Duck Soup (1933)

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Is it really worth the effort, reviewing the Marx Brothers’ 1933 classic “Duck Soup?” I mean honestly, are people going to be interested in reading about an 80-year old film? How many have actually seen it? And if not, are they likely to change their minds now?

I decided in favor of posting this review in hopes that people will take the time to discover how truly funny Groucho was/is. His jokes are sharper, cleverer, more biting and simply laugh-out-loud funny all these years later than anything by Adam Sandler, Jim Carrey, Kevin James, and most other contemporary comedic actors. Watch and see. He kills.

I’m not sure the plot matters much, but here it is anyway: the small country of Freedonia is financially troubled. Rich widow Mrs. Teasdale (Margaret Dumont) has the means to help, but will only lend the government some of her vast wealth if the current president resigns, and Groucho’s wisecracking Rufus T. Firefly is appointed leader.

Meanwhile, ambassador Trentino (Louis Calhern) from neighboring Sylvania has designs on seizing control of Freedonia, by wooing Teasdale himself. To aid his plot, he enlists the slapstick duo of Pinky and Chicolini (Harpo and Chico Marx) to spy on Firefly. Trentino’s exasperation growns, while Firefly bumbles through his presidential duties. Teasdale, of course, finds Firefly endlessly charming, and is tirelessly forgiving of his relentless rough edges. Also, there are a few song-and-dance numbers thrown in. Hilarity ensues.

Never mind that all of this is implausible and ridiculous. It’s basically little more than a framework, from which the Marx team ply their comedic trade. With his trademark exaggerated moustache, eyebrows and ever-presenst cigar, Groucho tosses off one liners left and right. Chico ceaselessly tortures a poor straight man (who exists for no other reason than to be tortured), while Harpo pulls all manner of comedic props from his trousers.

There’s a sight gag involving a mirror (one you’ll recognize instantly; you’ve seen variations in everything from Bugs Bunny cartoons, to the 3 Stooges, Gilligan’s Island, and even the X-Files, countless times), that ranks with “Who’s on First?” as one of the funniest, most ingeniously witty comedy routines I’ve ever seen.

I could’ve done without the musical numbers. The acting is of that particularly unrealistic, old-school, overblown, acting-with-a-capital-A variety, that Jon Lovitz used to ridicule, on Saturday Night Live. And Harpo and Chico’s slapstick got old after a while.

But Groucho? Kills! I could watch him drop zingers for days. He’s just as funny, all these years later, as Seinfeld or Larry David, or Dave Chappelle, or anyone else I can think of. After seeing “Duck Soup,” I’m convinced Woody Allen’s screen persona would not exist without him.

Near the end, with his country under military siege, Firefly finds himself pinned down in a basement. Artillery shells repeatedly fly through the room. Desperate, he radios for help:

“This is Rufus T. Firefly coming to you through the courtesy of the enemy. We're in a mess folks, we're in a mess. Rush to Freedonia! Three men and one woman are trapped in a building! Send help at once!

…if you can't send help, send two more women!”

Genius.

PS- Via Wikipedia, I learn that “duck soup” was American English slang at that time, meaning “something easy to do.”

Being as consistently funny as Groucho certainly isn’t.

Killing Them Softly

Jackie and Frankie share quality time

 Let me first say that I liked this movie very much.

…but it’s an austere, sparse, mostly-quiet film, about angry, cynical, hard, desperate men, who are neither sentimental, nor forgiving.

At the outset we meet two petty criminals, Frankie and Russell (Scoot McNairy and Ben Mendelsohn; the latter convincing in the recent “the Place Beyond the Pines”), who are just scraping by. They are disheveled, looking like they haven’t showered in a week. What meager means they have is provided by walking dogs (who would trust their pet to either of these jamokes is another question). Beyond that, their prospects appear bleak.

Though reluctant about Russell’s erratic behavior, an acquaintance/mentor of Frankie’s (“Squirrel,” played by Vincent Curatola; Johnny Sack from the Sopranos) hatches a scheme for the inept pair to knock over an illegal card game, helmed by Markie Trattman (a pleasantly dialed-down Ray Liotta). As it happens, the game’s been hit before—by its host, no less—who lacked the good sense not to brag about it afterwards. They reason that, given its troubled history, Markie will be blamed again, while they’ll be free to split the spoils. Reasonable enough.

It’s abundantly clear to us well before the robbery, however, that the trio’s ambition clearly outstrips their questionable smarts, skill, experience, common sense, and ability to keep quiet. Russell recklessly uses heroin, then gets talkative. Both the confident Squirrel and diffident Frankie offhandedly talk about previous stints in jail. There seems little planning, other than getting rickety-looking guns, masks, and yellow dishwashing gloves. It’s hard to imagine these three successfully masterminding the robbery a neighborhood lemonade stand, much less a mob-run card game. They see an opportunity, but profoundly fail to grasp the inevitable consequences.

Brad Pitt is the film’s biggest star. He plays Jackie, a greased-back mob hitman, who arrives shortly after-the-fact, to punish those responsible. Fairly quickly he sums up what’s happened. All that’s left is getting clearance from the higher ups, and deciding how best to dole out retribution.

Finally, James Gandolfini plays another hitman, the careless, undisciplined, hard-drinking Mickey. Because one of the targets has worked with Jackie before, Mickey’s flown in from NYC, to help.

Director Andrew Dominik (The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford) has made a film that comes off more like a play: it’s got few characters, and most of the action takes place in the conversations between them.

Not to say that there isn’t swift and blinding violence, because there certainly is (especially in one highly-stylized, slow-mo shooting/car crash scene). There’s also the familiar and threatening organized-crime tough-guy posturing, as well as a scene where one character takes a brutal beating (which called to mind the graphic, difficult-to-watch scene from “The Killer Inside Me”). However, the bulk of the movie exists in dialogue exchanged in old, clunky, American cars, skuzzy bars, and hotel rooms.

At just 97 minutes, the film doesn’t have much fat. It is, however, oddly paced in sections. We get to know much of Mickey’s backstory through a couple of overly-long, dialogue-heavy scenes. Unlike Jackie (who’s all about business), Mickey lacks focus. He drinks constantly, goes on at length about the strain his job puts on his marriage, and spends almost all of his down time with prostitutes. It’s an odd choice (both in terms of characterization and pacing), that we learn so much about a relatively minor character, while learning next to nothing comparable about anyone else.

Also, throughout the film there are conspicuous references to contemporary American political figures. On radios in the background, we hear George W. Bush and Barack Obama delivering speeches. TVs show candidates’ sound bites, and familiar talking points. There’s a pointed shot of a split billboard, with McCain on one side, and Obama the other. Near the end, these unnecessary elements are sorta explained, when two characters react to President Obama’s soaring rhetoric blaring from a bar TV. The film seems intent on making a statement about the parallel natures of American politics, capitalism and organized crime (search Google images for various posters from the film, and you'll see how intentional this theme is). But it never really pulls it off. Perhaps the notion of Markie stealing from clients, off whom he's already making money, is supposed to conjure images of Goldman-Sachs, but I don’t buy it. It seems too great a stretch. Just because one character mentions the inefficiency of committees, and says something about how the price of criminal services is dropping "in this economy," that doesn't amount to an obvious thematic allegory, indicting U.S. capitalist democracy. First of all, the parallels aren't ever made plain, until that final scene. And even then, they're weak analogies, at best. Second, the character's sentiments would’ve made sense and worked just the same, without the conspicuous inclusion of this thematic element everywhere. Pitt's character gets off a good line, but the comparisons still feel forced and unclear. It's distracting, not illuminating or enriching.

Still, I enjoyed almost every minute of this film. It’s well written, visually interesting, and deftly acted (McNairy, in particular, is not only very effective, but also executes the always-difficult believable Boston accent, despite mispronouncing “Haverhill”). Plus, there’s more going on here than simply an engrossing surface story. “Killing Them Softly” captures a little bit of the same desperation, anxiety and despair that Scorsese so skillfully captured in “Goodfellas” (albeit to a far lesser extent). Both show weary, marginalized characters, whose lives are so awash in the day-to-day business of crime, that they never have the chance to rest, catch their collective breath, and enjoy life. They are always either excitedly contemplating their next caper, or looking nervously over their shoulders. Regardless of where one exists on the criminal food chain, that’s gotta be a tough way to live.

Stevie (2002)

Steven Fielding, the title character from "Stevie"

Some people should not be parents.

As a college student at Southern Illinois University in the mid-80s, would-be director Steve James (notable for the inspiring 1994 film “Hoop Dreams,” following former Chicago gang members as they try to stop the cycle of violence, in 2011’s terrific “The Interrupters,” as well as my favorite 30-for-30 film “No Crossover,” about the highly-publicized assault trial of enigmatic high-school basketball phenom Allen Iverson) volunteered as an Advocate Big Brother. Idealistic and well intentioned, he imagined an experience where he and the boy might toss around a baseball, bond over sports, and mutually benefit from the mentoring program. He was assigned young Stevie Fielding, a ostensibly typical 11-year old, from a nearby rural town.

Upon graduation, after spending much time with Stevie, James relocated to Chicago to pursue his film career, leaving the boy behind.

Now a decade later, James wonders what’s become of his former charge, and decides to chronicle the reunion.

“Stevie,” the resulting 2002 documentary, is one of the most anguished and tragic films I’ve ever seen.

The film profiles the life of now-grown-up Stevie, a troubled man who wears thick glasses, tie-dyed Harley-Davidson t-shirts and an unkempt beard. His nickname’s “Snake,” he says because he’s never been afraid of them (I can think of other reasons). He has made more poor decisions during his lifetime than seems reasonably possible. He seemingly cannot get out of his own way.

From the outset, it’s clear that young Stevie was no picnic. He’s been through a slew of foster homes. Shortly after meeting Stevie, James recognized almost immediately that he was in over his head. Dutiful and determined, he did his best to be a positive influence, anyhow. Looking back, he feels guilty that he didn’t stay in touch with Stevie, after moving away. Tellingly, he also recalls his marked sense of relief, once his responsibilities with Stevie had ended.

Over the course of the film, we’re introduced to several members of Stevie’s immediate family. We meet his nearly-absent mom, the half-sister who lives in a trailer next door, an accusing aunt, and the step-grandmother who raised him. It’s quickly clear that Stevie has the terrible misfortune of being surrounded by a family so profoundly dysfunctional, it nearly defies comprehension. I won’t divulge all he’s endured, but “abusive” and “neglectful” don’t begin to cover it. The harrowing scope of his mistreatment is absurd. You watch in slack-jawed amazement, as the troubling and catastrophic details of Stevie’s appalling Dickensian childhood unfold. Several times, just when you think things can’t possibly get any worse for Stevie, unbelievably somehow they do.

Watching “Stevie,” I began to realize I’d seen the title character somewhere on film before. It slowly dawned on me that Stevie Fielding bears and uncanny resemblance to Brad Pitt’s character Early Grace, from 1993’s “Kalifornia.” The pair share the same mumbling drawl, rural sensibilities, childlike immaturity, lack of foresight, uncontrollable impulsivity, aimlessness, matter-of-fact violent tendencies, and inability to grasp the possible consequences to their actions. The further the film delved, the more the similarities became apparent (which, given Stevie’s reckless and self-destructive nature, is a sincere tribute to Pitt’s acting abilities). Stevie is the 3-dimensional, real-life version of Pitt’s psychopathic Early.

Where they differ (and one reason why “Stevie” is so compelling), however, is that unlike Pitt’s creation, Stevie Fielding is at times touchingly sympathetic. When we witness the painful lengths and depraved depths of all he’s experienced, we naturally feel for him. No one should ever have to suffer such treatment, especially as a young child. Which isn’t to say we excuse him for the thoughtless choices he’s made; there seems little doubt that he’s a criminal. We do, however, come to realize that his faults are not solely his fault. Because of how he’s been raised, Stevie’s simply incapable of safely and smartly negotiating his own life. Over and over, he can’t be kept from sabotaging himself.

Like Hoop Dreams, this is an epic work. In real time, the filmed action covers roughly four years. However, it as it repeatedly looks back over the history which molded Stevie, the film covers more than two-and-a half decades.

Interestingly, similar to “No Crossover,” the filmmaker is actually part of the action of the film. Rather than simply being a detached observer, his interaction with his subjects is part of the story, not only historically, but also in how it evolves. This unusual dynamic brings a fascinating dimension. How much can he do or say? When should he intervene, and when should he sit back? Is he responsible for some of what transpires? In voice-over narration, James laments some of these difficulties, and his own decisions.

Why so some of us turn out like Albert Einstein, or Jimmy Carter, or Mohandas Ghandi, while others result like Stevie Fielding? “Stevie” poignantly asks questions about how much responsibility do our parents and families (and Big Brothers) bear in determining who we ultimately become? How much personal responsibility does each one of us have in this process? Can someone exposed to the worst life has to offer ever muster the courage, ability and emotional wherewithal necessary to some day decide to interrupt the vicious cycle, pick themselves up by their bootstraps, and suddenly right the ship?

In “Stevie,” we not only meet the misguided, uneducated, marginalized loner from the film’s title, but also the committed filmmaker who refuses to give up on him, regardless of how dire the circumstances. We see not only Stevie’s disastrous trajectory, but in the process also learn something about the dedication and compassion of James, as well. Through intimate interviews, the film somehow strikes a delicately balanced tone, alternating between mournful and hopeful. I went from shaking my head at Stevie’s family, to shaking my head at him, to finally feeling genuinely worried and saddened about what might happen to him in the end. And I also wondered about the disquieting toll the entire experience must’ve had on James, too. He is without question one of the most talented documentary filmmakers working today.

I’m sorry I didn’t see “Stevie” in the theater, upon its initial release. Smart, thoughtful, honest, heart-rending films like this deserve a wider audience. It would have been one of my favorite films of that (or any) year. This movie far exceeded my expectations.

Hit and Run (2012)

Watching the Netflix movie “Hit and Run,” I faced a dilemma. At about the 70-minute mark, finding myself only marginally entertained, I began glancing at the clock. I’d already had several “This is gonna get better, right?” questions inside my head. Then it occurred to me that last mail pick-up was in half an hour. I reasoned that if I returned it today, I’d have a new disc day after tomorrow. If I finish it, it won’t make the post til tomorrow But there’s still half an hour left in the film.” What do do? 

“Hit and Run” isn’t bad. It just isn’t all that good, either.

Real-life husband and wife Dax Shepherd and Kristen Bell play Charlie Bronson (a name dictated by the plot) and Annie Bean. She’s got a PhD from Stanford, in conflict resolution (really?), but now teaches at a small, back-water college “500 miles from LA.” He’s in the witness protection program, having seen a crime, and testified against the perpetrators.

They’re affectionate, and clearly quite fond of each other. Unfortunately, they’re also given to bouts of cuteness, exemplified by quasi-introspective conversations about respective patterns of speech, the shared future of their relationship, and who they hope they’ll become once they get there. The back-and-forth is supposed to be mildly insightful, evidence of mutual caring, compassion, smarts, and desire to improve their lives together. Instead, it transparently comes off mostly as proof of the writer’s overly-clever contrivance.

Annie’s former boyfriend Gil (Michael Rosenbaum) still carries a torch, and is hysterically suspicious of Charlie. Via his cop brother, Gil discovers Charlie’s car (the third, and perhaps main, star of the film, a thoroughly restored 1967, 700-hp, shiny, black Continental) is registered to “Yul Perkins.” Which (of course!) is Charlie’s real name.

With that info, Gil uses his laptop to not only discover why Charlie’s in witness protection, but then also uncover the names of the criminals against whom Charlie testified. Predictably, he uses Facebook (because most underworld figures find it useful to maintain a high-profile online presence) to contact the heavy, a dreadlocked-and-dubiously-named Alex Dmitri (Bradley Cooper). Somehow Gil’s figured it that he can at once protect and win Annie back, as well as get Charlie out of the picture, with the help of social media.

There are a few other characters mixed in as well, though they’re hardly worth mention. Tom Arnold plays Randy, a poor caricature of the bumbling-idiot archetype. He’s a US marshal, tasked with keeping tabs on Charlie. His Keystone-Cops role consists mainly of spilling coffee on his shirt, crashing his car through fences, and accidently discharging his weapon repeatedly.

Gil’s brother Terry is a stereotyped gay policeman. Mostly he’s on his smart-phone app “Pouncer,” (a clone of Grindr), apparently a GPS tool used by gay men to solicit anonymous sex (if the film’s to be believed). 

Kristen Chenoweth plays Debbie, Annie’s boss. She’s supposed to be a woman who’s world-weary and insightful, encouraging Annie to pursue the good life she never had. In practice she does little more than advertise her pharmacological dependence, and quip off-color would-be comedic lines. Lines that no reasonable woman would never, ever (in a million years!) imagine, much less show the poor judgment of speaking out loud. 

So Charlie and Annie are on the run for LA, with Gil, Alex, and Randy in hot pursuit.

At this point you know both the nuts-and-bolts of the plot, as well as where I began to start wondering whether finishing the film was worth the effort.

Perhaps it’s unethical for a reviewer to cut out early, only later presume to write something about a film s/he didn’t even finish?

On the other hand, maybe it says all you need to know about “Hit and Run” that I even considered it?

Weighing all the evidence, I decided mailing it back early was the best course of action. Next in my queue is a the well-reviewed documentary “Searching for Sugar Man.”

I’m pretty sure I made the right choice.

The Groundrules

There are countless factors which, when taken together, determine whether or not a movie is successful. Is the story compelling and well written? How well has the director told an understandable and cohesive story? Are actors’ performances believable, and empathic? Has the editor kept the pace crisp? Is it visually interesting?

Another way to measure a film is by how well it achieves its intended goals. For example, obviously “Schindler’s List” has loftier aspirations than most of Adam Sandler’s fare. Still, both films have different targets. Spielberg seeks to move the audience, as well as make them think, while Sandler simply wants them to laugh. Each is successful at hitting the mark. While most of us would say "Schindler's" is the more important, historically-memorable film, neither can be said to be more noble, because they have entirely different intentions.

However, as years have passed and I’ve seen more and more films, I believe that, as much as any other variable, my enjoyment of a movie is ultimately determined by my own expectations, going in.

For example: Back in college, I went to the downtown dollar-theater, to see Schwarzenegger’s “Last Action Hero.” The picture had been ravaged by critics more than any film I can recall (Maybe “Ishtar” took a similar beating?). Anyhow, it was so reviled, I can’t imagine what it was I was thinking when I decided to go (perhaps just a desire to avoid studying?). Why had I even made the effort?

Once I'd settled into my seat with bucket of popcorn, I expected to find an embarrassing train-wreck of a film so awful that I might not make it through to the end. Certainly, given the volume of critics’ vitriol, at the very least I’d use “Last Action Hero” as a measuring-stick and reference-point for everything horrible, for years to come.

But it turns out that wasn’t bad. In truth, it was actually even pretty good. Poking fun at both Schwarzenegger and his reputation, as well as the action genre as a whole, it was clever and fun. Not great, but at worst mildly entertaining. But since I'd expected it was going to be unwatchable, I was pleasantly surprised. I had a similar experience watching Hudson Hawk.

In contrast, I went to see “There Will Be Blood” after hearing critics praise it as one of the year’s best. Danial Day-Lewis’s performance was hailed as the latest evidence of his genius. After the critical success of “Boogie Nights” and “Magnolia,” the film would supposedly cement its director’s (Paul Thomas Anderson) reputation as a modern master. Needless to say, my expectations going in were fairly high.

…And then...nothing happened.

I watched, and I waited. Characters said and did things. The pictures on the screen changed. But I had absolutely no reaction to the images on the screen. I sat there patiently in the dark theater for the entire film, hoping for that on crucial moment, where the plot, or a character, or the dialogue, or any conflict might hook me. It never came. It was all simmer, and no boil. As the end credits rolled, I was still waiting. Hoping it was going to be so much more profound and memorable, I was fairly disappointed.

Both films, I believe, hit their director’s intended goals; they achieved what they set out to do. The only real difference then, was what I expected from each.

To this end, I think it’s important to recognize there are no absolutes. When it comes to the subjective experience of movie watching, everyone has their own unique set of preferences. I could love something you hate. Or you might esteem a film I abhor (looking at you, Sandler fans). A film could be technically “good,” but I might not necessarily enjoy it as much as you. In contrast, a picture might not be Fellini, or Scorsese, but I could still enjoy it.

To wit: at the end of my reviews, I’m going to rate films as either disappointing, met expectations, or exceeded them. I’ll use this system instead of “thumbs up,” or a number-of-stars rating. Hopefully this will describe how much I enjoyed the whole experience, rather than simply judging the film in-a-vacuum.

Perhaps I should have some baseline expectation for every film (that it at least be competent?), but that feels unrealistic. How to do that? While I can recognize a film’s technical accomplishment, as well the craft with which it was made, both are at times entirely separate from how much I actually enjoyed the experience.

Even if this doesn’t establish how good or bad a film might be, if nothing else it should give you some sense of my own cinematic sensibilities. Which is probably the better part of a critic’s worth, anyhow.  

Magic Mike (2012)

This wasn’t the film I expected. It was better.

When I hear “movie about male strippers,” I think over-the-top, greased up, hip-thrusting, long-haired, tanned-to-orange, pouting silliness. And to be sure, “Magic Mike” has all of that. However, what this film also has is an original story, which contains genuine, sympathetic, likeable characters. Which explains why “Magic Mike” is both effective and successful.

I probably should’ve known to resist my preconceived, negative assumptions. Three-times-out-of-four, director Steven Soderbergh is to be trusted. Sure there have been puzzling misfires (Solaris, Bubble), as well as films that (on paper) seemed promising, but turned out to be less than the sum of their parts (Contagion). But those are the exceptions that prove the rule. Most often he makes very entertaining pictures, ones I’d recommend unreservedly (King of the Hill, Out of Sight, Erin Brockovich, the Informant!, the Oceans movies, etc…). Usually even his less-narrative, more experimental efforts (the Girlfriend Experience) are (even if imperfect) well-made, interesting, and worth seeing,.

“Magic Mike” falls into the middle category. It’s set in what feels like present-day Tampa, Florida (full disclosure: I grew up there). By the time we meet him, Mike (Channing Tatum, who also grew up in Tampa; we actually attended the same high school, him decades after me) has been a stripper for six years. He clearly makes good coin doing it, witnessed by his comfortable beach-front house. But has other side projects, as well. He sometimes works construction, in addition to having a mobile car-detailing business he runs out of a van. Squirreling away what earnings he can, Mike hopes to one day start his own custom-furniture company. Alas, bad credit keeps him from securing an all-important small-business loan. That, along with the easy money he makes dancing, keeps him doing a job he tries hard to pretend isn’t a dead-end.

One day while roofing a house, Mike meets Adam (Alex Pettyfer), a 19-year old former football player, who lied about his work experience in a Craigslist ad, just to get the job. Adam is essentially Mike, six years prior: young and good-looking, but lacking any real focus, direction or prospects. When Adam’s car won’t start after work, Mike gives him a ride home. They talk casually, as guys will, without sharing very much about themselves.

Later, they bump in to each other outside a dance club. Mike gets Adam past the velvet rope, despite the hoodie and sneakers. Once inside, Adam’s shy and inexperienced. He does little more than look around, smile and down shots. When introduced to a pair of women “named after cars and jewels,” Adam politely asks “What do you do?” His awkwardness contrasts sharply with Mike’s confidence. This clumsiness multiplies exponentially later, when later the pair unexpectedly go to the all-male review where Mike works.

Surrounded by mostly naked men, and throngs of screaming women, Adam couldn’t be further from his element. However, he’s also intrigued. Backstage, the male strippers are loose and confident in all the ways he’s not. Out front, the mob of women is frenzied and uninhibited. This new world makes his head spin. Suddenly everything seems possible.

When one of the other strippers is too drunk to perform, young Adam is dubbed “the Kid,” and reluctantly coaxed onstage. He awkwardly takes off his clothes “like a teenager in a locker room.” He’s hesitant and shy, but enjoys the attention he gains from his newfound abilities. It’s at this point where the plot of “Magic Mike” begins.

Adam begins dancing regularly, with Mike as his mentor. Along the way we’re introduced to Adam’s skeptical older sister Brooke (Cody Horn). She’s tired of Adam crashing on her couch, but isn’t sure stripping is the smartest path for him to change his circumstance. There’s also Dallas (played with wild-eyed swagger, by Matthew McConaughey), a maniacally-ambitious club owner, who sees promise (and more importantly dollar signs) in the new dancer. We’re also introduced to various other male strippers, each with their own concocted stage personality.

In addition to its dramatic narrative, the movie also contains long dance numbers, which are at once spectacular, and ridiculous. (Consider the absurdity of sweaty, grown men, performing themed and synchronized dance routines, while nearly nude, in front of shrieking strangers. When viewed with critical distance, on what planet would/could this ever be considered “sexy?”)

And what of the women in the audience? They’ve stood in line and paid to see an all-male strip show. Yet, when push comes to shove, and the pants drop, they all feign surprise and incredulity. What did they expect? Like walking in on your parents (or kids) having sex, is it simply a case of where simply imagining it, and actually seeing it in the flesh, are two far different things?

Channing Tatum was a stripper in his previous life. So it makes sense that his performance (as well as the film’s overall portrayal of the male-stripper environment) feels authentic. While watching, I never once thought “he’s just an actor, whose been taught to dance, taking his clothes off.”

One of the things I liked most about “Magic Mike” is that it isn’t a traditional cautionary tale. It’s not about some rube getting in over his head, or someone’s life spiraling out of control because he’s fallen in with a bad crowd. Mike’s not simply a dumb, reckless, out-of-control, stereotypical Florida meathead/party guy, living solely in the moment, squandering countless opportunities. Instead, from the start he’s shown as a fairly level-headed, emotionally-together guy. He considers his future, and has plans (humble as they are) about how to potentially get there. He’s confident, thoughtful, well spoken, and fairly mature. He even serves as a surrogate big brother, trying to shelter the younger, naïve and inexperienced Adam. Perhaps he’s just trying to help the youngster from repeating his mistakes? During an argument, Brooke remarks that Mike’s “basically a good and decent guy.” And he is. Like many of us, he’s someone who has come to a point where he realizes, while not entirely unhappy now, his life will ultimately need to change, or he might soon be.

Several times watching “Magic Mike” I was reminded of “Boogie Nights.” Though the former isn’t nearly as sprawling, dense, finely detailed, nor as tragic the latter, they share striking similarities. Obviously, both are set in worlds of sex work. Also, they both document a young character’s initial steps into the business. Each demonstrates the various prejudices their workers encounter, when engaging in jobs mostly deemed marginal by conservative America. Finally, both capture the profound sadness and suffocating desperation that saturate a world, where so many people lead impulsive, disposable lives.

Smart, briskly-paced, and energetic, “Magic Mike” deftly avoids clichés that would’ve sunk a lesser movie. It works because it shows the entirety of characters lives, and the struggles they endure trying to improve them, rather than simply moralizing about the jobs they do on-stage. I was entertained from beginning to end. It exceeded my expectations in every way. Though not on par with Soderbergh’s best, it’s still very good, ranking towards the top-of-the-middle of his efforts.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower (2012)

Patrick, Sam and Charlie try to survive high school.

 Adolescence is a terribly awkward time of life. We’re smart enough to know a few things, but so emotionally immature and insecure to do much about them. Visceral trumps cerebral, every time. The filmmakers behind “The Perks of Being a Wallflower” understand this well. They accurately portray this confusing stage, when impulsiveness and misunderstood neuroses can, at any given second, make the most-recent emotion feel like the most-powerful moment in our lives.

“Wallflower” (directed by Stephen Chbosky; based on his book) centers on Charlie (the particularly effective Logan Lerman), an earnest and likeable kid from the affluent Pittsburgh suburbs. Sweet and unassuming, Charlie’s soon to be a freshman in high school. Significant problems from his past are hinted at, but not initially explained. His older brother’s gone off to play football at Penn State. His only-slightly older sister is dating a guy who’s physically abusive, even though he sports traditional hippy signifiers (ponytail, dashiki sweaters, Birkenstocks), and is president of the school’s earth club.

With few friends, and fearful he’ll likely be the target of hazing, Charlie dreads the transition from middle- to high school. In fact, he regards his remaining four years of school like a sentence, going so far as counting the days til he’s free.

That is until his chance meeting with Patrick (Ezra Miller, particularly menacing as the title character, in “We Have to Talk About Kevin”), and Sam (“Harry Potter’s” Emma Watson) at a football game. Patrick recognizes Charlie from shop class, and invites him to a party. Charlie’s surprised, but accepts. Seemingly, this is the first time a classmate has ever reached out to befriend him.

Charlie is fascinated, and pleasantly surprised, to find fellow students who drink, use drugs, and are interested in literature, art, film, and music. They don’t pick on, or reject him. He revels in their acceptance.

More than all that, he’s enchanted by Sam, the beautiful-but-obviously-damaged older girl, who embodies hope and possibility. Believing she seems him as “just a friend,” he admires her from up close, but is afraid to act on his feelings. As the film states eloquently, we only pursue the love we feel we deserve.

The action of the movie is fairly predictable. We follow the clique as they grow closer, suffering through the inevitable growing pains of teenage years: Their romances, break-ups, drug and alcohol use, and individual self-discoveries impart life lessons. They endure high-school dances, have parties, hook up, and occasionally fight. But mostly they talk, and enjoy each other’s company. Over time, tucked safely within the nurturing embrace of this tight circle of close friends, Charlie begins to grow, and come into his own. He develops confidence, and starts to form his own voice.

But what to do about Sam?

I enjoyed “Wallflower,” though it isn’t without problems. While not out-of-place within the context of the film, it’s hard to imagine real-world kids possessing this level of self-awareness, insight, confidence and wisdom. For all their struggles, most of these kids seem fairly well-adjusted, most of the time. Also, by showing problems unique to adolescence, it sometimes veers into melodrama, as well. Which is OK, I suppose. Adolescents are the movie’s primary target-audience, and they’re often given to fits overly dramatic. This flaw isn’t fatal. Finally, the parents are barely around (believable enough, from my experience). However, when they are, they’re shown as mostly stuffy, and out-of-touch. (Paul Rudd’s sympathetic English teacher is the exception. He sees something in Charlie, and tries to nurture that spark).

There’s also a development late in the film (which I won’t divulge here), that I found unnecessary. It didn’t add to the story, or my understanding of its characters. It felt out of place, contrived, and needless.

Still, Lerner’s performance as the shy, insecure Charlie is convincing. His gentle expression and calm demeanor elicit sympathy and compassion, from us as well as his film friends. Smart, reflective, selfless, and kind, we root for him to overcome the personal demons of his experience.

“Wallflower” owes much to the early John Hughes films, such as “Sixteen Candles,” and “The Breakfast Club,” as well as “Dead Poet’s Society.” Like those films, it takes its teenagers seriously. It sees them as thoughtful, sensitive, 3-dimensional people, rather than caricatures. It also similarly uses music to create mood and tone. Finally, it covers much of the same “coming-of-age” ground, where a hurtful word can lead to a torturous crisis, and the perceived promise contained in the smile of a pretty girl can make your day.

I liked this film very much, but stopped just short of loving it. I did, however, love its music: David Bowie, the Smiths, New Order, Badly Drawn Boy. Mostly this is the music of my own youth, in the late 1980s (which made me wonder in what time period exactly the film was supposed to take place). “Wallflower,” and its melodic stroll down Memory Blvd, made me think about my own youth, smile and then hum.