Seraphim Falls

I grew up in the Mountain West. I know how to track, ride, and shoot, and I know that hypothermia can be deadlier than bullets. When SERAPHIM FALLS began in the Mountain West with characters who track, ride, shoot, and nearly succumb to hypothermia, it earned my immediate and total buy-in. When able stars Pierce Brosnan and Liam Neeson enacted the line, "The man in black fled across the desert, and the gunslinger followed," it pegged my Cool Meter. When Anjelica Huston, in a great bit of stunt casting, intoned, "A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do," I thought, 'Now, there's a western!"

The story begins in the High Sierra, where Neeson and his henchmen attack an unsuspecting Brosnan, who barely escapes with his life. Wait a minute - it's Liam Neeson! He's usually a good guy! And so's Brosnan! What's going on here? Those questions provide much of the film's dramatic tension, as we try to figure out what, exactly, is going on and why. But there's no time for that, at first. At first, it's all running and sliding and nearly drowning or bleeding to death or dying of the aforementioned hypothermia, in addition to my beloved riding, tracking, and shooting. Brosnan does career-best work as he gives us desperation, determination, and bafflement. His portrayal of a man at the edge of death brough to mind Jack London's "To Build a Fire," and I completely bought that he was just moments away from feeling warm all over and laying down to sleep.

Cinematographer John Toll does absolutely brilliant work here, as well. He brings to life the mountains, the desert, and places in between with such care and clarity that I could almost smell the pine tar and juniper berries. He creates the mythic West by taking much of the myth out of it, and he made me feel homesick for the first time in years.

SERAPHIM FALLS isn't a big movie. It's a revenge picture, and a chase picture, and a personal picture. But it's also very much a western, and it felt true to the West as I understand it. I'm glad I saw it.

Born to Fight

I'm sweet on Thailand, which is weird because I've never been there. Nevertheless, everyone I know who has been there has raved about it. My father lived in Bangkok for a while and raves about the food and the incredibly friendly, easygoing nature of the people in the Land of Smiles. My sister-in-law went to Chiang Mai on a missions trip and liked it so much she moved there permanently. She raves about the food, the beautiful scenery in her part of the country, and (again) the incredibly friendly and easygoing nature of the people in the Land of Smiles. My friends in the Navy mostly rave about the cheap beer in Phu Ket; but hey, there's a lot to be said for cheap beer served with a smile!

After delighting through BORN TO FIGHT, I realized why Thais are known for being so friendly: since they can kick your butt three ways to Sunday, they don't need attitude. Further, I realized why their beer is so cheap: they need the alcohol to numb the pain that results from having a complete disregard for personal safety. BORN TO FIGHT is like an '80s-90's Hong Kong action-fest, only moreso. Where the masterpiece POLICE STORY features a car chase through (and I mean through!) a shantytown, BORN TO FIGHT drives its vehicles through a shantytown and adds explosions. Where HARD BOILED features Chow Yun Fat shooting it out and rappelling with a baby in one arm, BORN TO FIGHT features a guy doing gymkata with a baby strapped to his back. It's just plain awesome.

Let me run it down for you: this movie has Tae Kwon Do, Muy Thai, Gymkata, Gunkata, Little Girlkata, Old Mankata, Hot Chickkata, Soccerkata, Rugbykata, Motocrosskata, Semi Truckkata, and, oh, yeah, lots and lots of TNTkata. Didja like that CGI flaming motorcycle in GHOST RIDER? In BORN TO FIGHT, they light an actual motorcycle on fire, put an actual guy on that motorcycle, then have him drive up an actual ramp, crashing the motorcycle into the windshielf of a semi while the guy flies over the trailer and lands on what I can only hope are a couple of mattresses buried in the ground and covered with dirt. Didja like the ferry explosion that kicked off DEJA VU? In BORN TO FIGHT, they blow up an entire village real good. I mean, c'mon! What more do you need? Toss in a little Buddhism, a lot of Thai nationalism, even some actual character development, and you've got yourself an action picture that puts this summer's American pixelfests to shame.

If America had more movies like this, we'd be a Land of Smiles, too.

Road House

God help me, I actually liked ROAD HOUSE.

I'd been avoiding this movie for years, but it just wouldn't go away. By the looks of it, ROAD HOUSE had all the markings a lame action picture: GYMKATA with beer. So why didn't it die the quiet death of, say, BLACK DOG? My guess is that it's so awful that it's actually pretty good: Patrick Swayze dances his way to victory, Ben Gazzara intimidates townspeople with monster truck fu, Sam Elliott does his schtick with roughly half a moustache, and Kevin Tighe doesn't turn out to be the bad guy for perhaps the first time since "Emergency!"

Here's the setup: Tighe hires Swayze, a legendary bouncer, to clean up his road house and make it a going concern. Naturally, Swayze turns out to have a graduate degree in philosophy (What, you thought those guys got real jobs after graduation?), is a martial artist, and likes to do tai chi in the minimum possible clothing. Swayze's getting the bar staff under control is actually the most fun part of the movie: he's doing his best Louis Gosset Jr., shaping up the crew while intoning that "People don't want to come to a bloodbath." Before you know it, he's turned Tighe's funky little beer-and-a-shot joint into a soulless meat market, decorated in high '80s style. Then, of course, Swayze's butting heads with the local racketeer and monster truck fu afficionado, stuff is blowing up real good, Sam Elliott's providing guidance, and Kelly Lynch (aka the local ER doc) is swooning all over the new marshall in town.

Does that setup sound familiar to you? Yeah, it's basically half the westerns ever made, with the clever substitution of quasi-Asian philosophical mumbo jumbo and really bad synth music for stoicism and harmonicas. So, what's to like? The fights are a hoot, with all concerned appearing to be more concerned with not breaking a nail than putting the hurt on their opponents. The dialogue is corny and fun, the story beats comfortingly predictable, and the train clatters resolutely to its station, hitting every beat and and ending with a laugh.

Actually, the more I think about ROAD HOUSE, the less I find to like about it. But, there it is. Would I go out of my way to watch ROAD HOUSE again? No. Would I change the channel if I came across it in a hotel room somewhere? Probably not. It's cheesy, it's fun, it's kinda lame but, for whatever reason, it grew on me. Your mileage may vary.

Dragons Forever

Man oh man, I love me some old-school Jackie Chan movies.

DRAGONS FOREVER puts Chan, Samo Hung, and Biao Yuen together in a workmanlike story about three bad guys who must find their souls through kicking people in the face. Chan plays a slick defense attorney, Hung and Yuen play his gangster buddies, and that's the last you're going to hear from me about the story.

Because really, when you see that Samo Hung and Corey Yuen co-directed the picture, is your very next thought, "I hope the story is a penetrating exploration of the human condition"? No. It's, "How are the stunts?"

Well, let me tell you: the stunts are awesome, and Hung and Yuen know how to film them. Instead of quick cuts, we get takes that are long enough to confirm that real people are actually doing the things we see onscreen. Jackie does some found stuntwork involving chairs and stairs that will have you rewinding and stepping through in slow motion just so you can dig on it. Hung and Yuen do some slapstick fighting that's actually a marvel of tightly choreographed performance. Innumerable anonymous stuntment pull off falls that'll make you go, "Oof!"

You know what? See DRAGONS FOREVER with one finger on the fast-forward button. The story is disposable and uninteresting, but the stunts make it worth speeding through it. If you enjoy watching top athletes at the top of their game, this movie's for you.

The Fountain

THE FOUNTAIN swept me up and away. I loved it.

I took two runs at this movie. First, I tried watching it on the Metro, but its imagery and structure simply is not compatible with viewing on a tiny screen while bumping along at rush hour. Second, I woke up before dawn and watched it on the enormovision, in glorious surround sound. In this environment, THE FOUNTAIN enfolded me in its dream-like worlds, washing over me like a languorous wave. When it ended, I knew I'd been on a journey. It took me a day or two to figure out where, but I viscerally loved the experience even before reason kicked in.

This movie does something different: it challenges the viewer to work with both intuition and analysis, offering few easy answers, and it does so while playing very loosely with the classic three-act structure. We meet Hugh Jackman and Rachel Weisz, lovers in different worlds and times, haunted by tragedies past and present and looking for ... something. In one construct, they're conquistador and queen; in another, scientist and patient; in a third, voyager and phantasm. In all three, we sense an overtone of sadness and defiance, acceptance and denial, enlightenment and desperation. The tales, one or more of which may be happening in the imagination or serving as an allegory of a state of mind, engage us in their own right and as part of a larger whole.

By the time THE FOUNTAIN climaxes in visions reminiscent of Dore's Paradiso illustrations, as well as Hindu and Mayan creation mythologies, we're carried away, outside of ourselves. Darren Aronofsky's doing something audaciously different here, and he succeeds wonderfully. This is a film worth seeing.

ADDENDUM

ecently, I've been subjected to repeated showings of the STAR WARS prequel trilogy. While watching it, I've been bothered by the utter lifelessness of Natalie Portman's Queen Amidala. While watching THE FOUNTAIN, I realized what was missing: gravitas. Portman's idea of Queenly bearing appears to be limited to having good posture and speaking in monotone. Rachel Weisz's Queen Isabella, on the other hand - now, there's a queen to inspire devotion and desire! Weisz's commanding, yet vulnerable, presence radiates monarchy: a personal state of being that lies beyond the powers of either Portman's talent or Lucas's direction.

For that matter, Weisz's entire performance in THE FOUNTAIN is simply brilliant. I've always respected the actress, who can bring class even to pulpy entertainments such as THE MUMMY RETURNS, but this picture takes her career to a whole different level.

Undertaking Betty

UNDERTAKING BETTY is a thoroughly inoffensive, moderately amusing, ultimately forgettable trifle of a romantic comedy. It rocks along pleasantly enough for an hour and a half, ends on an up note, succeeds in everything it tries to do.

The whole movie gets set up in the opening scene: a girl at a school dance attracts the notice of a shy young boy. Before the boy can work up the courage to ask her to dance, a more confident boy steps in and sweeps her away. Since Movie Law demands that whomever catches our eye in our preadolescence is destined to be our One True Love, she still pines for the boy, now all grown up and played by Alfred Molina. She (Brenda Blethyn) married the confident one, who grew up to be a jerk who's playing around with Naomi Watts. There's your romantic comedy framework, and here's your twist: Molina is the undertaker in their quiet Welsh town, and he's in dire competition with an evil American interloper who wants to "put the fun back in funeral." Christopher Walken plays the American, and he has great fun hamming it up.

And there really isn't much to say beyond that setup. UNDERTAKING BETTY never elicited so much as a chuckle, but it was reasonably nice, reasonably fun, and entirely pleasant. Should you go out of your way to see it? No. But you may enjoy having it on in the background while you're folding laundry.

Ratatouille

Production company strips are boring. What do I care if Amalgamated Media, Inc. produced the movie I'm about to see? Why should I watch its, and its fellow companies', animations when we could all just be getting on with the movie? What are they trying to do, build customer loyalty? "Boy, I sure do like those MGM movies. They're way better than Paramount's."

On second thought, there is one production company that has managed to build customer loyalty, and I don't mind sitting through its logo. When the Pixar animation flickers on the screen, I settle in, secure in the knowledge that I'm about to be entertained by people who care about the product they're putting onscreen. I may not be dazzled, but I can count on being well entertained, and I respect that.

RATATOUILLE, Pixar's latest, dazzles. Perhaps more importantly, it does so with an original story, excellent performances, and the kind of first-class animation we've come to expect from the folks with the desktop lamps. Here's the setup: Remy just wants to cook. He has extraordinary senses of smell and taste, he intuitively understands food, and he studies the works of Gusteau, the famous Parisian chef who declares that "Anyone can cook!" There's a problem, of course: Remy is too far down the social ladder to land a job at a restaurant, much less a slot in culinary school. In fact, he's a rat: he can't even get in the kitchen.

I like the idea of using a rat instead of a mouse. In the popular imagination, rats are evil while mice are cute. We in the audience shudder when we see a (flock? herd?) bunch of rats skittering across a floor, and the movie accepts that and works with it, artfully reproducing the biomechanics of rat movement (ok, there's some anthropomorphization, but that's to be expected). By accepting Remy's rat-ness, it challenges us to do what those in the film must learn to do: get over it and get on with the realization that this rat has a lot to offer. "Those in the film" includes Remy's rat family, which includes the disapproving father who doesn't understand why his son can't just eat garbage like everyone else; Linguini, the hapless janitor who stumbles into an alliance with the little chef; and, perhaps most dauntingly, the Paris gastronomical world. Further, I like the idea of setting an animated film in the world of food. Perhaps its because I recently saw and loved MOSTLY MARTHA; perhaps it's because I recently had relatives in for a visit, relatives who dragged my wife all over town looking for just the right lemon grater for our kitchen; perhaps it's because I've had a few meals in my life that have brought tears to my eyes (Aside: those meals were at Cantina Vecchia il Baroni and La Botta). Whatever the reasons, this is new territory for family pictures, it isn't intuitively obvious that kids would dig it, and I applaud Pixar's courage in going there.

Patton Oswalt, who did not impress me in THE COMEDIANS OF COMEDY, does fine work here as Remy, as do the rest of the cast of people whose names I recognize, but whose voices I did not. Particularly surprising was Peter O'Toole as cadaverous food critic Anton Ego: during this film, I though, "Wow. Jeremy Irons is doing great work here." O'Toole nails that Ironsesque menace and takes it to an entirely different level and, when his character develops, that development feels both organic and earned.

As for the animation, well, it's Pixar. You get about what you'd expect, which is remarkable excellence and attention to detail.

I saw RATAOUILLE in a theater filled with young children and their families. The film captivated the entire audience, who applauded the gorgeous final shot. That's saying a lot about a movie about rats in the kitchen, and it's yet another feather in the cap of Pixar and director Brad Bird. RATATOUILLE is destined to find a place in the heart - and on the shelf - of many, many people, and I'm one of them.

What a delight.

March of the Penguins

MARCH OF THE PENGUINS spends an hour and twenty minutes anthropomorphizing birds. It's bad science and it's bad film.

Sure, it looks great. Emperor penguins are cute and the Antarctic is beautiful, so it's pretty hard to screw up that element of the film. Nevertheless, I just couldn't get past the film's conceit that penguins are basically people with beaks. They aren't, and all of Morgan Freeman's protestations to the contrary can't make it so. I spent my viewing time utterly mystified as to why this documentary was such a huge hit.

Pan's Labyrinth

When you see at least three movies per week, you start to think of them differently. You begin to realize that there are a limited number of stories in circulation out there so, instead of giving stories themselves much consideration, you begin to focus on execution.

Then, a movie like PAN'S LABYRINTH comes along. Not only does it give us a unique, universal, engrossing, and thought-provoking story; but it also excels in its execution. Truly innovative, imaginative films such as this remind us of what thin gruel we often accept when we sit down for a movie.

PAN'S LABYRINTH takes place in a specific time and place - 1940s Spain, and in a place out of time - Faerie. Creator Guillermo del Toro circles between and among the two in a series of seamless transitions that leave us wondering what is real, what is imaginary, and what is more real than reality. He does it through the stories of Ofelia , an 11-yr-old girl, and Capitán Vidal, an officer in Franco's fascist army and Ofelia's new stepfather. When the film opens, Ofelia and her (pregnant) mother are enroute to join Vidal at his outpost in the Spanish woods. Once they get there, Ofelia discovers Pan, a creature out of myth who may be evil; and the nature of her stepfather, who is definitely evil. As the film progresses and the two characters find their fates, we begin to see how they fit into the movie's whole. It's not an easy fit, in that their journey and our journey with them can be profoundly uncomfortable, even horrifying. Further, their journeys aren't easily encapsulated or analyzed. I'm still working through several of the film's thematic elements, and I suspect I'll be chewing on this one for quite some time.

So, yes, PAN'S LABYRINTH boasts a complex, adult, and thought-provoking story. It also creates a fully-developed world, rich in detail, that offers visions both of profound beauty and staggering horror. Speaking of the latter, I thought that film had long since lost the ability to frighten me with monsters, but I was wrong. This film's Pale Man, a subterranean monster that feels like something from blackest nightmare, struck fear in my heart from the moment I saw him. Once he started moving, I wasn't just pleasantly scared at the movies - I was little boy in the dark scared. What brilliant setup, design, and execution of the character and his setting: everyone from conceptual designer William Stout to actor Doug Jones to del Toro himself united to create a masterpiece within a masterpiece, and it's horrifyingly wonderful. That's just one example, however. Be it the fascist outpost in the heart of the forest or the ancient pagan monuments nearby, everything about these
places and those who live therein feels both organic and elevated, mundane and mythic. It's great work.

Y'know, I can't think of anything PAN'S LABYRINTH did wrong. I only wish I hadn't sent it back to Netflix quite so quickly. As I write about it, it occurs to me that I'd like to see this movie a second time, and a third. This is a movie I could get lost in, again and again. Much as I enjoyed HELLBOY, I didn't think del Toro had a film like this in him. I'm so happy I was wrong.

Versus

Note to self: If I ever join the Yakuza, be sure not to bury my bodies in the Forest of Resurrection. They have this unpleasant way of ... resurrecting.

Such is the premise of the delightful VERSUS, an audacious Japanese picture that combines the delights of samurai, yakuza, zombies, warlocks, and karate in a bubbling, delicious stew of gory fun. This is the kind of movie that doesn't just have zombies, it has zombies with guns. It doesn't just have samurai, it has both classical swordsmen and modern guys with leather overcoats and techno-katanas. This is a movie that's so ridiculously over the top that I was willing to forgive it its many inconsistencies (and its antagonists' lack of skill with their blades) while I gaily tapped my foot along with its thumpin' electro-pop beats and watched the carnage ensue.

This picture is moving manga. Its characters are so over-the-top that not once will you confuse them with real people, but you will have fun seeing just how far they go. What a great time at the movies.

Appleseed

APPLESEED, a 2005 anime film from Shinji Aramaki, suffers from the malady of the tronhead: a focus on the technically achievable at the expense of the actually valuable.

Consequently, APPLESEED looks great. The animation is top-notch, the action sequences both organic and fantastic, the world reasonably complete. However, APPLESEED's story is derivative and uninteresting. Additionally, the voice work, particularly by stars Jennifer Proud and Mia Bradley (who appear to have no other credits), is so squeakily thin and bad that it detracts from the audience's ability to suspend its disbelief.

Here's the story: it's a dystopian future, blah blah blah. A super soldier fights against blah blah blah. She's recruited to join an elite unit that protects a utopian city where all is not what it blah blah blah. There's a Hallmark Card moral and a dull wrapup, and whenever the picture isn't blowing something up or shooting something to bits, it drags more than HOW TO MAKE AN AMERICAN QUILT. Frankly, I just didn't care about this world or the people in it, at least partially because I didn't find anything new there. How many dystopian futures have we seen already? How many betrayals by authority figures? How many generals gone mad?

If the filmmakers had followed the Pixar path of devoting at least as much time to story and character development as to technical execution, they may have had a winner on their hands. As it is, however, they merely have a series of pretty pictures, best viewed with the sound off. Too bad.

Mostly Martha

I loved MOSTLY MARTHA.

Martina Gedeck, from THE LIVES OF OTHERS, is Martha. She’s obsessed with food, is incredibly Teutonic in her entire approach to life, and could really use a good holiday in Italy. Her kitchen is her inviolable domain, and the restaurant in which she works is an elite destination in her gray North German industrial city. She has issues, however: her boss is just as German as she is, she can’t relate to anyone except through the medium of food, and, well, she’s lonely.

Then, the changes start rolling in. First, circumstances force her to take custody of her niece, a role for which she’s entirely unprepared. Then, an Italian enters her kitchen as an assistant chef. Oh, the horror! An Italian! And he’s good! From there, the movie takes us on the journey of Martha’s development into a functioning woman who, while still obsessed with food, is healthily obsessed with food. That in itself is a rewarding tale, particularly if you enjoy gently romantic comedies. But what really makes this movie special is the way it gently pokes fun at Germans and German-ness, particularly in contrast to Italian culture.

MOSTLY MARTHA is sad, it's funny, and it's a joy to watch. DB and I will trade quips about tasting the sugar the other didn't use for some time to come.

Ghost Rider

I never read the “Ghost Rider” comic when I was a kid. The idea of a flaming skeleton on a motorcycle struck me as silly and, even though I knew all the words to “Ghost Riders in the Sky,” nothing about the comic captured my imagination. That lack of predisposition, coupled with its generally poor critical reception, ensured that GHOST RIDER would never find a place on my Netflix queue. When a co-worker of mine put the DVD in my hand and told me she was sure I’d like it, a nodded and smiled and figured this would be 1.5 hours of service to the ideal of office harmony.

Imagine my surprise when GHOST RIDER turned out to be a hell of a lot of fun. In fact, there are very few things in this movie not to like, from the Nicolas Cage’s over-the-top performance as the titular Ghost Rider to Eva Mendez’s Wonderbra’s up-top performance to Sam Elliott’s incredibly realistic and believable performance as Sam Elliott and His Amazing Moustache. The set design and art direction are fantastic, creating a detailed fantasy Southwest that’s full of mythology, foreboding, and flaming devil-bikes. The villains are pleasantly silly, the story soaked in Gothic Latino Catholic mythology, and the whole adventure just a great time at the movies.

Nicolas Cage has so much fun with this role, I’m surprised they paid him to do it. When you need an actor to convey insanity, delight, and fear (but mostly insanity), Cage is your man. When he first catches fire and becomes the Ghost Rider, he works that Crazy Cage look and laugh so effectively that he brought a big, goofy smile to my face. In fact, Cage makes this movie. He’s so much fun that when the Ghost Rider takes over and the movie switches to an animation-fest for its big battles, I actually felt let down. ‘Enough of the flaming skull,’ I thought. ‘Let’s get back to the crazy eyes!’

Eva Mendez, as the love interest, has very little to do here other than wear a half-unbuttoned blouse and get imperiled; but she’s very good at wearing a half-unbuttoned blouse. Sam Elliott, whose shirt remains fully buttoned throughout, does a fine Sam Elliott, and his presence lends authenticity and a sense of the mythic Southwest to the film. Let’s face it: nobody mounts a horse like Sam Elliott, and when he and Cage team up to race across the desert in pursuit of evil (to the tones of a pumped-up version of the Johnny Cash classic), you can’t not dig the groove.

Certainly, GHOST RIDER has its flaws. Donal Logue isn't given enough to do. The villains, from Mephistopheles on down, just aren’t that menacing – the Big Boss, named Blackheart (Wes Bentley), reminded me more of Spider-Manero than an emissary from my darkest nightmares. The action set-pieces are kind of dull (unless you’re really into video game cut-scenes), and whole thing feels like product. Nevertheless, GHOST RIDER is fun product, from the Leone-like standoffs to the loopy dialogue to the brazenly ignored gaps in logic. This is a movie that just wants to show you a nutty good time, and it succeeds.

Who’da thunk it.

Valiant

VALIANT, the story of a british homing pigeon in WWII, retools the standard heroe's journey for a young bird trying to do his part in the war effort. The bird, voiced by Ewan McGregor, befriends a slovenly Trafalgar Square pigeon on his way to the recruiting depot, and before you know it they're in occupied France, working with the mice of the French Underground to get a vital message back to the allies.

It's standard stuff, but it's well-crafted stuff. The ocean work is so beautiful that it merits several pauses and rewinds, the chases and aerial stunts imaginative and visually exciting, and the whole enterprise serves as a good introduction to war movies for the younger set.

Would I recommend VALIANT to people without kids? Absolutely not - as I said, it's pretty standard stuff. For those with kids, however, this one is worth it for the eye candy alone. VALIANT makes me want to spring for an HD-DVD player.

Last Train from Gun Hill

John Sturges's LAST TRAIN FROM GUN HILL is worth watching for the title alone. I mean, how can you not dig a movie with a title like that?

Having said that, its title is the best thing about LAST TRAIN FROM GUN HILL. The story, which rips off HIGH NOON (but with a twist!), follows Kirk Douglas as a marshall who absolutely, positively will not compromise when it comes to getting his man. Unfortunately, in this case his man is the son of his best friend, played by Anthony Quinn. Quinn's the top dog in Gun Hill, a town several stops down the rail line from Douglas's territory, and, well, there's your conflict.

I like Kirk Douglas. I like Anthony Quinn. I like John Sturges. LAST TRAIN FROM GUN HILL only counts as a middling success, however, because it's premised upon the conflicting loyalties of both men but resolves that source of tension too early in the film. Once Quinn makes his choice, the movie's only about the countdown to the gunfight, and HIGH NOON did a better job of handling the material. The does look and sound great, and it has some cool stunts. It's a good rainy day Western, but I wouldn't peg it much more highly than that.

Jim Gaffigan: Beyond the Pale

JIM GAFFIGAN: BEYOND THE PALE is a concert film featuring, um, Jim Gaffigan, who was in SUPER TROOPERS but whom I did not recognize.

Gaffigan does standard standup stuff, and much of it is laugh-out-loud funny, but the unique thing about his act is his habit of breaking into a high-pitched whisper that apes the inner monologue of a notional audience member. As much fun as the stories and jokes are, it's Gaffigan's clear understanding of the possbile reactions to his humor that make this particular concert film worth watching. He understands that some of his bits will offend, some will creep people out, and some will make his audience draw connections between different parts of the act and parse out his themes and obsessions. It's interesting stuff, and it's the kind of stuff that you'll remember after you've forgotten the individual jokes.

JIM GAFFIGAN: BEYOND THE PALE works. If you like standup films, you'll like this one.

Photos from Iwo Jima

It was a rainy, cloudy day at Iwo Jima, and we didn't think we'd get much chance to site see. The weather lifted for a few moments as we made our final approach, so we asked for and got permission to fly a circuit around the island before we landed.

I am so glad I saw LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA before I came here. As we flew over the beach at which the Marines landed, looked down on Mt. Suribachi, and continued around to the north side of the island (where the Japanese were deeply dug in), I could see the battle in my mind's eye. When we landed and I walked to Base Operations to get a weather update, I felt that I knew the people who were commemorated with the stone monuments I saw there.

It was such an extraordinary experience, I thought I'd share my photos here. Enjoy.

The Natural

THE NATURAL is so archetypal that it borders on parody.

The story itself is rather simple: gifted but older man makes good in the world of professional sports, overcoming temptation and injury to step up to the plate for the crucial at-bat in the crucial moment of the crucial game. The magic is in the execution: Which bat does he swing on his way to the top? One he fashioned by hand from the wood of a tree struck by lightning. Who personifies temptation? Kim Basinger as the Call of the Big City. Who personifies redemption? Glenn Close as The Goodness of Rural America.

There's this scene toward the end, in which star Robert Redford tells manager Wilford Brimley that he'll play in the big game regardless of the risk to his health, that encapsulates everything the movie's about. As Redford pokes his head in Brimley's door to deliver the news that he'll play (and, by so doing, save the team, escape the temptations of the flesh and the pocketbook, and generally redeem America), he's backlit with a key light so intense that his blond hair forms a no-kidding halo. This is a movie that knows exactly what it is and exactly what it's about, and it's a movie that's gloriously, ridiculously shameless in the pursuit of those objectives.

This leaves the viewer with two options. One can either laugh with it or laugh at it. I chose to laugh with it, allowing it to take me on its magic carpet ride through the mythic landscape of an impossible America.

And I had a wholesome good time.

Smokin' Aces

Y'know what I liked best about the structure of SMOKIN' ACES? It finished act one during the opening credits, spent about ten minutes going through act two, then used the rest of the movie to give us one long third act. From the beginning of that third act, it's non-stop jokes, gunshots, and chain saws. What's not to like?

SMOKIN' ACES reminds me of SNATCH in that it isn't so much about story as execution. This movie tries to dazzle us with playful, snappy and memorable characters, and general quirkiness. Overall, it succeeds, though I agree that the film could have done without its twist and the ending is a bit of a letdown. Had I seen this one in a theater, I would have been disappointed. As a time-filler during a long overwater flight, it was just the thing.

The Black Dahlia

THE BLACK DAHLIA, drawn from a riveting James Ellroy novel, is a slow, tedious slog of a police procedural that’s done in by its combination of flaccid acting and jarring set design.

Several of THE BLACK DAHLIA’s key roles fall so resoundingly flat that it’s hard to believe professional actors performed them. Two of the Dahlia’s friends land with thuds, as does the femme fatale and her mother (!). The friends may have been a masterstroke on director Brian DePalma’s part, of course: they’re supposed to be bad actresses, and they’re played by bad actresses. Oh, the meta! The femme fatale, VALLEY GIRL’s Hilary Swank, manages zero chemistry with the man she’s supposedly seducing, and the mother can’t decide if she’s trying to channel Margaret Dumont or Dame Edna Everage.

In the middle of this mess, we have Josh Hartnett and Aaron Eckhart - one of whom seems not quite innocent enough for the role he’s supposed to be playing, and the other not quite crafty enough for his. They’re both in love with Scarlett Johansson, a normally intriguing actress who delivers a performance so lacking in enthusiasm that’s it’s hard to imagine her own mother falling in love with her.

No one brings much in the way of life to this movie, and the shortcoming gets reflected in the set design, which is either another meta-joke or a poor choice to rely on CGI landscapes and studio back lots to create a world that feels just a little too fresh, a little too clean for Los Angeles in the ‘40s.

But you know, I could forget these issues if the story itself were engaging. Unfortunately, such is not the case. While Ellroy breathes life into this story, the movie never sells me on its characters’ actions, priorities, or dilemmas. I just didn’t care about any of these people, and that’s death for a whodunit. If you’re interested in the Dahlia case, read the book. If you’re looking for a good detective movie, rent CHINATOWN again.

Letters From Iwo Jima

Clint Eastwood’s FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS, a film about the lives of the men who raised the flag on Iwo Jima, lived on the island and crawled whenever it shifted its focus from the fighting there. In LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA, Eastwood’s companion piece, the director wisely restricts the action to Iwo Jima itself, with limited flashbacks to other locales. By choosing to dedicate his efforts to making a classically structured war film, Eastwood not only bested his previous effort.  He made a classic war film.

LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA tells the story of the Battle of Iwo Jima from the perspective of the Japanese. This brilliant choice provides the opportunity to get into the minds of a group that, frankly, I’d never much considered. Who were these fanatical defenders of a lost cause? What made them tick? LETTERS gives us two proxies, General Kuribayashi and Private Saigo, to give us different perspectives on the experience, and the conceit could have killed the movie had Eastwood chosen the wrong performers. Fortunately, he chose Ken Watanabe and Kazunari Ninomiya, and both of them do extraordinarily well.

Watanabe, who first drew international attention as the only good thing about the ghastly THE LAST SAMURAI, infuses General Kuribayashi with the wisdom, courage, brilliance, and leadership ability of an absolutely first class general officer. Watanabe bears comparison to Mifune with his commanding screen presence and instant likeability, and he even manages to bring dignity to a painfully awkward scene that’s meant to illustrate the transnational brotherhood of officers, but really illustrates the screenwriter’s lack of faith in his audience’s ability to infer that lesson from other material present in the story.

Ninomiya could best be described as the Japanese Nick Cannon. He looks a bit like Cannon, he moves like Cannon, and he carries the same easy likeability as Cannon. As the hapless Private Saigo, he’s nearly the opposite of General Kuribayashi, and his character has his own window on the confusion, violence, and fear of the battle. While Kuribayashi is honor-bound in the face of defeat, Saigo seriously considers desertion. While Kuribayashi is a fearsome warrior and noble leader, Saigo can’t hit a thing and complains like a, well, like a soldier. We may want to be like Kuribayashi, but we’re probably more like Saigo, and Saigo’s performance both humanizes his condition and makes us identify with him.

This film has more going for it than just its performances, however fine those performances may be. Eastwood’s command of filmmaking ensures that we never lose sight of who is doing what to whom and where, a mightily difficult task in the world of war films. Like SAVING PRIVATE RYAN, to which this film has been compared, LETTERS makes us feel the immediacy, the randomness, the virtual inescapability of death in combat. Unlike RYAN, it also has a compelling story with believable characters and situations that help us understand what it was like to fight on Iwo Jima, regardless of uniform.

I plan to fly to Iwo Jima this week, and I was unhappy with FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS because it didn’t give me enough insight into the battle that raged there over the course of February and March, 1945. LETTERS FROM IWO JIMA did that for me, and it did it while giving me characters and situations both foreign and familiar. This movie makes Iwo Jima come alive, and I can’t recommend it highly enough.

Revenge of the Sith

Last night, I got trapped on the couch. My older boy is on a Star Wars kick, and I was happy to sit down for a moment and fire up REVENGE OF THE SITH for him. Five minutes in, DB gave me the baby, and I was as thoroughly confined as Alex de Large. Here follow my ravings:

So, two Sith are conspiring together in an out-of-the-way place. "We shall have our revenge!" hisses one. "Yes!" hisses the other. This scene, from THE PHANTOM MENACE, is a head scratcher. Revenge for what? Against whom? Since the turnover rate among Sith is fairly high, who exactly is "we"?

These conundra are never addressed in STAR WARS: EPISODE III - REVENGE OF THE SITH. Who the heck are the Sith, anyway? What does it mean to be a Sith Lord? I mean, is it a good deal? Does it come with a hunting lodge in Balmoral, or at least a view of Waikiki*? And for what slight do they continue to seek revenge? Is it the eye thing, or the James Whale fetish? Do they go hand in hand, so to speak?

These are only a few of the issues left outstanding by REVENGE OF THE SITH. To get hung up on them, however, is to focus on the wrong things when viewing this movie. Lucas would have us focus on Annakin's moral choices and bemoaning his slow turn to evil. Of course, those choices had already been made, that course inexorably set, in ATTACK OF THE CLONES, but never mind. On what should we focus, then? The pretty space battles, the ridiculously acrobatic lightsaber duels (There's one bit in which a dueling Obi-Wan and Annakin face away from one another and twirl their lightsabers for no apparent reason. I'm still trying to decide if they were auditioning for the Cheer or Synchronized Swimming squads.), and the neat costumes. Sadly, these elements aren't enough to make REVENGE OF THE SITH a particularly rousing or engaging picture.

Ah, well. At least she didn't use eye clamps.

*Think about it.

Hollywoodland

Jim Beaver wrote this review of HOLLYWOODLAND for the IMDB. I liked it so much I asked his permission to reprint it here, and he graciously agreed.
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As someone who has spent a number of years preparing the definitive biography of actor George Reeves, I approached this film with great trepidation. I had previously turned down several offers for the film rights to my own book because I felt it unlikely that those projects would result in a film truthful to the essence of the man I had come to know so well. All I can say is that the makers of "Hollywoodland" came as close as is humanly possible in the real world of movie-making to achieving exactly what I would have hoped for -- an examination of George Reeves's life and death that is true to the times he lived in,
true to the kind of man I found him to be, and as true as possible to the most likely scenarios that have been projected to explain his death. While this is not a biography nor a documentary, and while adhering to each and every fact of Reeves's life would have resulted in a film exactly as long as his life, the artists here have done a powerful and affecting job of telling Reeves's story, and have framed it in a fictional setting that illuminates rather than obscures the truth. In any event, in any life, there is what happened and then there is the truth, and the two may not always equally serve our understanding of the event or life in question. It is true that "Hollywoodland" takes occasional liberties with specific facts, in no less way than Shakespeare took liberties with the real life facts of Hamlet or Julius Caesar. But as Alfred Hitchcock said, drama is life with the dull bits left out. What matters is not whether a costume is the right shade of blue or whether there's really a gas station at the intersection of Sunset and Benedict Canyon. What matters is whether the essence of a true story has been faithfully told. And "Hollywoodland" does a superb job of portraying that essence, who George Reeves was, what his world was like, and what impact he had on those who knew him and those who only knew of him. Allen Coulter, the director, has done a splendid job capturing the era and has paid enormous attention both to period detail and to the details of the lives of the real-life characters. Only Reeves's fans (and not even many of them) will notice the pinkie ring on Ben Affleck's finger or the widow's peak in his hairline or the exotic Alvis auto he owns, yet these are all completely authentic to the actual Reeves. More importantly, Coulter has done an exemplary job of making Reeves into a human being, one whose dreams we ache for almost as much as he does in the story.

Adrien Brody, as the fictional detective whose story provides the audience a window into Reeves's life, is solid and manages to bring a little charisma to the comparative low-life he plays. Diane Lane is superb as Reeves's lover, the sexually hungry but aging Toni Mannix. And Ben Affleck does certainly his best dramatic work ever as George Reeves. In makeup, and with his own matching cleft chin, Affleck sometimes looks astonishing like the real Reeves. But more importantly, he captures the haunted quality of the actor on a treadmill to oblivion, as well as the immense charm for which the real Reeves is widely remembered in Hollywood. Although the script does not give any of the actors the kind of deeply meaty scenes that win Oscars, some of the hardest work to do is for an actor to excel in scenes that don't require fireworks. Affleck in particular does so in this film, and I think it does him credit. He is reported to have researched the role intensely, and it shows. The performances of Larry Cedar, Bob Hoskins, and Lois Smith also stand out especially distinctively.

The cinematography is stunning, with the frequent flashbacks clearly distinguishable from the "present day" scenes without the distinction being glaring or even obvious. And the musical score is elegant and very evocative of the time.

It is perhaps inevitable that die-hard Superman fans, for whom George Reeves is not so much a human being as he is a sort of superhero himself, will find things to carp and cavil about in this film. As a researcher with over thirty years of in-depth study of Reeves's life, I can split hairs over details pretty easily myself. And I suspect, too, that some of the complaints will be about the depiction of things that are actually true, but which don't show Reeves in a worshipful light. All I can say is that I have spent my adult life studying, admiring, and trying to understand the man whose story this film tells, and I think George Reeves would be touched and proud of the care these filmmakers have taken. I highly recommend "Hollywoodland."

Attack of the Clones

After the cheese grater to the eyes that was THE PHANTOM MENACE, George Lucas had no where to go but up with Episode II in the STAR WARS prequel trilogy, ATTACK OF THE CLONES. While ATTACK has serious flaws, it's more fun than PHANTOM, has niftier battles, and features Natalie Portman's midriff. In fact, I'd say it's my second-favorite STAR WARS movie, though that praise grows fainter as I grow older.

But this is a prequel movie, so let's dispense with the rest of the praise and turn, instead to the fun part: picking out all the obvious flaws in the film! Let's get started:

1. Amidala is fatally compromised when she chooses to cover up Annakin's slaughter of the Sand People.

2. Annakin's character arc is essentially completed when he (a) slaughters the Sand People and (b) refuses to take responsibility for his actions.

3. Annakin's whole deal is that he really wants to be a doctor. The guy's a super-genius who is able to design and build high-performance racing craft and advanced androids in his childhood workshop: surely, he could pass the MCATs. Besides, a Jedi doctor would be a handy asset to have around. How hard of a sell could this be?

4. Yoda is full of shit. He can't make a decision; he can't sense that the Force is strong with the villain (for that matter, he can't put together that bad guys always wear black, and there are only two black-clad guys in the neighborhood); he can't do much more than sit around and frown. Further, he fakes an injury pretty much all the time, just so he can surprise his opponents with his startling ability to turn into a superball at will.

Those are just off the top of my head - feel free to add some of your own. Nevertheless, ATTACK OF THE CLONES benefits from a propulsive energy lacked by its predecessor. That doesn't make this a great movie - hell, it doesn't even make it a particularly good movie - but it does make it a fun pulpfest. I'll take it.

Dreamgirls

Bill Condon's DREAMGIRLS had me smiling and tapping my foot almost from the opening credits. Here's a musical with infectious songs, interesting characters, and productioon values like you wouldn't believe. It looks great, it sounds great, and it feels great - what more could you ask for?

Here's the deal: DREAMGIRLS runs like a musical biopic about Barry Gordy, Diana Ross, and The Supremes. The film is enough like real life to add versimilitude, but it's different enough to (a) avoid litigation and (b) pump things up a little. And pump things up, it does. It uses its numbers to do so and, if they work for you, you're going to love this movie. Jennifer Hudson is revelatory, Beyonce Knowles is predictably fabulous, and Eddie Murphy managed to do something I didn't think possible - he broke my heart. If only Jamie Foxx had had a number of his own: his career-defining performance in RAY, it seems like a waste not to use him here.

You know what? I loved this movie. I loved the performances, the framing, the set design, the story, and the music. This, not CHICAGO, should be the template for the filmed musical. Now, if only I could get this theme song out of my mind.

The Phantom Menace

Back in 1999, I walked in to STAR WARS: EPISODE 4: THE PHANTOM MENACE with diminished, yet still living, expectations. I'd disliked the Special Editions of the original trilogy, but I thought that Lucas's vision might work better in an original film than it did in the reworks. I was wrong, and I loathed THE PHANTOM MENACE. Was that an honest evaluation, however, or was that the disappointment talking?

Well, I saw the PHANTOM MENACE again this weekend, and I think I can give the picture a fairer shake today.

It's one of the worst major motion pictures ever made.

So many things about this movie are wrong, it's hard to know where to begin. So, how about at the beginning? The opening crawl starts with, "Turmoil has engulfed the Galactic Republic. The taxation of trade routes to outlying star systems is in dispute." That may be a great kickoff for an episode of "The McLaughlin Group," but nothing about it says Adventure. Soon, we're in a road movie. Characters fly, walk, swim, scoot, and otherwise go here and there, and the whole proceedings have the immediacy of an f/x real from a picture still a year out from its release date.

Then, we get to Tattooine and things get really bad. Young Jake Lloyd, who plays Darth Child, is not up to the task. He's horribly bad, elementary-school-recital bad, and he makes his character wholly uninteresting. Not that he had much to work with: how does a movie get an audience to invest in a character that its members hope will wind up a greasy stain on a canyon wall?

And so it goes, until THE PHANTOM MENACE climaxes with a lukewarm rehash of STAR WARS's destruction of the death star that could only satisfy someone who's first SW film this is. It's ghastly, it's creatively bankrupt, and it isn't even entertaining.

But wait, there's more: that's not even the big finish. There's a coup de grace when some retainer in a silly costume delivers the payoff line to the big villain: "So much for your trade franchise, Viceroy!" We began with "The McLaughlin Group" and we end with "Wall Street Week." It's fitting.

When I settled down for THE PHANTOM MENACE, I thought my opinion had nowhwere to go but up. Boy, was I wrong. I used to dislike this movie. Now, I loathe it. What an utter waste of time and talent.

Son of Godzilla

I once wrote that I'm a sucker for father-son stories. "No matter how lame, no matter how schmaltzy," I wrote, "toss in some father/son bonding and you've got me."

I take it back.

"Son of Godzilla" is so brain-rendingly, time-stoppingly bad that all the father-son-giant-lizard bonding in the world can't redeem it. Here's the setup: there's this egg on this island populated by giant praying mantises and a Japanese research team. The mantises crack the egg and out pops baby Godzilla, the cutest little monster an androgynous giant city-stomper could hope for. Dad's a bit protective, of course, which leads to some issues with the mantises, a giant spider, and the unfortunate humans who keep getting underfoot. The effects are horrible, the story is ghastly, and the movie's so earnestly bad that it can't even redeem itself on camp value.

Give "Son of Godzilla" a pass. Trust me on this one.

War of the Worlds

Logic and science quibbles aside, WAR OF THE WORLDS is simply an unsatisfying movie. It's spectacular, yes, and I appreciate its decision to make its centerpiece the human drama of a family coming together. Problem is, I didn't have any investment in that drama. Tom Cruise gave me no reason to root for him instead of the guy next to him; Dakota Fanning is a disturbing little childbot; and the guy who plays the son needs a good swift kick in the ass.

I couldn't help but compare this movie to SIGNS, a picture with a similar premise and much less spectacle. SIGNS, I think, was much more effective in its portrayal of a family under pressure, and I was right there with Mel Gibson every step of the way.

Chances are, I'll never sit down for another screening of WAR OF THE WORLDS. I would, however, be happy to spend some more time with the people from SIGNS.

The Last King of Scotland

When callow Americans need to grow up, they buy a backpack and hustle off to Europe. When callow Scotsmen need to grow up, they go anywhere but Canada.

In THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND, callow Scotsman Nicholas Garrigan heads off to Uganda in search of mission, meaning, and adventure. Apparently, he doesn't bother to read the paper first, because Uganda is a nation in turmoil. He has barely arrived when General Idi Amin Dada takes power in a bloody coup and, before he knows it, he's treating the General for an injury incurred near the medical mission at which Garrigan works (alongside a fetching Gillian Anderson). Amin takes a shine to Garrigan, invites him down to the capitol to offer him a job, and Garrigan's off and running in the adventure of a lifetime. Of course, if he only bothered to read the paper, he might have second thoughts. But he doesn't.

Garrigan's willful stupidity could sink THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND, but we can understand it, at least at first, as the film introduces us to Forest Whitaker's Idi Amin. Amin is charismatic, exciting - he's a doer, and he offers privilege and adventure beyond Garrigan's wildest fantasies. But we know things Garrigan doesn't know and, as Amin's facade slowly crumbles to reveal the monster beneath, we come to fear not only for Garrigan and the rest of the General's inner circle, but for Uganda itself. Amin is so evil, so controlled, so utterly without boundaries that, by the end, we have no idea where he'll stop. It's captivating stuff, and it rests on the shoulders of Forest Whitaker as Amin. Fortunately, Whitaker delivers his best work since GHOST DOG: WAY OF THE SAMURAI. He's human and alien, the kind of man another man could follow and the kind of man another man could kill. Whenever he's on screen, there's a palpable tension in the air; and he never releases it, even in moments of levity.

THE LAST KING OF SCOTLAND does a masterful job of portraying its time and place. I believed in the Uganda it showed me, and I believed in the people I met there. More importantly, this movie wrapped me up in knots for nearly two hours. It was terrific stuff.

Volver

What's not to love about VOLVER? It's funny, it's sad, and it features utterly fascinating characters involved in compelling situations. Cruz, an actress who hadn't interested me before this film, comes alive here: she is so dynamic, so fascinating, so jaw-droppingly beautiful, that she manages to keep us completely on her side even as her character does things that a lesser actress would have us condemning.

The movie isn't just a showpiece for Cruz, however. Lola Dueñas, one of the best things about Almodóvar's TALK TO HER, goes from brittle to hapless to joyful and sells us on every step along the way. The movie looks great, with a colorful, lively palette that underscores the celebration of life that begins with the very first frame. The relationships feel right, the people wholly fleshed out. While viewing this film, I felt like I was a part of these people's lives, and I didn't want the lights to come up. I liked these people, I cared about them, and I want to see what happens next.

With VOLVER, Almodóvar knocks yet another one out of the park. This guy is one of the finest filmmakers working today.

El Dorado

John Wayne. Robert Mitchum. James Cann. Howard Hawks in the director's chair. EL DORADO has so much testosterone, I'm growing hair on my knuckles just typing this.

EL DORADO is the second of Hawks' and Wayne's three varations on the same story, told also in RIO BRAVO and RIO LOBO. In this iteration, John Wayne's a hired gun come to town to sell his services to one Ed Asner, a rancher involved in a local range war. Robert Mitchum's the sheriff and trusted friend who warns Wayne that he's signing up with the wrong side. Western Stuff ensues.

The problem with John Wayne movies is that the actor often blows his coworkers off the screen. In Robert Mitchum, Hawks found a man that could hold his own with Wayne, one that audiences can believe isn't just his friend but his peer. The casting choice adds that much more punch to the unexpected and delightful tonal shift that marks the beginning of the second act. I'd never seen Mitchum do slapstick before, and I'd never have guessed that the man had the power to make me laugh out loud. The impossibly young James Cann acquits himself well in the heartthrob role, getting in enough of moments of genuine toughness to show us what the film's grizzled vets may have seen in this greenhorn. As for the rest of the cast, well, they're just fine: Asner snarls, Christopher George is a principled competing gunman, and Michele Carey defies gravity as the courageous daughter of the good-guy rancher.

I noticed that Edith Head designed the costumes for this picture, by the way. I suspect she had loads of fun because while these people wear clothes that'd never work in the real West, they sure look great.

I've been in the mood for a solid western for some time now. EL DORADO filled the bill.

Spider-Man 3

Last weekend, I took my family to see SPIDER-MAN 3. Judging by the difference in our reactions, I saw a totally different movie than they did. In fact, judging by the fact that I was often the only one laughing in the theater, I saw a totally different movie than everyone else in the theater.

That's ok. I loved the movie I saw.

SPIDER-MAN 3's opening credits give us a quick recap of the previous two movies, and before you know it we're right in the middle of the action. Things are going pretty well for Peter/Spidey. He's managing a good work/life balance, he makes time to attend Mary Jane's big Broadway premier, and he's happy as a beloved New York icon. But wouldn't you know, as in most two-career relationships, one partner's career starts falling behind. Before you know it, Peter's life is filled with animosity, jealousy, and guyscara. This is not good.

Speaking of things that are not good, Harry Osbourne is all Goblined out and ready for revenge; that guy from SIDEWAYS has been working out and he's mad as hell; and there's this new photographer at the Bugle who isn't above a little photoshopping if it'll help to make the perfect shot. Oh, and now Peter has to cope with a new black tar habit, to boot.

So, there's your drama. But director Sam Raimi isn't just about the drama: SM3 is laced with comedy that runs from the subtle dig to the broad John Cleese impression (I swear to God, I was waiting for Bruce Campbell to offer Peter a wafer-thin mint.) to the full-on SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER parody. Additionally, SM3's action set-pieces manage both beauty and excitement. Mix in a nice moral, solid work in even the smaller supporting roles, and you have a recipe for big-ticket, blockbuster fun.

SPIDER-MAN 3 is just the thing for a summer afternoon, even if you are the only one laughing in the theater. The more I think about it, the more I like it.

Godzilla Raids Again

The first of the GODZILLA sequels, GODZILLA RAIDS AGAIN sheds its predecessor's sense of horror with gaining its successors' sense of fun. It's a long, dull, slog of a movie about your standard group of pals who must band together to - oh, never mind. The folks who made this movie clearly didn't give itself much thought. Why should I?

GRA (Now, there's a title!) features Godzilla's battle with Anguirus, a giant cross between an armadillo and a porcupine, and Takashi Shimura shows up to fulfill his contractual obligations, and that's about all the movie has going for it. When the best part of your movie is the flashback to its predecessor, you're in big trouble.

It's a wonder GODZILLA RAIDS AGAIN didn't sink the franchise.

The Legend of 1900

Guiseppe Tornatore's THE LEGEND OF 1900 functions as a fine showcase for the compositions of Ennio Morricone. Since the filmed fable offers little in the way of drama or compelling characterization, however, it became a showcase that failed to attract much attention. Too bad - Morricone's music is out of this world.

The titular 1900, played by Tim Roth, was born on an ocean liner, left on top of a piano, and taken in by the crew. He grows up on that ship, develops into a piano virtuoso, and even defeats Jelly Roll Morton in a jazz duel there. But he never leaves, he never matures beyond manchild stage, and he becomes uninteresting after a while. When you protagonist is delivering his climactic monologue and your audience is thinking, "Oh, get on with it, already," you have a problem.

I'd have advised you to skip the movie and listen to the soundtrack, but a little digging has shown that the U.S. release is missing two of the most compelling pieces in the score: "Magic Waltz" (the cure for seasickness) and "Enduring Movement" (the number that defeated Jelly Roll Morton). Apparently, they're available in the Italian version, so I'll be sure to look for it the next time I'm in an Italian record store. Morricone's work here is just plain beautiful - unfortunately, I lack the music vocabulary to give you much more than that.

If only it had enjoyed a better showcase.

Joint Security Area

Chan Wook-Park's JOINT SECURITY AREA is a noble, and reasonably successful, attempt to grapple with issues of power, warfare, and common humanity. It doesn't say anything new or particularly startling about the human condition, but it does a fine job of capturing its time, place, and people. For a movie billed as an action thriller, this is a pleasant surprise.

Here's the setup: a Swiss major of Korean ancestry (and a Korean accent, but watcha gonna do?) reports for duty at the Joint Security Area, the zone in Panmunjong that's run by Switzerland and Sweden and serves as a meeting point and negotiating center for the Koreas. There's been a border skirmish that could get ugly, as the South accuses the North of having kidnapped one of its men and the North accuses the South of violating its territory. There's an injured South Korean sergeant who was either a victim or provocateur, there's a Northern sergeant who was either a victim or provocateur, and there's a guardpost full of dead communists. This being Korea, everyone's hewing to their respective party lines. What happened? Who was to blame? Can the major avert a war?

JOINT SECURITY AREA proceeds along the lines of an investigative thriller, building tension in anticipation of the inevitable skirmish as it meditates on the nature of nationalism, friendship, and human nature. We get to know both sergeants, we get to like them, and we come to mourn the requirements of patriotism and power. JSA puts us in that guardpost and it breaks our hearts. Not bad for an action thriller.

Sky High

I enjoyed the heck out of SKY HIGH.

SKY HIGH's hero is one Will Stronghold, a young man born of superhero parents whose power, it seems, is his ability to look just like an adolescent Scott Bakula. It's Will's first day of superhero high school, and he hasn't yet manifested powers cool enough to elevate him above "sidekick." That's the least of his problems, however. He has to make friends; find his way; handle a new enemy; and choose between the unbelievably hot Gwen, a sexually aggressive girl with super-techno powers, and Layla, the reasonably attractive childhood friend who's good with plants. Hmm, tough call: do you go with the knockout who builds cool gadgets and wants to jump your bones, or the proto-hippie who can, uhh, grow fruit? My answer: I went to the wrong high school.

One of SKY HIGH's pleasures is its cast. From a perfectly cast Kurt Russell as Pa Stronghold/The Commander to Kelly Preston, Cloris Leachman, Bruce Campbell, Kevin Heffernan, and Lynda Carter, this movie can afford to coast by on goodwill alone. It doesn't, whoever, boasting instead a clever script, excellent effects, and a pleasing, consistent palette.

Did I love SKY HIGH? No, I can't say that I did. The heavier stuff tends to exercise a firmer hold on my imagination. Did the movie make for an enjoyable family evening gathered around the enormovision? Absolutely. SKY HIGH is worth the rental.

Children of Men

Ahh, the Sixties. The dope was great, the people were groovy, the music had a conscience, and everything would have been all right, man, if only the fascist pigs hadn't screwed it all up. CHILDREN OF MEN, supposedly a science fiction movie, is the most backward-looking film I've seen in a long time.

In the world of the future, the conservatives won. They had their wars, they polluted their planet, and they blew it. Now, Mother Nature is exacting her revenge by wiping out the human race through the infertility of its women, and the only thing standing between us and human extinction is a sold-out ex-yippie; an idealistic hippie; and the personification of Earthly fecundity, a pregnant young African woman named, obviously enough, Kee. In the world of the present, the bores won.

What is it about the '60s countercultural movement that so captures the creative imagination of generations too young to remember it? Director Alfonso Cuarón was born in Mexico City in 1961, so he wasn't even around for the really good stuff. Nevertheless, the film's moral center (played by an always-engaging Michael Caine) is a guy for whom time stopped in 1969. He grows his weed, he listens to his Beatles records, and he cares for his invalid wife (crushed under the boot of The Man, of course) in an eco-friendly home that's safely tucked away from the horrors of the outside world. Here's the thing, however: if the movie's set in 2027 and the Caine character is 74 years old, that means that he has dedicated his life to a world that moved along when he was twenty years old. It's as if I decided to dedicate my life to the Reagan '80s and moved my family to a country house where I could revel in supply-side economics and Devo music 'til the end of my days. It's crazy. It doesn't make sense. In the world of CHILDREN OF MEN, it's about the best possible thing a man can do.

Anachronistic ideology aside, CHILDREN OF MEN is a decent chase thriller with the requisite twists and set pieces. Though it criminally misuses Chiwetel Ejiofor in the Sean Bean role and its denoument clunks like the shed chains of the Liberated, it does have some magnficent bits and it does move along. Now if we could just get a science fiction movie set in the future.

Faraway, So Close!

FAR AWAY, SO CLOSE!, the unnecessary sequel to the superlative WINGS OF DESIRE, has two special treats that make it worth the viewing: it tells us whatever happened to WINGS' Damiel and Marion, and it gives us Willem Dafoe as one of cinema's best demons. WINGS fans will be delighted to find Damiel and Marion happily married, very much in love, and the parents of an adored daughter who's developing gymnastics skills of her own. That's sweet, and I'm a sucker for sweet, but Dafoe's performance here is what really brings the goods home.

Here's the setup: Cassiel the Angel is feeling the angst. Growing tired of watching, he's ready to put his hand in the mix. When events conspire to push him into making an abrupt choice, he does the right thing and sheds his angelic nature so that he may walk among the humans. I was ready for a different take on assimilation into a foreign world, but the film's actually a little disappointing, here. Cassiel has an innocence that strikes me as ridiculous, and while his adventures culminate in an appropriate and satisfying way, I was much more interested in Dafoe's demon.

The character is never clearly identified as a demon, but he has the ability to shift between the angelic and the mundane world, which makes him neither angel nor human. I doubt that he's the Devil, though he could be, because I get the sense that Wenders' major theological antagonists are somehow more cosmic than the angels he's shown us thus far. That the character is Satanic in the Hebraic sense of the word, I have no doubt: he describes himself not as merciless, but as pitiless: a prosecutor who will pursue and aggravate every flaw; who will create temptations and then pass judgement when men succumb. And Dafoe, cinema's finest Christ, plays him just right. He's seductive, friendly, and mean. He's brutally harsh, engaged yet calculating, and he neither expects nor gives quarter.

That's why I don't understand the climax. Why does he do what he does, and what does that mean about his relationship with Cassiel and Raphaela (Cassiel's angelic friend)? And speaking of the climax, where did that minor villain come from?

I think the answers may be found on an editing room floor somewhere, but you know what? It doesn't really matter. In ten years, I'm not going to remember FAR AWAY, SO CLOSE!'s plot points. I am, however, going to remember that Dafoe performance. What an actor.

Rocky III

You know the difference between a good friend and a great friend? A good friend gives you all the ROCKY movies for your birthday; a great friend gives you all the ROCKY movies, minus ROCKY V, for your birthday.

ROCKY III has a great beginning: we start with the opening bars of the Bill Conti anthem, then segue into "Eye of the Tiger" for the opening montage that tells us what Rocky's been up to. "Eye of the Tiger" is perfect for dancing with a baby, and it's so catchy that my older boy has been making, "Dvvt. Dvvvvt dvvvvt dvvt." noises for the last three days. ROCKY III is slicker than the two previous entries in the franchise, and this works as a reflection of Rocky's new, slicker life. He's on the covers of magazines. He has a custom tailor and a nice house. He looks like a body builder and not a power lifter. He thinks he has it all together, but Mickey knows better: he's lost his hunger.

Enter Mister T as Clubber Lang, easily the best of Rocky's opponents. He's dedicated, he's tough, he's mean, and he gives the greatest pre-fight interview imaginable:
"What's your prediction for the fight?"
"My prediction?"
"Yes, your prediction."
(Looks into camera)
"Paaaaiiiiinnnnnn!"
Man, I had to rewind that twice.

The film takes us through a crisis of confidence, a training montage that is absolutely out of this world, and an extraordinarily well-choreographed final bout that's a masterpiece of choreography, cinematography, editing, and sound design. If real boxing was half as exciting as a ROCKY movie, I'd watch it all the time.

Murderball

MURDERBALL wants to have it both ways. It demands that we see its subjects as regular guys, not quadriplegics, but it has a problem: most of these guys are assholes. In trying to overcome this handicap, it goes with shameless heartstring-pulling, an emotional manipulation dependent on the fact that no, these guys aren't regular at all, but courageous quadriplegics. Which is it, gang?

It's a standard documentary formula, and it worked for RIZE: find a subculture, select some sympathetic members of that subculture, and show how the subculture has helped them overcome their handicaps. This subculture happens to be the one of elite wheelchair rugby, a bone-jarring, highly competitive full contact sport. Its sympathetic members include Mark Zurpan, a dominant player for Team USA, and Joe Soares, the coach of archrival Canada. They hate each other and I didn't much like either of them. They're both louts, though Soares does develop over the course of the film. Unfortunately, these principles, as well as other team members, refuse to discuss how their subculture has helped them: they're too busy pouring their hearts into it to leave much room for reflection.

So what we're left with, really, is a documentary about a couple of seasons in the life of a rugby team. That would be fine, but the filmmakers don't have enough faith in that story to run with it and really sell their point. Instead, they spend significant time with a recently injured quadriplegic man who for whom wheelchair rugby might be a reason to live. They end with the team's visit to Walter Reed Army Medical Center, where they introduce the sport to wounded soldiers just back from the war. These detours are emotionally engaging, but they focus our attention on these guys' handicaps, rather than their athleticism.

MURDERBALL wants to be a sports documentary. MURDERBALL wants to be a documentary about quadriplegics overcoming their handicaps. MURDERBALL doesn't have the courage to be either, or both. Given the material, MURDERBALL could have been great. Too bad its lack of courage stops it in its tracks.