Thanks to Live Nation for providing tickets. If you couldn't think of anything at the time but want to re-live the Chris Cabin magic, go to the original post.
As has been widely reported, Matt Damon gained 40 pounds to play whistleblower Mark Whitacre, the mustachioed high-level exec at Archer Daniels Midland who became an informant for the FBI sometime in late 1992, in Steven Soderbergh's odd new film The Informant! Hidden behind a pair of thick frames, adjusting his toupee as much as his mood, Damon's Whitacre is plain, greedy and fantastical; the sort of man who sees himself not only as a corporate hero in any one Michael Crichton novel but also reflected in the Tom Cruise who embodies those righteous corporate ethicists on the big screen. He has ideas and big plans, ones that he believes could be jeopardized at any moment by a random tapped phone.
And yet, he is, as several people involved with the real Whitacre have opined, a sort of national hero. A biochemist who had to "learn business," Whitacre supplied hundreds of tapes -- audio and visual -- to the FBI between 1992 and 1995 that fueled the Justice Department's case against ADM leading to the agribusiness conglomerate paying well over $500 million in settlement and class action cases. The catch, of course, was that while playing avenger, Mr. Whitacre forgot to disclose kickback funds that may have reached more than $11 million. Faithful to his wife of 20+ years, the father of two adopted children and one of his own, he is a liar and a thief but it would seem, in Mr. Soderbergh and screenwriter Scott Z. Burns' eyes, that every good corporate man has an accepted level of corruption going in; even the ones who want to clean up the joint.
Scored by Marvin Hamlisch in what, at first, seems like a bid at kitsch, Damon's guileful do-gooder opens the film by explaining, both to the audience and his child, how corn is in everything you eat, touch and steal. At ADM, his work has largely focused on lysine, the amino acid that his company frames their price-fixing scam around. It's his wife Ginger, dutifully played by Melanie Lynskey, who prods him into confessing the price-fixing scam to Special Agents Shepard (Scott Bakula) and Herndon (Tony McHale). Professional if just a bit zealous, the Agents sum up Whitacre as both brave and boring. In a brilliant bit of screenwriting, the action and dialogue are repeatedly overshadowed by Whitacre's voice-overs, delivering monologues on an array of throwaway facts including polar bears, being kind and tie sales in whispery chatter reminiscent of Godard's hovering prognostications from his 60s salad days.
An extension of these monologues, Soderbergh's aesthetic is a marvel of bourgeois bad taste. Made with the washed-out precision of cheap 80s television, editor Stephen Mirrione and production designer Doug J. Meerdink work with director/cinematographer Soderbergh to invoke the nausea of upper-class lethargy. But despite this bravura tribute to mediocrity, The Informant! Is not a sweet movie nor is it a placid one. Whitacre embodies the mindset of the current business construct: I'll open the closets as long as you don't stare at my skeletons.
Softened ever-so-slightly by the admittance of bi-polar disorder, Whitacre's infuriating inability to own up to his own malfeasance may not have been sold so easily if not for Mr. Damon who has rarely been so clever and never been as funny as he is here. Seeing as he is constantly surrounded by a rogue's gallery of lawyers and co-workers, Soderbergh pulls a masterstroke by casting many of the smaller roles with stand-up comedians and television actors -- Patton Oswald, Tom Wilson and Tony Hale all show up in minor roles. It plays directly towards Soderbergh's central premise: The characters primarily responsible for our current crisis are so off-the-chart self-serving, greedy and absurd, that you really have no choice but to laugh at them.
From John Sherlock:
In his new film, Drag Me to Hell, the versatile Sam Raimi uses a similar template but something is different. First of all, there's very little blood and there are no guts whatsoever. There's plenty of saliva, vomit, bugs, rodents, worms, puss and mud but that's hardly cause for concern. He likes color, uses color and stages many of his set-pieces in the daylight. Films by contemporaries the likes of Eli Roth or Marcus Nispel would ascertain, quite literally, that one shouldn't trust women, foreigners, southern folk and most breeds of canine; they also seem to unfold in perpetual night. Mr. Raimi's blind distrust is far more precise and has been blatant fact since well before the director was born: Don't fuck with gypsies.
Such is the mistake made by loan officer Christine Brown (Alison Lohman) when she kindly dismisses and "shames" Mrs. Ganush (Lorna Raver, part hoot, entirely creepy), an elderly gypsy witch who is denied an extension for her mortgage. Ms. Brown, gunning for an assistant manager position under Mr. Jacks (David Paymer, playing scuzz like a pro), denies the extension in hopes of getting the edge over brown-nosed co-worker Stu (Reggie Lee) but ends up getting in one ugly cat fight with Ganush before the old lady lays the Curse of the Lamia on her.
What's the Lamia you ask? Oh, just a seven-foot goat-beast from the stomach-acid depths of Hell who commands a legion of doomed souls who, after three days of torture, embarrassment and personal desecration, drag you screaming and burning into the underworld to live in darkness and agony until the end of time.
Under a less adept hand, such things would be handled with gothic tiling and Exorcist-brand clichés but Mr. Raimi has mastered a lightness of tone that punctuates Drag Me to Hell with a vital, often vile humor and a sense of (grab your crosses!) fun. At 22, Raimi directed The Evil Dead, the lively cult classic that single-handedly made Bruce Campbell an icon and made Raimi the harbinger for the new paradigm of midnight movies. Since then, the Michigan-born Coen bros. collaborator has directed two sequels to Dead and become a genre-meister, trying his hand at everything from neo-westerns (The Quick and the Dead) and classy thrillers (A Simple Plan) to nostalgic weepies (For Love of the Game) and blockbusters (the Spider-Man franchise). Only Plan and, at moments, the latter series have seemed to harness his plentiful talents into a similar redefining of genre conventions and tone.
Drag Me to Hell is less a return to form than a loving reconsideration of where he's come from, where his strike-zone is. Over 15 years after the last Evil Dead film, he now casts a similar gaze on economics and the people behind it but the tone here is not satirical but true-to-form oversaturated lunacy. Helped by a fortune-teller (Dileep Rao) and her skeptical but devoted philosophy professor boyfriend (Justin Long), Ms. Brown's attempts at satiating the beast include decapitating a possessed billygoat, sacrificing her kitten and two separate instances of defiling a corpse.
That Raimi enlists the same brutal sound design that most modern horror/thrillers use ad-nauseum feels like a choice made out of necessity. One of a handful of solid major-studio-backed horror films to be released in the last decade, Drag Me to Hell's design is one made for humor and shocks rather than legitimate fright but Raimi never indulges in the crypto-tragic archetypes that have become industry-standard in the 28 years since The Evil Dead. The graphics have improved but Raimi's fantastical scares are still all the better for being loony and unpredictable where his compatriots have sought to make horror into a matter of life and death.
- Chris Cabin
KCB note: Drag Me To Hell opened with 16.6 million to take 3rd place this past weekend. Also, The KCB enjoyed this film thoroughly as well. That is all.
Eugene Mirman
