The Wrestler

It seems appropriate that Bruce Springsteen wrote a song for the end credits of The Wrestler, since the entire movie feels like a Nebraska era Springsteen song come to life.  The entire movie is drenched in sorrow and defeat, and you squirm in your seat as you watch characters that have no hope of ever getting out of the swamp that is their life.  The town is bleak, and so is the outlook.  It’s about as sunny and cheerful as Darren Aronofsky’s earlier smile-fest, Requiem for a Dream.  Thanks for the pick me up, Darren, I’m going to go kill myself now, but kill myself in the best possible way.

The Host

I want to hug Korea. There are a couple of reasons for this uncharacteristic burst of touchy-feelyness, but today I specifically want to wrap my arms around them and squeeze because of The Host.

Taken

As someone with an undying love and devotion to the cinema of ass kicking, I have a rather large problem with so many of the new jack action movies hitting the multi-plex. Here is my issue, at no point through the entire length of these films does the audience ever for a single moment think that the protagonist is in any danger whatsoever, nor is there ever a question that he will reach his goal and save the day. There is no tension, none. I loved Casino Royale, but Daniel Craig’s second turn as Bond, Quantum of Solace, bored the living shit out of me.