Movie 43 Zero Stars

    Over the course of my brief, yet fulfilling stint as a film critic, I've encountered an innumerable amount of "bad" pictures, however, none as egregious as the film entitled: "Movie 43." It is a pathetic excuse for film-making as it is, yet it is so much more than that. It is a testament to the lack of respect and appreciation for what this art represents, and it is the only picture in which I have actually felt a loss of intellectual capacity after viewing.

    Sure, I've sat through an abundance of pictures that warranted the action of pulling one's bodily extremities out of their sockets, just so that you can have something to slap yourself back into coherence with, but this film accomplishes an even more daunting task--a feeling of pure physical sickness and a sense of empathy for anyone who actually paid money to see it upon release.

    With that being said, "Movie 43," structurally speaking, is a series of short and rather horrendous clips that intend to provoke some hint of emotion, whether it be laughter (although that is highly doubtful, considering the stupidity of the material) or psychological nausea.

    Of course, there is an underlining degree of satire, which touches on modern aspects of society, including the insensitivity of parents with regard to teenagers, the degradation of sexual fetishes, the commercial industry, the ignorance of mega corporations, the obsession surrounding plastic surgery and the racial stereotypes that fuel American athletics.

    Nonetheless, it is a moot point; for, it is fashioned in such a way that can only be described as mind-numbingly atrocious, and, quite frankly, it is an encroachment on our rights as human beings.

    Unfortunately, there are some notable actors that grace our presence. The short list would include the likes of Hugh Jackman, Kate Winslet, Richard Gere and Halle Berry, among others. It would seem as if their pride and dignity as professional actors was completely surrendered in an effort to obtain (what else?) monetary gain; not to cast aspersions, however, but this becomes evident after every utterance which can be deemed a line of dialogue.

    I assume this lack of conviction was due to the daydreams in which our resident stars brewed over, which highlighted what to spend their hefty day's earnings on. Unless, of course, it was their intention to become a constituent to what can be designated as the worst contemporary film ever created.

    It has become quite a dilemma for me (with regard to the grading scale) when it comes to pictures of this stature. My intention is to never denounce a film to this degree unless I find it to be morally appalling and offensive to the population of this wonderful country. (In fact, the only film that I have given "Zero Stars" up to this point is the fourth installment of the "Transformers" franchise, which is an outright affliction to the wallets of millions of individuals, when it could be best spent elsewhere.)

    Not only will I impart this rating onto this particular picture, but I will place an emphasis on just how pernicious it is. The most simplistic aspect of my job is to recommend good films and forewarn audiences of the inferior ones. Now, if you find yourself with an irresistible hankering to actually view this wretched excuse for entertainment, and subsequently find it to your liking, then there is little hope for you. For everyone else concerned, you have been warned.

Inherent Vice ★★★1/2

    Of all the recent Hollywood productions bestowed upon us, (in a time of season that is somewhat equivalent to every moviegoer's Christmas) "Inherent Vice" is one that will logically be neglected, and rightfully so. It is certainly not a film for the casual audience, and I'm not quite convinced that it can be deemed worthy of acknowledgement by even the most perceptive individuals, considering its overemphasis on dialogue and a plot that is, let's face it, eccentrically muddled.

    Quite frankly, however, the story makes little difference here. Any attempt to weave a coherent narrative out of subject matter such as: Nazis, dishonest FBI officers, Indo-Chinese heroin cartels, communism, cocaine-fueled dentist practices, kidnapping cults, Aryan Brotherhoods, Last Supper pizza parties, and the Bermuda Triangle, would be nearly impractical as it is, yet that is its intention--albeit--in a satirical fashion, which mostly takes shots at law enforcement and the discrimination against the legality of marijuana.

    Larry "Doc" Sportello, a man whose surrounding environment of the fictional town of Gordita Beach, California, serves as a pure reflection of character, is an idiosyncratic private investigator and chain smoking doper. (The latter we are told come from the planet of Neptune, which would surely explain the alien treatment.) He is quirky in attitude and demeanor and gains his clients through the referrals of the local head shops.

    Although, his personality can best be summarized by way of a subtle cinematography technique, which in this particular instance, is the utilization of soft, or blurred, focus. In a relatively standard introductory scene for a crime drama (epitomized by that of "Chinatown"), Sportello is left in this obscured attention, while he converses with his newest client, from the point of his office settings (which would be his small beach house living room), until he makes his way into the kitchen to open the refrigerator door, in order to retrieve a beer.

    Then, and only then, does he come back into focus, and more importantly, back into consciousness.

    

    Joaquin Phoenix, who very much resembles a mixture of Marvel's popular action mutant in Wolverine, and a 1970s John Lennon in appearance, was made for this role, partly because it accommodates the interpretive nature of his acting personality. He is very methodical in his approach to this character, yet in a seemingly phlegmatic, and rather dull-witted fashion. (This leads to low-toned mumblings and inaudible phrases at times, when Doc waits for his mind to catch up with his vocal cords.)    

    

   Phoenix's chemistry with the supporting cast is arguably the most vital aspect of the film itself, and it cannot hurt that such performances become honorable in their own right. Katherine Waterston is simply magnificent as Shasta Fay Hepworth, a former lover of Sportello and constitute of the central story line. Waterston is a relatively unknown actress, although I am sure that she will be hard to forget after such a sexually driven performance. (Best encapsulated by a scene in which Shasta and Doc succumb to their sensual vulnerabilities.)

    Other notable personas include those played by Reese Witherspoon and Owen Wilson, yet none more integral than that of Josh Brolin, who dons the persona of an LAPD lieutenant. Brolin is equally as odd in manner, and it is this improbable relationship with our resident protagonist that fuels many brilliant and mildly amusing scenes. 

    It is quite obvious as to which realm "Inherent Vice's" theme rests, and that is in its impeccable display of character. (Although there is a hint of an emotional mood of a sexual influence, brought about by many scenes, and one bizarre motif in which we awkwardly watch as Brolin gags himself with a chocolate covered banana.) 

     Additionally, however, it is also unmistakable as to its inner miscalculations. We begin the picture with an image of an attractive woman, both in voice and appearance, whose voice-overs subsequently become utilized to provide background information, and character biographies, through a poetic, yet modern tone. Even though we can ascertain that it is actually the subconscious of Doc, in physical form, it only adds, rather unnecessarily, to the befuddlement of an already outlandish atmosphere.  

    What Paul Thomas Anderson has accomplished here is a creation that is completely driven by the hipster counter-culture, the participants of which try their damnedest to mimic the unforgettable style and flair of a more peaceful time in the world. It will undoubtedly become a cult classic and will most likely be relished for its zany mentality and permeating drug use. 

    On more of a professional note, I could not help but to notice the Academy Award nomination that this film has received for Best Costume Design. Have we lost all sense of acuity? Sure, the wardrobes presented are on par with any period piece, both in impression and authenticity, but how hard could it have been to find an appropriate look for this decade at hand? Are we awarding a few trips to the second-hand store here? It only goes to show how far we have strayed from the glamorous age of costume supremacy. 

Into the Woods ★★1/2

    It would be quite discourteous of me, and somewhat unethical (with regard to my obligations to the public), if I did not give my opinion of this film outright: Disney's "Into the Woods" is a failed attempt to once again bombard audiences with a sense of moral implication while essentially presenting a mishmash of aged fairy tales to accommodate a bland narrative of its own. Although its length is warranted considering its intentions, by the end of the viewing, I could not help but pine for a "happily ever after" ending—the kind in which Disney had built their foundation.

    With a picture so dependent on its ensemble cast, there is little to boast about here, except, of course, for the fact that their execution in song is on par with what is necessitated by the medium. (It is borderline insufferable to view a musical with a poor representation in this field, which undoubtedly leads to the belching out of notes to a nonexistent back row and to the compromising of the genre's subtle nature.)

    We drudge along as each character sings their tune of internal conflict, which is approximately the only exhibition of characterization at hand. They want, they need, they desire—all in an effort to build up the theme of the tale—and even though most of the aspirations are relative (the wishing of a family, the essential need to be loved for who you truly are, etc.), it seems forced more so than anything else.

    This is surely not to mention the fact that each song is entirely banal, much like the film itself, and when it actually does break the mold, it is in an utterly ridiculous fashion. (This is in reference to the agony infused number sung by the two princes. You know, the one in which they splash around a stream and expose their bare chests for seemingly no reason.)

    The shining star of the production is Meryl Streep along with the accompanying handiwork of the makeup crew. Streep, whose beauty has progressed gracefully over her highly prestigious career, is as elegant as I've ever seen her, and she never relents in vitality. She is menacing in stature, yet empathetic when she needs to be, and Streep never loses control over several scenes where plausibility becomes suspect. Naturally, one would expect her presence to stand above the rest, but it would seem that her charisma only highlights the lack thereof when it comes to the overall spirit of the film.   

    However, it would seem that the most prominent deficiency in "Into the Woods" is the setting. The "woods," which we are told is an inevitable destination no matter what errand one may be running, fulfills its purpose as the determiner of character, which, consequently, compromises the film entirely. I mean, think about it. If the unadulterated persuasion of the forest is to blame for our characters' actions, then where is the validity? It transforms our resident personalities into pawns of sorts in hopes of (can you guess?) providing us with a moral suggestion.

    So, what is it exactly that Disney is trying to convey? What message are they attempting to weave, which would make them—in the famous words of Percy Shelley (with regard to artists)—"the unacknowledged legislators of the world?"

    Conveyances of knowledge (and aspects of humanity) such as selfishness, desire, self-indecision, guilt, loss, gain, and most notably, egoism, permeate the picture. These ideas are combated with the optimism of utilitarian thoughts and collaboration. We are even blatantly prescribed the sentimental fallacy that "no one is alone." Although it is an admirable attempt by Disney to bestow such lessons upon its audiences, this formula becomes easily tiresome, and it simply makes one yearn for their golden years, where imagination superseded personal belief.

    And the reason for this motivational broadcast is entirely evident: The film industry has one of the largest followings of all. Which brings up another issue—branding. Back in the 1940s and 50s, studios exploited successful pairings of actors and directors to increase their revenue. Disney utilizes its image to not only flourish financially but to relay its institutional opinions. We love every product they produce because of the name above it. Nevertheless, we have to be able to see through this manipulation so that we may view the outcome in an objective light, and in this particular instance, it is simply prosaic.

Exodus: Gods and Kings ★★1/2

    Ridley Scott's "Exodus: Gods and Kings," a film whose subject matter has been beaten to death over the course of cinema history, provides nothing remotely fresh to the story of Moses, and seems intent on fashioning a Hollywood blockbuster around a box-office star in Christian Bale, than anything else. One look at the trailer, and you may have just seen the sum of the picture's aim for yourself.

    As one might expect, the narrative is relatively consistent with that of the Old Testament, except, of course, a minuscule alteration here and there. (For example, instead of God speaking directly to Moses, it is a young boy, who Moses later deems as a "messenger.")

    The Egyptian royalty becomes aware of Moses' heritage, and he is therefore banned from the kingdom. Eventually, there is enlightenment, and redemption, all of which leads to a rather pedestrian climax, where the just triumphs over the malevolent. Naturally, this is the theme of every Bible tale (along with that of salvation), however, "Exodus" does very little to expand such notions, and opts instead, to simply tell an already repetitive account of Christian lore.

    Scott, a director who surely knows the intricacies of quality film-making, provides adequate direction and indulges in numerous techniques to ensure success from each element of the production. High camera angles are sufficiently utilized, to not only diminish the importance of figures such as Ramses, but to give us an objective, and nearly scientific, examination of a constantly re-building Egypt.

    Natural lighting is employed to do what it does best, and that is to provide a genuine atmosphere, for a picture that relies on plausibility without exception. Action scenes, although uneventful, and far and few between, are acutely fashioned with several director's interpretive points of view, including the viewpoint of a carriage driver, as the vehicle is thrust into the air, and the utilization of slow motion, to intensify the moment at hand.

     Despite the favorable outcome of such tactics, however, most of the film is hampered by the overbearing presence of computer generated imaging, which much like the plague in which it is used to depict, becomes nothing more than a tiresome display of repetitiveness.(Instead of delving into the proclivities of God or any intellectual thought rich in introspection, we are bombarded with a half hour exhibition of killer crocodiles and insects.)

    In order to overcome the dreariness of yet another big budget picture, with little to offer besides essentially a re-telling of a set of events, there must be a strong outing from our primary actor. Bale, one of the finest impersonating actors left in Hollywood, once again sheds his personality, in order to don that of a historical figure in Moses. Although Bale does show glimpses of brilliance, in an exceptionally difficult role, it is not enough to prevail over the shortcomings of the film as a whole. 

    One of the most important aspects--when portraying a prominent figure--is to not upset our preconceived beliefs as to how that character will act, and maybe even more vital, as to how that individual appears. Bale certainly exceeds in each of these facets and does his best to give this persona a sense of humanness and a chance to relate to a father in the modern world. 

    Above all, however, it would seem that Bale is quite vulnerable in this performance (not to say that all actors do not have an air of vulnerability, considering they are vulnerable creatures by nature), and this is what makes it so compelling. His conversations with God (or God's messenger if you will) are certainly the chief dialogue in the picture, yet they come off as inadequate, considering we have no earthly idea as to the deliberateness of the actions in discussion. 

    The issue with "Exodus: Gods and Kings," along with every other film that touches on the subject of God, is one that can be attributed to reality, and the philosophical complication that has troubled some of the most brilliant minds on record. We are to believe that this entity is omnibenevolent, yet it would seem as if his actions were nothing short of vengeful. (Case in point: many innocent lives, namely children, are taken for the actions of an arrogant king.) Until some ample explanations are given, these pictures will only slip further into a realm of obscurity. 

Home on the Range ★

    There is something definably overpowering in Disney's 2004 animated film entitled "Home on the Range." If you have ever seen the sitcom, aptly named, "Roseanne," then you surely can recall the coarse, and utterly domineering voice of its leading actress, Roseanne Barr, whose vocalization is an ill-mannered concoction of an opera singer, and a garbage disposal.

    Although this is not the sole inadequacy to grace our presence, I could not help but to fixate on this error of judgment, which consistently places this film in a position of failure. Unlike Tim Allen, whose voice acting is quite compatible with the animated persona of Buzz Lightyear, Barr can never thrive in the realm of sincerity, and her performance is essentially a depiction of what she was compensated to do: read from a script, while being recorded.

    Despite this unflattering shortcoming, "Home on the Range" discovers other, rather precarious ways, to ensure that it will never be locked in the Disney vault, so that someday, it could be re-released in an effort to expose a new generation of children to the magic, and amusement, of a quality picture. A lackluster story, along with an uninspired display of hand drawn animation, helps to appoint this classic as--forgettable.

   Maggie, a robust and spirited dairy cow, is begrudgingly sold to a humble farm (fittingly called: Patch of Heaven), after her owner was completely ransacked of all his steer, which subsequently, forced him to shut down his ranch. After the expected introductions, in which Maggie rouses her new companions, a Sheriff stops by to issue a debt collection for $750.

   Instead of limiting the antagonist role to that of bank collectors (they have been scrutinized enough, haven't they?), we learn of an evildoer, Alameda Slim, whose ransom is (can you guess?) exactly $750. Accordingly, Maggie and her patrons shove off into the unknown, as they will attempt to save their home, and restore justice to the Wild West.                      

   It is certainly true that the West is always a fascinating setting for any picture; even the simplest of Westerns have a symbolic conflict (mostly good versus evil or law versus lawlessness), accompanied by picturesque landscapes and memorable characterizations. "Home on the Range" has none of these qualities, unless, of course, you find a yodeling crazed outlaw as charming as Disney apparently does.

   Even the heroes of the film are tedious and do not have enough personality to engage us. I mean, they're cows. Buck, a side character who comes in the form of an erratic and brazen horse, is as appealing as any lone individual here. (There is a point in the film where Buck's arrogance and confidence are sorely dashed, and it requires him to tackle the same exact complication, in order to restore his dignity.) A storyline centered on Buck would have at least been more amusing.

   As understandable as it may be--that every production is not going to represent your finest work--when products of this stature are created, there has to be some level of accountability present. Of course, there are fellow critics who find solace in just about anything, as proved by Leonard Maltin, who wrote, "Good fun for the whole family," with regard to this picture. Only if you find cows to be an idolizing figure, or of any interest, would you find any joy in this dreadful excuse for seventy-six minutes.

The Hunger Games: Mockingjay - Part 1 ★★1/2

    For what it's worth, the latest installment in the "Hunger Games" series of films has become nothing more than an exhibition for political thought and conviction. For, that is essentially what is being debated here: Rebels fight for democracy, and the elitists struggle to maintain totalitarian (or if you prefer the term fascist) control over a population of individuals deprived of all financial value. Does this premise ring any bells?

    The plot, in its most primitive design, can be described simply as a string of "moves and counter-moves," a phrase used by the apathetic antagonist in President Snow. There is even the presence of promos, which are utilized to inspire both movements and to remind us, maybe even unknowingly, of the upcoming presidential election in 2016. (All that was lacking from each production was the "approved by" message, in case we were already devoid of that knowledge.)

    What "Mockingjay-Part 1" strives to do well—it does so—yet in such a way that compromises the film as a whole. Stock characters are employed to do, well, obvious tasks, such as pointing out this piece of blatant information or that one, and they merely fill in the audience as to what is going on. Furthermore, a feline becomes the initiator of an intrinsic metaphor (the meaning of which is revealed by our heroine seconds later) and a plot device, and it is essentially used to create an unwarranted dramatic effect. (Nevertheless, it does rank as one of the most suspenseful instances in the entire picture.)

    Most telling, however, is the cinematography whose sole intention, evidently, is to capture the numerous looks of sorrow and uncertainty on the face of our leading actress. The camera remains static at times, when it shouldn't, and it neglects even the most elementary goals of cinematographic composition. (I guess the filmmaker believes that Katniss is the object of greatest dramatic significance in every frame, even if her only motion is that of a blinking eye.) This provides Jennifer Lawrence with the opportunity to showcase her facial acting skills and the complexities associated with her reaction shots, which are all very homologous in nature.

    Looking back, I was somewhat critical of Lawrence's performance in "Catching Fire," (at the time, I would have described her as an amalgam of Luke Skywalker and Mae West) yet her performance in this film is more than sufficient. The glam days, in which Katniss is primped and groomed to perfection, are over, and we are introduced to a color palette of darker tones or what can be best described as simply gray or black.

    This role, above all, requires a sense of naturalness, and Lawrence excels in this department. She is supremely talented when it comes to manipulating her facial features to looks of agony and extreme torment, even if the script calls for these qualities a little too often. (In fact, these skills are so noticeable because she is forced into a position that justifies them time after time.) Scenes that warrant a sense of warmth, however, are also well-crafted, and the most notable of these involve conversations with her sister, Prim, where Katniss exclaims, "we should do this more often," a sentiment also held by yours truly.

    Of all the existing positives, the addition of Julianne Moore, to what seems to be a stagnant cast at times, is the most noteworthy. Moore brings a definable elegance to the production, and although she steals screen time from Donald Sutherland, the strength of her veteran personality is direly needed. Woody Harrelson is hardly memorable as his one-dimensional character takes a backseat to our leading lady (much like everyone else) and as his, already diminutive, dialogue is further reduced.

    The appearance of Philip Seymour Hoffman is bittersweet; nevertheless, wonderfully engaging. I have never seen a poor outing from him, and this notion remains true even after this showing. It is exceedingly important for the viewer to under no circumstances visually see the actor, in fact, acting. In a sense, one must not see the "wheels in motion." Hoffman exudes this authenticity more than most, and he will be sorely missed in Hollywood.

    As I was leaving the screening, I could not help but wonder as to what force this genre of films and novels will hold in the future. It seems that every year a new series, consisting of a futuristic and rather dystopian world, hits the shelves and empties the pockets of millions of teenagers. My guess is, that in twenty years, the likes of the "Hunger Games" and "Divergent" will be far from our minds. After all, the target audience will be grown, and I'm sure adolescents will have a new craze to indulge in.

Jersey Boys ★★

    Clint Eastwood's "Jersey Boys" is a poor (and tedious I might add) imitation of Martin Scorsese's picture entitled "Goodfellas." There are an innumerable amount of resemblances that will jump off the screen and subdue you into an indefatigable state of déjà vu. Perhaps Mr. Eastwood has become a victim of his own subconscious.

    No matter how the result was executed--it was--and "Jersey Boys" essentially depicts the rise, and the subsequent fall, of the very popular 1960s foursome, aptly named, The Four Seasons. If you are direly interested in how the band obtained its name, or how Frankie Vally actually became Frankie "Valli," then you are surely old enough to remember the music that accompanied these personas, and hopefully you have seen enough motion pictures to realize why this portrayal is defective.

    We are roped into this dreary tale by a breaking of the "fourth wall'' via Tommy DeVito, whose projection of character rivals that of Robert De Niro, in the previously mentioned and seemingly often referenced material, and whose name mimics that of another "Goodfellas" personality played by the extremely talented Joe Pesci--an individual who also finds his way in the film as a middle man to the obtaining of the group's fourth member and ultimate success. (The man, not the actor.)

    With all similarities aside, however, there are two notable facets of the picture that fail invariably. Conflict, the mainspring of any plot driven theme worthy of the designation of enjoyable, is relatively absent, albeit, for the complications present in every music group's road to stardom which can be found in a "Behind the Music" documentary. (If you are unacquainted with these stumbling blocks, they include debt, betrayal, and surprisingly irrelevant here, substance abuse.) Frankie attempts to juggle his personal life with that of the band, neither of which is calculated efficiently enough.

    John Lloyd Young, in his first role bearing any significance, certainly fits the physical requirements of a small and level-headed young man from New Jersey with a voice that almost emulates that of Valli. The issue here is that this is the only ability provided by Young, as he obviously took the outside approach to his subject matter, and he never quite succeeds in prying open the soul of a beloved lead singer, which is one of the foremost attractions of the film itself. We hear the lyrics of classic tunes, such as "Sherry" and "Big Girls Don't Cry," but we are ultimately left at an emotional distance from the man behind the voice.

    Let's be honest here: Clint Eastwood, much like every other living and breathing mammal on this Earth, has one definable enemy, and that is time. It is my conviction that Eastwood, a remarkable director to date, was intent on creating a picture here which displayed a portion of his passion for music instead of producing a viable product. Although it is true that every artist, no matter the medium, creates their artwork from the heart, this concept is not always valued in film-making. In spite of this, however, if there were anyone worthy enough of divulging into their personal fascinations for inspiration, it would be Eastwood. Every great director deserves at least one.

The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies ★★★

 

    It has been a long journey, in the realm of Middle-earth, and one that seemed to begin only yesterday, as Frodo and Sam marched out of The Shire, in hopes to restore tranquility to the spectacular lands that comprise this fictional haven of imagination. Over this span of a little more than a decade, Peter Jackson has not only become a household name, but he has earned respect worldwide for his interpretation of some of the finest, and most influential, literature to ever be written.

    Yet, in the latest installment, Jackson's focus seems somewhat misguided, as the cinematic concern of moral implication (which is arguably the original thematic intention of Tolkien, himself) is thrown into the spotlight, and loose ties never seem to be quite resolved.

    "The Battle of the Five Armies" picks up exactly where the last film ended (shot in a blissful forty-eight frames per second), with Lake Town under siege, and Thorin sliding ever so quickly into a state of madness, due to his obsession with everything that glitters. The throne of Erebor has returned to the king of the Dwarves, and with this comes egoism, envy, and inevitably, war. (Hence the name of the picture, itself.)

    As far as the direction is concerned, Jackson hits his mark every time. The director's interpretive cinematic points of view are exquisitely fashioned, and never fail in lending the utmost dramatic intensity to every scene in which they are found. The zoom lens is utilized with the most precise care, and if Jackson has a specialty, it is indisputably the use of the gyrospheric shot, as the remarkable panning of landscapes and wandering figures once again finds its way into a Tolkien themed picture.

    The composition of the cinematography is adequate enough and is best encapsulated by a wonderful utilization of foreground framing, in which Thorin and Bard discuss promises through the gates of Erebor. The presence of symbolism and visual metaphors are abundant in nature, and accentuate the film splendidly.

    Greed is an idea expressed throughout the duration of the picture, with the technique of repetition, fueling the articulation. Likewise, the symbolism of love is brought to our attention, through an elegant display of musical emphasis, which can be heard as Tauriel and Kili pronounce their feelings for one another. Additionally, there is the Arkenstone, whose symbolic value is obtained through its importance to the structure as a whole, along with the emphasis placed on it by Thorin. Intrinsic metaphors are used impeccably, as we are vividly shown Thorin's descent into avarice, and the significance of family, to the secondary character of Bard.

    Richard Armitage remains as the centerpiece of a very talented cast, (especially of the dwarves, considering their presence could be deemed Lilliputian) and delivers a fine performance under this added pressure. Facial acting, a forgotten aspect of the art itself, is exercised with ease by Armitage, which only adds to the depth of his role. Without a strong showing in this particular area, Thorin would be nothing more than a twenty-first-century depiction of Redd Foxx, in an episode of "Sanford and Son."

    Among the other notable returnees is Ian McKellen, as our favorite wizard in Gandalf the Grey, and Martin Freeman, as the lionhearted Bilbo Baggins. Both of these distinguished actors find their way, in what seem to be limited roles. They were surely not given enough dramatic "moments," in the bedlam of actions and events that compose the plot. Returning as the highly skilled Elven archer, Legolas, is Orlando Bloom, whose demeanor seems to have lost all hints of snide, which has been superseded by a sense of repressed anger. With this character, comes the inexorable sequences of "Matrix"-esque movements, and a flurry of arrows, although there is a scene in which Legolas inexplicably runs out of said arrows for the first time in six films.

    Despite the successes that "The Battle of the Five Armies" conjures, it is deficient in numerous aspects of quality film-making, namely, a lack of a resolution to certain, and even, important matters, and of course, there are the slightly unfavorable instances that Jackson is known for. (For example, the use of computer generated imaging to create a dwarf, instead of using a real actor.)

    As mentioned above, the Arkenstone, an integral piece to the puzzle, and its well-being, are completely disregarded, leaving us with a cavernous sized hole, in what is suppose to be the defining chapter in a three-part series of films. (More attention is given to the "one" ring, in an attempt to link the two trilogies, which is nonessential at this point.) Furthermore, there is the issue of Bard, who is a valued portion of the story, yet we are left wondering as to what exactly happens to him.

    More importantly, however, Jackson has found a new method of creating an emotional distance between his characters and the audience, that being, heedlessly stretching an already thin subject matter into detached parts of a whole. Scenes that would warrant a strong urging of sentiment were entirely lost on my consciousness, as there was simply not enough reason for attachment. (Not to mention the love story that was created for this sole purpose, yet never nurtured to a state that would require a pervading of emotion.)

    Imagine if "Schindler's List" were separated into distinct portions; the concluding monologue of Schindler, himself, would not have held the same dramatic worth, and all compassion would be squandered. Of course, moviegoers who sat in for all three pictures, as part of a limited engagement, had the chance to relish in this intuitive connection between patron and on-screen persona, and that is the complication with this formula.

    Up to this point, I have given every picture, whose setting is that of Middle-earth, four stars, and I have never thought twice about the decision. Nevertheless, for anyone who is seriously interested in the medium, and art, of film, there is one notion that can never be ignored, and one that is quite relative here. For, it is not what the film is about, that makes it a masterpiece or the epitome of unimaginative thought, but how it is about it. Whether or not you agree with this notion of structure supremacy is inconsequential, because, without it, the meaning of this delicate craft would be lost forever.

If I Stay ★

    Structurally speaking, "If I Stay" is a mess of a picture. Its non-linear approach to the material is completely dysfunctional, and its expository flashbacks are ultimately hampered by the lack of an exhilarating climax, and by the nonexistence of a denouement, which in this film, is so direly warranted.

    Our young protagonist, Mia Hall, is involved in a severe vehicular accident, and, as a result, goes into a coma. (If you are first hearing about this synopsis, then I must tell you that it will not mar your experience.) We are told that it is up to her, whether she lives or dies, and we struggle to watch as this girl runs around a hospital (due to an outer body experience) and reminisces on a naive relationship with another adolescent.--this romance supersedes every other logical reason for her to live and irks me to the very core of my being.

    Obviously, this intention is spurred by the thought of the target audience, who flocks to the theater to see two youthful souls fall in love, in hopes that their reality will someday reflect that on-screen. (What young woman wouldn't want to be romanced by a lead singer and lose their virginity in a boat house?) Mia is a highly educated individual, who happens to be a very talented cellist, with an opportunity to attend one of the finest music programs in the country, the Juilliard school.

    The dramatic intensity of her fateful "decision" is an object of ridicule, and rightfully so. She has every reason to live, and none more so than the instinctual nature of every living mammal on Earth. (It is not only our nature to live, but to live in happiness.) Doubt is cast here and there, as our central character and her lover quibble over the most trivial of issues, which only results in a strain being placed on our young and talented actors. Character irony is forced, considering our principal male lives his life "in the moment," yet he must get a long term commitment from Mia, which leads to another complication. Without a plausible story, all inspiration is lost.

    This is not to mention the fact that Mia's persona can never fully reach a plane of conceivability. Find me a seventeen-year-old girl who listens to Yo-Yo Ma and Franz Schubert, and I will renounce my conviction. (It is quite likely that you will never find this individual, or someone who has even heard of these musicians.)

    "If I Stay" is a prime example of a well-crafted film, whose script never adds up. The cinematography is surprisingly impressive, and easily satisfies all three goals of cinematic composition. Depth is created quite eloquently through reflection, and foreground framing is utilized beautifully while capturing a young Mia through the window frame of a door, as she practices her cello. The most exquisite sequence, however, consists of Mia's Juilliard audition, as the camera vigorously encapsulates the passion of her hands and movement of her fingers.

    There is a scene that takes place late in the film, in which Mia has lost all hope and crumbles to the floor with an exclamation of, "I want this to be over!" This delivery is rather figurative, as I believe the actress holds the same attitude with regard to her performance. She is not alone, however, as I held the sentiment as well.

    *On a side note, it would seem as if the twenty-first century, along with all of the unnecessary technological "improvements," have found a home in cinema. Terms such as Google Alert and Skype, are utilized fruitlessly, and applications such as Instagram are now used to provide objects of remembrance and reflection. We have come so far in filmmaking, and yet, it is evident that these instruments will only set us back. As one humble man so graciously put it: "What can you do?"  

     

Over the Top ★★

    If arm-wrestling was actually a sporting event and held on stages that bear a resemblance to that of "Who Wants To Be a Millionaire," then it would take a lot for me to be interested. Wrestling, and, if you included the only other public display in which half unclothed men hit each other--boxing--are in themselves an acquired taste. That's the issue with "Over the Top," (a phrase that also has a technical meaning in the art of slamming one man's arm down with your own) along with the fact that Sylvester Stallone, with numerous masterpieces on his résumé by this point in his career, gives us two reasons not to be involved with this film. They consist of:

    A bland script, which attempts to coax us into the theme that powered the likes of "Rocky," (being the struggle for human dignity) that fails miserably.

    An uninspired performance, which can best be summarized by the emotionless face of Stallone, as he reaches into the depths of his talents and conjures nothing but detachment.

    The rather rudimentary plot, which centers on our protagonist and his son, requires a sense of warmth and naturalness that Stallone cannot provide. Reaction shots obviously suffer from this lack of understanding, and emotional restraint seems to be furiously oppressive. (Most films do not exercise enough, while "Over the Top" does not even strive to produce a look of empathy or happiness on Stallone's face.) If there is even a hint of internal conflict that our character is dealing with, it never becomes believable.

    Stallone is Lincoln Hawk (an example of a very intriguing use of name typing), a man who drives big rigs and participates in underground arm-wrestling circuits at local trucker stops. Sounds like fun, right? Hawk's young son, Michael, who has just finished juvenile military school, is thrown into his company, as his mother (and Hawk's ex-wife) falls ill.

    This sets up for several instances of compassion that are lost in translation, and a championship arm-wrestling match, that not only serves as the climax, but as the sole happening that will allow Hawk to regain his dignity, and earn admiration from his son. They attempt to bond through actions, such as: Hawk teaching his son to drive an eighteen wheeler, and morning workouts that require the assistance of the front of the automobile; all of which are accompanied by a soundtrack that captures the soul of the 1980s music industry.

    The problem with this chief character is three-fold. Firstly, there is no emotional involvement, which never gives the audience a reason to care. Secondly, a poor performance only adds to the sentimental void. Lastly, and most importantly, the story makes little sense. Hawk never had a reason to leave his family in the first place, and when posed with this particular question, we don't receive any valid explanation, just a few low-toned mumblings, and broad assertions.  

    Although essentially a plot driven film at its core, there were a few images that remained with me after the viewing. Long range shots, featuring the backdrop of the southwestern United States, and the slow motion director's interpretative points of view, which captures three hundred pound men in moments of physical strain, while doused in sweat. (The ladder being quite unpleasant, and the former being the only aesthetically pleasing images in the picture.)

    There is an old adage that claims: One cannot just involve an audience with a sunset or any other image of attractiveness, but only people. For, it is the forefront human quality of the medium, and one that allows the spectator to relate to a figure on-screen. However, in this specific circumstance, it would seem this conviction is flawed. I'll take a picturesque landscape over an inexpressive product any day.  

The Santa Clause ★★★1/2

   "The Santa Clause" is a joyous picture that captures the indefinable magic of Christmas time, along with the humor of one of the world's most regarded comedians in Tim Allen. It pits a middle-class working father in a lovable quandary, brought about by a twist of fate, and sends him on a heartwarming journey that is sure to bring happiness to children and adults, alike.

    Certainly a risible concept at times, the idea of Santa Claus, and the underlining belief that surrounds his existence, is the lifeblood of this film, much like every other motion picture that attempts to express the intricacies of the holiday season. In a way, an individual's faith in Father Christmas is an exemplary real-life illustration of dramatic irony and how it functions.

    We are quite aware that Mr. Kringle does not exist, yet we play along so that our children and youth can revel in the joy of adolescent imagination. This identical blueprint is employed within the structure of this film, except, instead of the fact that Santa does not exist, he does, and we keep this close to our heart as other characters lash out in naivety. There is even a strong sense of sorrow stemming from this complication, as Scott Calvin, our protagonist and resident Saint Nick, is hard-pressed because of his secret identity.

    Tim Allen, whose made a career off of his brand of comedy (capitalized by the popularity of his sitcom, entitled "Home Improvement"), continues to express his inner material, as this becomes the perfect role for the personality actor. His everyday humor and sarcasm fuel the first half of the picture, along with his witticisms, in which he ultimately harasses the personality of his former wive's new beau. In spite of this, Allen must step out of his comfort zone, once the red suit becomes his finest attire.

    This is a critical aspect of the performance, and Allen excels in the transition. Much of his success can also be attributed to the fine work of one particular magician on set, that being the make-up artist, whose quality craftsmanship is reflected in the red cheeks and glorious white beard of the iconic persona at hand.

    As the hustle and bustle consume millions of individuals through this time of year, there are some films that strive to remind us of the magic, behind the myth, of our beloved Père Noël. Let's face it, without Santa Claus, the Christmas season would not be as enjoyable, even if his presence is only a minuscule portion as to why this time is so valuable.

    We have all believed in the allure at some point in our lives, and if you have not, then it is quite likely you will never read this review. "The Santa Clause" is a film that will help you to reminisce on those excitable Christmas Eves, when the thought of your favorite toy being under the tree, whether it be a Barbie doll or Oscar Meyer weenie whistle, warmed you to the soul. And what a feeling it was.

The Wizard of Oz ★★★★

    There are some films that stand the test of time, simply because their imagination transcends it. The young at heart dedication that boldly dominates the opening of "The Wizard of Oz," is a genuine testament for that notion. Sure, you may find solace within the sublime, and rather aesthetically blissful, environment of Oz, even without the steady requirement of that faculty of the mind; however, it is just as likely that it will pass you by, much like adolescence fades into adulthood, without a quiver of warning.

    And that is what makes "The Wizard of Oz" so puissant. The artistic semblance of truth, the mainspring of any fantasy picture, never wavers in its aim to stifle the constraints of reality and indulge in the fabrications of creative power. A color palette of bright reds, seemingly fluorescent yellows, and rich greens, all convey the same message, and that is one of exaltation. Poppy fields of vibrant scarlet, the splendid ambiance of Emerald City and the Munchkin village, as well as the creation of such beasts, from talking apple trees to flying monkey henchmen, all give rise to the conviction that production design should never be undervalued.

    Of course, however, the euphoric feeling evoked by such designs would lose all validity, if not for the personas to match, and what a wonderful blend of disposition it is. A tin man whose only desire is to love, a scarecrow who pines for intellectual thought, and a lion whose fear of almost anything supersedes his ambition to become an illustrious display of courage.

    The character irony that fuels these individuals are quite amusing, yet it also reminded me of a Plato dialogue, in which the virtues in the discussion are actually possessed by Socrates, the central initiator of the analysis. It is clear that our beloved characters have the attributes they fancy, and that is what makes them so pleasurable and inspiring to watch.

    All of which brings us to Dorothy, a young girl whose position in the world, both temporally and geographically, inflames her aspiration to see lands of beauty and liveliness. A thought that is best illustrated by her iconic singing of "Over the Rainbow," and something, that in today's existence, would seem impractical, considering all of the technological devices that enshroud our youth.

    We can ascertain that Dorothy is naive, imaginative, and "young" at heart, all of which are reflected by the setting of Oz. Above all, it would seem that she is the epitome of guiltlessness, so imposed by the symbolism of the ruby slippers, whose presence lends significance to the structure of the film as a whole.

    The role of Dorothy, although simplistic in technique, cannot be understated. Judy Garland, a true symbol of early Hollywood glamor, succeeds in every aspect of her performance. With eyes as big as grapefruits and a heart of gold, Garland warms our heart with every note in which she sings, and every spoken line that would warrant empathy. Without her exuberance, the picture would be as dreary and unadorned as the bland imagery of Kansas, in which we are direly intending to escape.

    Although the cinematic composition is relatively adequate, there are some scenes that could have been enhanced by a subtle change in camera movement and positioning. If there was ever a shot that would justify the use of a panoramic, three hundred and sixty-degree rotation, it would be once that wearisome door is opened into a world of splendor. Instead, we are left with a sideline, and quite unflattering, ninety-degree panning, which could never capture the wonderment of the experience.

    Furthermore, a similar miscalculation can be attributed to the moment in which our lovable cast of characters stroll down the unnerving hall that leads to the societally proclaimed omniscient wizard. Our emotional distance would seem detached, which is unfortunate, considering the suspense that surrounds the circumstance at hand. A simple utilization of the indirect-subjective viewpoint would have succeeded immensely here, in limiting the emotional objectivity.

    It is certainly true that these criticisms would seem negligible, in a sense, but it is exceedingly important to compose each scene as if it were a stand-alone masterpiece. Needless to say, this would not seem relevant in today's film industry, but for the golden age of cinema, it is quite pertinent. In fact, there is a scene in which the objective point of view, along with the in-depth movement of Dorothy and friends, becomes most vindicated, and that is the final stretch to the Emerald City. A quintessential shot that captures the vitality of our story, and the potential of the motion picture industry at this time.

    "The Wizard of Oz" is a gem of a picture, and ultimately, startling evidence as to how far the film medium could reach. Although it certainly is not the first Technicolor film to be made (a subject that will produce several disparate "firsts"), it is undoubtedly the most splendid. The cinematic concern, which may have been fulfilled unintentionally, is arguably that of texture. An indescribable orgy of the senses. To be able to enjoy this experience after so many years, is truly a blessing. It is a bold reminder of how far we have come, in regard to the art of cinema, and how much we have lost. If only we could return to simpler times.

Penguins of Madagascar ★★★

    In what seems to be an irresistible business opportunity and a rather favored formula for most production companies, Dreamworks has taken a few of its most well-liked characters and inevitably given them a spin-off motion picture. "Penguins of Madagascar," is simply a ninety-minute extension of the children's animated television show of the same name. Does this guarantee success? Not hardly, however, "Penguins" does cash in on the indelicate humor that fuels most of its films, and most of which would never be heard in the confines of a Disney picture.

    As far as whether or not the jocularity present in this particular depiction of our beloved James Bond-esque protagonists is on par with that of the animated series, I would not know, although I suspect it is homogeneous in nature. The story line is mostly pedestrian, and consists mainly of a sole villain (in this instance a purple octopus), whose actions stem from the hatred for these flightless birds, and an inner ambition to rule the world.

    We are introduced to our stumpy heroes, through a brief origin tale, which plays on several aspects of real life. Camera crews document the young birds, as they make their march, and while one of the younglings, Skipper, boldly rejects nature in order to save a runaway egg. Naturally, two more penguins--Rico and Kowalski--follow along, and once the hatchling is rescued, the foursome becomes the renowned group every child has come to love.

    After being ushered into the present day, the penguins become the focus of a revenge inspired plot, which will test each individual's role on the team. Serving as foil, is a team of polar residing animals (aptly named the North Wind), who unlike the penguins, come equipped with high-tech gadgetry, and three-dimensional schematics that would make even the most sophisticated hero envious.

    This all leads to a mundane climax, in which one of the penguins must prove his worth to the group. (For those of you who love Private, this film shall prove more riveting to you than most.) After all, the targeted audience is indeed that of children, and to hope for an imaginative story would be nothing short of futile.

    Humor is obviously the staple of this franchise, and with that regard, "Penguins" delivers. Whether it be the presence of a cricket (whose chirping subtly implies an awkward moment, and who then proceeds to get up and walk out of the room), or the lack of the technological knowledge of the antagonist (as he attempts to deliver a video message), it would seem that the amusement is sufficient for obtaining a chuckle or two.

    What distinguishes these heroes is their carefree attitude, and their inept preparation for missions, which ultimately leads to situational comedy. If the virtue of courage can be attributed to any perilous circumstance, in which the participant has no expertise, then these mammals certainly fit the bill.

    As I was leaving the theater, it came to my attention that animated pictures seem to no longer be as recurrent as past years, both in quality and quantity. The Academy Awards for this category has become quite a predictable event, as Disney seems to always demolish the competition. I would expect this year to be no different. No matter the outcome, however, the yearning for something even remotely comparable to the golden age of animation seems unfeasible. I guess stagnancy has finally superseded innovation.

Lucas ★★★★

    The days of adolescence are a confusing time to say the least, but for the majority of us they are the greatest period in what seems to be a short, and at times, even desultory existence. Several art forms can successfully capture the spirit of this voyage (most notably the art of painting), but none more significant than film. For, as an exquisite painting can arouse some sentiment from its "still" framework, a motion picture can provide so much more. It will not only coax us into believing the events at hand, but it can create an emotional channel into the heart of our individual, personal experiences, which cannot be taken lightly.

    If there was ever a decade in cinema history where themes concerning the loss of innocence or the coming of age were prevalent, it would most certainly be the 1980s. Films such as "The Breakfast Club" and "Sweet Sixteen" divulged into certain teenage angst, most of which came in the form of differences between particular social groupings and the emotional state of young girls finding their way into womanhood. However, the picture in discussion, "Lucas," is infrequent in the fact that it follows the daily life of a sole male, as he attempts to survive not only the tension among social cliques, but constraints such as naive love and feelings of disdain.

    Lucas' personality is expressed through numerous characterization techniques, including the design of his look, dialogue, and external action. By way of these approaches, we know that he is geeky and rather homely in appearance, open minded and anti-materialistic--and above all--that he is a pariah. Even the captain of the football team (nicknamed Cappie) deems him a "great kid." So, why is he teased endlessly and viewed as if he was fresh off the holdings of an alien spacecraft? Well, I guess it is because he is dissimilar to the masses, although it is never implicitly stated, and that's the beauty of the high school.

    Reproducing the ambiance that this environment consists of is very difficult, yet pleasantly introduced in this instance. The utilization of rough film stock gives the picture a grainy texture as if cosmetic refinements were subdued in order to capture the moment in its natural state. Cinematic points of view are perfectly executed: from the subjective focus of Lucas' crush, Maggie, through a crowd of students at a pep rally, to the indirect-subjective panning of teenage girl, to teenage boy, in a chorus scene, as each individual glances at his or her "crush." (The latter being the quintessential capturing of sexual curiosity, at a time when it is new and mysterious.)

    Additionally, the usage of natural lighting only adds to its authenticity, as the red glow of a local pizza joint becomes the reflection of a young couple's physical attraction, and while the low-key lighting, provided by a small tree, sets the mood for a confrontation between Lucas and the apple of his eye.

    Of all the methods present in the structure of "Lucas," however, the symbolism is undoubtedly the most subtle, and memorable. Of course, there is the first meeting between our protagonist and Maggie, as "Waltz of the Flowers," systematically blends with images of this young woman, as she goes through her tennis routine. The presence of the cicada, or locust if you will, and the emphasis placed on this fragile creature, also warrants some interpretation.

    Although the cicada has come to symbolize insouciance, in its most basic elucidation, this meaning is not relevant here. However one designates its significance is highly subjective, although it is my conviction that the cicada is a representation of Lucas, himself. His position in nature, his delicate physical attributes, and his inner appeal, all align with this eloquent contrast.

    Looking back, it is quite evident that the casting of Corey Haim, in the lead role, was nothing short of brilliant. Haim, an actor who lived through a turbulent career (and an even more turbulent personal life), contains the perfect amount of charm and awkwardness to pull off this performance. His mannerisms and rhythm of speech are truly a spectacle to behold. It would seem as if Haim were born to play this character, and that his best work would come before his face was plastered over the front page of every teeny magazine, this side of the Mississippi.   

    What makes this film unique, structurally speaking, is the irony of the seemingly static and dynamic characters. (The latter being affected deeply by the conflict.) Lucas is never really dependent on the outcome of his adolescent journey and never changes throughout the duration of the action. Yet, it is the surrounding characters, ones who would not normally be attributed to deep change (in regard to their demeanor or attitudes), who do find some guiding light from the resolution. "Lucas" is a picture that finds its way, much like the central character finds himself. It is unorthodox at times, but never relenting in tenderheartedness.

Big Hero 6 ★★★

    Although Disney has essentially become a shadow of its former self (if compared to their glorious golden age or even the elation brought to us by the renaissance years), its newest picture, "Big Hero 6," attempts to evoke that same sense of euphoria and excitement—you know, the kind that makes children rush to the nearest toy store and adults exude the exasperation aligned with taking their young child to see a PG rated film. Lovable characters, a compelling storyline, along with adolescent humor, are all elements needed to produce a quality animated film, and "Big Hero 6" surely delivers on these notes.

    However, as we find ourselves in the midst of an origin tale for the latest superhero group, there are several shortcomings that arise. Our so-called "villain" is nothing more than a flat and rather one-dimensional persona (granted most are), whose only motivating force for action is to align with the thematic intentions of the film, which I will chew over shortly. Yet, the most notable deficiency stems from the environment in which our heroes reside.

    If the seemingly futuristic city of San Fransokyo, a poor amalgam of the real life cities of San Francisco and Tokyo, as well as the name of our central protagonist, Hiro, is not satisfyingly enough indication as to the subculture in which Disney is blatantly trying to advertise, then I'm not sure what is. The allure of the Japanese "anime" subculture is one of spiked hair, large and charming facial features, and imaginative writing, all of which "Big Hero 6" possesses, and yet, it can never quite convince us of the atmosphere in which it aims to capitalize on.

    As if taking a page from the innards of a Spider-Man comic book, Hiro is a young boy (who I'm guessing is of American-Japanese ethnicity) whose parents were lost in a tragic accident and who is now under the care of the stereotypically unhinged and carefree aunt. Ironically, Hiro's intelligence supersedes the image he imposes, which is one of a small and immature teenager. (This is introduced to us via a comically inclined expository scene.)

    Naturally, there is loss, followed by comfort, and the deceitfulness of a malefactor who is ultimately not what they seem to be. This all leads to the creation of a team of heroes whose individual ineptness summarizes the quirkiness of their character. There's the obsessive compulsive and danger fearing male, the intelligent and eccentric blonde, the strong feminist type, and the long-haired hippie geek.

    And, of course, who could forget Baymax. Arguably the mainspring of the entire picture, Baymax is a plump, robotic health provider who seems to be as much trouble as his worth. Along with this physically obtrusive figure comes situational humor as he struggles to get through tight spaces and as his frail exterior warrants somewhat humorous repairs. In essence, the film is filled with jests that will only be enjoyed by youthful children and none of which made me crack a smile.

    It is quite clear where the concern of this film lies: in the realm of moral implication. The lesson of dealing with individual loss, and the raw emotions that accompany such events, is spelled out in obvious manners such as characters simply stating that "this is a revenge story" and other subtle ways, such as single shot motifs that warrant feelings of abandonment and remembrance. It is a very important instruction, no matter the age, and one in which Disney would imply that revenge is only hurtful to the situation.

    Nevertheless, it would seem as if this picture had been done before, and it most certainly has, just not in this particular style. The presence of Stan Lee in yet another on-screen cameo, albeit in animated form this time around, is a playful reminder of that fact. If anything, however, it is the ability to be able to relate to Hiro that should nominate success. In that regard, it succeeds substantially.

    "Frozen" and "Big Hero 6," the last two films bestowed upon us by Disney's animated studios, have ignited a firestorm of acclaim, and they are cherished by both audiences and critics alike. Have we all forgotten the heartwarming tales of "Bambi" and "Pinocchio?" Have we lost the admiration for pictures such as "Beauty and the Beast" and "The Lion King?" It is as if our lives are devoid of all contentment and anything Disney fabricates brings a joyous celebration. I'll reserve my childish glee, I think, until hand-drawn animation becomes something more than just a forgotten art.