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.

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.

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.”

'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.

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.