Vacation

Does the world really need another Vacation movie? Apparently, Jonathan Goldstein and John Francis Daley, the writing-directing team of the latest film in the franchise, aren’t too sure. Their own apathy about the project, and their own disdain for just about every character in the movie, saps the energy out of this lackluster comedy. It’s the worst kind of dude-bro humor, operating at about a grade-7-level. Is there anything more tiresome than a gag in which commercial pilot Rusty Griswold (son of Clark), played by Ed Helms, accidentally gropes the breasts of a passenger on his plane when he’s taken off balance by some turbulence at the hands of his senile co-pilot? If that wasn’t bad enough, Rusty falls face forward into the crotch of the woman’s young son. More turbulence. This is in the opening five minutes, and it’s a grim warning of the deadening unfunniness to come.

More disturbing, however, is the thread of creepy pedophilia jokes that runs through the movie. The crotch scene is the first of a running tally, and I’m not exactly sure for whom these jokes were intended to be funny. When I was a kid, all my parents had to shield me from was sex and violence between adults. Now, when the kiddos inevitably tune into the 2015 Vacation, someone will have to explain to them what a pedophile is, because Rusty tries to explain the word to his own son, before Mom steps in and silences her bumbling husband. 

Don't get me wrong. I enjoy dirty humor when it's done right. It’s just that this particular brand of dirty humor, not to mention the uninspired way the filmmakers push it on us, doesn’t work. It’s not clever, it’s not funny, it’s not even good enough for European Vacation, which everyone agreed was the worst Vacation movie, although there may be a contender against that title now. 

Early in the film, when Rusty informs his wife Debbie (Christina Applegate, who was just about the only performer I truly liked and engaged with in this movie) and his two sons, James (Skyler Gisondo) and Kevin (Steele Stebbins) that they’re going to drive across the country to Wally World (the same ill-fated trek his father made in the 1983 Vacation), the movie takes a self-referential turn. “It’ll be just like the original vacation!” their father declares, adopting that same wide-eyed glee that Chevy Chase got in his eyes when he was more into his plans than the rest of his family. “I’ve never heard of the original vacation,” replies Kevin, a real demon-child who’s constantly beating up on his passive older brother. “This one’s exactly the same, except the first one had a boy and a girl, and we have two boys.” I wasn’t sure exactly how to take this scene, except it felt like an accidental admission that nobody knows what to do to make this movie good. Simply being tied to a beloved comedy franchise is presumably enough to ride on for 100 minutes. (I must admit, I grew up watching Vacation and Christmas Vacation as a child, and I loved them both for quite a long time. And anyone who loves those movies will at least be happy to hear the cheesy Lindsey Buckingham tune "Holiday Road" wash over the opening credits, which feature lots of stupid family road trip photos.)

The scenes with Leslie Mann (as Rusty’s sister Audrey) and her husband Stone (Chris Hemsworth, who’s the epitome of the conservative Texan, and who parades his considerable package in front of his brother- and sister-in-law) are kind of funny. But Goldstein and Daley don’t know how to use Leslie Mann, who is one of the funniest actresses working in comedy movies right now. Both Mann and Chris Hemsworth, who’s incredibly likable and go-along, deserved more screen time. They hold our attention far more than Ed Helms, who's not nearly as charismatic. 

And of course, no Vacation would be complete without an appearance from Clark and Ellen Griswold (Chevy Chase and the wonderful Beverly D’Angelo, who was often the saving grace of the other movies in the franchise.) Some readers may not know this because so many crappy comedies are written by men who don’t know what to do with brilliantly talented actresses, but Beverly D’Angelo can sing. Yes. She once played Patsy Cline in Coal Miners Daughter. She has a beautiful singing voice and terrific comic timing to boot, which makes her virtually silent role in this movie all the more disheartening. 

Christina Applegate takes over for Beverly D'Angelo as a reason not to completely hate these movies. She's a trooper, and the movie tries to give her character a crazy side which unfortunately ends up backfiring because it unleashes the movie's misguided contempt for her. Rusty, despite Debbie’s wishes, makes a detour at her old university, where she gets sucked into a sorority drinking game that involves downing a pitcher of beer and then completing an obstacle course. Applegate vomits repeatedly before being pummeled and thrown to the ground, where she lays face-down in her own frothy upchuck. Such dignity. 

As for the kids, I wanted to squash the little brother Kevin. Skyler Gisondo is sort of likable as James, the budding writer who would rather wander the West like Jack Kerouac than go to a “corporate theme park.” There's not much complexity to either one of these boys: the older brother is totally likable and the younger brother is a monstrous little shit. When James finally does put an end to Kevin's abuse, it's underwhelming, although admittedly in character, to see him lightly slap his brother, who's disturbed by the weirdness of it. James's method works, though. And moreover, the movie hates him just as much as his little brother. But it's more proof that the makers of Vacation secretly despise their own characters. You'll be glad when the journey is over. 

Addendum: The car--a lime-green "Tartan Prancer" with a remote control that offers terrifying choices-- is pretty hysterical. 

Smile: 'Finding Vivian Maier' and 'The Other Woman'

Vivian Maier, a virtually unknown street photographer from Chicago, is the subject of a new documentary entitled Finding Vivian Maier, which is directed by John Maloof and Charlie Siskel. Maloof, a historian who was working on a book about Chicago, came across some of Maier's photos in an auction about seven years ago. They were negatives, about to be discarded, and he purchased them for around 300 dollars. Maloof immediately saw in Maier's work a kind of genius, and set out to learn more about this photographer. But alas, Google had nothing to elucidate the mystery. And neither did anyone else. Maier rarely allowed any of her work to be seen. Maloof's curiosity becomes an obsession to discover why.

Finding Vivian Maier is an absorbing film that explores the mysterious compulsion to create. It doesn't have much insight into why we create, or why someone like Vivian Maier chose to create in a vacuum. The best guess the film can offer is that Vivian was an eccentric woman who hated the spotlight. Vivian Maier, we learn, worked for many years as a nanny for various families in the Chicago area. She never sought public recognition or even exhibition of her work. She just skulked around Chicago--often with her rambunctious young charges in tow--and captured thousands upon thousands of moments: subtle, provocative, powerful, tragic, comic, beautiful, fascinating.

This movie got me thinking about one of last year's documentaries, Dear Mr. Watterson. Both docs have essentially the same set-up: a young man with a compulsive need to understand his artist of choice sets out to make a documentary. Add to that the fact that both Maier and Watterson were/are obviously and deliberately secretive. They either left or completely avoided the spotlight. The difference is that Finding Vivian Maier channels the naturally fascinating story of its subject, while Dear Mr. Watterson struggled to find anything fascinating about Calvin & Hobbes. It was gushy, mindless fan worship disguised as documentary. John Maloof has the somewhat easier moral conviction of exposing a great hidden talent to the world. Many of the people that Maloof interviews remind him how much Vivian herself would have hated all the attention he's giving her. But there is something redemptive about Maloof's search. It's like she's finally getting her due.

You get the impression that she was standing in her own way, perhaps out of fear or self-doubt. Maloof's intent may be rooted in a kind of hipsterish need to adore obscurity, but he doesn't genuflect at Vivian Maier's altar. And he doesn't act as if the knowledge of her greatness were only available to him, and (lucky us), he decided to distill it to the public. Instead, Finding Vivian Maier seeks to understand the motive behind not displaying one's talent. Why would someone with such keen sensibilities keep her work hidden away in trunks, locked up in attics and storage? This is a compelling woman and a compelling story, and I recommend it highly.

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When a comedy flops, the feeling of strained boredom in the theater becomes unbearable. When a comedy nails it--and The Other Woman nails it--there's a kind of rejuvenating, happy energy among the audience. There's something joyful in the moment when a whole bunch of people are sitting in a darkened theater having an immensely good time. How can I say how much I enjoyed The Other Woman? I was in physical pain from the constant laughter. My head hurt and my ear hurt, and I felt a bit euphoric as the comic relief melted away the stress of the week.

The plot of the film is really just Nine to Five and The First Wives Club: three spurned women decide to get even with the man (Nikolaj Coster-Waldau) who treated them all like disposable washrags. In this case, the women are Leslie Mann (the wife), Cameron Diaz (the girlfriend) and Kate Upton (the other girlfriend). They're pretty much clueless about each other until Diaz unwittingly pays a visit to the boyfriend's suburban house in Connecticut.

What follows is a loony, silly, ridiculous, happy, drunk comic misadventure. Leslie Mann steals the movie. Her character has been kept in a kind of suburban housewife cage for so long that when she finds out the truth about her marriage, something in her snaps. She becomes a basket case, a hot mess, and Cameron Diaz becomes her "sister, lawyer, mother, friend, psychiatrist, and cop" (to quote Bette Davis in All About Eve).

Of course, I didn't realize how alone I was in my opinion until I started reading the reviews. (I tried very hard not to, but I failed.) I feel compelled to defend this movie because I've seen it twice and I thoroughly enjoyed it both times. Some of the criticisms are admittedly fair: the women are constantly focused on men and how to win them or get revenge on them. They end up relying on other men for help, even though Cameron Diaz's character is a lawyer and should be smart enough to come up with the big revenge plot on her own. (Especially since it involves the scumbag's duplicitous money practices.) And of course, The Other Woman is getting a lot of flack for not advancing women far enough--if at all.

But while all of these criticisms have a degree of truth in them, they don't take away the fact that the movie is funny. Really funny. Leslie Mann is a delicious brand of nutbag that feels a little bit Marx Brothers, a little bit Lucille Ball, a little bit Gilda Radner, a little bit Amy Poehler, a little bit Stepford Wives. And it's quite refreshing to see women doing physical comedy. (At various points they're like the Three Stooges.) Why do movies about women have to be political too? Why can't they just be enjoyable? Isn't even this a double standard, this requirement that "chick flicks" now advance women in society? I'm mystified that the film has gotten such bad reviews.

Directed by Nick Cassavetes and written by Melissa K. Sack. With Taylor Kinney, Nicki Minaj, and Don Johnson.

The Bling Ring

In The Bling Ring, which is about a group of bored, privileged adolescents who get their kicks sneaking into the homes of celebrities (such as Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Orlando Bloom) and stealing their stuff, there's a kind of religious reverence for possessions and fame. The film, which is apparently based on real events, represents perhaps the most blatant product of the separate yet inseparable cults of youth and celebrity that permeate popular culture and capture the imaginations of those of us who aren't rich and famous. We're the schlubs on the outside looking in, and the impressionable teenagers are the easiest targets and the most willing participants, the most devout cult members, it would seem.

When they sneak into Paris Hilton's house, they revel in the excess of her closet, which has smaller closets and hidden compartments: walls and walls of shoes, drawers full of necklaces and bracelets, ridiculous outfits; she has a night club "room," and there are pillows with her face embroidered onto them placed on the seats of her chairs. This is all very impressive to the Bling Ring kids, who treat it like make-believe: they're the princesses trying out mother's big dresses and putting on a show. But the thrill of sneaking and stealing, the allure of never knowing exactly what they'll find, and the money they're able to make hocking some of their contraband (much of which funds a festering cocaine addiction), quickly turns their nightly outing into a kind of thrillseeking high in and of itself, one which spirals out of control in short order.

Director Sofia Coppola isn't interested in having us condemn the actions of the teenagers without condemning ourselves. She's more interested, I think, in letting the consequences play out, and capturing the reactions of the kids, most of which are pretty dismal. There's one, the one boy in the group (played by Israel Broussard), who was obviously looking for acceptance, who seems to regret his decisions. The other members don't though. In getting caught--and exposed by the media--they're finally able to achieve what they wanted all along: celebrity. The consequences are worth it for them.

The Bling Ring rather brilliantly implicates the audience in the crimes of its main characters. We who comment on the trashy magazines at the grocery store, who read all the gossip columns online, who treat our Facebook and Twitter accounts as venues for shameless bouts of narcissism, are expressing in a much more concentrated and acceptable way the kind of behavior these kids grow into. It was very easy for me to condemn them. I even rooted for the police when the inane, vapid kids were read their Miranda rights. (Let's remember--better yet, let's forget--that this ultimately pegged me as rooting for Paris Hilton.)

The Bling Ring, which is always sort of casual and mock-hip, manages to be a stinging indictment of American materialism without ever pointing a finger. (Although it's not very subtle when Leslie Mann, playing the completely bonkers mother of one of the girls, who touts the merits of The Secret and tries to pass it along to her daughters, who constantly deride her, is on screen. She becomes the hip modern mom with stunning ease.) With Katie Chang, Emma Watson, Claire Julien, and Taissa Farmiga. Written by the director; based on the article "The Suspects Wore Louboutins," by Nancy Jo Sales. 90 min. ★★★