The Expendables 3

Dear Nicolas Cage, (Declined),

Yeah, I know—you didn’t even appear in The Expendables 3. But your refusal to participate in the popular geriatric action franchise says something significant about the nature of these films. It’s not that you’re too good for them. But perhaps that you’re too complicated. 

The problem with all of the Expendables movies is one of tone: they can’t quite decide if they’re parodies or not. They should be. But there’s must be something about the size and shape and consistency of the egos involved that prevents them from ever reaching the satirical place it seems they should (Sylvester Stallone’s lumpy, veiny physique itself is a grotesque caricature of an action hero’s body). But the humor of these films is surprising in its lack of self-awareness. Which is why you don’t fit in, Nic. Is there an actor in Hollywood more painfully self-aware in front of the camera than you?

No, I’m not talking about the way you acknowledge your own public persona by showing up in SNL sketches. I’m talking about the wonderful, bewildering verisimilitude of your career choices, and the uncanny ability you have to use your supernatural Nic Cage powers in both small indie dramas and terrible straight-to-streaming paycheck flicks. 

You’re a better actor than anyone else in the Expendables cast. Empirically (you actually have an Oscar® for acting). And, of the entire roster, you’re the one most likely to return to that kind of form. I don’t think anyone would be surprised, after the glut of junk you’ve involved with in the last decade, to see you back up at the awards podium. Kellan Lutz, on the other hand? That would blow some minds.

You might not believe it, but under different circumstances, I’ve been a defender of the Expendables movies. My love of action films from that classic era (1985-1995) often overwhelms what few critical faculties I possess. But I have a greater affinity for you and your talents, Nic. At precisely that same time that you won your Academy Award for Leaving Las Vegas, you appeared in the three defining action flicks of the mid-90s (the peak, I would argue, of that classic era I just randomly made up). The Rock is Michael Bay’s most watchable film, and nicely buttressed by a script that was polished by both Aaron Sorkin and Quentin Tarantino; Face/Off is the John-Wooiest Hong Kong action movie ever to John-Woo, and you and co-star John Travolta deliver performances far more nuanced than perhaps the absurd plot deserves; Con Air is the film The Expendables thinks it is, an almost-satire that pays loving tribute to the wonderful excess of the modern action film while remaining wholly in character as a modern action film.  

No one else involved in any of the three Expendables films can boast a run like that. Except perhaps Han Solo/Indiana Jones himself—which is why it’s so disappointing to see Harrison Ford show up and go through the motions. And why it’s so heartening to know that, despite all the unfortunate decisions you’ve been forced to make lately, appearing in The Expendables 3 wasn’t one of them.  

Sincerely,

Jared Young

Status: Return to Sender (2/5)

Joe

Dear Bobbi Colorado & The Wild Bunch, Animal Coordinator,

Not many of your crew were required to coordinate the animals in director David Gordon Green’s Joe, were they? I counted only two dogs. Yet it’s no accident that the breeds that are featured – a German shepherd and an American bulldog – are known both for their viciousness and their fierce protectiveness. These base instincts are also what drives Joe’s main characters.

Sure, the “animals represent the characters” seems like a pretty facile insight. But Green, working from a screenplay by Gary Hawkins which was adapted from Larry Brown’s novel, is too subtle a filmmaker to put such ideas in the forefront. True, he may have directed The Pineapple Express and Your Highness, but here Green is working in the quieter, reflective mode of George Washington (few directors oscillate more extremely between projects than he does). The dogs you coordinated and oversaw aren’t grafted onto Joe as some easy symbolism; they’re part of an organic thematic approach that has roots in the film’s Texas locations and permeates just about everything else.

The notion of nature and instinct is embodied in the titular character played by Nicolas Cage. The performance reminds us of the naturalistic powerhouse he can be when and if he wants (it can’t be a coincidence that the quality of a Cage performance often rises to meet the material). Joe is a man struggling to control his own violent impulses. He lives a fairly solitary existence, focusing on work, drinking, and socializing with working girls at the local whorehouse. He sees himself as a toxic influence on those around him, a fact literalized in his day job, where he runs a crew that poisons healthy trees so landowners have a reason to clearcut and plant new trees better suited for lumber. When Gary, a 15 year-old boy, shows up looking for work for him and his alcoholic father Wade, Joe sees someone headed down a path he is far too familiar.

Working with animals, you know well that the most base instinct is one of self-preservation, and Joe is true to himself in that regard. He takes a liking to Gary, but when hiw father joins the crew, Joe, sensing danger, tries to cut them loose. However, when Joe is awoken by his own guard dog to finds a beaten, soaked Gary, that protective instinct comes to the fore. Joe has no use for those he thinks are  just plain bad—dog or human. And in Wade, who helpfully wears a jacket emblazoned with the title “G-Daawg”, Joe sees a beast beyond redemption. A few scenes, made all the more harrowing with the quiet naturalism Green employs, let us know that Joe is on the mark in his assessment. In a scene that must have been particularly hard for you to watch, Joe puts in motion his own gruesome interpretation of what he thinks justice is. And as Joe moves towards its final act, the question becomes whether ot not Joe will apply this same justice upon Wade. And if so, at what cost?

This heaviness is spelled out through character and action, not expository dialogue. A fan of hiring local, untrained talent as actors, Green makes his environments feel real, lived-in—as much a character as any of the actors. Not to diminish the actors. Tye Sheridan gives Gary just the right amount of anger and just enough youthful optimism to make clear what kind of tragedies potentially await him. Likewise, Gary Poulter tempers Wade’s awfulness with the emotional and physical ravages that can only come from a life lived as hard as his character’s.

But it’s the environment that gives Joe a glimmers of hope; new life receives the nourishment it needs to thrive, both figuratively and literally.

As an animal trainer, you know as well as anyone that both nature and nurture play a role in the choices we (or any animal) make. But it’s getting the chance to make those choices for ourselves that’s important.

Casey

Status: Priority Post (4.5/5)

The Croods

Dear John Cleese, Co-Writer,

It’s a testament to how far the digital arts have come in the last two decades that a film as mediocre as The Croods could look so beautiful. But mediocrity is only measurable against greatness. And you know a little something about greatness, don’t you, John? Your career has been defined, in large part, by the sort of unsurpassed historical successes that most performers can only dream of: founding member of the century’s greatest comedy sextet, and writer/creator of the century’s greatest sitcom.

And now you’ve given us The Croods.

 But, wait: I’m not using the term mediocre as a pejorative. Sure, mediocre is a synonym for undistinguished or unexceptional, but it’s easy to forget that distinction and exception are rare feats, and not always what art aspires to. Indeed, mediocrity has its advantages.

While mediocrity might be a foreign concept to someone like you, it’s not new to contemporary animated family films. DreamWorks Animation, in particular. One of the reasons they’ve never been able to replicate Pixar’s critical and financial success is that they don’t seem to subscribe to auteur theory. Instead, they develop their projects the same way a toy company develops new products. In the case of The Croods, you were just one of five screenwriters (and who knows how many more punch-up artists) meddling with this script. By contrast, it only took two people – you and your first wife, Connie Booth – to write every single episode of Fawlty Towers. In this sense, DreamWorks Animation is a sort of mediocrity factory; of the twenty-seven films they’ve released since 1998, only one, How To Train Your Dragon, has found the sort of unanimous acclaim Pixar regularly enjoyed in its pre-sequel heyday.

So, how did you end up mixed up with them?

My understanding is that it began with an adaptation of Roald Dahl’s The Twits. And from there evolved into an idea for a caveman buddy-flick. Only Hollywood’s special brand of tinkering could have mutated that into what we get onscreen in The Croods: a generic generational drama about a parent who wants one thing and a child who wants another, complete with a foul-mouthed granny, a sarcastic pet lemur, and a strong-willed, stereotype-breaking female lead character who nonetheless goes weak-kneed over a handsome fella and squeals with delight over a pair of shoes.

But I was talking about the advantages of mediocrity, wasn’t I?

Mediocrity is the inoffensive middle-ground, a soothing white noise. It’s peaceful. It requires no effort. And it has the power to surprise; it’s the short grass in which tiny triumphs can hide.

At the beginning of the otherwise middling flick is an exciting chase sequence; a family hunt that occurs with the breakneck physics of a roadrunner cartoon. There are some really breathtaking images, too: a starry sky that reminds you of the majesty of starry skies; a lush jungle that borrows liberally from the botanical imagination of Dr. Suess; an ocean of volcanic ash that ebbs and flows and makes terrific use of the widescreen aspect ratio. And, at the end, a reconciliation between father and daughter that, despite all the cloying humor and sermonizing and false tension that led up to it, might, in the moment, shake loose some dust from the rafters of the theater, which will drift down into your eyes and prompt them (against your will) to protect themselves with a discharge of saline that might (again, against your will) leak out onto your face, which will require you to very subtly (because you don’t want to disturb your companions’ enjoyment of the film) lift your hand to your eye and stealthily rub away the wetness with the knuckle of your thumb, and, later, write a strongly-worded letter to the proprietors of the theater about the thoroughness of their janitorial upkeep.

So you don’t necessarily have to feel ashamed to be associated with The Croods. You’ve given us enough greatness for two lifetimes, and there’s a place in the world for this sort of mediocre stuff. Just don’t get too comfortable down here.

Sincerely,

Jared Young 

Status: Standard Delivery (2.5/5)