22 reviews
Valkyrie
Transporter 3
Directed by Bryan Singer
The Wrestler
Directed by Olivier Megaton
As a thriller, Valkyrie has a big strike against it: most viewers know, going in, that Adolf Hitler either a) committed suicide in March 1945 or b) escaped to Antarctica in a nuclear-powered submarine and joined his fellow Reptoids in the Hollow Earth. He definitely wasn't killed on July 20th, 1944, when disaffected military officers staged a coup d'etat that might've worked, if not for that one minor detail. Valkyrie smartly forsakes an omnipresent view of events and sticks mainly with Claus von Stauffenberg (Tom Cruise), who personally undertook the failed assassination. The audience is privileged to little that Stauffenberg doesn't know, and the last act (following his botched effort) finds the conspirators barricaded in a Berlin military complex. The suspense hinges on how long they can forestall the inevitable, not on the the success or failure of their plan. It helps that Cruise mostly suppresses his penchant for VOICE-RAISING THEATRICS, giving no easy outlet for the accumulated tension. He does a decent imitation of a cool, determined, career military man decent enough that the brief glimpses of Stauffenberg's family life feel out of place. But this is more than an exciting night at the movies. This is a 'prestige picture', with a mostly British supporting cast and onscreen text proclaiming that this is very important history stuff. Valkyrie isn't shaded enough to work on that level: the plotters are defined solely by anti-Nazism (Stauffenberg's own ultra-nationalism is reduced here to a couple of references to "sacred Germany"), and Stauffenberg's stated aim - to prove, through action, that 'Germany' and 'Hitler' are hardly synonymous - is weirdly mitigated by giving Hitler the one and only German accent. As a thriller, Valkyrie is above average, but the historical detail is too thinly developed to leave a lasting impression. It's popcorn entertainment with a high-drama veneer. -Josh Martin
Directed by Darren Aronofsky
Part 3 is typically either the end of the line for a franchise or just another installment in an endless succession of money-spinners - think James Bond, Friday the13th, or Death Wish. Transporter 3 leaves room for a sequel, but doesn't make much of case for one. Even Frank Martin (Jason Statham) knows this series has run its course: he's comfortably retired as the movie begins, relaxing in the south of France and turning down an especially insistent job offer. He's persuaded back into action by a sociopathic mastermind (Prison Break's Robert Knepper) and sent barreling through Central Europe to deliver yet another mysterious 'package' - the high explosives strapped to Frank's wrist seal the deal. Transporter 3 feels similarly obligatory. Statham brings his unflappable tough-guy persona, while novice director 'Olivier Megaton' provides a look identical to everything else from Luc Besson's Euro-action assembly line. Even veteran fight choreographer Corey Yuen couldn't be bothered this time around: his two big scenes play like mirror versions of each other, even if Frank goes shirtless for one of them. In fact, the film is as much about Statham's sex appeal as over-the-top action. To that end, ample screen time is given over to the relationship between Frank and his latest passenger (Natalya Rudakova), which generates about as much heat as Harold and Maude (no matter how often Statham exposes his torso). The romance between the steely, near-middle-aged Frank and a spoiled twentysomething candy raver is as convincing as you'd expect - but then, this is a universe where cars can drive on two wheels just by jerking the steering wheel really hard. And it's only in isolated moments like that, where the film drops its main character's studied self-seriousness and concedes its own absurdity, that Transporter 3 justifies its existence. -Josh Martin
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The Wrestler is a film about aging gracefully and living for all the right reasons, a lesson taught by an actor who hasn’t, playing a broken man who plays a super-hero in staged ring fights. My initial response to the news that Aronofsky was making a film about professional wrestling was incredulity. After 2006's disastrous The Fountain I felt burned by the director who had given us the emotionally challenging Pi and Requiem for a Dream. It seemed to typify all the bad things that can happen when a brilliant director is given free reign to do whatever he wants with a huge budget—crash and burn. The Wrestler is as much a chastening of Aronofsky's directing chops as it is Mickey Rourke's rebirth as a true Hollywood leading man. Known more for his steamy action flicks, Rourke had become something of his own joke in the industry showing up anytime a tough guy prop was needed, talent optional. Where John Travolta’s career rehab involved a hapless gunman in Pulp Fiction, Rourke's turn as Randy 'The Ram' Robinson is the performance of a lifetime; the product of a man who has known the heights of fame but is learning to accept just how far he has fallen. And like Rourke’s Marv in Sin City, Randy has a 'condition'. This Ram's heart is failing and the only love he's ever found acceptance in is going to kill him if he keeps going. Randy realises that he might just have to give up the mat if he's going to make it another day. The performance-side of small-town pro wrestling is treated tenderly here and the interplay between Randy, Marisa Tomei’s golden-hearted dancer and Evan Rachel Woods as a “maybe-lesbian” daughter provide beautiful analogs to the main event—The Ram in the ring. -Ryan Blocher