Street Fighter, the New Reboot

Capcom is probably the champion amongst video game developers, when it comes to movies based on their games. Their adapted properties include Resident Evil, Monster Hunter, and the Street Fighter franchises. Obviously, we are talking quantity here, rather than quality. Arguably, the 1994 Street Fighter was the most divisive, in the true sense of the word, because fans either really love it or really hate it. As an established IP, Street Fighter was apparently due for a reboot, but once again, the results will be divisive when Kitao Sakurai’s Street Fighter opens this Friday in theaters.

Like the 1994 movie, Sakurai’s film draws most of its inspiration from the second game release, the fan-favorite Street Fighter II, but as adaptations go, the screenplay written by Sakurai and T.J. Fixman is about as loose as it gets. Ryu, a Japanese orphan, and Ken Masters, a privileged American foul-up are brothers-from-another-mother, who trained under their master Gouken. However, it was Ryu who was chosen to compete in the World Warrior tournament. He won, but it was an ugly, brutal victory, because Ryu accidentally tapped into the dark side of his inner force.

That attracted the attention of Akuma, a powerful demon, which in turn led to tragedy. Subsequently, Ryu dropped out of the martial arts world, to protect those around him from Akuma. In his absence, Masters gains fame as a flamboyant Ric Flair-like martial arts champion. Yet, he still suffers from an inferiority complex, so he eagerly agrees to participate in the next World Warrior tourney, organized by the dictator M. Bison (Raul Julia’s final role in the 1994 film).

Unfortunately, Bison launched the contest as a ruse to lure Ryu, so he can drain off his fighting Chi. Akuma also intends to fight the winner, who he assumes will surely be Ryu. Suspecting Akuma’s interest, the champ consequently feels a responsibility to defend his title, while Masters is less than thrilled to see his old friend crash the party.

Of course, they eventually work together, alongside Chun-Li, an undercover Interpol agent, who infiltrated Bison’s organization to avenge her murdered father. Frankly, Chun-Li’s role is the least realistic aspect of Street Fighter, which is saying a lot. In real-life, Interpol is not involved in field investigations. They are a bureaucratic clearing house for international arrest warrants, which has been increasingly abused by China and Russia to harass and even unjustly arrest dissidents. In reality, Interpol would more likely side with Bison.

Beyond that, the new Street Fighter is remarkably uneven. Honestly, the first half hour is terrific. The anime prologue delivers a jolt of animated martial arts energy that favorably compares to anime franchises like Baki-Dou. The early scenes embracing the aesthetic of the 1990s are also boldly distinctive and infectiously nostalgic. However, as the film progresses, it strangely embraces the campiness of the 1994 film, which is an unexpected choice, considering that is what fans most objected to.

Not surprisingly, the attempts at physical humor often land awkwardly. On the other hand, the martial arts sequences are impressively choreographed. Andrew Koji, who starred in the Bruce Lee-inspired Warrior makes a convincing Ryu. Unfortunately, Noah Centineo’s unrestrained shtick as Masters is a major shortcoming.

In the Hand of Dante, On Netflix

In Arturo Perez-Reverte’s The Club Dumas (but weirdly, not the inferior film adaptation, The Ninth Gate), a seedy bookseller searches for a rare early draft of The Three Musketeers. In this literary adaptation, the Macguffin is Dante Alighieri’s only surviving handwritten copy of The Divine Comedy. Originally, Johnny Depp also optioned Nick Tosches’ novel, featuring an unflatteringly fictionalized version of the author. The meta-Tosches will be spared demons and fallen angels, but the gangsters who hire him supply plenty of high stakes in Julian Schnabel’s In the Hand of Dante, which premieres today on Netflix.

We know from the prologue, Tosches once killed in self-defense as a pre-teen boy. Presumably, that means he can do it again. Also, this scene showcases Al Pacino, doing some of his most memorable work since Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. Perhaps he should become king of the significant cameo.

Forty or so hard years later, Tosches boasts to gangster pal Lefty about how his long-in-the-works translation of Dante’s Comedy convinced him how he could edit it to make it better—after contemptuously dismissing his own editor. As it happens, Lefty’s boss Joe Black needs a Dante expert, to authenticate the rare handwritten manuscript. Technically, it is in the possession of the aging Don Lecco. That is why his chief enforcer, Louie Brunellesches will accompany Tosches to Italy.

Italy often brings out the déjà vu in Tosches. It should, since Oscar Isaac portrays both him and Dante Alighieri. In fact, it might not be simply a case of dramatic dual casting. Tosches might just have been Dante, like in Dead Again. Plus, Brunellesches would have been Pope Boniface VIII and Lefty was Italian nobleman Guido da Polenta. Apparently, Black wasn’t anybody famous—or John Malkovich wasn’t available for the scenes in Italy. However, Tosches’ new lover Giulietta might have been Dante’s neglected wife Gemma Donati. This time around, Tosches hopes to do better by her, because he truly loves her passionately.

Perhaps Tosches’ novel would better suit a full series adaptation, because even at two and a half hours, it is riddled with detours and sub-plots that simply dead-end and wither away. Ironically, the black-and-white contemporary Tosches timeline delivers all the really potent scenes, definitely starting with Pacino’s appearance as Uncle Carmine. Also, Gerard Butler will absolutely shock many viewers during his first scene as the thuggish, mean-spirited Brunellesches. Yet, it could honestly be the greatest performance of his career.

Chief of War, on Apple TV+

King Kamehameha I was the Garibaldi or Charlemagne of Hawaii. He unified the Islands, but he was a King, so apparently, we must remove his statue from Congress’s National Statuary Hall, because “no kings” is the new motto of the righteous, right? Regardless, Keawe-Ka’iana-a-Ahu’ula (commonly referred to as Ka’iana) was a big part of Kamehameha’s campaigns, at least until he wasn’t. Their relationship was complicated, as viewers soon glean from creators Thomas Pa’a Sibbet & Jason Momoa’s nine-episode historical drama Chief of War, which premiere today on Apple TV+.

Like Dom Toretto, “family” is everything to Ka’iana. He once served as the Chief of War for King Kahekili of Maui, but he tired of the ruler’s bloodlust, so he and his family—wife Kupuohi, brother Namaki, sister-in-law Heke, and his loyal dude—Nahi led to Kauai, where they are treated like lowly refugees. At least, they are no longer party to Kahekili’s cruelty, until the King summons them back to Maui.

Reluctantly, Ka’iana once again leads Kahekili’s army, during Maui’s time of need—except the circumstances are not exactly what the King led him to believe. Horrified by their complicity in Kahekili’s atrocities, Ka’iana’s family once again flees Maui. This time, the find shelter in the Kingdom of Hawaii (a.k.a. “The Big Island”), just as a succession battle erupts. Keoua succeeded his father as king, just as he expected. However, the late monarch willed Hawaii’s war god-idol to his nephew, Kamehameha. Essentially, that was like cleaving the Commander-in-Chief duties from the office of the President of the United States. Keoua takes it as a rebuke, which indeed it was.

As the civil war unfolds, Ka’iana’s family aligns with Kamehameha, but it will be an uneasy alliance. However, Ka’iana might not even get that far. While escaping Kahekili’s army, Ka’iana resorts to a death-defying cliff dive, after which an English trading vessel fishes him out of the ocean, on their way to the rough-and-tumble Spanish-Filipino port city of Zamboanga. Ka’iana will get quite an education there, on subjects like guns.

Time will tell how the indigenous Hawaiian community feels about the depiction of famous chiefs like Kahekili and Keoua. For those coming in without any preconceived notions, the series hums along quite briskly as a big, bold, violent historical epic, very much in the tradition of Mel Gibson’s before-scandal films.

Indeed, Chief of War represents an unusually cinematic streaming series. The Hawaiian Island backdrops look stunning and the battle scenes are spectacular. Although Sibbett, Momoa, and cowriter Doug Jung often cast Westerners in villainous roles (especially with respects to the Spanish slave trade), the series itself is much less concerned with the colonialism than the tribal warfare enveloping the islands.

The Last Manhunt: The Legend of Willie Boy

Maybe Willie Boy was here longer than we were led to believe. He died at the end of the Robert Redford revisionist western, but his legend still haunts the Mojave Desert around Ruby Mountain. He holds the distinction of being the final fugitive hunted down by an Old West posse. Yet, like Redford’s Deputy Cooper, Sheriff Wilson has little enthusiasm for capturing Boy in Christian Camargo’s The Last Manhunt, which opens tomorrow in New York.

There were only fifth-cousins (in 1909), but William Johnson was deadest against his daughter Carlotta’s relationship with Boy. They defied his prohibition, so a confrontation led to a scuffle and Johnson’s fatal gunshot. Wilson wanted to just ignore the whole thing and punt it to the tribal authorities, but the crime was committed in his jurisdiction. Inconveniently, Pres. Taft had an official visit planned, so Wilson has to mount a posse to make a show of maintaining the peace. However, the Chemehuevi scouts he recruits are friends of Johnson, who are out for revenge.

Of course, as vengeance-seekers, they should probably dig two graves and all that, which certainly turns out to be the case. Boy knows the desert better than anyone, so things get pretty ugly for the posse. Unfortunately, it is difficult for Wilson to defuse the situation, because a sensationalistic reporter keeps pouring fuel on the fire.

The true story of Willie Boy is still somewhat controversial. Tell Them Willie Boy is Here was based on Harry Lawton’s “New Journalism novel,” whose veracity has been somewhat questioned in recent years, but both films are largely sympathetic to Boy. The truth is probably somewhere in between the two.

However, Last Manhunt is an unusually draggy film. Camargo, who portrays Wilson with understated grit and complicity, has severe pacing issues as a director. This might be the slowest “Western” since Power of the Dog. Executive producer Jason Momoa’s big floating head on the poster is also a bit of a bait-and-switch. He only turns up occasionally as Wilson’s largely-assimilated Native crony, Big Jim. At least the “Big” part is true.

The Bad Batch: Ana Lily Amirpour’s Sophomore Slump

Social Justice Warriors are sure to chastise us for minimizing the contributions of Cannibal-Americans to society. For instance, nobody considers all the people Jeffrey Dahmer helped while he worked as a phlebotomist. Call us unreconstructed, but many Americans would just as soon be rid of flesh-eating serial killers. However, cannibals, violent psychopaths, and drugged-out sociopaths will be championed as the marginalized and dispossessed victims of a anthropophagusaphobic-normative society in Ana Lily Amirpour’s The Bad Batch (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

After receiving her “bad batch” verdict, Arlen is dumped outside the Texas border fence (fences, get it?) with a bottle of water and told to sod off. She is quickly picked up by a gang of cannibals who live in post-apocalyptic Venice Beach-ish trailer park commune known as “The Bridge,” led by the distinctively tattooed “Miami Man.” After seeing an arm and a leg get served up, Arlen manages to pull off an unlikely escape. Fortunately, when she collapses in the desert, a twitchy drifter (a stunt cameo by Jim Carrey, probably supplying his own wardrobe and hairstyling) drags her to a safe haven called Comfort.

The entire economy of Comfort seems to revolve around a flea market, but the charismatic leader, “The Dream” provides free drugs and a nightly rave DJed by Diego Luna for all residents. Yet, The Dream is a lecherous bigamist, whereas Miami Man is a good to his wastelander urchin daughter, therefore the Bridge was actually the more ethical community—or so Amirpour would have us believe.

The problems with Bad Batch run wide and deep. Even more fundamental than its iffy logical consistency is the personality-less lead. As Arlen, Suki Waterhouse displays zero screen presence. We have no sense of what goes on in her head, so when she makes highly dubious decisions during the third act, we can only conclude she is also a sociopath and therefore most likely deserves to be where she is. At least Jason Momoa is well-cast as the bulked-up Miami Man, but his dodgy Cuban accent adds a further note of off-key pitchiness.

Frankly, Bad Batch is like a late 1980s vision of near-future post-apocalyptic dystopia (analog media, Ace of Bass cranking on the soundtrack), filtered through a prism of 2016 politics. In scene after scene, Amirpour takes us out of the film and invites us to marvel at its relevancy. Border fences, xenophobia, sexual exploitative leaders, ooooh how daring.

Considering how terrific Amirpour’s A Girl Walks Home Alone at Night is, Bad Batch is arguably one of the worst, expectation-dashing sophomore slumps ever, right down there with Southland Tales, Elysium, and S1m0ne. It is just an ugly, heavy-handed mess. Not recommended under any circumstances, The Bad Batch opens today (6/23) in New York, at the IFC Center.

Once Upon a Time in Venice: It’s a Real Bummer, Dude

There were active oil wells on Venice Beach up through the 1970s. Granted, there is a mini-tech boomlet underway now, but the hipster colony’s primary industry has been scenesterism since the last wells were decommissioned in the early 1990s. Skateboarding private detective Steve Ford definitely considers himself a part of that funky scene. Yes, we will have to spend time with an annoying self-styled Bohemian in Mark Cullen’s alleged action-comedy Once Upon a Time in Venice (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Mark & Robb Cullen’s screenplay is so episodic, it could use a prescription for Ritalin, but eventually it decides its driving Macguffin will be Ford’s niece’s beloved terrier, who gets dognapped by junkies and bartered to Venice’s drug lord, Spyder, with whom Ford has some awkward history. Spyder offers him a deal. If he recovers the money and the drugs his girlfriend Lupe absconded with, he can exchange them for Fido. Of course, there are numerous intertwining cases and subplots, such as the spectacularly pornographic graffiti plaguing a real estate developer charmingly referred to as “Lou the Jew.”

This film is almost unwatchable. None of the jokes land, but some of them face-plant so hard we have to feel embarrassed for the big-name case, who have all appeared in vastly superior films, including Bruce Willis (Unbreakable) as Ford, John Goodman (Argo) as his surf shop buddie, Jason Momoa (Road to Paloma) as Spyder, Stephanie Sigman (Miss Bala) as Lupe, and Famke Janssen (Rounders) as Ford’s personality-less sister-in-law. They all find themselves in the unenviable position of trying to pull off gags involving sex addicts-anonymous support groups and transvestite hookers doing straight characters’ make-up at gun point.

Actually, a little politically incorrect humor would be fine, even healthy, but it has to be funny. Alas, that is not the case here. Ironically, the ending would be massively unsatisfying in nearly any other film, but in this case, it is largely what these characters deserve. Not recommended at all, Once Upon a Time in Venice opens tomorrow (6/16) in New York, at the Cinema Village and in LA at the Monica Film Center.

Sugar Mountain: A Simple Plan for Simpletons

We think of Alaska as a wild frontier that lags years behind the current trends sweeping the lower forty-eight, but there have been as many as ten reality shows simultaneously filming in the land of the midnight sun. With programs like Deadliest Catch, Alaska State Troopers, and Bering Sea Gold available, how much media interest could a lost hiker’s story generate? Admittedly, some sibling rivalry and sexual jealousy could spice it up a little, but as hoaxes go, this one seems awfully speculative. It is also an incredibly stupid idea for the irresponsible West sibling to pretend to be lost in the wild, but brains are pretty scarce in Richard Gray’s Sugar Mountain (trailer here), which opens today in New York.

After the death of their sainted mother, Miles and Liam West have run the family tour boat business into the ground. With the repossessed boat in dry dock, the younger Liam eventually agrees to his brother’s scheme. Miles will hole up in a pre-supplied shelter, eventually coming down after a week or so, to the relief of an eager media. To make it more interesting, they will stage his disappearance to make it suspiciously follow a very public spat, in which Miles will accuse Liam of having eyes for his girlfriend Lauren Huxley, the daughter of the local sheriff, which maybe isn’t so unlikely a coincidence in a tiny Alaskan town.

Of course, the younger West really has been carrying a torch for Huxley. Inevitably, the two co-conspirators will become awkwardly close as the endure the media scrutiny together. The pressure starts to rise when they realize that fool Miles never made it to his shelter. To make matters worse, recently released ex-con Joe Bright comes around looking to collect Miles’ gambling debts.

If you have seen a film with more stupid decisions than Sugar Mountain, than Dude, I really feel for you. Frankly, Abe Pogos’s ridiculous script causes so much face-palming, it is hard to actually watch the movie—not that there’s much there to miss. Nothing makes any sense, starting with Liam’s mopey infatuation with Huxley when the kind-hearted (and just-as-attractive-or-more) girl from the general store is clearly interested in him. Any guy growing up in Alaska would know better than squandering such opportunities, but Gray is Australian, so whatever.

Frankly, the only times Sugar is remotely entertaining are Jason Momoa’s periodic pop-ins to beat the snot out of everyone as Bright. Sadly, most of the film is dominated by the excruciating Cain and Abel dynamics and the love triangle, which is ultimately resolved in an absolutely risible fashion.

Drew Roy, Shane Coffey, and Haley Webb certainly make the three central characters look and sound like idiots, which could be quite fine acting, but it doesn’t give us much to work with. Arguably, it is even more depressing to watch Cary Elwes stumble around as the schlubby Sheriff Huxley. Forget The Princess Bride, this will even depress Saw fans. Only Hawaii’s Momoa seems to glide through unscathed, perhaps feeling that 1959 non-contiguous kinship.

Regardless, this film is just a mess that would try anyone’s patience. Gray’s previous film, The Lookalike was not spectacular, but it had a basic level of competency and managed to be interesting in patches. So, what happened here? Not recommended, Sugar Mountain opens today (12/9) in New York, at the Cinema Village.

Wolves: Jason Momoa Smells Fresh Blood

Evidently, werewolves can be as snobby as anyone. Sure, some humans are turned through bites, but hereditary lycanthropes look down their snouts at then. You will find a large concentration of pure-bred wolves in Lupine Ridge. It might look like hill country, but it is the Philadelphia Main Line for werewolves. It is there that Cayden Richards will go searching for answers in David Hayter’s Wolves (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Richards never knew he was adopted until he heard it on the TV news. Having discovered his parents ripped apart wolf-style after an inconvenient black-out, it is now too late for him to ask them any questions. Resigned to live as a fugitive from justice, Richards simply roams the highways, trying to keep his inner beast in check. However, a chance encounter with Wild Joe, a fellow pure-bred werewolf outcast, points him towards Lupine Ridge.

As soon as he blows into town, he seems to rub Connor, the town’s alpha-male-alpha-wolf, the wrong way. However, a wiry old farmer by the name of John Tollerman offers to take him on as a farmhand, no questions asked. Even the television reports about Richards’ previous misadventures do not seem to throw the good-hearted Tollermans. Nor does it scare off Angelina Timmons, who ought to be too young to tend the bar she inherited if she roughly as old as Richards, the high school senior-dropout. Of course, the authorities never come to Lupine Ridge, because aside from a few humans like Mrs. Tollerman, they are all werewolves.

In terms of tone, Wolves aims to be something like the lycanthropic equivalent of The Lost Boys, with hit-or-miss results. On the plus side, Jason Momoa’s Connor makes a terrific hairy heavy and Stephen McHattie has the perfect Lance Henriksen-esque weather-beaten gravitas for Tollerson. Both come into Wolves with genre cred that they only further burnish.

The problem is Lucas Till is horribly dull and awkwardly light weight as Richards. It is hard to see him as a high school quarterback—drama club president, maybe. Hayter had to notice how much verve Momoa and McHattie brought to the table (which they then proceeded to chew) and how slight Till’s presence is in contrast. Granted, dull horror movie heroes are a tradition dating back to mild David Manners in the original Dracula. However, in this case, the film depends on Richards’ fierceness, but it isn’t happening.

Despite the weak vanilla lead, there is a lot of fun stuff in Wolves. The werewolf makeup is not bad and the southern rock soundtrack nicely amplifies Momoa’s super-bad attitude. Unfortunately, too many of Till’s scenes feel like something out of Twilight instead of a werewolf movie with hair on its chest. If only there were less of him and more McHattie, but it is still kind of entertaining in a guilty pleasure sort of way. Recommended for fans of Momoa and McHattie, Wolves opens this Friday (11/14) in New York at the AMC Empire.

Road to Paloma: Momoa Rides Through the Mojave

It is like Easy Rider, except there is a reason for the angst and defiance. When Robert Wolf’s mother suffered a brutal attack, the Feds, being Feds, declined to prosecute the case. It was just too much work. However, when Wolf took the law into his own hands, they made his capture a top priority. There will not be a lot of sunsets for the biker and his new traveling companion to ride off into during Jason Momoa’s directorial debut, Road to Paloma (trailer here), which opens this Friday in New York.

Wolf is a lot better at being a drifter than the self-destructive rocker, Cash Guirgis. Nevertheless, they ride together for a while, sharing some colorful encounters on the road. Wolf has secretly picked up his mother’s ashes from his estranged reservation policeman father, to spread in accordance with her wishes. Anticipating he might do something like that, Special Agent Williams grabs a reluctant local white copper and heads into the Mojave after him.

Wolf and Guirgis will see some scenery worthy of John Ford on their journey, stopping along the way for some bare-knuckle brawling and a little bit of loving. For Guirgis that means lap-dances, but Wolf prefers using his mechanical skill to seduce Magdalena and her broken down vintage car. It is nice for a while, but it the law is never far behind.

Frankly, Paloma is far more sensitive and moodier than you would expect from Jason Momoa’s WWE-distributed motorcycle-powered directorial debut. Small in scope, it is much more closely akin to his Sundance series The Red Road than Game of Thrones or Conan. They both feature Native themes, as well Momoa’s wife, Lisa Bonet. Regardless, Paloma’s cinematic vistas and alienated vibe are surprisingly effective. On the other hand, Momoa largely wastes the timelessly cool character actors Lance Henriksen and Wes Studi (who has a bit more to do than the former).

As his own lead, Momoa is a serviceable renegade-brooder. He also generates some decent heat with Bonet, as well they should. Even in his brief scenes, Studi shows everyone how it is done, but it might co-writer Robert Homer Mollohan who makes the strongest impression as the reckless Guigis. Unfortunately, Timothy V. Murphy’s unapologetically serpentine Williams just does not ring true. Feds are nothing if not politically astute, so the degree he goes about antagonizing local law enforcement feels more like a clichéd contrivance.

Although it has some swagger, Paloma is not a meathead movie. It is a rather dark, character-driven affair that has a real point to make. Essentially, Momoa, Mollohan, and co-writer Jonathan Hirschbein suggest federal jurisdiction over crimes committed by outsiders on reservation land has created an incentive for predators to prey on Native victims. That is the good old Federal government at work. Recommended on balance, Road to Paloma opens this Friday (7/11) in New York at the Quad Cinema.