Daldry, Eastwood, Moore, Sirk, Soderbergh

Pitch Perfect (Jason Moore, 2012). Much as I can understand how this film turned into a stealth hit–it has the musical liveliness of early Glee combined with the knowing spunk of Bring It On–it’s a fairly clumsy endeavor, with strained jokes and haphazard structure that would almost count as daring anti-narrative if it were done intentionally. It’s also one of those films that has absolutely no idea how college works, not just taking liberties for the sake of the storytelling but completely ignoring any attempt to depict its setting in a way that’s at all plausible. It does have Anna Kendrick, though, and that’s very nearly enough. She’s charming and grounded in the lead role, flashing an effortless star presence that doesn’t compromise her attention to the truth of her characterization.

J. Edgar (Clint Eastwood, 2011). A lumpy, desperately old-fashioned biopic from Clint Eastwood, who doesn’t even prosper with the pulpier elements of the story. That’s usually the part in his wheelhouse, showing off the enduring influence of his old collaborator Don Siegel. Oscar-winning Milk screenwriter Dustin Lance Black wrote the film according to standard issue progressions and leaden conflicts. Given Black’s involvement, many probably expected FBI director J. Edgar Hoover’s alleged homosexuality would be a more pressing concern, but it’s simply not that sort of film, less due to skittishness than a general disinterest to dig for anything but the most facile facts. Leonardo DiCaprio is fine in the title role, but neither is he doing anything all that special. Other actors are either stranded with practically nothing to do (Naomi Watts) or obviously out of their depth (Armie Hammer).

Behind the Candelabra (Steven Soderbergh, 2013). Steven Soderbergh’s string of utterly implausible entertainments continues (and I guess concludes, given the director’s insistence that this will be his last feature-length project) with a beautifully oddball dramatization of the relationship between Liberace (Michael Douglas) and Scott Thorson (Matt Damon), the hunky animal trainer who was the entertainer’s conquest, possession and ultimately adversary when the cast-aside lover sued for palimony. Soderbergh and screenwriter Richard LaGravenese extract deadpan humor out of Liberace’s sunny decadence and the sense of bratty entitlement that came with his celebrity. Douglas is a wonder as Liberace, looking more at ease that he ever has on screen, even if he doesn’t exactly disappear into the role. I never lost sight of the fact that this was Douglas playing Liberace, but I sometimes forgot that none of the mannerisms he flashes actually belong to the actor naturally. There’s also a fantastically funny supporting performance by Rob Lowe as a doped-up plastic surgeon who’s clearly given himself over to the scientific advances of his trade, his face reformed into a rictus of glamor.

Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close (Stephen Daldry, 2011). Stephen Daldry received Best Director Oscar nomination for each of his first three films, a streak that stopped with this adaptation of Jonathan Safran Foer’s 2005 novel, although the expanded Best Picture category made for it, meaning he can still boast of starting his career with nothing but highly honored films. I liked Foer’s novel quite a bit, but Daldry’s film transfers the details while completely missing the spirit of it, becoming a sanctimonious slog. To be fair, nine-year-old Oskar Schell is a probably a character better suited for the page, where his quirks and sideways thinking are more likely to come across as endearing. Realizing the same qualities onscreen is more likely to be aggravating, especially when portrayed by a neophyte actor (Jeopardy! winner Thomas Horn) three significant years too old for the role. Foer grappled with unthinkable tragedy by heightening the confusion in the search for answers. Daldry takes the same story and lathers it with sanctimony.

Lured (Douglas Sirk, 1947). This bizarrely chipper film noir casts Lucille Ball as Sandra, an American working as a taxi dancer in London who’s recruited by Scotland Yard to be an undercover operative in their efforts to catch a serial killer using the classified to find his victims. While Ball was defined by her pratfall daffiness in her hugely success television career, before that she had a way with a sharp wisecrack in her film efforts. That’s certainly the case here, as she brings noteworthy sharpness to her performance. Douglas Sirk provides lively directing, but the plot is ultimately not all that engaging or interesting, even with the involvement of George Sanders, droll as ever as a famous producer smitten with Ball’s ball of fire. The best bits are the digressions, including one very, very strange sequence with Boris Karloff as a deeply unbalanced man who briefly lures Sandra character to his flat overstuffed with creepy belongings.

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