There are dozens of words that could be used to describe Terrence Malick’s long-awaited epic The Tree of Life, but the most blatant and accurate one to anyone who has seen it would be “ambitious”. While its message may not be apparent until the last minutes of this 2 ½ hour film, what is apparent is how much effort Malick has put into every shot, and that the film, as a whole, obviously meant a lot to him. And while effort is always a good place to start, it doesn’t necessarily always result in a great movie, but, luckily, it worked here.

In this sprawling story that spans from the beginning of time to present day, we follow a summer in the life of a Texas family in the 1950s, and see the repercussions that summer has on the life of the family’s oldest son, Jack, into his middle age. It’s hard to discuss Tree of Life objectively, as it seems to be the kind of movie that’s been splitting audiences, with no two people leaving the theater feeling the same way about it. It’s dense, complicated and at times difficult to grasp, more so than at least any other movie I’ve seen this year, but it will at the very least evoke some kind of emotion out of anyone who sits down to watch it. It’s built that way. It digs into that old feeling every kid gets when summer comes around, the fear, the wonder, almost in the same way J.J. Abrams Super 8 attempts. However, instead of aliens or train-wrecks, Malick works with more relatable and realistic moments. It’s in these magical instances where Tree of Life really shines, allowing its audience to cling onto characters whose experiences and emotions feel so real, it almost seems wrong to be consumed by their problems and flaws.

And while Sean Penn, Jessica Chastain and Brad Pitt do very well in their respective roles (well…except Penn, who seems to have been hired to basically wander around despondently), the real star of the show is Hunter McCracken as the young Jack. As we experience the world through his eyes, McCracken never appears to be acting or doing anything but what we would expect a twelve year old to do. While his actions and words may at times be shocking, there is never a moment that feels like we’re watching something that was staged, written, or even really planned, just captured beautifully by Emmanuel Lubezki, and presented as a childhood seen through the lens of a kaleidoscope. However, with this loose format, there is certainly some fat left in the cut. Aside from several seemingly unnecessary and somewhat repetitive sequences, there are numerous moments that, while significantly altering the chronology of the movie, don’t make any immediate sense. And while these moments may have a greater meaning as far as the grander themes of the film are concerned, tying in with the death of nature and the loss of innocence, while sitting in the theater, they come off more as confusing and disconnected than enlightening or meaningful.

Now, while these moments may detract from any immediate surge of satisfaction one might get from their experience watching Tree of Life, it doesn’t keep it from being anything less than an experience. Almost like an incredibly shot documentary, there’s something so real about Tree of Life, something that makes everything that happens feel important and unique. The O’Brien family feel like real people who often go through very relatable and familiar motions, making them more compelling than any superheroes or action stars, and more emotionally evocative than any high class city girls you’d find in a typical romantic comedy. The Tree of Life isn’t like many other movies you’ll see this year, or probably ever again. That’s not to say there aren’t any better movies out there, especially when considering the objectivity in deciding what exactly makes a movie “good”, but it should be said that no matter whether you love or hate The Tree of Life, and no matter how poorly I’ve attempted to compress this sentiment into less than 700 words, there’s no denying just how massive and spectacular it truly is.

8 out of 10.

Bad movies come in many shapes and sizes. You’ve got your overblown sci-fi epics with terrible effects and cheesy dialogue, and then you’ve got your juvenile, piss and shit filled kids movies starring A-list actors, slumming it with some talking animals. And then there’s the young-adult dramedy, filled with decidedly weird teenagers who listen to music by bands you’ve never heard of and are somehow always amazing artists with a chip on their shoulder. Of every genre out there, there is no other kind of movie as poorly written, averagely made and generally annoying as consistently as these ones, and, unfortunately, the formula hasn’t been broken with the latest entry in ”Hip Youths With Issues”, The Art of Getting By.

Those learning the ropes of life in this installment are Freddie Highmore and Emma Roberts, as, respectively, the deep, existentially troubled misfit and his flirty, manipulative “girl-friend” but not “girlfriend”. After realizing that he will one day die (and alone to boot), Highmore’s George loses focus of his schoolwork, his family, and just a general lack of interest in life, until the girl of his dreams decides she finds his depressing mopiness attractive, and tries to make him a member of her circle of friends. And that’s it. It’s just scene after scene of George cleverly talking back to adults, dismissing everyone, and combating his ability to have feelings for the sake of…well, nothing, while everyone around him bends over backwards to suit his attitude. Every character is so empty and dull, walking through each scene and defining each other with vague proclamations (“God, you’re so weird!”, “Yeah, I’m kind of a misanthrope.”, etc.) that serve no other purpose than to provide some kind of characterization that the audience can grasp on and relate to. One glaring example of this laughably weak development comes in the form of George’s art teacher, who, in an act designed to exemplify his “tough-love” persona, literally shoves down and then immediately hugs George after seeing one of his supposedly deep and meaningful paintings. It’s laughable how little thought or effort went into making any of these characters likeable, relatable, realistic, or even watchable.

And that’s where the main problem lies. When looking at where all of the ways The Art of Getting By goes wrong, it always comes back to the writing. Sure, there are other problems, like the performances are all pretty dull, but when the actors are required to say some of the terrible dialogue found here, it’s easy to understand why they look so bored and confused. The story goes nowhere and things just seem to happen, teenagers can apparently just go into any bar and have a few drinks, and no matter how bad everything gets, it almost immediately gets better or a special exception is made in order to make sure it does. Nothing is earned, nothing pays off, and the moral of the story is an abrupt and cheap, “Anything is possible”, thrown off as a passing word of wisdom from Blair Underwood as the principal of George’s high school, and one of the most forgiving and lenient educators ever to be put to film.

"I mean, seriously, how weird are we?"

There’s nothing else to say. The Art of Getting By is an embarrassment and everyone involved should perhaps consider finding new representation, as to avoid being held responsible for taking part in this piece of trash. When considering how a movie like this even gets made, you’d assume it was probably based on some sort of popular young adult novel with a built in fan base, but this is not the case. Someone read this original script by Gavin Wiesen, and said, “This needs to be made. People need to see this movie.” And then other people read the script, and they agreed. And then a bunch of actors read their lines, and then an editor assembled the footage, and all of them agreed too. It doesn’t really seem to make sense, that so many people could read and speak and watch this incredible piece of shit, and not say a thing, but, hey… here we are. At least the audio synched up with the picture, and there were lots of pretty colors.

2 out of 10.

While they may not seem this way on the surface, Woody Allen’s latest movie Midnight In Paris and J.J. Abrams sci-fi blockbuster Super 8 have far more in common, at least at a very thematic level, then they let on. While Midnight deals more with nostalgia as a force so strong it resembles magic, Super 8 itself is more a product of it, featuring characters, sequences and visual tricks that feel as though they were ripped right out of that glorious period during the late 1970s/early-80s when Steven Spielberg, Robert Zemekis, Joe Dante and others used a combination of childlike optimism and creative effects to create iconic movies that are beloved by generations of movie-goers. Unfortunately, while Allen comes to some pretty reasonable conclusions in regards to those who longingly ache for a time long since past, Super 8 feels like it followed a little too closely in the footprints of its influences and got stuck in its own formula.

Telling the story of a group of friends at the start of Summer 1979, Super 8 takes its creator’s obvious love of filmmaking and mixes it with his seemingly equal love for violent space creatures that always seem to like hiding in the dark. We follow young Joe Lamb, makeup artist/boom pole operator/sometimes-actor for his friend Charles’ home movies, who attempts to distract himself from the recent loss of his mother with filmmaking and crushing on the girl next door (or, I guess, down a few blocks). However, after a horrible train wreck on the outskirts of their small town, things start disappearing, the Air Force begins snooping around, and general weirdness ensues. It’s apparent what Abrams is doing in every scene, line, and moment of Super 8, and, for the most part, he wildly succeeds. In attempting to go back with producer Steven Spielberg to that simpler time of small-scale stories with slick effects and relatable characters, like The Goonies, E.T., Gremlins, and Poltergeist, Abrams has succeeded in the way that a great cover of a song reminds you just how much you loved the original.

There is so much good in Super 8, from its phenomenal young cast who curse like twelve year olds should, and make every scene they’re in probably twice as good as it was on the page, to its surprisingly touching story about coping with the loss of a parent and the struggle to let them go. In fact, Abrams has done so much right with Super 8, even its flaws are incredibly entertaining. While having an enormous disconnect between Joe and his father is necessary for any movie striving to be Spielbergian, at times it seems like Joe’s father suffers from some kind of mental disorder, in one instance protecting his son to absurd levels, and then other times seemingly forgetting that he even exists. Along with this inconsistency, there are several very effective and incredibly tense scenes of the creature stalking various townspeople, usually ending with twisted shards of metal and someone being dragged off-screen screaming, that when viewed after the climax of the movie, are kind of unnecessary, and actually confusing when considering the eventual reveal of the monster and it’s motivation. Luckily, while watching Super 8, its story and characters keep you invested so well in the mystery of it all, you hardly notice most of these flaws, only really being able to put a finger on it days after seeing it, as you think to yourself, “Why didn’t I like that more?”

Everyone also spends a lot of time looking up at the sky...

The answer to this probably involves Abrams blind descent into his nostalgia for all of these iconic, beloved movies, and his attempt to take bits and pieces of each and create his own legacy with Super 8. While, as stated above, Super 8 is a very fun, original, and exciting movie, there is nothing about it that feels as special as the movies it attempts to put itself in league with, mostly due to the fact that it was so obviously made as a tribute to them. Now, while Abrams and Super 8 wallow in the memories of a time they cannot return to, Woody Allen and Midnight In Paris make a strong argument for the present, and why the past might be a fun place to visit, but no place to live.

Owen Wilson plays Gil, a hack Hollywood screenwriter trying to put the finishing touches on his first novel while on vacation with his fiancée (Rachel McAdams) and her parents in Paris. Gil is a nostalgic romantic, walking from scenic location to historical landmark, pontificating on the magic and beauty of it all, and wondering aloud how exciting it would’ve been to be there at its creative peak in the 1920s, standing in the rain. While it would be a shame to spoil just how he goes about finding the Paris experience he’d been looking for, by the end of the movie Gil discovers some self-confidence, what he wants in his life, and that the present might not be that bad after all. While many have assumed that Wilson is simply playing the “Woody Allen” role here (or, a neurotic, fast-talking, and twitchy New Yorker), he is actually far calmer and cooler than any of Allen’s previous characters, taking many of the crazier events of the movie in stride, allowing his reactions to be both rational and hilarious. Along with Wilson, there are a host of familiar faces, all creating memorable roles out of Allen’s brilliant characterizations of several famous writers and artists from the past, including Tom Hiddleston and Allison Pill as F. Scott & Zelda Fitzgerald, Corey Stoll doing a brilliant Ernest Hemingway, and, my personal favorite, Adrian Brody as Salvador Dali, who may only appear for a few minutes, but, in my opinion, stole the movie.

However, while Wilson does a good job at applying his cool persona to the character of Gil, giving the movie a far more relaxed feeling than many of Allen’s other movies, McAdams, as Gil’s fiancée, is so poorly drawn and shrill, it’s almost impossible to believe there was a moment where these two characters could’ve fallen in love. Now this wouldn’t be too big of a problem, except it kind of makes Gil’s conflict between staying with McAdams, or running away with Marion Cotillard (as Gil’s gorgeous muse) no contest. Along with this inexplicable pairing, the themes and message of Midnight In Paris, while relatable, feel extremely forced and obvious at times, especially towards the end of the movie, where the main gimmick of the story becomes a parody of itself, which makes for a good laugh in a funny movie, but ultimately weakens the film. Despite how extreme the more magical and fantastical aspects of Midnight In Paris are pushed, they never really take away from the sheer fun and entertainment value of the story, and the way Allen plays with history and the characters that populate it.

Despite their vast differences, Super 8 and Midnight In Paris both have a lot to say about the past, and the rose-tinted glasses we tend to view it through. J.J. Abrams has made Super 8 give the general public what he feels its been missing for quite some time, although he never quite allows it to be its own movie, whereas Woody Allen has taken the nostalgia of a dreamer like Gil, and reflected it back at him through him own cynical, imaginative mirror of the past, as a wild and uncontrollable parade of drunks and manic-depressives with unrealistic expectations. However, while each has their own obvious idea of what the past is in relation to those of us living in the present, beneath lies an opposite view of that same era. While Abrams would lead us to believe that Joe lives in such a wonderfully familiar small town at such a perfect point in history with the right kind of friends and hobbies, we see that he really longs a time even further in the past, when his mother was still there to provide him with the love and attention his father is so obviously unable to give. Super 8, while made with the intention of being a throwback to a better time in filmmaking, features a character who, like Midnight’s Gil, searches for an even better time that is even impossibly further out of reach than the supposedly wonderful time that they currently reside in, making the attempt at nostalgia just that much more meaningful. Then, it only seems fitting that both of these characters, as well as the films that feature them, find resolution in accepting their fates and their time period, and letting go of the past and all of the seemingly endless happiness and fulfillment that goes with it.

Both Movies: 8 out of 10.

A dude named Lucifer Valentine made this movie once, called SLAUGHTEREDVOMITDOLLS, about some girls that get killed by a guy named Henry with an awesome belt buckle. He tortures the females first by hacking their limbs off, pulling their eyeballs out, removing their brains and, of course, making them vomit over and over on table tops and plastic bags. He then proceeds to strategically puke on the now limbless, eyeless, brainless whore and whatever part he removed from them and, in the case of the brain, eats a piece of said body part prior to the upchuck. I know – - – - beautiful.

Valentine’s intent with this film was quite clear: revolutionize the industry and, of course, revolutionize THE ART.
His composition was not so clear. The entire film is shot in 1st person as if Henry had a camera in his hand the whole time. THAT makes sense. Fine. What does not is the editing and lack of any story or semblance of progression, story-wise. It’s just a bunch of clips of things happening. Example of how I think SLAUGHTEREDVOMITDOLLS was probably written -

INT. – CRACKHOUSE BEDROOM – DAY
The bitch is on a bed. She’s writhing in pain from the bruises I gave her. Her ugly tits are out. My hand is around her throat, because she’s worthless. She speaks as if her cunt mouth can barely form words. Her speech is pitch shifted to sound like a man’s voice.

BITCH
I never knew what I’d be when I grew up.
Now I’m just a whore. A fucking stupid
hooker. You can fuck me everyday, all day.
I deserve it. You should slit my throat.
Please do it.

The bitch throws up on herself for 6 uncut minutes. Over this we hear random bits of audio from other “scenes” and perhaps an air conditioner or a dog barking or a helicopter mixed too loudly.

END SCENE

See? It’s obviously amazing. Lucifer’s depiction of women in such an unbiased and yet flattering light is nothing short of perfect. I never imagined that someone could capture the beauty, sensuality and, dare I say, glory that is the female specimen. He is most definitely a romantic.
ANYWAY – See SLAUGHTEREDVOMITDOLLS if you enjoy slaughtering, vomit, dolls, tits that make you wish tits didn’t exist, poor audio, poor video, poor editing, amazing acting, revolutionary filmmaking, great movies, BIG BULLY, feminism, democracy and/or the embodiment of profound sorrow.

PostScript
This film was watched on instawatch provided by NETFLIX.
Netflix – Here we go!