Photos from Iwo Jima

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

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

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

The Natural

THE NATURAL is so archetypal that it borders on parody.

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

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

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

And I had a wholesome good time.

Smokin' Aces

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

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

The Black Dahlia

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

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

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

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

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

Letters From Iwo Jima

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

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

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

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

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

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

Revenge of the Sith

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

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

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

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

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

*Think about it.

Hollywoodland

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

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

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

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

Attack of the Clones

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dreamgirls

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

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

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

The Phantom Menace

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Son of Godzilla

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

I take it back.

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

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

War of the Worlds

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

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

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

The Last King of Scotland

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

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

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

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

Volver

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

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

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

El Dorado

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

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

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

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

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

Spider-Man 3

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

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

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

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

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

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

Godzilla Raids Again

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

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

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

The Legend of 1900

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

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

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

If only it had enjoyed a better showcase.

Joint Security Area

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

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

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

Sky High

I enjoyed the heck out of SKY HIGH.

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

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

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