A MOSQUITO-MAN (Unrated, Big Screen Entertainment Group, 79 mins., DVD release date: January 12, 2016)
Those with fond memories of watching USA's Up All Night programming block ought to get a kick out of realizing that Kimberley Kates (who I previously mentioned in Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure) produced two feature films directed by the stars of the sitcom version of Weird Science. John Mallory Asher, who played Gary (originally Anthony Michael Hall in the Hughes film), helmed his former wife Jenny McCarthy in Dirty Love whereas Michael Manasseri, who took over the role of Wyatt (first played by Ilan Mitchell-Smith), wrote and directed A Mosquito-Man. The former premiered at Sundance in 2005 but met disastrous critical and commercial receptions in America. Though grossing $12 million worldwide, it scored in the low thousands domestically. A Mosquito-Man, by comparison, is strictly DTV in the wake of the festival-certified Babysitter Wanted, which Manasseri co-directed with writer Jonas Barnes.
Those with the faintest memories of watching USA's Up All Night ought to realize all of the aforementioned films would fit in perfectly with that after-hours schedule.
Dirty Love doesn't seem incongruous next to the tacky T&A romps of yore. Babysitter Wanted is a demonic splatter flick modeled after vintage suspense movies. And the topic of this review, A Mosquito-Man, is such a slick, modernized heir of Troma (among other things) that Lloyd Kaufman himself gets to be one of the victims, dying on the crapper as well he should. And the hero is introduced as employee of a nuclear power plant, which makes this genetically-spliced monster mash closer to the spirit of The Toxic Avenger than The Fly.
Manasseri, best known perhaps as the geeky third wheel opposite the Two Coreys in 1988's License to Drive, plays Jim Crawley, the aforementioned handler of radioactive materials who is emasculated, outsourced and murdered in one day. Not only is Jim passed over for an 11-years-due promotion by Axis Nuclear Power chairman Mr. Kopple (Kaufman), but he's fired as part of the company's new nine-point plan. His car is swiftly impounded and he is denied the bus fare home. And Jim's bitter wife Jackie (Kates) is having an affair with the hotshot who cost Jim his job, Dan Simmons (Ted Myers). When he finally finds a helping hand, Jim ends up a guinea pig for a biological insecticide which turns him into a bloodsucking mutant with a few scores to settle.
This is not the first movie to use this idea, as "Mosquito Man" was also the home video title for a 2005 made-for-SyFy flick called Mansquito (the alternate title of A Mosquito-Man back in 2012 was Sucker). The two movies involve a manhunt/bug hunt involving homicidal hybrid creatures, but Manasseri bucks for a black comic vibe which harkens back to the Sam Raimi stylings of The Evil Dead and Darkman. Although he never truly reaches such pulpy heights, Manasseri certainly tops the most infamous shot from Raimi's debut with a little help from Kimberley Kates. There are also touches of Spider-Man in Jim's newfound ability to flip across the rooftops (the transference does not give him wings) as well as The Crow in the swarm of mosquitoes who guide him on his vengeance. He's able to telepathically command them to do his bidding, demonstrating this to the grizzled detective on his trail.
That would be Shanahan, who is played by Babysitter Wanted vet Monty Bane in a lively variation of a familiar caricature. Whereas in Manasseri's last film he was cast as an imposing figure with no dialogue, Bane instead gets to put his tongue in his cheek and play the intimidating policeman with a droll gusto similar to Tom Atkins (of Night of the Creeps and Maniac Cop). In his desperate attempt to make sense of the string of freak killings, Shanahan calls upon the greedy scientist, Dave (Ricky Wayne, a dead ringer for Jeffrey Combs), who inadvertently created Mosquito-Man, and the funniest incidental moments involve the cagey entomologist and the no-bullshit investigator. When Shanahan finally succumbs to drowning his frustration in liquor, a sudden clue jolts him into action ("We need coffee, ASAP!") It's a strong enough supporting performance that helps carry the movie over its paces.
In the midst of his basic vendetta, Jim finally consummates a romantic union with sweet-hearted co-worker Evelyn (Jordan Trovillion), an aspiring singer-songwriter whose forte is coffee shop country/folk. This is a peculiarly bizarre moment, mostly because their relationship isn't set-up properly at the start, save for a rescue sequence which inaugurates the producer's cut. Jim's surprise mating ritual seems extremely out-of-character and sordid, although as the movie progresses, nice guy Jim struggles with his newfound instincts to the point of once again contemplating suicide rather than homicide. Even Shanahan isn't as demented in his pursuit as someone who unwinds with target practice would indicate, hoping to take Jim alive rather than exercise unwanted military muscle.
Alas, Evelyn is the damsel-in-distress whom Dave abducts in a further display of his unethical megalomania. This results in Jim having to resist an industrial-sized bug zapper, arranged in a force field position surrounding Evelyn, while Detective Shanahan and his rookie sidekick Bowen (Danny Mooney) are locked in a room full of deadly Asian Tiger mosquitoes. Not quite a camp artifact on the level of Sharknado, A Mosquito-Man is at heart an old-fashioned creature feature flick modeled like the introduction to a new Marvel property (an impression the DVD cover art really hammers), with Robert Kurtzman's FX shop molding an impressively icky face for Manasseri, with CG enhancements for the remainder of his features. So while the digital skeeters seem more laughable than some of the leaden digressions into tastelessness, and the movie could have stood to be a bit wittier, but this is fitfully entertaining taken in a "late, late show" environment if not the vaunted stature of a Midnight Movie.
Very special thanks to Kimberley Kates for easing me into writing this review, among other acts of kindness.
The DVD release contains two contrasting cuts of the film. The first would appear to be Kimberley Kates' preferred edit for international markets, as it emphasizes quicker pacing and more rousing options of beginning and end. This also means a truncation of Kates' graphic death scene, much less screen time for Lloyd Kaufman and some unwieldy elisions in dialogue (listen to the conversation between Jim and Dave at the bar). The comedy-centric director's cut, meanwhile, lets Kaufman attempt to steal his handful of scenes more blatantly (including a mothballed golf analogy as well as a direct allusion to Tromeo and Juliet) while also withholding the reveal of the monster at the start for a more downbeat flashback chronology. No cast/crew interviews or commentary, alas, but split amongst the dual platters are a behind-the-scenes gallery and Big Screen Entertainment Group trailer reel.
PERCY JACKSON & THE OLYMPIANS: THE LIGHTNING THIEF
(PG, Twentieth Century Fox, 118 mins., release date: February 12, 2010; SRP: $19.99)
PERCY JACKSON: SEA OF MONSTERS
(PG, Twentieth Century Fox, 106 mins., release date: August 7, 2013; SRP: $39.99)
Take your mind back to 2010, the year film adaptations of young adult novel franchises were in full swing. J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter already rang the box-office bell five previous times and the grand finale was given the Kill Bill treatment with The Deathly Hollows, Part One arriving in late autumn. Stephanie Meyer's Twilight was on its third entry, Eclipse, and the first in Suzanne Collins' The Hunger Games series was in embryonic pre-production after Lions Gate secured the movie rights.
Lost in the shuffle was Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief, based on Rick Riordan's own teen-oriented bestseller, relegated to the typically faithless dumping grounds of early 2010 by Twentieth Century Fox. This scheduling was a sign of avoiding competition with the teen lit titans, all boy wizards and bohunk monsters, as well as the final product being inescapably seen as a transparent clone of the inaugural Harry Potter films, most blatantly deduced from the employment of journeyman Chris Columbus as the director, someone who has embraced his hired gun status to the point where his production company is even named 1492 Productions. It's not like anyone was expecting a brave new world as far as Percy Jackson was concerned.
Bespectacled British yobs with wands were traded in for sullen Manhattan boys with swords, whilst Hogwarts and Quidditch morphed into Camp Half-Blood and junior cadet games of Capture the Flag. Instead of Ron Weasley, Riordan's best friend figure was a black teenage satyr/sensei/servant named Grover, which was more of a hard personality change than the rather traditional appearance of a feisty female warrior, Annabeth, a clear understudy for Hermione. The characters may have adopted physical deformities familiar to its Greek mythological trappings, as Dumbledore in this universe was Chiron, a centaur split between human and horse at the torso, but critics and audiences knew exactly where this film's true inspiration lied.
17-year-old Percy Jackson (Logan Lerman) is introduced as oblivious to this strange co-existence between gods and men, and only when Zeus (Sean Bean) accuses brother Poseidon's (Kevin McKidd) demigod son of burgling his lightning rod staff (why, there's the magic wand!) does Percy gradually realize his secret identity. For Percy is indeed Poseidon's progeny from a love affair with a mortal woman named Sally (Catherine Keener), and on a field trip to the museum overseen by wheelchair-bound Professor Brunner (Pierce Brosnan), a gargoyle posing as a substitute teacher attacks Percy in private, inquiring about the missing bolt. Brunner and "junior protector" Grover (Brandon T. Jackson) intervene, whisking Percy and Sally away to the Half-Blood campgrounds. Alas, Sally is forbidden to enter being a pureblood and all and is kidnapped by a Minotaur minion of Hades (Steve Coogan).
Afflicted with dyslexia and ADHD which are revealed to be talents rather than stigmas, Percy is confronted with the rumor of his treachery and vows to rescue his mom and set things straight with the holy trinity of Olympians. However, time is of the essence as Zeus has threatened war on the eve of the summer solstice, which means catastrophic natural disasters shall engulf Earth in flames. Percy defies Chiron's orders and ventures out to locate the Underworld where his mom is imprisoned, with Grover the goat-boy and Athena's steely daughter Annabeth (Alexandra Daddario) tagging along. Guided by a map handed down by the Luke (Jake Abel), the cocky absentee son of Hermes, Percy and friends travel cross country from Jersey to Nashville to Las Vegas collecting teleportation pearls to save them and all of mankind from premature damnation.
Chris Columbus, former screenwriter for Steven Spielberg (Gremlins, The Goonies) and protégé of John Hughes (Adventures in Babysitting, Home Alone), is quite a populist filmmaker at heart. I try not to level accusations of pandering at him, because I've seen worse hired gun filmmakers in my time and he at least knows how to make a film which is genuinely charming for all audiences. I grew up watching Home Alone almost on a Mobius-style loop and Mrs. Doubtfire remains a fun little diversion to this day. I even tout 1991's Only the Lonely as proof that Columbus was a generous actor's director on par with Hughes, who also helped prove John Candy was a multi-faceted, undervalued presence with Planes, Trains and Automobiles. But in the new millennium, I can't help but feel Columbus has calcified into a joyless groove, especially given that his previous film prior to The Lightning Thief was I Love You, Beth Cooper, a forced, unfunny attempt at recapturing the glories of both his and the late Hughes' pasts.
Having begun the 2000s with Harry Potter & The Sorcerer's Stone as well as The Chamber of Secrets, the 2010 arrival of Percy Jackson & The Olympians: The Lightning Thief feels like an Oracle's sad prophecy come to life, as Columbus' workmanlike reputation comes full circle to drag him down into uncut mediocrity. Columbus' slavish, Johnny La Rue-style devotion to crane shots, the minimal-stakes melodrama and his astounding lack of visual humor can be felt with all the finesse of a blow from Thor's hammer. Whatever touches he once demonstrated with ensemble casts has become an every-actor-for-himself Survivor Series where a lot of talented people get taken down for the count. Moments of striking spectacle which incorporate some effectively seamless CGI (I especially enjoyed a ferry ride down the boulevard of broken dreams) are taken to loud, repetitive dead zones which are as immersing as trying to dunk a cookie in a lab dish full of milk.
And then there's the matter of Craig Titley's screenplay, who apparently has invoked a powerful deity I never read about in all of my Homeric high school days: Diangellus, the God of Exposition. Whenever a mortal man has no faith in the sanctity of mise-en-scène, he seemingly prays to mighty Diangellus for a thudding line of over-explanation, thereby robbing any incident of magic, wit or intelligence. It makes the film seem more like a professor's waffling lecture than a majestic feat of storytelling, as everything has to be elaborated on with stern, mood-killing bluntness. Percy's newfound destiny is given to reams of tiresome specifics without any true feel for discovery or introspection, whereas revelations like the trio realizing the rat-infested garden shop is really Medusa's lair require a lot of thudding, literal exclamations that clutter and grate.
The name of that death trap is "Auntie Em's Garden Emporium," by the way, a backfiring allusion which reinforces just how much this makes The Wizard of Oz feel even more like The Odyssey by comparison. The stifling blandness of the central heroic threesome is enough to make you want to click your heels thrice and long for home. Logan Lerman may have the face of Disney-period Kurt Russell and the coiffure of Zac Efron, but Percy Jackson comes across more like a Luke Skywalker figurine with such a colorless, angst-ridden arc to burden. Ditto Alexandra Daddario, who has the piercing blue eyes of a junior Meg Foster but little worthy motivation behind them. Brandon T. Jackson has to play deadly straight the stereotypes satirized in Tropic Thunder, thus his incessant jive-talking and nervous subservience have all the gallantry of Chris Tucker.
Columbus overcompensates with a top-flight supporting cast who put their money where their cheeks are. Uma Thurman's bitter, bitchy Medusa ("I used to date your daddy!" she righteously sneers at Percy) could evoke dreaded memories of Emma Peel and Poison Ivy, but she clearly relishes the job and gives it a seductively sinister glee. Pierce Brosnan's grizzled but still velvety charisma adds true nobility to the dialogue (well, most of it, although even he makes his obligatory "horse's ass" quip induce a strange smile) as much as Thurman conjures up alluring bile. But the real fun is to be had when the trio encounter Hades' Hollywood hideout, with a saucy Steve Coogan in arena rocker leather chaps and the smoldering Rosario Dawson (the Mimi of Columbus' Rent) as his reluctant bride Persephone, a trophy wife more voluptuously desperate than any of the fictional housewives on Wisteria Lane. One would love to see a black comedy spin-off starring these two mismatched myths.
The Lightning Thief, though, seems content to climb the peak of Mount Obvious, resigned to its Potter-by-numbers fate which effectively squanders the potential for a bankable franchise. Even the soundtrack lays it on thick, with ridiculous deployment of AC/DC when Luke mentions the "Highway to Hell" and a Vegas interlude at the Lotus Hotel & Casino pumping up "A Little Less Conversation" and "Poker Face" as the youths partake of a certain flower-shaped cookie which dutifully distracts them from their mission, given their inconsistent knowledge of Greek lore. Unfortunately, their obliviousness is shared by Columbus and Titley, who have no new tacks with the fantasy adventure material passed on by Riordan, who probably deserves better than to be aligned with the Potter plagiarisms. His Percy Jackson is reduced to a Half-Blood Fool.
1492 words later, and now here we are talking about the streamlined Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters, a late-blooming sequel which jumps straight ahead to a foreign director, the amusingly-named Thor Freudenthal, and brings in Green Lantern scribe Marc Guggenheim to adapt the second of Riordan's five volumes. The Prisoner of Azkaban this ain't, with Percy Jackson still unresolved in his daddy issues and having regressed in his confidence and fighting skills. The three principal stars return fairly more seasoned, with Lerman having wowed in The Perks of Being a Wallflower and Daddario opting for the C-list scream queen route thanks to Texas Chainsaw 3-D. Brandon T. Jackson, meanwhile, is stewarded out of the picture quickly despite being written less gratingly than before, the better to make room for a few new trekkers in Percy's latest quest.
First is Clarisse (Leven Rambin), daughter of Ares and doppelganger for Katniss Everdeen. It's she whose stamina and arrogance puts her at the top of the Camp Half-Blood student body, as the newly-introduced camp owner Dionysus (Stanley Tucci with an amusing drinking problem; Chiron appears recast with Anthony Stewart Head) appoints her to head an expedition to locate the Golden Fleece, which is the only cure for the sickly memorial tree, erected by her father Zeus after she has fallen, that is the source of the camp's protective force field. But the culprit, once again being the blandly malevolent Luke, outs himself to Percy and drives the conflicted hero into further rebellious action alongside Grover, Annabeth and a one-eyed half-brother named Tyson (Douglas Smith).
Tyson essentially serves the bumbling sidekick role the MIA Grover did in the original, but with Chris Columbus receding into a production credit, Freudenthal's overall approach is more (non-union German?) Spielberg equivalent than even Columbus could claim. The film is like a less frenetic version of The Goonies, replete with intrigue on an abandoned, ancient ship (with Confederate zombies instead of pirates), but also cribs liberally from Jaws (the Charybdis is mistaken initially for a swarm of shark fins) and Raiders of the Lost Ark, especially in the finale involving a golden chest Luke uses to re-animate Kronos, the dreaded Titan who ate his own godly children but was foiled by the three Olympian brothers. Like the first film, the movie's set pieces involve some cute variation on a classic Greek figure, such as when The Grey Sisters appear as reckless, sassy taxi drivers (played by TV comediennes Missi Pyle, Mary Birdsong and Yvette Nicole Brown) who spill the beans about a numerical prophecy which concerns Percy. Also, in one of the minor nods to the star-powered stunt-casting from before, Luke's papa Hermes finally turns up, but less as Joe Pantoliano's boorish stepfather from the original and more in the form of a UPS clerk played by the dashing Nathan Fillion, the Canadian Bruce Campbell himself, thus making the resentful Luke seem more like the dull brat he really is when the former Captain Mal drolly steals his one big scene.
There is a way to make teenaged conflict work on a dramatic level which also incorporates time-honored folklore, but between both Percy Jackson movies, lackluster screenplays and badly-calculated direction are the main curses which prevent them from scaling such heights. Watching the prejudiced Annabeth belittle and berate the adolescent Tyson, who looks like the son of Encino Man, in such a shallow, unpleasant manner feels like a gross misjudgment, and when Grover finally reappears as the maid for gigantic cyclops Polyphemus (boomingly voiced by Ron "Hellboy" Perlman!), it's back to the old shuck-and-jive. Even Percy Jackson himself doesn't appear to get a fully-satisfying reaffirmation, a further shame considering Lerman is capable of greatness. Even more than the first film, whose fractured familial bonds were at least consistent with Columbus' not-so-auteur stature, this is dramatically stunted and as clockwork as the Colchis bull who charges the camp at the beginning. The movie brings Percy back to square one out of sheer laziness and the beats are all too familiar.
Say what you will about the Harry Potter, Twilight or Hunger Games film series, but at least they each created their own respective worlds and populated them with convincing analogues for their types of fan, allowing people to lose themselves in the stories. With the Percy Jackson duo, there is a crushing sense of impersonality and dreary obligation which goes against any types of vicarious thrill one could ascertain. At least Thor Freudenthal is a marked improvement over Chris Columbus, especially in regards to staging his action scenes and creating more indelible images. Such moments of marvel as Percy and friends riding a candy-colored Hippocampus as well as getting sucked into the Bermuda Triangle crackle with joy and tension, but ultimately the Diary of a Wimpy Kid director is fitted for the same strait-jacket as the over-qualified Lerman.
Percy Jackson: Sea of Monsters feels direct-to-DVD caliber through and through, which will definitely not be enticing if there is a third installment. Too much time has passed between the first and second, and the cast are clearly getting too old for their parts. Much like Columbus and Hughes' own Home Alone series, don't be shocked if you find the second sequel recast and ushered out to an even more minute degree of fanfare. The gods are not that crazy, after all.
THE TO DO LIST
(R, CBS Films, 104 mins., theatrical release date: July 26, 2013)
Brandy Klark is the keynote speaker for the graduating class of 1993 at Merriwether High in Boise, Idaho. Captain of the Mathletes, record-holder of the establishment's highest GPA and able to balance both the school newsletter and her own feminist zine ("Womyn"), Brandy boasts an intellectual sense of accomplishment, but, as her peers are quick to point out, she is flunking out in terms of carnal knowledge. To put it bluntly, she's a virgin! That almost changes when she reluctantly attends a keg party where she gets the hots for blonde hunk Rusty Waters (Scott Porter), who's jamming an acoustic Def Leppard cover to a flock of hotties. A mistaken booty call is picked up by the inebriated Brandy, but she nervously outs herself as "valedictorian" and Rusty flees. What's a hormonally late-blooming girl to do?
Although originally titled "The Hand Job," The To Do List doesn't stop at that particular gesture, as Brandy outlines her new sex education curriculum by writing an inventory of every trick she can find. But her obliviousness to the rules of motorboating, teabagging ("Must be British") and rim jobs (it's not in the Encyclopedia Brittanica, so she makes a mental note to ask the librarian) is the most subtle reminder of the pre-Google period of pornographic sophistication. Self-biographer Maggie Carey, making her feature debut, stuffs era-specific signifiers into every nook and cranny of the dialogue, costumes, settings and song selection. If you ever wielded a Trapper Keeper, hiked up your denim skorts and squealed at the prospect of watching Beaches on VHS (the distinction made clear in case you assumed anyone in this film could afford Laserdiscs), then you'll be on this like Humpy Hump to a bowl of lumpy oatmeal. If you just groaned at that analogy, you'll long for the subtlety of Greg Mottola's Adventureland very early on.
Brandy consults her experienced best friends Fiona (Alia Shawkat) and Wendy (Sarah Steele), as well as her abrasive big sister Amber (former O.C. babe Rachel Bilson, uncharacteristically uproarious), for guidance/pressure as she randomly fulfills her fuck-it list. The only person initially willing to experiment with her is the unfortunately-named Cameron Mitchell (Johnny Simmons), the reluctantly platonic friend who doesn't realize his role as mere guinea pig and confuses Brandy's advances as romantic interest until she stands him up on a date and he conveniently discovers her records. Brandy's not too distressed as she's got a bigger fish to hook, namely Rusty, whom she decides will be just the right person to deflower her once there's nothing more to learn.
The premise is prototypical early 1980s child's play, but this time, the focus is on a single strong-willed heroine instead of a group of boorish mates. More vexing are some meandering concessions to the summer camp formula through Brandy's temp job as a lifeguard for the local public pool/daycare center, where she's humiliated to no end by her crude boss Willy (Bill Hader), although the worst incident involves a floating brown log which she assumes to be a Caddyshack-style goof until she actually tastes the truth for herself. Did I mention Willy has a rivalry with the elite country club vandals? This is bad Meatballs sequel territory which has no bearing on the plot or even a worthy pay-off.
Speaking of which, our Bill Murray in this case is Aubrey Plaza, not merely a decade too old for the part but also too confined to her sardonically defensive persona as cultivated on TV's Parks and Recreation. It's hard to shake the feeling that this could've been a spin-off movie for April Ludgate with only a few quick re-writes. This only worsens the character flaws of Brandy Clark, a studious, self-centered automaton rarely allowed the sliver of a genuine conscience or spontaneous vibrancy. A gutsier move would've been casting either Sarah Steele or perennial second-banana Alia Shawkat, routinely denied the vehicle she truly deserves in the wake of not just Arrested Development but also Drew Barrymore's undervalued Whip It, as the blossoming bookworm. Either of them could have made Brandy affecting, whereas Carey and Plaza jointly render her facetious.
Plaza, to her credit, gives off a few glimmers of expressive subtlety and is reliably game when it comes to the many seed-spilling scenarios thrown her way. As a sketch-comedy veteran consigned to a vignette-centric narrative, Carey calls upon the talents of several big name comic performers who liven up the episodic succession of semen and lube gags. Alas, for every sublime showcase for someone like the invaluable Bill Hader, who often reaches for a chuckle yet knows when to sincerely drop his guard unlike Plaza, or the giddy Andy Samberg as the vainglorious, spacey grunge rock singer whom Brandy goes oral for, there's a squandered appearance by Christopher Mintz-Plasse as the weaselly best friend or Donald Glover as the straightforward token minority conquest. Too much of The To Do List feels ancillary and aimlessly vulgar, not to mention anachronistic in the many blatant similarities to American Pie (chiefly in form of Brandy's oppositional caregivers played by Connie Britton and Clark Gregg). This formless familiarity undercuts the easygoing sense of gender-reversed generosity Carey wrote into the story.
Remember those frank, funny conversations Stacy and Linda had in Fast Times at Ridgemont High, or even the asides between Vicky and Jessica from American Pie? Carey captures the spirit of those scenes in the many zippy exchanges between Brandi, Fiona and Wendy, who are enlightened by magazine articles about the nifty benefits of pineapple juice and the solidarity found in Bette Midler sing-a-longs. And it ends zestfully with a long-overdue orgasmic climax that supports the girlish inhibitions coded throughout the film. The males in the film are properly mocked for their conservatism, and the moral is treated with both a bratty indifference and a bold defiance. Contrary to what Brandy's dad believes, it's best to leave some doors, even the ones in the back, open since that is how the light gets in.
Carey earnestly aims for a John Hughes-style youth caper which takes account of sexual "edge" of such forebears as Porky's or The Last American Virgin. Truth of the matter is that the majority of those pre-Sixteen Candles films were too easily distracted, morally bankrupt and downright sexist to make their growing pains resonate. Hughes' sense of ambiguity, surrealism and empathy set a standard which not only helped legitimize the teen flick in the 1980s, it planted a giving tree for future generations to harvest. His broad strokes seemed organic rather than contrived, the fantasy elements came with a premium (there's no denying that The Breakfast Club would be back in their separate food groups come Monday) and when he directed Molly Ringwald and Ally Sheedy, the actresses didn't come across as mannered or self-conscious. Carey is closer to the exploitative aesthetic rather than the emotional, which does a disservice to both her revitalizing perspective and her stunted, stunt-casted leading lady. It also makes The To Do List a way more apt title in hindsight than "The Hand Job."
