Warm Bodies, or Cute Girls and Bonies.

He's trying to find the white meat.

Teenage girls just can't seem to fall in love with the living anymore.  Vampires and werewolves I can understand.  Vampires have just the right amount of mystery and darkness, and werewolves tend to have deliciously bronzed abs even when they do look like alpacas.  Monsters used to be scary, but now they're just your daughter's boyfriend.  I guess that gives the fathers of the world one more reason to hunt them down, but seriously, ladies.  I know you're all secretly dead on the inside, but zombies?!  They are a little too-obviously dead on the outside, and they want to eat you.  And not in an I-want-to-eat-you-so-bad-but-I-love-you-so-much-and-let's-make-a-vampire-baby sort of way.  This opening paragraph has been brought to you by Twilight references and misogyny.

So, let's start the review here.  Warm Bodies is good.  (A warm body is always good.  Right, bro?)

Damn it.  The third time should be the charm:

The Perks of Being a Wallflower: Sophomore Year Must Have Sucked.

Ten points for Gryffindor.

The Perks of Being a Wallflower will resonate with anyone who remembers feeling like an outsider in high school, which as one eventually discovers, is pretty much everyone.  It's a well-crafted, capsule of nostalgia focused around an incredibly dull, yet invariably scarred, loner named Charlie who finds himself befriended by an intriguing band of misfit youths.

The film manages to capture the mood of youthful insecurity and the transitory sense of entering and leaving high school, all the while reminding us, perhaps a little too often, of the ignorance inherent in children's ploys at maturity.  Charlie seems to be the only real wallflower of the bunch; he acts as narrator, and would be a completely vapid character if not for a tragic past and a crush on Hermione Granger.

It is the friends Charlie makes that drive the plot.  Sam (Emma Watson) and Patrick (Ezra Miller) are step-siblings whom, after the realization that Charlie has no real friends, adopt him as their own.  Charlie seems to contribute little to this friendship, apart from being a virginal target for corruption and a fresh face to talk to.  I suppose that's more than most friendships are based on, but I think I harbored a small grudge for Charlie's uninteresting personality.  I mean, sure he reads books, but he's not that cool.  And he has a stupid trapper keeper.

Drive: Ryan Gosling's Guide to Being a Man Part 2.

If it isn't already obvious to you that Ryan Gosling/Baby Goose is the greatest living human being, take a moment to observe him in his natural habitat.  He's always willing to break up a street fight, before performing in his band, and he just wants to quit acting to make some babies.  And he'll probably take you to Disneyland first, because Disneyland strengthens fertility.  And if you don't click any of those links, just go watch Blue Valentine and attempt to logically explain what Michelle Williams could possibly dislike about him.

Gosling's most recent works only expand on his likability.  Crazy, Stupid, Love was Gosling's first foray into providing manhood instructions for the masses, and I urge you to interpret Drive as an instructional video on how to take care of your gurrl.  You can steal, shoot, and stomp dudes to death, but you better take care of yo' baby.

I wouldn't blame you for thinking that Drive, particularly due to the presence of Brian Cranston, Ron Perlman, and fast cars, might be a fast-paced action film in the vein of The Transporter or Fast and the Furious.  In fact, if that's exactly what you want, you might not even want to see Drive, but if you can move beyond your muscled, bald man fetish, I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.

Art House Roundup: The UK Invasion and Will Ferrell.

I've been catching up on some harder to find films that came out this year, and if I don't post all of them in one entry, I probably won't post about them at all.  Everything Must Go, Submarine, Attack the Block, and The Trip have all been pretty difficult to see in Michigan, but I'm a magician, so I manage.  Reviews of the previously mentioned follow the break.

Where the Sleeping Theatre Goers Are, or Spike Jonze's New Music Video.

Dear Spike Jonze,

If I wanted to watch eight children argue, I would take up babysitting. Where the Wild Things Are will forever be my ultimate reminder why I do not.

Certainly you've captured the elaborate capacity of childhood imagination and accompanied it with a phenomenal soundtrack, but that, sadly, is about all the film has going for it. Perhaps you should have made a music video instead. Any relevant or entertaining content is so thinly disbursed between random fits of brattiness and fort building/dirt throwing/pile making/[insert random childhood action here], that I would classify Wild Things (Not to be confused with the Neve Campbell film) as surrealism if the events had any driving force behind them whatsoever. But nope; It's just some kids playing. Oh, and some of them happen to be giant furry things.

At least the climactic metaphor (Max's "birth" from KW) actually made sense and gave the film some semblance of closure, but every other action Max and the nonhuman characters partake in seems like an exercise in time wasting. Thank the heavens this was just over an hour and a half; any longer and I would have taken a nap. There's more indie music/random event combos in this than there were in Juno.

What bothers me the most is that the first fifteen minutes of Wild Things are great. Kid feels neglected, throws a hissy-fit and runs away: a fine articulation of childhood frustration. When Max arrives at the island, the frustration wanders off and is replaced with a mess of childhood imagination tied together by thinly veiled tidbits of Max's actual life. The problem with this, is that all the characters on the island are Max; in that they are figments of his imagination, and therefore cannot possess any capacity for thought or emotion beyond his own. As a result, all events on the island are shaped by a grade-school auteur, and the characters can do little more than behave like whiny children.

I held out with the hope that once Max returned home the film would dazzle me at the end (with at least a fuzzy moment to make me feel good), but no such luck. Max's final scene at home is shorter than the end credits. Apparently, when a child runs away he should be rewarded with cake.



P.S. KW is a total pothead.