Friends with Benefits

Friends with Benefits was just the fun, funny, well-made romcom I needed on a miserably hot July afternoon. And, it removed the bad taste in my mouth leftover from another alleged romcom I saw this week -- Crazy, Stupid, Love.

Much has already been made of the magical chemistry between the two gorgeous leads. If you were lucky enough to catch Lester Holt's TODAY show interview with Justin Timberlake and Mila Kunis, then you know their chemistry extends beyond the big screen. They do more than look good together. They have fun together.

The movie's premise should be obvious from the name ... although Lester (a grown-up, more handsome, Urkel, if e'er there was one) acted like he wasn't sure what "friends with benefits" could possibly mean.

Dylan (JT) and Jamie (Kunis) have each been dumped -- in hilarious scenes -- by their respective mates. They've been accused of being emotionally unavailable and emotionally damaged. They meet when Jamie (a headhunter) recruits an L.A.-loving Dylan to be the art director at GQ in New York. Since Dylan doesn't know anyone else in town, he and Jamie start having lunch, getting together for beers and watching romantic comedies together.

Neither is romantically interested in the other, they swear (on a Bible app on Jamie's iPad) so they should be able to get together for no-strings-attached sex. We know this isn't a sustainable plan, even as they try to convince themselves it's perfect. Complications ensue.

The supporting players are almost all uniformly great. Even those who have just one scene (Andy Samberg and Emma Stone) are memorable. Patricia Clarkson is perfect as Jamie's irresponsible, sexually liberated mom. Woody Harrelson plays against type as a macho, gay sports editor at GQ. ("I'm strictly dickly," he tells Dylan.)

I could've done without a miscast Jenna Elfman as Dylan's big sister, but then again, I can always do without Jenna Elfman.

But, I shall not pick nits. The movie and its leads are a pure delight. I'm hoping Timberlake and Kunis will team up again. I'd like to see them become a latter day Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner. See it!

Page One: Inside The New York Times

If you're a reader of newspapers (the old-fashioned, print variety) and have shaken your head -- or your fist -- over the ever-shrinking daily paper, you'll likely be devastated to see what the state of journalism looks like to the reporters who bring us the news.

The New York Times is (or was, depending on where you stand) the gold standard of news organizations. This documentary makes the point that The Times was even where other papers got their news. A story would run in The Times one day, and other newspapers would run that story, or a version of it, the day after. The Times has defined what news is for as long as most of us can remember. We never imagined that it would be otherwise.

Neither did the people who work there.

In intense interviews with Times reporters (mostly those on the media desk), other journalists, bloggers and media professors, we see up-close how swift and shocking the downfall of print journalism has been to the very people in the thick of it. People who dreamed of nothing but some day getting to write for The Times have now been canned by The Times.

Their poignant struggle to remain relevant is captured in this well-made documentary. Former crack addict-turned-reporter David Carr is first among equals. Editor Bill Keller is a thoughtful, intelligent dreamboat. See it.

Horrible Bosses

Horrible Bosses is a great movie that made me laugh out loud and remember, with anger and bitterness, my own worst boss. The characters played by Kevin Spacey, Colin Farrell and Jennifer Aniston are horrible, to be sure. But, they've got nothin' on "Frieda."

Frieda’s doughy face, ample figure and pathetic fashion sense endeared her to me. The mousy woman in the ill-fitting '80s power suit (although this was 20 years hence) with the suntan pantyhose and thick eyeglasses ("trifocals," she told me) looked so harmless. She looked like she had gotten ahead in spite of her wardrobe.

I reasoned that she’d have to be seriously smart to overcompensate for the wardrobe malfunctions. And, the more I saw of her, the more I realized her wardrobe didn’t reveal someone who was unconcerned with her image. It revealed someone so woefully out of touch that she believed the navy blazer and skirt ensemble conveyed "polished executive." It’s as if she were stuck in a time warp, not to mention stuck – literally – in a too-tight suit.

The time warp has added significance for me now. In one of our "one-on-ones," Frieda flung this zinger at me: "If you didn’t understand what I said to you earlier, I cannot travel back in time to make you understand."

Frieda didn't miss a chance to critique me. She once asked, "Why do you begin your e-mails with a name and then a colon? You should begin with a name and then a comma – or better yet a friendly 'Hi' or 'Hello there.'" Apparently, my e-mails were too professional for her.

"The type size in your e-mails is too big," she told me once. I apologized and reduced it from 11 point back to 10 point. I wanted to ask if Frieda was OK with Arial – or if she preferred Times New Roman.

Morale in this group was dreadfully low. Frieda was asked to bring it up. She stood before all of us at a group meeting to unveil her plan to boost our spirits. I watched with perverse pleasure as the woman who had made me miserable turned ashen. Her neck got splotchy, and I delighted in her obvious nervousness. (Why had she bragged to me about her Toastmasters public-speaking award?)

She rambled on, and I even took notes on the gibberish because I wanted an accurate account of it later. She actually said that she had formed "teams, subteams and teams within teams" to "drive out" the morale-boosting plan. Subteams and teams within teams … now there's a sure-fire way to make your workforce happy.

Until I met Frieda, I thought having a positive attitude, a solid work ethic and getting results  would lead to some level of success. Frieda demonstrated that some people can be successful without having any of those things. Frieda's talents were limited to an uncanny ability to suck up and a willingness to build a fortress around her own incompetent boss and reign hell down on anyone who might get wind of the incompetence.

And, if I myself could travel back in time, I wouldn't make any assumptions about Frieda based on her utter lack of style. I'd judge her instead on her utter lack of common sense and dearth of any discernible talent.

Oh, and you should see the movie.

 

Bad Teacher

Bad Teacher is just plain bad.

Which is unfortunate, because there's really nothing funnier on film than a teacher who's just in it for the meager paycheck. Jack Black created the definitive bad teacher with his Dewey Finn in School of Rock. Dewey (a.k.a. Ned Scheebly, Dewey's schoolteacher/ roommate whom he impersonates) is a lovable loser who lives to get stoned and rock out. He ultimately comes to life -- and his humanity is revealed -- when he ignites a love of music in his students.

Elizabeth (Cameron Diaz) doesn't have any such kindness hidden within. She's a superficial bee-atch who's out to land a rich husband and get a new set of ta-tas. Falling asleep or sneaking a swig at her desk are mildly funny at first. But, screenwriters Gene Stupnitsky and Lee Eisenberg have no other tricks up their sleeves. Seeing Elizabeth slumped at her desk for the fifth or sixth time is just tiresome.

Justin Timberlake has a few cute scenes as the substitute with a big family inheritance whom Elizabeth sets her sights on. Other generally funny performers are generally wasted in this bland flick. John Michael Higgins, Phyllis Smith (Phyllis from The Office) and Eric Stonestreet (Modern Family's Cam) try their best, but they're given too little to work with.

Even the affable Jason Segel, the school's gym teacher and Elizabeth's hapless suitor, flounders his way through the material. If you've seen the trailer, you've seen not just the funniest bits of the film. You've seen the only funny bits to be had. Skip it.

Super 8

J.J. Abrams's Super 8 can't decide what it wants to be.

On the one hand ...

... it's a sweet, coming of age tale and an homage to both filmmaking and to producer Steven Spielberg's E.T. and other kid-focused films of the same era. Young Elle Fanning and young newcomer Joel Courtney deserve award nominations for their unself-conscious portrayals of lonely, motherless adolescents fumbling with their feelings for each other. Both are along for the ride with the kids who are in love with filmmaking and secretly shooting a movie at a train depot one night. They happen to be filming when a train crashes -- and not by accident -- and then they have a mystery on their hands.

Dogs in their little town go missing, the military gets involved and seems to be covering something up and the amateur filmmakers are forced to become amateur detectives.

On the other hand ...

... the cargo aboard that derailed train turns out to be hundreds of very uncuddly, white blocks resembling Rubik's cubes. Hardly the heir to E.T. These little blocks, that can hurl themselves through walls, aren't even the heirs to gremlins. At least the gremlins started out cute. The sweetness evaporates, and we're suddenly hit head-on with a violent, fiery, smash 'em up, sci-fi stew. It's dark (both the mood and the lighting), and there's hardware flying everywhere. Abrams doesn't seem to know where to take it.

In that respect, it reminded me a little of Close Encounters of the Third Kind, a movie I never could get hyped up about. That much-lauded film felt to me like a lot of build-up that led to a big let-down.

Since Super 8 really felt like two competing movies, my advice is, of course: See it/Skip it.

BUCK

Please see this movie.

See it if you love horses. See it if you love people. See it if you hate people, because BUCK might make you start to like them again. Or, at least like this one gentle cowboy.

Buck Brannaman is happy man, despite all odds. He survived a childhood so rough that a childhood friend who witnessed the pain Buck suffered can't talk about in middle age without crying. Buck is a mostly solitary figure who spends nine months of every year on the road as he travels from one horse clinic to another. He's got a loving (and lovely) wife at home and two grown daughters. He also has a teenage daughter who spends summers on the road with him.

His life consists of driving from one town to another helping, as he says, "people with horse problems." Buck believes a horse is just a mirror of who we are, so as he says, he usually ends up "helping horses with people problems."

He's a real-life horse whisperer. A shy, sensitive soul engaged in the manliest of professions. How sensitive? He may be the only cowboy who will admit to watching Oprah.

Everywhere Buck goes, he teaches horse people how to gently, but effectively, coax their animals into doing what they want them to do. He also ends up teaching people about themselves, and they don't always like what they see. "This horse tells me a lot about you," he says to one woman who has an out-of-control stallion. He's right, and she has to face some harsh facts about her own out-of-control life.

Regular folk and famous stars alike praise Buck as a model horse trainer and humanitarian. Buck got to know Robert Redford when he  consulted on The Horse Whisperer. Wait'll you hear how Buck saved the day when the trained "actor horse" couldn't get a crucial scene right.

Buck, the man, is such an inspiration that I almost think anyone could've turned on the camcorder feature on a phone and made a great movie about him. But, thankfully, this movie was in the hands of a pro. The cinematography, the music, the probing questions asked and honest responses shared -- they all serve to pay tribute to an ordinary, but extraordinary, human being. I can't recommend it highly enough. See it!

The Tree of Life

While I haven't seen the script for Terrence Malick's The Tree of Life, I can't imagine it could look much different from this:

Bible verse

Postman brings bad news.

Anguished cry. (Music plays.)

More crying.

Brad Pitt clenches jaw.

Jessica Chastain stares out window. A lot. Walks through woods.

(Shots of trees. Show from lots of angles.)

Sean Penn looks bored, sullen. (Show him walking around and moping. He mopes inside a beautiful modern home and again inside a beautiful modern skyscraper. He looks up at buildings and trees.)

(Music plays while cells divide, water flows, jellyfish swim, hammerhead sharks swarm, blades of grass move, lava flows, waves crash, the heart of a fetus beats.)

Dinosaurs frolic.

Curtains blow.

A baby is born.

A dried-up leaf blows away.

Brad Pitt turns out to be a jerky dad. His wife stays silent through most of the movie, including while he rips into sons -- especially eldest.

Eldest son starts to resent Brad Pitt.

Brad Pitt clenches jaw more.

Family eats dinner, goes to church, dad goes to work, but isn't all that successful.

Everyone from generations past winds up walking around on a beach.

(Music plays while cells divide, water flows, blades of grass move, lava flows, waves crash.)

The End.

I kid you not. This goes on for nearly two-and-a-half hours. The theater manager joked with me after the show that they're going to start passing out stickers that read, "I survived The Tree of Life." There's a handmade sign they've put up at the theater entry -- just for this film -- that reads something like, "We cannot give refunds because you don't like the film. Please educate yourself about this film before coming to see it. Thank you for your understanding."

It is an awful, pointless bore. A series of visually beautiful vignettes with no story to tie them all together. It's not enough for me to advise you not to see it. Warn your friends that they shouldn't see it, either. Skip it!