Los Angeles Times - 13.08.2019

LATIMES.COM/CALENDAR TUESDAY, AUGUST 13, 2019E3

In the “Angry Birds”
video games, you use a
slingshot to lob flightless
buzzards at wobbly for-
tresses stacked with snick-
ering green pigs. Some quick
mental physics is involved,
depending on how carefully
you care to estimate the tra-
jectory of each bird and the
height of each structure.
But the satisfactions of
these puzzles are as basic
and primal as an explosion
in a Michael Bay movie.
They have a wondrous con-
ceptual simplicity.
The “Angry Birds” mov-
ies, for all their virtues, do
not. The first one, released

to great commercial success in 2016, pulled off the dubious trick of turning these squawking projectiles into characters, each with its own wisecracks and neuro- ses. The angriest bird was Red (voiced by Jason Sudeikis), shunned by ev- eryone else for his short fuse and thick eyebrows un- til he proved himself a hero at heart. It was pretty good fun, all in all, even if some of the gags and misunder- standings felt tacked on. Birds go whoosh, pigs go boom — what is there to misunderstand? “The Angry Birds Movie 2,” a riotous burst of com- puter-animated slapstick silliness directed by Thurop Van Orman, further compli- cates the plot and the char- acter dynamics — gratui- tously, but enjoyably. Things are looking up for Red, who is now celebrated rather than ostracized. (He may, however, be ostrich-sized.

It’s hard to tell. These things aren’t drawn to scale.) Red is now the beloved hero of Bird Island and the leader of its ongoing prank war with Leonard (Bill Hader) and all the other annoying green oinksters on Pig Island. You may recall that in the previous episode, the pigs stole and nearly ate all the birds’ eggs, an episode of at- tempted mass child murder that is amusingly shrugged off here. In perhaps the most startling development, and one that may strike loyal fans as a bit of a betrayal, the

pigs are no longer the birds’ swine — er, sworn enemies. The screenplay (by Peter Ackerman, Eyal Podell and Jonathon E. Stewart) con- trives a third island, whose inhabitants have begun us- ing a powerful cannon to shoot massive balls of ice at their avian and porcine neighbors, a threat so seri- ous that Red and Leonard call a truce and join forces. There’s something ad- mirable, and perhaps in- structive, about the idea of two rival factions putting aside their differences to deal with a drastic change in the weather. But the enemy here isn’t environmental. The leader of that third island is Zeta, a foul-tempered purple eagle who looks like what you’d get if Gonzo the Muppet mated with a palm tree. Zeta has her reasons for pummeling her neighbors with balls of ice and, eventually, balls of lava, and it’s a giddy delight to hear

Leslie Jones articulate them in long, indignant, screech- tacular monologues. The complications are lu- dicrous, but the movie navi- gates them with cheek and verve, and the jokes land with surprising consistency. Zeta-Jones, as I’m tempted to call her, gives easily the movie’s most memorable performance, though you may also recognize Tiffany Haddish and Awkwafina in trusty sidekick roles. Josh Gad and Danny McBride are back as Red’s depend- able feathered friends, Chuck and Bomb. So is Pe- ter Dinklage as Mighty Eagle, the rare bird here with the power of flight, a talent he makes up for by being in- ept in most other respects. And then there is Chuck’s little sister, Silver (Rachel Bloom), a plucky engineer who quickly establishes herself as the brains of the outfit and who thus provides Red with a humbling lesson

in not (ahem) hogging the glory. Silver’s problem-solv- ing skills, which at one point require her to make some quick calculations of arcs and angles, come as a brief reminder of the games’ origi- nal pleasures. “The Angry Birds Movie 2,” with its manic but never frenetic barrage of puns, needle drops and romantic subplots, pays a few cin- ematic dividends that a touch-screen interface can- not. The lush island visuals are lovelier and more beauti- fully textured than they have any need to be: A scene of three little hatchlings on abeach, trying to rescue some runaway eggs in a de- lightful subplot, is worth it just to see the tiny grains of sand clinging to their feathers. Also, if memory serves, the games don’t include the best scene of urinal-adja- cent action-comedy since “Mission: Impossible — Fall- out.” Maybe they should.

RED(voiced by Jason Sudeikis, center) is flanked by hatchlings, left, Chuck (voiced by Josh Gad) and Bomb (voiced by Danny McBride) in “The Angry Birds Movie 2.”

Sony Pictures

MOVIE REVIEW

Feathers and zingers fly in funny sequel

The exuberantly

cheeky, silly ‘Angry

Birds Movie 2’ soars

higher than the first.

JUSTIN CHANG
FILM CRITIC

standards of poetry collec-
tions. Berman’s appeal was
never broad, but, as the out-
pouring of articles mourning
his death at 52 on
Wednesday— since ruled a
suicide — has made clear, it
was deep.
His imagery and voice
were redolent of a child’s op-
timism at the outset of an ad-
venture looking for treasure,
and in his poems and lyrics
one found all sorts of valu-
able gifts and amulets to
ward off demons. You could
carry them in your mind’s
front pocket, touch them for
strength.
Berman was generous,
even regal, in his free associ-
ative poetry, but also fragile.
When he came to New York
to read his work at an Open
City event, he was confident,
demure, an oracle in a
Brooks Brothers shirt. The
fragility came when you en-
gaged with the work.
“Souvenirs always re-
mind you of buying them,” is
one of my most prized
Berman epigrams. I think of
it often. When I apply the
logic of the line to my experi-
ence of receiving that gift,
you could say that I am al-
ways thinking of how I came
to know David Berman — the
work and then the man.

Losing a friend

I was at a bar when I
heard the news. I never
spend time in bars anymore.
But that is where I was when
a friend texted saying,
“Berman gone.”
“What?” I wrote back.
My friend sent a link. No
need to click. It was all in the
headline.
I was shocked. Later this
would seem like a silly re-
sponse. The guy talked
openly about suicide and de-
pression. But, but, but ... he
had just made a record, his
first in a decade! It was really
good! He was about to go on
tour. Days away from the
first show. And then in the
fall he would come to New
Orleans — “New Orleans”
being the title of one of his
more evocative songs — and

give a reading as part of a series of talks I helped organ- ize at Tulane University through the environmental studies program. It was a bit of a reach to have him as part of the environmental studies program, but why not? What other poet drew such inspi- ration from the banalities of the built environment. We ti- tled it, “American Water and Actual Air.” Five minutes went by. I told my friends at the bar. Another five minutes. Then I took my phone downstairs to the bathroom. Before I even looked at the text again, a little rainstorm came over me. I got rid of it in the bathroom. The phone kept buzzing. Like watching people lifted up by a wave as it moves in real time through water, then lowered back down. “Have you heard the news ...”

Retracing the past Earlier this summer, a guy walked by with a tote bag on which were the words, “All you wanted was everything.” “Hey,” I said, “is that tote bag a reference to the Stephen Malkmus lyric?” It was. We had a happy moment of mutual recogni- tion, and then we had a little ecclesiastical argument about the meaning of the words on his bag. They are from the chorus to the song “Church on White,” from Malkmus’ first solo record in

The lyric: “All you really
wanted was everything, plus
everything. And the truth I
only poured you half a line,”
is how he sings it once, but
then the next time around
the phrasing veers into, “I
only poured you half a life.”
The tote bag guy felt oth-
erwise, went to the phone
and produced a lyrics web-
site attesting to, “I only
poured you half alive.”
No need to be definitive.
The lyrics and the song
are referencing Robert Bing-
ham, who lived in Manhat-
tan at 38 White St., just off
Church Street, in a loft that
contained the office of Open
City, which for the first nine
years of its existence was a

literary magazine. The books part came about when Bingham wanted to publish the debut poetry collection of his friend David Berman. I was against it. I loved the poems, was into Berman, but I felt it was enough of a pro- duction doing a magazine. Who needs the added hassle of a press? Bingham was very keen to do it. Somehow the big publishing houses had passed on Berman’s manu- script, and here we were. “Ac- tual Air” was the first title from Open City Books. (“Venus Drive,” by Sam Lip- syte, was the second book, also brought in by Bingham, the guy had style.) I was always proud of Open City’s parties. Many of the really memorable ones, to the extent I remember them, took place at Bing- ham’s loft. The last one held there was Berman’s book party. Bingham died sud- denly later that year, in No- vember of 1999, from a drug overdose. Berman wrote a song about him, too, “Death of an Heir of Sorrows.” I can’t

quite see the lyrics on a bag. “When I was summoned to the phone / I knew in my bones that you had died alone.” But listening to the song again, I hear plenty of those lines you can pocket, among them, “We’d never been promised there would be a tomorrow.’’

One of the greats Berman to me, and who knows how many others, by email, on May 2017, verbatim: “im trying to write an al- bum and its hard. ive always wondered about this......why people who write songs lose it so early in life. im finding out, and trying to see if i can beat it.” He sent me the Purple Mountains record in ad- vance, attached to an email. I listened to the first song, “That’s Just the Way That I Feel.” I thought, he beat it! He made a great record. It sounded like he never left. But I listened only once, and didn’t listen to the rest of the record. After a few weeks I realized it might be rude to

not respond. I wrote him, explaining that having looked forward to the record for so long I couldn’t bring myself to listen to it. He replied: “have you not listened yet? i would do that. wait for a while.”

Family ties Berman gave a talkat a writers’ conference Open City put on in 2010. It turned out to be the last hurrah of the magazine, which closed up at the end of that year after 20 years, a good number, a good run. He spoke extem- poraneously for about 90 minutes. It made an enor- mous impact on the audi- ence and impressed me as being brilliant. It was at this talk that Berman spoke most articulately and pas- sionately about his project to document the sins of his father, the lobbyist Rick Berman. He wrote me in 2017: “I sat on the sidelines for my entire forties. What man does that?” The answer might be: a man who wants to take down his father. A heroic, if Oedipal task, especially if your father is Rick Berman, a professional sower of doubt and confu- sion on behalf of industries like alcohol, tobacco, etc. I want to tell you of one Berman moment that always stayed with me, an ex- ample of the way his mind worked: I was on the phone with him sometime around 2014 or so. The book about his father was progressing fitfully, if at all, but HBO had expressed interest in adapting it as a series. There had been meet- ings and so forth. Contracts drawn up. It was happening. But then he had decided against it. Scuttled the project. I paced back and forth, getting more and more agi- tated, while he explained to me the problem. I could hardly hear what he was saying because I was moaning

and groaning and saying, “You killed the deal? You killed the deal? Why did you kill the deal?” I was saying, in essence, “Oh my God, all that mon- ey!” But he finally got to the point and it shut me up. “I realized they would have made him an antihero. That is what they do.” He referenced “The Sopranos,” “Mad Men.” I saw his point. He wanted to take down his father, but HBO was going to make a show that made his father the Tony Soprano of Wash- ington, D.C., lobbying. And that was not the truth that Berman was trying to get at.

Still reeling “Berman gone.” I was shocked. Shocked! But this is what happens when you know artists, said a friend, a kind remark that elides drugs and I don’t know what else. The William Max- well novel “So Long, See You Tomorrow” turns on some- one who meant to say, “I couldn’t bear it,” but instead says, “I can’t bear it.” It gets better. It never gets better. On the first day of the post-Berman era, there was an impromptu gathering at the former Whitney Museum on Madison Avenue, where Berman and Malkmus had once worked as museum guards after college. Various people read Berman’s work into a tiny bullhorn. The building, a Brutalist slate gray cube, never looked more like a tomb. Little jew- els from David Berman’s mind emanated from the tiny bullhorn, drifting like bubbles. I glimpsed them here and there above the avenue. They felt different now. “If Christ had died in a hall- way we might pray in hallways or wear little golden hallways around our necks,” floated by. I watched it drift up the side of the museum, carried by an invisible cur- rent of air.

Thomas Beller is the director of creative writing at Tulane University.

Friendship, sweet sorrow with David Berman

[B erman, from E1]

LATE ARTISTDavid Berman, left, friend Thomas Beller and wife and former bandmate Cassie Berman.

Photo from Thomas Beller

‘The Angry

Birds Movie 2’

Rating:PG, for rude humor and action Running time:1 hour, 36 minutes Playing:In general release

Los Angeles Times - 13.08.2019

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