Although this film is loosely based on a real bank heist—1971’s “walkie talkie” robbery of a Lloyd’s Bank branch on London’s Baker Street—it is not a classic heist film.

East End used car dealer, Terry Leather (Jason Statham) is approached by an old friend, Martine (Saffron Burrows) after her sometime boyfriend, Tim, an MI5 or 6 agent, has offered her a way out of a drug smuggling conviction.

All she had to do is break into the bank vault and ensure the contents of a certain deposit box are safely and confidentially handed over to Tim’s masters.

Why Martine chooses Jerry is not immediately clear. When we meet him he is being beset upon by a couple of low rent thugs trying to collect on their boss’s debt, while one of his employees rolls back the odometer on a beater for sale on Terry’s car lot.

After mulling over Martine’s proposition for a minute or two, Terry decides to take a grab at what is probably his main chance.

The film glosses over the gathering of the clan who will do the job, and the job itself is carried out in fairly workmanlike fashion, with little planning, and only a modicum of suspense. While the robbers are downstairs doggedly digging and blasting into the vault there are a few missteps and a bit of sexual tension, but the heist remains a backdrop to the action and intrigue going on upstairs.

A frisky royal has been caught on camera doing the sort of thing that royals are not supposed to do. The royals’ immediate underlings have plotted the heist to retrieve the naughty photos from the safety deposit box where they are stored. As perhaps they might have, back in the 70s, when the theoretical frisking took place, and we didn’t have this sort of thing stuffed in our faces on an almost daily basis and actually might have been offended, or entertained.

In a more bewildering than bewitching fashion, we are treated to a montage of the upper classes, the criminal underbelly, 70s radical chic, sex, privilege, murder, and torture (both the fun kind and the violent kind) which swirls about while the unwitting robbers liberate and chug a case of vintage Dom Perignon from one of the safety deposit boxes.

Along with the money, jewels, and photos-royal, the gang has taken some compromising documents. Nasty and powerful people will do nasty things to get these documents back. Will they foil Terry Leather’s one shot at the brass ring?

Well, for a common fellow our hero proves remarkably audacious, cunning, and resourceful. And that may be the main point of the film. Sometimes their “betters” underestimate the common folk.

On one level, Juno was a touching story about how a family stands behind a pregnant teenager while she makes and carries out a hugely difficult decision. On that level, it was easy to feel empathy for the major players, and to want everything to turn out okay. Or at least as okay as it possibly could, considering that when it comes to teenage girls and pregnancy, there is rarely a perfect solution. And rarely enough plot to justify even a made-for-TV-movie, let alone a runaway indie hit.

On another level, Juno was a mildly annoying way to spend 96 minutes. The acting was almost uniformly good, but most of the characters were tinged with implausibility. Take Juno, for instance. Yes, her quasi-hipster quirkiness was charming, but her attitude toward her pregnancy seemed strangely, clinically detached. Moreso her attitude toward the act that resulted in her pregnancy. How many humans, especially 16-year-old humans, treat sex like a science experiment, tried once and never replicated?

How many families would respond so unflappably if their adolescent daughter announced she is pregnant? It’s been a long time since I was 16, but I can still imagine the shitstorm that would erupt at my parents’ house.

As for the dialogue, who really talks in that annoyingly twee way? Fewer zingers would have made for a more enjoyable film.

Juno is a good movie, not a bad one, and not a great one. Its success at the box office, and among the cinema intelligentsia will remain a mystery for me.

Mr. V. and I were entertaining a couple of pre-teens over the past weekend, and a movie was a necessary part of their entertainment package. We had mulled over the idea of taking them to see The Dark Knight, but in the end we decided it might be a bit too dark for our charges. We opted for WALL-E instead, hoping that it might move as well as entertain them.

No doubt you’ve heard about WALL-E, Pixar’s latest animation offering, a tale that begins on earth, circa 2800 in the Common Era. Earth is a post-apocalyptic garbage dump, inhabited by WALL-E, the last operating Waste Allocation Load Lifter, Earth Class, and his sidekick, a resilient cockroach. WALL-E spends his days compacting trash, occasionally rescuing an artifact to take back to his container home. He is lonely, but diligent, carefully recharging his solar cell whenever the sun peeks through the miasmic atmosphere, and taking refuge whenever the winds whip up a trashdust storm, which is fairly often.

There is no dialogue in the first third of the movie, during which we get to know a fair bit about WALL-E and the way he lives. That changes, though, with the arrival of Eve, an elegant, egg-shaped probe on a mission. WALL-E is enthralled with Eve, and tries to please her with all manner of booty from his cache of artifacts. Eve is unimpressed until WALL-E shows her his most remarkable treasure, a spindly green plant that had recently sprouted and that WALL-E had re-potted in an old boot.

What transpires next is a trip into space, taken by both probe and bot. It is possibly the animation high point of the film, which rolls gently downhill from there, though it picks itself back up into animation heaven a couple more times, and never really hits bottom.

Buy and Large Corporation, whose logos are seen amidst the garbage dump of earth, has removed itself and a remnant of humanity to a monstrous space ship, run by Auto, the mastermind computer reminiscent of Hal 9000. The ship is populated by silly, cartoonish humans, short of limb and wide of girth, who loll about on automated flying lounges, communicate through screens almost permanently in front of their chubby faces, and suck on a variety of liquid snacks. Everything in this passive world is provided by robots, who appear to be there to support and provide for the humans, but have a more nefarious purpose.

It all works out in the end, more or less, in a bot-meets-probe, cautionary tale sort of way. During the credits, the audience is shown Lascaux-like vignettes of humanity’s possibly hopeful future. Unless the audience is too impatient to stay.

The pre-teens thought the movie was “okay” but the eleven-year-old was itching to take us to a cell phone store in the mall where he could show us the user-interface on the new iPhone 3G.

Oh well. At least neither of them wanted a WALL-E doll.

And now for something completely familiar…Spamalot is a rollicking send up of musical theatre clichés, the Grail legend, Britain, and God, whose voice is supplied by John Clease. 

There is lots of fun in this show. High energy song and dance routines poke fun at Broadway hits including the Phantom of the Opera and Fiddler on the Roof. 

There are plenty of bad puns and bits of old Python skits–heads roll, the Black Knight loses his limbs, cows fly, and rabbits attack. And everything is neatly wrapped up with four of the characters finding true love. 

The costumes and sets were perfect accompaniments to the buffoonery on stage, while projected graphics were cleverly Gilliam-esque.

Gary Beach as King Arthur and Esther Stillwell as Guinevere/the Lady of the Lake led a talented cast that entertained from the silly Finnish “Fisch Schlapping Song” which opened the show, to the closing number—borrowed from the life of Brian—“Always Look on the Bright Side of Life,” which was happily sung by cast and audience. 

Spamalot is at the Centre for Performing Arts in Vancouver until July 27.

Poet. memoirist, activist, legend. Still vigourous at 80, Dr. Angelou told the mostly female, mostly mid-life audience a charming and encouraging bed time story last night at the Orpheum. She was here as part of the Unique Lives speaker series.

Vancouver jazz vocalist, Dee Daniels, opened the show with two songs, including “This Little Light of Mine”, which was the theme of Dr. Angelou’s talk.

At Performance Works on Granville Island last night for the opening gala of the Jazz Fest. A pleasant, low-key affair, hosted by a couple of morning jockeys from Z95 Crave, this invite-only affair offered free drinks, free hors d’ouvre, and free music to folks who were with the band, significant volunteers, non-major sponsors, and hangers-on like me.

The drinks (Sandhill and Granville Island Brewery) were well received and politely quaffed, the food had pretty much disappeared half-way through the evening, which is generally how these things go. The music was played by the heretofore mysterious Johnny Manturo band. They played two sets, alternating Latin and Salsa with rock covers that included Led Zeppelin and the Police. Each band member was an able musician, but together they sounded a little loose, like they hadn’t played together recently. Besides which I don’t think “Don’t Stand So Close to Me” should ever be performed without the vocals.

Oh the whole, it was a pleasant evening, though I was a bit bemused by the plastic wine glasses inscribed with the Sandhill logo. One of the emcees begged us to take them home because they couldn’t be recycled. I know I don’t get out much, but what the heck is wrong with glass?

It may not have been Springsteen, but Vancouver’s Centre for Performing Arts April Fool’s Day offering was a very good show.

British soul guy, James Hunter, was the opening act.

Hunter has an amazing vocal range and plenty of energy, and knows his way around a lead guitar. The man from Essex can play and sing R&B in the manner of Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson, jazzy ballads like Ray Noble’s The Very Thought of You, and toss in a little funk and rockabilly for good measure.

The entertaining Hunter was backed by a polished and tight band that included two saxophones and a stand up base along with the requisite drums and keyboards.

East LA band, Los Lobos, played a 90-minute set that included a lot of extended jamming and an apropos play list based partly on audience requests.

Front men Cesar Rosas and David Hidalgo were charmingly self-deprecating, with Hidalgo even referring to the band as “old farts.” It’s not an entirely inaccurate appellation for a band that has been playing together for more than 30 years.

Los Lobos, of course, are best known for the bouncy La Bamba from the soundtrack of the eponymous movie. The song was on their play list, but their set covered a range of musical styles including blues, gospel, rock, TexMex, and country. Los Lobos are accomplished musicians, and their talents are best displayed when they play and sing traditional Spanish and Mexican songs.

There were a few technical glitches at the beginning of their set, and confused and frustrated soundmen following the labyrinthine cords around the stage were a bit distracting, but by the time the encore came, a cover of Neil Young’s Cinnamon Girl that was as good and intense as the original, the audience was on its feet.

The Wolves have survived. Long may they roam.

Improbable comedy of manners and errors that made me laugh out loud like a traitor to feminism and, in the end, cry like a sentimental fool.

Journalist and ex-wunderkind, Naomi Klein, held a homecoming love-in for herself at the Vancouver Writers (and Readers) Festival last night. The sold-out event started later than advertised, and the love-in was a surprise to at least some of the attendees, myself included, who had expected Ms. Klein to present a precis of her recent best-selling book, The Shock Doctrine: The Rise of Disaster Capitalism.

The late start, as explained by event host and Writers Fest artistic director, Hal Wake, was because the event had been relocated (at Ms. Klein’s suggestion) to the much larger John Oliver secondary school auditorium from UBC’s Frederick Wood Theatre, where some attendees had mistakenly arrived. We would, Mr. Wake announced, be waiting for the latecomers to arrive before the evening began.

I was a bit miffed about the late start, believing as I do in personal responsibility and the greatest good for the greatest number and all that, but I rationalized that I would probably prefer to not be disturbed by late arrivals, so I settled in for a bit of a chat with Mr. V, one of the topics of which was the heartburn we were each suffering from the curry supper we had gobbled too quickly to ensure we’d be on time (and get decent seats) for what we’d hoped would be an informative lecture.

Don’t get me wrong. Though I may not share her brains, her talent, or her privilege, I am definitely on an ideological page that is contiguous to Ms. Klein’s. I’ve been scratching my head off and on since 1976, trying to figure out if someone held a gun to the heads of the members of the Nobel Foundation to ensure Uncle Miltie got that economics prize.

But I was not prepared to be underwhelmed by Naomi Klein’s decision to present a series of road stories, even though I understood it. She’s been on an international book tour, presenting the same information again and again, and on this night her parents, her brother, and her husband (and apparently many other relatives) were in the adoring audience, which she assumed would cut her some slack.

Road stories are fine, if they illuminate the contents of a book, or the arduous process of writing it. But Ms. Klein’s did neither. Though she is confident and likeable, Naomi Klein is not a riveting speaker, and this talk was a non-event, at least for me.

The worldwide increase in human misery brought about by the hubris, greed, and misplaced faith in the perfection of markets that is proselytized by the priests of the Chicago School has been decried many many times before. We know that globalization, privatization, neo-liberalism, public-private partnerships, call it what you will, doesn’t work all that well, and doesn’t provide even a modicum of “trickle down” goodness. The middle class shrinks while the rich get super-rich and the underclass grows. Environmental disasters and proxy wars encircle the planet while the developed world’s infrastructure implodes.

The main idea which underlies The Shock Doctrine–the parallel metaphor of shock and awe military campaigns, political torture, and free-marketeering that follows various geopolitical shocks–is powerful, though not necessarily valid, except on face. But it is this idea that motivated Klein to produce this tome which, she was proud to announce, contains 72 pages of footnotes.

The acid test is whether Klein’s metaphor and book merely describe a problem that has already been described or whether it moves us toward an alternative. She believes the use of mercenaries in the middle east war is a strong sign that the neo-liberal beast is now devouring its own core, and will soon destroy itself. She also believes that Evo Morales is an exemplar of good things to come. But aside from an oblique reference to Keynesian economics, praise for direct action, and a recommendation for regional banks to replace the World Bank and IMF, Klein didn’t come to talk about solutions.

Which is a pity, because we know that when the right-wing intelligentsia fails, then it is the left-wing elite, of which Ms. Klein is a member, who will step up to the plate to mess things up in their own special, though (at least in Canada) much more humane, way.

When Ms. Klein’s talk ended, Hal Wake retook the stage to announce that because of time constraints, the Q&A portion of the evening had been purloined in favour of book-signing. The subtext of his message seemed to be “If you haven’t bought a book, you can go home, now!”

His announcement, brought about by a timing glitch mini-disaster, was met not with shock, but with some successful direct action on the part of the audience, which was not going to go quietly or without answers–Naomi’s answers, which she gave graciously.

When we left the hall, there was a burgeoning line up of eager readers, patiently waiting for the Naomi imprimatur on their newly purchased books. People, it seems, are hungry for critiques of the conventional wisdom that has held sway over our lives for the past half-century. It remains to be seen what we can do to change it.

A couple of weeks ago, in no mood to stand around in a cold, and potentially rainy Malkin Bowl, I returned a pair of tickets for the Flaming Lips to Ticketmaster. The tickets had been a birthday present to a show originally scheduled for the Orpheum, currently shut down by the municipal strike. I heard later that I’d missed a very good show.

And so it was with considerable alacrity that I accepted a consoling offer from a friend for a ticket to the Arctic Monkeys show in the PNE forum last night. I’d only hear about this band once before, from the same friend, who works in the music business, when the Arctic Monkeys won the Mercury Prize for their first album. They were, she said, going to be as big as Oasis, maybe even the Beatles.

It had been some time since I’d attended a concert at the Forum, a practice I began back when I was about sixteen, and it was an odd feeling walking into a show where all I knew for sure was that the main act was currently the hottest band in Europe and I was easily old enough to be the mother of most of the other attendees.

Concert goers everywhere have long been used to the new normal: First there is the search for contraband. Bags and purses are opened, pockets are emptied, and bodies are patted down. One either submits to this indignity in the name of safety and security, or is thrown out on one’s ear. There are a few uniformed VPD officers, and plenty of private security personnel milling about.

Then it’s a stroll past the concert merchandise, which for this event was a modest assortment of T-shirts. This is then followed by either a hunt for seats or a hunt for refreshments.

While opening act Voxtrot crashes and thunders bar-band-style in the concert area, most of the attendees are crowded into the beer garden in the outer room. Garden in this case being a loose term. Hundreds of young folk are standing on concrete, crammed behind iron stanchions, swilling cheap draft. I remembered, not completely fondly, a time in my life when joining the beer garden scene would have been the time of my life.

Instead, my friend and I buy some orange juice and try to find a quiet corner where we can indulge in a catch up. Sound ricochets everywhere, and ordinary conversation proves impossible, so I head for the conveniences, which are very nearby each other. Two long line ups form, one for the boys and one for the girls, just like in long ago baby boomer kindegarten classes. Most of the people in the line ups are half drunk, but in the very best possible way. There is plenty of laughing, joking, and good natured teasing, as if everyone has known each other for a long time.

When the Monkeys begin their set, the beer garden empties, almost instantaneously. Only a sea of plastic cups and one stumbling, unsteady fellow linger. We find some seats near the back of the smallish hall. Most of the audience is on the floor, happy to sing along to songs I’d never heard before, despite the abysmally muddy acoustics.

The lighting is complex, and very well done. The band plays a tight, high energy set. They all appear to be good musicians, particularly drummer, Matt Helders. Front man, Alex Turner, a skillful lead guitarist, handles all the vocals. His voice is true and strong, but I find toward the end of the set that I am getting a bit bored. As this band grows and evolves it will definitely need to mix up its vocal line with a few harmonies and a bit of back up singing.

Is this band the next big thing? It’s possible, though the only number that left a lasting impression for me was Fake Tales of San Francisco. There were definite rumours of brilliance in those riffs, along with echoes of The Who, Bowie, and even Eric Burdon, the old man himself.