Monezi (CLOSED)

NOTE: Monezi has since closed.

Located at 5406 Sapp Road in Greensboro, Monezi offers a Brazilian-inspired buffet at a fixed price or by the pound for eat-in or carryout. A bakery and catering services are available as is limited outdoor seating.

On a stretch of West Wendover replete with chain eateries and copycats, Monezi certainly stands out. In fact, I can’t think of a single place quite like it in all of Greensboro. But for all the promise of its premise, there are a few frustrating inconsistencies that keep it from being a sure bet.

Housed near Party City in a former Schlotzky’s Deli, Monezi could seriously use more spacious digs. The restaurant is divided between the dining area and the buffet area. The former is bright and open with large windows, colorful artwork, and music that is upbeat without being intrusive. But the thoughtfulness that went into creating a nice atmosphere is tempered by the limited floorspace. The tables are close enough together to hinder the prospects of a nice, quiet meal (especially if the restaurant gets busy).

On the buffet side of things, those who associate the b-word with subpar Chinese and Golden Corral would do well to drop those expectations. The food here is of a substantially higher quality. The presentation is nothing fancy, but everything looked fresh and appealing.

Monezi is careful to refer to itself as “inspired by Brazil,” and for good reason. While there are Brazilian dishes to be found here, some of the offerings (polenta, paella, chicken Marsala) take on a decidedly internationalist bent. There is enough variety here to suit everyone from vegetarians to meataholics, and the food quality is as varied as the selection. Sausages were tasty but had a tough coating while beef filet was quite tender yet bland. Sides fared better: the rice and beans (two kinds here), plantains, and polenta all hit the spot.

Monezi is also big on customization, which makes it either a great value or a terrible one depending on your selectivity. The per-pound option runs $6.95/pound. I was able to completely fill a plate for $10, a relative bargain for the amount of food. The fixed price comes in at $18.95: not outrageous given the food here, but you would have to be quite hungry to justify it. Those who bother with salad overpay at their own peril.

Upon your first visit, one of Monezi’s blue-shirted staff will gladly inform you of the restaurant’s concept and let you know which plate to take (one color for per-pound, another for fixed price). The servers (yes, they still bring you drinks) appeared to be patient, always moving, and politely responsive to questions, which they must receive in droves.

Ultimately, Monezi is a restaurant without peer. The food is superior to and the prices higher than other buffet-style eateries, but on taste and atmosphere, it falls short of the standard set by international restaurants that happen to offer a buffet (think Saffron or Taste of Thai). This identity crisis precludes giving a definitive rating, but the variety of the menu and the ingenuity of the concept do make it worth at least one visit.

End of Watch

Brian Taylor (Jake Gyllenhaal) and Miguel Zavala (Michael Pena) are close friends and LAPD partners. Together, they patrol dangerous neighborhoods in South Central. Though they are hard-charging in their pursuit of criminals, Zavala is a dedicated family man and Taylor, a Marine veteran, lightheartedly videotapes their antics for a college film class. But when they cross paths with an up and coming Latino gang, their entire world will change.

If a movie made within the past fifteen years concerns cops or pseudo cops in Los Angeles, there is a good chance that David Ayer (and/or James Ellroy) is attached to the project. It is not surprising to learn that Ayer wrote and directed End of Watch. What is surprising, however, is the extent to which he challenges and deconstructs much of his previous work.

Typical Ayer fare gives us some combination of the following: very dirty cops, shoot-outs, a white-Latino partnership, a disturbed veteran, relationship drama, gang bangers, betrayal, and a downer ending. Many of these elements are here albeit reconfigured in very different ways. In lieu of the typical morally ambiguous anti-heroes, Taylor and Zavala are presented as wise-cracking good guys who, while rather aggressive, are also believably professional (i.e. they don’t shake down dealers or stage shootings and cover them up). They are also committed to their respective women, work closely with fellow officers, and generally behave like people instead of genre stereotypes.

Much of what allows Ayer the liberty to break from his prior work is the pseudo-documentary style in which the film is shot. Several scenes are presented from the perspective of Taylor’s camera, which gives the proceedings a naturalistic feel. The recorded musings, jokes, and anecdotes between service calls – Gyllenhaal and Pena have a mostly convincing rapport – provides a point of contrast to the horrors of the job. There is no overbearing score or overly cinematic mis en scene to contend with, but you never do forget that you are watching a fictional movie.

Unfortunately, the idiosyncratic style takes its toll on the film’s mood and pacing. While the former effect is probably deliberate (in that life can turn brutal in a heartbeat), the latter is often cloying. As viewers, when we see the clogs of the plot turning, we want them to keep turning. Too often, End of Watch pauses mid-turn, digresses, and arbitrarily skips ahead in time. The title also makes one aspect of the ending a foregone conclusion.

Ayer and the two leads put in commendable work here, and the distinctive style easily separates End of Watch from other police/action fare. But in the end, the execution falls short of the audacity of the approach.

7.75/10

42

In the mid-1940s, Brooklyn Dodgers executive Branch Rickey (Harrison Ford) makes it his goal to break baseball’s color barrier. To do so, he signs World War II veteran and Negro League star Jackie Robinson (Chadwick Boseman). Robinson’s debut causes an uproar, and he has to contend not only with racist fans and opponents but a frosty reception from his own teammates. With the encouragement of Rickey, wife Rachel (Nicole Beharie), and sportswriter Wendell Smith (Andre Holland), he is able to earn respect on and off the field.

Sports movies lend themselves all too easily to cliché. Many are underdog stories, and in recent years, several have been made that honor coaches and athletes who confronted America’s ugly racial history head-on. In that sense, 42 – a movie about sportsdom’s best-known racial pioneer – is a definite throwback, but being conventional doesn’t mean it can’t also be compelling.

Directed and written by Brian Helgeland, 42 seeps itself in the spirit, if not the letter, of historicity. Granted, a few details were changed – the antics of fiery Brooklyn manager Leo Durocher (Christopher Meloni) were toned down, for instance – but there is plenty of period detail to admire, and, for baseball fans, plenty of trivia. Witness, for instance, Rickey decide against signing Satchel Paige (who would pitch into his 50s) because he was “too old.”

But 42 is more than just a sepia-toned photograph. Earnest performances bring the movie to life. Boseman, who is a good physical match for the young Robinson, plays him as both extraordinarily determined and prideful. Ford, under heavy makeup, provides the film’s moral anchor: his Rickey claims to be in it for the money but comes across as pious and guilt-ridden. The supporting performers, which include Lucas Black as Dodgers captain Pee Wee Reese and John C. McGinley as broadcaster Red Barber, all solidly fill their limited screen time. Only Alan Tudyk feels out of place. He plays Phillies manager Ben Chapman, a virulent racist, as a Southern-fried clown. No one is asking him to don Klan robes, but Tudyk’s jocular turn comes across as disconcerting.

Ultimately, that may be the only thing unexpected about this movie. Despite the well-crafted delivery, the film fails to shine any new light on its subjects. It does exactly what we expect it to. History plays out here as it might in a book. As slightly Hollywoodized biography, 42 does Robinson et al justice. As entertainment, however, this is more akin to a solid base hit than a thunderous home run.

7.75/10

Gone Girl

Nick Dunne, a handsome man-child, and Amy Elliot, the brilliant daughter of a pair of successful children’s authors, seem like the perfect couple. They are both writers (he covers entertainment, she generates psychology quizzes for popular magazines), and they take each other’s breath away. But when the economy tanks and they are forced to relocate to Nick’s Missouri hometown to care for his ailing mother, their marriage begins to unravel. Then, on their fifth wedding anniversary, Amy simply vanishes. As evidence begins to mount that Nick is responsible for her disappearance, he remains steadfast in proclaiming his innocence, but he soon finds that he has a lot else to answer for.

Gone Girl is Gillian Flynn’s third novel, and although she is only in her early 40s, it is likely that she has reached her peak. This genre-bending mindscrew is executed so masterfully that it will prove quite difficult to top. Part mystery, part relationship drama, the book is funny and poignant in some places and starkly terrifying in others. And while seasoned mystery readers can safely predict a few of the narrative’s myriad twists and turns, there are so many layers to the story that one will make new discoveries all the way through.

Much of the successful execution can be traced to the book’s narrative structure. The first section of the book alternates a chapter from Nick’s perspective with a diary entry from Amy’s. Seeing the same relationship from two radically different perspectives makes us doubt who can really be trusted, and when a third perspective is introduced in the book’s second section, you realize that everyone is lying about something. Trying to piece the truth together on our own is half the fun of reading.

Flynn also deserves praise for achieving what many other authors have failed to do: she writes about writers and keeps it interesting. Often, writer characters are thinly veiled author proxies that make readers want to roll their eyes. But while Flynn’s experiences (she used to write for Entertainment Weekly) certainly inform Gone Girl, they don’t dominate everything else on the page. Neither Nick nor Amy is meant to be Flynn, though both arguably contain parts of her. By giving them distinct identities apart from her own, she is able to have them participate in a plot that surpasses mere authorial fantasy.

Without giving too much away, it’s safe to say that a lot happens in Gone Girl that defies not only expectations but the bounds of human ingenuity. But just as the novel’s most devious planner thoroughly covers her tracks, so too does Flynn: everything that transpires makes sense in context. So accept that you will be surprised, and enjoy the ride.

9/10

Da Reggae Cafe

Located at 815 W. Lee Street in Greensboro, Da Reggae Café offers authentic Jamaican cuisine. The menu includes soups, salads, chicken, seafood, and meat dishes, and the establishment is open for dine-in or take-out Monday through Saturday.

Unless you are looking for it, Da Reggae Café is easy to miss. Tucked amid a block of shops on Lee Street, the location is nondescript. The food, however, is another story. Da Reggae Café offers everything one would expect to find at a Jamaican restaurant and then some: jerk and curry dishes, stews, escovitched fish, and, of course, the ubiquitous beef patties. The food is appropriately spicy, but the dishes offer more than just heat. The jerk pork and jerk chicken are tender and not dried out while a side of cabbage adds a nice complementary crunch. There are no fountain drinks here, but the bottled soda selection (including ting and ginger beer) makes up for it.

Da Reggae Café also delivers plenty of bang for the buck. Entrees come on a plate packed with rice (or rice and peas if you prefer), cabbage, and plantains. They can be had for as little as $9 (most of the meat and chicken dishes) and no more than $12.50 (fish and shrimp dishes). Lunch offerings are even more economical.

Aesthetically, Da Reggae Café is a small but brightly appointed place. The tables are few and plain, but the wall posters (of Sean Paul, Bad Brains, and other musicians) are many, and the music (take a guess what kind) is perpetual. The establishment does not have a lot of staff, but servers are polite and attentive.

Da Reggae Café won’t win any points for its location, and woe unto you if you don’t like spice, but for those up to the task, it offers rich rewards at low prices.

8/10

Trouble With the Curve

Gus Lobel (Clint Eastwood) is a veteran Atlanta Braves scout with a legendary reputation. He is also a stubborn traditionalist who refuses to acknowledge changes to the game or his own failing eyesight. When Gus is sent to North Carolina on what could be his final scouting mission, he is accompanied by Mickey (Amy Adams), his headstrong attorney daughter with whom he has a strained relationship. As they check out a top high school prospect, they are joined by Johnny (Justin Timberlake), a former ballplayer that Gus scouted who is now a scout himself for the Boston Red Sox.

Directed by Robert Lorenz, Trouble With the Curve is a failure on two fronts. As a message movie about forgiveness and adapting to change (curveball = learning curve, as if that wasn’t obvious enough), it’s predictable fluff. As a baseball movie, it’s patently ridiculous. The names of famous ballplayers are bandied about, but that’s as close to the actual game as the movie gets. The main antagonist, a rival Braves scout portrayed by Matthew Lillard, is a flimsy caricature of sabremetrics and modern scouting approaches. He exists only so Gus and his old-school methods can feel vindicated by the end. Of course, this anti-Moneyball message doesn’t jibe well with reality, and Gus’ vindication owes more to dumb luck than the superiority of his methods.

Such oblivious heavy-handedness permeates the script. Any character who is meant to be one of the good guys (Gus, Mickey, Johnny) is given a stock sympathetic backstory to cover for their otherwise jerkish behavior. Meanwhile, the supporting roles are as one-dimensional as Lillard’s. John Goodman is wasted as Gus’ longtime supporter and director of scouting as is Robert Patrick as the Braves’ noncommittal GM. Bob Gunton shows up here as a higher-up from Mickey’s law firm, a mildly antagonistic role he could have recorded in his sleep.

Despite this, Eastwood and especially Adams rise above the material. Though Eastwood has “grumpy old man” down to an art form, he is still able to ring genuine emotion out of his role. Whether he’s mourning his wife or struggling to explain his absentee parenting, you get the sense that there is a real (and really hurt) person swimming behind the tough guy façade. Adams likewise balances tough and sassy with deeply concerned and hurt, giving Mickey both an edge and a heart. Timberlake, on the other hand, is clearly not in the same league. He may not be dreadful here, but it’s still hard to take him seriously.

With a little more verisimilitude and imagination, Trouble With the Curve could have overcome its predictable premise. Instead, it’s an utterly forgettable clunker that strikes out despite its talented cast.

6/10

The Master

Freddie Quell (Joaquin Phoenix), a violent, alcoholic, sex-obsessed World War II veteran, makes the acquaintance of Lancaster Dodd (Philip Seymour Hoffman) when he sneaks aboard the latter’s boat and offers moonshine. Dodd is an enigmatic figure who leads a movement called The Cause. Despite the hesitation of Dodd’s wife Peggy (Amy Adams), Dodd takes Freddie in and uses a series of questions and psychological experiments to uncover Freddie’s past trauma all while positioning him within The Cause’s power structure.

Given Hollywood’s preoccupation with Scientology, being able to make an A-list film that critically examines its origins (under the thinnest of veils) is a highly perilous undertaking. Paul Thomas Anderson, however, has some pretty mean feats to his name. After all, the director’s previous works include an Oscar-nominated porn drama, a three-hour interpretation of Aimee Mann’s music, and the unlikely popularization of “I drink your milkshake!” Thus, Anderson was not only able to make a film about Scient...ahem…The Cause, but make it well.

It’s no small help that Anderson had the perfect cast. As I’m Still Here showed us, Phoenix is in a league of his own when it comes to playing (at least one hopes he is) deranged lunatics. Hoffman, a frequent Anderson collaborator, adds another strong performance to his résumé. As Dodd, an L. Ron Hubbard proxy, he’s arguably no less crazy than Freddie, but his insanity is concealed by a veneer of sophistication and concern. Meanwhile, Adams continues to break her sickeningly sweet typecasting as doubting Peggy.

All of Anderson’s films are known for a rather distinct aesthetic, and The Master is no exception. Shot in California on 65 mm film, the movie has a grainy, sun-scrubbed look that perfectly suits its 1950 setting. Radiohead’s Johnny Greenwood, who memorably scored There Will Be Blood, does the same for this film. While his contributions here enhance the film’s mood, they are neither as powerful nor as persistent as they were in the previous project.

Despite the high level of craftsmanship, The Master often finds itself in want of direction. Of course, a certain openness fits the film’s theme of philosophical exploration, but neither Freddie’s violent outbursts nor The Cause’s growing popularity/notoriety contribute much in the way of mounting tension: both his affiliation with Dodd and Dodd’s ideology change, seemingly effortlessly, when convenient. For as interesting as the film’s premise is, it’s confounding that The Master doesn’t have more at stake.

For as much praise as Anderson received from There Will Be Blood, The Master will come as a disappointment as some. However, the two films couldn’t be more different. A better point of comparison is Anderson’s overlooked Punch-Drunk Love wherein an angry, dysfunctional soul (Adam Sandler in place of Phoenix) takes solace in the unorthodox (a harmonium in place of The Cause). The Master may not be a career highlight or the vicious satire some were hoping for, but it’s a curious, thought-provoking film in its own right.

8/10

Atlas Shrugged: Part II

The second part of a multi-film adaptation of Ayn Rand’s epic novel finds beleaguered railroad executive Dagny Taggart (Samantha Mathis) coping with the disappearances of several talented colleagues, increasingly pressure from government bureaucrats, the machinations of her incompetent brother James (Patrick Fabian), and a forbidden attraction to maverick industrialist Hank Rearden (Jason Beghe). As she struggles to keep her company afloat, she is plagued by the hypothetical question on the tip of everyone’s tongue: Who is John Galt?

Financed and produced by fitness magnate John Aglialoro, 2011’s Atlas Shrugged Part I was an ambitious effort that featured a no-name cast, some  breathtaking scenery, and a yawnworthy script. To say that it didn’t work is an understatement: it was both a box office flop and a critical failure. For the second installment, Aglialoro went with a new director (John Putch) and a completely new cast. Though a more polished effort in several regards, Atlas Shrugged: Part II is no less disappointing.

The biggest problem here, as in the preceding film, is the script. Rand’s novel is long, bloated, and talky, but a skilled screenwriter could have distilled its essence and given us something that would hold our attention. Whether acting out of fidelity to the source material or sheer inefficacy, Brian Patrick O’Toole has twice fallen short. There is a little more movement and a little less excruciating banter this time around, but the pacing is still better suited for a TV miniseries than for a feature film. The lack of resolution and the gradual gear-grinding of the plot make for frustrated viewing.

This lack of enjoyment is often abetted by a less than stellar cast. Part I went with up-and-comers and bit players; Part II gives us some better-known has-beens on the downsides of their careers. In all fairness, Rand’s characters are deliberately one-dimensional, moreso representations of ideas than actual people, but whereas the leads in the previous film (Taylor Schilling and Grant Bowler) gave it their all, Mathis and Beghe appear to be going through the motions. They nail the demeanor (Dagny comes across cool, collected, and headstrong; Rearden is a gruff, plain-spoken loner), but there is also a flat, tired quality to the acting. 

A few of the supporting roles fare better. As Dagny’s childhood friend Francisco D’Aconia, Esai Morales steals nearly every scene he’s in. He plays the character with a healthy dash of Bruce Wayne: a brilliant tactician who masquerades as an idle rich playboy. Fabian is also appropriately repulsive as James, lending some superficial charm to the quintessential empty suit. He is outdone, however, by Kim Rhodes, who transforms Lillian Rearden from merely being Hank’s nagging, unappreciative wife to a cold, ruthless, insanely jealous vamp.

Behind the camera, Putch’s work is wholly unimpressive. Whereas Part I entreated us to rich aerial views of trains winding their way through the mountains, Part II revels in deliberate ugliness. A sequence involving a train crash in a dark tunnel pulls away when it should be slowing down to heighten the tension, and nothing here can match the impact of the Wyatt’s Torch sequence that closed out the previous installment.

Atlas Shrugged still contains the essence of a story worth telling, but the first two stabs at it have been undermined by poor execution. This leaves little hope that Part III – when and if it materializes – will be any better.

6.25/10