Hellboy Animated: Blood and Iron

HELLBOY ANIMATED: BLOOD AND IRON just isn't as much fun as SWORD OF STORMS.

B&I puts the Hellboy gang in a haunted house that's just been purchased by a Richard Branson -esque character. Before you know it, they're in the middle of a vampire and ghost story that's too gory for the kids and too familiar for the adults. Tack on a third act that recreates and truncates the Hellboy-Hecate storyline from the comics, but doesn't feel organic to the vampire/ghost story, and you have a wholly unsatisfying experience.

Color me underwhelmed.

An Inconvenient Truth

If you like watching people preach to the converted, you'll love AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH. Al Gore, at his pedantic, self-satisfied best, delivers his well-honed global warming presentation to an audience that hangs on his every word. Gore's presentation combines data, images, and even a Matt Groening video in its efforts to convince -well, by the looks of things, people who need no convincing. He uses straw man arguments to dismiss "critics" (You can practically see the quotation marks he puts around the word.), he milks the current administration for easy laughs (not that that's hard to do), and he generally plays to his base.

This is fine, particularly if you're his base, but then the movie can't help but get us into Gore's personal life, or at least whichever aspects of his personal life he chooses to exploit for the purposes of the film. There are plenty of shots of Apple board member Gore working with determination at his Apple computer, looking pensively into his Apple computer, and just generally promoting the Apple brand. There's Gore sitting down with "cutting edge," as he describes them, (fully vetted) representatives of the PRC, home of some of the world's most polluted cities, talking about their solutions. There's Gore navigating the backstage labyrinth, causing me to hope, for just a moment, that he'd stop and ask someone for directions. Oh, it was horrible.

If I had to boil AN INCONVENIENT TRUTH down to just one word, that word would be "Insufferable." I went into this movie feeling neutral about Gore and generally sympathetic toward his cause. I came out of it actively disliking the man and neutral toward his cause. This film's success is a mystery to me.

Shortbus

SHORTBUS plants its flag in the first ten minutes. This is a movie about sexuality, discovery, and human relationships, and it takes the sexuality part of that equation very seriously. In the first ten minutes, we meet the film's main characters as they participate in various sex acts, and the film is pretty much as graphic as can be. These people aren't simulating their sex acts: SHORTBUS isn't pornography, but the only difference between these parts of the movie and pornography is attitude. If you're ok with that, and you're willing to go along for the ride, you're in for an excellent picture. If not, well, I understand.

Sometimes, I'll write that I respect a film more than I like it. This usually happens with pictures whose reach exceeds their grasp: I appreciate the reach, even if things didn't quite work out. SHORTBUS is a film that I both respect and like: it innovates, it tries new things, it seeks to push the boundaries of its art form, and it succeeds. Additionally, it succeeds in crafting a number of compelling, interweaving storylines that catch us up in the lives of its people and, perhaps, teach us a little about ourselves.

SHORTBUS sold me early on. In that first ten minutes, two of the people we view are in the throes of energetic, creative, loving sex. When compared with the emptiness that infuses the other vignettes, these people are doing all right. As they bask in the afterglow, the woman (Sook-Yin Lee) says, "I feel sorry for people who don't have what we have." The woman, a sex therapist, goes on to confide the problem of one of her clients: the woman has been faking her orgasms. "I told her to keep on doing it," the therapist goes on. "It's a valid method of buying time for the relationship." The man's (Raphael Baker) expression goes from one of contentment to intense insecurity. "Is she talking about herself?" he seems to be thinking. It was a deft touch, and extraordinarily well played, and it's when I knew that SHORTBUS wasn't going to be some exploitative artistic wankery. It was going to be a movie about real emotions and real relationships, and it was going to approach them from a mature viewpoint.

Plenty of movies explore relationships, and some do it well. What sets SHORTBUS apart is its approach to sexuality. This movie takes a real chance in depicting actual sex in the way that it does. It's one thing to cut to an exterior shot of the train entering a tunnel; it's quite another to stay in the railway car; warts, excretions, and all. By taking a chance on the audience's toleration of unusual movie experiences, the film gets to explore actual human sexuality in interesting, layered, and thought-provoking ways. As is the case with any excellent movie, all the elements of SHORTBUS work together to give the audience greater understanding of the characters and advance the narrative. It's a gimmick, I suppose, but no more a gimmick than using stuffed animals and cellophane to explore the subconscious.

This is one of those movies you can't watch on the Metro and you can't watch until the kids are deeply asleep. If you can make the time, and if you're willing to overcome the discomfort the film may make you feel, SHORTBUS is well worth the effort.

The World's Fastest Indian

In THE WORLD'S FASTEST INDIAN, Anthony Hopkins plays an eccentric Kiwi engineering genius. He lives in a shack and tinkers with his motorcycle, and he eventually decides to head to the U.S., where he plans to take his bike the Bonneville Salt Flats for the speed trials. Once in the U.S., he meets a variety of colorful and harmless characters, makes some friends, sets some records, and generally has a delightful time.

And that's the problem with THE WORLD'S FASTEST INDIAN: it's basically a movie about a nice fellow having a delightful time. There's no real conflict (at least nothing that can't be cleared up in no time), no real character development, no real anything. Now, I like Anthony Hopkins, but not enough to justify a whole movie without a compelling dramatic throughline.

What a disappointment.

The Science of Sleep

I respected THE SCIENCE OF SLEEP more than I liked it. Michel Gondry's film takes real chances, both narratively and visually, and it dares to deviate from formulas. Unfortunately, it does so in service to a story that I didn't find compelling.

I thought Gael Garcia Bernal's character was insane and potentially dangerous. Consequently, I did not root for him to get together with Charlotte Gainsbourg's Stephanie. Rather, I rooted for Stephanie to get as far away as she could as quickly as she could. Such is not the path to audience immersion in what is, of a sort, a love story.

Nevertheless, I respected Gondry's willingness to shift in and out of conscious experience almost at whim, and his faith in the audience's ability to follow along. I enjoyed the animation and the sensibilities of the fantasy world. I bought the performances and agree with Dash in his assertion that Bernal is developing into a "performer of admirable range."

Respecting a film isn't the same as liking it, however. You can't always have it all.

Donnie Darko: The Director's Cut

The worst thing about DONNIE DARKO is the plot. Unfortunately, plotting is what the director's cut is all about.

In its original form, DONNIE DARKO is so impenetrable that it inspires its audiences to think of it almost as a tone poem while they try to piece together the clues scattered throughout its narrative. This worked for me, as I drew more from the film's evocation of adolescence than I did its confusing storyline.

The director's cut, on the other hand, adds a few scenes and some intertitles that take this strange meditation on puberty and turns it into a rather humdrum science fiction piece about time travel. The intertitles have an added, unpleasant effect: by demonstrating that Donnie is not psychotic, they eliminate the sole source of the original version's dramatic tension.

Directors commonly moan when studio "suits" come in and demand changes to their vision. In this case, the suits were right.

The Call of Cthulhu

Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wagn'nagl fhtagn. --HP Lovecraft

A couple of years ago, the H.P. Lovecraft Historical Society scraped together $50,000 and set out to film THE CALL OF CTHULHU, an inherently unfilmable story and a central tale in Lovecraft's Cthulu mythos. The movie, made to look like a poorly preserved print of a 1920s silent picture, is wildly, wonderfully, weirdly successful. I loved, loved, loved THE CALL OF CTHULHU.

Here's the setup: a lunatic hands a bundle of papers to his psychiatrist, pleading with the doctor to burn these files on Cthulu. Why is this patient insane? What is Cthulu? Strap yourselves in for a great forty minutes of finding out, gang, because THE CALL OF CTHULHU is imaginative, audacious, and scary fun.

The movie overcomes its budgetary limitations by embracing them. Can't afford to fly the crew out to an island to shoot a key scene? Build a cardboard island that looks like something out of the THE CABINET OF DR. CALIGARI. Can't afford a CGI monster? Nothing's scarier than papier mache and stop-motion, if executed with confidence. Need a ship for your climax at sea? Hey, a cheap model and some painted sheets will do just fine - it is black and white, after all, and sometimes graininess can be an asset.

Speaking of graininess, the movie is created in something called mythoscope. It's a just-plain-great idea, and it makes the picture really look like something that's been sitting in a warehouse for 80 years. There are hairs in projection frame, spotting and strobing, and the kind of inconsistencies in print quality that are familiar to any silent film aficionado. The process gives the whole thing a wonderful sense of antiquity and lends immediacy to the proceedings onscreen.

$50,000, a warehouse, and audacity. Apparently, that's all it takes to make a terrific picture these days. Good for the folks at HPLHS!

The Innocents

THE INNOCENTS rises or falls on Deborah Kerr's performance. Her role requires earnestness, thoughtfulness, conviction, courage, and perhaps a touch of madness. If she can pull it off, the movie is a winner. Unfortunately, she can't.

Kerr harrumphs, goggles, and screams her way through the picture. She so distanced me from the action that my greatest fear was that she'd tire of chewing the scenery, chew her way through my screen, and go for my throat. The movie looks great; its children are perfect; it sounds wonderful; and it has a snappy script. If only they'd hired a better actress, they could've had a classic on their hands.

Wilde

WILDE is a well done movie, but it's painful to watch.

Have you ever had a friend who fell in love with the worst possible person in the world? Have you seen that friend's life spiral downward and downward, while all you can do is sit on the sidelines and lament? WILDE is like that. The movie follows Oscar Wilde from a time shortly before he realizes his homosexuality through the apogee of his fame and into his precipitous decline. It's a sad, desperate story, made all the more so because the Oscar Wilde we see here is so damn likeable, in spite of his neglect for his family and his poor choice in lovers.
. . .
A question: I have a co-worker who wrote her thesis on Oscar Wilde. Is this movie accurate enough for me to engage her in semi-informed manner on her area of interest?
. . .
Oscar Wilde note #1: Back when I was substitute teaching in a college English Department, I covered a freshman class whose assignment had been _The Importance of Being Earnest_. When I asked them what they thought of the play, I got all these answers about its commentary on the social and political issues of its day. My response: "Yeah ... but did you think it was funny?" The students were dumbfounded.

Oscar Wilde note #2: I read "The Selfish Giant," which is referenced in the film, to my boy a couple of months ago. When I finished, he asked me why I was crying. "It's just so beautiful," I replied. What a perfect little story.

Hellboy Animated: Sword of Storms

HELLBOY ANIMATED: SWORD OF STORMS is much better than I thought it would be. I only rented the thing out of loyalty to the characters, and I expected a cheap, direct-to-DVD knockoff. What a pleasant surprise to find an involving story, solid animation, excellent voice acting, and an all-around great experience.

If you're already a Hellboy fan, read no further and be assured that you'll enjoy a film that hews to the style of the comics. If you aren't familiar with the character, here's a bit of background. In the waning days of WWII, Hitler's occult advisor tries the last-ditch tactic of summonig a demon from Hell to aid in the fight. When American forces break through at the culmination of the ceremony, they find cutest li'l baby demon you ever did see. They name him Hellboy, raise him to be a good guy, and put him to work in the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense, or BPRD (Motto: Things really do go bump in the night. We're the ones who bump back.). Hellboy's a gruff manchild, still living in the equivalent of his parents' basement, and his solution to most problems involves significant amounts of blunt force trauma. He's a great character. He's nearly indestructible, so he can face the most horrific of creatures with little more than a deadpan, "Oh, crap." He carries his massive upper torso and Fist of Clobberin' around on spindly little goat legs and delicate hooves, making him simultaneously imposing and amusing. And he hangs out with a gill man and a firestarter. What's not to like?

In HASS, the BPRD sends Hellboy to Japan to investigate the theft of a legendary sword. Before he knows it, the demon gets sucked into the Japanese equivalent of Faerie, where he must undertake a quest that gives him and us, the audience, a tour through some of the scarier tales of Japanese folklore. As Hellboy uses the amazing power of blunt force trauma to survive in this world, his pals in the BPRD must deal with the real-world repercussions of his actions and figure a way to get him back.

It's a solid setup, and one that goes right for a variety of reasons. First, HASS, as do the comics, boasts a love for folklore and an ability to introduce the audience to new legends with a light and entertaining touch. Second, the animation style resembles Hellboy creator Mike Mignola's comics, creating a continuity with the printed page and inviting us into the greater world of the character. Third, the voice acting (largely by the cast of the not-as-good live action HELLBOY movie) sells the picture. Genre stalwart Ron Perlman voices Hellboy as I always imagined the character; Selma Blair does fine, if necessarily whiny, work as Liz the firestarter; and Doug Jones gives Abe Sapien, the gill man, a different and successful spin than did live-action voice actor David Hyde Pierce.

HASS is fun. It's funny, scary, and thoroughly entertaining, and it provides a wonderful introduction to the world of Japanese folklore. What more could you want?

Stranger Than Fiction

STRANGER THAN FICTION is like a cream puff. It looks like there's some food there, but once you sink your teeth in, you find little to chew on.

The movie begins promisingly. Will Ferrell begins his day to the charming narration of Emma Thompson's voice and with attractive computer graphics surrounding him and illustrating his mind and world. The hook comes early, as Ferrell hears the narrator's voice and, appropriately, freaks out.

The rest of the movie concerns Ferrell's growing realization that he's a character in a story and his reactions to that realization. STRANGER THAN FICTION handles the concept as well as did Neil Gaiman's 1602 and better than Stephen King's last "Gunslinger" novel, helping us believe in a world in which a character can both believe he is in a story and interact with his creator in a meaningful way. It's by turns comic and tragic, and it achieves a compelling sense of sadness and grace. STRANGER THAN FICTION captured my imagination and touched my heart. While watching it, I loved it.

But you know how some movies get better with time? This is not one of them. STRANGER THAN FICTION's resolution is unsatisfying and its lessons trite. Its love story feels unnatural and its people heightened to unreality. It just plain breaks down upon further analysis.

It's too bad, really. That was one delicious-looking cream puff.

Mad Monster Party

MAD MONSTER PARTY (1967) is a stop-motion picture picture with a vaudevillian's philosophy: if you don't like the current joke, don't worry - there's another coming right on its heels.

Here's the setup: Dr. Frankenstein is having all the best monsters (Dracula, the Wolf Man, Phyllis Diller) over to the castle for a bash. Like any good party, this one is a hotbed of machiavellian maneuvering, cynical doublecrossing, and animated-skeleton rock bands ripping off the Beatles.

It's cute, it's inventive, & my kid loves it as much as I did when I was five. What more could you ask for?

Crank

Last fall, I was faced with a dilemma. I had one night at an airbase in Rota, Spain, and CRANK was showing at the base theater. I generally like Jason Statham movies, and I wanted to see this one. I’d been to Rota many times before and felt that the city had little new to offer. Nevertheless, it was Spain and I did know that CRANK would show up on Netflix after a while. Ultimately, I chose to go out. Even if Rota was a familiar city, after all, it was Spain.

I chose well, for, as it turns out, I am not CRANK’s target demographic. In fact, this film was made with such laserlike focus that anyone who is not a male between the ages of fifteen and seventeen is not CRANK’s target demographic. CRANK is pure adolescent male fantasy with a Nietszchian disregard for anything like the bounds of societal restraint. In the world of CRANK, every car goes fast, every gun makes a big loud bang, every normal person is either a target or an obstacle, and every woman is merely a vagina transportation system. This movie scorns everyone and everything, except for men with power, and it gets tiresome quite quickly.

I have no problem with Crank’s premise: a hit man has been injected with a compound that will kill him if his heartbeat gets too low, so he needs to keep the adrenalin flowing just to stay alive – now he’s got to keep his heart racing long enough to exact revenge. It’s a great idea, and Jason Statham is a great choice for such a role in such a movie. It’s the execution that bothers me: the fight choreography is pedestrian and the editing indecipherable; the only noninterchangeable female character is an insufferable idiot whose only redeeming trait is her nonstop sexual availability; and the postproduction work is so intrusive that not only did it keep reminding me that I was watching a movie, it kept reminding me that I was watching a bad movie.

If CRANK had trusted its premise, had trusted its star, had trusted in the moviegoer’s recognition that women are, in fact, human beings, it could have been a fun action picture. But then, what do I know? I’m not a male between fifteen and seventeen. I am so glad I went out in Rota.

The Lives of Others

THE LIVES OF OTHERS is a drab, claustrophobic, paranoiac movie. It's the kind of movie in which hope seems like a luxury and humanity is something to be hidden. In other words, THE LIVES OF OTHERS is East German to the core.

Here's the setup: a coldhearted Stasi officer volunteers to conduct surveillance on an East Berlin playwright whom he loathes at first sight. The playwright seems too smug, too politically connected, too comfortable in the arms of his beautiful paramour - there must be something wrong with the man, and the officer is certain he will find it. In fact, the officer finds much more than he bargained for, and the result is both heartening and devastating.

THE LIVES OF OTHERS is not a beautiful film. It looks cold, as if the whole thing were shot under bad flourescent lights. Its people do not have the benefit of postproduction digital airbrushing - they appear before us, stretchmarks and all, pale and sometimes very scared. Its food looks horrid; its homes, hotels, and bars dreary; and its parties tinged with desperation. In fact, it looks like the East Germany I imagined from childhood stories of relatives who smuggled foodstuffs and coffee through to unfortunate friends who found themselves on the wrong side of a line drawn at Potsdam. Not only does the movie recall the physical expressions of the East German experience, it recalls the psychological ones, as well. No matter how large one's country is, it's too small if one may not leave. And how does one live if even the unthinking remarks of one's own child can result in a knock on the door? In these aspects, THE LIVES OF OTHERS is unrelenting and more than a bit depressing.

But that unrelenting gaze and that depression earns the payoff of the film, when the smallest twitch of a facial muscle means the difference between despair and redemption. Like weeds pushing through pavement, humanity kept finding ways in East Germany, and it finds ways here, too. Those ways sometimes backfire, and they often end in tears: this, too, is East German. But they're there, and they make 137 minutes spent watching the lives of others well worthwhile.

The Illusionist

Movies like THE ILLUSIONIST are why I keep watching movies. This is a beautiful film, lit in shades of gold, that sometimes even recalls the kinetescopes of times past. It tells a fundamentally wonderful (as in, "full of wonder") and romantic story, and it sets that story in an inviting Austria that fires the imagination.

Here's the setup: a lowborn boy in imperial Austria-Hungary meets a young duchess from whom he is separated by class. Since Hollywood Law dictates that childhood attraction = one true love, the boy sets out to seek his fortune and, upon his return to Vienna as a celebrated illusionist, perhaps find a way to see his dear duchess again.

Edward Norton plays the titular illusionist with just the right mix of mystery and cleverness. Even when his character is doing foolish things, we in the audience think, "How can a guy that smart be that dumb?" There's something about his character that interests us, engages us, and makes us care about his journey. More engagingly, there's something about his character that makes us believe in his profound love for Jessica Biel's Duchess Sophie. Prior to seeing THE ILLUSIONIST, I'd never found Biel remotely interesting. Here, however, I saw her as a woman for whom a man could go to the ends of the Earth -if that's not illusion, I don't know what is.

Paul Giamatti gives an excellent performance as Chief Inspector Uhl, the audience surrogate and, as in an illusionist's trick (done for money ... or candy), the hinge on which the story turns. While all the actors do fine work at assaying just the hint of a German accent, I particularly appreciated Giamatti's fine work with the slightly hard "H"es and guttural "R"s of his speech.

Rufus Sewell, as the villainous Crown Prince Leopold, gives another solid performance in villainy. Further, he imbues his role with enough subtlety to invite reconsideration as the credits roll. Having said that, I'm rather tired of seeing Sewell play the villain. He was a terrific hero in DARK CITY - why doesn't someone let him be the good guy again?

THE ILLUSIONIST has more going for it than just its performances. Philip Glass's score reflects and magnifies the actions and emotions on screen, and the practical elements of the production (sets, backgrounds, and costumes) create an immersive and attractive environment. I particularly enjoyed Norton's workshop - how I'd love to spend a weekend in there!

Perhaps the thing I loved most about this film was its sense of wonder and hope. I loved that it showed us how some illusions worked without divulging the secrets of others. I loved its portrayel of Interregnum Vienna. I loved that it made me believe in and respect its people. I just plain loved it. Movies like this are worth plowing through the dross.

Idiocracy

IDIOCRACY is a one-joke movie. It's a pretty good joke, and I know this because watched IDIOCRACY in three parts, as dictated by the events of my day. Each time I started (or returned to) the movie, I laughed out loud the first two or three times I got the joke. Then, however, I settled in and hummed along, reasonably amused and a little uncomfortable, until the next interruption (or the end of the film). When you tell the same joke over and over, that's about the most you can hope for.

Here's the joke: the main characters are surrounded by stupefyingly idiotic people. That makes for funny situations at first, but eventually we viewers come to accept the stupidity and move on. If humor lies in the gap between observation and apprehension, IDIOCRACY makes the gap so small that there's no room for a belly laugh.

Here's the setup: Owen Wilson and Maya Rudolph, two extraordinarily average people, are sent into the far future. Once there, they discover that Will Durant was right - the future does belong to the fertile. America's smartest people have underreproduced, while the dullards have multiplied like - well, in creator Mike Judge's estimate - dullards. People of the future are so dumb, so boorish, so easily led, that they dismiss as "faggy" any speech that makes even the most remote sense. They water their crops with sports drinks because they've been told that plants need electrolytes, then wonder why nothing will grow when it's routinely doused with sugar and salted water. They're so dumb that IDIOCRACY has no internal logic because the systems needed to keep this civilization limping along could not have been designed or maintained by this civilization's own members, nor could this civilization have protected itself from smarter, hungrier, more aggressive civilizations. But we're not supposed to pay attention to any of that. We're supposed to laugh down our noses at the inflated stereotypes that Judge trots out before us, even as we meditate on the decline of our own civilization. And we do laugh, at least at first, but then the joke gets old.

While viewing IDIOCRACY, I felt a growing unease. I'm wrapped pretty tightly in the cocoon of my particular class - so much so that I have very little contact with the class that Judge sees taking over world. Is it possible that people who could be the seeds of IDIOCRACY's comic exaggerations actually exist in any significant numbers? Is America really a "Divorce Court" and "Jerry Springer" kind of place? While watching the film, I couldn't decide whether Judge cruelly misrepresents lower-middle America or I am out of touch.

Regardless, I could decide this: IDIOCRACY can be a pretty funny movie, depending on how you watch it. I recommend short, controlled bursts.

Chungking Express

You know those movies in which everyone in town seems to connect with everyone else? The kind which depict a city as a fabric, with everyone's stories woven together? CHUNGKING EXPRESS (1994) is not one of those movies. CHUNGKING EXPRESS is a movie about disconnectedness, about the isolation we can feel in the unlikeliest of places.

The movie doesn't have a unified narrative, and it isn't all tied together with freak meteorological events. Think of it, instead, as variations on a theme of loneliness. In the first variation, RETURNER's Takeshi Kaneshiro plays Number 223, a not-particularly-effective Hong Kong police officer. He's working through a difficult breakup, and the woman ( Brigitte Lin) he needs may be the worst possible woman for him. In the second, Tony Leung plays Number 633, another officer in similar circumstances. He meets Faye Wong, and I suspect that she's trouble in her own way.

The details of their stories aren't particularly important. What is important is the ways in which they try to order their lives, and how, even though they're sometimes only .01 centimeters apart, they may never connect. I suspect that, somewhere in China, there lives the girl who broke Wong Kar Wai's heart. We need to thank her, because his variations on a theme of loneliness are a beautiful thing, finding connections deeper than those any freak storm can create.

Speedy

Harold Lloyd's last silent picture, 1928's SPEEDY, is an enjoyable romp through a New York City that we'll never see again. From Penn Station to Yankee Stadium to Times Square to Coney Island, SPEEDY crafts an adventure both fascinating and funny.

In SPEEDY, Lloyd's a well-meaning chap who can't seem to hold a job for very long. That's ok, because he's a resourceful sort and he can be counted on to come through when the chips are down. The first half of the film has him bouncing from job to job but, once he finds himself in the second half, he enlists all his powers and all his friends in service to rescuing his father's business.

SPEEDY works because Lloyd is such an agreeable fellow, and because he makes full use of New York City in the film. It's practically a travelogue for another time, and it even features a brief role for the Babe himself, Babe Ruth as a man who absolutely has to get to Yankee Stadium on time.

SPEEDY didn't make me fall off the couch, but I found it funny, warm, and good use of time. Enjoy.

Solaris

A real exchange that occurred while viewing SOLARIS:

My Wife: "This is like a really long episode of Battlestar Galactica."
Me: "But dull."

I've decided that George Clooney is a major talent whose career is worth following. Consequently, I've been seeing some of his films that didn't particularly appeal to me, and SOLARIS numbers among them.

Here's the setup: Clooney is a grieving widow who is called to visit a space station and investigate the strange goings on there. The strangest thing about this station, I think, is that it's lit almost entirely in blue. Other than that, there's some stuff about alien dopplegangers who may be the personification of that which we love the most. Then again, they may not.

Frankly, I didn't care. SOLARIS is so portentious, so plodding, so, well, dull that I was just waiting for it to end.

Sure, Clooney is a major talent. But maybe that doesn't mean I have to see *all* of his movies.

The Kid from Left Field

1953's THE KID FROM LEFT FIELD is a sweet picture with a tough heart, a family drama that actually has something for everyone in the family, and an opportunity to see some familiar faces in a forgotten picture.

THE KID FROM LEFT FIELD plays out the old boyhood dream: a boy gets to put on a Major League uniform and play with the men. Unlike ROOKIE OF THE YEAR or ANGELS IN THE OUTFIELD, however, this kid doesn't realize the dream through medical oddity or divine intervention. He realizes it because he has brains, moxie, and a father who loves him. See, here's the deal: the Bisons suck. They can't hit, they can't field, and they're poorly managed, unlike the more interesting sandlot team that plays across the street. Said team, managed by young Christie Cooper (Billie Chapin), plays like a team and has the benefit of a tough but fair manager who knows what he's doing. Said manager's father, who's a peanut vendor in the big leage park across the way, once played ball himself and knows the game better than anyone in the Bisons organization. Only he's washed up, see, and nobody's going to follow the peanut vendor.

Through luck and a cross-generational meet-cute with 23-yr-old Anne Bancroft, Christie gets a chance to meet the Bisons' owner. Here's where the brains and moxie part comes in, as he talks his way into a job as the team's bat boy. Before you know it, Christie is receiving his father's baseball wisdom, mixing it with his own, and supplanting the team's worthless manager. Along the way, he tries to resurrect the lagging careers of Lloyd Bridges and newcomer Fess Parker (with mixed results), tries to cupid for Bancroft and Bridges (with mixed results), and turn his team around. It's a dream come true!

It's not all pennants and cheers, however. The father, "Pop" Cooper (Dan Dailey) has serious confidence issues, and maybe even a mild drinking problem. There's a real sense of desperation to the guy, like he's just this far from poverty and he's doing everything he can to keep his son and himself afloat. Bridges knows his legs are going and his time is running out, and he has some hard decisions to make. The kid, well, he's just a kid. How long can he actually hold up under the pressure of managing a Major League ballclub? I was particularly impressed by this aspect of the movie. When these storylines resolve themselves, those resolutions feel earned. I felt like I hadn't just watched these people go through the motions of an entertaining family picture - I felt like I'd been on a journey with them.

Regarding the performances, Bancroft and Bridges are utterly charming (and incredibly snappy dressers, to boot), Parker turns in some fine comic relief by playing it close, and Cooper and Dailey convincingly play a father and son who, rain or shine, are committed to making a go of things.

This may well be the best movie I hadn't heard of in quite some time.