Film Openings

Week of April 5, 2007

Are We Done Yet?. (PG) One year (in movie time) on from the action of 2005's Are We There Yet?, sports memorabilia salesman Nick Persons (Ice Cube) has sold his business, launched a magazine, and moved his newlywed bride (Nia Long) and two pouty, foul-tempered stepkids into his cramped Portland apartment. Whereupon the unexpected arrival of a bun in the oven prompts a relocation to the bucolic countryside and a too-good-to-be-true fixer-upper that quickly proves to be exactly that. Fans of the first film can rest assured that a change in the director's chair — Dr. Doolittle 2 auteur Steve Carr taking over for the presumably indisposed Brian Levant — has done little to curb the overall tone of slapstick desperation, as the game-faced Mr. Cube does battle with the forces of nature, power tools, and a raft of risible ethnic caricatures. (Scott Foundas) ARN, CMP, DP, EG, GL, J14, MR, OF, RON, SP, TS12

Avenue Montaigne. (PG-13) Avenue Montaigne is a French soufflé of the old school, a romantic comedy set in Paris' arty district, where neurotic writers and actors wring their manicured hands. For my money, charm comes altogether too easily to the French, and Gallic whimsy only serves to prop up infantile Anglo fantasies about the ceaseless glamour of la vie Parisienne. Still, I make an exception for Danièle Thompson, whose warmly irreverent fluff comes enlivened by her earthy refusal to take the cult of the artist at face value. Here, a television soap actress (Valérie Lemercier) obsesses about landing a movie role while a concert pianist (Albert Dupontel), exhausted by his punishing tour schedule, slips away to play to children with cancer and bumps into an old acquaintance, a cabbie turned art collector (Claude Brasseur) who's putting his multimillion-dollar collection up for auction. The Thompsons clearly know and love this neurotic milieu, but their sensibility is resolutely (and commercially) populist, and in short order a newly arrived country bumpkin (played by Cécile de France) is turned loose among these broody narcissists to act as both ministering angel and brisk reality check. Avenue Montaigne doesn't pretend to be deep, but given the tendency of current cinema to milk our glum mood for all it's worth — I say we could use the break. (Ella Taylor) PF

First Snow. (R) Destiny is as loophole-free as an IRS audit in this appointment-in-Samarra yarn from Children of Men screenwriters Mark Fergus and Hawk Ostby, in which cocky salesman Jimmy Starks (Guy Pearce) risks the love of his doting girlfriend (Piper Perabo), not to mention his life and sanity, to avoid a fortune teller's ominous reading. The presence of Memento's Pearce, the poster boy for narrative dislocation, would seem to herald yet another gimmicky puzzle movie about the interconnectedness of every speck of dust and the hair-trigger whims of the space-time continuum. But first-time director Fergus' film is more a moody, tedious anti-thriller about ineluctable fate, keyed to the hero's dawning acceptance of an inverted bumper-sticker truism: "You die, but life doesn't have to be a bitch." Speaking of fate, is it written somewhere that every indie quasi-noir must include a dripping faucet, ceiling fans, shadows of slatted blinds, and a traveling shot of highway lines? As surely as Fergus' establishing shot of the desert must begin with a tumbleweed. (Jim Ridley) PF

Grindhouse. (R) Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez's Grindhouse is so richly evocative of an earlier generation's guilty cinematic pleasures that you can practically smell the faint aroma of bum emanating from the row behind you. With their three-hour doubleheader, Tarantino and Rodriguez are telling us something about what turned them on at the picture show back when the thrills were as cheap as the tickets. Any fears about nostalgia's heavy hand are quickly obliterated (along with just about every living thing onscreen) by Rodriguez's Planet Terror, a 90-minute jolt of zombie mayhem that gets the audience worked up into such a frenzy that you start to wonder how Tarantino can possibly top it. The surprise of Death Proof is that he doesn't even try. Rather, Tarantino mellows the mood with an unpredictable road movie in which laconic passages of girl-bonding give way to sudden bouts of vehicular manslaughter. Death Proof feels especially personal because its main characters are the very movie performers and craftspeople with whom Tarantino clearly feels a special kinship. It may be the most revealing thing he's ever done — a full-throttle expression of a singular artistic temperament disguised, like so many gems of grindhouses of yore, as a glittering hunk of trash. (Foundas) ARN, CGX, DP, EG, J14, MR, OF, RON, SP, STCH, TV, TS12

The Hoax. Reviewed in this issue. CGX

Puccini for Beginners. (Not Rated) One friend short of forming a lesbian repertory staging of Sex and the City, Allegra (Elizabeth Reaser) does not lack for a sounding board when she replaces one lover with two: Grace (Gretchen Mol), a straight girl with dreams of becoming a glass blower, and Philip (Justin Kirk), a Columbia professor with a habit of asking his women what they're ordering at restaurants. A Woody Allen devotee, writer-director Maria Maggenti hawks an insular view of New York City where poverty doesn't exist to illuminate the grotesque solipsism of her characters. The sensitivity of this artless production is such that every peripheral character, human and animal alike, is available only to flatter the egos of the story's power dykes, who, given the dimensions of their living quarters, have some nerve accusing each other of being bourgeois. One good labia joke is not enough to disguise the fact that Maggenti is simply buying time until Allegra's two-timing is revealed, suffocating her story with mentions of her favorite novels and dated references to every buzz word from Laura Mulvey's feminist catalog except for "the male gaze." Ugh. (Ed Gonzalez) TV

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