If not exceptional, the film is a competent and beautifully appointed period piece. The Oscar nominations of Colin Firth and Helena Bonham Carter are well deserved. As King George, Firth encapsulates the insecurity and terror of a man thrust into power who fears he will be found wanting, or even an imbecile, such is his speech impediment. As Firth’s wife, Bonham Carter deftly plays the role of droll, drawing room observer as well as the rock that supports her husband. Their bond is authentic.
The interplay between George VI and his speech therapist (Geoffrey Rush) is funny and very well written, and the introduction of modern psychology to the era’s infantile methods of treatment for the speech malady is interesting.
Guy Pearce also contributes as the callow Edward, leaving his brother and country in the lurch for that Baltimore tramp.
Julianne Moore and Annette Bening are two middle-aged lesbians with two teenage children in the midst of a mid-life crisis. The kids decide they want to meet their father (Mark Ruffalo, who is actually just their sperm donor). Very funny, occasionally poignant, and refreshingly devoid of the kind of politics you might fear from such an endeavor. Bening is particularly good as the controlling, more responsible member of couple, the uncool drudge, trying to keep it all together in competition with cool “new” and fun, breezy Moore.
Cropsey focuses on an accused Staten Island child murderer in the 70s and 80s. The documentarians do a very nice job of melding a crime story (there is, in fact, an accused killer) with a child’s sense of the bogeyman. During my childhood, there was a myth of the house where a father slaughtered his family (in fact, a grandmother had a heart attack), there was the deranged retarded man who dragged kids to the woods (no, but he did sell newspapers), and, of course, the exorcist boy was in the vicinity and went to my high school for a short time. Cropsey brings back those good ole’ creepy days.
A swift comic book brought to life. Michael Cera, bassist for a Canadian band, dreams of his love, finds her and then learns he must defeat her evil ex-boyfriends to have her. And by defeat, he must slay them in fights that resemble video game challenges. The fight scenes are ingenious and the script is consistently hip and funny. A gas.
Michael Winterbottom’s road movie stars Steve Coogan (as himself), who is assigned to review restaurants in the English countryside. The trip was supposed to be a romantic one with a girlfriend, but she dumped him, and his last-minute traveling companion is fellow comic Rob Brydon. The duo match wits and more importantly, impersonations. The banter is astonishingly sharp, urbane and funny.
A departure for Diablo Cody, who wrote Juno, which was whip smart and clever, but sometimes too much so, veering into the Aaron Sorkinland of “oh, what I would have liked to have said on my best day.”
Young Adult is more grounded and real. Charlize Theron is a prom queen frozen in the time of her glory, but Cody does not use her for a series of comebacks and big rhetorical finishes or even for being taken down a peg. Theron is as she was, returning to her home town to reign once more, and in the process, reclaim her high school sweetheart (Patrick Wilson). But there are no grudges to be fixed or comeuppances to be delivered. The queen is home, but her prior reign is largely one in her mind, and the kingdom did not miss her.
In Jason Reitman’s hands, as always, the film is assured, alternately somber (Theron’s life in Minneapolis and her return to her strip mall dotted home town differ mainly in the fact that in the big city, she lives in a high rise, away from the masses) and awkward (the small town does not welcome Theron’s glamour; sports bars do not accommodate slinky and seductive). Theron and Patton Oswalt, as a crippled high school nerd who runs into Theron during her comeback tour, shine, and their earnest interactions reveal Cody’s maturity as a writer. Oswalt is an overrated comic, more so as he has matured, but as an actor, he’s got chops. His recounting of the torture he endured during Theron’s heyday is truly moving.
One scene in particular comes to mind — Oswalt and Theron are drinking at a bar, Oswalt sees some guys playing pool and he moans. I immediately figured, here we go. Old high school tormentors. But now he has the queen in his corner and there will be retribution and reclamation.
Instead, a guy wheels over in his wheelchair, a cheery and upbeat disabled townie who Oswalt dislikes. For being cheery and upbeat.
Another Alexander Payne gem. I’m always heartened by a picture about family and relationships that is neither pat, cute and unreal, or so raw and uncompromising that you’re driven to awkward discomfort. George Clooney is more than believable as a father whose wife has an accident and is in a coma, having to deal with establishing relationships with his two daughters while also learning that his wife was having an affair. On top of these woes, Clooney is the trustee of a pristine piece of Hawaii, and his family naturally wants to sell to the highest bidder. So, no stress there.
All the characters ring true, from the wife’s grief-stricken and angry father (Robert Forster) to the rebellious daughter (Shailene Woodley) to his wife’s scared lover (Matthew Lillard) to his shattered wife (Judy Greer). Particularly strong is Nick Krause as Woodley’s boyfriend, who accompanies Woodley as she comes back from college to deal with the tragedy. He could have been ill-used as the clueless stoner/comedic relief, and while he is funny at moments, he’s also poignant, another burden Clooney has to carry, but perhaps the only one who can actually assist.
The film meanders a little, and it tests Clooney’s depth (plus audience credulity – what wife cheats on George Clooney?), but those are nits. This is a rich portrait.
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