"Forgetting Sarah Marshall" a thing to remember

The Screening Room
Specially written for What's Up

Chalk one more up in the Judd Apatow win column. The guy is a juggernaut of comical success.
"Forgetting Sarah Marshall," the newest in a slew of big screen hits straight out of Apatown, is a hilarious and heartfelt movie with all the goofy gleam genre fans have come to love.
Written by and starring Jason Segel ("Knocked Up," CBS' "How I Met Your Mother), "Sarah" follows down-and-out, hangdog Peter (Segel), a composer for the CSI-like TV drama "Crime Scene," of which girlfriend Sarah Marshall (Kristen Bell, "Veronica Mars") is star. But after Sarah dumps Peter — in an uproariously funny scene in which Peter is stark naked and in full, hapless view — the musician pendulums into a depressive craze, alternating between eating Fruit Loops in front the tube and inviting strange women into his bed.
After his attempts to heal his broken heart prove futile, the lumbering, weepy Peter goes on a Hawaiian getaway, only to find Sarah is staying at the same resort as he — with her new boyfriend in tow.
Sarah's flame is famous rocker Aldous Snow, (played by Brit comic Russell Brand, who's devil-may-care persona is priceless) who at one point responds to a request by a doting hotel waiter (Jonah Hill), regarding if he listened to his demo CD, by saying "I was going to... but then I just carried on living my life."



Stuffed with Apatow's sidesplitting regulars like Hill, Bill Hader and a wackily dazed Paul Rudd, as well as "30 Rock's" Jack McBrayer in an ever-hilarious quest to fulfill his wife's honeymoon enjoyment, the film is one with the perfect balance of the funny and the down-to-earth.
Lucky for Peter, his ruined vacation is brightened by delightful hotel clerk Rachel (Mila Kunis, "That 70s Show"), who's plucky and ungraceful yet sweet and insightful approach make the pair a perfect match. Turns out, Rachel is a little heartbroken as well, and she and Peter encourage one another to start fresh without missing a raunchy, jocose beat.
Segel, who starts the movie out with a pectoral dance in the mirror and then gives a grand, laugh-out-loud performance of his "Dracula" puppet rock opera in full Transylvanian accent, wrote an illegally funny and completely lovable script. Bell and Kunis should both be given props as well for giving their characters impeccable nuance and honesty.
Directed by Nicholas Stoller (writer for Apatow's "Undeclared") and produced by the comic juggernaut himself, "Forgetting Sarah Marshall" makes a big splash in an already crowded pool, and will be a hard standard to meet for the rest of the summer's screwball gut busters.

"The Forbidden Kingdom" a teen paradise

The Screening Room
Specially written for What's Up

A magical tale that's a little more "bedtime story" than it is hardcore martial arts mania, "The Forbidden Kingdom" combines the legendary forces of Jet Li and Jackie Chan in a teen-friendly fight flick — after school special-style.
Written by John Fusco ("Hidalgo") and directed by Rob Minkoff ("Stuart Little"), the film follows Jason (Michael Angarano, "Sky High"), a martial arts-obsessed loner who's run-in with a gang of thieves sends him on a journey to right the wrong against burglarized pawn-shop owner Hop (Chan, in a turn reminiscent of Billy Crystal's Miracle Max). Transported through time and space, Jason finds himself in an unknown world, where great adventure and an intoxicated new friend lie before him.
Drunken Lu Yan (also Chan) takes Jason under his booze-soaked wing, and with a little help from the Silent Monk (Li) and the hauntingly beautiful Golden Sparrow, who refers to herself in the third person, they set off on their quest to free the imprisoned Monkey King (also Li).
Confused yet?
The movie tries to balance a host of subplots and mini dramas and winds up lagging in pace. But while some of the humor seems cheap — perhaps girded for all ages - at other times you can't help but laugh at the heart behind it. Angarano's acting is surprisingly on-mark, and he lends the film a natural feel.
As the evil Jade Warlord says to the Monkey King, "martial arts is based on deception." In this case, fight scenes with the aging Chan and Li are at times as realistic as "Space Jam," while at other times the action will keep lovers of the genre jockeying for a better seat.
Jason & Co. must travel to Five Elements Mountain, a Hogwarts-on-steroids fort where the Monkey King awaits freedom and the ability to rid the realm of the dreaded Jade warriors. Shenanigans plague their path as wondrous special effects display the fantastical world.
Chan and Li's match-up hits an endearingly comical note, and Jason turns out to be a bit like Dorothy in Oz. His adventure — and the mismatch of characters he meets throughout it — are perfect for kids, or just the kid inside you.

Mexican Train Dominos, toast and other lessons from Grandma

There are some milestones you never expect to meet. The kind you look forward to like a really good fairy-tale, but don't assume will actually hold water in real life. Enigmatic marks of achievement that, truth be told, might be better anticipated than actually reached. One such milestone I recently hit head on: chalking up a 23rd year in the column of life.
Twenty three. As Blair Waldorf would say, O-M-G.
That's no longer a teenager. It's barely hanging on to the early 20s like someone clinging to a cliff's edge by their cuticles.
Old. Ancient.
Twenty. Three.
But before I began online shopping for time machine must-haves (a heat-proof body suit and biosafe goggles) I had to stop and wonder, was this really the end? Could there be life after 22? Or was I just freaking out on overdrive?
Was I simply the product of an age-obsessed society, or was it really time to pick up some anti-wrinkle cream and pre-order the Boniva?
A few days before D-Day, I was visiting some family for the weekend. Normally a high-spirits bunch, the group mood was dampened after news of a relative's medical troubles. Even so, there was no complaining. Board games and beach walks ensued, and wrapping up that Saturday evening I found myself munching on salt water taffy and sipping decaf in the kitchen with my Grandma. My sweet, lovely Grandma. The woman who taught me how to make my bed and fold down the top cover so it looks just like it should in a fancy hotel. The woman who I fondly named toast with butter AND jelly after before I was even tall enough to reach the toaster. The woman who taught me how to play Mexican Train Dominos, and who was with me at my first, fabulous introduction to New York City. So it was surprise, nay shock, I felt when, while discussing said relative's health woes, the six words I never thought I'd hear her say floated from between her lips so precisely, they only lasted an instant.
Yet their aftershock landed like a bomb:
"Life can be pretty shitty sometimes."
Grandma?
I knew she was right, and even the wizened and mature have to put it to you straight sometimes. But I laughed off the sentiment. Aphorisms make much more sense coming from someone who's battled acne within the last decade, right?
Days later - my actual date of birth - I received a call from a friend. I was at work when my cell began to vibrate, but it was my day, afterall. The one celebrating the ever-closing gap between me and the AARP.
So I stepped away from the newsroom and answered.
"Jen, it's me."
Of course, I know this, thanks to caller ID. But still I feign surprise. Oh! How wonderful of you to call and wish me Happy Birthday!
"I wanted to let you know, I just left the doctor's office. They think I might have cancer."
My brain went quiet as Chernobyl.
Cancer? That's not funny. Not at all.
A few days later, she called with more news. It was cancer. Lymphoma. Stage four.
How could this be? This was my friend, my 24-year-old friend. The person who introduced me to Freaks and Geeks, Firefly and the Flying Dutchman. The friend who first taught me the importance of a well-deserved, post-deadline beer. The one nerdy enough to spend an entire night on a Die Hard marathon and discuss every nuance of a Stephenie Meyers novel. A girl cool enough to label herself a nerd.
How could this be?
Six words: "Life can be pretty shitty sometimes."
Yes Grandma. Yes it can.
And I'd like to say that's when it hit me, but in reality I think it took a few days to sink in. Immediate or not, that proverbial hammer finally clunked me over the head.
This IS life. And morbid as it sounds, none of us - not a one - are getting out alive. So I can freak out about the creaks and creases of old age. I can obsess over Shaw's articulation of wasted youth. But when it comes down to it, age isn't a number of which to be embarrassed. Those numbers are marks of victory. Proof we were here. Every wrinkle or scar a badge of honor. Signs of laughter, scraped knees. Cancer survival.
Every age has its pros and cons, and the more I meet, the more that means I've experienced along the way. So this 23-year-old's Resolution #1? Chill. Because none of us are getting any younger, but we do have the chance to get older. And maybe, just maybe, that's not so bad.


Photo Credit

"Leatherheads" is a few yards short of a win

The Screening Room
Specially Written for What's Up

It’s 1925, and college football is where the heroes live. Pro football is a thing of ridicule, filled with flask-slugging, cigarette-flicking screwuppery, punctuated every now and then with a touchdown.

This is the world of “Leatherheads,” a George Clooney “starring and directed by” picture show that’s filled with the nearly funny, but never quite buys a guffaw.

Clooney is Dodge Connelly, a 40-something pro football player who refuses to let his Duluth Bulldogs go down in eternal forfeit.

So he woos war hero and college pigskin favorite Carter Rutherford (John Krasinski, NBC’s “The Office”), who incidentally finds the idea of being paid to play an attractive one.

Fans flock, sponsors clamor and Dodge chalks up plenty of tallies in the win column, and for a while, things are the bee’s knees. They are pro football players, hear them score!

But when Chicago Tribune reporter Lexie Littleton (Renee Zellweger) gets a tip Carter isn’t the conquering war hero he claims he is, she sets out to chop down his cherry tree and trade it in for the assistant editor’s desk.

Carter and Dodge develop crushes on the whistle-blowing pen pistol, and so begins the film’s ultimate match-up: the Young Buck versus the Cunning Fox with Miss Blonde Ambition smack in the middle.

The story is full of cute comedy, but falls short of outrageous humor. Calmly hued in the colors of the ’20s, it’s like the movie isn’t sure which genre it’s supposed to fall into, and so it doesn’t land in any of them.

It’s a little bit comedy, a little bit sports. It’s like the Donny and Marie of romantic football cinema.

But Clooney and Zellweger’s repartee is pitch-perfect, and just about enough to carry the film through to its final sunset scene.

It also marks the story of football, set at a time when Pig in the Pokes and Crusty Bobs are traded in for new rules and a slew of big time corporate sponsors (picture the first-ever coin toss, where the referees aren’t sure who’s supposed to call what. At least no one calls them Friendo).

Never quite side-stiching, the movie is a quickly forgotten one, feeling a little more like pleather than the real thing. But it’s enjoyable none-the-less. Clooney injects his cheesy A-list charm in just the right amount to earn a little slack for lackluster laughs, and the witty — though sedated — humor is enough to leave audiences feeling like their team may not have won the game, but the valiant attempt was A-OK.

The Ruins weeds out the good stuff

The Screening Room
Specially written for What's Up

It’s common knowledge that horror films are not often ruined by their final scene. Instead, these cinematic scare-a-thons are usually poisoned much earlier on, by cheesy actors, poor writing or a budget so shallow even the most spine-tingling of intentions leave the audience doubled over in mocking glee after the reveal of a cartoonish-looking nemesis. It seems for every good one released, a hundred more are sent straight to Blockbuster’s ever-crowded shelves.

But when it comes to “The Ruins,” a tropically set fright flick that follows four 20-something friends on a journey to a deadly archaeological dig, no such excuses exist. The actors, many of them recognizable indie faves, are more than tolerable. The script is, for the most part, a different but decent adaptation of Scott Smith’s fearsome novel of the same name. And the setting is nothing new but surely nothing inconducive to a spooktastic celluloid experience.

But the ending? Without spoiling the not-so-fun, it is a cowardly cop-out of the cheapest variety not worthy of the silver screen.

Director Carter Smith tells the terrifying tale of Jeff (Jonathan Tucker), Amy (Jena Malone), Eric (Shawn Ashmore) and Stacy (Laura Ramsey), four WASPs on a Mexican vacation who make that predictably dumb decision to go on an adventure which sounds like fun but is obviously a storytelling sham to lead them to their untimely deaths. That’s right, one of those “Poltergeists don’t really exist, so we should definitely explore that dark and twisty mansion beneath the swirl of stormy clouds atop that deathly cliff. You know, the abandoned one no one has ever returned from alive?”

In this case, it’s an ancient, out-of-the-way hillside, set near a Mayan village deep in the jungles of Mexico. Trouble is, once they step foot on the vine-covered Ruins of no Return, those friendly neighborhood gun-weilding Mayans won’t let them step off of it.

Needless to say, their vacation goes from zero to grisly faster than you can say “martini with a twist.”

But the thing about their story is this: there’s no Norman Bates; no Hannibal Lecter; no Col. Mustard with the nunchucks in the billiard room.

Just a curse-bridled mound of dirt covered in the world’s most evil thicket, which wreaks havoc on the over-privileged, under-worked Spring Breakers Four.

Though its depiction tends to be a bit trippy (think a sea of green polka-dotted by red flowers vibrating and speaking in unison), Vinezilla is actually a successfully frightening antagonist, making you feel like one of its hellish tendrils might just crawl over the back of your theater seat and creep right into your ear canal.

It’s a startling and gruesome ride not for the mildly nauseous of heart, but this gardener’s nightmare that has viewers itching in their seats for all the right reasons leaves them exiting the theater stunned for all the wrong ones.

The movie lurches to a stop far too quickly and with a horrendous veer from the book’s original wrap-up, as if the filmmakers were trying to throw the audience a measly, unwanted bone. It takes a turn that sucks all the goosebumpish fun found in the book out in one single breath, a little like it’s your 11th birthday and you just got a hand-me-down pair of sneakers when what you really wanted was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles comforter.

Total bummer, dude.

If you want to truly be haunted, the book is the way to go, but if you have the stomach to handle it and don’t mind a store-bought finish, buy the tickets, pop some popcorn and don’t forget your Roundup.