“Slumdog Millionaire”: My Life as a Slumdog

“Slumdog Millionaire,” the new film from Danny Boyle, is captivating but much like his last work, the commendable sci-fi mystery thriller “Sunshine,” it’s a movie compromised by a conventional, tonally unbalanced final reel.

In a baker’s dozen worth of years, Danny Boyle has emerged as one of the most terrific storytellers in world cinema. The brilliance of “Shallow Grave” and “Trainspotting” were followed by wayward efforts at the cusp of the millennium in “A Life Less Ordinary” and “The Beach,” before he righted himself with a string of four, and counting, superior productions. “28 Days Later” is an apocalyptic zombie flick of the highest order, while the magical “Millions” is a sincere and heartfelt children’s story which never resorts to soppiness. It’s the catalogue of an admirable, conscientious filmmaker. Despite his varying success, the mercurial Boyle is an unignorable talent.

In “Slumdog Millionaire,” Boyle tells the tale of Jamal (Dev Patel), a lower class young man in Mumbai toiling as a call center dogsbody who is unexpectedly on the verge of life-altering success on “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire.” Told predominantly in flashback, the film begins with a present-day police station interrogation of Jamal where he begins to ruminate on his life, starting with his earliest memories of surviving a stark childhood with his older brother Salim, and Latika, a young girl from the neighborhood who would become his heart’s lifelong muse.

The lives of the self-described “Three Musketeers” are shown in three distinct stages, and the first segment surges with the most energy. In their youngest incarnation, when they are no more than three and five, Jamal (Ayush Mahesh Khedekar) and Salim (Azharuddin Mohammed Ismail) are mischievous, nomadic orphans who survive on pluck and guile. They befriend fellow orphan Latika (Rubiana Ali), but she loses touch with the boys when they embark on a daring escape from a nefarious orphanage.

Especially in this first section, “Slumdog Millionaire” is filmed majestically by cinematographer Anthony Dod Mantle but not beatifically, so that Mantle, Boyle and co-director Loveleen Tandan remove the reverential tone, never succumbing to falling back on stereotype, which would have been fashioned by patronizing slow pans across rivers of wading supplicants. Instead, the first solid hour of “Slumdog” reverberates as vibrant, luminous, human and genuine. A scene in which the precocious toddler Jamal meets an Indian film legend who swoops by helicopter into a crowd in his impoverished community is visceral, mucky, and redolent. At the conclusion of the first segment, Boyle constructs a scintillating set piece as the lads perch on top of a moving train, Jamal dangling over the car’s side by his feet in the grip of his brother, his tiny hands pawing through a window for steaming bread laying enticingly on a tray. They are discovered, a tussle ensues and they fall from the train, emerging from the grass as pre-teens. It’s a wonderfully accomplished transition.

This second segment shows them as prepubescents living as financial foragers, Jamal (Tanay Chheda) happy to dupe tourists at the Taj Mahal, while Salim (Asutosh Lobo Gatiwala), perhaps drowning his vulnerability, submerges into himself into vice and crime. When the now estranged boys reach adulthood and the film becomes a quest for requited love, it becomes less thrilling.

Dev Patel is nicely cast as the adult Jamal. Most well known for his role as the goofy Anwar on the television series “Skins,” Patel brings believable earnestness to his ardor for Latika and likable humility to his “Millionaire” scenes, especially in comparison to the oily charm of the show’s host, Prem Kumar, played with obvious relish by Anil Kapoor. Underscoring his diversity as an actor, Patel possesses viable presence and lends gravity to his interrogation and torture scenes.

Latika, though, is a very surface role in adulthood, with no depth or context, and very little to say. She is lovely, but the beauty of actress Freida Pinto cannot arrest the idea that her Latika, as a grown woman, is simply a character in new clothes. A scene later in the film where Jamal rediscovers Latika, then tricks his way into her mobster boyfriend’s compound to plead for her to leave the lair feels forced and is shot unconvincingly. The magical has become the mundane.

The same dilemma bewitched Boyle’s “Sunshine” which was enveloped in trippy spookiness until it resorted to slasher mode in the final moments. There’s a disconnect in the mood between the body of the films and the resolution in both movies. Yet Boyle is undoubtedly an important filmmaker; viewers should continue to be infatuated with his search for the transcendent.

“Burn After Reading”: A Hot Read

“Burn After Reading” is a rollicking romp. After the morose, lauded “No Country for Old Men,” the Coen brothers have returned quite quickly with a slapstick gem which zips along on the crest of a zany story, hilarious script and a bounty of beautifully fulfilled comic performances.

The hoot of a film revolves serpentinely around deceitful endeavors with the key chicanery centering on the retrieval of a stolen CD filled with sensitive information. But the intertwined plot takes a secondary place to the performances because, ultimately, “Burn After Reading” is an acting delight. Throughout their career, Joel and Ethan Coen have allowed actors to thrive in original characterizations and immerse themselves in distinctly memorable creations. From Nicholas Cage and Holly Hunter to Jeff Bridges, Javier Bardem and John Turturro, a succession of movie stars and thespians have unleashed seminal characters in their films. So it’s no great surprise that with a film laden with comic hijinks and satirical underpinnings, the brothers encouraged an A-list ensemble of superb actors to cavort brazenly.

John Malkovich, who is physically morphing steadily into Pablo Picasso, plays Osbourne Cox, a perturbed, retired CIA analyst, with ground-teeth exasperation and menace. His delicate, perhaps even nationally sensitive memoirs are discovered by a bumbling duo of health club fitness trainers. Frances McDormand and Brad Pitt revel in their roles as the quirky Hardbodies employees. Pitt appears to love sending up his hunk status with bouts of outrageous physical humor replete with gyrations, flicks, and facial gymnastics. His Chad Feldheimer is a lovable goofball, complete with a “Johnny Suede” pompadour. Wide-eyed and bob cut, McDormand exudes a delightful air of feisty cluelessness as the ringleader, Linda Litzke.

George Clooney delivers a wickedly clever interpretation of suburban unrest as the philandering Harry Pfarrer, a married Treasury Department Marshal who becomes romantically linked with several of the main protagonists. Like Pitt, he not only isn’t afraid to tweak his “sexiest man alive” image he seems to relish the opportunity. As one of his suitors and Osbourne’s wife, Tilda Swinton channels her “Michael Clayton” shrewishness by apparently, once again, scrunching all her body fat and human compassion in her hands, wringing them, and discarding the contents as superfluous, lending Katie Cox all the cuddliness of an isosceles triangle.

Even the more tangential supporting roles buffer the film with quality and guile, including Richard Jenkins as the gym manager whose furtive longing is as excruciating as an emotional pull-up. The repartee is swift and absurd between J.K. Simmons as the perplexed “CIA Superior” and David Rasche — best known for the title role in “Sledge Hammer” — as the baffled “CIA Officer.”

“Burn After Reading” is a smart, fast-paced screwball comedy which includes a staggeringly funny visual gag as one of Pfarrer’s visits to Home Depot ultimately delivers a fresh meaning to “DIY.”

“Milk”: It Does A Body Politic Good

For a film clearly cradled in the sad, poignant context of Harvey Milk’s fate, beginning with grainy file footage of police persecution and the actual moment of Dianne Feinstein announcing an assassination, “Milk” is a joyous remembrance. Far removed from the vibe of his recent obtuse efforts, Gus Van Sant has made a distinctly human work which by the closing credits is a potpourri of the inspiring, moving, tender, riotously funny and genuinely heartwarming.

The downfall of the biopic is that so often the hero is placed on a pedestal or damned by a fatal flaw, or commonly both. But Harvey Milk just seemed to be a galvanizing dude who liked dudes and who wanted to envelope the political and social worlds with fundamental human rights. He may have been the self-anointed “Mayor of Castro Street” but he was no rock star. A small business owner of a modest camera shop, Milk bonded with people in a quotidian way, banding together the people of his San Francisco community – the elderly, union laborers, business owners and even the hustlers, amongst others — into a coalition of the distinct, unifying their separate vulnerability into a progressive collective. Politically ardent but not interested in political machinations, he was motivating on a common level, with an eye-to-eye connection, as he became a perpetual candidate in local campaigns.

Sean Penn is a marvel in the title role as he constructs a characterization which isn’t mimicry or pantomime but the wonderful embodiment of a gifted and genuine man who was a bit of a square, the kind of guy who had Sylvester perform at his birthday party but didn’t actually dance. Penn creases his face regularly with a wide, infectious grin as he plays Harvey as the consummate people person. There’s not a dab of the method actor in his performance. He portrays Milk as heartfelt, bullhorn in hand, awkwardly thrusting his fist to the sky, exhorting crowds but not prone to soliloquies; instead his calls for action were impassioned yet swift. A scene with his huddled campaign cohorts where Milk advocates everyone coming out and living as openly gay folks doesn’t seem as much like an earnest clarion call as it does a matter-of-fact belief. It’s simply the thing to do. Later, after his election as a city supervisor, when Harvey debates an arch conservative in a contentious venue, the succinct simplicity of his arguments and the unveiling of his opponent’s contradictions are demonstrated in a clever but understated manner. The story and script by Dustin Lance Black highlight this quality of the empowering everyman. Whereas films centered on politics can be, if not careful, ponderous or self important, Van Sant makes sure to show that joining up on a Milk campaign was exhilarating and fun. All work and no flirt would have made Harvey and his buddies very dull boys.

The film incorporates an astute storytelling device which discards the voiceover or contemporaries’ recollections by having Milk speak into a microphone at his kitchen table in his modest, unadorned apartment. As he sits in his nondescript chair, tape recording autobiographical events, Penn’s delivery helps emphasize his sincere, authentic, and vulnerable qualities.

The supporting cast is instilled with stellar performances. They infuse the campaign rooms with camaraderie. But a few roles are worthy of particular praise. An almost unrecognizable Emile Hirsch plays the plucky Cleve Jones, a quick-study political neophyte. James Franco, who is graced with leading man looks but a character actor’s quirk, is warm and engaging as Scott Smith, the most important love of Harvey’s life. Diego Luna enters the story with a flourish in the later reels as Milk’s final paramour, Jack Lira. He also secures himself first dibs from casting directors in The Father Guido Sarducci Story.

Van Sant has created a film which is more than evocative of the 1970s. There’s a seamless quality to the interspersing between the archival film and the fictional account utilized throughout the movie. Cinematographer Harris Savides adopts a terrific muted retro look which is a similar visual style to the one he used so successfully in “Zodiac.” The art direction from Charley Beal and set decoration by Barbara Munch are sterling, costume designer Danny Glicker expertly drapes the cast in authentic garb, and the hair and makeup departments of Steven E. Anderson and Michael White have done exemplary work.

So 1978 seems like 2008 and, even, like tomorrow. As we snigger, almost aghast, at the shameless bigotry of the actual Anita Bryant from footage supporting a California proposition to fire gay and lesbian teachers, we realize that in the intervening thirty years society isn’t yet that far removed from her beliefs as votes denying consenting gays and lesbians the right to enter into civil marriage sadly abound. But “Milk” isn’t concentrated on the sour orange juice shills. The legacy of Harvey Milk is that a regular guy ardently speaking sensible, meaningful truths is pertinent, heartening, and rousing. This is one righteous and upbeat elegy which could be fittingly titled “You Make Me Feel (Mighty Real).”

“Transporter 3”: We Like the Cars That Go Boom

If the producers of “Transporter 3” had wished to add a bit more zest to their franchise and enliven the series with oodles of oomph, they should have hired the “Top Gear” gang as creative consultants.  That way, while whirling around the continent, Frank Martin, the titular Marseilles-based driver, could have outgunned jet-packed kayaks on Icelandic fjords, or transformed his sports car into a stretch limousine, or ditched his rather mundane, pedestrian looking Audi for something a bit mad, such as the ferociously fast Koenigsegg, or even evaded swarms of priapic hot rods in an entirely inappropriate set of wheels: we’ve had Mini and Bug chase scenes.  Why not a Smart car?

Disappointingly, especially for a movie helmed by the born-to-be-an-action-flick director Olivier Megaton, the film, particularly the car stunts, too often feels dumbed down, lackadaisical and uninspired.  But this isn’t entirely surprising when a film chooses a central plot device which forces the occupants of his auto, by pain of death, to remain ensconced in the car.  “Sommes nous la’ encore?”  While Martin’s behind the wheel, the movie feels staunchly hemmed in, strangely claustrophobic, and akin to a derivative scavenger hunt.  The moments in the car with Frank carting his quarry-in-arms, a diplomat’s party-hardy daughter by the name of Valentina, across Europe are notably strained and clunky.  Freckles and sparkles framing raccooned, club-bleary eyes, Valentina is played by Natalya Rudakova as a spoiled, unlikable minx. This is Rudakova’s first film; she already feels typecast.

The irony is that outside the confines of the car, the hand-to-hand combat scenes crackle.  As Martin, Jason Statham, owner of an Easter Island mug and an 8-pack verging on 10, unleashes brackish, bare knuckle fury on the dozens of pipe, chain and knife wielders sent to the slaughter, seemingly, by the EU’s Ministry of Scowls.  These martial arts sequences, overseen by noted stunt coordinator Corey Yuen, provide the film’s humor and panache: a running joke appears to suggest that Statham is so encumbered by his immaculate sartorial sense that he must disrobe during these exhaustive onslaughts, utilizing his jacket, shirt and silk ties as weapons.  A bike scene scampering along cobbled streets and through shop windows is similarly well executed and clever.

 

While he embodied the cool, cheeky chappy in “Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels” and “Snatch,” and bulked up to a certain rugged, leading man quality in “The Bank Job” earlier this year, Statham, who sounds like he perpetually needs a lozenge, has never been asked to deliver much dialogue in the “Transporter” films.  He undoubtedly possesses a brooding presence which is compelling.  So perhaps the producers should have dropped the pretense of a relationship and simply allowed him to tear across Europe with abandon, fleeing from foes, skirting the law, this time in a caravan.