Movies I've Reviewed

Not quite a horror movie. Not quite an action movie. Not quite a comedy. Just what is Evil Dead 2, anyway? To put it simply: awesome. Evil Dead 2 is an exercise in style, slapstick, and over-the-top, almost cartoonish violence. Not pretentious in the least, Evil Dead 2 embraces its status as low-budget schlock and, as a result, has a great time going as far out as it possibly can in terms of effects, camera movements, and lighting. While the first film was almost a wrote execution of the "Ten Little Indians" formula (with only five Indians, at that), Evil Dead 2 eschews any attempt at horror with comic hyperbole and, in the latter portion of the film, pure pulp action, typified by our chainsaw-wielding hero, Ash. Bruce Campbell as Ash is the Charlie Brown of horror films- all the shit in the world lands squarely on his shoulders, and you can't help but laugh at his misery. Between the pansy preppy-boy from Evil Dead and the square-jawed he-man of Army Of Darkness, Ash actually has a character arc in this film (!)- though it's obvious in the viewing that character is the last thing on director Sam Raimi's mind. Instead, it's all about pushing the envelope, both in terms of tone and technique. When does horror become comedy? And more importantly, just how much crap can happen to one guy in only two days? As far as acting goes, the performances from everyone involved are so far from believable that just watching them say their lines is hilarious, and yes, that includes Bruce Campbell. Sam Raimi takes center stage in this movie instead, as the film is loaded with camera work that would prove to be the director's trademark. The evil force camera POV returns in a chase scene that just gets better every time I watch it, and Raimi seems to get his kicks from composing the most extreme shots that he can imagine. Lacking almost anything resembling a plot, the movie is more along the lines of a series of sketches set in a cabin, but that only adds to the deliriously disjointed nature of the film. In fact, most of the movie's appeal comes from the main character, who, like the audience, constantly struggles to get his bearings while being bombarded by one freakish thing after another; besides, it's a nice change of pace to see a horror film in which the hero is cooler than the villain. In truth, it's merits can't justly be put into words; Evil Dead 2 is an experience, an experiment with the limits of good humor and taste, and you will either like it right off or hate it immediately. Either way, you'll only know it if you see it.

Batman Begins is the film comic fans have been aching to see since the release of the first Superman movie. It is an epic, well-written, skillfully directed film that, action-packed though it may be, achieves a surprising poignancy that one is hard-pressed to find in most other superhero films. Its greatest attribute is its treatment of the title character; unlike previous takes on Bruce Wayne, who had always been played "close to the vest," never divulging much of his thoughts or feelings, here we are treated to a full and vivid portrait of a man- a flesh-and-blood human being- dealing with the grief and guilt over his parents' murder and trying to find a place for himself in the world. Christian Bale plays Bruce Wayne brilliantly, not brooding as much as previous actors while still conveying grief and anger that never feel forced or artificial. And as Batman, Bale is the first to stray from the monolithic shape with the gravelly whisper; Bale's Batman seems always ready to spring, crouching on ledges like an animal awaiting its prey, and when he speaks, what comes out is a primal growl (good for disguising his voice and scaring the piss out of cowardly criminals). On top of this, each member of the supporting cast is remarkably fleshed out, and the actors portraying them are as top-notch as they can be. Michael Caine breathes life into previously stuffy butler Alfred that never overshadows the hero, but creates a more three-dimensional character out of what, 'til now, has been a British butler stereotype. Cillian Murphy is just plain creepy as Dr. Jonathan Crane, giving a rather small part enough heft to make us wish there was more of him. Gary Oldman plays the Gordon comic fans know and love: a good cop steeped so deeply in the corruption of the police force that he can't resist an offer to help clean things up, even if it comes from a masked vigilante. Liam Neeson is a surprisingly ferocious mentor for Bruce, playing Ducard with both human emotional depth and villainous cruelty- he walks the line deftly, and creates an undeniably charismatic character in doing so. Linus Roache imbues his character of Thomas Wayne with so much likable energy that it truly comes as a shock when the inevitable occurs, and his presence is felt throughout the entire movie. Tom Wilkinson has what looks like a blast as mob boss Carmine Falcone, and Ken Watanabe is a fantastically intense Ra's Al Ghul. Together, these characters create a compelling drama about a man trying to find direction in his life. But when the time comes for action, Chris Nolan does not disappoint, showing us scenes of rapid-fire cuts and frantic movement, in which the Batman is finally presented as he was always intended to be: fast, dangerous, and terrifying. The techniques used for Batman and Crane are like a lesson in horror-movie scares, ranging from the simple guy-comes-from-nowhere camera turn to more modern jump-cutting, film distortion, and audio montage. The climax is an epic conflict with plenty of action, a race against time, and even explosions, but it can essentially be pared down to a battle between a surrogate father and son, tying the themes of the film together brilliantly. Batman Begins is more than just flashy summer entertainment, more than just another superhero flick in an ever-growing lineup of superhero movies. Batman Begins is more than just a good film; it is a great film.

Classic Cameron, at the peak of his career. After the first Terminator was a success, James Cameron moved on to bigger and better things, getting to work with a big (well, HUGE, actually) budget for the first time with Aliens, and honing his visual style and special effects mastery with the Abyss. However, he still had an idea in the back of his mind for a sequel to his first big break, and when he finally set about bringing it to screen, he brought with him all of the skill and craftsmanship that he'd spent the last seven years sharpening. The result is one of the few cinematic sequels to ever surpass its predecessor with flying colors, becoming even more iconic than the first film (and popularizing the use of initials as shorthand for titles). Set eleven years after the first Terminator, Terminator 2 features, appropriately enough, two terminators- a T-1000 sent back in time to kill the ten-year-old John Connor, and an older model T-800 that's been reprogrammed to protect him. At first, the general plot is the same as the first movie, with a race against time between two unrelenting forces as they try to locate John (and later his mother Sarah). But once the three heroes are assembled, T2 becomes a very different movie: thoughtful, introspective, and hopeful. This film puts out a message that is a complete one-eighty from the cynical predestination of the first movie, saying instead that if we try hard enough, we can save ourselves from destruction- our futures are in our hands, no one else's. Of course, that doesn't mean that the action is over, as the final act is a non-stop, full-tilt thrill-ride (a trite description, but a fitting one) with the compulsory shoot-outs, car chases, and explosions, but all are done Cameron-style (which is to say, fifty times bigger than life). The performances are all pitch-perfect; Arnold expertly recaptures the soulless, robotic character of the first film, until a second act revelation (which is fleshed out much better in the extended cut) creates a character arc for him and, ironically, he ends up giving his most human, sympathetic performance ever as the eponymous killing machine. Edward Furlong is totally believable as a ten year old kid- probably because he was a ten year old kid at the time- but one that has a lot of emotional baggage, and one who's really smart (almost too smart) for his age, to boot. Sarah Connor continues the Cameron tradition of strong female protagonists, but with an intriguing twist: Sarah has gone so far as a tough, self-sufficient woman that she can't remember how to feel anything, burying her emotions with discipline and training. Linda Hamilton is brilliant in the part, erasing all memory of the fragile young girl from the first film and disappearing into the role. And Robert Patrick is pure creepy as the murderous T-1000; even without the effects, he would still be a palpably dangerous presence in the film. The script by Cameron is, of course, well-written, featuring his particular brand of informative, economical, yet somehow natural dialogue that tells you the whole story without you even realizing it. The score is a classic, both exciting and ominous, somber and hopeful; its use of natural sound helps to downplay the fact that it was done mainly with synthesizers. The special effects are fantastic, featuring some of the earliest CGI work in a motion picture; but though computer imagery wasn't nearly as sophisticated when the movie was being made as it is now, its judicious and creative use make the shots just as effective today as they were in 1991. And the script (if I may return to it) is tightly-woven and surprisingly thought-provoking, bringing into question the violence that other films have too often taken for granted. This is an action film with a heart and soul; and though the title may suggest otherwise, in the end, it is a story about people.

Perhaps one of my favorite action/sci-fi films ever. The Matrix gets a bad rap these days, what with the overblown sequels that came out in 2003, but when the original first came out in 1999, there wasn't a person who saw it that would call it a bad movie. I remember walking into the theater on that Friday night, having no idea what to expect, and coming away bursting with energy, my thoughts abuzz with possibilities- this was the first movie that blew my mind. The first Matrix was (or rather, is) an original, exciting, engaging film that, though it indulged itself in metaphysical philosophizing, never actually lets that get in the way of being a roller-coaster ride of a movie. The key to the whole thing is how wonderfully paced it is. It begins with Thomas A. Anderson, a computer programmer who knows that something is wrong with the world, but he just can't put a finger on what it is. As he tries to seek out the truth, however, he is pulled into a world that gets stranger and stranger, his search for answers only bringing him more questions. It isn't until the end of the first act that Anderson, a.k.a. Neo, starts to get his answers, but even when he learns the ultimate truth of his reality, the road ahead twists and turns in ways you never see coming- and the questions continue to mount. What the Matrix had going for it was suspenseful illusion- things are not as they seem, and we find the world around us peel apart in new and unexpected ways that actually make us think about the way we see the world (the sequels consequently devoted themselves to telling us the mechanics of the illusion, and everyone lost interest). Another thing that sets this movie off from its predecessors is a mischievous sense of fun concerning its premise (after all, how did machines know what Tastie Wheat tasted like?)- the Matrix has a blast tearing down your preconceptions of reality and toying with the possible significance behind things unsuspecting people would dismiss off-handedly. Keanu Reeves is an alienated yet sympathetic hero, unlike the overly-somber and uptight character that Neo would become; he's the everyman, the audience personified, and he speaks for us best with the utterance of a single syllable: "Whoa." Laurence Fishburne conveys both wisdom and style, starting off as the all-knowing guide to the world behind the world but slowly being fleshed out into something bordering on a dedicated disciple and a religious fanatic. Carrie-Anne Moss redefined ass-kicking heroines with Trinity, who never once has to be rescued (and in fact does a few of her own), and Hugo Weaving... well, Hugo Weaving is good in everything he does, but he is particularly effective here as the coldly calculating Agent Smith, the first A.I. villain who not only shows emotion, but actually struggles to restrain his hatred of humanity in front of his peers. The special effects haven't lost their sheen over the years, the action sequences are far more intense and investing than any of it's bastard wire-work progeny, and the cinematography is much more subdued than the saturated greens of Reloaded and Revolutions. But above all, the Matrix has a story that can still inspire a sense of wonder... that is, in those who are willing to find it.

"Movies are so rarely great art that if we cannot appreciate great trash we have very little reason to be interested in them."
-Pauline Kael

Everyone has a guilty pleasure- some sad, unusual indulgence that, even though you know it's bad for you, even though you know it has no beneficial value whatsoever, you can't help but love to revel in. Well, that's how I feel about Albert Pyun's 1991 direct-to-video Captain America. With its laughable effects, cringe-inducing dialogue, and, most infamously of all, the lamented rubber ears on the eponymous hero's cowl, Captain America hardly sets the standard for good comic-book adaptations, much less for great cinema. As a child, I despised this Batman knock-off for its faults as a superhero flick: the hero doesn't wear his costume for most of the film, the Red Skull's skull is only red for one sequence, etc. But having grown up and acquired a taste for subtlely crafted cinematic ventures as well as all-out action spectacles, I find myself inexplicably drawn back to this celluloid disaster. Matt Salinger redefines bad acting as our hero Steve Rogers, a.k.a. Captain America. In many scenes, his reactions essentially amount to him looking towards a different part of the screen every few seconds with a blank, unresponsive gaze. Sure, he gets a few moments to shine- to date, I have never seen a man drink a glass of milk as angrily as Salinger does in this movie- but that isn't enough to save him from utter mediocrity in a part that reeks of poorly written "awww-shucks" wholesomeness. Scott Paulin as the Red Skull (whose skull is, for the most part, definitely NOT red) fares much better (or worse, depending on personal taste); his stilted accent and slicked-back hair gives him a distinctly Lugosi/Dracula feel, which is probably why I love his performance, cheesiness and all. Paulin does manage to get across a great deal of subtlety- the Red Skull's deep-seated hatred of newspapers, for instance- but he's never really given room to breathe in the film's tightly-woven plot, which is constantly moved forward via obtrusive dubbed exposition (his performance is much better as the doctor attending Steve Rogers after the Super-Soldier experiment, which included a close-up that you could almost swear was of a cardboard cut-out). The Skull's make-up is kind of lame, making his face look all puffy and shiny (in a way that says to the viewer, "LOOK! I'm wearing make-up!"); for the one scene in which his skull actually IS red, however, the effects are better than one would expect, making him into sort of a Nazi Freddy Krueger. Newcomer Kim Gillingham gets to play a triple role: young Bernie Stewart, Steve's girlfriend from 1943; old Bernie, Steve's girlfiend now married in 1993 (and sporting one of the WORST old age make-ups I've ever seen); and Sharon, Bernie's bleach blonde, suntanned, valley-girl daughter and Steve's consolation prize. She's not particularly believable as any one of them, but her Sharon is so annoying that I could help but want to throttle her through half the movie. Francesca Neri, on the other hand, plays the Red Skull's daughter (who, come to think of it, is never mentioned by name, though we do see her I.D.), a blasé euro-trash heiress with a cadre of like-minded layabouts and a helicopter to carry her motorcycles. Ned Beatty picks up a paycheck as an investigative reporter, Sam, who can, apparently, track down wandering superheroes in the wilderness of Canada and make direct phone calls to the President of the United States, his childhood buddy Tom Kimball (played by Ronny Cox in a surprisingly non-villainous turn). Cox delivers probably my favorite speech of all time as the ass-kicking President: "It's bad medicine. And nobody said the medicine would taste any good... but can we afford not to take it? I don't think so. If we don't take this medicine now, we'll all die. Slowly... but we'll die." For all its hokey effects and insanely-cut action sequences (with alternating cuts done quickly enough to induce epilepsy, if one isn't careful), this was a well-intentioned (if pitifully executed) attempt to bring an icon to the screen, and I hold true that, with a little reworking and a larger budget, this could have been a worthy effort. It may not be Star Wars- hell, it's not even Howard the Duck- but if you're willing to put up with just how abominably BAD this movie is, you might just have a lot of fun watching it...

Let's get something out of the way right now: this is one of my favorite horror films, if not my absolute favorite. Freddy Krueger is a character that used to freak me out when I was a youngster, but the one thing that I could always say to myself was the tagline of (ironically) another Wes Craven movie, the Last House on the Left: "It's only a movie!" But this is a movie that asks the question, "What if it's NOT just a movie?" What if there is something behind the images on the screen, something darker and infinitely more dangerous? And what if the only way to stop this thing- is to watch the movie? Set in the real world, New Nightmare gives us a glimpse at what lies behind the Nightmare on Elm Street films, both literally (we see the actors, producers, and director as themselves making the movie) and figuratively (in the darkness personified by the character Freddy Krueger). In fact, this is a movie rife with metaphor, literary references, and my favorite element for any horror movie- atmosphere. When it's daytime and the real world is in full sway, the camera is little more than an observer of reality, almost giving it a documentary feeling. But when the line between reality an films begins to blur (as the line between dreams and reality blurred in the first Nightmare), the haunting strains of the score cue up, the lighting becomes more dramatic, and the feeling of impending danger begins to seep into the film, creating a suspenseful build-up to methodically unfolding terror. What's great is, for the first half of the movie, this could be little more than a psychological thriller- Heather could be imagining all of this, and the movie has a foot firmly in reality. Then, slowly, the supernatural suggestions become demonic threats, and the new, deadlier, and decidedly less funny Freddy is introduced. Craven returns Freddy to his bone-chilling roots, carving away the wisecracking spoof of other films to get back down to the dark, scary monster under the surfice. And in sort of an ironic twist, the evil of Krueger is warping poor Dylan, played to cute-creepy perfection by Miko Hughes, so the only one who can protect him is Heather, a part of the industry that gave Freddy form in the first place. Still, throughout the movie, Craven promotes the cathartic benefits of horror films, and the need for them to give shape to the darker parts of human nature. Intriguingly, New Nightmare is a thesis on the role horror movies play in society (at the same time as being a far better one than any other Elm Street sequel), a re-examination of a creator's first great work, and a more literal prelude to his later exploration of the line between films and reality. New Nightmare is reportedly Wes Craven's favorite work, and with good reason- this is Craven on his A-game, creating a layered, intellectual story that's still an entertaining piece of film. It's not the garish, spectacle-driven mish-mash that Elm Streets two through six were- it's a horror film for the thinking man. And a scary one, at that.

This movie is, and always was, a personal favorite of mine (it is, according to available record, the first movie I have ever seen). Though watching it now, I can perceive flaws in Tim Burton's third (and largest, at the time) foray into studio filmmaking, Batman has always been more of an experience than an intellectual exercise in film-going. The scope of this picture is immense, spanning huge sets and sound stages that are supplemented with matte paintings to appear endless and intimidating. The plot is almost incidental to the film's style: a mysterious vigilante dressed as a bat has been prowling the streets and rooftops of corrupt cesspool Gotham City for a just under a month, scaring the crap out of petty criminals before beating the crap out of them. While breaking up a raid at a chemical factory, the Batman sends a mob lieutenant tumbling into a vat of waste, from which he emerges with white skin, green hair, and a permanent smile. Calling himself the Joker, the man takes over the organized crime of the city and sets his sights on the murders of every man, woman, and child in Gotham, and only one man can stop him: Batman. Michael Keaton's gruff, whispering Batman was a revelation, the first popular shift away from the Adam West characterization. His Bruce Wayne is moody and brooding, too- a man uncomfortable in his own skin, whose neurotic compulsion to fight crime in a bat-suit prevents him from having anything close to a normal, happy existence. His Batman is dark and reserved, popping in and out of the story and commanding the scene once he arrives, and although he could barely move in that suit, he manages to project an air of power and menace whenever he appears on screen. Nicholson, on the other hand, is so perfect for his part that it's scary, pulling of a deadly and maniacal Joker with ease (despite being many years older and a few pounds heavier than the Joker is traditionally portrayed). The only problem with his portrayal is that it's literally impossible to separate the character from the actor, as the Joker seems like nothing more than Jack Nicholson's id unleashed; the part can never be entirely convincing because you never forget who is playing him. Kim Basinger comes off as the odd woman out, a lone bastion of down-to-earth sensibility in a totally out-there production; it works well enough, I suppose, but her most important dramatic beat comes off as hackneyed and stale, and I can't help but wonder how Sean Young would have done in her stead. Michael Gough, a mainstay from the Hammer horror days, gets a small but fantastically stuffy part as Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce's confidant and trusted manservant (a role that would carry him through all of the successive sequels). Billy Dee Williams also gets a small but fun part as Distict Attorney Harvey Dent, a role that should, by all rights, have lead to his playing Two-Face in a Batman sequel; the only really important scene he has is a banquet with a strong Citizen Kane vibe, but it does make me wish he had gotten another crack at the role later. Visually, the film has Tim Burton's style without nearly as much of the personal signature that his later films would develop; the art department is definitely in charge here, with Anton Furst's set and production design in the forefront, and everything is grimy and industrial, creating a hell of urban decay that would win the design team an Oscar. The compositions are clear and engaging, and the lighting is like something out of film noir, with high-contrast shadows and conveniently placed shafts of light (and oh, how I do love it when they pull a Lugosi and highlight Batman's eyes during the darker scenes). The score, by Danny Elfman, is pure cinema gold, with a resounding, powerful, hum-able theme that weaves through the music and sticks with the viewer; easily, it's one of the best scores Elfman's ever done (if not one of the best scores EVER), and it established him as one of the premier film composers in the industry for over a decade. The script is the focal point of a typical Hollywood creative tragedy; the original screenplay, written by Sam Hamm, was a fantastic piece of storytelling, with clear, sharp characterizations and a tight, engaging plot (and yes, I HAVE read it, and it IS that good- Tarantino reportedly called it one of the best scripts he'd ever read). During the writer's strike of '88, however, Hamm couldn't be on-set during the shooting of the film, and as a result, rampant on-the-spot improv and overnight rewrites by the director and producers wreaked havoc on the film, turning the third act into a convoluted mess and transforming the Joker into the murderer of Bruce Wayne's parents (a move which, while dramatically interesting, infuriated comic fans, and is still a point of confusion for casual viewers, especially if they've ever seen Batman Begins). Sure, these improvs did add some great moments to the film (such as the classic "I'm Batman" line, which was originally scripted as "I am the night"), but they also robbed it of a great deal of credibility, particularly when Alfred allows Vicki into the Batcave for a last minute, horribly written romantic interlude before the climax. The insertion of Prince's songs take some steam of of the film, Batman kills a few to many people for anyone who knows anything about the character, and the aforementioned resolution to the Bruce-Vicki relationship makes NO SENSE WHATSOEVER, but Burton's Batman is still as entertaining as when it was first released. The new Batman franchise helmed by Christopher Nolan may be more critically acclaimed, but ultimately, it will never be as iconic or as groundbreaking as Tim Burton's pass at the character. All they needed on the poster for this film was a logo. That just about says it all.

It has long been my opinion that directors that write their own screenplays put out the best cinematic works, and the Terminator is a shining testament to that belief. Having only directed one prior film- Piranha 2- rookie filmmaker James Cameron wrote a screenplay inspired by a hellish fever dream, and set about the arduous task of bringing it to the screen himself. What resulted was a film that turned Cameron into a hot director, turned Arnold Schwarzenegger into an international superstar, and turned monosyllabic, gun-toting bodybuilders into the newest trend in low-budget filmmaking. With a story that unfolds slowly enough to build suspense and tension in the beginning, but revs up into a taught action spectacle for the last two acts, Terminator is a well-written, perfectly paced thriller with just enough science fiction to make the premise (and the antagonist) believable, but not so much that it bogs down the audience with techno-babble or cheats them with last minute miraculous plot devices. Arnold plays the part that he was born to, and one that is perfectly suited to him; his stature and build convey a sense of menace that most actors would have to work for, and the minimalism and monotone delivery of his dialogue dehumanizes him perfectly. Michael Biehn is convincing as Kyle Reese, a hardened and shell-shocked soldier from the future; he pulls off the character's intelligent desperation excellently. Linda Hamilton is strange to watch as the skittish 80's girl Sarah Connor, especially if you've seen T2, but she pulls off her dramatic arc well, and you can see her evolving into the character she would later become. And hey, watch out for Cameron-patsy Bill Paxton as a spiky-mohawked punk, alongside Shao Kahn himself, Brian Thompson! And the effects, ministered by the great (but at the time relatively unknown) Stan Winston, are still impressive to behold- in some cases, it's still hard to figure out how they did it! Underneath all the action and the effects, however, there is a powerful human story, about the value of a person's life and the impact that anyone- no matter how seemingly significant- can have upon the future. Stranger still, this story is anchored by a love story between Kyle and Sarah, which could easily have come off as cheesy and contrived, but is thankfully made believable by the earnest performances of Biehn and Hamilton. And during each stage of production, Cameron personally had a hand in every aspect of the making of the film, from lighting and editing to the special effects and the design process- Cameron designed the entire T-800 chassis himself! Though the original Terminator rings a bit false at times (Ginger and Sarah pre-Terminator seem just a bit too fake, but then again, it was the 80's), it is nonetheless a fantastic viewing experience, skillfully blending elements of horror, sci-fi, drama, and suspense thriller together to create a movie that defies categorization. It is the singular vision of one man- a man who would go on to make some of the greatest motion pictures put to film, a man who has contributed more to the field of motion pictures in twenty-odd years than some filmmakers do in a lifetime, and a man who's only directed ONE movie in his entire career that he didn't write himself.

... It was Piranha 2.

It sometimes surprises me to watch films from the eighties when I have only seen their sequels. If you've only seen Lethal Weapon two, three, or four, then Lethal Weapon one is almost shockingly gritty and noir-ish, not like the cartoony sequels at all. The later Rocky movies were about patriotism and achievement, but the first one was a more urban and dejected tale about making your life mean something. And while the last few Nightmare on Elm Street films were goofy and laughable, the original is dark and creepy, with a sense of originality that hasn't been obliterated by familiarity. Ever the consummate storyteller, Wes Craven infuses his movies with a literary depth rarely seen in horror fare, and is able to tell a story that gets better with age. Sure, the special effects are somewhat outdated, and may not seem as convincing as they once did, but Craven never relies on them enough for that to make a difference, instead conveying the surreality and the horror of his scenes through his lead actors. Perhaps the best dramatic element of the film has to be the successful blurring of the line between dreams and reality, which is done with more slight of hand here than in following films, and comes off much better. But the best thing about Nightmare on Elm Street is that, even after all these years, it still has the power to entertain, and even to frighten- an honor which many vintage horror flicks could never lay claim to.

If someone were to ask me the exact moment that I felt the Burton-Schumacher movies were taking a turn for the worst, I'd have to answer honestly with Batman Returns. The first Batman was by no means a perfect film- thank you very much, Writer's Guild Strike- but it at least maintained an integral honesty to its main character and its source material, and in the end it was a fun movie to watch. Unfortunately, the biggest creative force behind the film, Tim Burton, didn't really have much more to say on the subject of Batman after the first movie was completed. Warner Brothers, desperate not to lose such a unique element of the franchise (before it had even crystallized as a franchise to begin with), made Burton an offer that no self-respecting artist could refuse: instead of directing a Batman movie as funneled through the creativity of Tim Burton, he could direct a Tim Burton movie with the creative focus of Batman. The result, ironically, is a film that bears little resemblance to its predecessor, or even to a Batman movie- for some reason, it's unbearably dark, and it is so distinctly Tim Burton that the few Batman elements that remain are submerged under an avalanche of new, bizarre concepts. Keaton is back as the dark knight (in an inexplicable new suit- for some reason Batman has never had the same costume for two consecutive movies), and he does as good a job with the part as before (despite his newly emphasized tendency to horrifically kill the criminals that he battles- with a smile, in one instance). Michelle Pfeiffer is new villain number one, a woman raised from the dead by cats (it's handled more believably than it sounds) to kick ass and pursue her own mysterious agenda as the patchwork black vinyl-covered Catwoman. Here Catwoman is portrayed with a motive, a great improvement over her ill-defined comic counterpart, and Pfeiffer makes the psychologically complex role hers. For villain number two, we have Danny DeVito as the Penguin, a hideously deformed circus freak with a dark agenda and a gang of carnival-themed criminals who runs for mayor and wages a P.R. war against the dark knight. Sounds excessive? It is. But if anyone could play a believable half-man, half-penguin freak, it's Danny DeVito, and he does not disappoint, sinking his teeth into the role with perverse relish. Again, the script tries to create a backstory and a motivation for a poorly-defined character in the comics, but here it doesn't work quite as well. And as an added bonus, we get villain number three: Christopher Walken! Okay, it's Walken as millionaire tycoon Max Shreck, the Penguin's unwilling benefactor and leading campaign contributor, but since there is no Max Shreck in the comics, the character can be seen as nothing more than a place-holder for Walken in a fright-wig. If it sounds like there's a bit too much going on here, that's because there is- Burton goes so in depth on our villains and their complex psychological workings that our hero, the freaking title character, is relegated almost to secondary character status. Of course, that doesn't make Batman Returns a bad movie- on the contrary, it has its darkly funny moments, the action scenes are more polished than in the first one, and there's quite a bit of social satire involving the Penguin's bid for Mayor. And as if this over-abundance of villainy doesn't make the movie dark enough for you, the new cinematographer and production designer have created a landscape of deep, inky blacks and stark whites that make the movie incredibly depressing to watch. There isn't a plot to speak of- it's pretty much Batman fights the bad guys, with a few token complications thrown in for good measure. The problem is that it tries to stuff ten pounds of psychology into a five pound bag already loaded with two-and-a-half pounds of action. A review that I once read made a compelling argument for the idea that the villains were each representative of a different aspect of Batman's psyche: the orphan (Penguin), the vigilante (Catwoman), and the philanthropist (Max Shreck). Therefore, the whole movie is an in-depth exploration of Batman's character, even though he's barely in it. And while that may be a great premise for a Tim Burton movie or a Batman graphic novel, it just doesn't work on a Batman film. It's a shame that this extremely angst-filled sequel pushed the producers in the opposite direction, going back to light-hearted fluff when it came time for Batman Forever- I would love to have seen what Burton would have done with the Riddler. Nevertheless, Batman Returns was an experiment, a furthering of the approach that worked in the first Batman (keep it serious, keep it dark), that pushed the character a little too far into the shadows, and pushed its director a little too far into the spotlight.

Oh, God. The pain. The agony. It's... so... BAD! I know there's a law of diminishing returns when it comes to sequels, but this is ridiculous. Rather than working to enhance the better qualities of its predecessor, Batman and Robin instead takes all of the overblown, superficial, relentlessly campy tripe from Batman Forever (which only really worked because Jim Carrey was in the picture) and blows it completely out of proportion, killing any and all pretense of this being a real attempt at filmmaking. The dialogue is beyond cringe-worthy; taken all at once, the script is a full-fledged epileptic seizure waiting to happen. The sets are like something out of Cats, and sadly, so is everything else- seriously, I wouldn't have been surprised if the characters burst into show-tunes and the thugs formed a chorus line. It doesn't help things that almost every action beat in the movie- punches, falls, landings- is given not a believable sound effect, but rather something from the Looney Tunes library of sound. And as for the performances, well... yeah. George Clooney plays George Clooney expertly, but that mask is sometimes pretty distracting. Arnold seems to have a blast making everyone in the audience groan, and he never comes off any better than a cartoon would have (in fact, the cartoon Mr. Freeze out-acts Arnold easily in the animated series). Uma Thurman is actually a pretty decent Poison Ivy- were this film using an exponentially better script, she'd actually have created a great character. Not so with Alicia Silverstone; if I didn't want to kill her after Clueless, this pushed me over the edge. Chris O'Donnell is, well, useless as ever as Robin. And hey, they even threw in Bane for some reason! Yay! The fact is, if you go into this expecting even an okay movie, you're going to be disappointed- "unbearably stupid" does not even do this flick justice. Go into it expecting crap, though, and you'll be surprised how entertained you'll be. It really makes me laugh- just not when it's trying to.

Not too many movies these days try to be both topical and entertaining. Typically, you find either films that are complete escapist fantasy, which shy away from the ugly truths of real life with a vengeance, or harsh, uncompromising reality, hammering away at you with some unsubtle bit of political rhetoric. What's great about V For Vendetta, though, is that it's placed right between these two extremes; it's a fantastic action-adventure tale set in the future, but its story is laced with political allegory and philosophical contemplation (something which, if you've read any of my other reviews, you know I think quite highly of), and it is not above giving us a first hand look at the uglier side of life. V, our title character, is an unrepentant murdering terrorist, but due to a masterful performance by the always-excellent Hugo Weaving and a cleverly charming and witty script, we come to sympathize with him, and understand his reasons for taking such extreme actions- even though we never see his face! Evey Hammond, played by Natalie Portman, is our main character, and she has the toughest job of the cast, as she transforms through the story from an innocent but weak person paralyzed by her fears- a model for all the people held under the boot-heel of the totalitarian regime ruling England- into a hardened, self-assured young woman with no fear. Portman is perfect in the role, making it her own and pulling it off completely believably. The screenplay, based on Alan Moore's critique of English government in the eighties, manages to infuse modern political relevance to the tale, specifically involving the media's role in government relations, terrorism (and the line between terrorism and revolution), and basic human rights violations . But even with all this going on, the script never strays far from the human element, giving us intimate glimpses of lives effected by tyranny and intolerance, and emotionally investing us in the relationship between Evey and V, doomed though it may be. V for Vendetta is a surprisingly powerful film, made more so by the director's knack for appealing shot and lighting compositions, and the brilliant use of juxtaposition and montage by the editor. It resonates after viewing far longer than most other films coming out these days, and it has the power to stimulate hours of conversation on the myriad of pointed subjects tackled in its two-hour time frame. But mainly the reason I love it is that I never get tired of it; it is an entertaining, thought-provoking, and emotionally powerful film, and, like V and the Count of Monte Cristo, it gets me every time.

A classic that paved the way for all that came after it. While many heap praise onto Frankenstein as the premiere monster movie of the Universal era, it isn't often noted that Dracula came first- that, in fact, it was Dracula's success that encouraged Universal to make Frankenstein in the first place. Of course, Dracula is not without its flaws: it had no score to speak of, as director Tod Browning was unused to the sound equipment needed to create one; it becomes abysmally slow in the middle of the film, as we trade the vast and ominous sets of the Count's castles for a Victorian drawing-room for one third of the picture; and actor David Manners is about as expressive as a Ken Doll in the role of Jonathan Harker. But the main draw of the film lies in its eponymous main character, and Bela Lugosi does not disappoint. Every movement, every look, every pause in speech- all come across as coldly calculated, even as the Count oozes charm and behaves almost annoyingly polite. The distanced eeriness of Lugosi's portrayal is starkly contrasted by Dwight Frye's Renfield, a role played with such gleeful relish that he can't help but steal every scene he's in. While it has it's problems, Dracula is a landmark in cinema history, and a genuinely entertaining voyage through the superstitious, shadowy places where brave men fear to tread.

Ahhh, Army of Darkness. Of all the Evil Dead films, this is by far the most popular, most well-known film, and the cult following that surrounds it is astonishing. Frankly, if you're reading this, chances are you probably already like the movie. If not- if you are one of those few people who has never SEEN Army of Darkness, but have HEARD of it, I will say this: it is hilarious. Not a horror film in the slightest, AOD is a medieval swash-buckling adventure, loaded with slapstick and sight gags, and bristling with monster effects, stop-motion, and front-projection shots (some of which have not aged well). Our one-handed hero, Ash- no longer the frightened victim of Evil Dead or the hardened survivor of Evil Dead 2- is now a full-blast matinée idol hero, full of witty one-liners and quick with a shotgun; this time, he finds himself a fish out of water, trapped in the thirteenth century thanks to the time-portal climax of ED2, and since he's the only character we spend any meaningful amount of time with, he carries the movie. Let me just put it this way: if you like sword-and-sorcery movies, the Three Stooges, or if the idea of a man replacing his hand with a chainsaw just sounds really cool to you, then you have to watch this movie. If not, well, watch it anyway.

Kevin Smith's films tend to be fairly similar. For the most part, people stand around and talk; they talk about relationships, about comic books, about Star Wars, and everything in-between, and it is through these unending conversations that the plot is moved forward. Dogma, however, represents a radical departure from this motif; behold, a Kevin Smith film with- ACTION SEQUENCES! Gasp! Things actually HAPPEN! People go places! There are special effects, even! And sure, these things do make Dogma a somewhat more exciting movie than, say, Clerks. But the fact is, Kevin Smith makes films that are about two things- sharp characterizations and witty repartee- and Dogma has this in spades. Linda Fiorentino as Bethany Sloane is a perfect portrait of a faithless Catholic, living in quiet desperation as a lip-service church goer until she gets run over by a busload of spiritual revelations. Ben Affleck and Matt Damon as Bartleby and Loki, respectively, are like a finely-tuned comedy act- Loki's the clown, Bartleby's the straight man, and they bicker like a married couple- until halfway through the movie, Bartleby makes a dramatic character swing that turns him into a tragic villain with true pathos; Damon is unrelentingly likable as the smite-happy Loki, and Affleck shows surprising range and believability as the sensitive-cum-megalomaniacal Bartleby. Alan Rickman is absolutely brilliant as Metatron, the voice of God- he's certainly the only actor with the gravitas to believably portray a member of the highest choir of angels AND the comic timing to deliver Smith's razor-sharp dialogue, and to top it all off, he has moments of warmth that make him a much more well-rounded character. Salma Hayek as Serendipity has no such moments, unfortunately, and comes off as a somewhat two-dimensional expositional character with spectacular breasts- the muse is an intriguing concept, but not much of an actual person (which gives her line "I used to be an abstract" a decidedly multi-layered meaning). Jason Lee as Azreal gets to turn his snide delivery up a notch portraying a villain (a demon, no less), and though he's still funny, there's definitely a new undercurrent of bitterness that makes him less likable that usual. Finally, Chris Rock, while he hardly stretches himself as an actor, is still incredibly funny as the thirteenth apostle Rufus, and Jason Mewes and Kevin Smith as Jay and his "hetero-life-mate" Silent Bob are funnier than ever (perhaps my favorite moment in the film would be the foul-mouthed Jay coming face-to-face with God herself). More than being a playground for his new characters, though, Dogma is a scathing satire of organized religion and Catholic mythology, deftly handling material that few other movies would dare to touch upon. It was heavily picketed during its theatrical release by the Catholic church (and a bunch of other ones, I think), but Smith manages to have some fun about the whole controversy with a pitch-perfect disclaimer at the beginning of the film, which clarifies the movie's status as a comic FANTASY while poking a bit of fun at anyone who might take his work too seriously. Sure, Dogma has its childish moments (a great deal of them, actually), but it's that grounded and humorous perspective that allows Smith to broach such sensitive subjects without a moment's pause. Once again, Smith has written a movie about the relationships between people, even if some of them aren't strictly people, but more than that, he's written and directed a personal statement about having faith and finding your place in the grand scheme of things. A must-see for any Smith fans, highly recommended for anyone with a sense of humor and an open mind, and, in my opinion, required viewing for Catholics.

I have to admit, when I first heard that Rob Zombie was remaking Halloween, I was far from elated. I'd never liked Zombie's music, and had stayed away from his films altogether. This sinking feeling was not alleviated after watching the Devil's Rejects; after seeing THAT, I had to seriously wonder if Halloween would even be worth the admission. Now, after having seen the film, I'm surprised at how... effective it is. And not in the whole Texas Chainsaw Massacre, blood-dripping-off-the-screen way (though there is quite a bit of blood), but rather in a sad, melancholy way. Zombie plays Halloween more like a tragedy than a horror film, casting Michael Myers as a misunderstood creature, a Universal-type villain such as the Frankenstein monster or the Hunchback, who is molded by his environment into a heartless, unfeeling killer, but at his core is still human. What struck me the most is how Michael is played just after he's placed in a sanitarium- perhaps the most chilling aspect of the portrayal is that he seems so normal and carefree at times, and that, rather than having no soul, his is instead trapped by his psychosis, and he commits atrocities without knowing or understanding why he does. Michael's motivations also seem more human, striking at Laurie's friends and loved ones almost out of jealousy for the family and social life he never had. Zombie isn't trying to copy the patented Carpenter suspense formula with his film; instead of dread developing because of a glimpse of something we can't make out or a shadowy figure seen from across a street, we instead dread the interaction of our deranged killer with his erstwhile sister, not because we can sense ill intent without a body, but because we have no idea what's going on in this madman's mind. The ending, which deviates strikingly from the original (as it should, I suppose) is much more final than any before it (except maybe Halloween H20), and leaves the viewer with a pervasive sense of melancholy. While it may turn off some horror aficionados (many of whom seem to want their serial killers to win) due to its thematic differences from the original, Rob Zombie's Halloween isn't afraid to set its own style and make its own rules, and strikes a very delicate balance in creating a sympathetic, pitiable villain that is still vicious and brutal enough to root against and, wonder of wonders, to be afraid of.

There are some movies that I like because I appreciate the technical mastery needed to make them, and there are some movies that I just like because of the story that they tell- Memento, however, is a rare case of both being true at the same time. Memento is one of my favorite films, and has been since my first viewing of it. Of course, the most popular element of Memento's style is how the story is told- two sets of intertwining chapters, one set in black and white that tells a linear, straightforward story (one composed mostly of expositional voice-over), and the color chapters that recount events in reverse order, eventually converging with the black-and-white chapters to complete a slowly-unfolding mystery. But this storytelling style, confusing though it is for a casual viewer, isn't an arbitrary stylistic choice made by a frivolous director- rather, it is born out of the way the main character sees the world; Leonard Shelby, the protagonist searching for the man that murdered his wife, has no short-term memory, and so his only clues to what is going on around him are the notes and pictures he makes for himself- which, because of the narrative style, become the only way that WE can piece together what is happening, as we are as in the dark as Leonard is. With a fantastic cast (none of whom we can trust, turning from helpful to malicious with each passing chapter), a brilliant script, a simple, yet clever premise, and an engaging mystery, Memento is a detective story unlike any other, and a new benchmark for film in general- a hell of a start for writer/director Christopher Nolan (commercial start, that is; I haven't seen The Following yet, but I've heard good things about it, too).

I have never been much of a James Bond fan. To me, Bond has always been bland, two-dimensional, and uninteresting, and his movies almost always suffered from the same problem: too much convoluted storytelling, way too many convenient gadgets, and no character development whatsoever. By movies' end, Bond was exactly the same as he had been at the beginning of the film, the conflict of the movie forgotten as easily as if it had never happened, and Bond would be no better for having gone through it. But now- FINALLY- we have a Bond movie that tries to be more than just another Bond movie. Casino Royale is the first movie that deals with Bond as a person, rather than a tuxedo-clad superhero. He makes mistakes, he falls in love, he can be captured or beaten, and he has exploitable flaws. Daniel Craig is also the first Bond to convincingly fight his way out of situations without a gun (a move seemingly made in reaction to Jason Bourne, but a good move nonetheless); in this movie, James Bond can kick ass. The opening sequence is a treat for film fans, using very retro camera angles and stark black-and-white to evoke a decidedly noir-ish 1950's-60s atmosphere, in respect of the original novel's Cold War publication date (strangely, it reminded me of Dr. Strangelove). The film starts off with a heavy dose of action, primarily with an astonishing free-running chase set in Madagascar. When we move on to the card game in the Casino, however, tension becomes the name of the game, and Ian Fleming's spy-game novel shines through best here. The addition of an action sequence at the end of the story is a bit gratuitous, but the epilogue of the film is both exciting and bittersweet. But what stuck me the most about this Bond film is that, in the end, Bond has learned something from his mission, and Bond has grown because of it- though whether it has been for the better or worse is a choice left to the audience- as it should be.

Donnie Darko was the first movie that ever puzzled the hell out of me. I watched it, beginning to end, and came away so utterly perplexed... that I had to watch it again. Every time I saw the movie, I was overcome by a vague, formless dread- the film's disjointed and seemingly purposeless narrative was truly disturbing at times, particularly with the unexplained appearances of "Frank," the man in the twisted bunny suit. But it clearly wasn't a horror movie- it rang too much of a high school coming-of-age movie a lá John Hughes. On top of that, it possessed a dark and emotional core that constantly strived for the humanity in the film, a powerfully tragic undercurrent that just screams drama. But what about the hints of science fiction? Time travel and parallel universes? And while it had hints of every one of these, it simultaneously defied all the rules for each genre, leaving the viewer adrift with nothing certain to cling to and no way to see what's coming- a passenger in a car with no windows. And then it hit me- THAT WAS THE POINT. The film forces its audience to search for meaning in its seemingly unrelated sequence of events, much like it's main character- indeed, like any man or woman- is forced to do during the course of his (or her) lifetime. Donnie Darko is like a perfect encapsulation of real life in both a literal sense- the scenes between Donnie and his family feel authentic, and no one censors themselves to make the movie more palatable to an audience- and a metaphorical one- Donnie is confronted by strange new concepts that he's afraid to face, such as his own mortality, which can be seen as an analogy for growing up and gaining knowledge of the world. Donnie himself, played by Jake Gyllenhaal, is a young and troubled man who may or may not be completely insane; he sleepwalks, he has radical mood swings, and he has been seeing a six-foot-tall rabbit named Frank who foretells the end of the world in a little more than twenty-eight days. Donnie is shy, intelligent, and reserved (at times), but he is also highly perceptive and unflinchingly honest, and it is that honesty more than anything that brands him an outcast; Gyllenhaal plays the role superbly, humanizing the character enough to be relatable while keeping him aloof enough to be mysterious. Jena Malone as Donnie's closest friend Gretchen Ross is so incredibly wholesome that it's ridiculous, perfectly personifying the object of young love for our hero. Drew Barrymore pops in for a few scenes as a progressive English instructor condemned by the conservative PTA; she sees a spark of genius in Donnie, and understands that he's special, and so she encourages him to break from the norms and think for himself. Patrick Swayze, on the other hand, is the system personified, an impersonal, glamorized motivational speaker that represents conformity and totalitarian order. It's funny, his character's introduction (through an "educational" video) is incredibly funny, but his character is the most reviled and unsympathetic person featured in the movie. As the film progresses, we have a sense that things are coming to a head, but we have no idea where anything is going- just that it's going somewhere. Things rapidly turn tragic, but in an ironic twist, the tragedy becomes a sort of redemption for the characters involved, and the whole movie ends up looping in on itself. It plays with some heavy concepts- death, the meaning of life, the soul- but it doesn't manufacture artificial drama to make us care about them, or the characters that we are instead allowed to identify with naturally, like an acquaintance we might make at school or work. In the end, Donnie Darko, like it's eponymous main character, actively defies all categorization, demanding that the viewer accept it for what it is rather than labeling it as something else. Truth is, it might not be the movie for you- it's not a movie tailored for the enjoyment of all, but then again, what great art is?

Most movies from the eighties are indelibly dated with the conventions, fashions, and music from said decade, but there's only one film in which these antiquated elements actually benefit the story. Back to the Future is a film that has been embedded into my mind so strongly that it's almost impossible for me to look at it objectively anymore. Michael J. Fox is Marty McFly in the same way that Arnold is the Terminator, and I take Doc Brown so much for granted these days that I sometimes forget just how brilliant Christopher Lloyd's performance really is. The funny thing, though, is that while I liked part two the best when I was a little kid, I've grown to see that the first Back to the Future is the best chapter out of the trilogy, simply because it's not focusing on the technical aspects of time travel- it focuses on the comedy of a kid from the mid-eighties trying to blend in during the mid-fifties. It's really a brilliant idea, and it's executed amazingly well; the central crux of Marty seeing his parents at his age and screwing up their history is comedy gold, especially since everyone is pitch-perfect for their roles (never has there been a more believable nerd than Crispin Glover's George McFly). The effects are still spectacular, and they ironically make so good an impression that you may come away thinking there are more effect shots in the film than there really are. I also can't help but point out that this is one of the few time-travel movies with a sense of continuity- Marty's trip has definite effects that we can see after he gets back, and the past has elements that we see come to fruition in the future- and it also has the fewest time-paradox plot-holes of any time-travel movie I've seen. Though the ending is, in retrospect, a little too materialistic and "eighties," that goes with the territory: after all, this movie is given an exact date, so instead of making it seem antiquated or obsolete, it actually comes off as historically accurate! All in all, Back to the Future is just a fun movie to watch. It's not angst-ridden, excessively philosophical, or overtly nostalgic; it's an adventure back to a simpler time, and an upbeat look at how the choices you make can affect your life. And it's got a cool car in it!