Film Reviews: Bratz, El Cantante, Hot Rod and more

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Ganging up: Thomas Turgoose gives an extraordinary debut performance as a neophyte skinhead. (Photo by Dean Rogers)

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• Scott Foundas
• Mahatma Gandhi
• Hector Lavoe
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BRATZ Inspired by the eponymous, semi-skanky dolls that launched a thousand parental protests, this tween comedy does a good job rebranding the Bratz as wholesome do-gooders you’d want to take home to Mom — especially if Mom likes the ethnics, because Bratz is nothing if not worldly. Blond, fair-skinned Yasmin is Latina, so of course there’s a mariachi band in her kitchen. At 8 in the morning. On a school day. Jade, who is half-Asian, is the math-and-science whiz of the group. Blond Cloe is a Suzanne Somers–style klutz. And African-American Sasha is a sassy cheerleader. The Bratz spend most of the movie crusading against the insidious clique overlord, Meredith, at authoritarian Carry Nation High. Meredith, with the help of her father, gutless Principal Dimly (Jon Voight), tries to keep the Bratz in line, but the fearless foursome (spoiler alert!) eventually manages to triumph. In the end, the most offensive part of Bratz isn’t its stereotypes or brand expansion; it’s the sorry state of Jon Voight’s career. Up next: National Treasure: Book of Secrets. (Citywide) (Jessica Grose)

EL CANTANTE Director Leon Ichaso, already responsible for mucking up a made-for-TV Jimi Hendrix biopic, is back at it with this turgid film about salsa star Hector Lavoe (Marc Anthony), which doesn’t go so much behind the music as beneath it. Focusing almost solely on Lavoe’s addictions (drugs and women, ho and hum), El Cantante is a garish, dispiriting bit of work — a mountain of biopic clichés snorted through the lens of a fidgety camera that never pauses long enough for us to get to like, or even know, the man responsible for making the Nuyorican sound a mainstream American commodity in the 1970s and early ’80s. Every so often, a character appears to tell us Lavoe’s sound “will change everything,” but nothing happens after that; it’s the same ol’ self-pity party as Lavoe, whose papa doesn’t approve of his move from Puerto Rico to America, blames everyone but himself for his woes, despite his seemingly instant fame. Worse, Anthony’s real-life wife, Jennifer Lopez, tries to make the film about her; miscast as Lavoe’s missus, Puchi, Lopez hides behind aging makeup that makes her look like Bebe Neuwirth as she talks to a documentary crew about a husband we don’t really see. Hector’s “corny,” she says, but the movie never proves it. “Interesting” we’d settle for, but we don’t even get that. (Citywide) (Robert Wilonsky)

GANDHI, MY FATHER The premise is intriguing: the terrifying downside of having one of the greatest visionaries in human history as your old man. A first feature written and directed by theater veteran Feroz Abbas Khan, and produced as a “home production” by the great Bollywood actor Anil Kapoor (Mr. India), Gandhi, My Father radiates sincerity. It’s a beautifully shot and staged period reconstruction, and is at times impressively acted, at least in the secondary roles. What it lacks is fresh insight. We’re not surprised to learn that the unshakable principles that enabled Mahatma Gandhi (Darshan Jariwala) to shift the world on its axis were not always so helpful in dealing with individually flawed family members. Oldest son Hiralal Gandhi, in particular, led a frustrated and restless life, embracing several contradictory political and religious extremes, from Islam to Hindu fundamentalism, before ending his days in alcoholic destitution. Our sympathy for Hiralal as a victim, a poor schlub who would have been happy with a much less extraordinary life, is undercut by the weak-kneed performance of the often likable actor Akshaye Khanna (previously wonderful as the moonbat painter in Dil Chata Hai), who from the outset seems so sheepish and self-pitying that it would hardly take the force of a Mahtma to crush his spirit. This guy’s spirit comes pre-crushed. (Fallbrook 7) (David Chute)

HOT ROD The Saturday Night Live comedy trio of Andy Samberg, Jorma Taccone and Akiva Schaffer — collectively known as The Lonely Island — shot to the heights of YouTube celebrity with their parody music videos (including the immortal “Lazy Sunday,” a.k.a. “The Chronic of Narnia”). Unfortunately, their aggressively silly debut feature, which stars Samberg as an amateur motorcycle stunt man who dreams of Evel Knievel–style glory, more immediately recalls a different sort of viral video — the ones where anomic suburban teens film themselves engaging in backyard wrestling throw-downs and other sub-Jackass antics. It’s not that Hot Rod, which Schaffer directed from a script (by Pam Brady) originally conceived as a Will Ferrell vehicle, doesn’t have its moments: I dug the Flashdance-style training montages in which Samberg readies himself for a death-defying 15-bus leap, and I found it hard to resist the movie’s ’80s nostalgia (running the gamut from the long-forgotten Paul Rodriguez comedy The Whoopee Boys to the musical stylings of Europe). But like so many movies from the SNL factory, there are perhaps 10 to 15 minutes of good, gag-worthy material here stretched out to interminable lengths. Or to put it another way: It’s a very small d**k in an oversize box. (Citywide) (Scott Foundas)