A plea

Like so many Americans, I am eagerly awaiting President-elect Obama's inaugural address tomorrow. Unlike many of his more ardent followers, I am particularly hopeful that he will punt his trademark mantra, "yes, we can." I have no idea why this phrase has captivated the American public. It is vague, limp, and devoid of rhetorical heft. In fact, I thought that it almost sunk his otherwise compelling victory speech in Grant Park. Rather than fall back on this tried, true, and completely exhausted admonition, I hope that Obama and his chief wordsmith, Jon Favreau, come up with something fresh and rousing.

"The New York Times" has an excellent interactive feature on inaugural words. I was struck by how good Lyndon Johnson's speech was, although it is never cited among the outstanding inaugural addresses. Perhaps the secret is in the delivery.

"August "and everything after

I recently caught "August: Osage County," which had every possible accolade tossed its way when it opened last winter and is now heavily garlanded and on it's fourth or fifth cast. It's a very good, though not great, play. Playing the pill addled matriarch, Estelle Parsons was the highlight of the night. She's brittle, slightly looney, and thoroughly conniving. At first she was a bit too reminiscent of the mother she played on "Roseanne," but by the end of the first act when she's in a drugged out haze kicking it to "Layla," I'd stopped thinking about the character through the lens of Parsons' previous roles and totally bought her as a mid-western harpy. It was hard to believe that she's over 80 years old. At one point, Parsons jetted up two flights of stairs; a feat she accomplished without appearing visibly winded. Were I to attempt that, I'd be calling for the paramedics.

Heading out to the lobby at intermission, I confronted a puzzling assortment of "August:Osage County" collectibles. If you haven't had your full of the dysfunctional Weston clan after 3 hours and as many acts, don't despair...you can buy a t-shirt! I wonder who on earth would do such a thing? Maybe I'm being too judgmental. After all, it might be the perfect compliment to my "All My Sons" track pants. And I remember how cool all those kids used to look in their "Cats" sweatshirts.

Recession Blockbusters?

The Hollywood Reporter has a story this morning about Tinseltown's new yen for all things Recession-themed. I'm going to venture out on a limb here and predict that these pictures won't exactly pack 'em into theaters. Instead, studios will be looking at the same paltry box office that greeted the great Iraq War craze of 2007, when "Rendition," "In the Valley of Elah," and "Redacted" all opened, bombed, and closed within weeks of one another. Cumulative domestic box office for those turkeys? $17.2 million.

I can't say I blame the movie-going public. I'm not eager to see "My Subprime Mortgage & Me" with Jennifer Aniston or "Not Another Wave of Layoffs" with Seann William Scott.

Wrestle Mania

I am punch drunk over the glut of quality movies released in the waning days of December. With the exception of this recent spat of good work, it's been a completely forgettable year for cinema. Most of the quality work being done is being done for the small screen - "Mad Men," "30 Rock," and "Big Love" are far superior to most of the movies that I've plunked down 10 bucks to sit through. "The Wrestler," however, is one of the best American movies that I've seen this year.

Hailed as Mickey Rourke's comeback after 20 years in direct-to-video purgatory, Darren Aronofsky's portrait of Randy the Ram, a fading professional wrestler eking out a blue collar living in a grimy slice of New Jersey, is brutal, uncompromising, and unquestionably brilliant. Rourke is just as exciting and alive here as he was in "Diner" and "Body Heat." As many reviewers have noted, his personal struggles merge with the character's, lending them a greater resonance than they might have had were another actor to play the part. Heaven (and Hollywood's plastic surgeons) knows what happened to Rourke's once-beautiful mug, but his battered face is almost a facsimile of the Ram's trajectory in the movie - battered, but defiant, he's incapable of throwing in the towel.

Marisa Tomei, playing the stripper with a heart of gold, plumbs hidden depths in an underwritten role. Like the Ram, her exotic dancer is grappling with aging in a profession that demands youth. Though undeniably gorgeous, Tomei's face has begun to slack, her eyes look puffier, and her smokey voice (her strongest attribute as an actress) belies a lifetime of hurt and disappointment. In this and in "Before the Devil Knows You're Dead," Tomei demonstrates that she has become a fine dramatic actress.

The best scene in the movie is a barroom encounter between Rourke and Tomei. In it, the two discuss their mutual love of '80's hair bands and their distaste for the '90's style angst that Kurt Cobain inaugurated.

"The '90's sucked," Tomei says at one point. To which Rourke quietly repeats, "90's sucked."

They might as well be discussing their own careers, both of which went wildly off the rails during that particular decade. This decade seems to be looking up.

Don't take Revolutionary detour

I went to see "Revolutionary Road" last night and was mightily disappointed. Although early onset Alzheimer's robbed me of most of my memories of the Richard Yates' novel on which film is based, I do remember admiring Yates' acerbic style and ability to convey the rich interior lives of his characters. In particular, I remember the fights between the young couple at the story's center, Frank and April Wheeler, to be horrifying and unforgettable. They were just so toxic together. You couldn't stop reading.

The toxicity remains, but the book's pleasures are absent in Sam Mendes' deadening adaptation. My companion commented that it was two hours of sheer misery. Fine for a novel, which you can read for a chapter or two each night, only returning to the domestic warfare after a much-needed stint in the real and "happier" world. Two hours of Frank (Leonardo DiCaprio) and April (Kate Winslet), are two too many.

Part of the problem was the film's structure. Mendes likes short, choppy scenes. Typically the characters exchange one or two savage jibes then we're on to the next vignette of suburban misery. He doesn't let a scene build. He just cuts to the climax.

Thomas Newman's score is thuddingly literal, it practically features thunderclaps in place of percussion. You always know something terrible is about to happen. It has all the subtlety of a Hammer horror film. Winslet's flat line readings further compound the problems. She has an uncanny knack for finding the portentous undercurrents in even simple exchanges about what kind of eggs to make for breakfast or whether a person wants one lump or two in their coffee. That's not acting. It's broadcasting.

DiCaprio, looking puffy, manages to create a more nuanced character. You feel his frustration at being pulled between Eisenhower era conformity and a looser, more bohemian existence in Paris. With just a few glances and gestures, he is able to convey a person who likes to fancy himself "special," but deep down suspects he's just ordinary.