Reviews

BOOM, BANG-BANG, POP-POP-POP, BOOM! &c. As such, for a flabby 117 minutes, Safe House proceeds, leaving one's ears ringing but eyes fixated.

A self-indulgent and proud-of-it action bonanza, Safe House's grainy cinematography depicts CIA rookie Matt Weston's (Ryan Reynolds) desperate struggle to survive, as he attempts to transport the most- wanted Tobin Frost (Denzel Washington) from an ambushed Safe House to a, well, safe Safe House.

Considering the appraisable coherency of my plot description, it's a shame that the film makes no such effort in clarifying the tortured narrative: we are simply left to deduce, from the familiarity of its iconography (complete with gun-toting Arab mercenaries and corrupt American bureaucracy), what's going on. But why concern yourself with what's going on, when, really, you're there (as I was) for the explosions, thrills, and the unimpeachable Denzel Washington. Any man named 'Denzel Washington' is bound to be cool, but the actor's effortlessly suave and engagingly modest portrayal of the ex-CIA-man (turned traitor) Frost is helplessly cool. Combined with that typical underlying pathos and affability, Washington's reprisal of the anti-hero (as opposed to sheer villainous) character is welcomed. (He can add it to the list including Training Day (2001) and American Gangster (2007), albeit, in terms of quality, beneath these.) Swedish director Daniel Espinosa has torn pages – quite loudly – from Tony Scott's book, who, in turn, is Washington's usual go-to director for action. Sub-Scott, regardless, Espinosa relentlessly pumps the gauge of (entertaining and well-orchestrated) action, complete with car chases and crashes, infinite ammunition, intense close-quarters combat, and thunderous sound-mixing (my ears really did ring!).

I yawned at the prototypical political coda disturbing the general mindlessness of the story. National Security is a disgrace, I know. The CIA is a hotbed of corruption, we get it. (But think, if it wasn't, you'd eliminate an entire generic motif!) The only glimpses of integrity offered by the narrative are those nuanced psychological instances of irony, as when Reynolds's rookie forces himself to torture an aggressor for information, having previously condemned the water-boarding of Frost. But they're scattergun in approach, and not as interesting as guns. I should (re)mention the cinematography, and commend the brave decision to purposefully dull and degrade the image, removing the gloss, and echoing (with deep nostalgia) those long-gone action extravaganzas of the late-80s and 90s. However, the film craves very little comedic relief (even Reynolds' tones himself down to become near-tolerable!) and stays away from awkward one-liners. Not much is said, in fact, as it flicks back-and-forth from Washington-and-Reynolds and the CIA headquarters, itching for the next startling explosion of action.

This much can be said for Safe House: it'll keep you crunching the popcorn as it crunches through skulls, without even making you hesitate to consider how dissatisfying popcorn (or skull-crunching, for that matter) actually is.

And so, I'm resolved to reward Safe House six stars: one for the choreography of the action, one for the anchoring performances, and one for its marvellously indulgent dedication to an increasingly gadgetised genre. But, left wanting narrative and stylistic fulfilment, I must keep them other four stars in my pocket.

50/50 is half-morbid, half-humorous; it's half-serious, half-light- hearted; it's half-bromance, half-rom-com. Indeed, 50/50, as the title bargains, is a movie of two halves.

Loosely based on screenwriter Will Reiser's personal experience, 50/50 presents Adam Lerner (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) as a naive young writer whose happy-go-lucky existence is stopped short by the diagnosis of a Schwannoma spinal tumour (yes, that's right, a Schwannoma spinal tumour).

The Internet forecasts a worrying survival rating of 50/50 for his tumour, but with the convenient help of his skirt-chasing, beer-guzzling bro Kyle (the disarmingly charmingly podgy Seth Rogen), Adam ventures to outsmart the odds, playing with a weak hand but a strong heart. It warms even the coldest of folk. Just ask me. This is a bromance for today's emotional bro. Its excessive sentimentality almost makes it a 'weepie' – but don't worry, dude, it's still boisterously macho. Like when Rogen encourages Gordon-Levitt to mutilate his ex- girlfriend's artwork with eggs, blades, and a make- shift flamethrower.

We first see Adam jogging and it's symbolically fitting for a performance which warms-up before breaking into a full sprint. It successively captures (even if only sketchily) the processes of cancer, from denial to sensing injustice ("That doesn't make any sense though. I mean… I don't smoke, I don't drink… I recycle."). Each time wild fear visits his eyes, it compels you to pretend there's something in yours.

Katherine (Anna Kendrick as an endearingly naive psychotherapy student) is drafted in to comfort Gordon-Levitt, with resultingly tender exchanges and chipmunk smiles. Matt Frewer and Philip Baker Hall provide more comic relief as two cancer-stricken and lovin'-it old timers, as Gordon-Levitt's cancer 'touches' (what a horribly gentle euphemism!) everyone.

Rogen, who puts the 'ro' in 'bro', does his thing (equipped with genital hair jokes, surprise!) as laugh-snatching to Gordon-Levitt's tear- jerking. The initial fear that his usual over-the-top-ness will dilute the effect of the tragedy is dismissed, with even Rogen submitting a decent performance.

But the direction is without nuance. Director Jonathan Levine (The Wackness) adopts a flag-waving methodology in order to express the contrast of his 'cancer comedy' movie. The old bedfellows – Humour and Morbidity – renew their volatile relationship without even looking one another in the eye (as in 2009's Funny People). With a wink and a smile, Seth Rogen waves the flag of Humour: our cue to laugh. Ha, ha, ha. Soft acoustic string-plucking is truly the sound of Morbidity and Levine tediously evokes and re-evokes this stimulus, as we become sad, sad, sad. The comedy and the tragedy are seldom combined, leaving us with only a craving for the blurring of these lines.

Laughter, as fame holds it, is the best medicine (with runners-up morpheme and marijuana close behind). 50/50 realises this but it does not allow the humour to metastasise to the grieving body.

In the end 50/50 is a funny and moving film. But, without much effort, it falls short of being an important one.

Make-up tends to reveal more than it conceals, that's its irony – and Immortals', too. The make-up of this movie is its visual scrumptious deliciousness, as presented closer to the eye (!) in that other facade, 3D. Not a single scene is spared digital coaxing, leaving nothing honestly genuine, other than Henry Cavill's abs. Immortals' unashamedly dedicated to its sublime artifice, forgetting perhaps that an artifice never wholly guarantees satisfaction. No, something's not there, under its pants. Oh, yeah – a comprehensible narrative.

The story's premise, however, has 'movie' written all over it: Theseus (Cavill) embarks upon a campaign of revenge against the man who murdered his mother, the coolly callous (or callously cool?) Mickey Rourke as King Hyperion. Secretly chosen by Zeus, Theseus must prevent Hyperion from fulfilling his search for the Epirus Bow – a weapon with the devastating ability to unleash the Titans, and to fire a lethal shot at the very heart of humankind.

But the narrative betrays the crispness promised by the story, plodding along, helplessly, with eager fingertips anticipating the next salvaging fight sequence. Reduced to a simple sword-and-sandal spectacle, gone are the subtle complexities of Greek mythology, as the movie indulges in its action-heavy heavy action – complete with war-cries ("Fight...for...immortality!"), women orgasm-ing, chiselled bodies, wise-old men (see: John Hurt), and action susceptible to be momentarily slowed-down, you know, for original effect. Formulaic to the point of boring, this movie inspires moments of utter despair, as even cliché becomes a clichéd word to describe it. For Zeus's sake! Jesus Christ. I mean, Theseus.

Rourke hisses and snarls and gnarls his way to the movie's strongest performance, as confirmed by his threats for physical and sexual mutilation paling in comparison to his sadistic, grotesque treatment of fruit – getting it stuck in his beard and all! If only Rourke would have put the fruit aside for the irritable Freida Pinto, playing the (briefly) virgin Oracle. Cavill's supreme good-guy – yet another crass simplification – is still tolerable, if only that his role requires he be nothing more. We're only here for the main acts, the rest of the ensemble slide into oblivion and we don't care.

How long can I go without mentioning 300? Oh, nevermind. Like director Tarsem Singh's friend's Spartan epic, Immortals strives to cover its deficits through visual stylisations, including wonderfully extravagant costume and set design. Truly, it's a visual treat of which my sweet tooth never tired, serving image-upon-image of Caravaggio-like colourful vibrancy against solid backgrounds. Trevor Morris' imposing score intrudes on our auditory sense as the visual does on our, well, visual one – leaving little but scraps for the mind.

I knew Immortals was an entertaining experience when I forgot the eye- ache of the unrealised 3D in favour of immersing myself in the sensual orgy of colours and images. Trust me, leave your mind at home, you won't need it.

As we know it, to be immortal is to be remembered. For all its talk of immortality, it's ironic, that Immortals does not achieve it.