use soap

Come visit my new environmentally friendly abode...

2007-09-24T21:50:00.001-04:00

How, Mr. Movie Critic Guy, can your new site be considered environmentally friendly, you ask? Well, because over at usesoapfilm.wordpress.com I use maily recycled junk that I write for this site, smart ass! That's right, I've got more time to waste, so I decided to instead of wasting time on such trivial things as "raising children" and "doing housework," I'd start duplicating everything I do here, but with even more pictures, links and other fun stuff. Also, you may want to check out another site in here titled deltechfilm.blogspot.com devoted to all things film related for students at Delaware Tech (info on screenings, student film group activities and the like). What does this mean for you? Well, there are now even more opportunites to send in your bile-filled rants, citing my ineptitude as a film critic and taking personal pot-shots (I'd rather refer to my nose as 'chisled,' not 'beak-like,' thank you very much). So head over to usesoapfilm.wordpress.com . It's like the using the really nice public restrooms, as opposed to the busy ones at the airline terminals where you are continually getting your foot bumped by those guys with 'wide stances.'

New kids on the Bloc

2007-09-24T21:47:00.000-04:00

Not to generalize, but after watching “Eastern Promises,” you may think twice about taking your frustrations out on all those fresh-faced Eastern Bloc exchange students who populate so many of the menial jobs here at the beach in the summertime.
For that may be the last Wawa hoagie you enjoy for quite some time, Mr. Rude Guy.
“Promises” begins with two vignettes that end in baths of blood – one resulting in a death, the other in a birth. From there, the film is a sharp, twisted meditation on life, death and the value of family and friendship, all with surgeon-like precision from director David Cronenberg.
Far more successful than his wildly uneven and overhyped “History of Violence” last year, “Promises” can be enjoyed both by the casual viewer looking for a old-fashioned, lean, linear tale of Mafioso-style respect and revenge, and by those who can appreciate the subtleties and flourishes the seasoned vet let permeate every scene.
The bloodletting does not saturate the entire film; in fact, it merely punctuates scenes with such casual randomness it serves to intensify the moments in which it is used.
The mother of the child born in the opening scenes is a nameless Russian ex-pat in London, with scars that show a life lived well beyond her 14 years of age. When she dies, it's up to Anna (played by Naomi Watts), a local surgeon to hurriedly identify the girl so that the baby does not get shuffled into the foster-care system. A diary found holds the key to her life, but its Russian language initially presents a stumbling block.
When the book is translated, it reveals some very seedy ties to the local comrades housed in some of the higher-rent areas of jolly ol' England. In particular, Nickolai (played by Viggo Mortensen), a stoic, ambivalent thug who refers to himself as “just a driver.” Nickolai's immediate boss is the incendiary, puerile Kirill (played by Vincent Cassel) and his lecherous father Semyon (played by Armin Mueller-Stahl).
If the film was made by a lesser director and writer, Anna would easily take front and center of the picture, as she valiantly morphs from naïve caregiver to knife-wielding vigilante who carves a path of justice and gets to spout pithy lines like “Better dead than Red,” or something of that sort. But Cronenberg, and writer Steven Knight, wisely place Nickolai as the lead, as he is by far the most interesting character of the film. He speaks barely above a whisper, but is commanding with his words. He will throw an arm around a shoulder, but it as much a show of control and dominance as it is friendship. And the audience is never quite sure as to whether he will serve to ignite or diffuse a situation. It is truly a performance that is – figuratively and literally – naked.
OK, this must be addressed, since it has been the most-talked about aspect of the film. Yes, those who adored the hunky king Aragon from the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy and enter “Promises” looking for a glimpse of his little hobbit, and they will get what they paid for. But the scene itself – a bathhouse brawl where Nickolai is clothed only in a towel, which he sheds – is shot so matter-of-factly and features a rather violent burst of brutality that the star's nudity becomes less of an issue becomes a pertinent part of the overall themes being grappled with here.
For all its focus on “the scene” and the film's ferocity, Cronenberg is more interested in the smaller exchanges that take place between its characters. When Nickolai extends his hand to Anna to exchange information, his brush against hers is both ominous and tender. Likewise, when the elderly Semyon grins, he exudes grandfatherly warmth – that is, if your grandfather is in the rape-and-torture racket. Kirill, too, is a study in contrasts. His short fuse masks what seems to be a much deeper secret that is frustratingly kept in the closet.
A reoccurring theme of tattoos runs through the film, as the made men ink up their bodies to not only show their allegiances, but to proudly display their life's history like a map on their bodies. It is interesting that the thugs and miscreants that populate “Eastern Promises” do not use guns, but knives and needles (and sometimes pruning shears) on their victims, as a way of cutting through their pride to the most vulnerable parts of their being. Cronenberg, too, is looking for the same thing in his characters – peeling away their painted facades in an attempt to see if there is a soul inside.
And this exploration of self is where the darkest – and best – of “Promises” are kept.

Point? Blank!

2007-09-18T15:48:00.000-04:00

Those who thought a certain Rob Zombie remake in August hinted that Halloween came a tad too early this year will be even more convinced after witnessing Jodie Foster’s “The Brave One.”
For it’s wearing one hell of a good mask.

For weeks before its release, Foster and director Neil Jordan have been touting that this revenge-porn thriller was going to change the way audiences look at the genre. I suppose it accomplished this in the fact that I thought Foster had nicer legs than Charles Bronson did 30-plus years ago with the penultimate ode to self justice, “Death Wish.”

But “Death Wish” made no bones about its eye-for-an-eye retribution. It was happy to wallow in its exploitative excesses, especially as the series digressed into its latter incarnations.

With its pedigree of Foster, Jordan (“Breakfast on Pluto,” “The Butcher Boy,” “The Crying Game”) and Terrence Howard, the bar of expectations is set just a wee bit higher.

But no such luck here, as every time an ethnic stereotype emerges on screen, you can rest assured that Foster’s character is going to blow their face off with her pistol.

If there was an essay on the effects of violence, it must have been muffled by the thunderous blast of her pistol, or the even louder cheers from audience member as victims lay in pools of their own blood.

Look, I have no problem with vengeance genus of film. And I realize that the careers of Arnold Schwarzenegger, Sylvester Stallone and Steven Seagal were at times wholly dependant on having a girlfriend, wife, mother, sister, brother, partner, cousin, friend, accountant, pool boy, etc. abducted and/or killed.

But witnessing a savvy actress such as Foster spouting cheesy 80s-era one liners such as “Who’s the bitch, now?” as she pulls the trigger is rather deflating.

Foster plays Erica Bane, a public radio personality who, with her fiancee, is brutally attacked in Central Park one fateful evening. She survives. He does not. The film flirts with the notion of her dealing with the loss and the disorienting feeling of being a stranger not only in her home city, but her own skin.

We see her first wary steps of trying to crawl out of her cocoon and re-enter the life she knew. But once she’s out and about, it’s mere minutes before she’s making seedy back-alley deals for purchasing firearms and dispensing her own brand of anger-fueled justice.

Sorry, but the notion of a pistol-packing Nina Totenberg is just not one that rests easy on the brain.

As (un)luck would have it, one of Erica’s first forays back into the fray involved an ill-timed Sprite run at the local convenience store where a domestic squabble gets settled with bullets. Her first instinct is to draw her trusty sidearm, dispose of the bad guy and quickly leave the premises (with the security tape securely tucked into her knapsack).

Afterward, there is another encounter on a subway involving some bullies who steal an iPod from a commuter. But Jordan wants to make sure that you think these guys deserve what’s about to come to them by having them pick on a little boy and his dad and pull a knife on Erica. As fate would have it, Erica was fortunate enough to pick the only subway train that was vacant and that stopped at the only terminal where there was not a witness to be found.

On and on it devolves, trying to pepper itself with small symbolic gestures of how she is apparently affected by her actions (shower with her clothes on to wash away the sins? You betcha!). But that all rings false louder than the slugs from her 9 millimeter.

At least in exploitation films like “Ms. 45,” “Fight for Your Life” and “Thriller: A Cruel Picture” (aka “They Call Her One Eye”), they had the courage of their convictions and offered us no such nonsense of guilt and remorse.

Even Howard’s straight-arrow police detective who is on the heels of her spree makes a last-minute turn that is unexpected as it is preposterous.

Foster is above every scene she’s in. She attacks her role with the same ferocity she’s approached every role she’s chosen (even lighter fluff like “Flightplan” and “Nell”). But she’s reduced to an N.R.A. pinup – a Charlton Heston masturbatory fantasy.

The crowd I witnessed “The Brave One” with was obviously impressed by the sadistic stream flowing through it, and I suppose since summer has ended at the box office, there is a void left behind for mindless mayhem that this may fill.

But for those entering the film hoping for more out of the esteemed actress and director than a pile of bodies,”The Brave One’s” a dead end.

All aboard

2007-09-11T12:39:00.000-04:00

Is it just me, or does everything sound just a bit more “Western-ish” with the suffix “-rado?”
“Desperado,” “Silverado,””El Dorado” It's like adding “-capades” after something and automatically thinking of ice skating.

Adding “-rado” somewhere in “3:10 to Yuma” may have helped the title, which does not exactly roll off the tongue, but the film certainly needs no help elsewhere, as director James Mangold's solid, scruffy take on the wild west is a throwback in the best possible ways.

Based on an Elmore Leonard's tale (and it's 1957 film), “Yuma” is steeped in all the spur-janglin', gun-totin', spittoon-dingin' elements that made this type of film into a genre all its own.

“Yuma” pits rancher Dan Evans (played by Christian Bale) against outlaw Ben Wade (played by Russel Crowe). Evans is struggling to save his property from encroaching railroad magnates and to save his dignity for his wife and two young sons.

Hobbled by battle in the Civil War and shepherding cattle on a dry dirt patch, Evans is both broke and broken.

When Wade's posse gallops into town for a local stagecoach heist, Wade is nabbed by the local law. The desperate and destitute Evans volunteers to escort the wily outlaw to a nearby town to be shipped out and face trial.

Evans sees the journey as a chance to make enough to save his farm and what little pride he has left because he's “tired of the way his boys look at him and tired of the way his wife won't.”
Wade gamely eggs Evans on, for he first sees him as just another body for target practice when his cronies come to rescue him.

But it's soon obvious that Wade takes a shine to this tattered-but-determined rancher. He sees in him the same resolve and steely drive that he possesses, and perhaps sees the man he could have been if he were on the right side of the law.

This is not to say that Wade is a softy by any means. He's quick to show men the losing side of his pistol and doesn't much care for excuses.

Director Mangold could not have found a better man to fill Wade's Tony Lamas (it's a popular cowboy boot brand, look it up). Crowe seems genetically engineered for such films – from his charcoal-burnt vocals to his swaggering tree-trunk physique. And his playful, deadly glint makes him equally hard to resist and harder to read.

And as Bale have proven in past roles (most notably his ghostly turn in “The Machinist”), he is capable of holding what seems like decades of pain in his hollow cheeks. His Evans is a pitiful man, but not once do you pity him, as he balances on the edge of a breaking point.

The casting of the two actors is essential to “Yuma,” as it is more about their psychological showdown than their ability to unholster their firearms. There are moments of Winchester-pumped action that puncture the film, but Mangold seems more interested in watching the two men watch one another – each taunting, circling and even admiring the other.

The supporting cast is as strong as its unbridled landscape, too. Gretchen Mol makes a welcome return, albeit a brief one, as Evans' long-suffering wife, and Peter Fonda, worn and leathery as a floor-length duster, does his best John Wayne impersonation as an old antagonist of Wade's.

But it is Ben Foster who reigns in the film's biggest surprise in a crucial role as Wade's vicious right-had gun Charlie Prince. In past roles, Foster has either underplayed his part (the Angel is “X-Men 3”) or acted like he forgot his daily dose of Ridalin (“Alpha Dog”). But his barnstorming performance here demonstrates he's destined for bigger things. As Charlie, he watches over his captured boss like a coyote watches over a flock of wayward sheep, and we sit one edge waiting for him to move in for the kill.

The death knell for the western genre has been sounding for years, but every so often a film rolls into theaters like a stray tumbleweed to remind us that as it may be long past the high noon of its popularity, the heart of the traditional style still beats loudly (2003's dream-like “Open Range” and 2005's gritty “The Proposition” are recent examples that come to mind).

“3:10 to Yuma” may not be remembered as a classic of the genre (the conclusion drags on a little too long and is filled with the cliches of gangs of gunmen who, when it comes down to it, can't seem to hit their target if it slapped them in the face), but it certainly is enough to jumpstart the interest of those who have grown up thinking that westerns are typified by self-important pomp like “Dances with Wolves” caricature-laden oaters like “Tombstone” or parodic romps like “Shanghai Noon,” and get them to search the shelves of the video store for when the West was (number) one.

Evil has a Density

2007-09-04T15:59:00.000-04:00

When musician/director Robert Bartleh Cummings (better known to you as Rob Zombie) announced that he was going to remake the granddaddy of slasher films, “Halloween,” the news was hardly embraced by horror enthusiasts.

Of all the films in the original director John Carpenter’s checkered filmography (from peaks such as “The Thing,” and “Escape from New York” to valleys which include “Vampires,” and “Ghosts of Mars”), “Halloween” is considered his zenith.

It was made for less than what most films spend today on getting their stars out of rehab, but on that shoestring budget, Carpenter managed to lace up a legend with Michael Myers, the child killer who grew into a masked embodiment of evil.

He would hack away at horny teens with cold indifference and lurk in the shadows of the sleepy Illinois suburbia known as Haddonfield.

But in the almost 30 years since his first appearance, the horror genre has been demystified, cannibalized, embellished, and, worst yet, mocked and parodied.

The franchise itself has been stretched further than Joan Rivers’ face, linking the Myers’ legend to everyone from the Druids to Busta Rhymes (I wish I was kidding about that sentence).
Zombie promised a fresh new take on the genre, and, to his credit, he has been developing as a filmmaker – from his hokey, hackneyed debut “Night of 1,000 Corpses” to his more nuanced, menacing “The Devil’s Rejects.”

His “re-imagining” of “Halloween” stops that filmmaking progression – pardon the pun – dead in its tracks.

Zombie’s only update to the cinematic lore is by taping on a sorry backstory so blatantly obvious and tonally shrill that it borders parody.

We meet chubby little Mikey (played by Daeg Fearch , resembling the overweight, dead-eyed brother of Dakota Fanning) as a stringy haired squalor squatter, sharing a dilapidated domicile with his stripper mom (played by Sherry Moon Zombie), his slutty big sis (played by Hannah Hall) and a vile, repugnant stepfather (overplayed by William Forsythe).

After spending just a few minutes with this crew, you almost wish Mikey would get a jumpstart on his latter-day career move so that he can rid the screen of this pestilent posse.

Zombie spends more than 40 minutes with his white-trash clan until Michael takes part in some unspeakable acts and is sent away to an asylum. The title card flashes on the screen to show us Myers 15 years later, still sequestered in the institution, where he has apparently been biding his time taking advantage of the loony bin’s arts and crafts club and its fitness facility. You see, Michael has whittled away the years plastering together paper mache masks and hitting the Bowflex, standing about 7.5 feet tall with shoulders the size of a covered bridge.

He escapes from a quartet of security guards that must have graduated from the “Police Academy” (not the actual academy, mind you, but by watching the Bubba Smith- Steve Guttenberg films) and heads to his old stalking grounds just in time for the holidays.
What follows is a near scene-for-scene do-over, with an ample amount of breasts and blood added.

In the original, even though it may have been for budgetary reasons, much of that was left to an antiquated device moviegoers brought to the theater with them called “imagination.” But, y’know, it’s like totally too hard to text your friend at the same time, so Zombie dutifully spells out every stab for us.

And even though the film, rather hypocritically, promises “No Sequel” at the end of the credits, the loud ring at the registers for the film during Labor Day weekend ($32 million – they like it, hey Mikey!) will undoubtedly bring Myers home yet again.

Up and Autumn

2007-08-29T12:58:00.000-04:00

To quote the film “Jarhead,” “Welcome to the suck.”
This time of year is that little window between summer and fall in which studios purge their shelves. So, instead of sifting through the cinematic discount bins this week, I will try to get you amped for the coming season of more prestigious pictures.
Mind you, not all of the releases are jockeying for trophies during the seemingly endless award season, but they do carry with them the promise of cinematic escape beyond the latest crop of films that is springing up like ragweed at the multiplex.

Sept. 7

The Brothers Solomon
Starring: Will Arnett, Will Forte, Lee Majors
Two socially stunted men try to impregnate a woman to fulfill a dying father’s request.
Prognosis: The big screen has yet to provide TV funnyman Arnett (“Arrested Development”) with something suitable to his talents (“Let’s Go to Prison,” anyone?). This Farrelly Brothers-style clone does not appear to be that picture, either.

Shoot ‘Em Up
Starring: Clive Owen, Paul GiamattiA mysterious gunman appears out of nowhere to rescue a woman and child from a hired hit.
Prognosis: Heavily styled Matrix-y gunplay is buoyed by its strong leads.
3:10 to Yuma
Starring: Christian Bale, Russell Crowe
A down-on-his-luck rancher volunteers to escort a criminal across rugged terrain to make the titular train.
Prognosis: While critics have been eulogizing the Western genre for years, Bale (as the rancher) and Crowe (as the criminal) just might prove otherwise.

Sept. 14

Mr. Woodcock
Starring: Billy Bob Thorton, Sean Williams Scott, Susan Sarandon
A bullying gym coach re-enters the life of his former tormentee as he tries to woo the young man’s mommy.
Prognosis: If you have a sense of déjà vu, it’s because this one has been threatening to be released for a couple of years now. Never a good sign.

Sept. 21

Across the Universe
Starring: Jim Sturgess, Evan Rachel Wood
The always-engaging director Julie Taymor envisions a pair of lovers in the ‘60s in a film set entirely to Beatles’ songs.
Prognosis: If it fails, you can bet it will be one beautiful disaster.

Resident Evil: Apocalypse
Starring: Milla Jovovich, Oded Fehr, Mike Epps.
In the third film based on the video game, our hero Alice is planted in the Nevada desert when trying to annihilate ferocious zombie scum.
Prognosis: The first two films were as fun as watching someone play Pac-Man for 90 minutes, but the trailers for “Apocalypse” look compelling enough to at least consider the adage “The third time’s the charm.”

Good Luck Chuck
Starring: Dane Cook, Jessica Alba
Not a sequel to the summer’s loathsome Adam Sandler “comedy,” this film stars yet another inexplicably popular comedian as Chuck, a man whose reputation as a good luck charm has women lining up to lie down with him.
Prognosis: Perhaps the neediest comic working today, Cook reeks of desperation in every role he takes.

The Assassination of Jesse James by That Coward Robert Ford
Starring: Brad Pitt, Sam Rockwell, Casey Affleck, Zooey Deschanel, Mary-Louise Parker
As fabled gunslinger Jesse James plans his next train robbery, his life may be threatened by someone close to his camp – can you guess his name?
Prognosis: Another shelf squatter, “Jesse” was supposed to be released last year, but the star power and director Andrew Dominik (who last made the intense “Chopper” with Eric Bana) cannot be denied (or maybe it can, if you consider last year’s overstuffed turkey “All the King’s Men”).

Sept. 28
Run, Fat Boy, Run
Starring: Simon Pegg, Hank Azaria, Thandie Newton
After leaving his pregnant girlfriend at the altar, a chubby schmuck vows to complete a marathon to prove he’s a changed man.
Prognosis: It’s a sitcom-worthy plot that just may work, considering it is being directed by “Friends’” David Schwimmer.

Lust, Caution
Starring: Tony Leung, Joan Chen
Director Ang Lee comes down from “Brokeback Mountain” to tell this more intimate World War II-era tale of a powerful politician and a woman who just can’t seem to quit him.
Prognosis: Not the hot-button topic of his previous, and shot in the Mandarin tongue, “Lust” will have much smaller fanfare, but may contain the same intensity for which the director is best known.

Oct. 5
The Heartbreak Kid
Starring: Ben Stiller, Michelle Monoghan
A man meets the woman of his dreams – to bad it’s while he is on his honeymoon with his loopy new wife.
Prognosis: Stiller reunites with his cinematic catapult – The Farrelly Brothers – in this remake of the Neil Simon flick.

Oct. 12
30 Days of Night
Starring: Josh Hartnett, Ben Foster, Melissa George
Alaska is known for its long stretches sans daylight, so what better place for vampires to chill their fangs?
Prognosis: Based on the popular comic (sorry, fanboys, you can call it a “graphic novel” just as you refer to your dolls as “action figures”), this film looks to keep the same creepy aesthetic that made it such a smash.

Hitman
Starring: Timothy Olyphant, Dougray Scott
A bar-coded assassin kicks some assassin ass in this big screen treatment of the violently popular (or is that popularly violent?) video game.
Prognosis: Olyphant attempts to parlay his summer hit as the heavy in the latest “Die Hard” flick into leading man turf. But it may suffer from the similar (and more stylish) “Shoot ‘Em Up” a month prior.

Oct. 19
Rendition
Starring: Reese Witehrsppon, Jake Gyllenhaal, Meryl Streep, Alan Arkin and Peter Saarsgard
Reese Witherspoon stars as the wife of an Egypt-born chemical engineer who's kidnapped by the Feds and stashed in a secret detention facility, where a compassionate CIA analyst (Jake Gyllenhaal) has doubts about the tactics of interrogation.
Prognosis: Hmmm, how do you think we can get our point across that torture is bad? I know, let's get our most wholesome-looking actress and former Oscar winner, Reese Witherspoon, and set her up for ol' fashioned Cheney-style waterboarding. While the film's stance is clear, let's hope they don't – pardon the expression – hit us over the head with it.

Oct. 26
Martian Child
Starring: John Cusak, Joan CusakJohn Cusack stars once again as a writer (after this summer's hit “1408”) who adopts an outcast child who claims he is from another planet.
Prognosis: Bumped from its original release this summer, the trailer for this one seems a tad gooey, but a flick full of Cusak's can turn that around into something much more.

Things We Lost in the Fire
Starring: Halle Berry, Benicio Del ToroTwo troubled childhood friends attempt to help one another out in order to save each other and themselves.
Prognosis: with the help of a gifted director (Susanne Bier, “After the Wedding”) and a talented co-star, Berry looks to turn her post-Oscar slump around to prove that she really did earn that statuette, despite “Catwoman”... and “Gothika” and “X-Men 3”... and “Perfect Stranger” and... you get the picture.

Saw IV
Starring: Tobin Bell
The Rube Goldberg of death, Jigsaw and his accomplice took a dirt nap in the last entry of the franchise, but when more victims start turning up under mysteriously similar circumstances, the FBI uncovers the truth to his origins.
Prognosis: Despite having the dubious distinction of helping to create the whole “torture porn” genre, “Saw” has managed to keep audiences coming back for more. And as long as the cash keeps rolling in, it seems that Jigsaw is more than willing to figure out creative ways to kill unsuspecting people.

Nov. 2
Bee Movie
Starring: (the voices of) Jerry Seinfeld, Chris Rock,
A stinging insect looks to escape the drone of the honeycomb and seek more out of life.
Prognosis: Though the animation looks pretty pathetic and the trailer's jokes have as much sting as a moth, if anyone can create something out of nothing, it's Seinfeld.

American Gangster
Starring: Denzel Washington, Russell Crowe
“Gangster” follows the true tale of a Harlem drug lord who became one of the most powerful crime figures in the country and a cop hell-bent on bringing him to justice.
Prognosis: Here’s wishing Washington is in full “Training Day” mode and Crowe and director Ridley Scott give us more “Gladiator” than “A Good Year.”

Nov. 9
No Country for Old Men
Starring: Tommy Lee Jones, Javier Bardem, Josh Brolin, Woody Harrelson
A hunter in the wilderness happens upon a stash of cash, drugs and a couple of dead bodies.
Prognosis: The Coen Brothers look poised to return to their “Blood Simple” roots in “Men,” which was nominated for top honors at this year’s Cannes Film Festival.

Nov. 16
Beowulf
Starring: (the voices of) Angelina Jolie, Anthony Hopkins, Robin Wrigth Penn, Ray Winstone.
See people, this is what we need to get our high school students to read the classics – more Angelina Jolie nudity! Actually, only a CGI version of the bombshell makes an in-the-buff appearance, but that’s better than nothing.
Prognosis: Like saying you admire “Playboy” for the articles, you can pretend to be awed by the special effects of this motion-capture movie.

Margot at the Wedding
Starring: Nicole Kidman, Jack Black, Jennifer Jason Leigh
Margot is a caustic gal who arrives on the eve of her sister’s wedding and attempts to sever the impeding ties to her Boho beau.
Prognosis: A cantankerous Kidman is an interesting choice for director Noah Baumbach (“The Squid and the Whale”), and Black looks as though he’s toned down his mania to let others actually share the screen with him.

Nov. 21
Enchanted
Starring: Amy Adams, Patrick Dempsey
A cartoon princess forced to leave her world for modern-day New York, falls in love with her Prince McDreamy.
Prognosis: Cute premise, but man does it look like one big commercial for Disney.

Nov. 30
Cassandra's Dream
Starring: Colin Farrell, Ewan McGregor, Haley Atwell
Woody Allen directs a tale of two brothers and a dangerous woman who enters their lives and threatens to sever their bond.
Prognosis: Sounds like a more meditative Woody (which usually provides more interesting results).

Dec. 7
The Golden Compass
Starring: Nicole Kidman, Daniel Craig, Dakota Blue Richards
Based on the “His Dark Materials” series of books, “Compass” follows 12-year-old Lyra as she sets out for adventure across the globe in an effort to save it.
Prognosis: It’s cast is top notch with Kidman and Craig, until you consider the last time they teamed up was this summer’s biggest flop “The Invasion.” Plus, can the movie world handle more than one precocious pre-teen named Dakota?

Dec. 14
I am Legend
Starring: Will Smith, a dog
A brilliant scientist somehow escapes a plague that he believes wipes out the entire human race – or does it?
Prognosis: This screenplay has been tossed around more than a soccer ball, the director has little impressive history (videos for Britney, Janet Jackson and the overheated Keanu Reeves flick “Constantine”), and star Smith may be out of his element from saving the world during the summer months (“Independence Day,” “Men in Black,” “I Robot”). But it may provide the perfect antidote for some of the season’s stuffier releases.

Alvin and the Chipmunks
Starring: Jason Lee, David Cross, animated rodentia
A combination of CGI and live action is mixed for this update on the novelty cartoon.
Prognosis: One word – “Garfield.” This is not going to end well.

Dec. 21
National Treasure: Book of Secrets
Starring: Nicolas Cage, Helen Mirren, John Voight, Ed Harris
Cage returns as modern-day Indiana Jones Ben Gates as he searches for stolen pages from John Wilkes Booth diary.
Prognosis: Taking a page from “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade,” “Treasure” casts Mirren as Cage's mommy who joins the hunt.

Sweeney Todd
Starring: Johnny Depp, Helen Bonham Carter, Alan Rickman, Sacha Baron Cohen
Depp once again teams with director Tim Burton in this musical tale of a demented barber.
Prognosis: Jack Sparrow, Borat and two Harry Potter heavies? Directed by the guy from “Edward Scissorhands?” Are your tickets purchased now, or are you waiting another five minutes?

Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story
Starring: John C. Reilly, Jenna Fischer, Kristen Wiig, Tim Meadows
Spoofing on musical bio-pics (are you listening, “Walk the Line?”), the film follows this drugged-up musical sex machine through his various incarnations in a the musical landscape.
Prognosis: Could this be the trifecta for Judd Apatow, who scored with this summer's “Knocked Up” and “Superbad?” This can't-miss cast of clowns is almost a guarantee to run rings of fire around the competition.

Dec. 25
Aliens vs. Predator: Requiem
Starring: John Ortiz, Steven Pasquale, Johnny Lewis
Two warring intergalactic tribes of monsters pick a small town to lay the smackdown on one another.Prognosis: Sure, the first one was excruciating, but the directorial responsibilities have been handed over from a hack to a pair who have been responsible for some of the coolest special effects in recent cinema.

Charlie Wilson’s War
Starring: Tom Hanks, Julia Roberts, Philip Seymour Hoffman
Texas Republican congressman Charlie Wilson is a bad man. His shady dealings with Afghan rebels took a heavy toll on human lives.
Prognosis: Director Mike Nichols gave Roberts her best part in ages is 2005's “Closer,” and may perhaps do the same for Hanks, who could use a boost after flops such as “The Ladykillers,” “The Terminal” and “DaVinci Code.”

The Bucket List
Starring: Jack Nicholson, Morgan Freeman, Sean Hayes
Two terminally-ill cancer patients set out to check off a to-do list before they die.
Prognosis: How come nobody thought to cast Freeman with Nicholson before this? Unfortunately director Rob Reiner (“Rumor Has It...,” “Alex and Emma,” “The Story of Us” ) may ultimately decide their fate.

Dec. 26
There Will Be Blood
Starring: Daniel Day-Lewis, Paul Dano
Family, greed, religion and oil are all stirred together in this tale following a Texas prospector and the turn of the century.
Prognosis: In perhaps the best trailer since last year's “Little Children,” P.T. Anderson's complex tale looks as though it may strike more than black gold come Oscar time.

'Super-OK'

2007-08-21T18:32:00.000-04:00

It’s a little-known literary fact that Robert Burns’ poem, ‘Ode to a Mouse’ originally read:

“The best plans of men to get laid do often go awry.”

Burns’ stuffy publisher told him to ‘tone it down’ to make the now-famous little ditty more marketable.

But whatever the translation, either would apply to the plot of “Superbad,” the new comedy from the Judd Apatow camp, which looks to tighten its grip on Hollywood comedies, between this film, the summer’s earlier hit “Knocked Up,” and 2005’s “40-Year-Old Virgin.”

While Apatow did not direct this one as he did the previous two (he passed the responsibility to longtime collaborator Greg Mattola), his fingerprints are all over it.

The film once again follows misfit man-boys on a quest to make sense of the opposite sex. This time, the quest takes place over the course of one high school evening and the leads are two horny teens, Seth (played by the beefy Jonah Hill) and Evan (played by the gangly Michael Cera).

Many have praised this film for carefully balancing its smut with its heart. And, frankly, I don’t buy into the latter, at least in terms of compassion for the females. The treacle tossed in at the film’s finale of both boys respecting the objects of their desires – after everyone thoroughly objectifies women throughout the film’s running time – just doesn’t wash.”I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry” got raked over the coals this summer for similar treatment toward gays, but somehow “Superbad” has been given a pass.

This is not to say that the film is not funny. For it is – both feverishly and frequently. But why even try to give a boys hearts when there’s nothing to hang their heart on?

(Speaking of “heart on,” be prepared for one of the most obsessive predilection of male genitalia this side of a porno.)

After all this ribaldry, why do the producers feel that our heroes must Learn Something or Grow and allow them to Get the Girl? Did John Belushi’s Bluto take away a life lesson after his years in Delta House? Did Jeff Spicoli learn to “just say no” by the end of his “Fast Times?”
No dammit. They were hedonistic jackasses. And they felt more real because of it.

Apatow has a very sharp ear for male-male friendships throughout awkward times in their lives (in “Virgin” it’s middle age, in “Knocked Up,” it’s pregnancy and here it’s high school). But what he has yet to find is what draws women to these clueless dolts. Really, only Carell's virgin was deserving of a female companion.

If you thought Seth Rogan (who wrote the screenplay and co-stars as a crazy cop) was an unlikely bed partner for the sexy Katherine Heigl in “Knocked Up,” you’ll have a helluva time trying to figure out what Emma Stone’s hot, hip Jules sees in Hill’s slovenly profane Seth.
In the words of the immortal Dean Wormer (rest in peace), “Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life.”

There are two true finds in “Superbad,” and one has already been found by a select few who adored the brilliant, short-lived TV show “Arrested Development” (rest in peace). Michael Cera, who some remember as the stammering straight-arrow George Michael (he who harbored the unholy crush on his cousin), plays basically the same character with awkward Evan. Except here, you get to hear him swear up a storm. Cera’s stock is sure to rise in the months following this film, as his unique dry approach is a throwback to early Bob Newhart, and is sorely lacking in comedy today.

The other standout is Christopher Mintz-Plasse as Fogell. In the pantheon of teen sex comedies, many a one-named co-star has earned immortal status – Booger, Bluto, Meat, Stifler, Spicoli. Be prepared to add another to its hallowed halls – McLovin. For that is the name Fogell arbitrarily decides to rechristen himself upon receiving a fake ID that lists him as a 25-year-old Hawaiian organ donor.

Plucked from obscurity, you can see role of geeky outsider Mintz-Plasse fits very snugly on the actor, making his performance all the more authentic. You wish the same care had been given to the ladies that populate the film, or that they were ditched altogether.

McLovin spends the majority of the time riding in the back of a cop car commandeered by two wildly inappropriate arms of the law (Rogan and “SNL’s” Bill Hader). And as outlandish as the cops’ behavior may seem, the film called to mind similar high school shenanigans a buddy and I had with a sad, lonely night security guard at a port in Virginia Beach. He had no problems volunteering to get videotaped joyfully putting a billy-clubbing, handcuffing smackdown on yours truly.

So I invite the makers to bring on the zaniness – the carefree, empty-headed escapades that accompany adolescence and show us that you care as much for the women as you do for the lads and the, um, equipment. Otherwise, don’t feel obligated to employ tacked-on morals as a result of their ribaldry.

For it only waters down the drinks at what could be one heck of a fun party.

There is no rush to see this 'Hour'

2007-08-13T14:01:00.000-04:00

I can't do it.

I can't even muster up the courage to say, “Well, at least Chris Tucker is back up on the big screen again.”

Really, that was my only hope for “Rush Hour 3,” the most cliched, hackneyed, watered down, homogenized slice of big-budget drivel to be coughed out of a computer in recent memory. And this is coming from a fan of the series.

Every cliché is covered, every plot point is clearly mapped. They don't even bother to reheat these leftovers. They are just served cold.

This film is a swimming pool in Jackie Chan's back yard. It's a new Ferrari for Chris Tucker's garage. It's an escort service debt paid off for director Brett Ratner.

What it is not, is entertainment. Everyone involved in this bloated, belated sequel makes as little an effort as possible to fill the franchise's six-year absence (not that anyone was particularly longing for another installment).

As mentioned I truly enjoyed the first films, appreciating them for their breezy chemistry between Jackie Chan's Keaton-esque physicality and Tucker's motor-mouthed histrionics. It was derivative, but there was just enough humor and heart to buoy it above the fray.

But there is never a moment during “Rush Hour 3's” run time that convinces me that everyone was in this for something other than a paycheck. Hell, this may even classify as a zombie movie the way everyone – and I mean behind the camera as well – seems to have lumbered about like a somnambulist convention.

You can rattle off the buddy-movie bromides with ease:

Humor derived from ethnic stereotypes.
Horribly trained henchmen who can't hit the side of a barn at three feet.
A bound-and-gagged female hostage.
Wherever Tucker and Chan travel in the world (this time, France), the only black and Asian females in the room flirt with them.
The third-person shooter who, out of nowhere, kills a bad guy mere nanoseconds before said evildoer is to shoot our hero.
The chief villain's expository speech before attempting to kill the heroes.
The duplicitous government agent who at first seems like a helpful fella.
The closing door that our hero narrowly slides under seconds before closing.
A gun being out of ammo just as the dramatic music swells to a crescendo.
The ubiquitous, unnecessary car chase.

Sadly, the list could continue. But since screenwriter Jeff Nathanson obviously put no effort into this, neither will I.

And if sheer boredom from these tired formulas don't work, “Rush Hour 3” seems as though it's trying to be offensive. I am far from a prude and an admirer of his work, but what was the reason to cast the reclusive director Roman Polanski, a convicted rapist of a 13 year old, as a jelly-fingered Parisian cop who performs a cavity search on our heroes then winks at them when they later complain about it?

There was a little-seen film released last year called “Idiocracy,” which (quite hilariously) depicted the dumbing down of our culture in the near future. The most popular film of the year (which went on to win the Oscar)? “Ass,” a shot of a hieney for two hours that would occasionally pass gas or get scratched or something. After viewing “Rush Hour 3,” I yearn for “Ass 2: Breaking the Wind.”

Tucker was a talented man before he decided to sell his celluloid soul to become some wide-eyed buffoon ... Here is the site for the Chris Tucker Foundation ( http://www.christuckerfoundation.org/), which promises to give help to children of South Africa infected with HIV.

I urge you, if you are contemplating even renting “Rush Hour 3” on DVD, donate your money here instead.

Bourne, again

2007-08-05T19:50:00.000-04:00

The franchise that brought you a criminal being mauled by a magazine, returns to present death by dish towel.

Yup, “The Bourne Ultimatum,” the third film in the Bourne series brings back our hero, Jason Bourne (played by Matt Damon) who takes out one of his adversaries using toiletries as a deadly weapon.

It may sound comical, but director Paul Greengrass (returning after “United 97” for his “Bourne” duties) is in no laughing mood.

Bourne, the awesome superspy, is edging ever so close to his true identity, and with a seeming worldwide cadre of cops and spooks on his tail, it is quite the task.

August is usually the month of “remora releases.” By that, I mean that studios usually plop their least-trusted summer flicks in the pond and hope that they latch on to the wallets of indiscriminate moviegoers eager to get a few more hours in the air-conditioned theater before summer's end.

But Universal should have had more faith in the franchise, as it easily muscles its way among the shape-shifting robots and hard-dying action predecessors.

In fact, the action is vacuum-sealed so tightly within its two-hour run time, there's scant time for our hero – or the audience – to come up for air. But this is not at the sacrifice of character development, as the brooding hero and his friends/nemeses at the C.I.A. Get adequate depth provided as play tag across the globe.

Those returning to lace up their running shoes for this third-time worldwide sprint include Damon, Julia Stiles and Joan Allen, while allowing David Strathairn and Albert Finney into the race. All of them want Bourne, but their motives are across the board.

The film begins as an addendum to “Supremecy,” as a tattered Bourne shuffles through the snowy Moscow streets, eluding police and in badly need of some iodine after the nasty car crash that ended the previous film.

He then hops to jolly old England, where a reporter is in the process of peeling the onion known as Blackbriar, a double super-secret U.S. espionage program that even C.I.A. members are kept in the dark about. The program was apparently the birth of such superhuman spies as Bourne, turning them all into arm-cracking, magazine-wielding, towel-twisting terrors.

The film changes little of the driver's-seat aspect that made “Supremacy” such a rush. It once again places viewers nose-to-nose with its players and uses shots that look as though they were recorded from a car speeding over a pot-hole-laden street, spliced with angles from a surveillance camera perspective.

The agita-inducing lenswork, though, works for the film's personal progression, allowing intimacy with its leads that create character depth without the need for wordy exposition.
Critics have noted that the Bourne-like facelift given to the James Bond franchise, and while this may prove true, the “Bourne” series has an even more urgent appeal, considering the main thrust is our hero's search for self.

Damon should be credited for transitioning his pretty-boy features into a haunted shell of a man. As he collects parcels of his past like seashells, his intensity is not merely viewed by his wake of bodies, but with the glow of ghosts he may not yet want to confront.

The rest of “Bourne's” cast is populated with A-grade actors, each capable of using facial expressions, body language and awkward pauses to supplement their lack of dialogue(well, not so much Stiles, who only musters a vacant stare, incapable of throwing purpose behind it).
“Bourne” wraps itself up tightly in the cloak of this cloak-and-dagger thriller, calling into question the motives of each of its characters until the final frames. And “Ultimatum” is a fitting conclusion for its protagonist, who was once lost in the sea of his own consciousness.

The “Bourne” legacy continues with another installment from writer Robert Ludlam, titled, ironically, “The Bourne Legacy.” Here's hoping that Greengrass and Damon have yet another cinematic itch to scratch, for their teamwork has provided filmgoers with many a manic, magic moment.

And, besides, there is still an arsenal of household items Bourne can use to take down an army of enemies.

Hi, I'm Rob Rector. You may remember me from such reviews as "Shrek Dreck" and "Pirates of the Caribbean:At Wit's End"

2007-07-29T22:48:00.000-04:00

For more than half my life, “The Simpsons” have been there for me. They have given me with tutelage beyond any college professor ever could, provided me role models, taught me work and parenting skills, and have given me an endless conversational zingers that I would pass off as my own wit to unknowing listeners.

Institutionally, they have surpassed being a trend and have become embedded in our pop culture – not only reflecting it, but at a time, dictating it.

A Google search alone will yeild 60 million page references to America's favorite yellow, four-fingered family (Youtube 93, 500, for those keeping track).

The omnipotent clan can be viewed almost round-the-clock on television (an observation deftly decried by patriarch Homer in the film's intro). Books have delved into the show's philosophy, religious themes, life lessons and copious analyses on each and every episode.

The lines from the show have reached immortality (Homer's disgruntled grunt “D'oh has made it into both the Oxford English Dictionary and Webster's Millennium Dictionary).

So seriously, what's left that has not been accomplished by the family but the big screen.
The creators had been oh-so-coy about the release of a film, and announced it by surprise last summer. Credit has to be given to them for not selling out and releasing the film at the height of the show's zeitgeist in the early 90s, as they could have easily cashed in on their name, much like character Krusty the Clown does with much of the life-threatening kids toys he haphazardly slaps his name upon for a quick paycheck.

The finest compliment I can bestow upon the film is that it feels just like a 90-minute episode written during their sixth or seventh season (which many feel were its best). With an almost two-decade buildup, there is hardly an expectation that the film would be capable of exceeding short of having Marge letting her Frank Lloyd Wright-designed hair down and do a lap dance for you in your movie seat (sorry, perhaps I have been too obsessive a fan over the years).

I will not bother going over the characters in the review, for if you are not at the least bit familiar with them as of yet, the only thing I can say to you is: “Welcome to Earth. Sorry for the current state of affairs in the White House. Hope you enjoy your stay before heading back to your planet.”

The film's story unfolds in classic Simpsonian fashion – which is to say, from the most tangential places. Let's just say the family has added a pig to the clan and when it is time for Homer to rid of the porcine feculence, he dumps it into Springfield Lake, which many show watchers may remember is also home to that mutated Darwinian oddity Blinky, the three-eyed fish – a result of the mass waste dumping that takes place within.

This causes the EPA's Nazi-like head Cargill (voiced by the ever-dependable Albert Brooks) to place a glass dome over the entire town, cordoning it off from the country like some giant terrarium. Meanwhile, Homer's careless actions once again places him at odds with his entire family – wife Marge, children Bart, Lisa and baby Maggie. The beauty of the film, as with the television show, is that regardless of just how outrageous the predicament encountered by the sleepy little Hamlet of Springfield faces, the core of family is the overriding theme.

Instead of ruining the gags (of which there are more than enough to fill a dozen summer “comedies”), I'll try to focus on just why audiences will get much d'oh! for their dough.
Some of the sweeping shots of the town are rendered using 3-D animation, and for once, you really get the feel of the scope of the suburb. It's used sparingly, but it's just enough to give the moments of chaos an epic sweep to them.

Hans Zimmer takes over for Danny Elfman as Oscar-winning musical director, and the composer of such films as “Pirates of the Caribbean,” “Batman Begins,” “Gladiator,” and “The Lion King” pays perfect homage to the latter's score and adds the elegaic scope necessary for the series' first cinematic endeavor.

The cast of Dan Castelleneta, Julie Kavner, Yeardly Smith, Nancy Cartwright, Harry Shearer and Hank Azaria are uniformly excellent, but one almost yearns for hearing more from their much-loved supporting characters (Principal Skinner, Duffman, we hardly knew ye!). It's a minor gripe, but an almost impossible task to ask, since there is no way 18-years of wacky bit players can be siphoned into 90 minutes.

Where the film really reaches the same stratospheric heights (as when Homer became an astronaut) is in the writing. The film has reeled in past series' scribe vets as George Meyer, David Mirkin, Mike Scully, Mike Reiss and Jon Vitti, whose names may not mean much to the average readers, but who have collectively won more Emmys for their work than Homer's been struck in his big bald noggin.

For the first 20 minutes of the film, the jokes are released in such a rapid-fire succession that it's hard to keep up. Once the film settles into its groove, it has the feel of a film narrative, not three half-hour episodes stitched together.

The resulting film is pure, unfiltered “Simpsons” that will provide even the most cynical “Simpsons” critics more than enough to chortle about. Politics, religion, relationships and community – the show's touchstones – are all sufficiently skewered. And, like all cartoons with longevity, it has the feeling of both timeliness and timelessness. With guest stars throughout the years of everyone from weird Al Yankovic to reclusive author Thomas Pynchon (twice!), we should expect nothing less.

While they get ready to launch their 19th season on television, the creators of “The Simpsons” can rest assured that they now have yet another media to maintain immortality, and this particular fan would not have it any other way.

Quite the hold

2007-07-24T20:09:00.001-04:00

Film versions of Broadway musicals are a little like recordings of concerts. They've been cleaned up a bit, tweaked here and there and generally polished to a blinding sheen.
But this also takes away from the grit and grime of live performances that adds to the overall thrill.
Just look at the graveyard of movie musicals based on plays throughout the past few years -- “Rent,” “Phantom of the Opera” and “The Producers” are but a few (personally, I'd toss “Dreamgirls” in there, too).
Lucky for “Hairspray” though, it's roots are showing. For it began as a film, and sculpted by the grandaddy of garish garbage and glee, John Waters. After having plumbed the depths of depravity with films such as “Pink Flamingos,” “Female Trouble” and “Desperate Living,” the director's 1988 original was perhaps his most mainstream film, but it still had the tart wit and social commentary for which Waters was well-known.
That Waters vibe can be felt throughout this latest incarnation of “Hairspray” (the director even turns up for a hysterical cameo in the film's infectious opening number “Good Morning, Baltimore.”
But those who never quite enjoyed a drink from Water's cinematic well (some may say septic tank), the auteur's presence should not be a deterrent from viewing perhaps the most bubbly fun to be had at the movies so far this summer.
Following the early '60s life of young zaftig Tracy Turnblad (played by newcomer Nikki Blonsky), a marshmallow of a teen whose sole reason for living is to dance. Her main outlet to shake her generous assets is “The Corny Collins Show,” a televised Baltimore dance program where the local kids go to get their groove on.
One day a week is deigned “Negro Day,” in which local black kids can break out and boogie, so long as the floor is cleared of all white kids. The day further starches the shirts of the local programmers, including manager Velma Von Tussle (played by a much-welcomed-back Michelle Pfeiffer) who does not want her daughter's chances to be crowned the show's Miss Baltimore Crabs sullied by some dark-skinned hooligans. For the kids, of course, this day is the soul of the show, where the latest, most mod moves are on proud display.
The chubby Tracy is an outcast herself in the squeaky clean, model-thin world of TV. She soon befriends Seaweed (played by electric newcomer Elijah Kelley), one of the featured dancers on Negro Day, and the son of the day's host Motormouth Maybelle (played by magnetic-but-underused Queen Latifah).
After learning a few bold moves from her new friends, Tracy earns a spot on the show and her care-free hip-swiveling is soon earning her fans from all over the city, hon.
With the help of her best friend Penny (played by Amanda Bynes) and her parents, Tracy is determined to integrate the show, regardless of the consequences.
The flick's philosophy is one of being comfortable with who you are – regardless of size, age, race, etc. -- and there is room for everyone out there on life's dance floor. But the film never once feels preachy or synthetic, and composers Marc Shaiman and Scott Williams have ensured that you will be too busy getting caught up in the music to let things get too heavy-handed.
There is just one element of the film you may have noticed that I have yet to bring up, and that is because I really do not know what to make of it. John Travolta as Edna Turnblad – packed behind pounds of latex – a muumuu-clad mama made famous by the late Divine. His beady little eyes look like two raisins in a sea of pancake batter plastering his face. His efforts to acquire a Bal'more accent are quite distracting as well.
There are a few moments in which he once again captures that “Grease” -era exuberance, not necessarily in a dance number, but in his more tender moments as Tracy's shut-in mother. It is certainly his best performance in years, yet it was still difficult to lose sight of the fact that it was John Travolta in a fat suit (in contrast, Eddie Murphy became several diverse family members hidden behind his makeup in “The Nutty Professor”). The one time that Travolta ceases to be an actor in drag is perhaps the film's best number, a touching duet with husband Wilbur (played with feather-light feet by Christopher Walken), as they celebrate growing older with one that you love.
Overall, though, the film is completely engaging, bubbling over with heart and song, and this “Hairspary” will hold up long after leaving the theater.

'Phoenix' rises

2007-07-17T20:29:00.000-04:00

By the time this is printed, Potter-passion will have reached fever pitch, with many skimming the pages of the latest book, “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hollows” to see which of their beloved heroes survives.

While Harry, Ron and Hermoine may cast their last spell on page, fans (and nan-fans) can still drink in the magic potion on the big screen for a few more years, starting with the just-released “Order of the Phoenix,” the fifth of the seven-part series.

Each film has gained momentum in terms of storytelling, style and clarity. What makes “Phoenix” rise is what it leaves out.

Sheared of several subplots that the 807-page tome contained (adios, Ron and Hermione storylines; sayonara house elves), screenwriter Michael Goldberg keeps the hocus pocus focus solely on our titular wizard and the impending dread of a confrontation with Lord Voldemort (played by Ralph Finnes).

The result is the leanest “Potter” yet. At a taut 138 minute, “Phoenix” cuts to the quick and cuts out the Quiddich, leaving a foreboding emotional core that stands as one of the series' best.

Potter (played by the ever-studlier Daniel Radcliffe) is once again taking residence with his wretched adopted family, after surviving a near-fatal attack against Voldemort, that noseless nuisance of the Dark Arts and the one responsible for the deaths of Harry's parents.

When Harry is forced to vanquish two rogue underworld spirits by casting spells, it placed him in front of the Ministry of Magic's counsel, who seek to expel the young sorcerer from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry for practicing magic in the human world before he turned 18 (apparently magic and alcohol have a lot in common).

Rushing to his defense is Headmaster Dumbledore (Michael Gambon), who gets Harry reinstated, but whose actions rouse suspicion with the ministry that he is seeking higher office and that he actually believes that Voldemort could resurface from the depths of hell.

The deck of tarot cards seems stacked against Harry and Dumbledore, as the ministry uses a series of smears in the Ministry-controlled press. It also unleashes one of its most ferocious attack dogs upon the school.

This attack dog, however, is in the form of a fluffy pink poodle named Dolores Umbridge (impeccably played by Imelda Staunton). Topped with a pillbox hat and dressed like a dumpy tuft of cotton candy, Umbridge is all forced smiles and rigid rule-making. Her power spreads, and she ultimately replaces Dumbledore as headmaster, sending the school back to the Dark Ages of education (the references to “creationism” being acceptable in some current classrooms cannot be overlooked here).

Meanwhile, Harry leads a rebellious lot of burgeoning witches, including longtime pals Ron Weasley (played by Rupert Grint) and Hermoine Granger (played by Emma Watson), potential Potter flame Cho Chang (played by Katie Leung) and spacey newcomer Luna Lovagood (played by Emma Lynch), to prepare for the imminent Voldemort standoff they may all face.

For the makers of “Phoenix,” there was a price to pay for the film's condensed nature: many characters are introduced with little fanfare or backstory, so it's hard to invest much interest in some of the action. But director David Yates, a veteran of British television, has signed on the for the next Potter film, “The Half-Blood Prince,” so many of the development may take place in the near future.

For now, he continues to build on the franchise's momentum. Where director Chris Columbus “birthed” the series, Alfonso Cuaron added the adult edge and mystery, and Mike Newell followed up by giving “Potter” its first feel of epic sweep.

Yates manages to give his actors (and let's face it, he's got the most impressive support ensemble from the other side of the pond – Maggie Smith, Gary Oldman, David Thewlis, Julie Walters, Emma Thompson and perhaps the series' tentpole of acting, Alan Rickman) just enough time to shine without having the film feel overcrowded.

His direction has helped to make “Phoenix” Potter's most bewitching spell yet.

Feast your eyes

2007-07-17T20:24:00.000-04:00

With apologies to Pixar:

“In many ways, the work of a critic is easy. We risk very little, yet enjoy a position over those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgement. We thrive on negative criticism, which is fun to write and read. But the bitter truth we critics must face is that, in the grand scheme of things, the average piece of junk is more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times when a critic truly risks something, and that is the discovery and defense of the new. Last week, I experienced something new, and extraordinary film from a singularly expected source. To say that both the film and its makers have challenged my perceptions is a gross understatement. They have rocked me to my core.”

The above quote is lifted, (and slightly paraphrased) from the film “Ratatoille,” penned by the film's chief villain, food critic Anton Ego (voiced by Peter O'Toole, having a blast). And leave it to the maestros at Pixar to put it far more eloquently than this humble reviewer ever could.
Seriously, I am running out of superlatives for these guys.

Each successive film stuns and delights and makes minor improvements over the pervious. This is not to say that this is a better film than “The Incredibles,” but there are refinements made that make aspects of this film richer than before. Even Pixar's sole misstep, “Cars,” was light-years beyond any other animated film released that year.

So thoroughly are the films realized, that each elements that makes the whole is a master class – design, character development, story, even cinematography, if that is possible for an animated film.

While “Shrek” continues to hang its hat on the same tired gags and pop-culture references, and other animation studios rush to cash in on the latest market craze (fractured fairy tales, talking penguins), Pixar forges ahead in the market, constantly tweaking their product to enhance each and every aspect.

And the leader of these animated expeditions is director Brad Bird. Cutting his teeth on “The Simpsons,” and creating one of two-dimensional animation's last great achievements, “The Iron Giant,” Bird pushed Pixar to navigate uncharted waters with the studio's animation apex “The Incredibles.”

In “Ratatoille,” he's created another classic for their canon.

Pemy (voiced by comedian Patton Oswald) is a rat with a highly refined sense of culinary creations. Not satisfied with dining on the discarded refuse of his human hosts, Remy seeks out singular foods and flavors fussed over only rabid fans of “Emeril Live.”
His discriminating dining is a mystery to his brother Emile (animator Peter Sohn) and father Django (Brian Dennehy), who have no qualms with blue fuzz on their cheese and warn Remy of rodents who mix too closely with the human world.

Guided by his quest for superior sustenance, as well as a ghost of once-esteemed French chef Gusteau (voiced by Brad Garrett), Remy winds up in the City of Lights and befriends a hapless kitchen helper named Linguini (voiced by Lou Ramano).

Their inter-species camaraderie blossoms in Gusteau's formerly famous restaurant that has since suffered the perils of over-marketing thanks to its angry little sawed-off chef (voiced by Ian Holm), who pimps out the Gusteau name to everything from BBQ ribs to tacos.
Meanwhile, Linguini rises through the ranks, from garbage boy to chef, with the help of Remy quite literally pulling some strings for him. You see, Remy gets housed under his toque and manipulates his limbs by pulling tufts of Linguini's hair.

How this stumblebum of an young man can create such masterful meals astounds his boss and his co-workers (and the slapstick antics are right out of a Jerry Lewis textbook... the film is set in France, you know), including the aggressive Collette (wonderfully voiced by Janeane Garfalo).
In fact, this film is filled with many voices from noticeable actors that fly under the radar until the end credits. Where many animated films get lost in fawning over merely having a celebrity lend his or her name to a project (Justin Timberlake? Cameron Diaz? Ashton Kutcher?), Bird required his actors to get lost in their roles, treating them as though it were no different than a live-action film.

That is only part of “Ratatoille's” appeal.

Comedy, drama and action are all handled lovingly and expertly, even if the film's core message – to set aside differences and appreciate one's qualities on an indivdual basis – is time-worn.
Visually sumptuous, dramatically rich and simmering with warmth and compassion for all its characters, “Ratatoille” is yet another fine dish prepared up from an animation studio that always seems to serve its product with only the finest ingredients.

The Trannies are back!

2007-07-03T19:04:00.000-04:00

I remember my first car. It was a 1978 canary yellow Honda Civic given to me by my aunt and uncle. Had it the ability to transform, my guess is that it would morph into a roller skate. Not a pair, mind you. A single skate.

Now, thanks to director Michael Bay and the fine folks at the Hasbro toy company, my imagination can run wild with all the many wondrous things it could have been. Like, say, a convection oven or a waffle maker, as the AC frequently did not work.

“Transformers,” this summer's tentpole motion picture, thunders into theaters like an orgy of geek-boy (and -girl) fantasies.

Bay know the childhood of many who grew up in the 80s, as well as those still young enough to play with toys, is on the line, as the “Transformers” played such a pivotal playtime role. And while the director has certainly taken lumps for putting the “bomb” in “bombastic” (*cough* “Pearl Harbor” *cough* “Bad Boys 2” *cough* “The Island” *cough*), he is certainly the right man to direct what is essentially a two-plus-hour car commercial.

Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Packed from engine to trunk with every element necessary for a summer popcorn flick (aspects of “Jurassic Park,” “King Kong,” “Top Gun,” “Fast and the Furious,” “The Terminator” and “The Matrix” are all present and accounted for), “Transformers” marks the true official start of the summer movie season.

For those of you who cannot distinguish an Autobot from a Go-Bot (Kenner's cheapie knock-off toy released soon after Transformer's success), fear not. For there is much upon which to feast your peepers.

Industrial Light and Magic once again raises the bar, melding the computer generated with the real world. The transformations from vehicle to robots are seamless and when battles begin, you can almost smell the charred metal in the air. Though WETA (Peter Jackson's special effects company) still hold the crown for creating the most human computer imaging, ILM knows a thing or three about shiny mechanical things.

The film is also indebted to the slight shoulders of Shia LaBeouf, on which the film's human element rests. On a lesser actor, the role of a car- and girl-crushing teen may have been mere filler between fights. But, as Sam Witwicky, LaBeouf creates a relatable, compassionate lead that lifts the film above the cliché-riddled script.

Many go through life without witnessing a celestial event, but they can surely behold the birth of a star in “Transformers.” This kid has some sort of likability gene spliced in his DNA that few actors possess (Will Smith, Tom Cruise and Tom Hanks are the most recent cases in which it has been found). He is capable of rooting in humanity a film about giant battling robots.
Sam is an everyday kid, not thinking twice about pawning his great, great-grandfather's goods so that he can obtain the car of his dreams (or, at least the car of his allowance savings), and therefore obtain the girl of his dreams Mikaela Banes (played by Megan Fox, living up to her surname, if little else).

But his ancestral artifacts also hold a key to the whereabouts of an energy cube that could decide the fate between two clans of rivaling intergalactic robots. It may also save civilization as we know know it.

If it sounds just too plain kooky for you, than perhaps your ticket would be best spent purchasing the best-selling novel “A Thousand Splendid Suns,” by Khaled Hosseini and curling up on that beach chair. But you may also be robbing yourself of one of the pure, simple concepts of going to the movies in the first place. To see “ Transformers” in a crowded theater with cheering, chuckling fans is one of the few joys left to watching films outside the home (there is also an evil Transformer that changes into a cell phone, which cause some of the younger audience members to think twice before flipping it open and chatting).

To catch it at home on DVD is missing the point.

“Transformers” may not change the minds of many who dismiss director Bay as a talentless hack with an itchy finger on the explosives button, but for once the director has found a home for his munitions porn. He can direct booming action sequences with all the finesse and grace of a ballet. And, thankfully, the film is constructed for just that reason.

Silly, schmaltzy, loud and proud -- “Transformers” is comfortable with its niche, and has the ability to shape-shift your cash into mindless cinematic fun.

Can Willis still get 'Hard'?

2007-07-01T18:47:00.000-04:00

Man, oh man, Baby Boomers are certainly scared of accepting that AARP membership.
To wit, James Bond, a staple in the Boomers' cinematic diet, returned last year reinvigorated and as nimble and ferocious as ever. Sylvester Stallone, 61, proved he could still pummel a young buck to the floor in last year's “Rocky Balboa.” And now Bruce Willis is attempting to prove that sexagenarians can still “Die Hard.”
Better than it has any right being, “Live Free or Die Hard,” the latest installment in the franchise, is reminiscent of the nostalgia-fueled fun of “Balboa” in its dusty charms. Even though it deals with computer hacking geeks as its main villains, it's still decidedly old school when it comes to much of the action.
By the time this review is published, the box office will be topped with rats and robots that represent the latest in computer-generated wizardry.
But New York cop John McClane (played by Willis) is a rotary phone in a cellular age – clunky, a little slow to connect, but built solidly and dependably. Willis knows this, and while he still manages to squirrel his way through a maze of peril, he puts to work his acting skills honed from his years of non-action roles.
It all should not perform as well as it does. Every ingredient on paper adds to a recipe for disaster – a relatively unknown director (Les Wiseman, of the two crappy “Underworld” flicks”), a wise-cracking young sidekick (played by Justin Long), and, perhaps worst of all, a PG-13 rating.
The latter means when it comes time to yell out his catch phrase, McClane instead mumbles a neutered “Yippy-kay-yay, motherfu(BOOM)!” Yes, it's a cop out, especially for a film featuring a man who once sprinted barefoot across broken glass. And several scenes look like a badly dubbed Japanese monster movie, in which the actors' words clearly don't match their lips, suggesting an “R” rating was the original intent before Fox studios smelled more money in the former rating.
But just as sure as McClane will somehow unwit the techno-terrorists, you can rest assured that there is many a thrill to be had. “Live Free or Die Hard” is the equivalent to chancing your luck on one of those old wooden roller coasters – it has weathered with time and you get this sense that it may jump the tracks at any given moment, but somehow you remain sturdily on course.
Though Willis must share credit for this one. Long, the ubiquitous Mac ad poster boy, is a comfortable tagalong as Matt Farrell, bringing a 21st century commentary to our belligerently 20th century hero.
While chief criminal Thomas Gabriel (played by Timothy Olyphant) is suitably smarmy, he's certainly no Hans Grueber, the immortal rogue embodied by Alan Rickman in the first film. Fortunately, his first-in-command is Mai Lihn (played by Maggie Q), who is glamorously lethal (or perhaps lethally glamorous) and provides perhaps the film's best fight scene. Her sultry style of fighting gives new meaning to the term “Die Hard.”
Like it's title, the film goes on for a little longer than it should – tossing out the tired, unfunny Kevin Smith cameo and the action centerpiece between an 18-wheeler and a fighter jet should be the first to go.
Yet seeing Willis wheeze his way through another improbable, life-threatening mission elicits the same giddy, guilty pleasures as seeing Stallone drag his brittle-but-Bowflex-sculpted carcass to the canvas one last time.
Willis' easygoing demeanor is pivotal to “Live Free or Die Hard's” enjoyment, making it one fu(BOOM!) good time at the summer box office.

A 'Shining' Lite

2007-06-25T22:32:00.000-04:00

For all their sunny, homey décor, hotels can be rather scary places.
Urban legends of lodging abound, from hidden videocameras and guests' toothbrushes crammed in the orifices from disgruntled staff, to unwilling kidney donations and bodies found in the mattresses (the latter of which is actually true).
My wife and I even encountered our own nightmare stay at a certain hotel in Seattle, on our way home from our honeymoon, where some spirits had apparently soiled our sheets, left a case of empty beer cans outside our window and an angry apparition scrambled the television, so that we could only watch fuzzy reruns of Oprah.
But taking a tip from Stephen King, director Mikael Hafstrom unleashes hotel hell upon a cynical writer by the name of Mike Enslin (played by John Cusak) in “1408,” a new thriller with an old-school scare vibe coursing through its veins.
Based on a short story written in his “Everything's Eventual” compilation of 14 short stories, King's tale of a creepy crib in New York City pulls out all the stops in its effort to jumpstart our jaded horror expectations at the box office.
Enslin is a slept-there, debunked-that nonfiction writer who compiles lists of scary stays across the U.S.A. His books are only mildly met by the public, as the author himself does not believe, even though his writing does not necessarily pass judgement on such locales. His past (which is detailed throughout the film) has left him without faith and marginal enthusiasm for his chosen profession.
But an anonymous postcard taunting him to stay at an upscale auberge piques his interest, and he quickly sets out to the posh accommodations of New York's infamous Dolphin Hotel, in which many a guest has committed acts of atrocity in the titular room.
Simply put by the hotel's manager, Mr. Olin (played by Samuel L. Jackson), “No one's lasted over an hour in there... It's an evil f***ing room.”
You said it, brother.
Almost before Enslin can unpack his luggage, the clock radio menacingly blares “We've Only Just Begun,” by the Carpenters, and the clock's time resets itself to a countdown, starting with 60 minutes.
The rest of the film is filled with demons (both of the hotel and of Enslin's past) as the room decides to take the writer down its wicked little rabbit hole.
And since it takes predominantly in a single room with one actor, “1408” would not be worth its ectoplasm were it not for the unquestionable talents of Cusak. We believe every note of his performance, as he walks in the room a skeptic, becomes mildly anxious and heads into full-tilt terror by the final minutes of his “stay.”
The actor possesses a built-in likability through his decades on screen that has us immediately on his side, rooting for his well-being. And when he arrives at the hotel, his verbal sparring with Jackson holds the same intensity as the famous DeNiro-Pacino diner sit-down in Michael Mann's “Heat.” For the Cusak devotee, there are also a few nods to his past films scattered throughout that are subtly amusing.
And while the film's allegorical underpinnings may not satisfactorily conclude its gradual buildup, the film's style and bag of tricks sate our expectations. It relies on the out-of-nowhere crashes and thumps, but it also slowly and effectively piles on the dread, thanks in large part to the director Hafstrom, who shows much more promise here than his limp Jennifer Aniston thriller “Derailed” a few years back.
“1408” should also be credited with its ability to legitimately creep out viewers without having to goose them with gore, which seems to be the current trend.
And while it may not by the Four Seasons of horror, viewers can get more amenities from their stay at this hotel than a “Hostel” any day.

'Four' on the floor

2007-06-18T19:51:00.000-04:00

Mouth agape, I begin this column. For the world's most spiritless superheroes have once again conquered the box office, with their utterly insipid sequel, “Fantastic Four: The Rise of the Silver Surfer.”
Instead of going through the phone-book-sized list of all that is wrong with this film, I decided to dedicate this column to pitch some ideas to you, the reader. As it has proven that a film with almost any superhero is capable of making a mint, so long as it is torn from the pages of an actual comic book.
I decided to comb through the archives of D.C., Marvel and lesser-known publishers' vaults for some of the long-forgotten heroes of yore. I am now convinced with some updated plots, proper nerd-demographic marketing and sub-standard CGI, that any one of these characters could make a mint at the box office (remember, these are actual character creations from comics).
Let me know what you think, and let's greenlight these suckers! (click on the link to view pictures and learn more about these superheroes)

Shaloman: A superhero, created by Al Weisner in the '80s, to give Jewish children a positive role model, Shaloman is actually made of granite and springs to life with a thundering “Oy Vey!” when he senses evil (I swear I'm not making this up).
The new plot: A gang of rouge rabbis begin swiping sacred artifacts from temples across the country to sell on the black market and fund their ambitions of creating a nuclear weapon.
The tagline: This summer, you have to be meshugener to miss “Shaloman!”
Hummingbird: Standing a majestic six inches in height, ornithologist Alan Laurel was Hummingbird, a superhero whose sole power was to telepathically speak to certain species of birds. He once fought off criminals with a pencil.
The new plot: A megalomaniacal scientist starts injecting birds at an aviary to create an army of winged mercenaries. But what he did not count on, was the superhero the size of a peanut to be whirring about and put an end to his evil plan.
The tagline: This summer, see what all the buzz is about!
Vita-Man: A research scientist named Will Wheeler created pills that would bring out the best in human abilities (one for strength, one for constitution, one for, ahem, speed). It's a wonder why this pill-popper did not survive into the 21st century!?
The new plot: Victor Viagra decides to gobble all of Dr. Wheeler's panacea pills and goes on a rampage that lasts for days without sleep, including several frequent stops to the local brothels. It's up to Vita-Man to give Victor's attention a little deficit disorder.
The tagline: Quit fiddlin' with Ritalin; stop crammin' the Ambien – There's only one pill for society's ills – Vita-Man!
Nature Boy: It could be his fashionable extra-large belt, or those skin-tight skivvies of his, but Nature Boy looks way too happy to be concerned about nabbing bad guys. He was rescued at sea by Neptune and various other gods and goddesses of the ocean and land and granted the powers of the earth (like overpopulation, global warming and acid rain?).
The new plot: When a group of cub scouts get stranded after a rafting-and-camping trip gone awry, Nature Boy swoops in to save the little lads and still has time to join them for a wiener roast.
The tagline: This summer, Nature calls.
Toy Boy: Little Jason Kriter was the son of the most wealthy man on the planet, so whatever little Jason wants, little Jason gets. So the little silver spoon-fed capitalist brat decides to amass a cadre of futuristic weapons to fight evil.
The new plot: A group of escaped cons begin knocking over banks during the holiday season, dressed in a Santa suits they stole from a department store. Jason, not wanting the good name of the Father Christmas besmirched, hunts down each and every last one in brutal, ritualistic style. Because this film is a holiday release (ensuring a marketing blitz of Toy Boy merchandise) , he also wins the hearts of all the little boys and girls in his neighborhood, as he designs them toys which can also be used as weapons, thereby assembling a legion of crime-fighting ankle-biters.
The tagline: This Christmas, there's only one “Toy” you need.
Minute-Man: Created in 1941, Jack Weston was an ordinary schmo who wanted to do more for the war, so he became a one-man army dressed as the American Flag and taking on the enemy single-handedly.
The new plot: In an update for the modern age, “The Minute Man” is laced with double entendres to add that comedic “edge.” And the character's alter-ego's name is changed...to George W. Bush.
The tagline: There's only one surge necessary for “Minute Man.”
The Fab Four: Yes, a direct knockoff to the Fantastic Four (and a chance to capitalize on the height of the Beatles popularity in the '60s), four “ordinary, science-loving teens” (there's an oxymoron) are zapped into their alter-egos: El, Polymer Polly, Hy and, yes Crispy, who, despite his heat-inspired name possessed the ability to freeze things.
The new plot: During a science expo with a rival high school, the Fab Four notice that one student listed Beryllium's atomic number as 9.01219 instead of 9.01218. Chaos ensues.
The tagline: The Fab Four: Putting the “Noble” in “Noble Gasses.”
Silkie: If you thought Aquaman was the nadir of suckage as far as superpowers, take a gander at Silkie (even her name sounds like some sort of fabric softener). Tracy Winters, a former marine biologist, is amphibious and “aquakinetic” (she talks to fish). So, apparently, if any criminal decides to hideout in Atlantis, they're in for an ass-whuppin'.
The new plot: A renegade group of whale poachers are operating a worldwide blubber ring until the cross the watery path of the soggy Silkie.
The tagline: This summer, adventure is all wet.
Skateman: A former Vietnam vet, Billy Moon is now the pride of the Roller Derby. (Yeah, I remember my childhood being spent muscled out of the “all skate” circles by those damned camo-wearing soldiers.) Aside from his groovin' moves on wheels, he also cradles a utility belt with a stash of weapons But Skateman does not go it alone. He's accompanied by his faithful skateboarding sidekick, Paco.
The new plot: The local roller rink is closed down to pave way for a nuclear testing lab. Leave it to Skateman and Paco to unleash a torrent of four-wheeled justice on the evil scientists in the lab.
The tagline: Skateman: He's hell on wheels!
The Green Lama: A millionaire college student heads of to Tibet for postgrad work, and, after years of meditation and becoming a priest, returns with superhuman powers to fight evil. Oh, those ultra-violent Buddhists!
The new plot: A young sociopath begins entering the minds of others during silent meditation, transforming their thought to do his evil bidding. That is, until the Lama enters the picture, espouses his karmic cantations and scares them all right into their next lives.
The tagline: Everyone needs a hero every now and Zen.

No Triskaidekaphobia here

2007-06-11T21:34:00.000-04:00

There is much joy to be had from a trip to the ocean – be it Atlantic, Pacific or even Billy.

Two year’s ago, George Clooney, Brad Pitt and company, though, gave us the cinematic equivalent to sand in our shorts with “Ocean’s Twelve,” a sloppy, self-serving in-joke that all but ruined any considerable charm its original, “Ocean’s Eleven,” had garnered.

And while the film still went on to gross a considerable amount of money, it was hard to find someone who actually liked the film. Critically, it was a polluted “Ocean.”

But director Steven Soderbergh – one of the most flexible, risk-taking lensmen working today – was not about to sit around crying about the drubbing the film received. Instead, he and the crew reunited to issue a celluloid apology in the form of a sequel.

“Ocean’s Thirteen” could actually be titled “Ocean’s Eleven Point Five” or “Ocean’s Let’s Pretend the Last One Never Existed.” Regardless of the name, the con is on, once again back in the cold comforts of Las Vegas, and all involved could not appear happier to be home after their European vacation.

The plot is simple yet impossible to follow. I will try to elaborate. Reuben (played by Elliott Gould), who was considered a patriarchical member of the group, was swindled out of millions by Willie Bank (played by Al Pacino), a skeevy little casino owner. The devastation caused him a near-fatal attack on his ticker, and pissed off his accomplices, mainly Danny Ocean (Clooney), Rusty (Pitt), Linus (played by Matt Damon) and Basher (played by Don Chealdle). The rest of the film is devoted to the gang exacting revenge and breaking the Bank.

In order to do this, though, takes logistical precision that would require audiences to break out their protractors and slide rules – dice must be unevenly weighted, elevators must be dodged, women seduced, factories overthrown and earth must be moved (quite literally).

After weeks of bemoaning the fact that this summer’s sequels have bitten off far more than they can chew, I must admit that the overstuffed shenanigans actually help the film. Danny and his boys meet each as a challenge, not an obstacle, which adds to their hepcat cache. They make time to joke, glide, jostle and spar while the chaotic caper is being pulled off, unfazed that their odds of success are less likely than a John McCain presidential endorsement from Clooney.

The regulars all return (Bernie Mac, Casey Affleck, Scott Caan, Carl Reiner), with Pacino and Ellen Barkin rounding out this go-round’s bakers dozen. Pacino, in a role that could have easily caused him to flip his acting switch to full-tilt “screaming” mode, opts instead for the verbal valium, where his cigarette-scarred whisper becomes much more sinister. And putting the “kick” in sidekick, Barkin makes a welcome return to the public’s eye since starring in her own very public and very nasty divorce from billionaire Rob Perelman.

Throughout it Byzantine plot, “Thirteen” pauses for a solo from each of its players on its overcrowded stage. And whether its Matt Damon’s Linus attempting to enchant Barkin’s character, Affleck’s Virgil inciting a riot as an employee at a Mexican dice-making factory, or Chealdle’s Basher impersonating a Kenievel-esque daredevil, all seem to be having an infectiously good time, it’s hard not to get swept up.

It would also be a crime not to mention the once-again swingin’ score from David Holmes who fuses the frivolity with a soundtrack that would make the original Rat Pack proud.

Though the superfluously serpentine plot of “Ocean’s Thirteen” may pretend otherwise, the film’s not interested in keeping its audience riveted with the intricate twists and turns. It’s as though director Soderbergh was attempting to recreate the glitz of Vegas on screen with his stars’ wattage and camaraderie.

Whether it’s the shiny slot-machine-smile of Brad Pitt or the line delivery of Clooney’s line delivery, smooth as blackjack table velvet, ‘Thirteen” tempts you to come join in the fun and let what happens in the theater, stay in the theater.

No Small Affair

2007-06-04T22:35:00.000-04:00

Coyote ugly. Operationally attractive. Bar troll. Shame shower. Beer curtains. Cider visor. Booty stupid.

Take your pick of euphemisms (there are plenty more, but they go downhill from here), each refer to the same thing – the alcohol-laced liaison that is regretted the moment the buzz wears off.

These momentary lapses in judgment usually carry a sentence only as long as the following week (an awkward exchange of numbers, an apology of having to leave rather abruptly. etc).

But what if that mojito-fueled mattress mambo resulted in an unexpected bun in the oven?
That is the premise of the sweet-and-raunchy new comedy from writer/director Judd Apatow (“The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” television’s “Freaks and Geeks”), with “Knocked Up.”

And with this film, Apatow seems to have perfected his formula for blending frat-boy humor with chick-flick sensibilities. Comedically speaking, those two genres sound about as well-matched as Rob Schnieder and Jean Claude Van Damme in “Knock Off.” But with Apatow’s authentic ear for dialogue (from both men and women) and his ability to provide an environment in which every one of his actors can deliver natural, unrestrained performances, the genres could not be better suited for one another.

The same cannot be said for Ben Stone and Alison Scott, though.

A famous philosopher once said “Comedy Isn’t Pretty” (actually, it wasn’t a philosopher, but Steve Martin… and it was just the title of his comedy album). Ladies and gentlemen, I give you exhibit A – Seth Rogan. Rogan plays lead Stone (as well as serving as the film’s executive producer), a fleshy, moley, hirsute man-child with an ungainly explosion of curlicues on his noggin and a penchant for his buds – both human and herbal. He is most likely the last person to bag a gal like Alison Scott (played by Katherine Heigl), a perky, bleach blonde employee for the E! Channel who is at the local trendy club celebrating a new promotion.

Ben and his pals are also carousing the joint and happen upon Alison and her sister Debbie (played by Leslie Mann). They exchange mild barside banter and even though Ben's got considerable self-deprecating charm, his ursine features barely cause Alison to bat an eye.

But, after a few Jell-o shooters are thrown in the mix...

The rest of the film is dedicated to them coping with the results of their coupling. An abortion is never really considered (and it would really limit the film's running time to about a half hour), and the two attempt to get to know one another as their little fling fetus begins to wreak havoc with Alison's hormones.

Alison's only matrimonial model is her squawking sis and her henpecked hubby Pete (played by the always hilarious Paul Rudd), who, after 10 years of marriage, have no idea how to cope with one another. And Ben is just as content hanging with his homies in dilapidated digs that most likely reeks of stale bong water. The layabouts spend most of the day scanning films for nudity to catalogue on their website concept. They include Jason Segel and Martin Starr of the director's “Geeks,” Jonah Hill of “Virgin” and Jay Baruchel of Apatow's other cult (meaning: quickly cancelled) TV show “Undeclared.”

Each of the performers are allowed to freely riff and rip on each other, and every one of them feels authentic.

There are also a number of other cameos throughout that give “Knocked Up” a morning-after glow: “SNL's” Kristen Wiig is sublimely hilarious as Alison's not-so-friendly co-worker, Ken Jeong as the no-nonsense OB-GYN, and, yes, Ryan Seacrest as himself delivering a deliciously caustic rant on the current cult of personalities.

It is all familiar territory, but “Knocked Up's” loosey-goosey semblance and sensitivity to both sexes keep the comedy from being stillborn. And for a film that runs a little over two hours, that is no small feat (forget Hollywood's current smoking ban, they should really crack down on negligent editing).

Rogan, like Steven Carell did two summers ago in “Virgin,”will cement himself as top-tier talent after this film (he has also been a writer for “Da Ali G Show,” “Undeclared” and the upcoming summer release “Superbad”). Equal parts Albert Brooks, Cheech Marin and a dirty mop, Rogan is capable of carving a unique little niche for his easygoing, obscenity-laden shtick.

Heigl is serviceable, and is capable of flickers of wit, but the real female comedy comes from a Mann... Leslie Mann, that is. Her scathing tantrums are given a poignancy that allow her character justification to her sometimes shrewish behavior.

There are too many good lines to spoil for you in a review (besides, you are going to hear many of them repeated ad nauseam by teens and single dudes at bars for the remainder of the summer). I will say that you may never view the Cirque du Soliel the same way again.

“Knocked Up” is the perfect adult antidote to the noisy, showy mayhem that has thus far marked summer cinema. Even though it may go a little past its due date with its running time, it is an emotionally complex, hysterically astute observation of one of life's little unplanned adventures.

Pirates of the Caribbean: At Wit's End

2007-05-28T22:26:00.000-04:00

Since there was so much hoopla over the fact that Rolling Stone Keith Richard (for whom Johnny Depp partly based his infamous Jack Sparrow) makes a cameo in the third voyage of “Pirates of the Caribbean,” titled “At World's End,” I thought it fitting to surmise the film by quoting from the band's decade-spanning hit list: “You can't always get what you want,but if you try sometimes, you get what you need.”

Giving the crowd just that and little more is what “At World's End” is all about. It wraps up the loose strings (at least, I think it did), but swings the door wide open for more sequels to come.

“Worl'd End” is all about high seas and low expectations. Captain Sparrow and crew are certainly all booty-licious as the main scalawags, but a beast larger than the Kraken is impeding their journey this time, and that is the script.

Suffering the same fate as a certain cinematic web-slinger and bog-dweller, this ship is far too crowded to truly set sail at full speed. Sparrow, last we saw, was getting swallowed by the fabled Kraken, and at the start of the third film, Will Turner (played by Orlando Bloom) and his ladylove Elizabeth Swann (played by Kiera Knightly) team up with Captain Barbossa (played by Geoffrey Rush) to rescue him from the depths of Davy Jones' Locker.

Meanwhile, a gathering of pirate lords is summoned to face off against Britain's East India Trading Company, who has sided with Davy Jones (played by Bill Nighy) in order to rid the seas of the sailing scoundrels.

With all that, the film's cup of grog runneth over. But writers Ted Elliott and Terry Rossio toss in additional tales of Bootstrap Bill, Calypso and a Singapore swab named Sao Feng (played by Chow Yun-Fat) until the the audience feels as though it's been made to “kiss the gunner's daughter” (go ahead, maties, look that one up, but don't consult any Disney pirate book for it's meaning, because I assure you it will not be found in there).

It's as though the filmmakers (including returning helmer Gore Verbinski and producer Jerry Buckheimer) were too busy knotting up the frayed remains of the past films that they forgot to wedge in the whimsy that made the first film such a left-field delight.

And for once, Johnny Depp, for all his flittering and fluttering, does not own the show. Sure, his triple-crossing old salt Captain Jack is essential to the trilogy's mast appeal (sorry for that one), it's been upstaged by so much noise and sabre-rattling that it becomes lost in storm of story.

The rest of the cast is as good as can be hoped for, with Bloom and Knightly feeling more comfortable in their rum-soaked surroundings and add a little more swash to their buckles as the matinee “heroes” of the pictures.

But Rush, as Captain Barbossa, and Nighy, under pounds of pixels as the squidly-diddly Davy Jones, are perched up on the crow's nest, kicking up theirs peg legs in a fit of merriment and own most of the scenes in which they are featured.

The rest of the film focuses on a plot so aggressive, that everything about “World's End” -- even the comical bits of which there are a few – seem labored and ultimately drydocked.

Technically, the “Pirates” series remains a marvel. The seamless sea-faring and monstrous Flying Dutchman crew are still wondrous in their fluidity and detail, as are the number of explosive set pieces in which splinters of debris shower the crew as cannonballs tear through decks.

Fans may be more forgiving, if only to spend a few hours (it clocks in at almost three) in an air-conditioned theater to gaze upon the bronzed visages of Depp or Bloom, or to chortle each time the film resorts to a monkey reaction shot. Or even to cheer at the brief appearance of that famous Rolling Stone when he rears his weathered head (a head which no amount of computers could airbrush into something resembling a human).

And while “Pirates” is not as bad as the two other “three-quels” that have recently stuffed the screens, it is still a weak (but perhaps brief) send-off to a grotesquely amusing cinematic hero and his crew. So far, the summer “blockbusters” may be shattering records left and right, but keep tabs on the precipitous drop during their second weeks of these films' releases. Each week of the summer movie season can be summed up by paraphrasing yet another Stones' ditty: “I said baby I'll come back, maybe next week, 'cuz I think I'm on a losing streak.”

For more movie reviews, check out Rector's website “Use Soap” at “mysite.verizon.net/beachrun113.”

2007-05-19T19:43:00.001-04:00

Ogre and done with
It took three films to do it, but the animated tale of a grumpy green giant and his fairy tale buddies has finally lost its “Shrek” appeal.
Now it's more along the lines of “What the Shrek were they thinking?
Though, to be fair, the “Shrek' franchise never had the sturdiest legs on which to stand. It had moments of brilliance, but was at times too caught up in its pop-culture relevance to withstand the aging process gracefully (let's just say that Smash Mouth and Ricky Martin both owe this cartoon a piece of their souls in turn for their DVD immortality).
With “Shrek the Third” the francjise that had once elicited so muck fun in the swamps and bogs has now become swamped and bogged down.
But don't take my word for it. During a recent kid-friendly matinee at the Movies and Midway, I counted three times in which the Dora the Explorer set broke out in honest laughter over the course of the film's 94-minute run time.
Suffering the same “Spiderman 3” story-stuffing syndrome, “Shrek the Third”is a clear-cut example of the law of diminishing returns.
Realizing that they may have apparently skewered the library of “happily ever after” offerings, the film's team of four writers decided to incorporate Arthurtian Legend as well, and the result feels like dungeon clean-up duty.
Shrek (voiced by a seemingly tired Mike Myers) and Fiona (voiced by the limited range of Cameron Diaz) are now faced with impending parenthood and royalty. Fiona is carrying around a bundle of blobbly, greed, flatulent joy, and her father, the Frog King literally croaked, leaving Shrek to rule the land of Far, Far Away.
In a desperate attempt to elude the latter responsibility, Shrek sets sail to find the only other living heir, a child who will be King Arthur, but who likes to go by the name of Artie (voiced by a disturbingly falsetto Justin Timberlake). Artie is a awkward youth who sepnds his days at a medieval high school that resembles a cross between Hogwart's Academy and Sweet Valley High.
There is also a too-little-too-late female-empowerment side story featuring a brief inclusion of Snow White, Rapunzel, Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. But it only serves a non-sequitur, sladash afterthought, much like the random bizarre addition of frogs singing “Live and Let Die” at the Frog King's funeral.
The result is nowhere near as amusing as it may potentially read.
The only returning actor who still manages to breathe life into the proceedings is Antonio Bandaras' Puss In Boots. Puss is a feline Cassanova with a stray cat strut and shows that his kitty still has claws for comedy.
Donkey (voiced by Eddie Murphy) has been relegated to the fifth (or fifteenth) wheel, and merely blends into the scenery. He offers none of the punchy dialogue that ruled Shrek's first outing, proving he is a one-trick Donkey.
Eric Idle as Merlin the Magician is the only new voice with distinction, but even his presence is a reminder of a far funnier take on the whole Knights of the Round Table tale, “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.”
When the film slows to its requisite “lesson learning” mode, it also feels forced and out of place after attempting to stick in the gut of so many happy endings it attempts to skewer.
There is talk of three more Shreks to come down the pipeline, with a possible Puss in Boots spinoff (please, if there is a animation god, do not drag his good name through the kitty litter).
One can only hope that when the writers sit down to devise yet another addition to the “Shrek” film family, they will follow in the true footsteps of an ogre and eat its offspring.
For more movie reviews, check out Rector's website “Use Soap” at “mysite.verizon.net/beachrun113.”

Zombie Nation

2007-05-14T20:41:00.000-04:00

There is a cinematic voice that has relegated to caricature until recently.

They have been typecast to roles marked by stereotypical behaviors that are simply unfounded, unwarranted and, quite frankly, downright bigoted.

It is only in the past few years that these individuals, no doubt fueled by some politically charged union lobbying in their favor, have seen roles for them flourish into more broader, richly textured characters that capture their subtler shades, their wit, their hopes, their dreams, and their pain.

I am speaking, of course, about the undead.

Carelessly branded “zombies” by a thoughtless, uncaring world, these legions of cinematic legacies have for years brought so much to our moviegoing experience, yet have typically asked for so little – perhaps just the brain of the living here or there.

“28 Days Later” broke the mold of typical undead parable, introducing us to a side of zombies seldom seen in motion pictures. Where before they were only viewed as slowly lumbering beasts, obsessed only with murder, decomposition and matters of the flesh, they were depicted (after being infected with the Rage Virus) in a different light – a more limber, agile entity and gave them a heretofore unseen breadth.

“28 Months Later” takes up the tale, well, 28 months later. The “rage virus” that mutated the masses throughout Britain in the first film has now apparently been contained.

America has sent its military might to contain the viral insurgency, establish a “green zone” of safety and restore democracy to the nation. All that was missing was a behemoth “Mission: Accomplished” banner hanging off ol’ Big Ben.

Of course, just like our current real-world occupation, things just aren’t that simple.

The virus has been living in a host who has shown a surprising immunity to its typical side effects (side effects of Rage Virus may include: blood-stained eyes, heightened sensitivity to just about everything, uncontrollable fits of fury, insatiable hunger for human destruction, vomiting blood and minor cramping. Please consult your doctor.).

The host (played by Catherine McCormack) is taken to the military hospital for observation. She will also be reunited with her husband (played by the weasel-featured Robert Carlyle of ‘Trainspotting”). Of course, the reunion may be bittersweet, as hubby high-tailed it out of the house when he thought his wife was being ripped apart by zombies (I’m pretty sure Hallmark has not invented a card line to apologize for that just yet).

Their two children (played by unfortunately named newcomers Imogen Poots and Mackintosh Muggleton) were on a school trip in Spain during the initial breakout and are not just being allowed back home to merry old England.

Meanwhile, even though the general public was being told that they were in the “last throes” of the virus, it seems to have struck again and this new strand is pretty pissed.

The kids, with the help of a an Army doctor (played by Rose Byrne) and a sympathetic sniper (played by Jeremy Renner), may just hold the key to stop the virus and therefore must make it out of the contained city before the military attempts a shock-and-awe bombing in an attempt to eradicate the diseased minions.

The 2002 original, “28 Days” was a nihilistic romp that played on fears of Ebola, AIDS, Mad Cow and other pandemics that threatened quality of life.

The sequel takes on the current U.S. occupation in Iraq as its target and gets more mileage out of metaphor than thought possible.
Danny Boyle, the talented writer/director of the original stepped aside to executive producer status, letting Juan Carols Fresnadillo take the wheel as both director and co-writer.

His taste as director may leave many with motion sickness (or just plain sickness, as appropriate for any film that focuses on a Rage Virus), and others with hearing loss.

But this is not a typical hyper-edited, wall-shaking bit of summer fluff. Fresnadillo was responsible for the intriguing oddity “Intacto” a few years ago, and he sharpens his sensibilities with “28 Weeks.”

The chaotic camerawork is purposeful (capturing the virus’ ferocity and the utter confusion it creates for those trying to establish order as it spreads) and is spliced with lucid moments of loss, betrayal, determination and primal fear.

Also, the film should be credited for its call to arms for the undead – to prove that they can be productive members of society. As we’ve seen in more recent zombie films, they are capable of love (“Braindead”) humor (“Shaun of the Dead”) and empathy (“Fido”).

Can it be too far off until we see some decaying corpse saunter up to a stage some awards night, hands trembling as he holds his statuette for his dramatic work, a tear running down his blood-stained cheek? That is, before he leaps into the audience and tears the flesh off a few other guests.

Tell me that would not be an Oscar Night ratings booster.

2007-05-07T19:23:00.000-04:00

This 'Spider' bites
“Spiderman 3” can be likened to that person on the beach in that tiny swimsuit getting all the attention.

But not the good kind.

We've all seen that person. The one whose weight far exceeds the suit's limitations, stretching it until every last thread is holding together for dear life, as laws of Ben & Jerry's-backed physics work against it.

Overstuffed, undeterred and certainly not lacking in confidence despite its obvious limitations, “Spiderman 3” lumbers into theaters with its sights set only on consumption.

MOST number of theaters on initial release
MOST money ever spent making a major picture.

BIGGEST opening day in box office history.

BIGGEST opening weekend in box office history.

And while its busy gorging itself on box office records, it’s the audience who is leaving “Spiderman 3” feeling utterly malnourished.

“3” suffers from the “more is less” cinematic law – the same one that befell its fellow crime-fighting cohort “Batman” in the 1990s, and the labyrinthine bog that was the “Matrix” sequels earlier this decade.

Spidey (played by Tobey Maguire, who must be, like, 35 and still slathering on the aw-shucks attitude to his hero) faces off against no fewer than three villains (four, if you count the scenes he wrestles with his id).

He's given two main love interests and strings a third along, just in case he needs a spare.

He's also involved in no fewer than four major battle scenes, each more complicated and grandiose than the last.

It's hard to know even where to begin to point out where this web unravels, since there are so many misguided efforts on screen.

Three years ago, director Sam Raimi swung into theaters with “Spiderman 2,” which many consider the pinnacle of superhero flicks (this reviewer still professes his adoration for the darker, character-driven “Batman Begins”).

It was as though he felt pressure to deliver the goods here, but instead of effortlessly weaving his trilogy together, he dogpiles his picture with more characters and plotlines and than he and his actors can handle.

The flick is set in the Big Apple, but it may has well been in East Bumblebrook, West Virginia, as it seems that everyone in the cast is somehow related or connected in one way or another. To wit, Spidey's mild-mannered ego, Peter Parker is in love and going to propose to Mary Jane (played by the flat Kirsten Dunst), and has a strained relationship with Harry Osborn (played by James Franco, who is one step above mannequin status because he can arch his eyebrow), who happens to be the son of Spidey's nemesis, The Green Goblin. Mary Jane feels no such strain and frequently flirts with the junior Goblin. Peter's job, when he not snuggling into the webbed spandex, is as a photographer at “The Daily Bugle,” where Eddie Brock (played by Topher Grace), a new photographer, is jockeying for his spot. Brock just happens to be dating a model/molecular science major (yeah, you read that correctly) named Gwen Stacey, who is also Peter's college lab partner and was also rescued by Spiderman. Gwen's father, meanwhile, just happens to be the chief of police who has to inform Peter that Flint Marko (played by Thomas Hayden Church) is the man who really killed his uncle and is on the lam.

Who needs Kevin Bacon, when there is barely one degree of separation between all of these characters?

Director Raimi also tosses in an ambiguous, oozing black tar that escaped from a meteor that just happened to land near Peter and Mary Jane when they were canoodling in Central Park.

Realizing that this film exists in its own comic book microcosm, it would be safe to give this all a pass. But it's Raimi who insists on threading all this together, giving the audience coincidence upon coincidence until the film suffocated under the weight of its own entanglements.

And oh, what a tangled web it is.

There are moments of levity and breakneck action, as this is considered an official “summer movie” by the studios, who keep pushing back their bread-and-butter season earlier each year.

But even the inspired bits seemed forced and out of place, especially when it comes to Peter, being possessed by the aforementioned black snot, goes into full emo-rocker mode, wearing his bangs down, donning all black attire, making sure there is enough room on his sleeves to wear his angst.

I believe that this will be the make-it-or-break-it moment for fans, and even though it is raking in the cash at the moment, I think that Peter’s mini-transformation will be the equivalent to the head-scratching inclusion of “The Architect” in the final “Matrix” installment.

If “Spiderman 3” is any indication, this summer will be a rather congested one, but will leave behind such a rancid mess that even nagging gulls will avoid its leftovers when sweeping the beach.

2007-05-07T19:21:00.000-04:00

Wright, Pegg put the fizz in 'Fuzz'

Finally, someone got it right.
After countless, tin-earned, musty, half-assed attempts at “parody” by merely referencing other films, someone understood the actual meaning of the word.
That someone is Edgar Wright and his writing partner/actor Simon Pegg.
While the parade of generic, assembly-line cheapies proved as inspired as their titles -- “Epic Movie,” “Date Movie,” “Not Another Teen Movie” -- threatening to drive a stake through the heart of the once-inspired cinematic genre, a couple of Brits took command of the zombie film a few years back with the
lively, Elysian “Shaun of the Dead.”
The talented twosome return with “Hot Fuzz,” an ode to the orgies of senseless sensory onslaught known as the action film.
Now, I know what you are thinking -- “Where are my keys?” Or, perhaps you are thinking “With names like Bruckenheimer and Bay in the business, isn't the action genre already a parody of itself now, anyway?”
And, in a sense it is. Perhaps that is why their success while taking on such a task is all the more commendable. From the first frame, “Fuzz” is not merely slavishly devoted to crescendos of crashes and ballets with bullets, but it digs deeper into the more subtle contexts of the gun-loving genus of cinema. And while never missing an opportunity to toss in a random gag, it is never at the expense of the film's continuity and character development.
Fuzz fizzes with the best of the ZAZ boys (that would be the Zucker-Abraham-Zucker team, responsible for such mirth-filled mayhem as “Naked Gun,” “Top Secret!” and “Airplane!”).
Pegg, who also penned the script, stars as Nicholas Angel, a humorless London supercop whose arrest record supersedes the departments by more than 400 percent, and must be transferred so that the lesser officers do not appear as inept as they are comfortable being.
The film begins with an lineup of some of comedy's tops of the Thames – Bill Nighy (“Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest”), Steve Coogan (BBC's “Alan Partridge”) and Martin Freeman (the British version of “The Office”) -- as Angel's superiors who shuffle him off to Sanford, a seemingly benign borough in Gloucestershire.
He immediately begins swinging the swift hammer of justice, booting boozing underage boys from a local pub and arresting an inebriated sot who, coincidentally, is the chief inspector's son and Angel's new partner, Danny (played by Nick Frost).
Danny is a lovable, blubbery lout who dreams of becoming a cop like the ones he views in his private DVD stash, including such titles as the Keanu Reeves trash-terpiece “Point Break” and the nadir of cinematic action excess “Bad Boys 2.”
Upon hearing of Angel's exploits as a London lawman, he enthusiastically bombards his partner with such only-in-the-movies situations as “Have you ever fired two guns whilst jumping in the air?” and “Is there a part of the human head where, if you shoot it, it explodes?”.
But Danny is the only officer who approaches his job with any sort of enthusiasm. The rest of the lot are comfortable imitating officers and detectives while enjoying the perks of teatime snacks of cake and ice cream.
Of course, the bucolic burbs of Sanford may not be what they appear when a number of prominent citizens become involved in some rather grisly deaths. Angel immediately suspects a nefarious grocery store owner (a never-better Timothy Dalton) and is hell-bent on uncovering the truth, as well as getting his layabout colleagues to invest any interest whatsoever in his conspiracy theories.
This being an action film, Wright and Pegg never miss an opportunity to nudge the more overused conventions of the genre. Even the most innocuous gesture – a clicking pen, a coat being hung, a phone being answered – is accompanied by a deafening “Whoosh,” “Blam” or a “Clang,” not to mention the swirling camera pans and seizure-inducing editing.
The film clocks in at just a hair over two hours, and, at first, it seems a tad overlong. But in retrospect, that was most likely yet another nod from the producers to the bloated trappings of action films; just as every thread seems neatly tied, yet another unexpected “twist” barges in for that one final kick in the plot's pants.
If Americans devoted a couple of hours to the film (a “Hot Fuzz” Sunday, perhaps?) before multiplexes become bombarded with summer “blockbusters,” it may make viewing them all the more enjoyable, as well as make them appreciate this fawning filmic ode that understands that true parody is derived from august appreciation and not mere mockery.

2007-05-07T19:18:00.000-04:00

Not broken, but a minor 'Fracture'
From time to time, filmmakers tout the pairing multi-generational acting elite, typically an elder statesman and a young firebrand.
Usually, they are crap.
See if you can remember any of the stars of these titles:

“We’re No Angles” (1989)
“Family Business” (1989)
“The Score” (2001)
“Anger Management” (2002)
“Every Which Way But Loose” (1978)
(Answers at the end of the review)

Director Gregory Hoblit teamed a talented twosome a decade ago with “Primal Fear,” a twisty courtroom thriller which starred a seasoned Richard Gere and a no-name young actor by the name of Edward Norton.

Hoblit goes back before the judge in “Fracture,” using the same casting dynamics, this time with Oscar-winner Anthony Hopkins and former “Mickey Mouse Club” member Ryan Gosling (the show was a breeding ground for such talent as Justin Timberlake, Christina Aguilera, and Keri Russell, but also was responsible for infecting society with human trainwreck Brtiney Spears).

“Fracture” does relatively little more than an average “Law and Order” episode, but the talents of Hopkins and Gosling make it a rather diverting two-hour game of cat-and-Mousketeer.

The setup is seemingly airtight. Hopkins plays Ted Crawford, some sort of only-in-the-movies millionaire who has time to fidget with gadgets at work and conducts meetings by merely breezing in, uttering one line and zipping off in his Porsche. Ted discovers his pretty young wife having a romantic liaison with another man and proceeds to empty the contents of his handgun in her face when she returns home.

When the police arrive, he surrenders and subsequently confesses to the murder.
Enter Willy Beachum (played by Gosling) a sleepy eyed prosecutor who’s packing up his belongings at the D.A.’s office for a far more lucrative offer at a corporate law firm. With his mind still in the clouds from the impending move, and with the seemingly guilty Crawford opting to act as his own counsel, Willy cavalierly accepts the challenge.

Of course, as years of televised procedural crime dramas have taught us, killers on the screen are more intelligent than the average citizen and apparently have a grasp of law reserved only for those graduating cum laude from Harvard.

Willy slowly realizes that the “shut” part of this “open-and-shut” case was not as easy as he was initially led to believe. A number of circumstances begin popping up like a Whac-A-Mole game that threatens to put Willy’s prosecutorial prowess to the test.

Screenplay writers Dainel Pyne and Glenn Gers seem to be a little too proud of themselves at times by leading the audience down its legal spiral staircase, and, ultimately, “Fracture” will be forgotten within hours of exiting the theater. But I’ll be damned if for the length of the film, they did not keep the dusty mental gears grinding trying to find out “Where is the gun?!”

As if he was unsure of the dramatic heft of his mystery’s puzzle pieces, director Hoblit crams his film with one too many unresolved subplots that threaten to push “Fracture” to the breaking point. For example, Willy’s silly shenanigans with his way-too-sexy future boss (played by Rosamund Pike) feel like unnecessary filler, as does his strained relationship with his current employer (played by a sorely stifled David Strathairn).

Still, it is fun to watch Hopkins strut and preen in another variation of his perhaps his most iconic character. I am speaking of course of millionaire Ian McCandles in the Emilio Estevez/Mick Jaggar magnum opus “Freejack.”

I’m kidding, of course.

Hopkins plays Crawford as a more refined version of Dr. Hannibal Lecter, but still maintains the menacing smirk and steely gaze best remembered by audiences. His subtle movements are in perfect contrast to the manic gesticulations on Gosling’s Beechum. It’s like watching a ballet on the same stage as a rock concert, and yet, the two styles work in tandem with one another and create considerable tension when the screen is shared.

“Fracture” will no doubt be a small footnote on both actor’s careers, but it’s still a kick to witness them together – like watching a pitching legend toss a few past the bat of a young hotshot. Gosling is confident enough to knock a few over the fence, yet Hopkins proves he can still bring on the heat.

Answers:
“We’re No Angels” Robert DeNiro and Sean Penn star as cons in priests’ clothing
“Family Business” Sean Connery, Dustin Hoffman and Matthew Broderick are three generations of thieves
“The Score”: Marlon Brando, Robert DeNiro and Edward Norton are jewel thieves
“Anger Management”: Jack Nicholson and Adam Sandler…oh, who cares.
“Every Which Way But Loose” Clint Eastwood teams up with the charming and talented young actor Manis (playing Clyde), who went on to lead his own film with 1981’s “Going Ape!,” in which he upstaged young up-and-comer Tony Danza.

sorry to 'Disturbia

2007-04-16T23:12:00.000-04:00

I always say when it comes to writing, “If you're going to steal, steal from the best.”
OK, I lied. I just stole that quote from another film critic.
Anyway, “Disturbia,” the new thriller that topped the box office last weekend has a premise that may sound vaguely familiar.
A young man is confined to his home, so he idles his time by breaking out the binoculars and nosing in on his neighbors.
During one of his evening escapades, he notices that the stranger next door may have committed a very foul act and the spying shut-in must race the clock before this potential madman strikes again.
Those reading the above paragraphs may have automatically connected “Disturbia” to another well-known tale that followed a similar plotline – that's right, Simpsons episode IF22 “Bart of Darkness,” in which the young Simpson scamp may have witnessed his neighbor Ned Flanders commit a murder through his rear window.
I think it was based on some old movie from a guy named Hitchcock or something, but the name escapes me.
Well, this one stars one-time Disney darling Shia LeBeouf as Kale (yeah, if Shia isn't a bad enough name, now he's saddled with a character named after a cabbage), who is confined to his home following a school scuffle.
After a dramatic accident in which Kale was driving and his father dies, the young lad becomes sullen and withdrawn. This is evidenced by the hoodie he pulls over his head during class. When antagonized by a Spanish teacher, Kale clocks Senor Sarcasm in the nose and is fitted with the latest in Martha Stewart's line of Stay-at-Home ankle monitors.
When his Xbox and iPod lifelines are severed by his mother (played by Carrie-Anne Moss), Kale decides to take up leering as his hobby. Lucky for him, his new neighbor happens to be Ashley (played by empty eye candy Sarah Roemer), a curvaceous bikini-baring beauty who dwells in an all-window room. Unlucky for him, on the other side of the house he thinks he's stumbled upon a serial killer. Mr. Turner (played by the menacing David Morse).
One of “Disturbia's” screenwriters is Carl Ellsworth, who penned the nifty Wes Craven gem “Red Eye” a couple years back about a killer on the airplane and knows a thing or two about creating tension in confined dwellings.
And for two-thirds of the film, he captures the stifling boredom and internal mind-tricks that can spring forth when a youthful mind is made to wrestle with inertia. LeBouf is also convincing as an ADD-addled teen whose prior “reality” is dictated by television and Youtube.
In a time in which the terms “PG-13” and “suspense” combine for an exercise in spirit-crushing boredom at the box office, “Disturbia” earns distinction by capturing the essence of youth without feeling as though it is pandering to them.
This, of course, only lasts so long, as the film's final act becomes populated with the requisite scares and implausibilities that accompany films of this ilk. It's as though Ellsworth and fellow scribe Christopher Landon decided to kick reality to the curb and redecorate the film with all the horror cliches they could get their little mitts on ( a little spooky flashlight search from “Se7en” here, an underground torture hellhole from “Silence of the Lambs” there, and just a pinch of “Saw” thrown in for good measure).
It makes the suburbs of “Desperate Housewives” look like Mayberry by comparison.
While they may have written themselves into a corner by the conclusion, Ellsworth and Landon deserve credit for adding substantially more depth than the standard PG-13 spookfests that have pocked the theaters for the past few years.
They make “Disturbia” a nice place to visit, but after a while, you may want to hang out the “for sale” sign.
For more movie reviews, check out Rector's website “Use Soap” at “mysite.verizon.net/beachrun113.”

Tarantino/Rodriguez in the 'House'

2007-04-09T21:44:00.000-04:00

In “Death Proof,” Quentin Tarantino’s half of the new feature “Grindhouse,” lead character Stuntman Mike (Played by Kurt Russell) smashes his souped-up 1970 Dodge Chrager through a roadside theater marquee with “Scary Movie 4” on it.

It seemed an odd, mainstream choice of films for the director to use, considering a) the director’s slavish love of cult cinema, and b) the fact that he had nothing to do with last year’s wretched “comedy.”

Then it hit me. Last year, “Scar Movie 4” broke records at the box office during the exact same holiday weekend with a $40 million take, and Tarantino was sending a message that he wanted to shatter that record.

Well, if Tarantino used a Pinto that exploded on impact with the sign, it may have been a more accurate reflection of what went down at the box office this weekend, as “Grindhouse,” despite massive pre-release hype, went down in flames, taking in about $11 million.

It is a shame for many reasons.

First, “Grindhouse” is a film that needs to be seen in the theater, preferably with a large audience. As the theater-going has morphed into a sad shell of what it once was –thanks cell phones and the PG-13 rating! – a film such as “Grindhouse” serves as a reminder when crowds could share in the sheer ludicrousness and on-screen audacity ablaze on the screen. Talking back to the screen was not taboo, but encouraged.

Second, filmgoers will miss out on some truly wicked fun, which range from loving homage, outright parody, thrilling action and genuine ingenuity, courtesy of directors Robert Rodriguez (who filmed the feature “Planet Terror” and a trailer called “Machete”), Quentin Tarantino (who filmed the feature “Death Proof”), Rob Zombie (director of “Grindhouse’s” weakest link, a trailer for “Werewolf Women of the S.S.”), Edgar Wright (director of the hilariously inane haunted house trailer “Don’t”) and Eli Roth (director of the pitch-perfect trailer of 80s slasher flick “Thanksgiving”).

And, finally, audiences will miss out on “Death Proof,” the most narrativly unique and captivating films in nearly a decade. But more on that later.

Feature 1: Planet Terror
After the faux “Machete” trailer, “Grindhouse begins its first feature, “Planet Terror” complete with all the requisite scratches and cigarette burns that marked the graininess of the original grindhouse genre films.

“Terror” is the lighter of the two films, and suffers only that it tries to shove too many ingredients into its cinematic blender. It’s a riff on zombie flicks that features countless shout-outs to staples of this cinematic sort (from the overall John Carpenter vibe to the casting of two genre veterans, Michael Biehn and Jeff Fahey).

“Terror” stars Rose McGowan as Cherry, a go-go dancer whose unfortunate zombie run-in leaves her with the iconic machine-gun appendage seen on the film’s posters. She teams up with old flame El Wray (Freddy Rodriguez, resembling a Latino Michael J. Fox) to take on despicable government agents, sketchy scientists, deadly doctors and a countryside of lumbering, pus-spouting undead.

The acting runs the gamut, the action is essentially unrelenting, and the effects are simultaneously cheap and inventive.
“Planet Terror” is a valentine, a monster mash-note, if you will, and is comfortable fun for those who cradle a crush on the grindhouses that schlock built.

Feature 2: Death Proof
Tarantino’s “Death Proof” is a different beast altogether.

After the final trailers wind down and the rainbow-hued, retro-70s “Fearture Presentation” logo crawls across the screen, it’s now Tarantino’s turn.

The film has been the wedge that has either served to completely win over viewers while causing others to check out ealy.

“Death Proof “is not a film that will immediately sit comfortably with many an audience member. In the opening scenes, we are treated to a trio of female chums (led by Sydney Poitier, daughter of Sidney) who are spending the evening celebrating companionship. They spend much time merely talking – talking about everything from life and men to careers and love. There have been critics who have attacked these segments for being too talky, and while perhaps 10 minutes might have been shaved from the dialogue, it instead creates the atmosphere that this is a night like any other for them. This isn’t “Prom Night,” or “Halloween” or “Friday the 13th” or any other holiday-turned-horror-film.

And the perceived normalcy of the conversation is perhaps why “Death Proof” is so damn effective.

Lurking in the shadows is a man named Stuntman Mike (Kurt Russell, in perhaps the best role of his career, and it is a career filled with childhood heroes to this reviewer). He is a bit creepy, to be sure, with a hairline-to-chin scar marking his face. But there is something achingly human and lonely about him as well.
Russell stops just short of sympathy for his character, but gives us just enough to keep us interested in his motivations.

As “Death Proof” proceeds to its seemingly inevitable conclusion, the film does a donut in its narrative parking lot and speeds off in an entirely different direction. To reveal too much would be like reviewing “Psycho” upon its release and telling you Janet Leigh doesn’t make it out of the shower.

All that I can say is that it contains some of the most impressive automotive stuntwork ever put to film, and an ending that is stunningly abrupt but completely fitting.
As a package, “Grindhouse” is a rallying cry for movie lovers to rise off their sound-surrounded sofas, punch off their plasmas, round up a group of buddies and take back the theaters from the cell-phone wielding adolescent audiences that have laid claim to multiplexes en masse on the weekend evenings. And, for only three short hours, return it to a gritty, grimy hootenanny that is was for a short period in history.

Ferrell: All gut, some 'Glory'

2007-04-02T21:49:00.000-04:00

Selecting men’s ice dancing as a source of parody in a sports film is like picking on the scrawny, bespectacled, asthmatic kid on the playground. When “Blades of Glory” was announced, it seemed too easy a target, and perhaps would be no more than a drawn-out film version of that classic “Saturday Night Live” skit on synchronized swimming (if you hurry, you can check it out on Youtube before NBC’s lawyers strip it away). What is surprising is that despite the one-joke premise, despite the potential parade of same-sex jokes, and despite the incredibly limited ability of lead Jon Heder, “Blades of Glory” is funnier than it has any right to be. It has more than one weapon in its arsenal of amusement. First, the film features that slave to silliness, Will Ferrell, in yet another variation of his arrogant, clueless man-child as Chazz Michael Michaels. I fully realize there are two Ferrell camps, so those who rate his appeal just below chaffing, might I suggest you just turn a few pages of the paper and head right to Fritz Schrank's always-excellent column.
Second, the filmmakers had the intelligence to give Ferrell formidable foes on the rink with the real-life husband-and-wife team of Will Arnett (from the best sitcom in the history of television, “Arrested Development”) and “Saturday Night Live’s” Amy Poehler.
But what ultimately saves “Blades” is its humanity. Sure, it goes for the several cheap gay jokes that would obviously accompany a film featuring male ice dancing, but those are vague, throwaway gags that find humor more in the awkwardness from the alpha males than the overtly homophobic contempt found in lesser comedies from the likes of Adam Sandler and that ilk.
“Blades” freezes, though, every time things are left in the dainty hands of Jon Heder. Not only does he mangle his own time on screen, but he acts as a comedy vortex, actually siphoning humor from other aspects of the film and deadening the pace. All I can say is that Heder must have some pretty nasty pictures of some of the Hollywood higher-ups in order to continue to get work.
In “Blades,” the costume department does its best to squeeze humor out of Heder’s appearance – peacock plumage, a hideous ‘70s shaggy hairdo and two protruding front teeth that look like glistening Chiclets; he resembles the mutant lovechild of magician Doug Henning and a Care Bear.
Heder plays Jimmy MacElroy, a figure-skating prodigy picked from an orphanage by a shifty, filthy rich businessman (played by and amusing William Fichtner in an all-too-brief role) who solely wants to turn the boy into a world class champion.
But MacElroy’s effete preening and prancing across the ice is in direct contrast to Michaels’ pelvic thrusts and lewd moves (he’s been known to rip off his jockstrap and toss it into the crowd of fawning female ice groupies) and who is described by an announcer as an “ice dancing sex tornado.”.
After a tie, the two scuffle and are subsequently banned from the sport, only to find that a Skating Federation loophole will allow them both back into the sport – as a couple.
That's it really, storywise. But the film is able to glide along on the appeal of its actors whose last names aren't Heder and a sprinkling of left-field humor.
As for the actual skating (of which there is relatively little, oddly), it’s up to Arnett and Poehler to offer up the film’s most inspired bits. Their “Ode to Hip-Hop” routine and JFK-Marilyn Monroe dance interpretation are the surreal moments that set “Blades” ablaze.
“Blades” could have benefited from more moments of this sharper edge, but it has enough momentum, heart and heat to keep it from dipping into Tonya Harding-like depths of despair.

Missing the Marky Mark

2007-04-02T21:47:00.000-04:00

As a “24” enthusiast, I am capable of scaling skyscraping heights to dangle my disbelief.
It's preposterous, but in an addictive, empty-calorie kind of way.
And, as anyone else who has been an avid follower of this season, I have been forced to muster more suspension to Golden Gate Bridge-like proportions. And just when I thought the creators could had plausibility stretched further than Joan Rivers face, along comes a film like “Shooter,” that makes “24” look like a documentary by comparison.
The film stars Mark Wahlberg as a special ops sniper who is called out of his mountain-top seclusion to assist the government in capturing a potential assassin.
The film is apparently based on “Point of Impact,” a novel by “Washington Post” film critic Stephen Hunter. Having never read the book, I can only state that if the film adheres closely to the text, Hunter should count each and every “Post” paycheck as a blessing.
The annals of the action genre has had its share names so manly, that you are required to draw testicles on them when you write them out – John Stone, Mason Storm, Johnny Utah, Chance Bordeaux, Gibson Rickenbacker, Ray Quick, Buck Swain, Lincoln Hawk. And now, thanks to Stephen Hunter, we now have Bobby Lee Swagger to add to the mix.
Swagger is also given the requisite tough-guy past – while on assignment for the government (and while performing his task with Swiss quartz precision, of course), he loses his best buddy and is abandoned by his government (which, of course, claims that he is the elite of the elite, so he is trained to survive or accept his fate).
We catch up with Swagger three years later, or more accurately “THIRTY SIX MONTHS LATER” as the title card at the bottom of the screen screams (these are a same titles that prove oh-so-helpful as we see shots of the Capital and the Washington Monument, clueing us in that it is, indeed, “WASHINGTON, D.C.”). Bobby is now living in snow-capped solitude with his just his guns, his dog and a fashionable trucker's cap.
He's visited by a mysterious government heavy by the name of Colonel Isaac Johnson (played by an oddly lisping Danny Glover). Now, why the Colonel wasn't given a cool name like Dirk Boilermaker, Crash McMolten, Stone Bastardson or Chase Slashenkill is a secret between Mr. Hunter and his editors. It seems the government needs Bobby to scope out where an assassin may attempt to plug the president. Of course, Bobby, being the most skilled, intelligent triggerman alive does what any rational person would do when he is approached by a shadowy bunch of government types asking a favor – he quickly agrees to do it.
If this review were the film, I would be required to put a title card right about here that reads:
THINGS DON'T GO AS PLANNED AND BOBBY IS FRAMED FOR THE ASSASSINATION.
The rest of the film is Bobby piecing together the conspiracy while eluding essentially every branch of the the armed forces in the country. Bobby is a trained survivor, which means that all he needs are some carpet fibers, a pen cap, some cumin and Susan B. Anthony dollar and he is capable of fashioning some homemade napalm for those sticky situations. (One of my favorites is a concoction he uses to heal some bullet wounds that we are told was used during the Civil War. It includes such ingredients as sugar, salt and whippit hits... oh, those crazy Confederates!).
As indestructible as Bobby seems to be, he still gets some help along the way. A rookie FBI agent, with the equally preposterous name of Nick Memphis (played by Michael Peña) immediately believes every word of Swagger's and happily joins him in mowing down countless agents to help clear his name.
Swagger also gets a love interest, in the form of his dead buddy's widow (but remember, THIRTY SIX MONTHS have passed, so the girl's gotta git her some lovin', right?). The woman, who acts as his guardian angel is named, I kid you not, Sarah Fenn. I suppose Sarah Femm would have been, you know, too obvious.
Director Antoine Fuqua (“Training Day”) plays “Shooter” out as an odd mishmash of right-wing hokum (Bobby's a gun nut, Big Government is bad, and there are more slow-motion flag waves than a day-long broadcast of the Fox “News” Channel), but also stirs in leftist shout-outs (a hero sporting a Che Guevara T-shirt, a lecherous Senator, played by Ned Beatty who is all-too reminiscent of our snarling Vice Prez).
But it's asking too much of a film to concern itself with deeper political statements when it has a mess of stuff that needs blowin' up real good. Fuqua is more concerned about framing Wahlberg walking (in slow motion, of course) away from a wall of fire than the motivations or reprocussions of his actions.
Some may argue that it's just a movie and that it should be accepted merely on entertainment value alone, and that is fine. But when loading “Shooter” with talent such as Wahlberg, Glover and director Fuqua, it's only fair that the audience demand just a bit more than a story that even Steven Segal's camp would most likely have rejected.
Even though “Shooter” may have scored a third-place finish in a very busy week at the box office, it is a film that is immediately forgettable and will most likely live on only in a number of direct-to-video sequels that will pop up in the years ahead, where the lead (undoubtedly played by another actor) will get teamed with a computer whiz sidekick named Melvin Stand and the two will face countless government combatants in “Shooter 2: Stand and Swagger.”
For more movie reviews, check out Rector's website “Use Soap” at “http://mysite.verizon.net/beachrun113.”

2007-03-19T21:31:00.000-04:00

'I Think,' therefore I am...not
Chris Rock has been crowned the funniest comedian alive several by several publications for a reason.
His profane take on everything from domesticity to race is laced with intelligent, nakedly earnest observations.
Here are but a few chestnuts:

On relationships: “A man is only as faithful as his options.”
On comedy: “Comedy is the blues for people who can't sing."
On gay marriage: “Gay people got a right to be as miserable as everybody else.”
On race: “Every town has the same two malls: the one white people go to and the one white people used to go to.”
On sports: “Black people dominate sports in the United States. We're 10% of the population, we're 90% of the Final Four."
On education: “Community college is like a disco with books; 'Here's ten dollars, wanna get my learn on!'"
On celebrity: “Right now, my job is that I'm like an ambulance chaser. I've got to look for movies with white guys falling out of them.”

His stand-up shows are a mix of jokes that zip with machine gun velocity, while others are like a slow-release capsule, taking sweet time before hitting the brain.
Unfortunately for him, his intelligence in selecting film roles has yet to capture the high levels of hilarity as his stage routine. It is a streak that remains unbroken with “I Think I Love My Wife.”
He must have Robin Williams’ agent.
His interest in aiming for material above the standard lowest-common-denominator scraps thrown to the likes of fellow comedians Martin Lawrence or Larry “The Cable Guy” (and yes, the “comedy” of those two is much closer than you may first think), most likely led him to his latest effort “I Think I Love My Wife,” an adaptation of French director Eric Rohmer’s “Chloe in the Afternoon.”
The source film is itself a tad overrated (the esteemed New York Times critic Pauline Kael called it “perfect”), but it does certainly mine some quietly discomforting material. In both “Chloe” and “I Love My Wife,” the male protagonist is tempted by the fruit of another, when a sexy ingénue wiggles her way into the seemingly dull domesticity his married life with wife Brenda (played by Gina Torres).
In Rock’s film, he plays investment banker Richard Cooper who's suffering that infamous marital scratch that apparently comes right at year seven.
And how better itch it than with the perfectly manicured fingernails of Nikki Tru (played by the undeniably sexy Kerry Washington)?
The fact that his current sex life is reaching Sahara-like conditions of aridity does not help matters. Nikki knows Richard's a good man and leans on him far too often as she attempts to get some semblance to her life. But she is in no rush, for she can maintain a platonic distance from him but still reap all the benefits of a relationship (someone to help her move, give her a lift, listen to her many problems).
Meanwhile Richard maintains all the guilt of an affair, but receives none of its physical perks.
The film culminates to a scene in which Richard is forced to either succumb to the seductive whims of his “friend,” or return to the established family life he has spent the better part of a decade creating.
Basically, the film’s plot boils down to this: we can either choose to be confined by the “walls” we often associate with marriage, or we can decorate them with pictures and memories of a life shared with another.
Rock has to be given credit to tackling much meatier roles than most comedians, but he is hindered by both his skill as a director and his range as an actor.
It was rumored that Charles Stone III (son of legendary University of Delaware professor Chuck Stone) was the film’s original director, but dropped out. And the film often has the feeling of possessing a split personality, developing bits only far enough to use them for a comedic payoff before letting them vaporize into the background.
Supporting roles from talent like Steve Buschemi (as a guiltless co-worker who frequently bangs staff members without remorse) and television's Michael K. Williams (as Nikki's felonious ex) are woefully underused.
And while both Washington and Torres manage to flesh out what could have been flatly drawn characters (let's face it, there's nothing flat about Washington), “I Think I Love My Wife” ultimately rests on the rather slight shoulders of Rock. He just cannot display the depth and angst so needed for us to feel Richard's internal tug-of-war.
While he should be commended for tackling heavier topics than shuffling about with his ear-to-ear grin and cracking wise, the comedian has a long cinematic road to travel before we can tune into Rock's roles.

2007-03-13T22:30:00.000-04:00

Is that a sword in your pocket?
I can envision – a decade from now – a legion of school children taught by lazy history teachers who screen “300” in class to depict the famous Spartan army battle against the never-ending hordes of Persian soldiers.
“I know all about the Spartans,” says little Timmy. “They’re the ones who bust out those ‘Matrix’ -style moves and fight everyone in slow motion.”
“Yeah,” chimes little Suzie. “And the Persians were mutant ninjas who owned 8-foot ogres as pets.”
“And Xerxes, the Persian king, looked a lot like RuPaul,” Timmy adds.
“Who’s RuPaul?” Suzie inquires.

OK, the role of the Persian king was actually played by Rodrigo Santoro, but I actually think good old Ru would feel right at home with this bunch.
For in director Zack Snyder’s film, the Spartans are no mere men, they are the manliest of men – sweaty, hulky, oh-so-butch lads clad in little more than capes and codpieces. Any one of them looks as though they could have wandered in from a Right Said Fred video.
Sure, there are a few women that scurry about Sparta, but when director Snyder snuck in a subplot with Spartan King Leonidas (played by Gerald Butler) and wife (played by Lena Headey), Miller fussed that he wanted this film to be “for the boys.”
I’m not sure if he meant actual young men with a lust for mayhem and violence, or those looking more for a “Brokeback Sparta,” but let’s just say that both demographics would walk away from “300” more than satisfied.
For everyone else, it’s probably best not to scratch the copper-colored surface of the film, though, for there are flaws galore. Snyder stayed faithful to Miller’s illustrations, almost to a fault. For what worked well in catchy little balloons over the characters’ heads in the confines of a comic panel does not make for a rousing speech when fleshed out and coming from human form.
Sure, the soundbites from Leonidas are pre-packaged and commercial friendly (“Spartans!!!! Enjoy your breakfast and eat heartily!!! For tonight, we dine in hell!!!!!” and “We Spartans have descended from Hercules himself!!!! Taught never to retreat, never to surrender!!!! Spartans: the finest soldiers the world has ever known!!!).
In fact, there is so much shouting, posturing and chest-thumping throughout that those male audience members with masculinity closer to Conan O’Brien than Conan the Barbarian, may experience subtle breast development by the film’s end.
Don’t get me wrong, “300” is an orgy for the eyes, even while the brain is being assaulted. Every frame is rendered in a sepia-stained paradise, augmented only by the velvet capes of our Spartan heroes and the matching geysers of blood that bubble about like a lava lamp convention (strangely, none ever stains the ground, though…I suppose that would be overkill).
And for those who fancy Bowflex abs, there are more six-packs on display than in a liquor store. (For all those blood-hungry alpha males who become confused and nervous about Snyder’s lingering lens on the male anatomy, take heed. He also tosses in a pair of boobies and a brief lesbian romp in Xerxes palace to pacify).
But these images do not add up to much more than leafing through a pretty picturebook. There are only so many times we need to be treated to the oceans of soldiers lined up to take a swipe at the Spartans. They were outnumbered. We get it. Move on.
The other bothersome element is the crunchy electric-guitar-driven score that may be at home on the video game adaptation, but feels more invasive to the film than the Persians themselves.
I certainly appreciate the attempt made with “300,” and would happily pay to see such bold, visionary strokes on the screen than such studio-sanctioned pabulum as “Wild Hogs” or “Norbit.” But in Snyder’s future (and after “300’s” $70-million opening, he’s going to have a big one), he should pay a tad more attention to the tale that stitches all those gorgeous images together.
If he does that, he’ll have an average that much better than 300.

2007-03-08T19:15:00.000-05:00

What's your sign?
If films throughout the years have taught us nothing it's that police stations are the closest thing to pandemonium found on this earth.
They are circuses filled with dolled-up hookers, frothing junkies and wild-eyed psychopaths chained to desks like animals while muttering inanities filled with apocalyptic visions. They are simply abuzz with activity, zany characters, hardened criminals and quick-witted lawmen.
Though any time I had the opportunity to “visit” such dens of debauchery, I left unfulfilled.
Where were the nappy, grizzled homeless men with weapons tucked under their beards? Where were the fishnet-clad callgirls opening up a can of sass to the patient police officer? Surely someone was going to pick up that coffee-maker and blind a cop with scalding liquid in a daring escape attempt, right?
Seldom comes a film that I believe so accurately captures the minutiae of the profession as with “Zodiac” – not only the high-profile gloss of murder, but the countless dead-end dirt paths traveled by officers in their attempts to seek answers to their questions. Sure there are plenty of hands tied, but not criminals with the shiny shackles of polished cuffs, but rather the officers themselves, as they encounter one bureaucratic obstacle after the next.
When reviewing “Zodiac,” the new film directed by David Fincher (“Se7en,” “Fight Club”), I believe it is important to note the film's length of more than two and a half hours. I think many a misguided teen (including the gaggle of obsessively gabbing idiots that sat next to me during a Sunday matinee at a Midway screening) may salivate upon hearing the director's name and “serial killer” mentioned in the same sentence.
This film is not for you, chatty Cathy.
No, this film is for anyone who can appreciate the frustrations, the seemingly epic struggles of an investigation in which the chief goal remains perpetually out of reach. And, since the case has been unsolved to this day, the film's conclusion offers no easy answers.
Still, those with the patience should be entranced at how this taunting spectre of death managed not only to quickly end many lives, but to alter others as he evaded capture to this very day.
Long story short, there is no head-in-the-box money shot or twist ending at the close of “Zodiac.” Instead, we are treated to a director who seems equally obsessed about the trail of dead and wounded (both physically and psychologically) left behind by madman.
The film begins in 1969, with a terrifying scene in which a young couple park in an empty lot in San Francisco and are methodically gunned down. The following day, a series of letter is sent to “The San Francisco Chronicle” and other papers that claim responsibility for the killings, among others, and threatening many others.
In the film's first half, the killer taunts boozing, drugging reporter Paul Avery (played by Robert Downey Jr., putting the “chronic” in “Chronical”), leading him to the brink of insanity with his cat-and-mouse memos.
During the second half, the murderer is the obsession of Bay Area lawman, Dave Toschi (played by Mary Ruffalo), who remains mere footsteps behind.
The tiny thread holding the two pieces of film together is editorial cartoonist (and later author of the best-selling book “Zodiac”) Robert Graysmith (played by Jake Gyllenhaal). He is but a fledgling pencil pusher when the taunts begin, but realizes that nothing in his workaday life compares to the rush he feels when trying to crack the elusive codes sent in by the killer.
While Gyllenhaal is a serviceable tour guide, it is Downey who once again wows as his ascot-favoring reporter whose penchant for addictive substances only escalates the deeper he's drawn into the case. Ruffalo is also amusing in his turn as the quick-tempered cop, and the supporting cast – including Anthony Edwads, James LeGros, Elias Koteas, Chloe Sevigny and Philip Baker Hall – all pepper the film with solid performances.
Yet for sheer achievement, director Fincher deserves all the credit. Gone are his fancy lensing styles that tethered him to his commercial roots (before helming the divisive “Aliens3”). He eschews them for flat, panning shots, creative-yet-purposeful camera placement and inventive editing that propels the story from year to year.
When the credits roll, “Zodiac” is a film born in '70s filmmaking style (I dare you to sit through the newsroom scenes and not be reminded of “All the President's Men”), but punctuated with flourishes by a filmmaker confident in his ability and his performers.
And even though there is ne'er a hooker, crackhead or pan-handler to be found, he still manages to make the aspects of police work electrifying.