So, on Monday, Joe and I saw Adventureland. I was really looking forward to Adventureland — or at least I thought I was. The truth is, I was really looking forward to the Adventureland soundtrack circa 1987, and therein lies the error of my ways – rather than sitting through a rather bland coming-of-age tale of would be grad students discovering that their undergraduate degrees have left them with no skills, and no training, qualified only to be carny barkers at a park that looks like a low rent Hershey Park, I should have simply popped my Pretty in Pink cassette tape into my dusty tape player. The movie had problems with pacing, like a broken merry-go-round, it began in fits and starts. But, the primary problem is sadly with the hero, director Greg Mottolo’s alter ego, James. While James is likeable enough, he’s got it all wrong – “coming of age” isn’t when you lose your virginity, it’s that “I’m not a kid anymore” moment – true, different for all people – but ultimately, it’s when you discover your parents aren’t perfect, they’re only human, and from here on out, I really have an obligation of self-responsibilty — parental financial support is a generosity, not a right, and getting a summer job, or any job for that matter, should not be viewed with bitterness and spite, but with a “that’s life” attitude – we all have to work, bozo, and no parent has an obligation to send their kid on a summer jaunt through Europe, or to foot the bill to an Ivy League grad school. James has an unalterable attitude of entitlement, and that he has been somehow woefully wronged. Even in the end, when James wrecks the family car, he looks to his father to take the blame because it was his father who left the bottle of alcohol in the car, that James was somehow forced to imbibe, and crash the car. Dude, it’s on you, don’t look at him. Your parents have done nothing to you, get over it.
So James, to come of age, must lose his virginity, and because James is the last sensitive man standing, James must be in Love, and therefore, to lose his virginity to the girl of his roller coaster dreams, to the ever pouty Em, he must be in love with her – and frankly, this love is unbelievable, and another reason why the movie doesn’t work. The only thing James and Em have in common is their disappointment in their “pathetic” parents, who have let them down in every way. And, since they’ll never get over that — Em will never see what a tragic figure her father really is, or that his actions were not to spite her, but to spite himself — and actually come of age, maybe they are perfect for each other.
Adventureland purports to capture the essence of 1987 – and sure, the music is there – as Rock Me Amadeus blares in the background, as are the leggings, the bad hair and Reagan on the t.v. – but these self-absorbed, spoiled kids who are really too smart and too clever for their own good – could easily find themselves in a Juno ripoff Comcast ad. There’s nothing that roots them in time and place in 1987 – and for me, that was a disappointment.
My last disappointment was the seriously and tragically underused talents of Bill Hader and Kristen Wiig. Hader and Wiig provide the only levity in an otherwise self-absorbed “why me?'” movie – and they really provide the answer – as James whines over and over “woe is me, why me? how did I get stuck here,” the answer is simple – why not you, eh?
Hanna Schmitz is a supporting role, not because she’s not on screen for a significant period of time (she is), and not because there are other actresses in the film that could fit the bill as the lead actress (there aren’t). And, it’s not because of strategy – that’s the category Kate is most likely to win. It’s because the Reader is not Hanna’s story — it is the story of Michael Berg, a teenager who embarks on a doomed affair with Hanna Schmitz, a much older woman, and a former, unrepentent, Nazi prison guard, and how she changed him, and ultimately, how he changed her.
In Doubt, Meryl Streep’s Sister Aloysios runs her Catholic school with an iron fist, and in her role as principal, goes head to head with Philip Seymour Hoffman, the parish priest. When she points her steel finger at Hoffman, with her limited proof, but only her firm, resolved belief, I believed her. And, in the end when she expresses doubt – you see the pain on her face, as her doubt is not about whether the priest was actually guilty – of that she has no doubt – but a doubt at the very core of her being – a doubt in the church, with its sexist heirarchy, that would not only subordinate such behavior, but actually elevate this man to a higher position. Some people probably found her character unlikable, unsympathetic, that she could convict without proof beyond a reasonable doubt, but I liked her – I was with her in her struggles as a woman in a male run/male dominated institution. I envied her belief in her own instincts, and I respected her almost feral protectiveness of the children in her school, and a sympathized with her inability to modernize.
Milk is a standard Hollywood biopic. That it is about the first openly gay politican is of no moment when you talk about originality as it relates to genre. The story is told in flashbacks, as Harvey tells of his political rise and personal failures into a tape recorder – Harvey is closeted, Harvey moves to San Fran, Harvey becomes the mayor of Castro Street, Harvey is elected to office, Harvey fights Prop 6 and Anita Bryant, Harvey is assassinated. The story is illuminated and made moving, interesting, and inspirational by an outstanding supporting cast; Milk is a sum of its parts, and while Sean Penn’s performance is fantastic, it cannot stand alone from this truly ensemble piece. 
That’s not to say that the moments when Penn is alone, in his room, talking into a microphone, to an impersonal audience because he has lost those truly closest to him, fall flat. Sean Penn has told his story into a tape recorder before – in the Assassination of Richard Nixon, Penn plays an man suffering from a pyschotic break, who rants and raves into a tape recorder. I didn’t really get that movie, and was ambivalent about his character. But in Milk, Sean Penn, having practiced this narrative technique, gets it right – some of the finest acting in this film comes during the quiet moments in Harvey’s apartment, listening to Penn’s voice, and watching his face, regrets, failures, triumphs, and fear, all there, in every breath he takes, and with every line on his face. By the time Penn has a bullhorn in his hand, and he gleeful announces, “My name is Harvey Milk, and I am here to recruit you,” the audience is already in his pocket. 
The Wrestler is an unpleasant, hard film to watch. Rourke’s character, a wrestler who can no longer wrestler, is not a tragic figure because he is not capable of redemption, he is a tragic figure because he is completely capable, but rejects it. Although his wrestling career is over, he has every opportunity to make a new life for himself, repair the relationship with his daughter, start a new relationship with a single mother, a naked Marissa Tomei, working the hard life as a stripper. This is a movie about aging, but it’s also a movie about opportunities and second chances. Rourke’s Randy the Ram can’t embrace life outside the ring, squanders his second chance, and is left with no option, in his own mind, but to seek suicide by wrestle, and just end it all instead of finalling giving in to adulthood and middle age. Middle age and responsibility is more ravaging to him than the steroid infested, cocaine enahanced life of pro wrestling, that’s only highlights seem to be muted cheers from an equally aging crowd and the occasional fan adoration over an autograph or photo op. And, it’s is really hard to watch this loser make the same mistakes over and over again. When he misses a crucial dinner date with his daughter, you find yourself saying, no no no you jackass, and you find yourself more involved in his life than he is.