Clint Eastwood is almost 90 and still cranking out almost a movie per year as a director/producer. Many of us thought he was done appearing in front of the camera after 2008’s “Gran Torino” and 2012’s “Trouble with the Curve,” but here he is in “The Mule,” playing a nonagenarian who becomes a courier for the drug cartels.
It sounds like Hollywood hoke, but it’s based on a true story written up by Sam Dolnick, which formed the basis of the screenplay by Nick Schenk.
Eastwood plays Earl Stone, a horticulturist who’s reaping a golden years beset by regret because of a lifetime treating his family as secondary to his other passions. When his farm is foreclosed upon he hears about a chance to make some quick cash.
It’s a pretty simple gig: some people put bags in the back of his battered Ford pickup, he drives it a few states over, parks it in a certain spot and leaves the keys in. When he comes back, the bags are replaced by wads of cash. It isn’t hard to suss out what’s going on.
Gradually Earl grows more and more confident in his new venture, spreading money around generously in his hometown. Unbeknownst to him, a crafty DEA agent (Bradley Cooper) is seeking out the legend of “Tata,” the cartel’s sneakiest mule.
Tonally, this is a strange film. It starts out very fun-and-games, becomes a cat-and-mouse chase in the middle and then turns toward tragedy in the last act. Each piece works well on its own, though they don’t especially mesh.
“The Mule” is the sort of film you sit back and enjoy, but afterward wonder what it all was really about.
Bonus features on Clint Eastwood flicks tend to be rather sparse -- the old-school director isn’t much for promoting his material -- and this one is no exception. There is a making-of documentary, “Nobody Runs Forever: the Making of the Mule” and a Toby Keith music video, “Don’t Let the Old Man In.”
"The Mule" is a great idea for a movie that doesn't live up to its ambitions. Or rather, its ambitions aren't as lofty as they could be.
The latest from director/star Clint Eastwood has been a mystery to critics, at least those outside of New York/LA. The studio, Warner Bros., refused to screen it for regional film journalists. This is usually an indication the movie is a dog. But it's Clint Eastwood, for dang's sake, and he doesn't crank out very many clunkers, even at age 88. The total absence of "The Mule" from the awards race chatter has been mighty perplexing.
(One fine fellow I know suggests the studio is instead placing all its awards hopes on "A Star Is Born," which is probably a smart bet.)
Eastwood plays Earl Stone, an elderly horticulturist who gets caught up as a drug courier, or mule, for a Mexican cartel, transporting hundreds of kilos of cocaine at a time cross-country. He does this at first as a one-off for the money, as his farm has been foreclosed upon. Then he does it for more money, using it to replace his battered 1960s Ford pickup with a brand new black one, help pay for his granddaughter's wedding, fix up the local VFW clubhouse, etc.
But he keeps going, and going, and soon becomes the cartel's best mule. It becomes clear that Earl is doing this for more than just the cash. Maybe he just wants to feel valued again. Maybe he thinks if he spreads the cash around enough, his family will forget about what a lousy father and husband he's been.
Operating parallel to this story is that of Colin Bates, a hotshot DEA agent played by Bradley Cooper. He's chasing the legend of "Tata," this mule who transports more coke than any other, is utterly unpredictable and some say uncatchable. Of course, the secret to Earl's unpredictability is that he's an amiable old codger who likes to stop at the best eating joints, have a beer, hobnob with the locals, help a family change a flat tire, and whatnot.
It's fun and games for a while, but both story threads have the pressure ratcheted up. Earl sees the (by their standards) benevolent head of the cartel (Andy Garcia) replaced with some sterner types who insist on laying down the law.
At the same time, Bates is striking out in his months-long quest to nail Tata, and his boss (Laurence Fishburne) is getting ready to pull the plug. Bates and his partner (Michael Peñ) are putting in a lot of hours and time away from home, which places pressure on their family lives, in much the same way Earl did when he was a younger man.
"The Mule" is based on the true story of Leo Sharp, who was arrested in 2011. It's a much catchier name than Earl Stone, so I don't know why the filmmakers changed it. Nick Schenk wrote the screenplay based on a newspaper article by Sam Dolnick.
The first half of the film is almost a comedy, which turns towards tragedy in the second. Instead of driving by himself, Earl is shadowed by Mexican gangsters
to make sure he stays on schedule. Of course, they stand out like a sore
thumb in the places where Earl traipses.
"Two beaners
in a bowlful of crackers," Earl jokes when his handlers ask him why all the white people are staring at them when they stop at a roadside BBQ joint. Earl is 90 and fought in World War II, and is past the point of being PC, or even knowing what PC is.
He also has encounters with a lesbian motorcycle gang, "Dykes on Bikes," and is corrected by an African-American family when he calls them "Negroes." These aren't contentious confrontations; Earl is friendly and his smiles are returned, his help accepted. It's almost like a fantasy safari for Trump voters.
It's an enjoyable movie, but I'm not sure what the point of it all is. Earl talks constantly about how young people need to put down their phones, eat some good food and enjoy life. This Earl does, including carrying on with young women when he stops at motels or is invited to a cartel party. He looks pretty good for 90, but I think the bundles of cash might have something to do with it.
I wish I could say better about “Ghostbusters,” the highly anticipated -- and, among a small but vocal slice of misogynistic Internet trolls, much reviled -- reboot of the 1984 comedy classic. People are mostly talking about the fact this version features four female Ghostbusters.
But what they should be talking about is why the movie is so funny and distinctive in the first half, and then spends the last hour trying woefully to mimic the old film -- right down to cameos of nearly all the original cast members that mostly serve to remind us the new version doesn’t measure up.
It’s not the abundance of X chromosomes that diminishes this “Ghostbusters.” It’s that it tries too hard to be a carbon copy instead of a wholly fresh take.
Melissa McCarthy and Kristen Wiig play Abby and Erin, two paranormal physicists who parted ways years earlier after writing a book about ghosts. Now Erin is worried it will ruin her chances for tenure at Columbia University, while Abby slaves away at a fly-by-night science institute with a younger colleague, Holtzmann, who’s half-crazy and hammers together all sorts of experimental tech to blast and capture ghosts.
Played by Kate McKinnon, Holtzmann is the best thing about the movie. With her runaway hair, dumpster-diver-meets-1980s-John Cusack-wardrobe, yellow goggles and uncomfortable manner, McKinnon has a way of barking out her dialogue in oddly endearing ways. She’s like a stray puppy you know will chew up all your shoes, but you’re eager to bring her home anyway.
Leslie Jones plays Patty in something of a retread of the Ernie Hudson role, the sassy and street-smart black add-on, though she’s a little more proactive. She’s an MTA booth dweller who seeks out the Ghostbusters after encountering an especially loathsome apparition in the subway tunnel.
A note on the ghosts: they’re great-looking, with 30+ years of special effects advancement giving them all sorts of details and depth; I like how the bones show through their translucent clothes and epidermis. Curiously, as in the old movie the spirits never actually kill anyone directly, though one guy falls out a window after being scared to his (presumed) death.
Last time around the villain was a conniving bureaucrat indifferent to the ghostly danger, but here it’s a creepy nerd named Rowan (Neil Casey), a spit-upon hotel janitor who’s actively giving the paranormal escapees a nudge or three. The guy is supposed to be resentful about always being overlooked, but after spending some time with the charmless fellow we empathize with the overlookers.
Chris Hemsworth has a fun turn as Kevin, a dimwitted blond who becomes their receptionist, mostly by enchanting Erin (or at least her hormones). He’s so stupid his eyeglass frames are empty -- “They kept getting dirty,” he justifies -- and he covers his eyes when told not to listen. Although at some point I got the sense Kevin is just pulling a ruse to get out of not doing any work.
It’s all good stuff, right up to the time they make their first big public takedown of ghosts in front of a hall full of rock concert fans, when “Ghostbusters” runs off the rails.
Director Paul Feig (“Bridesmaids”), who co-wrote the script with Katie Dippold, turns the latter hour of the movie into a greatest hits show, as we trot out the old actors and even the hot dog-eating Slimer ghost. There’s a new Ghostmobile, another Cadillac hearse (borrowed from Patty’s uncle), a showdown with a giant puffy ghost who goes around crushing buildings, and so on.
It’s like all the energy they built up in the first half got plugged into the wrong, outdated gizmo.
The women of “Ghostbusters” are great. The foursome have real chemistry together, and I would love to see them go on to other adventures -- ones in which there’s no expectation or reason to crib from a classic.
Gary Webb's career was killed not so much by the CIA as by professional jealousy. His stories, first published in the San Jose Mercury News in 1996, alleged that the CIA engineered, or at least willingly allowed, money from drug trafficking in the U.S. to support the anti-communist Contras in Nicaragua during the Reagan administration.
These facts would be largely corroborated by subsequent government investigations. But Webb, first hailed as a journalistic hero, was systematically torn apart by the Washington Post, New York Times and Los Angeles Times. The new film about Webb's story and its aftermath, "Kill the Messenger," portrays the editors at the big national papers as incensed that they had been scooped by a perceived inferior competitor.
If this sounds far-fetched, then you've never worked at a newspaper. They can be insular, fiercely protective enclaves, both internally and especially in dealing with rivals. When you beat them on a moderately big story, they try to ignore it -- as if the very fact that they didn't run anything about it diminishes its importance.
If you beat the other team at a really big story, the story often becomes about you. Webb found himself celebrated, then targeted, then summarily drummed out of the business. He committed suicide seven years later.
But the wider availability of information in the Internet age prompted many to follow up on his big story and legacy, including Nick Schou, who wrote the book "Kill the Messenger" upon which this movie is based, along with Webb's own tome, "Dark Alliance."
Jeremy Renner plays Webb as a prototypically normal family man, who likes to hang out with his kids and tinker with motorcycles. Except, that is, when he gets a bite of a good story -- then he becomes a Rottweiler, not just unwilling but biologically incapable of letting go.
The film, directed by Michael Cuesta from a screenplay by Peter Landesman, is firmly in Webb's corner as a righteous journalist done wrong by the powers that be. Oliver Platt and Mary Elizabeth Winstead, who play his editors, practically leak air as turncoats who have their reporter's back, until they don't.
The movie similarly starts stronger and then grows fuzzy around the edges. The first half, as Webb meticulously hunts down leads, most of them from the underworld of South and Central America cocaine traffickers, shows the drudgery of investigative journalism, sparked by occasional electricity when connections are made.
The second half gets a little repetitive and dreary, as the backlash against Webb grows, reputedly inspired by a concerted effort by the CIA itself. Shadowy figures start hanging out around Webb's home, and mute men in suits paw through his papers without even a by-your-leave.
The relationship between Webb and his wife (Rosemarie DeWitt) follows the traditional line in these sorts of movies, where the loving, understanding spouse grows concerned about how invested their partner is in their work, pushes back, and eventually dire choices must be made. They seem to fall in and out of love in just a few ticks on the clock.
The good outweighs the bad in "Kill the Messenger," but like Webb's reporting -- prone to exaggeration and theatricality, but essentially true -- it tries too hard at embellishing a good tale that needed no help.
