographer David Higgis (Cambridge Spies) and chopped by editor James Herbert (Black Book and James Bond's Die Another Day), the high-class look of the film is also aided by talented production designer Richard Bridgland (who began designing stage-work at American opera houses) and former graphic designer and fashion couture gown specialist Suzie Harman who was responsible for costuming the extraordinarily diverse cast.

Much better than I thought it would be-- intriguingly, this week finds two directors striving to return to form as Kevin Smith's Zack and Miri fails to capture the humor and freshness of his 90's work and Guy Ritchie not only reminds us why we were drawn in by him in Lock, Stock but also proves us how much he's grown.

A damn fine achievement and one where the ending reveals plans for a possible sequel, with a screen that names the characters still left standing who may return. Whether or not it's truly in the works is left to be discussed but if so, I for one am in the unique position of actually (for the first time ever) anticipating what's next from Mr. Guy Ritchie.

And man, I can't tell you how nice it is after years of studying film to be legitimately surprised by those who prove us wrong. A bloody-brilliant and jolly good show, as they say in England or as we'd probably say in the states, not only does it not suck but it also manages to kick a little ass at the same time. Rock on, RocknRolla.

P.S. I Love You

Director:
Richard LaGravenese

In the late 1990’s and most likely to compete with Gap’s aggressively cool “jump, jive, an’ wail” and “Kerouac wore khakis,” advertising campaign, Dockers launched their own line of commercials which featured handsome men on subways and street corners catching the eyes of flirtatious female passersby who replaced the tired wolf whistle with the sexy, succinct line, “Nice pants.” As my favorite creative writing professor jokingly told us, “If a woman told me I had nice pants, I would MARRY her.” Now admittedly, unlike my professor who was on—I believe-- wife number four at the time, I’m not one for marriage. However—and no pun intended-- if pressed, my “nice pants” weakness would be men who write letters. Sketches are flattering and songs entertain but creative men who pour their hearts out on paper with wit, passion, and ease are few and far between. Indeed, unfortunately, it seems as though they only exist in syrupy tearjerker novels, movies about death, or in foreign countries. In the latest outing from director Richard LaGravenese, he confirms this suspicion by mixing up a cocktail of all three as we have a film adaptation of Cecilia Ahern’s novel about death in which our male letter writer hails from Ireland.

Inaccurately billed, advertised and even critiqued as a traditional romantic comedy which raised enough eyebrows when one realized that Hilary Swank-- Oscar’s queen of doom and gloom-- was starring in something funny, P.S. I Love You crashed and burned at the box office, with audiences preferring to see Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman’s awkwardly characterized “feel-good” movie about death, The Bucket List. Think of this film as The Bucket List in reverse as it opens with Holly (Hilary Swank in as my dad described “Jennifer Garner mode”) and Gerry Kennedy (dishy Gerard Butler) returning home from a disastrous evening as they wait until they get to their apartment to argue to avoid making a scene.

Unfortunately, while the Kennedy’s neighbors are spared the scene, we watch the loud, chaotic confrontation escalate as the two begin with one issue, and predictably although authentically, proceed to use that as a springboard to attack each and every problem existing in their marriage. Faster than you can say, “show us, don’t tell us,” in a scene perhaps best suited for the stage as exposition literally comes spewing from the mouths of our talented leads making them grate on our nerves fairly quickly, we learn moments later that Gerry has died from a tragic illness, leaving his young, devoted wife reeling.

Cutting herself off from the world, Holly proceeds to grieve in her own way, avoiding hygiene and cleanliness, ignoring work, and instead sublimating her loss in fantasy as she imagines still speaking, holding and sleeping with Gerry as well as watching every woman’s weepie classic one can imagine starring Bette Davis and Judy Garland on her bedroom television. Things change on her thirtieth birthday, when Holly's mother Patricia (Kathy Bates) and two best friends (Lisa Kudrow and Gina Gershon) stage an intervention that nearly fails until a surprise letter arrives from the deceased Gerry who reveals that he has left Holly ten messages which will appear in mysterious ways over the course of one year.

Signing each letter with—you guessed it-- “P.S. I Love You,” Holly begins to come out of both her apartment and shell as Gerry's assignments challenge her to take part in everything from karaoke to a trip to Ireland where she meets Jeffrey Dean Morgan’s Billy Gallagher, another sensitive and gorgeous lad who-- wouldn’t you know?-- was one of Gerry’s old mates.

Meanwhile, in New York, Harry Connick Jr.’s bartending Daniel hopes to become more to Holly than just a friendly shoulder to cry on, as Holly realizes that as much as she wants to move on, it’s hard to let go, especially when Gerry keeps reminding her of their love with each successive letter.

While Swank’s character never feels entirely authentic and too much back-story is crammed in awkwardly throughout the narrative, despite its contrivances and predictable plot points, P.S. I Love You isn’t quite the disaster that one would have expected going in. However with obvious parallels to The Notebook and Ghost, it’s important to note to prospective renters hoping for a romantic comedy that the film is much sadder and far more devastating than the lighthearted trailers would have one believe, which tests the patience of viewers considering its overly long running time of 126 minutes.

In addition and quite surprisingly for a chick flick that was originally penned in novel form by a woman, I was amazed by the fact that the most fascinating and rewarding characters in Love weren't predictably Holly or her friends but rather the men in their lives including Gerry, Billy and Daniel. But then again, it's easy to forgive the author's understandable indulgence; as I said before, men like these only exist in the movies… or maybe just in Ireland.