A Different Man

Director: Aaron Schimberg
Starring: Sebastian Stan, Renate Reinsve, Adam Pearson, C. Mason Wells, Owen Kline, Charlie Korsmo, Patrick Wang, Michael Shannon
Running Time: 112 min.
Rating: R

★★★★ (out of ★★★★)

With A Different Man, writer/director Aaron Schimberg's asks the intriguing question of how someone living with a seemingly permanent condition would react if they were cured. It's easy to assume they'd be thrilled to put the agony behind them and start over, maybe even reinventing themselves to take advantage of all the opportunities that slipped by. But if said disorder directly ties to their physical appearance, it's more complicated, forcing them adjust to an existence that no longer hinges on how others see them. 

The film's facially disfigured protagonist knows all about perception, as it fully informs how he talks, walks and carries himself through various interactions, many of which are unpleasant. And though it's become routine, this doesn't necessarily make it any less easier or tiresome, even as he tries to take it in stride. Some glance, others turn away in shock while the rest either just politely pretend not to notice him or are too involved in their own business to care. 

Assumptions that Schimberg would make some kind of disabled PSA are shot down with an early scene that spoofs one, setting the stage for a dark, absurdly hilarious satire anchored by a gut-wrenching turn from Sebastian Stan on par with his recently Oscar nominated work in The Apprentice. That this is the same actor we just watched play a young Donald Trump is mind boggling, even while acknowledging both characters' affinities for real estate and reinvention. Here, he creates this indelible portrait of a man who gets a life changing gift, only to collapse under the weight of a jarring new reality that might cost him everything.

Struggling, socially awkward New York-based actor Edward Lemuel (Stan) suffers from neurofibromatosis, a genetic medical condition that causes disfiguring facial tumors. Plagued with lingering self consciousness and anxiety, he befriends new neighbor and aspiring playwright Ingrid Vold (Renate Reinsve) moves in next door, with him even gifting her his vintage typewriter. Fearing to express his romantic feelings, he soon gets a call to participate in an experimental drug treatment that could potentially cure his condition, Shocked to discover it actually works, an entire outer layer of skin peels off as the tumors begin dissipating 

Now with a new appearance, Edward fakes his suicide, taking the name of "Guy Moratz" as he accumulates wealth and success as a hotshot realtor. But when he discovers Ingrid is producing an off-Broadway play based his life, he's compelled to audition for the lead, with her unaware of his true identity. As the two grow close again, a confident, outgoing neurofibromatosis patient named Oswald (Adam Pearson) takes interest in the production. Soon, his input into the show's direction heavily influences Ingrid, jeopardizing Edward's chances at tackling the role he was born to play.

The possibility it wasn't Edward's physical appearance that held him back, but his own insecurity is a notion that taints what should be a celebratory metamorphosis into the man he always wanted to be. But the recognition this miracle cure won't just flip a switch that shuts off his problems is a tough pill to swallow, especially since there are issues related to having the condition that aren't solely physical. 

Putting the film's magical realism aside to view this strictly as a actual medical breakthrough, it's likely any patient would have mental health professionals charting their progress for years following the procedure. And while that could have very well been protocol, Edward disappearing in an effort to erase his past throws that for a loop. In actuality, the hardest lesson he'll learn is how he's still the same exact person, regardless of looks. 

Edward's top priority soon becomes reconnecting with Ingrid in an attempt to take the place in her life and on stage he feels he's owed. But when Oswald bursts onto the scene and stands out as someone with the same affliction, but a far different personality, his plan unravels. Gregarious and fun, Oswald's everything he isn't, and as crazy as things get when this man politely interjects himself into the play, Schimberg's script carefully avoids painting either as the villain. It's Edward who becomes his own worst enemy. 

Beneath makeup artist Mike Marino's facial prosthetics (which draws Elephant Man comparisons), Stan's withdrawn demeanor and closed off body language offer powerful glimpses into Edward's defeated state of mind and sense of inadequacy. And the feeling's only heightened by a hypnotic, insanely catchy original score from composer Umberto Smerelli that captures the story's bizarre idiosyncrasies. Stan's performance truly takes hold when the miracle drug does, with an uncomfortably anguished Edward slowly becoming invisible in this new skin, going so far as wearing the mask mold of his old face to reclaim his "original" life.

Reinsve brilliantly plays Ingrid as full of inscrutable contradictions, her true feelings and intentions constantly keeping us on our toes. While cultivated over a relatively short period of time, the bond she shares with Edward seems genuine, even if her promise to write him into a play that revolves around his life can be read any number of ways. If we're left speculating whether this is charity or borders on exploitation. she also wrestles with that herself. The idea pops up again in a superb later scene where Edward glumly listens to an irritating but observant audience member's interpretation of the show that mirrors our own conflicted theories.  

Pearson (who's best known for 2013's Under The Skin and lives with neurofibromatosis) is a revelation as the free spirited Oswald, whose eerily timed presence is offset by his charm. Even when a frustrated Edward's jealously take over, he still can't really bring himself to hate someone whose jovial personality becomes the measuring stick for what could have been. He sees at least part of himself in this pleasant stranger, culminating in a third act that skirts the line between tragedy and farce as cruelly comical misfortune unfolds. And while the possibility of revealing the truth to Ingrid constantly hangs over this picture, coming clean and attempting to regain his allegedly stolen life isn't so simple when it's already gone.

With elements recalling that classic Twilight Zone episode, "Eye of the Beholder,"The Substance and even Adaptation, this film examines an anti-hero who can't emotionally disengage from the supposed ugliness he thought was holding him back, no matter how miraculous the outward transformation. Maybe Edward was just incapable of change this entire time, unable to let go of who he always viewed himself to be.The final line is an ironic gut punch, finding profound meaninglessness at the bottom of a meta rabbit hole where art and morality intersect.

The Apprentice

Director: Ali Abbasi 
Starring: Sebastian Stan, Jeremy Stron, Maria Bakalova, Martin Donovan, Catherine McNally, Charlie Carrick, Ben Sullivan, Jason Blicker, Mark Rendell, Bruce Beaton, Ian D. Clark, Tom Barnett, Stuart Hughes
Running Time: 123 min.
Rating: R

★★★★ (out of ★★★★)

Depending on your perspective, Ali Abbasi's Donald Trump origin story The Apprentice can be viewed as either a grotesque hit job or an accurate biographical examination of one of the most fascinating and controversial figures in American history. Or maybe, it's just a little of both. In most biopics, lines between fact and fiction blur to a point where the truth rarely matters, which is a wicked irony its subject would likely appreciate, if the movie were about anyone but him.

It revolves around a young, aspiring real estate mogul out to prove his father wrong, hustling to make a mark long before becoming a TV star or being twice elected President of the United States. With studios unwilling to take the legal risk of releasing this and everyone getting their fill of the real thing 24/7, Abbasi gives us the only Trump movie we'll probably ever need. Its title refers not to his wildly popular reality show of the 00's, but a stint decades earlier under the learning tree of cutthroat attorney Roy Cohn, who takes the eager, inexperienced businessman under his wing. A decision he'll later regret.

It's 1973 and a young Donald Trump (Sebastian Stan) is trying to get the federal government off the back of his real estate tycoon father Fred (Martin Donovan) who's being investigated for discrimination against African-American tenants. Trump meets with combative New York lawyer Cohn (Jeremy Strong), who agrees to help, in the process showing his new protégé how to make media connections and dress for the part. He also assists Trump in his quest to turn the dilapidated midtown Commodore Hotel into a Hyatt, blackmailing government officials to obtain a tax abatement.

Gaining fame and notoriety, Trump marries Czech model Ivana (Maria Bakalova) while his troubled airline pilot brother Fred Jr. (Charlie Carrick) sinks deeper into alcoholism. As his ego inflates by the day, he stops listening to Cohn and invests in rash, money losing ventures like the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City. Pushing everyone away, the marriage to Ivana implodes, as does his friendship with Cohn, whom he betrays during the crooked prosecutor's time of dire need.

It's pretty wild to finally see on screen what we've only read or heard about Trump's formative years in New York prior to him becoming as a household name. And while Abbasi lays that groundwork magnificently, the switch isn't flipped by a single event or even two. This evolution was brewing from the start, informed by both his strict upbringing and professional association with Cohn. There's an inevitability to it while still suggesting this could have gone another way for Trump if just a few things fell differently. But it didn't and Cohn lights a fuse he'll get to see explode before his 1986 death.

The film fittingly opens with the nation's jaded skepticism surrounding Watergate's immediate aftermath before seguing into the Reagan years, when Trump experiences his greatest success as the living embodiment of Gordon Gekko's "greed is good" philosophy. But it's Cohn who gives his pupil the three rules all winners live by: "attack, attack, attack," never admit wrongdoing and always claim victory, even in defeat. 

Trump will later claim those eerily prophetic rules as his in the bestselling "The Art of the Deal," but when he first encounters Cohn he's impressionable and clueless, struggling to escape the grip of his controlling dad. And what's most surreal about watching this interpretation of Trump in the late 70's is that he sort of comes across as likable and ambitious enough for us to see the same untapped potential Cohn does.

Cohn is depicted as a monster not above using blackmail, threats and intimidation against his adversaries. He's also a closeted gay Jew prone to hurling homophobic, antisemitic and misogynistic slurs when he feels it'll give him an edge, perceived or actual. Only at his lowest point do we get a small glimpse into why, though the script is careful not to frame that as some kind of mea culpa. He is who he is, with Abbasi and writer Gabriel Sherman wisely opting not to sugarcoat it.

With his piercing gaze and a robotically rapid fire delivery, an unrecognizable Jeremy Strong pulls off the ultimate disappearing act as Cohn. Conveying complete control at all times, the most powerful part of his performance comes when the teacher realizes he's done too good a job training Trump, as the prized student absorbs all of Cohn's heartless lessons, only to eventually use them against his mentor. But even when the crooked prosecutor's braggadocious bluster is stripped away by AIDS, Strong keeps us guessing as to whether he actually changes or was just overtaken by someone more ruthless.

That an ailing Cohn continues telling lies on his deathbed out of self preservation seems on brand for him, as if concealing his illness and homosexuality would somehow rescue an already shattered reputation. Strong doesn't play this for empathy or press the issue, instead subtly hinting that maybe the tiniest shred of humanity seeps through at the end.

Trump's uncomfortably disgusted reaction to Cohn's health nearly mirrors his feelings about Fred Jr.'s alcoholism. While he's initially supports his big brother and famously still doesn't drink because of this, their father looms large, insultingly calling his TWA pilot son a "bus driver with wings." And although Fred complains about how much of screw up Donald is also, it won't be long before the latter replicates his father's attitude, writing Fred Jr. off as a loser before his death shakes him in a way we don't quite expect. 

Well played with condescending cruelty by Martin Donovan, family patriarch Fred Trump is often pointed to as the central motivator for Donald's obsession with power and success. This portrayal doesn't refute that, but more noteworthy is how their relationship changes once Fred's grip slips and he's surpassed by his son, who seeks a validation he'll never get. 

Fred's not just incapable of telling Donald he's proud of him, even his backhanded compliments seem cloaked in jealousy and disappointment. If Trump Tower's opening is the closest a clearly declining Fred comes to congratulating him, it's a pathetically half-hearted endorsement that comes too late to matter. By now, young Trump's already off to the races and isn't looking back.

Once Trump ascends, he stops listening and hates being told "no," whether it's from Cohn, Mayor Ed Koch (Ian D. Clark), his own mother Mary Anne (Catherine McNally), or in a particularly disturbing scene, Ivana. Amidst these futile attempts to push back is a strangely memorable moment where a doctor tries to convey the benefits of exercise to the appearance obsessed, amphetamine popping Trump. This leads to a surprisingly graphic but powerful montage involving liposuction and scalp removal surgery.

In a role no one thought could be believably filled, Sebastian Stan is a revelation, finding just the right balance in preventing the portrayal from sliding into parody or caricature. Less an attempt at mimicry than the effort to capture Trump from the inside out, he projects the steadiest of transformations. It isn't obvious right away, but as events accumulate and the tide shifts, Stan resembles him more and more, both physically and in his mannerisms. By the time we get to the third act that resemblance is downright scary, making good on the film's promise of being an "American Horror Story."

Despite immersing us in the grit and glitz of 80's New York with offbeat soundtrack choices and stripped down cinematography from Kasper Nuxen that's indistinguishable from period footage, there are key moments of foreshadowing. Whether it comes in a revealing TV interview where Trump's asked about a possible Presidential run, Cohn's legal machinations or an exchange with confidante Roger Stone that reveals the possible genesis for MAGA, the film masterfully hints how seeds may have been planted far earlier than anyone thought.

This could have gone wrong in so many different ways or come across as a feature length SNL skit, but Abassi instead delivers a compelling account that will now fall on time and distance to judge. As the pre-credit disclaimer reminds us, issues of accuracy and exaggeration will follow any biopic, but what's more noticeable here is how every minute succeeds in capturing the perception of Trump's bombastic public persona. And by zeroing in on this very specific era, we get further into the headspace of a man we've lately struggled to picture in an incarnation other than his current one.  

I, Tonya

Director: Craig Gillespie
Starring: Margot Robbie, Sebastian Stan, Allison Janney, Julianne Nicholson, Bobby Cannavale, Paul Walter Houser, Caitlyn Carver, Ricky Russert, Mckenna Grace
Running Time: 119 min.
Rating: R

★★★ ½ (out of ★★★★) 

There's this moment that comes in Craig Gillespie's biopic, I, Tonya, when disgraced figure skater Tonya Harding, years removed from the infamous event that would define her life and career, turns to the camera to tell us this is part of the story we've been waiting for. It's why we're here. Or the "incident," as it's referred to. More time is spent on it than you've been lead to believe, which includes everything from the planning to the botched execution and even more seriously botched cover-up. But I, Tonya isn't about any of this, while still also managing to be completely about it at the same time.

It becomes nearly impossible to separate the accompanying media narrative pushing Harding as this victimized anti-hero from the film itself. If the full extent of Harding's involvement in the 1994 attack on rival Olympic figure skater Nancy Kerrigan will always be subject for debate, what isn't is the fact that her actions and associations did lead directly to it. And with all that being true, it also needs to be acknowledged that she lead a mostly terrible life defined by physical and psychological abuse.

The toughest aspect of the movie is how it uncomfortably forces all those aforementioned elements to co-exist in a way they haven't before, perhaps in the end landing at the conclusion that Harding, no matter how you feel about her, never stood a chance. That any success she had was indirectly bred from misery and that feeling of never fitting in would persist, regardless of her talent or accomplishments. If you're Team Kerrigan, as I was at the time and still remain, there's relief in knowing that it's okay to empathize with the title character of this film, while not extending that same courtesy to the real person on whom it's based.

While filled to the brim with its fair share of detestable losers, it's also really cleverly conceived, told in a fourth wall-breaking, quasi-documentary style that suits the twisted subject, featuring flashbacks and interviews that carry a satirical tone, assuring the absurdity of the situation and its delusional characters is rarely lost. That combined with the two perfectly calibrated performances make for one of the more intriguing entries into the sports movie genre, as if there's even a correct way to categorize this. But whatever it is, it's definitely not what anyone expected.

It's the 1970's when three-year-old ice skating prodigy Tonya Harding is pushed by her abusive mother LaVona (Allison Janey) to train in her hometown of Portland, Oregon under the guidance of coach Diane Rawlinson (Julianne Nicholson). Seeing her daughter's astounding talent as merely a quick cash-in, Tonya (Margot Robbie) continues to rise up the ranks into her teen years, rapidly becoming one of the best figure skaters in the country. But even as she does this on pure skill alone, she faces resistance from those within the skating committee who take exception to her "poor white trash" reputation, which manifests itself on the ice with her costumes and rock music choices, not to mention the constant swearing at judges over scores.

Off the ice, Tonya does herself even fewer favors, associating with the likes of Jeff Gillooly (Sebastian Stan), whom she began dating at 15, and eventually marrying, much to LaVona's disapproval. It's a relationship that proves to be nearly as destructive and toxic as that with her mom, who continues to verbally cut her down as a failure well into young adulthood, while Gillooly's volcanic temper soon leads to violent beatings. The better Tonya's skating gets, the more hellish her personal life becomes, with all roads leading to the 1994 attack on Olympic rival and teammate Nancy Kerrigan (Caitlyn Carver) by Gillooly stooges Shawn Eckhardt (Paul Walter Hauser) and Shane Stant (Ricky Russert). Unfortunately, the rest is history.

While it's easy to accuse Gillespie and writer Steven Rogers' screenplay of piling on the trauma that followed Harding throughout her life, too much of it actually occurred to effectively hurl that criticism. And all of it came from her mother, who's played here by Janney in her Oscar-winning supporting turn as just about the most detestable parent and human being one could imagine existing, constantly lashing out at her daughter for no good reason other than to mitigate her own failures.

Making Tonya feel as worthless as possible isn't just an everyday occurrence with the vulgar, chain-smoking LaVona, but her life's mission, poorly disguising it under the mask of "tough love" as she brags about the sacrifices she's made for her disappointment of a daughter. As driving force and chief antagonist of this entire story, I'd love to report she's a deeply complex, nuanced character, but the fact is she's just plain awful. This comes as a relief in some ways, completely in line with the film's darkly comic viciousness, as the script makes no apologies or excuses for her monstrous behavior.

Many detractors are right in assessing that Janney is hitting one note and LaVona is a caricature, but anyone who's seen footage of the real woman (who actually does have a pet parakeet on her shoulder) would tell you that's exactly what she is. And given the semi-ironic tone the picture's going for, any attempt to humanize her would probably be a major mistake. It's a telling moment when during one of the many videotaped confessional moments, Harding expresses confusion as to why so many people would care about Nancy Kerrigan getting hit once when she was beaten her entire life. It takes a second to realize the statement is true, before realizing what that says about Tonya for making it. And none of it's flattering.

In addition to completely transforming her physical appearance, effectively adapting her mannerisms and style of speech and believably inhabiting the figure skater from her early teen years into nearly middle age, the biggest accomplishment of Margot Robbie's outlandishly great lead performance is how it gives you peeks into this tragically troubled athlete's psyche. If her mother has no hint of humanity, Tonya does, putting the work in to reach the top only to have her demons destroy the only thing she ever loved and excelled at: skating.

Despite possessing considerably more raw talent than her rivals and becoming the first woman to nail the triple axel (in one of many believable, masterfully edited competition scenes) it still wasn't good enough because she couldn't "play the game." And that's important in a sport that revolves around class and elegance, something ice princess Kerrigan had in spades but Tonya's upbringing made it impossible for her to fake, even if she was willing to. And she was never willing to, in so many ways setting up this dichotomy that existed between Harding and Kerrigan that went beyond sport and competition, serving instead as media catnip.

The genius of the screenplay is how their feud isn't explicitly explored (Kerrigan hardly appears), but its cultural implications nonetheless permeate through every frame of the film, even reaching back to when Tonya's a little girl. It's crass vs. class. The smoking, swearing rebel vs. the sweet girl next door. And as skilled as Hollywood writers are, none of them could have crafted a better story than the real one that took viewers into Lillehammer in 1994 when for a few short months figure skating became bigger than the Super Bowl. Wisely, Gillespie doesn't attempt to replicate that, instead focusing on its most controversial participant, with even the classic rock soundtrack selections inseparable from Tonya's head space, as well as the lowlifes she surrounded herself with.

Most of the picture's second half revolves around her relationship with Gillooly, played by Sebastian Stan in an underappreciated performance. Initially presenting himself as meek and quiet, he eventually assumes the mantle of the new chronic abuser in Harding's life, as their toxic on-again, off-again relationship is filled with nonstop verbal and physical altercations, including a particularly memorable one involving a firearm. And it's in a pathetically desperate last ditch attempt to prove he "loves" her that Gillooly calls in a favor from his buddy Shawn Eckhardt, perhaps the most pitiable and inept character in this entire saga, with actual assailant Shane Stant running a close second.

What begins as an anonymous threat against Kerrigan careens wildly out of control, and what's most surprising about how Gillespie depicts the infamous incident is how it's hilariously played as total farce. And that's exactly what it was. An episode of "World's Dumbest Criminals" that happened to have very real, deadly serious consequences. Did Tonya know?  Does it even matter? While the script doesn't present any additional information to come to a concrete conclusion one way or another, Tonya Harding is responsible. Or rather irresponsible, just by her association with Gillooly. In other words, by the time the knee clubbing occurred, the crazy train already left the station for Tonya, and the screenplay does an excellent job detailing how her life would inevitably lead to disaster. If it wasn't this, then there's a good chance it just would have been something else.

While it's clearly irrefutable that justice was served in the ruling to ban Harding for life from figure skating and TV ratings can be cited as the only reason she was at the Olympics instead of in jail, there's another defining event in the film that lingers longer in the mind. It comes in the only moment LaVona seems to display something resembling an actual soul, before the curtain is pulled back to reveal more heinous motivations. It's may be easy to argue whether Harding did or didn't deserve her lot in life, but few would claim she had that betrayal coming, especially at the hands of her own mother.

While criticisms will continue to persist that Gillespie is really making fun of these people with the mockumentary approach he takes, it's a story that's probably impossible with a straight face anyway, or at least without occasionally winking at the audience. It's the perfect approach because the situation is just too absurd to do otherwise, especially when the harshest skewering is reserved for the media in the form of Bobby Cannavale's Hard Copy tabloid TV producer. At one point, Harding's contemplative and brutally honest, if not particularly self-reflective, narration acknowledges how shows like that are now the news thanks this event and the O.J. case. But I,Tonya delves even deeper by attempting to explore how much a person's actions are guided and shaped by socio-economic circumstances extending beyond their control, and whether or not that  should matter when life's final score is eventually tallied.
      

Captain America: The First Avenger

Director: Joe Johnston
Starring: Chris Evans, Tommy Lee Jones, Hugo Weaving, Hayley Atwell, Sebastian Stan, Dominic Cooper, Neal McDonough, Derek Luke, Stanley Tucci
Running Time: 124 min.
Rating: PG-13

★★ ½ (out of ★★★★) 

Captain America: The First Avenger is Marvel's final puzzle piece in building toward next year's The Avengers, a movie everyone but me seems to be greatly anticipating. Perhaps if they hadn't botched every other film leading up to it by treating each as a full-length trailer I'd have taken a more optimistic view. As it stands, Captain America (I refuse to refer to it again by its clunky sub-title) is probably the best of the bunch. Or rather the least worst. Or at least better than Iron Man 2 and Thor. Yet something still seems to be missing, despite an effective lead performance and a decent story from which to draw from. But don't get me wrong. I'm not saying 1990's hilarious direct-to-video Captain America (starring J.D. Salinger's son!) is better. It's worse in every possible way. But given the choice of inviting friends over and having a bad movie viewing party featuring that forgotten stinker or watching the new version again, you can take a guess which I'd choose. One was clearly made with passion (and maybe a special sense of humor) but is dreadful. The other is a slick, safe, well-oiled, special effects machine that isn't completely passionless, but is kind of an empty spectacle with little re-watch value. Pair both up and you'd have really interesting double feature.

This story takes place in 1942 during World War II with underweight asthmatic weakling Steve Rogers (Chris Evans) dreaming of enlisting in the Army to serve his country. He's patriotic and motivated but his physical limitations are too big an obstacle to overcome. That is until he encounters Dr. Abraham Erskine (Stanley Tucci) whose latest scientific experiment to create a "super soldier" turns him into a much stronger, buffer Steve. His full transformation into superhero gets underway when he goes from selling war bonds under the guise of the costumed "Captain America" to battling the sadistic Johann Schmidt A.K.A. Red Skull (Hugo Weaving), the leader of a Nazi-like organization called HYDRA that plans to influence the outcome of the war and take over the world. Or something like that. At his side fighting the good fight is best friend Bucky Barnes (Sebastian Stan), British agent Peggy Carter (Hayley Atwell) and Col. Chester Phillips (Tommy Lee Jones).

By far the most intriguing aspect of the film is everything before Rogers actually becomes Captain America, especially the impressive CGI work that was done to believably make Evans look like a 90- lb. weakling for the movie's first act. This is the kind of special effects work that shows what happens when digital technology is used effectively to suck you into a story rather than take you out. If I didn't know who Evans was I probably wouldn't have been able to detect that this was anyone but a really skinny actor and it's a testament to that technology that when Roger's transformation arrives it feels important and substantial. Then everything goes completely downhill from there as the story evolves into a more common action adventure with poorly realized characterizations and a sanitized  Hollywood version of World War II that feels like it takes place in the present rather than the 1940's.  Granted we don't to superhero movies expecting historical accuracy, but is it too much to ask that the film at least looks like it takes place in the past?  It's just strange seeing what's so obviously modern special effects and sets when we're supposedly in another era.

That this was directed by Joe Johnston who brought us 1991's classic superhero adventure The Rocketeer, is a surprise. It had an authenticity and old fashioned sense of fun this lacks. But in his defense, that's the problem facing all current comic book/superhero movies. They want to stay true to the story, but at the same time everything has to be streamlined to make money and cater to the masses, causing certain elements to be sacrificed. It has to be PG-13. It can't be too violent. Supporting characters can't be too developed. That's how I'd explain what goes wrong in the second half and why it feels so goofy. Very few movies in this genre can achieve that balance and of recent ones only The Dark Knight (and to a far lesser extent Iron Man) have been able to have their cake and eat it too, though an argument can be made both had richer source material from which to draw.  

Chris Evans does a commendable enough job as the lead, even if there's a certain blandness to him that's hard to describe (part of me still thinks the alternate choice of Jon Krasinski would have been more interesting). That the success of the movie doesn't even seem to rest on his shoulders is only indicative of how many other problems there are. Tommy Lee Jones collects a paycheck as the underdeveloped Col. Phillips while Hugo Weaving's Red Skull doesn't get nearly enough face time or attention considering his character's supposed to be the lead villain. I guess we should be grateful he at least has a cool look to him this time around. Hayley Atwell seems to have gotten a lot of attention for her role as generic love interest Peggy Carter and I haven't a clue why since she brings little in the way of charisma to a part that feels tacked on to begin with. I get what the writers were going for in trying to make her a modern military woman in a 1940's action-adventure but since the setting feels inauthentic and the casting is off it ends up not registering at all. What does make a lasting impression is Rick Heinrich's production design and Shelly Johnson's cinematography, both of which make the movie look way better than it actually is. From a technical standpoint, there's no denying everything is top-notch. Whether it needed to be, or it even helps the film, is an another debate entirely.

Even with all its faults Captain America still positions its title character well heading into The Avengers and this is the first Samuel L. Jackson/Nick Fury cameo that seems to exist as part of the narrative rather than as a cheap plug. Even the appearance of a young Howard Stark (Dominic Cooper) seems organic to the story. With Rogers' awakening in the present-day after a 70-year cryogenic nap, there's at least a time capsule, fish-out-of-water aspect to this character that makes for a compelling cliffhanger, differentiating him from the other Marvel superheroes. Though I had to laugh at the third act development of Fury trying to convince the time traveling Rogers he was still in the 1940's. It couldn't have taken much considering the retro clean version of that period the film presented seemed so modern anyway. As a prequel to what should be an overwhelming popular superhero gathering next year, this gets the job done. But therein lies my problem. Every one of Marvel's features feels like a prequel to whatever comes next rather than any kind of standalone achievement. We'll find out next spring if that strategy pays off.