Posts Tagged ‘Hayley Atwell’

Captain America: The First Avenger

July 21, 2011

Actually, yes, the United States did flirt with eugenics for a while, and Nazi Germany did try to vaporize whole populations, but of course those scenes played out a lot less wholesomely than do the plot points in “Captain America: The First Avenger.” Even having the word “avenger” in its title at all seems bold for the movie in question, whose emotional baseline is so safe, so neutral, that for a while there he might as well be Captain Switzerland. (Consider also the perforated cheese of the plot.)

Just have a little faith, avers director Joe Johnston, with writers Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, for maybe you can get a good summer blockbuster from a comic book based on a 70-year-old propaganda trope. Just like maybe you can get a metabolically enhanced “super-soldier” from a puny and sickly but brave and eager kid.

Chances are better than average if the kid’s played by Chris Evans, who got into superhero movies as the man on fire in “Fantastic Four” but now at last inhabits his more suitable element. Here he is as Steve Rogers, the willing World War II enlistee who actualizes a pronouncement made by Stanley Tucci’s sagely-schmaltzy German scientist: “A weak man knows the value of strength.” However weird it is to behold those early scenes with Evans’ head digitally grafted onto somebody else’s much less brawny body, his face and voice seem durable and reassuring. Swerving away from self-pity and into plausible humility, passing tests of character with declarative pluck, his Rogers is as ready for this particular promotion to captain as anybody can be — ready to stand up and sacrifice himself, if necessary, for the privilege of luxuriating in chastely spiffy, square-jawed Americana.

This is twice-filtered nostalgia, really, as Johnston draws much from the vintage Lucas-Spielberg playbook, itself a study of the pulp serials those directors grew up with. But moral reductiveness affords a certain popcorn-compatible clarity of presentation. In “Captain America”’s world, every Allied soldier is a decent guy, every woman a pin-up-worthy beauty, every authority figure an avuncular wit and every villain a faceless monster — be he a bondage-hooded foot soldier or, well, the aptly named Red Skull. Sebastian Stan, Hayley Atwell, Tommy Lee Jones and Hugo Weaving pose very naturally in these respective categories, each enjoying and enlivening the proceedings considerably. Meanwhile Toby Jones gives a glimmer of intelligence to a sub-par supporting role in just such a way as to suggest we’d all be better served had the role been reduced to a single scene.

Affability can’t last forever, and doesn’t, in a film so willing to neutralize its own personality for the sake of humdrum plot. But overall it does compare favorably with recently reviewed YouTube snippets of the draggy 1979 “Captain America” TV movie, which plays like educational-film-strip kitsch, and the 1990 attempt, which appears to have just plain sucked.

Determinedly, this one works as another component of a now familiar franchise kit. Iron Man’s father is here, and the inter-dimensional portal that brought us Thor, and so on. As to that bold extra bit of title, it too obviously sets up next summer’s “The Avengers” — cleverly encouraging us to wonder just how the good captain’s super-square valor and virtue will play in (the comic book movie version of) the America of now.

Brideshead Revisited

July 28, 2008

During the Second World War, English army captain Charles Ryder (Matthew Goode) finds himself stationed at the castle estate of the aristocratic family with whom he once was infatuated. Charles thinks wistfully back to his crush on the dandyish, alcoholic Sebastian (Ben Whishaw), to his full-blown affair with Sebastian’s wised-up sister Julia (Hayley Atwell), and to his courtly battles of will with their rigidly Catholic mother, Lady Marchmain (Emma Thompson). 

Brideshead Revisited, written by Andrew Davies with Jeremy Brock and directed by Julian Jarrold, is ostensibly an adaptation of Evelyn’s Waugh’s celebrated 1945 novel–at the time an important departure for the author, who’d made his name with fast and fizzy satire and then became a religious convert. But this film’s real point of comparison will be with the impeccable, unbeatable, 11-hour-long miniseries of the same tale, made for British television in 1981.

Goode and Whishaw deliver fine, watchable performances, but Jeremy Irons and Anthony Andrews were definitive. Nor can Thompson, excellent as usual, if a touch actorly and possibly miscast, top Claire Bloom in any way except for sheer star power. But then, that seems to be just what this dramatically tidy movie wants, rather glibly packaged as it is for crossover to American audiences. If nothing else, it signifies the ongoing evolution of filmed versions of British books–in this case, from a novel of wealth-worshipping white-flannel nostalgia for Edwardian aristocracy to a Thatcherite endorsement thereof to a soft (and expensive) pillow of star-powered sentimental attachment to nostalgia itself.

Cassandra’s Dream

January 17, 2008

Woody Allen’s new crime-drama is a precision instrument—namely, another of his London-set morality plays, well-calibrated and nimbly deployed. And for the first three quarters, it’s brilliant. Ewan McGregor and Colin Ferrell star as working-class brothers from a shabby suburb whose status anxiety leaves them dangerously beholden to their wealthy, shady uncle, played by Tom Wilkinson. A gambling debt, a (far-fetchedly) chance encounter with an enchanting actress (Hayley Atwell) and a much-dreaded dirty deed add up to what would be riveting, shattering suspense were it not for the writer-director’s preoccupation with grim dramatic inevitability. The movie ends by imposing the structural requirements of classical tragedy too bluntly, belaboring its bleak, well-established worldview. Call it another take on Match Point, Allen’s distressingly similar outing from 2005—or, if you prefer, a superior version of Sidney Lumet’s archly grave and narratively jittery Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead (although some partisans surely will suggest that was the superior picture). Allen’s continued insistence of the world’s moral vacuum and all the anguish it causes may register distastefully—or even boringly—to some. But that doesn’t diminish expectedly great performances by McGregor and Wilkinson, and, against all odds, an absolutely revelatory one from Ferrell.

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