All aboard

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.

There is no rush to see this 'Hour'

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:

1. 
   Humor derived from ethnic stereotypes.
2. 
   Horribly trained henchmen who can't hit the side of a barn at three feet.
3. 
   A bound-and-gagged female hostage.
4. 
   Wherever Tucker and Chan travel in the world (this time, France), the only black and Asian females in the room flirt with them.
5. 
   The third-person shooter who, out of nowhere, kills a bad guy mere nanoseconds before said evildoer is to shoot our hero.
6. 
   The chief villain's expository speech before attempting to kill the heroes.
7. 
   The duplicitous government agent who at first seems like a helpful fella.
8. 
   The closing door that our hero narrowly slides under seconds before closing.
9. 
   A gun being out of ammo just as the dramatic music swells to a crescendo.
10. 
    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

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.

Can Willis still get 'Hard'?

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.

'Four' on the floor

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)

1. 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!”
   
2. 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!
3. 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!
4. 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.
5. 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.
6. 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.”
   
7. 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.”
   
8. 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.
   
9. 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!
   
10. 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.

Pirates of the Caribbean: At Wit's End

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.”

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.

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.

Missing the Marky Mark

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.”