Reality check for 'Dreamz:' film's not funny

April 28, 2006

Stephen Colbert is brilliant.

Monday through Thursday nights on Comedy Central's "The Colbert Report," Colbert takes on the persona of a right wing, in-your-face TV news pundit who'll defend the Bush administration to the death. He's like Bill O'Reilly, only likable.

It's all an act, though, and his shtick only works because his impersonations of the pundits are dead-on, inane outcries about the government and all. He's studied his targets and by taking on their characteristics, he is able to in turn make fun of them by pointing out their flaws through irony, sarcasm and wit. That's the nature of a satire.

American Dreamz wants to be as funny and satirical as an episode of "The Colbert Report" or "The Daily Show With Jon Stewart" but fails miserably. In what could have been an interesting look at pop culture, writer and director Paul Weitz (American Pie, About a Boy, In Good Company) instead overreaches in this silly excuse for a satire that draws more yawns than chuckles.

The film attempts to be an indictment on American society - one that is at war in Iraq, lead by a less-than-smart president with a chief of staff who does all the talking, and in which a popular TV show that finds the next big pop star garners more public interest than current affairs.

Sounds familiar. Still, the film pulls punches left and right and takes easy shots at the president and other Americans that never follow through.

Martin Tweed (Hugh Grant) hosts the phenomenally popular reality show "American Dreamz," a play on "American Idol," and is a cross between the real show's snotty British judge, Simon Cowell, and pretentious host, Ryan Seacrest. Tweed has no morals or integrity and only cares about the bottom line: what will bring in more ratings.

For the next season of "American Dreamz," Tweed scours the country in search of the next poor soul he and his producers can market to America. Playing the blonde, small town girl-next-door is Sally Kendoo (Mandy Moore). Providing the ethnic variety for the show is Omer (Sam Golzari), a trained Iraqi terrorist, with a passion for show tunes, sent to live with relatives in Orange County, Calif.

While Tweed is casting the next season of the show, trouble is brewing in Washington. President Staton (Dennis Quaid), fresh off re-election and an obvious parody of President Bush, has decided to take a break from running the country by closing himself off in his room and reading newspapers and books, items he usually has avoided. His chief of staff (Willem Dafoe), who looks a lot like Vice President Dick Cheney, does the talking for him, and along with the first lady (Marcia Gay Harden), consoles Staton and encourages him to stop reading and get back out in public.

Once members of the press begin questioning the mental stability of the president, the unnamed chief of staff swiftly attempts to save face by scheduling back-to-back public appearances for Staton, including one as a guest judge on the "American Dreamz" finale.

Making Staton have the mental capacity of a third-grader is the easy way out, and here's where Weitz could have learned a trick or two from Colbert. Staton is the version of Bush that some critics assume is the reality, not the persona presented to the American public. Bush has his verbal gaffs and incredulous facial expressions, so why not use those as a starting point for a characterization?

One scene shows Staton describing his belief that he's been appointed by God to his position of power, and another shows the chief of staff telling the White House press core to not ask questions about the president and to remember that, because the country is at war, they should focus on what's really important. These critiques of current trends in our society are not without merit, but they're not fully developed.

Because Weitz doesn't delve into the real problems behind these characters, based on real people, the critiques are barely noted and come across as merely whines from self-proclaimed martyrs. These issues deserve more than the canned presumptions displayed in the film.

The scenes between Staton and his chief of staff fall flat because there's no meat to them. There's a line somewhere between imitating a person and imitating an idea of a person or a caricature of them. It's thin, but it's there. Will Ferrell impersonating Bush on "Saturday Night Live:" funny. President Staton in American Dreamz: not funny.

Moore makes an impressive turn as Sally, proving she's grown past her teen pop days. Too bad this film's humor isn't as biting as another film of Moore's, Saved! It's also unfortunate that Jennifer Coolidge (Best in Show, American Pie, Legally Blonde) wasn't given better material to work with to deliver her usual, hilarious deadpan. Grant's portrayal of Tweed is confusing; we see glimpses of humanity coming from him, or a deeper sense of self-awareness than you'd expect, but they're few and far between.

In American Dreamz, Weitz apparently wants to comment on the state of American society and our preference to choose our own reality - believe what we want to believe - rather than accept the reality that's been dealt to us. He's got a point, but it's lost amid the fruitless noise coming from the underdeveloped and stereotypical characters' mouths.

His previous films, mainly About a Boy, have had a certain charm and wit to them that American Dreamz lacks. The only thing I left the theatre with was a bitter taste in my mouth and a shared sense of his disillusionment.

Toward the end of the film, one of the characters says that Americans can't be held responsible for the actions of their country, which was surprising to hear. Perhaps Weitz forgot to take his own advice and did what he is criticizing others for: he created his own version of reality.

American society deserves its share of criticism, as does the current administration, but American Dreamz doesn't cut it.

Pieter Bruegel, "The Parable of the Blind Leading the Blind"

My friend and I thought this painting would look great on the back of a Students' Association shirt. We'd have the SA logo on the front, then Bruegel's piece on the back. No description necessary. We could probably sell them to the rest of the student body and use the revenue on something they want instead of on, you know, office supplies and executive officer scholarships. (I still love you, Mr. Scott).

Where the crap is Walt?

The definition of Senioritis: At about 4:30 p.m. today, I realized I had completely forgotten to go to my 1 p.m. class. It hadn't even crossed my mind all day. Only when I saw the textbook for that class in my bag did I realize I had missed it. I'm going insane.

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It's disappointing that I've been able to guess the major plot twists on "Lost" the past two episodes. If I'm half-heartedly guessing the big secret at the end, J.J. Abrams, you just aren't trying hard enough. Get it together, man. Season's almost over. Impress me.

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I've already been to the new Starbucks on campus three times today. You will rarely see me without a Starbucks cup in my hand from now until graduation. I'm testing how much caffeine one person can handle.

I Like This.

My look-alike, J.K. Rowling (I just call her Jo when we hang out), recently posted this article on her Web site. It's been picked up by various media, some praising her, some critisizing. I'm not sure how you can make a strong argument against her opinions that our society is weight-obsessed, but then again, people will argue about anything. Just look at me.


For Girls Only, Probably...

Being thin. Probably not a subject that you ever expected to read about on this website, but my recent trip to London got me thinking...

It started in the car on the way to Leavesden film studios. I whiled away part of the journey reading a magazine that featured several glossy photographs of a very young woman who is either seriously ill or suffering from an eating disorder (which is, of course, the same thing); anyway, there is no other explanation for the shape of her body. She can talk about eating absolutely loads, being terribly busy and having the world's fastest metabolism until her tongue drops off (hooray! Another couple of ounces gone!), but her concave stomach, protruding ribs and stick-like arms tell a different story. This girl needs help, but, the world being what it is, they're sticking her on magazine covers instead. All this passed through my mind as I read the interview, then I threw the horrible thing aside.

But blow me down if the subject of girls and thinness didn't crop up shortly after I got out of the car. I was talking to one of the actors and, somehow or other, we got onto the subject of a girl he knows (not any of the Potter actresses – somebody from his life beyond the films) who had been dubbed 'fat' by certain charming classmates. (Could they possibly be jealous that she knows the boy in question? Surely not!)

'But,' said the actor, in honest perplexity, 'she is really not fat.'

'"Fat" is usually the first insult a girl throws at another girl when she wants to hurt her,' I said; I could remember it happening when I was at school, and witnessing it among the teenagers I used to teach. Nevertheless, I could see that to him, a well-adjusted male, it was utterly bizarre behaviour, like yelling 'thicko!' at Stephen Hawking.

His bemusement at this everyday feature of female existence reminded me how strange and sick the 'fat' insult is. I mean, is 'fat' really the worst thing a human being can be? Is 'fat' worse than 'vindictive', 'jealous', 'shallow', 'vain', 'boring' or 'cruel'? Not to me; but then, you might retort, what do I know about the pressure to be skinny? I'm not in the business of being judged on my looks, what with being a writer and earning my living by using my brain...

I went to the British Book Awards that evening. After the award ceremony I bumped into a woman I hadn't seen for nearly three years. The first thing she said to me? 'You've lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you!'

'Well,' I said, slightly nonplussed, 'the last time you saw me I'd just had a baby.'

What I felt like saying was, 'I've produced my third child and my sixth novel since I last saw you. Aren't either of those things more important, more interesting, than my size?' But no – my waist looked smaller! Forget the kid and the book: finally, something to celebrate!

So the issue of size and women was (ha, ha) weighing on my mind as I flew home to Edinburgh the next day. Once up in the air, I opened a newspaper and my eyes fell, immediately, on an article about the pop star Pink.

Her latest single, 'Stupid Girls', is the antidote-anthem for everything I had been thinking about women and thinness. 'Stupid Girls' satirises the talking toothpicks held up to girls as role models: those celebrities whose greatest achievement is un-chipped nail polish, whose only aspiration seems to be getting photographed in a different outfit nine times a day, whose only function in the world appears to be supporting the trade in overpriced handbags and rat-sized dogs.

Maybe all this seems funny, or trivial, but it's really not. It's about what girls want to be, what they're told they should be, and how they feel about who they are. I've got two daughters who will have to make their way in this skinny-obsessed world, and it worries me, because I don't want them to be empty-headed, self-obsessed, emaciated clones; I'd rather they were independent, interesting, idealistic, kind, opinionated, original, funny – a thousand things, before 'thin'. And frankly, I'd rather they didn't give a gust of stinking chihuahua flatulence whether the woman standing next to them has fleshier knees than they do. Let my girls be Hermiones, rather than Pansy Parkinsons. Let them never be Stupid Girls. Rant over.

Where's my billion-dollar income?

Thanks to the folks at MyHeritage.com, as well as those at VHI's Best Week Ever who told me about the Web site, I'm now certain that 70 percent of my face looks like J.K. Rowling. In the running: Daryl Hannah, 68 percent; Demi Moore, 66 percent; Glenn Close, 64 percent; Ricki Lake, 62 percent; Jennifer Garner, 59 percent; Jennifer Love Hewitt, 58 percent; Neve Campbell, 57 percent; Debra Winger, 57 percent; and Holly Marie Combs, 57 percent. OK, OK, so I don't look like any of these women, but one can dream.

Funny, yet wrong on so many levels.

(From Sojourners' April Fools Edition) SATIRE: Pentagon investigation clears Cheney of wrongdoing in seal-clubbing incident

Cheney, wearing his custom- tailored seal-clubbing suit, prepares to club a baby seal.

ANCHORAGE, Alaska - Dentist Michael MacKenzie is in serious but stable condition following an accident while on an Alaskan baby seal-clubbing expedition with Vice President Dick Cheney. Cheney was in the process of clubbing a 1-week-old baby harp seal when MacKenzie somehow got in the way, sustaining a concussion, broken jaw, and several missing teeth.

Asked to comment, MacKenzie stated, "Umph schmph fluh shuh buh fuh," as his jaw is wired shut and his mouth stuffed with gauze. In comments scrawled on hospital stationery, he said that he harbors no ill will towards the vice president: "I realize that it's all just part of the sporting risk and giddy thrill of baby seal clubbing. More morphine, please."

A Pentagon investigation into the matter has determined that Cheney did nothing wrong, as his executive office affords him the privilege of ignoring international conventions regarding the clubbing of both seals and dentists. A Pentagon spokesperson also indicated that the vice president overpaid $7 for his baby seal clubbing license, and should seek reimbursement from the state game warden.

Animal rights leaders have expressed outrage; they're very good at it. Seal-clubbing safety experts have also expressed concern.

In response to waves of criticism, Cheney plans to go on FOX "News" in four days and say he's sorry for clubbing his friend but that the Iraq war is an unparalleled success.

Reports have also noted that Cheney has restricted his outdoor sporting companions to members of unpopular professions in order to mute public outcry in the event of an accident. MacKenzie, 65, is a dentist, 78-year-old Harry Whittington, whom Cheney shot in the face with a shotgun earlier this year, is a lawyer, and Ronald DuPre, a campaign donor who was accidentally harpooned while on a dolphin hunting tour earlier this year, is a DMV attendant. Reports indicate that Geoffrey Payton, a parking enforcement officer with whom Cheney had scheduled an outing to go dynamite fishing this June, has since cancelled the trip and moved to an undisclosed location.

Lee delves ‘Inside’ realm of NYC power players

Published March 31, 2006

Going in to any movie helmed by director Spike Lee ensures only one thing: You'll be challenged to think about life's everyday situations more critically than perhaps you had before.

"Inside Man" is more than your average bank-heist caper, with writer Russell Gewirtz and Lee interjecting sharp glimpses of American society and racial tensions still present on every street corner, no matter the neighborhood. In addition to the ever-present racial dialogue normal to Lee, here we examine the corrupting power of wealth, and power in general.

Dalton Russell (Owen) has planned the perfect bank robbery, targeting Manhattan Trust in New York City with a team of three, apparently thinking of every possible flaw to his plan beforehand. His team walks into the bank dressed as painters with hats, sunglasses and fabric covering their faces, taking the customers and workers hostage and waiting for the police to begin negotiations.

Detective Keith Frazier (Washington) is no stranger to negotiating with criminals, and he and his partner Bill Mitchell (Chiwetel Ejiofor) set up camp, working alongside the police and strategizing their next move. Washington himself is no stranger to playing a cop, and here we're treated to his typical genial mannerisms and wit, but not much more.

While Frazier negotiates with Russell, a new problem in the form of Madeline White (Foster) appears at the blocked-off street corner in front of the bank. Madeline's a key power player in New York, though we never know her exact job. Bank owner Arthur Case (Christopher Plummer) contacted her, asking her to use her skills to protect his mysterious belongings kept in one of the bank's safety deposit boxes.

Foster brings a level of class and artistry to her films that most actresses would murder to have. Here, as the powerful Madeline, she never loses her smile and posits her, at times, unethical requests with a serpentine sweetness you know has carried her to her current status.

The story weaves between action inside the bank and future interrogation scenes of the hostages, each one carrying his own story, stereotypes and opinions on how the robbery went. New York City is its own character, an undeniable melting pot of the American Dream. But what are these dreams built on, and more pertinent here, what have those who've risen to power done to achieve them?

Owen is brilliant in anything he does and can command attention on the screen even when concealed behind sunglasses and a mask. Though we don't see as much of him or learn as much about his character, what Dalton does do and say is never without great consideration and purpose. He says it himself in the opening dialogue of the film: You'd better listen to him carefully, because he never repeats himself.

Entertaining and thought provoking, the film dabbles in civics lessons and sociological studies in addition to its thrilling twists and turns. Unlike certain films, like "Crash," which tell you in practically every frame how important and serious it is, "Inside Man" allows the viewer to decide for himself the lessons to be learned.

Though more mainstream than Lee's typical work, "Inside Man" is a smart thriller that asks important questions, which are all too relevant in our present society to be ignored.