Crossover

What’s the lame cliché? “Those who can, do; those who can’t, teach.” In the lame cliché that is Crossover, those who can, do; and those who can’t, leech.

Vaughn (Wayne Brady) once aspired to be a big-shot NBA agent. He even sports a championship ring that one of his clients ostensibly gave him as a thank-you gift. But somewhere along the line, this wuz-gonna became a once-did. He set up shop as a Detroit 7-mile club owner and book maker, lording it over the gone- and going-nowhere streetballers who hoop it up for pride and joy.

Vaughn’s go-to boy is Jewelz, the quick-shuffling gee-whiz kid of the “underground” big-payoff basketball circuit. The house team hasn’t lost in ages, so Vaughn is a bit perturbed when hot-headed challenger Tech puts together a squad that gives Jewelz and company a run for Vaughn’s money.

The ringer on Tech’s team is Noah, headed for UCLA on a basketball scholarship, though his lovin’ grandma knows his heart is really set on a career in medicine. The tension in the plot revolves around the plans that everyone (but Noah) has for Noah’s NBA future, Vaughn’s scheming to perpetuate his little fiefdom, troubles with women (of the usual sort), Tech’s troubled past with Noah, and the inevitable showdown with Jewelz.

Wow. Doesn’t that just sound like Something New? Much in the same way as Tokyo Drift, yes. Where Drift had its footwork totally down, though, Crossover misses on nearly every cylinder. Drift was eyepopping, if a body-shopworn retread. Crossover is just mindboggling nonsense, the cinematic equivalent of three seconds in everyone else’s key.

Too bad, because Crossover’s heart is in the right place, if prominently displayed on its sleeve. It really wants to encourage kids to stay in school, to hope more for a good education than some fast-talker’s NBA long-shot hoop dreams. It honors hard-working mothers and doting grandmas. It justly disses scheming, two-timing Delilahs while it lauds fidelity. It challenges men to be men—honest, selfless, loyal, and responsible. And even though it’s as chastely horny as BET, it still steers clear of outright smut and profanity. It even manages to assert that the goal of life is more than just “being in the race,” as Vaughn likes to think. “It’s also about what you’re trying to win,” Vaughn’s girlfriend reminds him—or even how you’re trying to get there.

As Jesus might have said, “What good is that NBA ring if you had to whore yourself out to get there?” Naturally, this line of thought is profitable for every one of us, in a one-size-fits-all sort of way.

I doubt the audience I saw this movie with absorbed much of any of that, though. They were too busy hooting at the film’s absurd dialogue and hopelessly transparent plot complications—and I doubt a studio could have arranged a more friendly test audience, outside of Detroit itself.

If only Crossover had made its points in a more competent, entertaining, and intelligent fashion.

If only Wayne Brady picked movies the way he does improv.

Idlewild

Idlewild is the tale of Rooster and Percival, two young boys from opposing sides of the tracks who grow up in a fictional, gangster-ridden Georgia town. Percival’s father is a mortician, and the dutiful, motherless son grows into his father’s intimidating footsteps—becomes a reserved, respectable contributor to civilized society. Rooster’s father, on the other hand, dies prematurely, and the fast-talking, budding entertainer is raised under the influence of Spats, a gangster who runs Idlewild. Rooster is the rowdy one, the one who refuses to be tamed. He marries, and fathers a passel of children, but can’t settle down. The wildness of Prohibition-era speakeasies and the burgeoning jazz scene suit him to a tee and turn him into a minor celebrity.

But Rooster and Percival don’t grow entirely apart. Though they travel in different circles, two things make sure those circles constantly intersect: funerals, and the Church. Mind you, the Church is a nightclub, the place where Rooster feels most at home. He finds a place for Percival’s musical talents at the keys of the club’s resident piano.

So there’s the setup. Old chums from the opposite sides of the tracks. Nightclubs. Prohibition. Gangsters.

Where’s it going? Well, I’m not so sure that’s the most interesting aspect of the picture. Part of the fascination of Idlewild, as I understand it, is that the movie features the talents of Outkast, one of the hottest hiphop acts of the last decade. Big Boi plays the Prohib proto-rapper Rooster, while André 3000 portrays the more artsy Percival. And according to music industry insiders, the story of Percival and Rooster mirrors much of the story of André 3000 and Big Boi—musicians once inseperable but now drifting into different circles of influence, intersecting only to loosely collaborate during musical projects such as albums (and now films).

Like a seedy, trashy (or earthy) version of one of Jesus’ parables, Idlewild documents how the friends become survivors, discover their own true identities apart from each other, find their circles intersecting less and less, and establish wildly succesful independent careers. It’s like watching a pair of quarrelsome quibblers work out their differences in some artsy-fartsy (and cathartically pseudo-violent) therapy session.

But along the way, Rooster’s tale, at least, makes a strong (if not convincing) case that Providence is watching over these boys—that God has got some stake in making sure that Rooster and Percival don’t entirely self-destruct. Idlewild uses God’s Word as a literal shield, a deus ex machina that offers Rooster a chance for redemption and Percival a ticket to the Big City where his talents can flourish—so both escape the corruption of the Church.

Alas, this morality play will likely come off as a retread for those of us who’ve seen more than a handful of movies. And to those for whom such storylines still have the power to be fresh and original, the odd mix of musical styles (not to mention the flat acting of Big Boi and André 3000) will likely be too disorienting to enjoy much. Certainly, the test audience with whom I saw the picture was not enthralled, oddly eager to ignore the musical number behind the end credits and beat their way to the exits.

At the end of the day, Idlewild is far more idle than wild.

Accepted

Entertainment Weekly recently reported that a remake of Revenge of the Nerds is in the works. Why bother? After all, do nerds really need revenge these days? Wasn’t Ross on Friends kind of nerdy? The X-Files’ Mulder even made nerds sexy, reportedly, and Drew Carey has made a career out of being a nerd — and, of course, there’s the Verizon guy. Can you hear me now?

Besides, Accepted serves as a pretty workable remake of Nerds. The nominal and transparent plot centers around underachiever Bartleby Gaines, a bright high schooler who nonetheless fails to adequately prepare himself for college. He’s rejected by all of the schools to which he applies, and in characteristic fast-talking style, Bartleby tries to convince his parents that the smart money is on getting a job, not wasting cash on tuition. When the folks don’t bite, Bartleby cons his buddies into inventing South Harmon Institute of Technology — S.H.I.T. They lease an abandoned mental hospital, clean it up, and voila! SHIT happens. Bart’s folks visit the campus stocked with hired “students,” meet the whacked-out college dean (played by The Daily Show’s Lewis Black as The Daily Show’s Lewis Black), and sign over a $10,000 check for tuition. The show is on, and when SHIT’s website starts accepting applications from every college reject in town, the school hits the fan. Bartleby’s solution? Have the students invent courses of study and classes they want to take, and teach themselves!

The love interest in the story is Monica, the most popular girl in school. She dates an obnoxious jock, and when she becomes disillusioned by the jerk, she warms to Bartleby’s fast-talking schtick.

The villain in the story is Harmon College’s Dean Richard Van Horne, an ambitious administrator who’s looking to acquire real estate for a lasting legacy at Harmon’s real college. Van Horne is played by the ubiquitous Anthony Heald, an actor who has made a career out of playing villains. Remember how, in Silence of the Lambs, he was actually more villainous than Hannibal Lecter? Remember how audiences cheered when Lecter called Agent Starling and told her he was off to have Dr. Chilton for dinner?

With a villain so blandly dislikable, and with Bartleby’s heroics so mindlessly credible — the staffless school faces down the Board of Education — why wouldn’t we want to celebrate the triumph of South Harmon’s SHIT-heads, just as they celebrate themselves? Why wouldn’t we want to celebrate a scholastic version of Switchfoot’s “Beautiful Letdown,” a college of “dropouts, losers, failures, and fools”? After all, isn’t this a noble depiction of God’s grace, a vision of a world in which the first are made last, and the last first? Doesn’t director Steve Pink give us a comedic, college-age spin on what the Kingdom of God looks like?

No. First-time director Pink just gives us a passably-made yawner that finds as many excuses as possible to field the acronym SHIT — as if that’s the absolute pinnacle of sophomoric humor. Personally, I’d have been thrilled if Hannibal Lecter had come along and chased down not only Dean Van Horne but every one of these nitwits — Bartleby Gaines included.

So what’s the problem? Why doesn’t the formula work for Pink?

A look at the director’s resume gives us an answer. He’s been busy in Hollywood ever since 1985’s The Sure Thing, directed by Rob Reiner and starring John Cusack. Presumably, that’s where he met Cusack, and he’s been more-or-less following him around ever since, working on other Cusack projects such as Bob Roberts, Grosse Point Blank, High Fidelity, The Jack Bull, and America’s Sweethearts.

The problem is that Accepted is designed as a John Cusack vehicle — only Cusack is now too old to play the central role, and the spirit of the film is locked into a certain 1980’s John Hughes mentality.

Would a young Cusack and a release date of, say, August 1992 have saved Accepted?

Probably. But Justin Long, who stands in for Cusack as Bartleby, is no John Cusack. He’s more like a young Miguel Ferrer. And if you’re saying, “Who?”, that’s just the point.

Long is not up to the task, and 2006 is no time for an 80’s Cusack comedy.

The Descent

I couldn’t wait to see The Descent, the latest horror film from writer/director Neil Marshall. It’s not that I love horror films. I don’t. What hooked me was hearing that The Descent was set in a cave.

I used to be an avid spelunker. Back in 1997, I found myself stuck in a narrow passage of Capricorn Caverns on Australia’s Sunshine Coast. My friend Dave and I had signed up for the cavern’s guided “Adventure Tour,” eschewing the tourist visit for a more up-close-and-personal exploration of the limestone cave system. When we asked how long the tour would last, we were told, “It’s a three-hour tour.” Remember how Gilligan’s Island began? But our visit to Capricorn would become more a comedy of terrors.

When it comes to The Descent, however, forget comedy. It’s pure terror. As with my experience in Capricorn Caverns, the film begins innocuously enough. After a tragic personal loss the previous year, six women meet in the Appalachians for their annual adventure—this time, a descent into a remote mountain cave. Juno has planned this spelunking trip as therapy for her friend Sarah; sisters Sam and Rebecca, along with Holly and Beth, are more than happy to push the edge for Sarah’s sake.

Dire circumstances befall the group, however, when Sarah becomes wedged in a narrow crawlspace. As I did under similar conditions in Capricorn Caverns, Sarah panics. She begins to hyperventilate. Juno tries to calm Sarah, pointing out that a rational mind and shallow breathing will be the keys to freeing herself. This helps Sarah only marginally. She is determined to work herself loose, however, and the fear of being stuck forever overcomes the fear of being merely stuck. I know the feeling.

But when Juno manages to haul Sarah out of that crawlspace, their problems have only begun. The noise they make draws the attention of “the crawlers,” deadly beasts of prey adapted to hunting in the dark. Who will find their way out, and how?

In The Descent, Neil Marshall tells a grisly and claustrophobic tale of survival. Occasionally, Marshall’s low budget gets the better of this film, but by and large The Descent works remarkably well—both as a horror film, and as pure entertainment. Natalie Mendoza is particularly good as Juno, the group’s strongest leader, and Shauna Macdonald stunningly portrays Sarah’s journey from broken weakness to twisted heroism.

But one thing is for sure. This movie will not be everyone’s cup of tea. For some, the spelunking itself will be too intense. For others, the violence will be too graphic or distasteful.

For those who can get past the darkness and bleak ferocity of the story, however, there’s a powerful message lurking under the surface. Like Juno and her band of followers, we all sometimes bite off more than we can chew. We can easily get ourselves into trouble by venturing into places we don’t belong, by coming up against enemies we aren’t prepared to face (much less defeat).

What do we do then? The Descent presents the only option that often seems plausible: in order to defeat the enemy, we must become the enemy. From the depths of our humanity, we must summon the will to become inhuman. Witness Mai Lai in Vietnam. Witness Abu Ghraib.

But is that really the only option? Is the deck so stacked against us that other choices are simply off the table? If survival is the only objective, then maybe so.

But what if survival is not the only objective? What if we live with other priorities?

In the first chapter of his letter to the church at Philippi, the Apostle Paul wrote, “The important thing is that in every way, whether from false motives or true, Christ is preached.” Paul also found himself at the mercy of brutal enemies, more than once. His response? “I will continue to rejoice,
for I know that through your prayers and the help given by the Spirit of Jesus Christ, what has happened to me will turn out for my deliverance.” Unlike Juno and company, Paul knew he could count on something other than himself for deliverance; and he knew that deliverance would not necessarily take the form of continued life.

“Christ will be exalted in my body,” Paul continued, “whether by life or by death. For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain. If I am to go on living in the body, this will mean fruitful labor for me. Yet what shall I choose? I do not know! I am torn between the two: I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far; but it is more necessary for you that I remain in the body.”

For Paul, the prospect of death was not a terror. It was merely the beginning of the next step of the adventure. Because of this, he knew that his survival was only worthwhile if it served God, and if it could be managed with integrity.

In The Descent, Sarah’s transformation is truly remarkable. But there is only descent, and no ascension. Survival is the only priority. She has forgotten, or never known of, Paul’s advice to the Philippians: “Whatever happens, conduct yourselves in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ.”

Barnyard

I never know quite what to expect from Steve Oedekerk, the mind behind such films as the Ace Ventura series, Patch Adams, The Nutty Professor, and Bruce Almighty. His movies tend to range anywhere from high-concept comedy to low drama—so it’s no surprise, I suppose, that Barnyard is a mixed bag.

Oedekerk is very up front in admitting that the concept behind his latest film is of the highest variety: the idea that, when humans aren’t looking, barnyard animals “spring up on two legs, walk, talk, watch TV, and orchestrate outrageous practical jokes.” And that concept, long familiar from the Far Side comic strip, forms the backbone of one half of this movie.

The other half is a domestic coming-of-age dramedy about a young cow named Otis who’s more interested in gently sowing oats than he is in minding the farm. The latter activity is precisely what his father Ben is most concerned with. The old cow finds his adopted son’s irresponsibility both disrespectful and dangerous. When tragedy befalls the barnyard, it’s up to Otis to fills his pop’s shoes and save the other animals from ravenous coyotes.

Two obstacles may prevent audiences from enjoying this film. The first is that the high-concept comedic aspect of the film, while providing the bulk of the sight gags and laughs, really has virtually nothing to do with the resolution of Otis’ custodial crisis. The intersection of Oedekerk’s animal and human worlds is mere window dressing, a slight conceit that reveals the actual plot (and characters) for the shallow inventions they are—weak props for a story that might prove wildly forgettable.

The second obstacle is simply that Otis and his father are both cows—not bulls, but cows. With udders. Just like Otis’ girlfriend Daisy. Yup.

Still, audiences may still be attracted to the film’s animation, which seems pleasingly modeled on old stop-motion claymation. Audiences may also find Oedekerk’s gentle humor appealing.

They may also respond to the central message of the film: that selfless sacrifice is noble and worthy. “A strong man stands up for himself,” Ben tells Otis, “but a stronger man stands up for others.” And that’s certainly true.

But why not take that concept a step further? Why stop at drawing the boundary at the barnyard fence?

Borders always provide the definition of who’s on the inside and who’s on the outside. And while it is indeed noble to stand up for your family, your team, or your country—those on the inside— who’s standing up for those on the outside? As Jesus observed in the Sermon on the Mount, “If you love those who love you, what credit is that to you?” That is, when the chips are down, most of us are capable of standing shoulder to shoulder with those who are like ourselves. And that’s all well and good. But Jesus, on the other hand, said, “Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you.”

In Barnyard, it’s pleasing to see that, though Ben and Otis don’t quite go so far as loving their enemies, there’s still room on the farm for mercy. Oh, if that only seemed to be the case in the real world...