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8 MILE by Rachel Deahl Review Film Critic Click for the Official Site Rap impresario, inflamer, misogynist, gay-basher and now Oscar hopeful? Forever changing and offending, it's hard not to like Eminem, or at least be intrigued by him, because if nothing else he's that most irresistible of things: an underdog. Clearly, it was this quality that attracted Hollywood and director Curtis Hanson, as the Caucasian king of hip-hop gets his moment on the big screen to blast all the naysayers with both his acting chops and that old stand-by, his rhymes. >From the get-go it's apparent that "8 Mile" is a film about overcoming obstacles, a classic tale of talent conquering all and a familiar ode to the adage that it really doesn't matter what color your skin is. As Jimmy Smith, nicknamed Rabbit, stares in the mirror like the abandoned son of Jake LaMotta (or is it Dirk Diggler?) in the opening scene of "8 Mile," you're already nervous, and kind of sorry for him. Then after puking, this scrawny white kid uneasily makes his way onto a stage and turns to face a sea of black faces. Now you really feel bad for him, as he struggles to make the words flow, mic in hand, in front of a very disapproving crowd.
Working off a fictional script about a character strikingly similar to the real Slim Shady, Marshall "Eminem" Mathers III, "8 Mile" slides back and forth from its star's aimless days spent on the small-time Detroit rap circuit to his depressing home life -- he literally lives in a trailer with his mother. Although Curtis Hanson doesn't have a strikingly compelling or unusual script to work off, he plays to the best aspects of his story, namely his star and subject. Culling material from Eminem's music, Hanson delivers a satisfying portrait of a guy we've seen through his lyrics. From the bouts he has with his trashy, but beautiful, mom (Kim Basinger) to his days pressing bumpers at a local factory, Rabbit's story provides the unlikeliest, but perhaps most obvious, revelation: Eminem is an extremely personal rapper. Book-ended by two pivotal and compelling sequences, "8 Mile," like its star, is best when it focuses on the music. Even after selling millions of albums and establishing himself as one of the best lyricists in the industry, it's still hard to avoid being overwhelmed by the "I can't believe a white guy is singing that" sensation upon hearing one of Eminem's songs. And, just as Mr. Mathers continues to battle for respect and trash those who've already come over to his side, Rabbit constantly fights to prove himself to the world. In that way, "8 Mile" is really the story of how Marshall Mathers becomes Slim Shady -- it's about how a kid who was too afraid to sing realizes that comedy is his best weapon. Like Eminem's lyrics, which constantly toe the line between playful and offensive, Rabbit slowly learns to turn his quiet range on himself and sing about his own tragicomedy. And when Rabbit does speak, battling his enemies with words, the results are dazzling. Aside from the interesting analysis of Eminem as icon, "8 Mile" displays the breathtaking virtuosity of MCs who, in the span of a few seconds, deliver whip-smart diatribes off the top of their heads. Showcasing the purest form of rap, the film does a fine job of chronicling the way music has become the heart and soul of the communities that no one is listening to. FEMME FATALE Click for the Official Site It's fitting that model Rebecca Romijn-Stamos is headlining Brian De Palma's latest effort, since an actress of any substance, or even a real actress for that matter, would seem out of place in both the role and the film. Reminding audiences just how overrated he is as a director (that de Palma has a reputation for being an auteur is one of the prevailing absurdities of Hollywood), the man billed in trailers as the "master of the erotic thriller" delivers a shameful mess of a film, as laughably sexy as it is mind-numbingly boring. More recycler than innovator, De Palma has established himself as something of a knock-off artist through misguided attempts to pay homage to his favorite directors in his features. Most often the idol worship falls to Hitchcock, who De Palma ceaselessly, and unsuccessfully, imitates in his films.
Here the imitator is in full force, trying desperately, with every passing frame, to align himself with the Master of Suspense. But, a Bernard Herrman-esque score and a stylishly clad blonde do not a Hitchcock film make. Employing a staccato score, which unfortunately plays over nearly every scene in the first third of the film, the director would apparently like viewers to think Janet Lee is being slashed to death at every interval. Of course no such excitement is occurring. Here, Antonio Banderas' kind-hearted paparazzo is traipsing around, flashing photos of the beautiful, but camera-shy, wife of an American Ambassador to Paris who has recently set up camp in the City of Lights. Romijn-Stamos, done up in a white suit with a matching headscarf (if you squint, and plug your ears, you can pretend you're watching Grace Kelly or Kim Novak), is the mysterious wife with a shady past. But finally, keeping track of this titular bad girl, and her many bitchy trespasses and evil deeds, is just as fruitless and difficult as staying on top of Romijn-Stamos' vanishing accents - she plays an American posing as a Frenchman who speaks English with a thick French accent. (To be fair, even a talented actress might have trouble speaking in so many tongues.) Luckily, De Palma nixes the obtrusive soundtrack before the final reel but, unfortunately, does so in the process of taking his film down the path to soft-core porn. When, halfway through this abysmal affair, we find Antonio Banderas nailing Romijn-Stamos on a pool table in the basement of a seedy Paris bar, the irksome thought that this same scene is playing somewhere on the Spice channel is unavoidable. Sadly, as bad as he is at imitating other, better, directors, De Palma is even worse when left to his own devices. Adding insult to injury, the director overloads his film with flashy camera work; perhaps the aim was to keep viewers from focusing on the empty storyline and transparent characters. Whatever the goal, the effect is wearisome as De Palma seemingly insists on shooting every frame with either an extreme overhead, lingering close-up or split screen shot. One of the most frustrating directors to watch, De Palma's obnoxious insistence on recalling the work of other filmmakers instead of delivering his own fresh take is writ large in "Femme Fatale," but even the sub-standard mimicry can't shield this bomb from revealing its true colors.
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