By Colin George (FARCE/Film)

Robert Rodriguez is one lucky dog. When he and Quentin Tarantino released “Grindhouse” in 2007, there was a lot of talk about how much money it lost. In spite of its well-known contributors and generally favorable reviews, the exploitation homage tanked, to put it lightly. The double-bill failed to reclaim even half of its $67 million budget over the entire international run.

Maybe that’s why I’m so surprised “Machete” got made. Or maybe it’s my surprise at how much fun I had that’s bleeding over—Who can tell? “Grindhouse” still ranks among my most memorable theater experiences, and “Machete,” a feature-length expansion of the faux-trailer that played between the two films, picks up precisely where “Planet Terror” and “Death Proof” left off.

Here, Rodriguez co-directs with his long-time editor Ethan Maniquis, but for all intents and purposes, it feels like Rodriguez is pulling the strings. Double-dipping in the sometimes corny, frequently outrageous, and purposely campy lost and found of cult seventies B-movies is a weird choice for the director, and one that runs the immediate risk of overstaying its welcome. Fortunately, “Machete” earns its existence and then some with a deranged and offbeat mash-up of tawdry action, black comedy, and current events.

It’s no wonder Rodriguez, being of Mexican American dissent and having grown up in San Antonio, Texas, has illegal immigration and border control on the brain. But the way he creatively parlays today’s hot button issue into the silly, cobwebbed genre film of yesteryear is his real stroke of genius. Granted, his sense of humor skews more slapstick than satire, with a levity that might annoy political purists, but it’s all in good, tasteless fun.

At heart, “Machete” is cinematic wish fulfillment for a social subset we’ve never quite seen represented: the Mexican day laborer. Machete (a grizzled Danny Trejo) is our near-mute anti-hero who’s hired by an aide to a political hopeful, only to unwittingly stand as proxy in an assassination attempt—It’s a shot in the leg that gives Senator McLaughlin (Robert DeNiro) the shot in the arm his anti-immigration campaign needs. The film eventually climaxes with an appropriately gratuitous (but admittedly overlong) Mexican/redneck battle royale.

The overall successfulness of such sequences highlights exactly what I disliked about this summer’s other action throwback, “The Expendables.” All you can hope for from films like these is some modicum of creativity, and where Sylvester Stallone stutters, Rodriguez concocts a slew of inventive executions, the most notable of which involves the use of human intestines to propel down the side of a building. The dark humor also sets it apart; it keeps the film far and away more engaging than “The Expendables” in its often stifling self-seriousness.

Weirdly, both films also feature gags about texting, and again Rodriguez mines the more entertaining moment. Sorry, Stallone, but it’s tough to top a line like “Machete don’t text.”

Still, “Machete” can hardly be called perfect, and to a large extent it represents a success for Rodriguez both redundant and unchallenging. It is a minor victory, to be sure, and yet “Machete” may be even better than the film that spawned it. That the director managed to repeat himself repeating the actual seventies exhibitionists and still come away with a handful of fresh surprises and laughs is remarkable in itself.

Like “Grindhouse,” it isn’t a film for everyone. If you take any stock in the box office numbers, apparently it isn’t a movie for anyone. Sensitive stomachs need not apply, and those expecting more than a cartoon discussion of border control will be sorely disappointed. But that “Machete” exists at all is a minor miracle for the rest of us—That is, if you can muster any more enthusiasm for this particular, charming breed of unapologetic schlock.

Maybe the biggest surprise of all was the depth of my own reservoir. Robert Rodriguez is one lucky dog, and so is his audience.

By Colin George (FARCE/Film)

Todd Solondz might be the most polarizing comedy director no one’s ever heard of. The reputation of his films proceed them; a shroud of controversy seems to surround his work, which frequently depicts explicit sexuality, including pedophilia and rape, not to mention murder, exploitation, and ridicule channeled through a pitch-black misanthropic irony. And yet you might as well be speaking another language bringing up his name and filmography with a mainstream crowd. Even in the circles in which he’s known, his sense of humor is a decidedly acquired taste. So specific, in fact, that his latest film, “Life During Wartime,” may come as a shock to his fans. And not the sort of shock they’re used to.

A direct follow up to probably his most well known film, 1998’s “Happiness,” “Life During Wartime” provides a notably more contemplative take on the lives of Solondz’s characters, who have been deliberately and entirely recast for this sequel. Yes, it has its moments of biting humor, dark caricatures, and discomfort, but this time around, he approaches them with a subtler, more refined eye. “Happiness” is a busy, sprawling movie—“Wartime” is a brief string of conversations reactive to the action of that film.

It has the tendency to come off initially disappointing, perhaps because it is his least funny film. But if it is his least funny film, then it is intentionally so; for a director who has tirelessly redefined the term ‘mature content,’ Solondz finally feels as though he himself is maturing. The result may be less fun, but it’s probably more valuable.

And his characters breathe that maturation. In “Happiness,” Bill Maplewood (then Dylan Baker, now Ciarán Hinds) is a struggling pedophile; he is defined and condemned by the things he does. His reintroduction in “Life During Wartime” is upon release from prison, where his sole motive is to track down his son and conduct an amateur psychoanalysis on the damage his behavior caused. Hinds is solemn and introverted in the role; Baker was oily, narcissistic, and well—Childish, if you’ll forgive the phrase.

Maplewood’s recurring dream is a perfect visual metaphor for not only the changes he has undergone between films, but the tones of the films themselves. In “Happiness,” he dreams of an unspoiled park, complete with picnickers and strolling couples enjoying absolute tranquility—Before he loads an assault rifle and lays them all to waste. In “Wartime,” Maplewood revisits the park, where a single elusive individual, scrubbed and out of focus, turns to him with a rose in hand.

What I find most interesting, however, is not the way Solondz reconsiders these characters, but how he reconsiders the idea of the sequel. He’s dabbled before in casting multiple performers in a single role—His last film, “Palindromes,” had eight actresses portraying its protagonist. But with “Life During Wartime” he commits entirely, while at the same time creating a film purposefully asimilar to the existing work.

It may not be as exciting or as groundbreaking a film as “Happiness” is and was, but it’s more interesting for its reservations. The converse, ‘Hollywood’ approach would have been to outdo the original, to push the envelope even further, and the result would be infinitely less genuine. Instead, Solondz throws a curveball: treating his characters with unprecedented compassion (though only by comparison to his other films), and challenging our preconceived notions of both what a sequel is, and what a Todd Solondz film is.

“Life During Wartime” won’t win over many detractors (they probably haven’t heard of it anyway), and it even runs the risk of aliening fans expecting more vitriol—Leave it to Solondz to polarize audiences even when his shroud of controversy dissipates. The man has an absolutely uncompromising vision, and he’s still one of the greatest comedy directors working today, whether you’ve heard of him or not.

By Colin George (FARCE/Film)

“The Last Exorcism” is a pretty interesting film right up until it tries to scare you. Told in the faux documentary style popularized recently by “Paranormal Activity” and “District 9,” director Daniel Stamm’s take on the oft-botched demonic possession sub-genre begins tantalizingly well. At its root is a terrific character, evangelical preacher and admitted shyster Reverend Cotton Marcus (Patrick Fabian), who sets out to produce a documentary exposing exorcismal ritual as a mere placebo for the affected.

Like a magician revealing trade secrets, we follow Marcus and his two-man film crew down Louisiana way to the Sweetzer residence, where he pulls out all the stops, first feeding into the symptoms of the peculiar young girl Nell (Ashley Bell), then to his entire prefabricated ceremony, complete with a hidden iPod wailing stock demon sound effects, and a crucifix rigged to exert steam when pressed. Mr. Sweetzer (Louis Herthum) and, more importantly, Nell eat it up. Cut to Marcus counting his dough.

The first forty or so minutes of the film work because Marcus is charismatic and interesting, not to mention very funny in his disingenuous showmanship. But the scenes play subtly suspenseful as well because the audience knows the rug will eventually be pulled from under him—And when it is, it’s a that shame things so quickly spiral into the sloppy and the spoiled. More so than “Quarantine” (or consequently, “[REC]”) or “Paranormal Activity,” “The Last Exorcism” is a film being advertised (and seemingly relentlessly) with a greatest hits compilation of its most horrific moments, cherry-picked from the few sequences that actually contain them.

Not only does that diminish the impact of the shots in context, but all the subtlety and restraint of the first half crumbles around them once the hardcore horror gets going. What works about “The Last Exorcism” is its intimacy, and as it wears on, its scope exponentially widens. Suddenly, the film crew are our central characters while new ones are still being introduced. It climaxes in an ending both abrupt and irrelevant, leaving what should feel intriguing unsatisfying.

The movie might have worked better had it retained its focus on Marcus throughout the second half. Maybe the faithless preacher being scared straight is old hat, but the story really feels like it’s leaning that way until it’s not. Until it isn’t even about Marcus anymore—It’s just about going through the horror movie motions. Keeping it simple would at least have kept it coherent; instead, the film balloons into a sufficiently atmospheric, but ultimately dull and unfrightening chase film. The third act has the cast running into and out of houses, sheds, and vans like characters from a “Scooby-Doo” cartoon.

The hectic disorganization sullies much of what I found so compelling about the film initially—The beginning of “The Last Exorcism” is effective expressly because it isn’t trying to be scary. When it tries, it’s apparent it’s trying. Ultimately, I’d rather see the documentary (real or otherwise) about the fake exorcism than the real one it becomes.

But if I am afraid, it’s that the faux-film aesthetic Stamm borrows will soon be exploited and crippled by increasingly derivative filmmakers. “The Last Exorcism,” despite its flaws, further proves that the technique is particularly well suited to horror (the trailer for “The Virginity Hit” makes a clear case against comedy), and had the writing in its second half lived up to the first, it really might have been something special.

Alas, like “1408,” the movie simply has nowhere to go once called to deliver on its premise. The disappointment is even more profound here; the suspense, the characterization, and the sly sense of humor are all spot on. And then it tries to scare you.

By Colin George (FARCE/Film)

I’m sorry, men of the world, but “The Expendables” is a piece of crap. In fact, as a man, I’m a little embarrassed that this putrid, structureless, diarrheic pile entertained a single one of you. Without an ounce of artistry, Sylvester Stallone has essentially created “The Twilight Saga” for men, and just as that series caters to a lowest-common-denominator teenage girl audience, Stallone deposits this Cro-Magnon mess for males, simultaneously juvenile and out-of-touch.

The suffocating machismo of it all makes it tough to pick a place to start. First, the film is hideous. On a technical level, many of the shots are out of focus, smearing the ugly greens and browns into a muddy pastiche. The rest is soiled by awful CG that completely undercuts the entire eighties aesthetic. I’m trying hard to think of something less conducive to an action throwback than a half-dozen rifles with animated laser-sights firing bullets that spill digital blood—No luck yet.

Even forgiving the film its bland palette, cinematographic shortcomings, and near total lack of practical effects, “The Expendables” misfires on the single most obvious ingredient for exciting action—Compelling set pieces. It takes place, almost in its entirety, on a small South American island where there is a dock, a palace of some sort, and apparently nothing else. Those backdrops set the stage for some dismally choreographed shootouts where, despite the exotic locale and 80 million dollar budget, “The Expendables” maintains a consistently amateurish feel.

And for a movie positively brimming with A-List (or once A-List) action personalities, how about some personality? Ultimately, it doesn’t even register that Stallone assembled such a dynamic ensemble—There isn’t a single distinct personage among them. Sure, Jason Statham likes knives and Stallone prefers firearms, but that’s about where the definition ends. Anyone could have played these nobodies, and it reduces what should be the film’s sole distinguishing feature to mere stunt casting.

Regardless, there isn’t a flaw I’ve illuminated that would hold water if the film was even fun, but “The Expendables” is truthfully one of the most boring of the year. Call me desensitized, but I can only see so many torsos explode, so many fatal stabbings, and so many explosions before I start to yawn and check my watch. Action only works when there’s something at stake, and Stallone does his best Michael Bay impression in his flagrant disregard for that simple storytelling truth.

Nothing is ever at stake in “The Expendables.” Ever. Not one of the many protagonists is placed in even momentarily convincing danger, and with almost no story to back up the dreary killing, the action loses all dramatic impact. Stallone’s assembly line slaughter has neither the gravity to make us care nor the creativity to make us squirm—Unless we’re squirming out of anxious impatience.

I’m not an idiot. I realize “The Expendables” is more “Grindhouse” than it is “Rambo,” but it fails even as a disposable homage to eighties action. It might be a class reunion of sorts, but it’s the kind where you end up sitting around talking about expired memories instead of making new ones. In recalling the cheesy charm of the decade that made him famous, Stallone could stand to do far more embellishing. He succeeds in making a film with an eighties mindset, but it’s a hollow, lifeless effort that completely lacks the charisma that makes those films memorable twenty-some years later.

Conversely, “The Expendables” would be forgettable no matter what unfortunate decade birthed it. And yet, here in the year 2010, this is the number one film in America two weeks running—I guess I just don’t get it. Everything I go to the movies for, and not just the frivolous stuff like story and character, is completely and entirely absent here.

Men of the world, if this is really what you find entertaining, then consider this my resignation.

By Colin George (FARCE/Film)

“The Switch” is the kind of film I’ve seen a hundred times, and dread seeing for the hundred-and-first. Admittedly, romantic comedy ain’t my bag, but that doesn’t mean that I can’t sniff out the good, the bad, and the mediocre. “The Switch” has stars Jason Bateman, Jennifer Aniston, and Jeff Goldblum sucking on a script that belongs so completely in the third category that there’s almost nothing else to say.

—Almost. The screenplay by Allan Loeb knocks the three talented performers flat on their behinds; watching them chew the lame dialogue to a consistency with which they can expectorate a joke is often more entertaining than the line itself. Goldblum in particular turns up his signature stutter, abstracting sentences to the extent that they often are very funny, no thanks to the words themselves.

Loeb’s script is vanilla, but in the hands of directing duo Josh Gordon and Will Speck (whose previous work includes the Will Ferrell figure skating farce “Blades of Glory” and the short-lived Geico “Cavemen” television series), maybe that’s for the best. The issue is that the pair seem to recede from the picture altogether. Safely lit, with a bland, point-and-shoot aesthetic, Gordon and Speck aren’t minuses in the equation, but because or in spite of them (whichever it is), “The Switch” only ever zeroes out.

Loeb honestly deserves the lion’s share of the blame; when he isn’t crowd surfing on cliché, he takes some ludicrous liberties with reality that do add up—To lazy storytelling. Even the execution of his premise is delivered disingenuously.

Here’s the scenario: Kassie Larson (Aniston), 40 and single, decides to have herself artificially inseminated. Never mind that she chooses to do so amidst some swanky, bizarre fertility party (because I actually kind of like that)—The idea that her donor’s “ingredient” would not be pre-acquired is beyond naive. Logic denotes the party would occur not only after the father-to-be has procured his genetic sample, but also after Kassie has undergone her end of the procedure—“The Switch” presumes neither of these very logical things have happened, and in fact relies upon it.

Instead, it shakes out something like this—After creating what would undoubtedly be a very awkward scenario for Kassie’s donor (sending him into the bathroom while, presumably, the hopeful mommy and her guests literally wait for him to masturbate), Loeb adds insult to injury by expecting us to believe the semen sample would be left unattended on the bathroom shelf. Come on. Enter Jason Bateman as Wally Mars, who, with an utterly prefabricated drunkenness, accidently blows the wad—And whose genius idea for replacing it is to become a sort of secret santa for sperm.

“The Switch” isn’t a terrible film from there on out. It radically changes gears as seven years pass and Wally—Having no memory of the night in question—Reunites with Kassie and his son. Traditional romantic comedy beats ensue. Bateman and Aniston have decent chemistry together, but it’s his relationship with child actor Thomas Robinson that feels most sincere. Pity the kid is written like a precocious android programmed to say the darndest things; Robinson is cute, but he’s reading Loeb’s lines.

If “The Switch” had had an original idea or had taken a single gamble with its storytelling, the cast might really have brought it together—As it stands, they do a good job of not embarrassing themselves. They lend their warmth and expertise to a dead script, but in this case, it’s too little too late.

“The Switch” might be a lost cause, but who knows. Maybe the hundred-and-second time’s a charm.

By Colin George (FARCE/Film)

The levels of unreality are stacked so high in “Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World” that it takes a certain head-in-the-clouds mentality to see over them. Fueled by graphic novel gasoline in a vehicle straight out of “Super Mario Kart,” director Edgar Wright’s third film (following genre parodies “Shaun of the Dead” and “Hot Fuzz”) is a roaringly imaginative, high-octane action flick that may send unrepentant adults running—While treating the rest of the audience to a Neo Tokyo monster truck rally they won’t soon forget.

The premise is simple; it’s the lightning-paced editing that’s complex. Canadian slacker Scott Pilgrim (played by an uncommonly curt Michael Cera) meets the girl of his dreams, Ramona Flowers (Mary Elizabeth Winstead). However, the scaffolding to her heart is fraught with as many ladders as a game of “Donkey Kong;” he must defeat her seven evil ex-lovers in fight sequences that run a gamut of 16-bit references, from “Street Fighter” to “Mortal Kombat,” or it’s game over for their relationship.

Yet “Scott Pilgrim” isn’t a violent movie. The titular, twitter generation twenty-something bounces back with the resiliency of aLooney Toon after each subsequent pounding. And there isn’t a drop of blood in the picture—Enemies appropriately explode into a shower of coins when slain. It’s a creative decision pulled straight from the pages of the comic book series by Bryan Lee O’Malley (on which the film is based), but it communicates a poisonous message for advertisers and mainstream audiences with all the subtlety of a flashing neon sign: this is a niche movie if ever there was one.

The box office returns said as much; “Scott Pilgrim” will be best appreciated by those who have played “The Legend of Zelda” and can pick out a stray sound effect from “Sonic the Hedgehog,” but acknowledgement of such esoteric points of reference is entirely nonessential. My instinct is that almost anyone with an open mind will be equally swept up in the white-water current of a very fun film.

The action sequences are a blast. Compared more than once to Quentin Tarantino’s “Kill Bill” (in which Uma Thurman stylishly exacts vengeance on five choice acquaintances), Wright’s film is just as successful at innovating action. Each of Scott’s bouts is accentuated by a unique gimmick—Chris Evans plays action star and evil ex Lucas Lee, who beats up on Pilgrim with his entire stunt team in tow; the ruthless Katayanagi Twins are dispatched via sound-wave avatars during a battle of the bands; Todd Ingram (Brandon Routh) is a vegan with telekinetic powers—The diversity of these sequences, beautifully, epileptically shot by cinematographer Bill Pope, keeps the premise from ever becoming stale.

Where the film does falter, at least in comparison to books, is in its inability to genuinely evoke audience empathy. Partly, this is because six graphic novels are being sandwiched into a 112-minute film. Trimming the fat, inescapably, means nipping at the arteries of the books’ heart. Wright was right to emphasize the kung fu over the lovey-dovey minutia, and in less altruistic hands, “Scott Pilgrim” might have been pitched as a six-part franchise (God help us).

Ultimately, your ability to connect with “Scott Pilgrim” lies in your ability to detach yourself from emotional expectation. “Cute” might be the best way to describe his relationship with Ramona, and the layers of nuance developed over however many hundreds of pages in the comics is largely absent in this adaptation. Still, it’s not a problem so much as it is a trade-off, and though the balance could be better, Wright improves upon O’Malley’s work just as often.

Know going in that it’s a movie about love, not romance. Know that the experience is more sensory, less sensitive, and you’ll find plenty to marvel at. A kaleidoscope of brilliant brawling with visuals like a laser light show, “Scott Pilgrim Vs. The World” is resplendent with newness in an age where comic books films are a dime a dozen and all either look like “Spider-Man” or “300.”

Its wily, unfettered charm will be lost on literalists. Wright’s movie is a gee-whiz-wow-bang fantasy cartoon wrapped tight in hyperbole—And as the unrepentant adults disperse, the kids will rejoice.

By Colin George (FARCE/Film)

Maybe I’m rebounding off of the mediocre “Dinner for Schmucks,” or maybe I’m rebounding off of an entire season of lackluster comedy; either way, “The Other Guys” is like a breath of fresh air. It feels like eons since anyone’s batted a consistent laugh average—But Adam McKay and Will Ferrell do reliably that. It might seem like a passive aggressive compliment, but in this chortle-starved summer beggars can’t be choosers.

At its most embryonic state, the movie works because it’s built on the solid, if elementary, foundation of pairing Ferrell with Mark Wahlberg. Wahlberg has a deft, underexploited comedic potential that he, his agent, or whoever, has critically ignored. Roles like his in “Boogie Nights” and “I Heart Huckabees” make a case for an actor that should lay off the heavy drama every so often and recoil with something silly. I honestly believe Wahlberg is the best part of the epically awful “Happening,” and that there isn’t an ounce of his performance that isn’t calculated—How anyone could read Shyamalan’s script and not burst out laughing is beyond me.

His pairing with Ferrell is a match made in comedy heaven, and the two play off each other well. Of course, this is a more restrained Ferrell than many may have expected, but it’s a role that suits him following his over-the-top performance in “Step Brothers.” Besides, when released from the shackles of his character—Paper-pushing “fake cop” Allen Gamble—Ferrell’s performance is hit and miss. Exploding into a shrieking rage during a ‘Good Cop, Bad Cop’ routine gone awry is one of the film’s funniest moments. Revealing his ex-life as a flamboyant pimp? Not so much.

But even with its pecking detractors, “The Other Guys” is never unfunny for long. Once we’ve established our two protagonists—Via a bizarre and amusing lion and tuna metaphor—It is generally fun just to watch them blunder their way through the rest of the movie. Wahlberg’s character is Terry Hoitz, Allen’s partner, and the short-fused catalyst for his first big trip out of the office. Their dynamic warmly satirizes the eighties buddy cop cliché, but more often is a simply a vehicle for short-form character sketches.

If there is a problem with the movie, it’s that the plot is astronomically overcomplicated, neither clever nor compelling. Laughter is usually the only bridge connecting one idea to the next, and the constituent scenes sometimes fail to function as a unit. Worse yet, terrific performers like Steve Coogan are stuffed into straight-man roles, and ought to be espousing humor, not plot.

Regardless, this movie has it where it counts. Its lack of focus may detract slightly from the overall experience, but it only serves to highlight what “The Other Guys” ultimately is—Mindless summer entertainment. My approach to comedy has always been that character is paramount, but when you’re knocking off something like this, the only thing that really matters is its ability to make me laugh. And for the first time in months, I feel like I got my funny bone’s worth.

Ferrell and McKay never pretend to be auteurs of deep or provocative comedy—Jay Roach of “Dinner for Schmucks” didn’t either—But I laughed more. Much more. There’s a reason comedy is called the most subjective genre; a movie like this is dangerous because when you put all your chips on the gags, you’re going all or nothing—Either you’ll find “The Other Guys” funny or you won’t. For me, the film is a return to form for a duo that has disappointed me with their previous two efforts; its no “Anchorman,” but it’s far and away superior to “Talladega Nights” and more consistent than “Step Brothers.”

More importantly, it’s far and away superior to “Dinner for Schmucks” and whatever other marginally amusing film is concurrently playing. In a summer of lackluster comedy, every chortle should be cherished, and “The Other Guys” has them to spare.