Film Review | Hanna

Run Hanna Run

by Thomas Delapa


Once upon a time in an icy northern land, there was a little girl named Hanna, endowed with magical superhuman powers. Though she loved her father, Hanna couldn’t wait to grow up ... and start kicking ass.

A fairly appalling modern fairy tale, Hanna begins with the Brothers Grimm and ends in a grim, grungy post-humanism. Take a mishmash of Run Lola Run, The Terminator and Spy Kids, and upload with fashionable Y2K brutality, and—hocus-pocus—you’ll have director Joe Wright’s bastard Frankenstein creation.

Helen Reddy has nothing on Hanna (Saoirse Ronan), an ethereal 16-year-old whose wide-eyed robotic demeanor hides a hair-trigger urge to kill. When we first find her in the Finland tundra, she’s slaying a deer with bow and arrow. Yes, kimo sabe, her dad (Eric Bana) has trained her well. Her mission, which she has no trouble accepting, is to track down and knock off Marissa Wiegler (Cate Blanchett), a nasty CIA operative with a Southern drawl and a fetish for chic shoes.

Even if Wiegler is a wicked witch of the West, this is no Cinderella story. But it’s not a stretch to see Hanna as a blond Red Riding Hood, kicking and shooting her away through Europe and Morocco, while eluding a pack of German nihilists. This all might have been fun had Wright (Atonement) and his screenwriters dodged a terminally hip violence that recycles the pulpy premise into flashy trash.

You can imagine Hanna as the virginal Aryan flip-side to the Girl with the Dragon Tattoo. Himmler himself couldn’t dream up a more uber-perfect Hitler youth than Ronan’s Hanna, whose fanatical devotion to her father(land) results in a trail of broken limbs and dead bodies. When she’s not busting heads, Hanna tags along with a cheeky Australian girl (Jessica Barden) and her family.

As wispy as Hanna’s tousled hair, Wright’s back story comes in fits and starts, and only serves to prime the pump in the high-octane, techno-fueled action. Despite a handful of fanciful locations—like an outdoor Berlin museum of decrepit dinosaurs—Wright’s sense of action doesn’t evolve much beyond his prehistoric slo-mo fight scenes.

In an archly stylized movie that coldly combines the unreal with the ludicrous, Wright does what heretofore seemed an impossible mission: He coaxes a crummy performance out of Blanchett, one of the screen’s best actresses. The only thing that stands out in Blanchett’s flat, walk-on villainy is her nice set of legs.


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4/12/11

Film Review | Robin Hood (2010)

Robin N the Hood

by Thomas Delapa


Pray tell, I don’t know why Ridley Scott and Russell Crowe thought the world needed another reel Robin Hood, but methinks the director and star figured they could alchemically translate the Oscar-winning gold of Gladiator to not-so-merry medieval England. But if you pay more than a farthing for this bust, it’s highway robbery.

The rip-off begins with Crowe, a native New Zealander playing one of Britain’s greatest legends—and in an impish, Irish-flavored accent. It’s hard to tell who or what Crowe consulted for the role, but it surely wasn’t the kingly Columbia Encyclopedia, which describes the heroic 12th-century wealth redistributionist as “Manly, chivalrous, fair, and always ready for a joke.” Crowe may be manly, but he’s more surly than chivalrous, and it’s fair to say that he’s as funny as a medieval tax collector. This is one dull blade.

Audiences expecting a tongue-in-cheek romp or a rousing adventure will also feel cheated. Scott bends over backwards to fashion a handsome and grimly realistic historical saga adorned in pageantry and pretense, knitted together with a classical, choral-intoned score. Screenwriter Brian Helgeland pours in enough back story—starting with Richard the Lionhearted’s battles in France—to fill the English Channel. But this isn’t Shakespeare, mate. Didn’t anyone tell the great Scott that Robin Hood was a mythical figure? Even Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack got that when they made Robin and the Seven Hoods.

You won’t find Sammy Davis Jr. or any other cool cats in the supporting cast, but you will get a band of no-names among such errant stars as Cate Blanchett. Crowe has more chemistry with his horse than he does with the gaunt Blanchett, whose days playing young maids (Marion or otherwise) are behind her.

While Robin Hood is robbed of a compelling romantic angle, its villains are as cheap as they come. With the inglorious death of Richard (Danny Huston) in France, John (Oscar Isaac) slinks to the throne, tossing juvenile tantrums when he isn’t issuing royal edicts to increase taxes on his fed-up subjects. Behind the scenes lurks a weasely, scar-faced traitor (Mark Strong) who’s plotting with the hated French to invade England. Treated like a cast-off, the Sheriff of Nottingham (Matthew Macfadyen) is not even introduced until the third act. A shabby lot, Robin Hood’s band of merry men are only merry when they’re cavorting with lusty wenches.

While this Robin Hood plunders its legendary hero (badly), it also panders to today’s anti-tax crusades brewing throughout the realms on the both sides of the pond. John’s tyrannical demands for more money to “pay for foreign adventures” are met by subjects as mad as hell and not willing to take it anymore. Yet at the same time Scott and company pay lip service to democracy and equality, they barely mutter the tale’s original populist themes of taking from the rich and giving to the poor. They slickly parry the tricky double-edged sword: Nay, this Robin Hood is a crusading libertarian, not a thieving socialist.

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