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She
has the answer: Roberts in Nancy Drew.
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An
Enterprising Young Lady
By Laura Leon
Nancy
Drew
Directed
by Andrew Fleming
As a girl, I devoured Nancy Drew books like other kids scarfed
chocolates. I had the complete collection, with a preference
for the 25-chapter earlier editions (because I preferred the
1930s style their dust jackets evoked). By volume four (The
Mystery at Lilac Inn), I realized that nothing more serious
than a sprained ankle or a very slight concussion would ever
befall the titian-haired teen detective, and while I was perhaps
disappointed about the absence of dangers far more sinister,
like the threat of white slavery or subtle torture, I couldn’t
give up on the girl. The best part of the series, published
under the pseudonym Carolyn Keene, was the way the stories
allowed the reader to solve the case alongside Nancy. That,
and the fact that she drove something called a blue roadster.
While past filmed depictions of the sleuth ranged from inexplicably
scattered (Bonita Granville) to utterly innocuous (TV’s Pamela
Sue Martin), Andrew Fleming’s choice of Emma Roberts as Nancy
is inspired. OK, she looks a lot younger than the 18 she’s
supposed to be, but she’s got the steady poise and requisite
smarts to do the job. Interestingly, Fleming and co-screenwriter
Tiffany Paulsen keep Nancy, her attorney father Carson Drew
(Tate Donovan) and what little we see of their hometown of
River Heights decidedly retro—positively Rockwellian—before
transplanting the action to Hollywood, a cinematic milieu
that might appeal more to tweeners in the audience. Here,
poor Nancy is deemed weird by schoolmates who look like they
wandered in from any number of Nickelodeon shows. And while
she is uncharacteristically (for readers) hurt by their rejection,
she soon finds solace in doing what she does best—in this
case, unlocking the unsolved murder of film great Dehlia Draycott
(Laura Elena Harring). The resulting case involves hidden
wills, dastardly henchmen, narrow escapes, and plenty of opportunity
for Nancy to show that anybody, with a modicum of intelligence
and the great foresight to plan for any and all consequences,
can succeed.
There’s much to admire about this Nancy Drew, not the
least of which is its refusal to turn our heroine into today’s
usual film version of a sophisticated (i.e., sexually active
and credit-card-ready) young woman; in fact, there is a funny
twist to the standard makeover montage. The filmmakers bring
on Nancy’s longtime beau Ned Nickerson (Max Theriot), a dreamy
youth whose wistful longing for the girl detective is tempered
by the fact that he completely understands her need to be,
well, Nancy Drew. Ned is a tricky character, one which easily
could have been a flat stereotype, but the screenwriters and
Theriot understand the complex situation of a man being in
love with a woman who can run circles around him. Moreover,
they depict Ned as someone who, like Nancy and her father,
is above and beyond trends and social status. Watching them,
you can’t help but see a very happy marriage down the line,
with Ned providing warmth, stability and the occasionally
needed strong shoulder on which Nancy can climb—the better
to sneak into a secret passage—and Nancy continuing to pursue
and solve mysteries far and wide.
Far trickier to work around is the movie’s playing fast and
loose with time: When in the world is this supposed to have
taken place? Nancy’s frocks are 1960s sweet, complete with
knee socks and penny loafers, and she shows great facility
using phonographs, rotary phones (indeed, the appearance of
a cell phone signifies danger) and old- fashioned movie projectors.
Dehlia Draycott (a nice bit of Keene alliteration) was supposed
to have died in 1981, but the most modern images of her, mainly
from her movies, show a woman in a flapper dress. Fleming
has said in interviews that he liked the joke of inserting
retro Nancy in the midst of mod L.A. It’s not always a successful
ruse, although Nancy does have the last laugh when her sartorial
selections are deemed “the new sincerity” by a fashion magazine.
More problematic for diehards like me is the fact that Nancy’s
stalwart best friends Bess Marvin and George Fayne are not
allowed to assist; instead, we get the absolutely most annoying
sidekick Corky (Josh Flitter) ever to exist in the movies,
and his nearly-as-annoying bitchy trendsetting sister and
friend, as Nancy’s partners in crime. As if!
The film’s lack of overt promotion and sarcastic tone make
this an endearingly sweet, mostly successful attempt to bring
a long loved heroine to a bigger audience. Besides, when’s
the last time you heard “A secret passageway!” exclaimed with
such heartfelt excitement?
Lightning
in a Bottle
Once
Directed
by John Carney
The second scene in John Carney’s wonderful modern musical
Once is the kind of simply composed but deeply effective
segment that embodies the entire film. It is nighttime, and
a busker, whom we met in the opening scene playing a rollicking
cover tune outside a Dublin storefront on a gray afternoon,
is now playing a darker, more emotionally taut tune. His acoustic
guitar is practically threadbare, with holes where his pick
has gouged away at its hull. The street is otherwise empty.
The camera closes in on him, slowly, as he strums forcefully,
sour notes and all, until his voice strains over the passionate
climax. “If you have something to say, say it to me now,”
he cries, his eyes winced tight. He is completely lost in
the song. As he quiets to a close, the camera recedes to reveal
a girl there, watching him, unnoticed until that moment.
A huge hit at this year’s Sundance festival, Once is
the rare film where seemingly minor elements align to make
something transcendent. The premise is terribly simple, really:
A guy, played by Glen Hansard (of Irish rock group the Frames),
is a street musician in Dublin. He is struggling to get over
an ex-girlfriend, who’s off in London, and unsure about his
own talent. He meets a young girl, a Czech immigrant mother
played by newcomer Markéta Irglová—the lead characters both
go unnamed, by the way—with whom he finds a collaborative
spirit, and who helps him work through his girl trouble and
set off in pursuit of his dream. Over the course of a week,
they write a bunch of songs and make a record together. Maybe
they fall in love; it doesn’t matter. Once has been
billed as both a musical and a love story, which has been
enough to put off some cute-fearing audiences, but it’s more
than that. The film is about the ability of music to convey
emotion, create bonds, and, ultimately, to heal like no other
art form. Characters break into song because that’s how they
communicate—because they’re actually musicians, not just because
it’s a musical.
Simply filmed, with plenty of single- camera scenes, Once
occasionally looks grainy and cheap, giving it a documentary
feel, especially in the outstanding creative scenes. Hansard’s
expression as Irglová first plays piano for him is priceless:
You can practically see the gears turning in his mind, and
the moment’s spontaneity is genuine and beautifully captured.
Irglová’s reactions are that of a musician actually learning
the song on the spot. It’s a truly striking sequence; you
see the spark between two creative spirits in a way that,
outside of documentary, has rarely been captured this well.
This is where the music really comes in. Much has been made
of Carney’s decision to cast real musicians, rather than actors,
in the key roles, and it was absolutely the way to go. So
much of the film revolves around the experience of creating
and performing music that to have, say, Ewan McGregor belting
out these songs would have rung hollow. (Plus, as we know
from Moulin Rouge, he simply cannot sing.)
More should be made, however, of the fact that Hansard and
Irglová (who was 17 years old at the time of filming) wrote
their own songs for the film. As with any good musical, the
songs do all the work, so the acting, while actually very
good, is secondary to the performance segments. The small
gestures made in the dialogue all funnel into in the songs,
which are extraordinary. Hansard and Irglová may have been
working from Carney’s template, but their musical and lyrical
contributions should have earned co-writing credits. Simply
put, Once is both the best musical, and the best film
about music, in a very long time.
—John
Brodeur
Power Off
Fantastic
Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer
Directed
by Tim Story
Simply put (in keeping with the dumbed-down style of Fantastic
Four: Rise of the Silver Surfer): The Fantastic Four are
a crashing bore. The angle of this sequel, at least going
by the title, is the emergence of the Silver Surfer (voice
by Laurence Fishburne), an alien who slaloms over earth as
the point man for an intergalactic entity—called, imaginatively
enough, Galactus. Galactus cruises around the universe looking
for worlds to devour like some oversized (and very dusty)
Pac-Man, though this minimally engaging rendition of the End
of the World doesn’t occur until well into Rise of the
Silver Surfer—by which time many audience members may
be hoping that the gigundo dust ball will snack on the film’s
characters and save them from the extenuating tedium of the
foursome’s adolescent interactions.
Droningly directed as a comic-book-on-film by the relentlessly
desultory Tim Story, the sequel follows our heroes as they
flex their respective powers and personality quirks: Richard
Reed (Ioan Gruffudd) is the brainiac elastic man, Johnny Storm
(Chris Evans) is the human torch, etc. Richard and Sue Storm
(Jessica Alba) are planning their wedding, and this dull conflict—being
an on-call superhero wreaks havoc with their time management—takes
up nearly the first half. The only comic relief is the sight
of Sue summoning her forcefield, which onscreen looks about
as impressive as Alba doing a deltoid isometric. When the
Surfer finally arrives, his rippling metallic angst adds a
tiny glimmer of interest, at least until the pointless meddling
of Dr. Doom (Julian McMahon) detours what little momentum
generated by the Surfer’s green-eyed enlightenment.
Aside from the occasional not-so- special effect, Story relies
on flattering close-ups of the stars to build character, but
despite the physical assets of the cast (especially Alba and
Evans, the most boringly attractive actors to appear in a
major motion picture this summer), the larger-than-life attributes
of the Fantastic Four are deflated by their mundane dialogue
and motivations. The most depressing moment in this utter
waste of time comes when Johnny accidentally transfers his
flaming powers to Ben Grimm (Michael Chiklis, rising star
of The Shield), restoring the Thing to a man again
and giving him pause to smile. The sight of Chiklis’ avaricious
grin is an unintentional poke at the sheer insipidness of
the movie he’s in.
—Ann
Morrow
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