Movie Review: “The Nun” brings Convent Discipline to the “Conjuring” universe

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The tittering didn’t let up during the showing of “The Nun” I attended. But it had little to do with the jokes in the picture. Maybe a little.

No, this was due to the guy — possibly tipsy — who launched into the hiccups at about the 30 minute mark. He didn’t lose them until the Grand Guignol finale, which tells you something about the quality of the frights of this latest constellation in the “Conjuring/Annabelle/Amityville” Universe.

The prequel set decades before Vera Farmiga and Patrick Wilson won Jobs for Life as those supernatural hucksters, the Warrens, is about a haunted convent in Romania where a nun dies. The Vatican sends an unflappable “modern” priest/scholar with a troubled past (Demian Bichir) and a novice nun who has visions, and who apparently doesn’t register shock or fear, no matter what she sees or experiences.

Maybe that’s just Tessa Farmiga, who plays her. Badly.

The village is a bit spooked. The helpful delivery guy Frenchie (Jonas Bloquet) is their only guide. If they can tear him free of the bar. If he can stop making eyes at Sister Irene.

It’s a gloomy ancient convent, seemingly designed by Hieronymous Bosch and haunted by — wait for it — “The Nun.” If they can survive being buried alive, chased, choked and hurled by “The Nun,” who never seems to want to finish any of them off, they just might solve this mystery, which ties into other “Conjuring” conjurings.

Evil Sister Valak of “The Conjuring 2” is messing with the sisters and “poisoning” the nearby town, and must be thwarted. The convent’s Catholic solution? “Perpetual adoration.” Somebody’s got to be praying, in Latin aloud, at all hours of the day or night.

Sister Irene knows enough Latin to pitch in, which is lucky because “only prayer will get us through the night.” Father Burke, meanwhile, catches up on his reading.

The formidable Bichir gives us both shuddering reactions to the various unholy threats his Father Burke faces, and a kind of “Keep calm and Carry a Crucifix” stoicism.

Ms. Farmiga the younger is hard-pressed to seem even as scared as we in the audience are supposed to be. Perhaps she’s seen the trailer. You know, the one that gives away every scary bit in the movie. That crazy gaping hole from Hell Sister Valak is always RIGHT behind her.

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There are completists who have to see every movie in a “universe.” The phrase “The studio saw you coming” applies to them.

For the rest of us, that trailer, sampled for free on Youtube, should be enough — a taste of the effects, a hint of the Big Frights, and heaping helping of Romanian gloom in the wide shots mixed in with the extreme closeups that are supposed to scare us out of the hiccups, sooner rather than later.

1half-star
MPAA Rating:R for terror, violence, and disturbing/bloody images

Cast: Demián BichirTaissa FarmigaJonas Bloquet

Credits:Directed by Cory Hardin, script byGary Dauberman . A New Line/Warner Brothers release.

Running time: 1:36

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Movie Review: Faith-based “God Bless the Broken Road” can’t drive out of the ditch

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“God Bless the Broken Road” is a sad, slight faith-based drama about loss, grieving, fresh starts and loyalty.

It dares to be somber and downbeat, hitting that whole “God and country” connection that much of Christian America embraces hard but not too hard, a movie where the grief is more deflating than wrenching.

It’s set in an Army town — Clarksville, Tenneessee — which those who serve in the 101st Airborne at nearby Fort Campbell call home. The Screaming Eagles have a support system, a “We’re family…We’ve got your back” ethos that extends to the families of soldiers.

But when you’re married to a trooper who dies in Afghanistan, maybe this isn’t the best place to start over.

Lindsay Pulsipher (“True Blood”) stars as Amber, a devoted churchgoer raising her little girl (Makenzie Moss) to sing with her every Sunday, until that fateful Sunday when the military’s death notification officers show up in — in church — with the worst possible news.

Two years later, her house is in foreclosure, she’s haunting the pawn shop to get by, she’s getting nudges from fellow church members (Robin Givens, Jordin Sparks, Madeline Carroll), friendly re-connect calls from the Airborne and point-blank nagging from her mother-in-law (Kim Delaney).

“Lean on your faith,” she’s counseled. Remember “the mustard seed,” how just a little faith can pay great dividends. If God “wants me, He knows where to find me,” is her curt answer to that.

Enter Cody, a hunky race-car driver played by Andrew W. Walker. Cody’s an “I’d rather crash than lose” hotdog who crashed one too many racecars for Joe Gibbs’ NASCAR team. Now he’s back in “the minors” getting bums-rushed into building go-carts with the Clarksville church’s youth group by mechanic/driver coach Joe (veteran character actor Gary Grubbs). Nothing like a smokey two-stroke go-cart to bring the kids closer to…emphysema?

That’s not humbling enough? How about the day Joe makes Cody play with Hot Wheels toys to figure out why he can’t “punch it” going into the corners. That’s the funniest scene in the movie, sadly.

Cody is warned that “She’s out of your league” when he eyes Amber, and he ignores it. How will Mr. Reckless adjust his style to be with a woman with a kid, who already lost a husband and father.

As Amber’s world teeters between unraveling and renewing, one of her late husband’s wounded comrades, Mike (Arthur Cartwright) makes contact. Yes, he was there when Darren died. No, Amber’s not sure she needs to hear about it.

One of the great pitfalls to many a faith-based drama is casting. Such films don’t often attract top flight talent — a Dennis Quaid here, a Jennifer Garner or AnnaSophia Robb there.

“God Bless the Broken Road” doesn’t have that problem, at least not on the female side of the ledger. The guys? Less impressive, with footballer LaDainian Tomlinson playing the preacher and nobody aside from Grubbs making much of an impression.

But the good players underplay the grief, which is the heart of their story, and the “let’s pray for her” moments don’t have the emotional punch that a single hymn has in the film’s date/concert scene.

The script spreads its wealth of character actors across a limited supply of ideas and shortchanges virtually everybody.

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Still, there’s a decent third act twist. Pulsipher plays the dickens out of the “Where’s the reward for my faith, God?” moment.

It’s just that the bland unreality of too-many faith-based dramas — melodramas, really — suffocates anything promising. Nothing so testing as truly wrenching grief is attempted  the awful consequences of a military insurance policy not allowing you to keep your house, a town where the pawn broker is nicer than Rosie who runs the diner where Amber works — it’s all Nutrasweet when it should be bittersweet.

Even the combat recreation is so flatly staged and shot as to make one wish they’d just written a really good monologue for Cartwright’s survivor to retell the story with.

Racing scenes? Sure, why not toss in one or two of those? There’s budget money and ambition here, just not the rewrites that give these players something to play, something that truly moves you.

Relying on your message to trump the slack movie-making is as lazy as preaching to the choir, which is all too many of these movies are content to do.

1half-star

MPAA Rating: PG for thematic elements and some combat action

Cast: Lindsay Pulsipher, Robin Givens, Andrew W. Walker, Arthur Cartwright, Jordin Sparks, Madeline Carroll,  LaDainian Tomlinson, Gary Grubbs, Kim Delaney

Credits:Directed by Harold Cronk, script by Jennifer Dornbush . A Freestyle release.

Running time: 1:50

 

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Preview, a Dog’s “farewell” is the rom-com hook of “Stella’s Last Weekend”

Polly Draper wrote, directed and co-stars, playing the mother to sibling rivals Alex Wolff and Nat Wolff in this love triangle — one brother steals the other’s ballerina girlfriend (Paulina Singer) — set against the backdrop of a beloved, aged dog who is about to be “put down” as we euphemistically say.

There’s been a lot of that in films these past couple of months, I must say, and as I have shared my life with a beloved “Stella” myself, this one could be a hard sell — and not just because we’re over the Wolff quota.

“Stella’s Last Weekend” opens Oct. 12.

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Movie Review: South Africa gives us Sixguns and “Five Fingers for Marseilles”

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“Five Fingers for Marseilles” is a modern day Western, a tale of revolutionary South Africa and its aftermath, a world of blood, revenge, “stepping in” to right a great wrong, and fighting back.

It’s a Sotho “Shane,” brutally beautiful and iconic, fraught with symbolism, harrowing in its violence and its consequences.

Years ago in the “Railway” outskirts of the Sotho hillside town of Marseilles, young friends endure lives of Apartheid, police shakedowns and a justice system wholly meant to keep them poor and in their place.

They stage fights with their slingshots, a couple of them dreaming of the day when they can use something more lethal. “If we don’t give them something to fear, they won’t fear us.”

Zulu “the fearless,” is their leader, Lerato their female “heart and soul,” Luyanda (Cockroach) “the broken one,” Bongani “Pockets” is “the rich one,” Tau “the lion” is the ruthless fighter and Unathi “Pastor” “the storyteller,” who tells their tale.

Yes, there are six of them, but as Lerato is a girl, young sexist Pastor calls them the “Five Fingers for Marseilles.”

When they load their slingshots to attack the cops who show up to shake them down circa 1979, the kids attack and Lerato is taken prisoner. Tau, who instigated the attack, intervenes. Three cops are killed and he’s on the run, leaving the others to fight on without him.

Decades and much violence later, Tau (stoic Vuyo Dabala), “the Lion of Marseilles,” is released from prison. He makes his way back, incognito — “Nobody” he calls himself.

Railway has many of the same old residents. Bongani (Kenneth Nkosi) is now the mayor of New Marseilles. Lerato (Zethu Dlomo) is widowed, with a boy (Lizwi Vilakazi) itching for a chance to prove himself, violently. Cockroach (Mduduzi Mabaso) is a brooding, corrupt cop — part of the problem, now. Because Railway, and indeed New Marseilles is run by a one-eyed gangster/shaman called Ghost (Hamilton Dhlamini), a pontificating murderer who lets his murderous minions, and minion in chief (Warren Masemola, fearsome) run roughshod over the locals — black, white and Chinese.

The drunken traveling salesman Honest John (Dean Fourie) figures “Nobody/Tau” to be a “stepper-inner,” and if ever there was a town that needed stepping in, it’s this one.

Shane, come back!

Everybody, good and bad, looks to “Nobody,” a “hard man” with a History of Violence, to bust heads and set this world right. But that’s not easy for a man sickened by violence, fretting over the example he sets to “the boy” — “You don’t want to be anything like me.”

But if you know your Westerns, you know that won’t hold.

Director Michael Matthews, working from a script by Sean Drummond, tells this tale in broad, slow strokes and three languages (subtitled Xhosa, Sesotho and English). There are beatings, torture scenes and heroes shot and left for dead.

Ah, but are there “heroes” in all this? That’s the big metaphor they’re playing around with.

The violence has a heightened Spaghetti Western quality at times, with men going at it with six-shooters and machetes, and everybody having to choose sides before the Gunfight at the Railway Corral.

One of the benefits of working within a tried-and-true genre is that you can skip along through some of the preamble, but Matthews rarely does. An eighteen minute prologue and a 20 minute finale (drawn out) are separated by a lot of somewhat confusing middle story where grown-up versions of the teen “five” are only reluctantly identified.

Dabala, of “Invictus” and “Mandela: Long Walk to Freedom,” is impressive as the lead, and Masemola (“Blood Diamond”) and Dhalamini fine, frightening versions of Jack Palance and John Dierkes, if you know your “Shane” lore.

Stately pacing, sadism and misdirections about which character is which as adults aside, “Five Fingers” holds together quite well, even if the screenwriter never — from first scene to finale, ever gets the “finger” count right.

3stars2

MPAA Rating: unrated — graphic violence, alcohol abuse

Cast: Vuyo Dabula, Zethu Dlomo, Kenneth Nkosi, Mduduzi Mabaso, Hamilton Dhlamini, Aubrey Poolo, Warren Masemola

Credits:Directed by Michael Matthews, script by Sean Drummond. An Uncork’d Entertainment release.

Running time: 1:58

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Documentary Review: A “listening tour” of Trumpland reveals all in “American Chaos”

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“American Chaos” is a political documentary of the “How we got here” variety, a filmmaker who ISN’T Michael Moore looking at America’s political divide by focusing on the last presidential election, as it was happening, to dissect what the appeal of the eventual winner, Donald Trump, was to his supporters.

It doesn’t hurt the film that it opens a week before Michael Moore’s latest Jeremiad, “Fahrenheit 11/9.” Film producer and sometime director James D. Stern has put movies as varied as “Looper” and “”Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle” in theaters, and directed and or produced documentaries about sport (“Linsanity” “Michael Jordan to the Max”) and politics (…”So Goes the Nation”). He knows how to position his movie in the marketplace, not a Moore lecture, but a “listening tour” visit to the heart of Trump’s America, letting Trump supporters, in their own words, teach America their way of thinking.

He took a film crew from Florida to Arizona, West Virginia to the 2016 GOP Convention in Cleveland, putting Trump backers on camera, rarely debating or even correcting them, “just to listen, take it in,” allowing only the occasional academic expert on group psychology, media consumption or history into the film to speak on what he was gathering from the Americans in the “Make America Great Again” hats.

Coal country folks, most of whom have never been down a mine, Cuban immigrants in Florida, ranchers, campaign volunteers and others tell Stern, without the benefit of knowing what would come in the next two years, of their unalloyed joy at hearing a campaign message and a candidate who was telling them, at long last, what they wanted to hear.

Stern starts out flummoxed, as if he wonders why nobody but him remembers that 1950s TV Western “Trackdown,” which featured a traveling con-artist, an Oz the Great and Powerful named “Dr. Trump,” whose naked appeals to fear, greed and paranoia (“I can build a wall around your house that nothing can penetrate!”) win favor in the town, until sober-minded voices prevail.

Stern marvels at how many people in Red State America have “this desire to go back in time,” to the pre-integration, coal consuming, pre-immigration flood, binge-buying 1950s.

It’s been a common thread among the hand-wringers over the 2016 election, “We weren’t listening,” a self-reflection/self-blame mea culpa that, coupled with with Hillary’s infamous “deplorables” remark, Russian-Wikileaks interference and James Comey’s decision to throw the election to Trump,  which people use to “explain” what happened to the vast majority of Americans who don’t approve of what happened.

“American Chaos,” with Stern occasionally interjecting his in-the-moment fears about the tide of that election, then proceeds to — almost by accident — figure out the real “listening” problem America has.

“Do you HEAR yourselves?”

In interview after interview, white people ranging in age from their 50s to 70s, reveal that they aren’t listening to what they’re saying. A nation divided by what conservative pundit George Will warned was the coming “information gap,” with a corner of the population willfully misinformed and hellbent on staying that way by leaving the TV or smart phone on Hannity and Jones, Rush and Breitbart, refuses to step out of the echo chamber and accept facts and reality. And when they open their mouths, it shows.

A Florida political operator who notes that America “was its happiest in 1957,” and  Cochise County Arizona rancher Republicans with their ground-level front-line views of immigration give us a word or two of compassion, and a lot of less delicate words directed to “get Washington’s attention” about this issue, and about their “gun rights.” We hear them.

And then there’s the seething, gimlet-eyed hatred, the smug certitude of an Arizona vet (a woman) who blames “those women” Trump was bragging about grabbing and molesting, and insists with all the vitriol she can summon that Clinton is “a traitor. If it was you who did what SHE did, we’d be having this conversation in jail.”

Wonder if her definition of treason has sharpened?

A wealthy Floridian breaks down in tears about West Virginians, “where I like to hunt and fish,” how troubled and “sick” they are, without figuring out that they’re sick from black lung and opioids, meth and a system — economic to educational — they set up themselves to fail themselves — a “conservative” system that is killing them.

Cuban immigrant and former Hialeah, Fla. Mayor Julio Martinez says “I look at Trump, and I see myself in the mirror.” Really?

Brian Beddow, his face frozen in a furious Appalachian glare, declares “Trump’s MORALLY better’n Hillary,” and makes a veiled threat or two about uses of “our guns.”

And then Iris Lynch, a self-described “MENSA” (society of the super smart) member parrots far-right talking points, how every new revelation about Trump’s character, business dealings, corruption and ignorance is just “orchestrated baloney.”

“The Democrat Party is no better than Gaddifi,” which she mispronounces, suggesting “They’ll chop off our heads.”

Their hatred of Hillary, sometimes delivered with fury, other times simply matter-of-factly repeating every disproved “conspiracy” that “I read” about “voter fraud” and “take our guns” and “global government,” spinning emails into “treason” and unwilling to consider the fact-based/investigated alternative, is just chilling.

This is what “We the People” weren’t listening to. This is what “We the People” aren’t hearing as we say it.

It would be grand if Brian Beddow, Iris Lynch, or others like the hilariously hypocritical pastor and his gun-nut wife, saw this and thought, for the first time in a very long while, “Wait, I make no sense. Maybe I’ve been wrong.” But you know they won’t.

With conservative newspapers like the Arizona Republic warning the faithful about what a Trump presidency would be like, with pundits, news stories from legitimate news sources, other Republican politicians and relatives echoing that, with all of those dire forecasts coming true with accounts of White House “chaos,” staffers griping about the “f—ing moron” in charge, endless indictments, ethical resignations and only the Chinese-owned Mitch McConnell standing in the way of Trump’s legal, prison-bound comeuppance, the deafness of the portion of the electorate represented here is…deafening.

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What gets drowned-out are the even-tempered complaints of rancher John Ladd, who notes the “big money” that keeps anything from being done about illegal immigration, and reasons”The Republicans want cheap labor, the Democrats want cheap votes and the American People want cheap tomatoes.”

Having a UCLA academic point out that what Trumpists “REALLY” miss is “not having to think or hear about race,” 1957 — in other words, when black and brown people had fewer rights than the rest of us — he’s spitting in the wind. Another academic pointing out how people hate being labeled “racist” worst than anything doesn’t take into account how much racists hate being labeled “deplorable.”

The enraged, knee-jerk reactions to “Black Lives Matter,” refusing to even consider that “those people” might have a point, the few times that Stern lets himself correct a baldfaced, ignorant lie, endlessly repeated in the GOP echo chamber, with “There are no facts to support that — none,” all fall on, you guessed it — deaf ears.

Stern is entirely too concerned with being proclaimed a prophet — analyzing America’s “Who would you rather have dinner with?” rule of thumb about political candidates, telling the camera during the GOP convention and later about how sure he was –at that moment — that Trump was going to win.

So there’s one thing he has in common with Michael Moore.

But he gives the “We need to listen” meme one last, thorough going over. “Forgotten America” gets its say about immigration, “work hard to get everything you have” and West Virginians admit that they didn’t adapt, “diversify when we had the chance” as they’re showing off what used to be a mountain covered in trees that’s now a chopped-top mesa with scrub growing back “like there was never a mine here.”

Right.

It doesn’t take a hectoring Michael Moore or patronizing Dinesh D’Souza to properly account for “what happened” and “who these people are, and why” they supported Donald Trump.

It turns out Trump supporters, “in their own words,” is the most damning portrait of them imaginable. You need to listen to yourselves.

3stars2

MPAA Rating: R for some language including sexual references

Cast: James D. Stern, Brian Beddow, Joyce Kaufman, Dr. Darnell Hunt, Julio Martinez

Credits:Directed by James D. Stern. A Sony Pictures Classics release.

Running time: 1:31

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Netflixable? Can Patricia Clarkson save Topher Grace from “Delirium?”

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The trouble with these “Is this really happening, or is it all his her/his head?” thrillers is tactile.

As in, “Dude, reach out and TOUCH someone!”

Topher Grace stars in “Delirium,” the latest in a long line of horror tales where the hero (or heroine) shouting “You’re not real! This isn’t happening!”

As Tom Walker, freshly out of prison, cleared by his shrink to return to the family mansion whose last resident — his politician dad just committed suicide — has an ankle monitor, a house arrest phone line and a blunt, tactless parole officer (Patricia Clarkson).

She walks him through the house and cruelly answers his question about what happened to his father’s fanatical guard dog.

“Never get between a dog and his dinner. Your father proved that one.”

Paints a picture, doesn’t it? She’s being mean for a reason.

“After what you and your brother did, there’s nothing I’d like more than making sure you never get to swim in that pool again.”

The other thing Tom has in ready supply is medication. It’s barely able to keep the demons at bay, such as seeing that guard dog — or its ghost– chewing his dead father’s face off, or seeing that faceless father (or his ghost) wandering the halls.

He can almost shrug those off, as his shrink counseled him to “Trust my brain, NOT my eyes.” It’s “Risky Business” time in a house with all his old Presidents of the United States of America CDs, his old Gin Blossoms T-shirt, and that pool that opens up beneath a ballroom floor.

“Risky Business” mode is how Lynn the local delivery lady, played by Genesis Rodriguez, finds him. She’s all pretty-and-pushy, dolled up in Goth clubwear, and she’s curious.

“You might as well spill, because whatever you don’t tell me, Wikipedia will.”

“What’s a Wikipedia?”

Tom’s crimes will become clear, even if his mental state is meant to be entirely up in the air. Get him off his meds (parole officer’s will do that, just to mess with you) and all bets are off. Static-filled phone calls “from beyond,” creaking floors, moaning pipes.

Guzzling Nyquil isn’t enough when his partner-in-crime brother (Callan Mulvey) shows up. Or “appears.”

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It’s an exceptionally good looking movie. But the performances have that hand-tied-behind-the-back quality that tales that operate by supernatural “rules” often exist under. Grace doesn’t get worked up, nor does anyone else, though Clarkson takes another run at “nasty” (check her out in “Sharp Objects”) and Mulvey is monstrous in that psychopathic way.

Tom’s reluctance to reach out and confirm or heighten his hallucination with a little physical reality, touching, is more obvious in this movie than in most of this genre.

More amusing is the “relationship” he begins with the bored, edgy Lynn, drawing her obsessively, frantically trying to chase her away each time she arrives with a delivery and a desire to chat or touch or something else.

“You’re weird and interesting…I always wanted a stalker.”

Tom’s visions grow weirder and weirder, and “evidence” — on videotapes, computer files — seems to explain some of what he’s seeing. I love it when the supernatural has a “rational” explanation.

Swimming and the pool top closes over him, the face of a woman drowned there — perhaps by his father, maybe by brother Alex.

Telling the cop about it is no help.

“You’re a nutbag,” “Trust me. The only person haunting this place is you.”

Of course she’s wrong. Or maybe she’s right. If only he had some way of FINDING out if “This is real” or “This is all inside my head.”

If only he’d stick his hand out and touch this vision or that apparition.Not that any of them are particularly frightening. Violence takes the place of terror and suspense, mystery and shock.

If only “Delirium” had been scarier.

1half-star

MPAA Rating: R for some violence and disturbing images

Cast: Topher Grace, Patricia Clarkson, Genesis Rodriguez, Callan Mulvey

Credits:Directed by Dennis Iliadis, script by Adam Alleca. A Universal/BH Tilt release.

Running time: 1:36

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Preview, “Instant Family” pairs up Rose Byrne and Mark Wahlberg and a bunch of foster kids

Here’s our annual Mark Wahlberg holiday “family” comedy. Sean Anders (“Daddy’s Home”) is behind the camera. Again.

Nov. 16. “Instant Family” begins tugging at heart strings. Can Mark W. find laughs without Will Ferrell? We’ll see,

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Netflixable? “My Perfect Romance” is anything but

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For insipid, heartless, tone-deaf and generally inept romantic comedies, “My Perfect Romance” is hard to be beat.

Bland leads, dull story, witless dialogue — it all pays off in this insipid time-waster/cash-suck from Team Netflix.

Vivian, played by pretty but spark-free Kimberly-Sue Murray, is a “love scientist,” actually a software developer with Robinson Tech, the woman in charge of the MyPerfectMatch app project. It’s an online dating with a twist — no swiping left or right, no photos.

“Compatibility matters,” she argues. Her algorithm is all about compiling compatibility data from your online profile, your social media footprint.

Her callow, womanizing boss (Christopher Russell) has his doubts — “You’re talking about taking the passion out of dating?”

“People say ‘love is blind,’ but has anybody ever put that to the test?” Vivian declares, and he agrees to a launch.

“My Perfect Match” then spends 90 minutes trying to put these two dullards together.

There’s the joint TV promotional appearance where the two are dared to “try their own product out,” the boss’s wily older assistant (Lauren Holley) “interfering,” pressure from the CEO’s mom (Morgan Fairchild) to get the stock price up, and a montage of failed MyPerfectMatch dates that would have been cut out of any sitcom not made 30 years ago.

MyPerfectMatch has cutesy pink heart graphics, a big Valentine’s Day online push behind it and apparently, zero chance of working.

All the Facetime chats with Viv’s sister (Jodie Sweetin) hint at the problems — “Not every man is Dad. You need to start giving them a chance.”

Russell plays Robinson as all muscles, smirk and forelock. He is referred to as “devilishly handsome” and “some kinda handsome.”

And Gottamighty, he’s boring, or just written that way. (Probably NOT just the writing, but…).

Murray has no trouble convincing us of the reality that “It’s not that I don’t like you, it’s everything you stand for.”

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The whole tedious affair is one long, limp smirk — chaste and heartless, with that TV movie lighting that makes kisses look like soap opera actors straining to save their makeup for another take.

For all the sweet, empty smiles of the principals, nobody here seems to be having a good time, nothing romantic is said or done and nothing, absolutely nothing, delivers a laugh.

1star6

MPAA Rating: PG

Cast: Kimberly Sue Murray, Jodie Sweetin, Christopher Russell, Lauren Holley, Morgan Fairchild

Credits:Directed by Justin G. Dyck , script by Stella Bagwell, based on a novel by Amanda McNeice. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:31

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Netflixable? “El Camino Christmas”

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The only time to watch “El Camino Christmas” is far-removed from the Christmas season. No sense ruining Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah or Kwanza.

But truth be told, there is no “good” time to watch this sour, mostly-humorless holiday hostage “comedy.”

It wastes a lot of funny folks in a deathly debacle of a farce, a bullet-riddled bloodbath that, like its central situation, “didn’t have to go this way.”

A young guy, Eric (Luke Grimes) rolls into town, looking for the father he never knew. The foul-mouthed drunk (Tim Allen) who now lives in the old man’s last known address is a ‘Nam vet, more than happy to hustle drinks out of the kid in the vintage Chevelle.

“This a ’71? That’s the year I found our lord and savior, Jesus Christ. And the honorable Jack Daniels. Jack’s still with me.”

Kurtwood Smith is the jaded, insult-prone, hired-too-many-relatives sheriff, Dax Shepard is his well-meaning boob of a deputy and Vincent D’Onofrio plays the hothead, drunken burnout deputy.

Michelle Mylett is Kate, a single mom with an “on the spectrum” son she has to bring to work at Vincente’s Liquors.

They’re all thrown together when the cops railroad the young guy, which devolves into a hostage situation with the trigger happy deputy and bystanders trapped along with Eric, “the suspect.”

We’ve seen how worthless Carol (D’Onofrio) has became as a cop, how he and hapless Billy (Shepard) arrested the “stranger” on suspicion of making meth because he bought a bottle of Drano.

“What is this?”

“It’s an interrogation!”

“Am I being charged here?”

“You’re fixin’ to be.”

Theodore Melfi and Christopher Wehner cooked up this script, and couldn’t figure out a way to unravel that arrest, the prisoner’s “escape” and the ensuing Christmas Eve hostage situation that wasn’t tone deaf and bloody.

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They put all their wit into sketching in one or two-scene characters suck as Kate’s trashy mom Jewels (Kimberly Quinn) on the prowl for a new man — “You want somethin’ in life, you gotta GROWL for it.”

Jessica Alba’s a very pregnant small-market TV reporter who smells her “big break” in this story.

And lonely Vincente (Emilio Rivera), who owns the liquor mart, still mourns his late wife.

We’re treated to incompetent cops yelling “Shots FIRED!” when they’re the ones doing the shooting, Vietnam War stories and “We Got Married in a Walmart” on the soundtrack.

All in a little Nevada mountain town where it never snows (hint hint), where the town drunk goes by “Bukowski, Charles” and dozes off, topless, so that his burning cigarette wakes him up before he sets the place and himself on fire.

The drunk provides the best one-line review for this mess, one a pretty talented cast should have taken to heart before taking Netflix’s money.

“Not all ideas are good ones.”

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MPAA Rating: TV-MA

Cast: Dax Shepard, Jessica Alba, Luke Grimes, Kurtwood Smith, Tim Allen, Vincent D’Onofrio

Credits:Directed by David E. Talbert, script by Theodore Melfi, Christopher Wehner. A Netflix release.

Running time: 1:29

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Movie Review: Predictable “Age of Summer” grows on You

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“Scruffy little comedy” is critic-speak for a movie that, whatever its shortcomings, makes up for them with little grace notes.

It could be a scene, here and there, a particularly charming story thread, grand cinematography, a stand-out funny performance or the mere presence of say Peter Stormare that lifts it.

And every one of those applies to “Age of Summer,” an engaging if “scruffy little comedy” about a boy’s coming-of-age during a summer training to be a lifeguard on California’s Hermosa Beach.

It’s got likable leads, a very funny supporting player, and Peter Stormare as a Sage of the Sea nicknamed “Rock God.” And it is just beautifully shot and cut by DP Darin Moran and editor Daniel James Scott. Director Bill Kiely’s specialty is youth culture skateboard and surf videos, and he and his crew make this as pastel-sunny and foamy as a California summer of memory.

Percy Hynes White, who uses his middle name for obvious reasons, is Doug, who insists everybody call him “Minnesota.” He’s moved to Cali with his family in 1986, a principal confused Chicago for a city in “Minnesota,” and it’s a nickname he can live with.

His “bros as we grows” pal is Woods (Jake Ryan, whose parents or agent must have loved “Sixteen Candles”). Woods is still into LEGOs and “He-Man” cartoons. Minnesota? He’s taken to the beach, and noticed all the bikini-clad surfer girls there.

Somehow, both of these chicken-breasted 13-years olds have made the cut for a summer long train-and-try-out for South Bay Lifeguards. Their supervisor/mentor/drill instructor isn’t from around there.  Do NOT call address Tony (Diarmaid Murtagh of “Vikings”) the wrong way. Seriously.

“Who in a buzzard’s dangly bits are you callin’ SIR?” He is “as mad as a meat ax” and his junior lifeguard charges have “a few ‘roos loose in the top paddock.”

What language is that?
“Scottish, I think.”

Tony hazes his recruits, works them, uses an indelible magic marker to label them with nicknames on their backs. Because Woods is a wuss, “a flaming gash of a peckerwood,” Minnesota gets labeled “Peckerwood’s Friend.”

Brooke (Charlotte Sabina) is the muscular surfer who makes every boy’s heart pound, but every female on guard here is “Baywatch” worthy

Over the course of the summer, Woods and Minnesota will be bullied, Minnesota will make friends with the older-savvier Mathis (Jonathan Daviss) and the disreputable teens Pots (Kane Ritchotte) and Pans (Mccabe Gregg).

Minnesota will learn to surf, taste his first beer (in a white can labeled “beer,” very scruffy) and lose his shiny new “ripper” (BMX bike). It’s the loss of his bike that sends him into “The Rocks” in search of “The Rock People.” And that’s where he obtains the wisdom of Rock God (Stormare).

“Age” is saddled with inane voice-over narration, the “adult” Minnesota, who sounds suspiciously like that MTV sports dude, Dan Cortese.

“The Pacific Ocean was cold, dark and deep,” we learn.You don’t say.

Murtagh makes the movie worth a giggle, all by himself, singing Tony’s made-up drill instructor cadences with Aussie (He’s actually Irish) gusto.

“Swimmin’ in the surf ’til my eyes fall OUT, that’s what the Junior Guard’s all about!”

A little naughty nudity — an introduction to “girlie magazines” — give this teen comedy its sole moments of “edge.”

White (“The Gift”) makes an amiably scrawny leading not-remotely-a-man (his voice changed during the shoot),

Stormare is winning as the Rock God, Sabina turns Brooke into more than just an object of desire and Murtagh gets a laugh in every single scene he’s in.

And the situations, no real adults included, amuse just enough to make this “Summer” worth remembering.

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MPAA Rating: unrated, nudity, marijuana, profanity

Cast: Percy Hynes White, Charlotte Sabina,Diarmaid Murtagh, Jake Ryan, Peter Stormare

Credits:Directed by, script byDavid B. HarrisBill Kiely . A Freestyle release.

Running time: 1:27

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