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.

The Polar Express

The ads and trailers for THE POLAR EXPRESS did not capture my imagination. In fact, they looked a little creepy, and I was all too happy to wave off. My loss.

THE POLAR EXPRESS is an excellent movie. It's visually stunning, with the kind of roller-coaster events that heighten its sense of adventure, and its audio presentation is absolutely top-notch, with a number of scenes that put the viewer right in the middle of things. Further, the movie has something that's rare in children's shows: a palpable sense of danger, that things could go very, very wrong. This is important, because it's all to common for movies to trumpet the importance of courage without presenting their children with any real dangers.

THE POLAR EXPRESS does have a downside, however. I was quite happy with my DLP enormovision right up until I saw the movie on a relative's Sony DLP/LCD hybrid TV. Calibration disk, here I come!

Rififi

Tony le Stephanois (Jean Servais) has problems. He's old, he's tired, his girl left him while he was in prison, and he sucks at poker. When his protege suggests a smash-n-grab at a local jewelry store as an easy way to make a few bucks, things seem as bad as they can be. He's a serious jewel thief, for pete's sake! Is he going to allow himself to be reduced to smalltime crook? Oubliez lui! le Stephanois has a better idea. Rather than waste his time on a smash-n-grab, he plans a serious heist of the most secure jeweler in town. Thus, we're all set up for one of the best heist pictures ever.

RIFIFI is the grandfather of the heist genre, a wonderful high noir look at the criminal world and its denizens. There's been plenty written on it, and there are folks right here on this list who are well qualified to discuss its historic significance. I'll leave that aside and say that RIFIFI is a just plain terrific movie. Servais has a face that looks like it's been lived in, and he does a fine job of keeping us engaged in a character that is, almost any way we look at it, a very bad man. The supporting cast is equally wonderful, taking now-stock characters like "top safecracker" and imbuing them with life and individuality. The heist itself, a sequence around thirty minutes long, takes place without a word of dialogue or a note of scoring support and reminds us just how effective silence can be. This is edge-of-your-seat stuff, very well executed, and a flat-out great time at the movies. I'm glad I rented it.

A Scanner Darkly

I didn't read the book, and I'm not much of a Keanu fan, but I rented A SCANNER DARKLY because I respect Linklater and I wanted to see rotoscoping in action.

I now have no desire to read the book, I'm still still not much of a Keanu fan, and I think rotoscoping is pretty cool. So, there's that.

See, here's the problem: A SCANNER DARKLY tells the story of a bunch of people I don't care about, living in conditions I don't care to visit even in my imagination, behaving with varying degrees of despicability. The rotoscoping process makes the proceedings more interesting and gives Linklater the ability to create characters and make visuals pop in a way live action can't, but I couldn't get around the fact that I didn't want to be around these people.

I still do respect Linklater, however. He's doing difficult, innovative things with his medium. Clearly, these characters and situations spoke to him in some way. Had they done the same for me, I might have enjoyed the ride.

The Taking of Pelham One Two Three

Some bad guys have hijacked a New York City subway train, but there's one thing they don't count on - there's an undercover member of the NYPD on board.

Then again, this is the mid '70s, so maybe that's not much of a problem.

Here's the other thing they don't count on - schlubby, reliable Walter Matthau, the Transit Police Detective who happens to be on shift in the control room that day. That is a problem, because Matthau, in his low key way, keeps his head while those about him are losing theirs.

So begins THE TAKING OF PELHAM ONE TWO THREE, a thriller that appears to be mostly about people sitting around and talking. It's really about the fog of war, that gap between reality and knowledge, in which everyone must work in a crisis. The criminals, led by the imposing Robert Shaw, seek to exploit the fog, even to induce some, as part of their plan to make a great deal of money in a short amount of time. The authorities, led by Matthau in a striking example of situational
leadership and authority (He isn't the highest ranking guy involved in the situation, but he's the guy everyone defers to because he's the most capable.), spend most of their time playing catch up and trying to coordinate their response. It's great stuff.

The film's takes a workmanlike approach to casting both cops and criminals. On the side of the good guys we have Matthau, Jerry Stiller, and Dick O'Neill; on the bad, the aforementionted Shaw, Hector Elizondo, Martin Balsam. These are reliable, decidedly un-flashy actors know how to deliver. In that respect, they're like their one-liner-free-characters: they're more worried about getting the job done than looking pretty doing it. The approach, which is mirrored in TAKING's overall look and feel, works because we feel we're watching real people doing things that could happen in the real world. In a movie about the fog of war, that realism makes all the difference in selling the picture.

Joe Sargent, who recently made the wonderful SOMETHING THE LORD MADE for HBO, directs the hell out of this movie, which is tightly paced, well crafted, and pretty much seamless. THE TAKING OF PELHAM ONE TWO THREE is a winner.

The Taming of the Shrew

Liz. Dick. A young Michael York. What's not to like?

Quite a lot, actually. While the Zeffirelli TAMING OF THE SHREW looks great with its stunning sets and costumes even Joan Crawford would envy, this movie fails to take flight. I posit two reasons. First, I just couldn't buy Richard Burton's Petruchio. Burton plays Petruchio as a man long on bravado, but I never got the sense that he knew what he was doing or that he possessed the resolution and cruelty that the role requires. Perhaps it was the actor's decision to grin like a monkey throughout the production; it's hard to say. Second, the film takes too much time with its setup and not enough with the actual taming. When the last act shows us the depth of Katherine's retraining, we don't buy it because we didn't get enough of a sense of her sufferings.

I wanted to like THE TAMING OF THE SHREW. I really did. Unfortunately, Zeffirelli's is one of the less satisfying of play's incarnations that I've seen.

Once Upon a Time in the West

If you happened to be riding the Red Line this morning, you may have noticed a guy in a suit gazing into his laptop with a big, goofy grin spread across his face. The guy was me, and the goofy grin was in response to the final showdown in Sergio Leone's fabulously entertaining ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST. This is a western that loves westerns, and that love is no more evident than in this faceoff. The adversaries are perfect: the villain tall, thin, dressed in black, and evil as can be; the hero short, burly, dressed in tattered and sun-bleached clothes, utterly implacable. They're both at the top of their game, and their grudging respect for one another shows in their complete and total focus. Ennio Morricone's music swells, the camera moves, and if you aren't completely carried away in the joy of film, well then, you just plain don't like movies.

The movie starts slowly, letting tension build as a gang of toughs, led by the formidable Jack Elam, takes over a remote rail outpost and awaits a coming train. Who or what is on that train, and what will it mean? When you see, and when you see what happens next, you're going to know whether or not you're in for the rest of ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST, because if it doesn't hook you, nothing will.

This may be the most lavish of the spaghetti westerns, as Leone had Paramount's backing for the production. He used some of his money to hire first-class actors such as Henry Fonda, Charles Bronson, Claudia Cardinale, Gabriele Ferzetti, and Jason Robards. Fonda plays one of the most evil men I've ever seen on screen, and he is uttely delightful. Bronson thoroughly redeems his work in this (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CV3gA7hNItY&eurl=), and he gives Clint Eastwood a serious run for his money in the Man With No Name sweepstakes. Claudia Cardinale is beautiful, strong, vulnerable, and makes us believe in her journey from "tough but lost" to "budding grande dame." Ferzetti, a familiar face to fans of Italian media, mixes craft, cunning, and weakness into a dangerous combination; and watching him think, struggle, and think some more is a joy. Finally, there's Robards like I've never seen him before: dangerous, charismatic, noble, and fun - and he gets the best theme music.

ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST's most attractive feature, isn't its stars, however. It's its own swooning, ecstatic love for film in general and westerns in particular. This movie embraces every noble archetype, every heaving bosom, every bleak panorama, every plywood town, and every deadly bullet with a delirious joy that can't help but capture our imaginations. I loved, loved, loved this movie. It may well be the best picture I've seen so far this year.

Land of the Dead

In LAND OF THE DEAD, the zombies have won. A city full of remaining humans have walled themselves in to Pittsburgh, and they've established a brutally Darwinist social system, with Dennis Hopper at the apex.

So, the first thing LAND OF THE DEAD has going for it is Dennis Hopper at the apex of a social system. And really, it just gets better from there. The viewer could start wondering about how that's possible, but this is one movie that asks you to not ask too many questions. Once you start down that road, it isn't long before you're thinking, "How do they generate electricity?" and "What, exactly, is the foundation of their economy?" I think you're better off enjoying the jump-scares, wierding out on Leguizamo's unmistakeably ICE AGE Sloth -like vocal inflections, and admiring the creative and professional effects and makeup work.

LAND OF THE DEAD is big, audacious, splattery fun, with a helping of social commentary on the side. I enjoyed it so much, I give it four nnnnnnnnggggggghhhhhhhhssssssss out of five.

Amores Perros

I watch movies in roughly 30-minute swaths while riding public transportation. This generally works pretty well, as most movies are roughly 90 minutes long and hew to a 3-act structure. It’s like reading chapters of a book. AMORES PERROS is 150 minutes long, with three separate and intersecting stories, and it is simply not conducive to serialized viewing. It needs to be consumed in one large gulp of time, which allows it to cast a cohesive spell.

Of its three tales, the film’s first one had the greatest effect on me. It’s about a young man who’s in love with his abusive brother’s wife and hits upon a scheme to earn some quick dough and run away with her. Things go poorly.

In the second, a man leaves his family for a new love. Things go poorly, no thanks to the young man in tale #1.

The third story follows a homicidal vagrant whom we meet early in story #1. He left his family to become a revolutionary, but (say it with me now) things go poorly.

All three stories give us people swimming against the tides of their love, and wreaking varying degrees of havoc along the way. They’re beautifully done, and I think this movie could have carried me away. If only I had seen it under different circumstances.

Callas Forever

I'm not an opera guy. Yeah, I bought a few CDs in college, when I was trying to convince my (very musical) girlfriend that I was cultured (Hey, it worked: she married me.), but I've never been to a live performance. I knew that Maria Callas existed, but I'd never heard her sing: she was just another (of many) undiscovered countries. In other words, I came in to CALLAS FOREVER with a clean slate.

CALLAS FOREVER begins with Jeremy Irons handling the press at DeGaulle Airport. Now, I've seen creepy Irons, scary Irons, pathetic Irons, even silly Irons ("Throw me the rod," indeed.), but this is the first time I've seen supercool Irons. Stylishly dressed, with a pony tail that actually doesn't look silly, Irons is a music promoter who has it all together. He's worked with Hendrix, the Stones, and Callas herself, and he's in town to promote his current act, a punk bad named Bad Dream. This guy has it all together, from the way he handles a crowd to the way he prepares for a concert to the way he flirts with pretty much every attractive young man in sight. As the movie gathered steam, even adding the always reliable Joan Plowright to the mix, I kicked back and got ready to simply enjoy the man's performance.

Then Fanny Ardent enters the picture. At first, she's not much. She's a lost Callas, a ghost of her former self with a broken voice and a broken will. She's a recluse, confining herself to her (fabulous) Paris apartment and weeping over lost days. It takes Irons and Plowright to rouse her to life once again, involving her in a filmed production of Carmen with a challenging ethical twist that I'll leave for you to discover. Callas comes alive, and when we see her performing she is sizzling sex on a silver platter. It's magical to see her character transform before our eyes, to become fully alive after years of wandering in the wilderness. The sumptuous production numbers, and even Irons' extraordinary performance, almost fade into the background. This movie is all about Ardent, and the woman works magic.

Wow, did I enjoy this movie. I have got to go to the opera.

Fever Pitch

There's a scene early in FEVER PITCH in which Drew Barrymore tells the shaggy-haired guy (SHG) that someone in her office is going to get promoted (Plot Point!!). SHG does a bit in which he cracks wise about backstabbing while making whiny squeaking noises and pantomiming the stabbing motion. It's supposed to be cute, and it's supposed to endear us to his character. DB & I both reacted with, "What a loser."

FEVER PITCH is a reasonably cute romantic comedy that doesn't hold a candle to earlier Farrely Brothers efforts such as SOMETHING ABOUT MARY and STUCK ON YOU. It's drawn from a Nick Hornby novel that doesn't translate as well as ABOUT A BOY or HIGH FIDELITY and, if I had to put my finger on why, I have to say that it's the shaggy-haired guy's fault. Like Bruckner letting a ground ball slip by him, SHG is simply unable to make the plays when they matter. Poor Barrymore's acting her heart out against this guy, but he just can't pull off "endearing man-child." If ever there was a movie that demanded the presence of Adam Sandler, this is it.

Rooster Cogburn

From Wikipedia:

In the early morning of August 21, Quantrill attacked Lawrence (Kansas) with a force of 450 raiders. Though Senator Lane, a prime target of the raid, managed to escape through a cornfield in his nightshirt, Quantrill's Raiders killed between 140 and 190 men, dragging many from their homes to kill them before their families. When Quantrill rode out at 9 a.m., most of Lawrence's buildings had been burned, including all but two businesses; his raiders looted indiscriminately and also robbed the town's bank. The raid would become notorious in the North as one of the most vicious atrocities of the Civil War.

GOODNIGHT: Marshal, is your eye bothering you? I could sooth it with a poultice.

COGBURN: No, thanks, Ma'am. It's past help.

GOODNIGHT: Was it a hunting accident, Marshal?

COGBURN: You might say that. Huntin' Yankees. I lost it in the war, riding with Bill Anderson and Captain Quantrill. Times have sure changed. Now I'm workin' for a damned Yankee.

GOODNIGHT: But you're still hunting, sir.

COGBURN: I guess I like Marshalin' better'n anything I've done since the war. I like buffalo huntin', but them big shaggies is almost gone. Damn shame. I was skinnin' buffalo at Yellow Horse Creek, Texas. Pay was great, but I couldn't stand that open country.
==========

There's plenty to like about ROOSTER COGBURN: John Wayne & Katherine Hepburn are as solid as one would expect those two professionals to be, some of the jokes really snap, and the story is a comfortably predictable quest tale that makes for a pleasant evening of viewing. Unfortunately, however, the movie can't overcome the awfulness of its titular character.

It's been said that the worst kind of evildoer is the man who doesn't know that he's doing evil. Cogburn is still proud of having ridden with Quantrill, one of the most vicious murderers of the Civil War, and his only qualm about partaking in the great buffalo slaughter was that he ran out of buffalos. He's a self-satisfied S.O.B. who wouldn't know introspection if it invaded his village, burned half of it down, and slaughtered its inhabitants in their nightclothes because they opposed slavery. I get that he's supposed to be an endearingly cantankerous old man, but that only goes for audiences who don't know their Civil War or Western history. Before this revelation, the movie had had me rocking along pleasantly enough; after, I had to make a conscious effort to remain engaged.

This particular DVD presentation of ROOSTER COGBURN makes remaining engaged even harder because it looks terrible - it's like an old VHS copy of a bad print, with out-of-focus shots, poor color correction, graininess, and plenty of flecks and scratches. Clearly, Universal didn't care enough about the movie to provide it with a good transfer, and the results detract from the overall experience.

I've been in a John Wayne mood lately, but ROOSTER COGBURN, didn't quite do it for me. I think I'll try my luck with EL DORADO.

Flags of our Fathers

FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS like a cocoon that's trapping a beautiful butterfly. Wrapped around a gripping war drama with memorable characters, compelling situations, and great photography are layers of emotionally overwrought coming home and reminiscence stories. If we could just do away with that chrysalis, we'd have something to behold.

OK, that gambit failed. Here's another go: FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS is brilliant when it's on Iwo Jima. It's tedious the rest of the time.

After reading its lukewarm reviews, I hesitated to watch this movie. Nevertheless, I have a reasonable expectation of going to Iwo Jima later this year, I wanted to get some background, and this seemed like a good path to it. FLAGS OF OUR FATHERS certainly filled that purpose. Though Clint Eastwood filmed the movie on the beaches of Iceland, he manages to convey the landing and subsequent campaign in the kind of visceral way only good filmmakers can. Problem is, the movie seems only tangentially about Iwo Jima - it's about the three survivors of the flag raising and their subsequent war bond tour, and their song of readjustment and survivor guilt was better sung through the stories of THE BEST YEARS OF OUR LIVES.

On Iwo, FLAGS gives us a stellar cast featuring favorites such as Barrie Pepper, Robert Patrick, Paul Walker, and Neal McDonough battling their way off the beach. When the action moves to the home front, however, it saddles us with Adam Beach, Jesse Bradford, and Ryan Phillippe as the three survivors. Theirs is a worthy tale, but it just isn't cinematic. How many times do we have to hear the Indian guy suffer through lousy Indian jokes before we can throw our hands up and say, "We get it"?

I appreciate the fact that Eastwood wasn't interested in making just another war movie. But I wish he would have.

Changing Lanes

Oh, how I hated CHANGING LANES.

CHANGING LANES is a morality tale about how small choices can add up to big choices and about the consequences of breaking the social compact. Consequently, it operated at a profound disadvantage: Morality tales are hard to do. The best morality tales handle their themes obliquely, trusting their audiences to divine their themes and understanding that "a-ha" moments reinforce those themes far better than any speech can, but CHANGING LANES doesn't have that kind of faith in itself or its viewers. The film has all the subtlety of a water skiing squirrel - what you see is precisely what you get.

Here's the setup: Ben Affleck is a successful lawyer. Samuel L. Jackson is a loser trying to get his life back together. They have a fender-bender, and Affleck writes Jackson a blank check and speeds off, leaving an important document behind. This makes Jackson late for a court appointment, and he exacts his revenge by later withholding the document. Affleck reacts, Jackson reacts, Affleck reacts some more, etc., and before we know it we're watching a double helix downward spiral.

Now, if you like watching downward spirals, you might enjoy this movie. If, however, watching one man have everything that matters stripped from him while the other kinda regrets his actions is your idea of a good time, knock yourself out. Personally, I found this movie so depressing, so painful to watch, that it left me wondering why anyone would create such a horrible experience, then actually put it out there for the world to see.

I only finished this movie because I was watching it with a valued friend who loves it. It's easily the most miserable time I've had this month.

Stray Dog

Toshiro Mifune was only two years into his film career when he starred in STRAY DOG.  He was still a rookie, like his character.  Like his character, he brought a total dedication and willingness to risk to his role.  And like his character, he earned the friendship and respect of his elders.
 
In the film, Mifune plays a rookie Homicide detective who's pickpocketed on a crowded train.  The detective, exhausted after an all-night stakeout in sweltering heat, is horrified to discover that someone has stolen his pistol.  Bravely, he does the right thing and immediately troops back into headquarters to report the theft, take his lumps, and get to work on recovering the weapon.  The detective, a recently discharged soldier, feels profoundly dishonored by the loss and personally responsible for the disposition of the sidearm and its bullets, and his guilt and motivation contrast with the world-weariness of both his lieutenant and the dogged veteran assigned to the case.
 
The  brilliant Takashi Shimura plays the veteran / father figure, and his resigned competence both make us hope for the future of the younger man and magnify our identification with him: now he must not only find the weapon to redeem his own honor, he must prove himself worthy in the eyes of men who have given him the benefit of the doubt.  This is a great approach to the material, as it creates a narrative drive that stems not from external forces such as criminals taking hostages or shouting captains, but the young detective's own need for redemption and honor.
 
Technically, the film is absolutely outstanding.  Akira Kurosawa, aided by 1st Assistant Director Ishiro Honda (GOJIRA) and composer Fumio Hayasaka, create a heat-stricken Tokyo that lives and breathes. But it's Mifune's show, and it's easy to see why Kurosawa saw his muse in this man. Far from the commanding lead of SEVEN SAMURAI and THRONE OF BLOOD, this Mifune is both insecure and bold, learning his craft and discovering the building blocks of wisdom. He's young; he's green; but we see his potential and we see what Kurosawa saw in him.

Y'know, I liked STRAY DOG as I viewed it, but I'm growing to love the film as I write this. It's just plain terrific and it's the kind of movie that makes me happy I haven't yet seen all of Kurosawa's ouvre. Thank goodness, there's still more to discover.

Millions

I enjoyed MILLIONS well enough, but the movie just didn't capture my imagination.

Don't get me wrong: its vibrant palette and music are a pleasure to experience, its supporting cast is fine, and the 7-yr-old boy who plays the lead is so adorable I wanted to take him home to serve as a good example for my child. But I just couldn't get involved in his, or his family's, life. I'm having a hard time putting my finger on why, though I suspect that it may because I viewed it while still coming down off EVE'S BAYOU, a movie which really got me.

Not very insightful comments, I know. I offer them as a datapoint for your own decisionmaking.

Eve's Bayou

"Memory is a selection of images, some elusive, others printed indelibly on the brain. The summer I killed my father, I was 10 years old."

Who can resist a hook like that?

EVE'S BAYOU is a movie about that summer, but it's a movie about a lot more than that. It's about a time and a place; it's about being a 10-year-old girl in a loving but troubled Creole family; and it's about the sorrows we bear and the things we can never take back.

Jurnee Smollett plays Eve, a doctor's daughter in a 1950s Louisana swamp town. Her father, Samuel L. Jackson, is her hero and a respected man. He's also a philanderer, a reality that's slowly breaking the heart of her mother, the painfully beautiful Lynn Whitfield. Smollett is incredible as Eve, and she can thank a penetrating and intelligent script for her good fortune. This is not a movie with cute but struggling moppets, nor is it one about adults in children's bodies. It's about a smart and insightful young girl who's trying to make sense of things that she's simply not ready to understand. Jackson, playing the father, reminds us that he is a gifted actor in addition to being a guy audiences can believe is ready to take on a passel of dangerous, planebound snakes. His doctor is smart and foolish, dashing and clumsy. He's a man. And Lynn Whitfield, well, Lynn Whitfield has this scene: she doesn't say a word, and she absolutely broke my heart. You'll know it when you see it.

EVE'S BAYOU is more than its script and its actors, of course. The movie looks and sounds great, with a deep, inviting palette, perfect costumes and sets, and an intriguing mix of light and shadow. Its music only brings attention to itself when it wants to and manages to get under our skin. Additionally, its selection of zydeco tunes for some scenes reflects a deep understanding for and appreciation of Louisiana swamp music, and it succeeds in bringing the milieu home.

In short, all the pieces of EVE'S BAYOU work. The movie takes us places we've never been, into the lives of people we'll never know, and it does so with insight, compassion, and beauty. This movie is a winner.

Hollywoodland

HOLLYWOODLAND redeems Ben Affleck's career.

Here's a guy who started out strong, then went downhill fast. From the unwatchable ARMAGEDDON to the criminally bad DAREDEVIL, Affleck's career had gotten so far away from the promise of GOOD WILL HUNTING that, frankly, his name on a marquee had become a reason to avoid a movie. And so I planned to avoid HOLLYWOODLAND, regardless of the involvement of such luminaries as Diane Lane and Bob Hoskins. At least, I planned to avoid it until I read the critical reaction to the movie.

HOLLYWOODLAND is two movies: one excellent, one mediocre. The mediocre one, a noirish detective picture featuring Adrien Brody investigating the apparent suicide of one George Reeves, serves to inform and access the excellent film, the one about Reeves himself. Affleck portrays Reeve with a combination of bravado, resignation, and desperation that's touching, sad, and altogether sympathetic. I felt for this guy, rooted for this guy, bled for this guy. I never thought an Affleck performance could make me feel that way.

Here's the deal: George Reeves got lucky early with a respectable supporting role in GONE WITH THE WIND. He couldn't build on that role and get his career rolling, and the movie introduces him at a lousy table in a first-class nightclub, trying to get noticed by the directors and studio heads who could give him a break. He does get noticed, but by a one Mrs. Mannix, played by Diane Lane. He and Mrs. Mannix fall for each other, which might even help the earnest George: Mr. Mannix (Bob Hoskins) is a studio head, which means Mrs. Mannix might be able to land George a job.

She does, but it's about the most loathsome job the ambitious young actor could hope for: a career-defining (and killing) role as Superman in a wildly popular children's television show. Reeves gamely tries to play the hero, but he knows that he's a long way from GWTW, and he can't get over the disappointment.

And that's not even the heartbreaking part. Because when that gig ends and he's been thoroughly typecast, where does he have to go? The answer, and the black-and-white reel in which we see him give it his best shot, just plain broke my heart.

So, there it is. I forgive you for DAREDEVIL, Ben. Now get back out there and show us what you can really do.

Superman

You know that tagline for SUPERMAN? The one that goes, "You'll believe a man can fly"? Well, after screening SUPERMAN, my boy drew a letter on his chest and asked me to toss him onto the bed not once, not twice, but until my arms felt like they were going to drop off my shoulders. Those SUPERMAN guys weren't kidding.

I hadn't seen SUPERMAN in decades, and I'm happy to report that the movie holds up quite well. It's out on a fantastic DVD transfer, so mom can appreciate Christopher Reeve in all his glory while dad marks time 'til Miss Tessbacher shows up again. It's fun to see Gene Hackman and Ned Beatty camp it up, and I particularly enjoyed noticing (for the first time) a young John Travolta's blink-and-you'll-miss-it contribution. SUPERMAN is just plain fun, and it's welcome dessert after the gloomfest that must necessarily be a Batman movie. The closing shot, with Chris Reeve grinning to the audience as he flies off to heroism, is such a winner that I'm surprised it doesn't show up in all those "Best shots in Hollywood History" lists.

What a delight.

PS I miss Christopher Reeve. That guy was a class act. Did anyone else read his book? It's almost enough to make you forgive Robin Williams for that "Dr. Clown" movie

300

Every now and then, the chance to see a movie in a theater drops into my lap. When those chances come around, I try to see pictures that I know just won't be the same when viewed on a laptop.

This weekend, I had just such an opportunity, and I used it to see 300. As far as tellings of the tale of the Battle of Thermopylae go, it's worse than Gates of Fire and better than the Frank Miller comic book 300, which it brings to life. I haven't gotten that far in my Herodotus just yet - give me time. As far as movies go, 300 is extraordinary.

300's stylized world, created almost entirely on a TRS-80 (or so I'm told), manages to both immerse and dazzle us. It takes us to a heightened reality, invites us to believe it, and rewards us for so doing with spectacle and audacity. I bought Gerard Butler's Leonidas, Rodrigo Santoro's Xerxes, and all the rest of the grunts and and monsters. I forgave the Spartans their convenient (and action packed!) deviations from their own military doctrine and I was willing to overlook the fact that steroids were not available in ancient Greece. I dug the look, I dug the story, and I dug the imagination.

I'm glad I saw this one on the big screen.

Mindhunters

Here's one from the archives. Happy Easter!
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You'll enjoy MINDHUNTERS if you don't know anything about physics, chemistry, biology, psychology, fluid dynamics, weaponscraft, law enforcement, military operations, or the actual FBI profiling program. If, in other words, you're a below-average student in a Bratislavan middle school, this movie's for you. MINDHUNTERS is one of those movies in which you tell yourself, "Okay, I choose to accept that this movie is set in a universe in which X could possibly happen." Then, you tell it to yourself again, and again, and again. This movie is so relentlessly, aggressively ridiculous that it's simply impossible to suspend one's disbelief.

Here's the setup: it's TEN LITTLE INDIANS with FBI agents on a spooky island. But there's a twist: where TEN LITTLE INDIANS is intriguing, MINDHUNTERS is insulting. Where TEN LITTLE INDIANS is gripping, MINDHUNTERS is loud. And where TEN LITTLE INDIANS has an ending that leaves you fascinated, amused, and not a little surprised, MINDHUNTERS has an ending that makes you want to hurl your DVD player against the wall in disgust.

Here's the worst part: the movie was foisted on me by a guy at work, a guy who loved it so much that he put his copy in my hands and insisted that I give it a spin. This afternoon, while we're waiting for the bus, he's going to ask me what I thought of it. I'm thinking of going with, "Wow! Nothing you said could have prepared me for this movie!" I don't know if I can sell the line.

PS On the plus side, the movie does have one kill that's so unexpected that it almost overcomes its utter implausibility. Additionally, MINDHUNTERS features the best anti-smoking sequence I've ever seen. So at least there's that.

Galaxy Quest

GALAXY QUEST is one of those movies that never get old. There's always something more to see, and this time around I grooved on the performance of one Alan Rickman.

This guy takes what looks like a simple couple of lines, "By Grabthar's Hammer! What savings!" and turns it into a symphony of self-loathing and resignation. While doing so, he manages to maintain a certain reserve that reminds that, yes, this is supposed to be a comedy. Later, when when he means a "By Grabthar's Hammer!" exclamation, he pours enough real passion into the reading that we, as the audience, buy his character's embrace of, well, his character.

It's great stuff, in a movie full of great stuff. By Grabthar's Hammer, I expect to see this movie over and over again.