Cheri

Roger Ebert talked me into seeing this movie with his elegant review, linked here.

It took me a while to settle into it. Sure, everyone loves Michelle Pfeiffer, but how could I get into watching her falling in love with some poncy French Byronesque figure who wasn't, well, me?

Because she's Michelle Friggin Pfeiffer. Don't let her beauty distract you from the fact that she's an extraordinary actress. Under the direction of Stephen Frears (DIRTY PRETTY THINGS, THE QUEEN, MRS. HENDERSON PRESENTS, among others), she absolutely shines as a woman who knows enough to know better and knows to not care.

Through her, the story's world opened to me. While I still couldn't understand how any woman could go for a man so manifestly unlike myself, I could immerse myself in Belle Époque France. I could enjoy observing the interplay of Ms. Pfeiffer and the formidable Kathy Bates. And I could catch myself up in a world of right decisions for wrong reasons and wrong decisions for right.

By the film's end, I lived in its world and cared about its people and wanted them to be ok. Even if I did think Michelle could have done better.

The Fellowship of the Ring

I saw THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING (FOTR, hereafter) upon its initial release.  I saw it again when the long form version hit DVD.  At the time, I loved it.  But it has been a few years since my last viewing.  How does it hold up?

Wonderfully.

This picture is note-perfect.  It begins with an introduction to a Middle Earth and Hobbiton that bathes in golden light, the epitome of the pastoral fantasy.  It goes from there into a series of adventures of ascending danger and importance, adventures in which we understand the actions that led to them, the people involved, and the stakes at hand.  The adventures occur in a world wholly fantastic and entirely believable, one with a history alluded, not explicated.  This is a world in which people live and have lived.  It’s a world about which we care.

And the characters, which might seem silly in less capable hands, breathe here.  Anyone can make fun of wizards and dwarves.  By playing the material straight, however, FOTR makes us believe in these fantastic people.  We sympathize with their fears and delight in their heroics.  We believe.

I loved this movie then; I love it now.  I look forward to THE TWO TOWERS.

Julia

I read the reviews. I read about the awards. I read how great a movie JULIA is.

So it must be me.

I couldn’t stand it.

Here is why.

The eponymous Julia is such a vile, self-centered train wreck of a human being that she lost me in the first twenty minutes. When the story got to Act II, I’d ceased caring for her. When it reached the halfway point, I loathed her. When it finally got around to trying to get me on her side, I’d disengaged. I so disliked being around this protagonist that she ceased to be real to me, becoming instead just another character in a film through which I was slogging because I’m a guy who likes to see things through.

I lay some of the blame on Tilda Swinton, an actress whom I’ve always found off-putting. She’s a pro; doing a pro’s job to the specs of the script, the director, and (clearly) the critical community; but there’s something about her that has always kept me from getting on her side. Most of the blame, however, lies in the script. It creates an irredeemable character, then dares us to stay with her long enough to see if she takes a shot at redemption. But there’s a word for people who stay around the irredeemable: victims. I don’t play that game.

But perhaps you do. Or perhaps you’re just a more forgiving cat. Or perhaps you won’t find some of the film’s situations so profoundly horrifying that you can’t get past them. If so, I’m told that JULIA is a first-rate thriller with a can’t-miss performance. Knock yourself out.

Gymkata

GYMKATA wasn’t as bad as I expected it to be.  Don’t get me wrong: it was pretty bad, but somehow I thought it’d be worse.

GYMKATA imagines a world in which the US Government would recruit an elite gymnast into the spy game, put him through a quick montage and set him up with a girlfriend, then turn him loose to save the world through gymnastics.  The athlete’s unique fighting style, his gymkata, comprises a potent weapon against evildoers foolish enough to stock pommel horses, uneven parallel bars, and lots of chalk in their lairs and killing fields.  After all, who can stand against a warrior so fierce his he needn’t even strike his opponents – a warrior who need merely wave his hands and feet in their general direction for their bones to snap and their bodies to go flying?

Yeah, it’s silly, but c’mon, you’ve gotta give it points for creativity.

And speaking of creativity, the people behind GYMKATA made some surprising and delightful creative choices.  Yes, beyond the sequined black cat suit worn by the love interest.  They filmed on location in Zagreb, giving the film some real beauty when I expected only matte paintings and the distinctive flora of the greater Ventura area.  They had the guts to actually set up a pommel horse in a town square so the hero could fight cannibals as only a master of gymkata can.  And they put together an extended sequence in a damned village of the insane that, while not actually creepy, tried really hard to be creepy.  Toss in some ninjas (The great thing about ninjas is that they wear face masks, meaning you can use the same five stuntmen over and over again.), a little arterial spray, and the aforementioned love interest in a cat suit, and you’ve got yourself a fun little movie.

So pay no attention to the fact that leading man Kurt Thomas while a great gymnast, made for an unconvincing actor and stuntman.  Pay no attention to the fact that the film is supposedly set in the whitest, blonded part of Central Asia.  And pay no attention to the fact that GYMAKATA’s plot is yet another recycling of The Most Dangerous Game, but with less logical consistency than many other versions. If you’re willing to take the film on its own terms as a cheap, silly, mid-‘80s adventure romp, you just might dig it.

To my surprise, I kinda did.