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.

The first time I saw the Matrix, I felt like it literally blew my brains out of my skull and all over the wall behind me. That's how good it is. It's 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 didn't think it was revolutionary. 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 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- in fact, it uses that same philosophizing to enhance the experience by getting you thinking about the world around you, and it introduces concepts that you may never have even considered before about the nature of reality. 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 re-evaluate 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 and adventure... 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!

Ohhh, yes. This is one of those movies that I can put in at any time and enjoy just as much as when I first saw it. Featuring some of the Saturday Night Live A-list during their primes, backed up by a few members of Canada's SCTV, Ghostbusters is like the longest and funniest sketch that never appeared on either show. Essentially a parody of a number of blockbuster horror films from the era (Poltergeist, the Exorcist... other stuff...), Ghostbusters turns the mystical plane of the supernatural into a nine-to-five grind, focusing on three scientists (Murray, Aykroyd, and Ramis) who, after being booted from their offices at Columbia University, start up a business devoted to "paranormal investigations and eliminations"- i.e. catching ghosts for ridiculously high prices. The first half of the movie is devoted to the perils of starting such a highly specialized business venture (with equipment that would cost a king's ransom to procure), while the second half, marked by the arrival of average-Joe Ernie Hudson, is about the day to day hassle of catching ghosts, the bureaucratic entanglements that would result from developing such a radical new science, and, y'know, saving the world. What makes this sucker tick, however, is a perfect mix of perfect elements: a clever, witty script by Ramis and Aykroyd, proper use of the vast stage that is New York City (so much so that the film is indelibly identified with the area- it couldn't have been set anywhere else), and brilliant chemistry among the leads. Bill Murray, in a part meant for John Belushi, is just sleazy and sarcastic enough to love as Peter Venkman; Dan Aykroyd plays the overzealous, excitable nerd Ray Stanz as if he was one (and I'm fairly certain he is, considering what his concepts for this sounded like before he had any outside input); and Harold Ramis is so much fun as the perpetually stoic Egon Spengler that you couldn't picture anyone else in the part. And the supporting cast is more than up to matching them: Sigourney Weaver underplays Dana Barrett as a perfect counterpoint to Venkman ('til she's possessed by a dog), Rick Moranis is about as over-the-top as he can get as nerdy Louis Tulley (especially when he's possessed by a dog), Annie Potts turns apathetic, bitchy receptionist into an art form as Janine Melnitz, and Ernie Hudson's Winston Zeddemore helps to ground things as a phenomenal straight-man for the group (but he has some of the best lines: "Since I've joined with these men, I have seen shit that would turn you white!" "Ray... when someone asks you... if you're a god... you say... YES!" "... That's a big Twinkie."). There is so much about Ghostbusters that is classic- every other line is quotable ("Sorry, Venkman... I'm terrified beyond the capacity for rational thought."), the effects are still spellbinding, and you'll be damned if you don't find yourself humming that theme song after the movie's over. Haven't seen it before? If the answer is yes, then don't hesitate another second- WATCH THIS MOVIE!

Halloween is, creatively speaking, a tough act to follow, and nowhere is this more obvious than in its sequels. Following that one fateful All Hallows Eve in 1978, it seemed like everyone was trying to recapture the lightning-in-a-bottle that John Carpenter had shown us, but when it came to bringing back Michael himself, there didn't seem to be a way to do it very well. After all, Myers was a character that we feared because we almost never saw him- but by the end of the first film, we had seen Michael. What point was there in hiding him anymore? Because of this, the directors of consecutive Halloween films rarely worried about concealing Michael's presence or evoking an atmosphere of dread, instead hoping that his sudden appearance on screen would scare people in the same way that Jason's shocking visage did; and in removing the vital elements of mystery and atmosphere, they lost the key ingredient in what made Halloween work so well in the first place. Thank God for Steve Miner- ironically, it was the director of Friday the 13th parts Two and Three that restored Michael to his mysterious roots. Halloween H20 is by far my favorite of all the Halloween sequels. It is the only film of the seven made that not only gets what made the first film work, but doesn't fail on the execution of these traits- something that can't be said for the only other comprehensible sequel in the franchise, Halloween II. What sets this film apart from the others is that, like movie one, it spends more time building up the suspense of Michael Myers' deeds, gingerly stringing us along and throwing a few false starts our way until its finally ready to cut to chase. And unlike previous sequels, which tried desperately to explain why Michael is who he is, this movie once again cloaks his motivations and his machinations in mystery, rendering him almost as a specter of death rather than a human being. While one could argue that its dramatic style and cinematic look have been riffed from the Scream movies (which the poster is a glaring testament to), this is hardly a point against the film as it uses this (at the time) new cinematic style to bring Michael back from the brink of mediocrity. But even more prominently (and perhaps a bigger indicator of the influence of Scream), this is the first Halloween sequel that refuses to condescend to its audience- its main characters are intelligent and multifaceted, the events of the film actually registering with them and affecting their actions (which I believe is called character growth- gasp!), and most astoundingly of all, it has a sense of continuity, building its story on the foundations of the first two films and creating a richer, more complex narrative arc because of it! New characters are introduced- my favorite moment has to be Josh Hartnett's John punching Michael in the face (about time somebody at least TRIED that, but it's no excuse for what happens in the sequel)- old characters finally get some closure (and not just Laurie Strode; the opening of the film ties up the one loose end from one and two), and Michael's story (excluding any and all poorly contrived sequels) comes to a definitive, and satisfying, conclusion.

Bill Murray does not make bad movies. Okay, that's not entirely true- Ghostbusters 2 was unimpressive, and the Garfield movies are crap- but on the whole, Bill Murray's work is consistently entertaining, from the classic comedies like Ghostbusters to the generic star-vehicles like What About Bob?. Groundhog Day, however, is a transcendent work of filmmaking, easily the best work that Murray's ever done, and it is the best film to date from actor/writer/director Harold Ramis (a.k.a. Egon Spengler from Ghostbusters). The film concerns Phil Connors, a TV weatherman for Pittsburgh who is sent down to Punxatawney, Pennsylvania to cover the celebration of Groundhog Day. After a severe blizzard strands him and his crew in town overnight, he awakens the next morning to discover that it's still February 2nd- Groundhog Day- and he's the only one who remembers what's happened. Now faced with living through the same day over and over again for an eternity, Connors is forced to take a good look at himself and his life, and strive to make the best of his situation. What makes this part so much stronger than all the other parts Murray's played is the brilliantly powerful character arc of Phil Connors: a man with no responsibilities, no consequences, no future, and no hope. What do you do if nothing you do has any consequences? How would you feel if you were stranded forever in a cruddy small town where nothing new ever happens- LITERALLY? What would you do to escape such a life? The story ventures into some pretty dark places, and Murray displays a dramatic depth we've never seen to him before; but no matter how morose things get, he still manages to make you laugh. It helps that he's surrounded by a plethora of character actors (a few of whom are related to Murray) that flesh out the town of Punxatawney as Phil becomes intimately familiar with everyone who lives there. The best by far is Stephen Tobolowsky as Ned Rhyerson, a former schoolmate of Phil's that has grown up to become the most despicable creature imaginable: an insurance salesman. The scenes between Ned and Connors are some of the funniest in the film. Murray is also balanced quite ably by Andie MacDowell as Rita, Connors' friendly new producer. MacDowell grounds the movie when it sometimes threatens to get too out of control; she has the unenviable task of having to react to Phil in every scene as if his behavior from February 1st is fresh in mind and as if nothing strange is going on, and her character has no real growth as a result (okay, I guess that would actually make it easier to play). Some of the most clever scenes involve Phil trying to woo Rita by remembering and correcting the mistakes he made from all of his previous attempts. But while Groundhog Day is a fantastically funny comedy, it is also wonderfully well-written and surprisingly deep, turning the unlikely situation faced by its protagonist into a metaphor for life as a whole and the search for meaning in existence. It's a deeply existential and metaphysical movie without smashing you over the head with bloated concepts and preponderances on life (I'm looking at you, Matrix Reloaded and Revolutions), and even if you don't care about its deeper implications, it makes for an incredibly entertaining movie. In the end, it promotes a message of hope, enlightenment, and happiness that will leave you feeling all warm and fuzzy inside, but it never feels preachy or saccharine sweet, and whether you like it for its heart and spirit, or for Bill Murray letting a groundhog drive a truck at high speed off a cliff, I guarantee that you WILL like this movie.

Few movies have a reputation that precedes them as much as Orson Welles' first cinematic effort, Citizen Kane. After all, it's a bona-fide classic, earning the number one spot on AFI's 100 Years, 100 Movies list- twice, in fact; it's also the movie that killed Welles' career by incurring the wrath of publishing magnate William Randolph Hearst, whom the film is, in many ways, a veiled biopic of, and whose countering machinations probably cost the film Best Picture at the Oscars that year (which went to John Ford's abysmally-named How Green Was My Valley). Hell, the entire last chapter of my film textbook deals with how ALL of the preceding principles of filmmaking can be applied to Citizen Kane! But underneath all of this hype- past the Hearst connection, past the scandal and the fallout, past the massive ego of the ingenious twenty-something Welles- there is a really brilliantly tragic film here about a man with the world at his feet, a man who, ironically, is undone by his own ego. With its intriguing form of flashback story-telling, we get as close as we ever will be to a man that no one ever really knew, and whose last word, cryptic to any and all who hear it, bears a deeper meaning for him that he takes to his grave. Of course, now almost everyone knows what "rosebud" means, but that's not really the point of the story- the question isn't "What, or who, is Rosebud?", the question is, "Who was Charles Foster Kane?" Really, there's not much I can say that hasn't been said, so just take my advice: if you've never seen Citizen Kane, give it a chance. There's more to this one than an ending.

Unforgiven is a movie that takes all of the trappings of the traditional Western- the damsels in distress, the heroic outlaws, and, most of all, the thrill of gunfighting- and casts them in a light of moral ambiguity never seen before in a Western. The story breaks down the romanticized ideals of the past, bringing us situations and characters that we've all seen before but making us face the raw, unpleasant truth behind them. In this film, the line between the good guys and the bad guys is hazy at best, no one is innocent, and violence is a way of life. Our hero, Clint Eastwood's William Munny, is a retired gunfighter who could easily be any of the cold-blooded outlaws Eastwood has portrayed in his long career. With Munny, however, the film takes on a strange angle- that of a love story, despite the fact that Munny's wife is dead when the film opens. Munny is dead-set on staying reformed, not necessarily because he wants to be, but because of his devotion to the memory of his wife. When his best friend (Morgan Freeman) manages to convince him to join him in pursuit of a reward for the lives of two men, Munny's protestations take on a desperation that shows that, no matter how hard he tries, he has seen and done too much; he is marked for life, and will never be rid of the darkness inside of him. Eastwood shows us the cost of leading a life of violence, and doesn't shy away from the effects that this violence has on everyone it touches. Gene Hackman plays a lawman who long ago gave up on trying to find justice, instead using violence to ensure a semblance of peace, and succeeds in becoming both despicable and believable; Morgan Freeman as Munny's best friend and another former bandit is a far cry from the relatively wholesome parts Freeman usually plays, but because it's Freeman, you can't help but like him. By the end, however, Eastwood takes center stage once again, and he gives his vengeful gunslinger one last ride before drawing the curtain on his famous Western persona in a melancholy, but thoroughly satisfying, conclusion. Unforgiven is both a deconstruction of the Western genre as a whole and the final word on Eastwood westerns in particular. It is a morally-complex film that never takes the easy way out in its depiction of murder, and it leaves the audience with something to think about once the credits have rolled, and a new way to look at the films that have come before. One of the greatest Westerns ever filmed.

So many movies are indebted to Blade for so many reasons that it's not even funny. Foremost would have to be its undeniably large part in bringing about the resurgence of comic book movies, without which we'd have no X-Men, no Spider-Man, no Batman Begins, no Sin City, and no Heroes (one of the few television shows I actually put forth the effort to watch on a regular basis). It was one of the first popular films to come up with the vampire-as-virus, "realistic" (as opposed to superstitious) approach to its monsters, a trend that would continue in movies like Underworld and 28 Days Later. Furthermore, it came up with the black-trenchcoat-and-sunglasses look a whole year before the Matrix was released (not to mention doing bullet-time for one shot, though much less effectively than the former), which, whether that influenced the Wachowskis or not, definitely puts it in the category of originality. But more than any of its future repercussions on the creative world of filmmaking, the measure of a movie must be in its viewing, and Blade does not disappoint. It is a visceral, energetic film experience, a truly exciting action film with break-neck editing speed, well thought-out cinematography (in a world of grays and blacks, the red just stands out that much more), and a story that introduces us to a new and frightening world by bleeding it through the day-to-day a little bit at a time (again, the concept of the world-beneath-the-world is something else that resonates with the Matrix, but with Blade, it is a significantly less literal interpretation). Wesley Snipes plays the role he was born to play, his attitude no longer as chaotic or cocky as his earlier films from the nineties, but rather controlled and focused- a refreshing change of pace. Kris Kristofferson is so good as Whistler that I could hardly believe that he could play anyone else until I saw it myself- and later, I would realize that he was channeling Sam Elliot more than a little. Stephen Dorff is great as a late Gen-X alternative vampire upstart, being both sharply funny and carelessly vicious enough to pull of what sounds like a cardboard character on paper (and one with a few too many adjectives, to boot). And the story, action-packed though it may be, is still richly layered and well-written; and while the symbolism may sometimes be a bit too forthright (I challenge you to watch the blood ritual near the end and NOT get the metaphor), it still adds a dimension to the film that some filmmakers may have neglected. In short, Blade is an intelligent action movie from a time in movies when such a term would have been an oxymoron- it was a step or two in the right direction(s), which were subsequently followed through by the Matrix and X-Men. But for a first step, Blade left a hell of a footprint.

Let the buyer beware. When Frank Miller first wrote Sin City, the miniseries that would later be renamed "The Hard Goodbye" the same way Star Wars was renamed "A New Hope" when the sequels came around, he conceived of it as the "anti-movie"- a tale so full of ultra-violence, sex, and profanity that it could never pass muster with a major production studio. He did this primarily because of his bitter experiences with the RoboCop franchise (he wrote scripts for parts two and three that were butchered due to their excessively graphic natures), and he was determined that this was a project that he would never let Hollywood get its hands on. Irony of ironies, Sin City is now the only Frank Miller-based movie that's worth a damn- excluding Batman Begins, which is only partially based on his work anyway- and it's all because one Hollywood filmmaker came knocking that didn't want to change a thing. Sin City is so fundamentally Robert Rodriguez that, despite the obvious Miller influence on both the visual aesthetic and the direction, I consider this the epitome of Rodriguez's creative work. Taking three major storylines (and a short story) from the Sin City graphic novels and crunching them down into a single movie (with three storyarcs), Robert Rodriguez does for comics what the Lord of the Rings trilogy did for fiction novels- he creates the closest possible adaption of a work from a different medium while simultaneously crafting a unique and entertaining movie in its own right. Finally using green-screen tech for a film NOT dedicated to pleasing his children, Sin City is about as controlled as a film can be, literally painting the frames around the actors in an attempt to perfectly replicate the comic panels of its source material. This does tend to remove any feeling of natural flow from a number of scenes (as comics tend to allow readers to fill in the gaps between panels, something film cannot do as well), but this just reinforces the feeling of this being a work of art, rather than a recording of life. I had never seen Mickey Roarke in any film before I saw this one, which made his Marv that much stronger in the viewing- but even knowing who's underneath all that make-up, he is completely concealed and transformed by it anyway (so much so that I was shocked to see what Mickey Roarke really looked like later on), and it is completely believable- at least, in context of the film. Everyone seems to be having a lot of fun with the material, which is both noir and comic-bookish; the dialogue is far from plausible ("Dwight, you fool... You damn fool..."), but the actors pull it off, more or less (the less said about Michael Madsen, the better). Everything in this movie is pumped up to extremes, from the angles and the shadows to the violence and the sexual content. And that is my sole caveat about this film- it is DEFINITELY not for everyone; just as Frank Miller intended, it deals with some pretty dark subject matter, and is unflinching in most of its portrayal of the seedier side of life (save the fact that Nancy wears more clothes while on-stage than in the graphic novels). If you're averse to dark, taboo, or extremely violent material, I'd stay away from this one. However, if you've got the stomach for it (or you can laugh at the almost cartoonish treatment of a lot of it), Sin City is a singular viewing experience, the closest thing to a comic book that the silver screen can accomplish and a declaration of creative intent by two gifted individuals from two very different fields. Just be aware of what you're getting yourself into...

It's funny- the Academy and I don't agree too often. They say the best picture of 1991 was Silence of the Lambs, I say it was T2. They say Scorsese's best work was the Departed (after all, it was the only one he got an Oscar for), I say it was Goodfellas (and I've heard great things about Cape Fear). But I'll be buggered if, in 2005, we didn't see eye to eye at last. You see, while I could go on and on about how Batman Begins is the best movie EVER (and thus also the best film of 2005), I am a rational man, and also a man of taste, and so I can see that, in the theaters of 2005, there was nothing that could hold a candle to Crash. Crash is a well thought-out, well executed trip through the less savory side of life in America. It gives us a glimpse of evils that some people consider things of the past, and that some must deal with on a daily basis- racial tensions, discrimination, hate crimes- but at the same time, it takes our preconceived notions about these subjects and turns them on their heads. This is a movie that delights in ambiguity, developing its characters in one light and then, quite adeptly, playing with the preconceptions that you form about these characters as a viewer, thus both enriching and providing depth for the characters on-screen and forcing you to think differently about how you view other people. The ensemble cast is pitch perfect, filled with both name actors and relative unknowns, and this plays further into the film's dynamic as most known actors are played against type (try finding one other movie that features Sandra Bullock as a bitch). Matt Dillon, whom I've never had that high of an opinion of, finally knocked my socks off as a racist LAPD cop. Michael Pena's Hispanic locksmith has possibly the most moving tale, and the sincerity he brings to the part- and his relationship with his daughter- is a huge part of what makes it work. In fact, all of the actors in this film are impressively believable, and as their solo vignettes weave slowly around each other, we are painted a dark, imperfect, but ultimately hopeful and strangely beautiful portrait of the lives of these people and the prejudices they all face, whether they are the prejudices of others or those of their own. It is one of the few Oscar winners for Best Picture that I side with the Academy on- How Green Was My Valley was NOT better than Citizen Kane- and with damn good reason, too. It's a movie that makes you think, it makes you feel, and it changes the way you look at the world (and if that's not the definition of art, I don't know what is). I honestly cannot heap enough praise onto this picture- if you haven't seen it yet, just go watch it!

I never really saw Rocky until the day I first saw Rocky. I know that sounds weird, and it doesn't sound like it makes much sense, but it does when you consider that, until I actually saw it, I always thought I pretty much HAD seen Rocky. I thought I had the whole thing down; the training, the boxing, "Adrian!"- vicariously through other sources, I had pretty much heard the entire ending of the story, and I was convinced that I knew what it was a ll about. Then, of course, I got around to actually WATCHING it. What a difference it makes. Rocky is not a high-spirited, flag-waving, rah-rah movie like some would have you believe it is; in fact, the first act of the movie is almost entirely an urban drama, filled with desperate people living at the end of their respective ropes. Rocky is one of those guys. He's a boxer- not a great boxer, but an okay one- who's past his prime and trying to keep an optimistic outlook on life. Stallone plays the role with humanity and pathos, which surprised the hell out of me since up 'til then I had only seen him as a snarling killing machine (but later, when I saw First Blood, I found a pleasing combination of the two. The first is the best there, too). His awkward, burgeoning romance with a reclusive pet-store employee is touching and realistic; he forges a connection with the shy Adrian that is so believable that without it, I could never have seen the climactic shouts as anything more than I did before: a joke. When Rocky inevitably gets his big shot, of course, I had expected the film to become what I feared- a parable about winning. But again, shock awaited me as the complications of his big break are actually explored: how do his blue-collar friends react? How is this anything more than an exhibition? How does the training affect his personal life? Unlike the sequels, nothing in this movie feels forced. Everything evolves organically from the characters, who, thanks to the stellar supporting cast, never come off as anything less than real people trying to survive in a cold and indifferent world. The ending, which has been satirized to death, amazingly still packs its punch after all these years, and it never stretches your sense of disbelief like some movies do. Rocky is a quintessential American classic, a tale about working hard and earning respect, partly from others but mainly from yourself. This is a movie you have to see at least one time before you can pass judgment on it, because I promise you that it's better than you may think it is. It's not a sports movie, it's not a cookie-cutter '80's movie- it's just a fantastic movie. Period.

The great grand-daddy of the horror genre as a whole! The matriarch of the slasher film! The best movie ever made by the great auteur Alfred Hitchcock!- and that is saying a hell of a lot! There is not a single reason to say that Psycho is any less than a masterpiece from the Master of Suspense himself. Even if you've never seen it, you know the score: Marion Crane (played by the great Janet Leigh), on the run after making off with $40,000, pulls over at a run-down motel in a rainstorm. The proprietor, a well-mannered young man named Norman (played to wholesome perfection by boyish Anthony Perkins), is ruled over by his tyrannically-overbearing mother, whom we never see. Then, after a pleasant chat with Norman over some sandwiches, Marion decides to take a shower- and shortly thereafter, cinema was changed forever. With probably the most recognizable theme of all time playing over the soundtrack, Hitch pulled a one-eighty on the audience, eliminating the main character with a virtuoso murder scene (seventy cuts in just under a minute!) and leaving us with no one to identify with but Norman, whom we watch clean up the scene as if he were changing the bedsheets. But when a private investigator comes calling, who should we root for: poor Norman, or Marion's suspicious sister and lover? Psycho is a movie that just loves to play with its audience, spending so much time in the beginning building the Marion storyline that, when it all comes crashing down, it's like a bucket of cold water to the face. It toys with your perceptions by spending so much time with Norman that you end up sympathizing with him, despite his having a hand in vile and unethical deeds. And the ending turns it all around yet again, unveiling the true title character with a shocking revelation that anyone who hasn't seen it probably already knows, thanks to pop culture (pssst... Norman's insane). Psycho set the standard for suspense with its calculated camera placements, expertly-timed editing, and piercing score by Bernard Hermann. It single-handedly created a market for scary movies unlike anything Universal had to offer, and even today, it has the power to captivate- and pull the rug out from under- an audience. Cue the strings.

Friday the 13th is not a terribly creative franchise. Even in it's inception, it was a rip-off of another, far-superior horror concept, namely Halloween; even the date Friday the 13th only figures into the concept incidentally, being mentioned only once near the beginning of the movie and eventually holding no significance whatsoever. So why does Friday the 13th deserve any stars at all? Well, unlike other Halloween rips, Friday does have an air of original thought to it- the setting is unique and perfectly secluded, the set-up is wonderfully likened to a ghost story that would be told around, say, a campfire, the kills are all clever manipulations of the campground setting, and, unlike Halloween, Friday the 13th had a surprise ending! Sure, in Halloween, we knew Michael Myers was the culprit, but in Friday, we only suspect the mythical Jason Voorhees is behind things- and, similar to how the POV of the killer masks his identity in the opening of Halloween, all we see for most of this movie IS the killer's POV. All we see of the murderer are a pair of (unfortunately manly) hands at work, so when we learn who the killer is at the end of the film, we never see it coming (of course, that's because the killer isn't introduced 'til the end, but still)! If you've seen Scream, or know anything about horror movies, then you know that the killer is Pamela Voorhees, Jason's mother, and Betsy Palmer plays the maternal psycho (sort of the anti-Norman Bates) perfectly. Unlike Halloween, which worked heavily with suspense to scare the audience but didn't have too high a body count, Friday is the first horror flick that seems to be working towards quantity of work, bringing in a large stable of characters to knock off one-by-one, Agatha Christie-like. The film's reputation for ostentatious kill scenes is well-earned, as the killing show a creativity that sometimes lacks in the dialogue; but in part one, the death scenes aren't preposterously over-the-top like they would become in later sequels (to compensate for the drop in script quality, I'd imagine). And once it's all over, the final scare moment is expertly played for maximum shock value, creating a final impression that helped jump-start a nine-sequel franchise. Of the ten films, though, Friday the 13th is the most original; and while it may not be Kurosawa or Spielberg, it definitely qualifies as a horror landmark. Oh, and Kevin Bacon's in it, too. But not for long.

Back in the long-ago days when there were only three other Friday the 13th movies, studio executives came to an Earth-shaking conclusion: they had to kill off their cash-cow serial killer Jason Voorhees. Why? Probably because they were already sick of him. By movie three, they already had the formula worked out to a T, and there was no longer any creative benefit to be gained from continuing his bloody tale. So for his final hurrah, the filmmakers slapped together a penultimate Jason tale, a perfect distillation of everything that they'd come up with: campers show up, meet with local residents (who, for some reason, aren't already dead), get into youthful hijinks, start getting killed off, survivors rally, get chased (a lot), try to appeal to the little boy inside Jason, and then kill him off. Violently. In fact, this chapter is, point for point, just like every other chapter. So why watch? Well, I hold that the point of watching a Friday the 13th movie is for the Easter Eggs, and this one has a few: hey, look, it's Crispin Glover, one year before he'd go on to play George McFly and then fade into obscurity! And- what's that? Holy crap, it's a pre-pubescent Corey Feldman as monster make-up loving tyke Tommy (who'd show up for two more movies, though not played by Feldman, but more than any other character save that creepy hobo from part one- wait- did they kill him in two or three? And furthermore, who cares?)! So how did the plans of the execs fare? Well, the final death of Jason definitely LOOKS final enough- I know I couldn't get up and walk away from THAT- but they made a part five regardless. The death managed to stick for it, though, turning the movie into a mystery again, a la the first film (who is pretending to be Jason?). But that wasn't too popular, so they brought Jason back for six in the only way that they could- they made him a ZOMBIE. Way to stick to your guns, guys. Still, if you want to see a Friday the 13th movie, but don't really care which one, watch part four- it's incrementally less stupid than some other entries, but not by too much (favorite line: "RUN! OH, GOD! HE'S KILLING ME! HE'S KILLING MEEEEEEEE! RUN, SARAH! HE'S KILLING MEEEEE!"). Watch it with friends- you'll have a blast.

Yessir, it's that time of the year again- Halloween, where the only movies to watch are the scary kind (except in theaters, which never seem to take advantage anymore). There's lots of stuff to sift through when trying to find a decent horror movie, and the Friday the 13th franchise makes up a great deal of it. Truth be told, most of the Friday the 13ths are pretty much the same- campers show up, Jason lurks around, campers start dying, survivor(s) "kills" Jason, run credits. And this one is no different. But what makes this one stick out in my mind is two things: one, this is the only Friday the 13th with a telekinetic heroine (!), which makes the confrontations near the end just a little bit more interesting (it's funny, because this was originally planned to be a Freddy vs. Jason movie, but when New Line wouldn't lend Freddy to Paramount for the flick, they changed it to Carrie [sorta] vs. Jason). Secondly, this is the first Friday that features Kane Hodder as Jason, the only man to play the role more than once. He brings an incredibly intimidating physicality to the role because, well, he's HUGE, which makes Jason much more of a palpable threat than the scrawny stunt men from the previous films did. Also, though it's not the first movie with zombie Jason, it does go much further with the undead look, showing us bone structure poking out of his back, decaying flesh peeling away from his body, and the ONLY Jason-face that differs substantially from the fugly little boy from part one, this time coming across as much scarier when we finally see his face. Male lead Kevin Blair bears a striking resemblance to Christopher Reeve at times, and Terry Kiser (Bernie from "Weekend at...") plays a manipulative psychologist- that's pretty much all there is to say about this movie. If you want creative, original filmmaking, you're going to have to look somewhere else, I'm afraid. But if you want in on the brainless, manufactured slaughter-fest that is Friday the 13th this Halloween, then I recommend this one. Kane Hodder is the best Jason ever, and here's the proof.

Someone might wonder, considering the bent of my ratings in most cases, why I saw fit to include this film under the category of "perfect." After all, my tastes run mostly towards science fiction and horror, with a strong superhero undercurrent. So why is it that this relatively small romantic comedy is wedged in amongst the likes of T2, the Matrix, and Halloween? Well, simply put, I respond well to any movie that can create interesting, not-too-unbelievable characters (through performance if not necessarily through conception), putting them in surprising, unusual situations, and watching events unfold as a result of their reactions, as opposed to things just spontaneously happening. And while As Good As it Gets may not have killer robots, bizarre creatures, or spectacular heroes, it does have a group of unique, believably interesting characters who find themselves stuck in a strange situation and have to work their way through it without the help of a last-minute plot device. But on top of that, As Good As it Gets is performed beautifully by its ensemble cast, each actor bringing a depth and a humanity to characters that, in any other movie, might come off as grating or two-dimensional. It's always a real treat to watch Jack Nicholson work, especially when he's got something good to work with; in this film, we get the best of both worlds with him, seeing him both as a complex, vulnerable human being and as the devilish caricature of himself that one can't help but enjoy watching as he rips into his cast mates. The film is loaded with gallows humor and social taboos, but it never comes off as spiteful or cynical, and even when the world seems to be at its bleakest, there is clearly a humanity underneath the tragedy that saves it from the morose, brooding pointlessness of many recent dramas, whose filmmakers seem to think that they can make their films poignant simply by removing any hope from the narrative. As Good As it Gets is the anti-noir; it is a film about finding compassion and goodness in an uncaring world, and finding it in the places that you'd least suspect. As far as film goes, the title says it all.

Yeah... this one needs almost no explanation. 300 is probably the most powerful, intense, exciting, and emotionally stirring mainstream motion picture to come out of Hollywood in years. While certainly visually stunning, 300 is more than just eye candy (though it certainly does have a lot of that), and it goes a step beyond Sin City in that it maintains the feeling of a Frank Miller work while bringing more storytelling depth than a direct port of a comic. Gerard Butler as Leonidas is... well, ripped, but he also passionately invests himself in the role, managing to balance human sensitivity and relatability with Spartan toughness and resolve with exceptional skill. Lena Headey as Queen Gorgo stands on her own as a formidable diplomat, warrior, and queen, despite the obvious tendency to play her as a cypher that would have been indulged in any other movie. We see in her, through Headey's performance, a woman that we believe Leonidas would see as a total equal. On the other side of things, the god-king Xerxes, as played by Rodrigo Santoro, is just a gloriously overdone villain, digitally altered to appear nine feet tall and given a deep, resonating voice that sounds far from human; the constant demands that he makes of others to kneel before him couldn't help but bring General Zod to mind. David Wenham as our narrator Dilios came as a surprise to me- having only seen him in Van Helsing as an unassuming friar, I couldn't imagine him as a friggin' Spartan- 'til I saw the movie, that is; his narration is typical of Frank Miller's work: repetative as heck, but still fun when read right, and Wenham does a good job with it. The action is all wonderfully overdone and exaggerated, but what's great about that is that the hyperbole tends to emphasize the legendary nature of the story- and it's a welcome change of pace from the excessive fidelity to history in most recent movies (only Frank Miller could get me to say something like that, though- I HATED Moulin Rouge). The action sequences are hyperkinetic, both in content and editing, but the quieter scenes are just as well handled, given a breezier pace when it benefits the story (and it isn't chopped to bits, like you might see in some other movies- Bourne, I'm looking at you). Though it would seem to be just a blood-and-guts action spectacle, though, 300 has a very heartfelt love story buried amidst the violence, and it's that grounded core (coupled with Frank Miller's unique aesthetic) that elevates 300 from yet another swords-and-sandals Gladiator rip-off to a genuine epic film-going experience.

Not for the faint of heart. Kevin Smith has made many a movie that deal with relationship anxieties of ALL different kinds, but with Chasing Amy, there's no doubt that he dug up stuff from the deepest regions of his soul to write this script. Granted, the deepest regions of his soul are still swimming in geek-based dialogue and bodily function humor (more so than we've seen before, in fact), but it really feels like Smith decided to lay it on the line with Amy. Finally constructing a film around a central love story (instead of lodging one into a buddy comedy), it's almost as if Smith decided to purge every thought and insight that he'd ever had about relationships into one overstuffed dating flick- the irony being that the subject matter, while the most mature of a Smith film, lends itself to the most vulgar dialogue I've ever heard in a motion picture. The production values aren't as good as Mallrats (the film quality was a little off, and the lighting and set design were bordering on amateurish), but that probably has to do with Mallrats' box office returns; besides, film quality is incidental in a Smith film (as Clerks so ably displayed)- the screenplay (or more accurately, the dialogue) is the attraction here. Smith writes some of his greatest (not to mention longest) monologues for this film, all of which are filled with conviction and emotional resonance, and the acting does it justice (but just barely). Ben Affleck as Holden McNeil is actually capable of crying believably (funny- I always thought he was an android), and he's just earnest (and believably stupid) enough to pull off the part (which is, admittedly, the least complex part in the movie). Joey Lauren Adams is the definition of cute as Alyssa Jones, making it easy to see how Holden could fall so irredeemably in love with her despite her professed preferences. She has a tough part- it could have been too easy to come off as inconsistent or unbelievable, but she (forgive the term) kept it real through the whole movie. Dwight Ewell gets off much lighter as Hooper X, the black supremacist comic creator of "White-Hating Coon", who, while making public proclamations of "Black Rage!", is actually an extraordinarily gay pretender playing to his own hype for a paycheck. He's not in the movie much, but he's so funny while he is that he makes a lasting impression. Arguably playing the most difficult part is Jason Lee as Banky Edwards, Holden's best friend and co-creator of their comic book (Bluntman and Chronic). He seems two-dimensional at first, but as he becomes more and more jealous of the time Holden spends with Alyssa, we get a look at new (and sometimes not too pleasant) facets of his personality- not to mention that the character is left as something of an unresolved issue. Issues, however, are not in short supply here: Holden meets Alyssa, finds out Alyssa's gay. They become friends, then Holden falls in love with her. He tells her, she explodes, and finally admits that she loves him. But Banky gets jealous, and tells Holden about Alyssa's past. Holden can't handle it, and screws things up with Alyssa. It's like Smith wrote an episode of Degrassi Junior High and loaded it with profanity and comic book references. The film also is incredibly topical without being topical, touching on issues that are downright incendiary (gay vs. straight, black supremacy) without actually dealing with them, opting instead to focus on the people at the center of the issues. That, in essence, is the message of the film: it's not the trappings that matter, it's the person beneath them. I think it was bold that this was the first film Kevin Smith ever made that didn't have a happy ending (despite how close Clerks may have come to such a fate)- it's a movie with no simple answers for its extraordinarily complex questions, and it displays an emotional adulthood that one wouldn't expect from Kevin Smith. Worry not, though- the dick jokes are all there.

It took me a long, LONG time to get around to this one, but I'm glad I finally did. I have been raised for the most part on newer zombie horror flicks- Resident Evil, the remake of Dawn of the Dead- so I initially found it extremely difficult to get into the far more subdued Night of the Living Dead. Recently, however, I forced myself to still still and pay attention, and I found that the movie gets better as it goes. The film starts as sort of a tame, Frankenstein-ish, spooky black-and-white flick with nary any blood to be found, but as the film goes on, it gets progressively grittier and gorier, and by the end we might as well be watching a documentary. The zombies, of course, are nowhere near as vivid or graphic as their modern-day counterparts, but what they lack in countenance, they more than make up for in ferocity- having never seen the original, I had believed that the creatures ("ghouls" as they are referred to in the film) would be slow, cumbersome, and easily avoided (Shaun of the Dead being my primary source of information on the subject), but, contrary to popular belief, these things can be quick when they want to be, and they can be overpoweringly savage. Of course, most viewers these days understand the social and political undertones of the film- the black man (Ben) vs. the white man (Harry) and the disagreements and paranoia that tears the survivors apart when they should be working together (very Cold War) which has a ring of a modern-day Lord of the Flies to it. While the acting is far from Oscar-worthy, it isn't all that terrible, either. Judith O'Dea as Barbra is, well, just there for most of the film, serving only to scream in terror at the beginning and the end of the film, but this, at least, she does well. Having seen the remake of this first, I expected more from her character, but her tragic end perfectly demonstrates the horror of being attacked by those you once loved. Duane Jones as Ben, by contrast, is the most well-played and well-rounded character in the movie, but I like that, even though he's the closest thing we get to a hero, he's still stubborn, temperamental, and ultimately fallible. Karl Hardman as Harry, on the other hand, is a jerk and a coward (who doesn't think of himself as a jerk and a coward), but he's not really a bad person- he's just trying to protect himself and his family. Of the others in the film, there's really not much to say; they're all cardboard and lifeless (either literally or figuratively). Partially inspired by my favorite novel (I Am Legend), Night features some similar 50-60's era "scientific explanations" for the sudden outbreak of carnivorous cadavers (a space probe, recently sent to Venus, exploded while approaching Earth, unleashing- gasp!- RADIATION!!!), but the tale sticks mercifully close to the claustrophobic house our heroes inhabit, which, though it may have been a budget compromise, makes the horror of the situation more immediate. And by not doing the kind of orchestral or dramatic build-up we expect when watching a horror flick, the scares catch us completely off-guard, and they seem all the more real for doing so. Sure, it's got some logical inconsistencies- if Harry and co. were in the house first, why didn't they try to find food or a radio before locking themselves downstairs?- but let's face it, Night of the Living Dead is a classic, without which the horror genre as a whole would be a vastly different place, and we would be the worse for it. Definitely worth the watch.

I Am Legend is my favorite book. I have wanted to see a movie made of it since I first heard that Ridley Scott was going to do it in 1998, with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Since then, I saw and loved Constantine, and was thrilled to hear that director Francis Lawrence would be following it up with the long-delayed adaptation of the Richard Mattheson classic- and that this time, it was actually going to happen! By then, however, I had learned to be cynical and wary of Hollywood, which seemed to be able to take even the most brilliant stories or the most basically compelling premises and water them down to nothing. But now, having seen the film, I can say my fears were groundless. I Am Legend differs greatly from its source material, but it manages to have a life of its own, bringing to an essentially plot-less tale a character arc and an underlying conflict that allows the story to succeed as a motion picture, not just an adaptation. Will Smith as Robert Neville is surprisingly good; although the conversations between him and his dog (or his mannequins) sometimes come off as a little too... Will Smith... he truly shines in the quieter and more cynical scenes, and his portrayal of a man riding the razor's edge of madness rings more true than I would have thought possible. Since he is the Last Man on Earth, we spend a LOT of time with just Robert Neville, but, as with Tom Hanks in Cast Away, Smith brings enough levity, pathos, and likability to the role that we don't really notice. Perhaps my one true gripe with this movie would have to be the creatures. In Mattheson's novella, it's true that the creatures are actually virus-infected people with vampire-like symptoms, but they were still, essentially, vampires- stakes, garlic, crosses, the whole deal. Unfortunately, I guess none of the writers who worked on I Am Legend throughout its long development process thought that was a particularly good idea, and so what we get instead are screeching, hairless creatures that look like the monsters from the Descent and act like the zombies in 28 Days Later. While yes, these sort of monsters worked in those movies, it feels a little too much like the filmmakers were trying to cash in on the success of those other films, and moreover like they're trying to avoid the cheesy vampire stigma by not calling a spade a spade (or, more accurately, using a pick-axe to do a spade's job). Had they made the creatures more like actual vampires, they may have had a chance to re-invent the undead like Danny Boyle re-invented the zombie, but hey, what's done is done, and though they don't even have fangs (which makes their gaping mouths a bit less than terrifying), they still do the job of scary-thing-in-the-dark quite well (that is, when they're IN THE DARK- they look really fake when they get into the light). Also, since they're so much more formidable than simple vampires (and have no apparent weaknesses), the location of Robert's stronghold is a secret, which means that, even if they COULD speak, there is no utterance of the definitive line, "Come out, Neville!" Still, the film is put together really well- the cinematography is rich and vibrant, the sound mixing is brilliant (I have rarely seen a film with such a keen handle on the effectiveness of silence), the score is simple and understated, yet satisfyingly emotional, and the production design is Oscar-worthy, creating a totally believable landscape out of the ruins of New York City (the panoramas are phenomenal). Finally, the movie does change the ending of the tale dramatically, taking the traditional Hollywood route and going for the "... but it should all turn out better in the long run" approach. However, I don't think it's too bad... in fact, I think it's the best ending they could do with it. Mattheson's original ending would never fly on the big screen- it's just too far-fetched, that there could be a living vampire society that executes Neville for his "crimes"... it's just too Twilight Zone cynical (which makes sense, considering how much Mattheson influenced the Zone). Instead, we get an ending that gives Neville's character an arc, that gives the film's running time a resolution, and gives us a new reason to call Robert Neville a legend- one that makes sense in the context of the movie. It might not be Schwarzenegger versus an army of vampires, but I Am Legend definitely lives up to its potential, both as an adaptation and as a film. A new favorite is born!

Wow. I have never been so powerfully underwhelmed in my lifetime. It's like... James Cameron's Aliens and John McTiernan's Predator vomited all over a Friday the 13th film. Seriously, it's a shame that the far better-sounding Freddy vs. Jason vs. Ash got the shaft, but this pile of junk made theaters; sure, the creature effects were okay, but I have never seen such a piss-poor cast of no-name AND no-talent "actors" hack away at such a crappy script before in my life. The story is like something a twelve-year-old would come up with for a sequel- picking up right where the first left off, an Alien/Predator hybrid, or Predalien, causes the Predator ship from the first film to crash near an isolated small town. There, the face-huggers on-board start impregnating townspeople with new Aliens, and a Predator, moments from dying, sends out a call for a one-Predator clean-up crew, who cuts a swath through the town, eliminating all evidence of the Aliens' presence (including any witnesses) and hunts for the Predalien. Meanwhile, an ex-convict comes back into town, meets up with his brother (a social outcast with feelings for the hot blonde cheerleader, who likes him too but dates a possessive jock douche bag) and hangs out with his former best buddy who's now the town sheriff. Meanwhile, a former soldier comes back into town to reunite with her husband, try to re-establish her bond with her little girl, and get back to life as a civilian. When the shit hits the fan, this diverse group of people must come together if they are to survive the horrors that lurk around every corner. Sounds like it's been done to death, right? Yeah, well at least when it was done before, it was done WELL. From the first line of dialogue I realized that this was a film that should have gone direct to DVD, because acting that is so poor that it reveals itself in the simplest of statements is not fit to be shown in a theater. Add to it that the dialogue is atrocious, the characterizations are cardboard cut-outs, and the situations are inevitably irrelevant, and you have a film where the human element could have just as easily been removed without doing too much to the film's entertainment value. EVERY human-on-human scene is boring and predictable, and it's only when some sort of horrible creature is involved that the filmmakers really seem to be trying. But the Brothers Strause, whoever the hell they are, have a bit of a problem with creative thinking- because they know what scenes they loved in the Alien and Predator movies, they try to shoe-horn the same scenes into this film instead of coming up with their own ideas. What's worse, they execute these scenes with no regard for the form and technique used by the previous filmmakers to make said scenes effective in the first place! This movie is like the cinematic equivalent of fan fiction- it's obvious the brothers like what has come before, but they have no idea how to make something of equal quality. Now, that's not to say the movie is totally without merit; the creature effects are still enjoyable, and in the lone Predator's story there is plenty of action to keep us at least peripherally interested. And the Predalien itself is an awesome creation, upon which I think it's safe to say the entire movie owes its existence, but building a movie around one cool concept just isn't enough. Furthermore, the filmmakers do something INCREDIBLY stupid: they go against established Alien lore (and biological logic) to explain the presence of more Alien drones during the climax by fabricating a way for the sterile drone Aliens to reproduce. Sure, you could say that it's only the Predalien that can do it (it's the only one shown to, after all), but what facet of a Predator's genetic make-up would allow the progeny of a Predator and an Alien to spew embryos from its mouth? Logical inconsistency like this is a hallmark of shoddy filmmaking (and 80's slasher fare). Walking out of AVPR, one has a definite sense that they've just seen something the world of movies could just has easily have done without- a cheap, rushed attempt to milk the success of a franchise (or two) that once had dignity. It is a shameful sequel to a movie that wasn't even that phenomenal to begin with- just like the bastard progeny of the Friday the 13th series twenty years ago. Let's just hope AVP doesn't have that many more sequels in it...

Behold... the Anti-Musical! Unlike the traditionally bright, chipper and unrelentingly hopeful musicals of... well, pretty much anyone else, Tim Burton gives us a dark, bleak, and oppressive vision, not just for a musical, but for a film in general; this is, by far, the darkest film that he's ever done. To be fair, it is an adaptation of the musical by Stephen Sondheim (whom I now regard as the Anti-Andrew Lloyd Webber), itself based on the play by Christopher Bond (who I'm sure is an Anti-something, I just need to figure out what), but despite its many creative contributors, the film is indelibly stamped with Burton's style, even if the production design is much more subdued than in some of his other films (Sleepy Hollow, for instance). It's funny at times, but the humor is so viscously black that you catch yourself wondering how you could find something like that funny. Our "hero," Benjamin Barker, a.k.a. Sweeney Todd, as played by the über-famous Johnny Depp, is, at first, a sympathetic character- he's been trespassed against unforgivably, and we root for him to have his vengeance. But from the outset we can see that Todd's bitterness and hatred have overcome him, and when his appetites grow from the vengeful to the murderous, we are forced to admit that Todd has lost his mind, sublimating his grief for his wife into homicidal impulse until he can barely remember the loved one he seeks to avenge and he slits throats with wild abandon and with no regard for human life. Exacerbating the situation is Mrs. Lovett (Helena Bonham Carter), his landlord and proprietor of a meat-pie emporium located below Todd's shop, who is so unrelentingly in-love with Todd that she encourages his bloodlust by providing a perfect way to dispose of the remains of his customers (mmm, mmm, good!). Lovett is deluded by her love, dreaming only of the day when he will forget his vendetta and reciprocate her affection (making her a lot like the Batman character Harley Quinn, actually), and the tragic fact that he will never love her- EVER- brings a light of sympathy to a character that might otherwise be a characature. Alan Rickman, on the other hand, is pure, despicable evil as the villainous Judge Turpin, the man who locked Barker away on a false charge so that he could have his way with Barker's wife. This character isn't cooly evil or relatably evil- he's about as loathsome as a human being can be, and though the villainy of our hero eclipses that of Turpin by film's end, we still take a small measure of satisfaction that Barker does get his final vengeance. Then, there's Jaime Campbell Bower as the obliquely-named Anthony Hope, the only truly good person in the play next to the barely-developed Johanna and Lucy Barker; he gets to start the movie with the ironically upbeat first lines to "There's No Place Like London," almost as a jab at traditional musicals, and he remains the unchanged paragon of youthful exuberance and hope throughout the picture. The music is all excellent, with witty banter coming so quickly that it's hard to take it all in sometimes, but when it needs to be emotional, it bursts with power (despite a tendency towards dissonance that keeps it from being too melodic at times). Burton once again uses color-correction to transform the film into an expressionistic work of art, subduing pretty much ALL of the color save, in very specific instances, red- but when the characters dream, they dream in bright, vibrant, golden hues, striking out against the drab grays of the world as it is. When the whole thing comes to a head, a capricious amount of blood is spilled, and the true tragedy of the tale sinks in, leaving one absolutely despondent when finally leaving the theater. But the songs stick with you, the striking imagery is hard to forget, and the story is one of the best cautionary tales I've yet heard. Not for all tastes, but definitely worth the price of admission- I guarantee that if you hated The Sound of Music, Annie, or Singing in the Rain, this will probably be more to your liking!

Have you ever seen a movie that was so incredibly stupid that it hurt just to watch it, but, like a train wreck, you felt compelled to take in every horrific moment as it collapsed in on itself, leaving nothing behind but a lifeless black hunk of twisted metal? Oh, I have. Squandering all the goodwill earned by its predecessor, Mortal Kombat Annihilation is a shoddy excuse for a film, combining bad acting, a weak script, mediocre effects, poor editing, cheap production design, flat compositions, and pathetic choreography into a film that is as bad as the sum of its parts would indicate. This movie set back the cause of video-game cinematic adaptations for years, and almost killed the Mortal Kombat gaming franchise to boot (1997 featured a lot of genre-killing films, didn't it? I'm looking at you, Batman and Robin...). Most of the original cast has jumped ship, leaving only Robin Shou's Lui Kang and Talisa Soto's Kitana to flounder under the sub-par direction of one John R. Leonetti (whoever the hell that is...). In place of the funny, mischievous Christopher Lambert, here we have B-actor James Remar as the all-too-serious Raiden, God of Bad Lightning Effects. Sandra Hess makes for a better substitute as Sonya, but her character arc is telegraphed from a mile away, and she seems to serve no other purpose in the narrative than to get into a mud-wrestling match halfway through the film. As far as the newcomers go, the best is easily Lynn "Red" Williams as Jax, who manages to make a pretty funny movie (funny, that is, for ALL the wrong reasons) just a little bit funnier WITHOUT being the butt of the jokes- his attitude comes off more genuinely than anything else in the film, but only occasionally (when the poor scripting permits it). And it's hard to deny that Brian Thompson is perfectly cast as Shao Kahn, even if the director undermines the very qualities that make him a good choice; Kahn is hardly the domineering force that the characters treat him as (he gets his ass handed to him in the first five minutes, and he constantly panders to his father for approval), and without an indomitable villainous presence to drive the action, the narrative loses cohesion quickly. Making matters worse is the filmmakers' desperate desire to fit as many Mortal Kombat characters into the story as possible, which results in he introduction of a bevy of ill-developed characters who bear no relevance to the plot beyond the scene in which they appear. Sure, we get to see Smoke, Cyrax, Rain, Mileena, Baraka, Noob Saibot, Reptile(s), Nightwolf, Scorpion, and Sub-Zero, but, well, who cares? None of them are given any backstory or motivations, and most of them are dead after a few minutes (or else they Mysteriously Vanish, instead of, say, sticking around and HELPING to fight the battle to come- why, Sub-Zero?). And worst of all, the Maguffin that most of the plot is focused on- Queen Sindel- is not only stuck in a ridiculous costume with little to do except, well, stand there, but when they finally get to her, she turns out to be- surprise!- COMPLETELY USELESS, only sticking around long enough to say as much to our heroes before vanishing in a plume of stupid. So how do they overcome the forces of Kahn? Simple- they fight them, just like they SHOULD have done when the movie BEGAN. And don't even get me started on the skinless monster things (that can be beaten by, well, punching them. A lot.), the stupid dragon tattoos, the last-minute soap-opera twist, the overwhelmingly underwhelming death of Sheeva- the list goes on and on. If you actually want to watch this movie, then the only advice I can give you is to heed the tagline on the poster: "Destroy All Expectations." 'Cause if you go into this expecting anything resembling a good movie, you are about to be sorely disappointed.

As far as horror movies go, intelligent options are slim pickings. Thankfully, Wes Craven is pretty dependable for making effectively scary flicks with thought-provoking layers, and this is one of those films. Scream is an intense horror movie that brings a lot of conventions of everyday life- wrong numbers and horror movies, for instance- and uses them as springboards for suspenseful cat-and-mouse games with an anonymous killer wearing a generic Halloween costume (which, since the film's windfall box office and two sequels, has become iconic in and of itself). The film works as a shocker (the first fifteen minutes are a testament to that), a murder mystery, or a social commentary, depending on how much you want to go into it. Screenwriter Kevin Williamson makes shrewd observations about media saturation and the desensitizing of youth to violence (not to mention the conventions of the horror genre) without bogging the film down with weighty deliberations on the subject (thus allowing the less interested viewer to tune out on these observations). Conversely, Wes Craven takes the suspense and the horror of the situations to levels that make the film taught and engaging from start to finish, without steamrolling over the humor or the irony of the teens and their obsessions with horror movies. There are TONS of homages, in-jokes, and references in this movie- almost enough to put Quentin Tarantino to shame. It adds another layer to an already juicy film- it's practically a love letter to horror fans, and aficionados will find plenty to point out to the uninitiated. Neve Campbell is a particularly effective heroine, coming off as both strong and vulnerable as she fights to stay alive through the very cliches she ridicules. Skeet Ulrich is like a human homage to Johnny Depp, save that he comes off as much creepier. Jaime Kennedy is easily the most likable character as Randy, the movie geek that sees all the horror movie standards in their situation and delivers the legendary rules for survival in a horror flick. Everyone seems cut from a stereotypical cloth: the bitchy reporter (Courtney Cox), the dopey deputy (David Arquette), the blonde bimbo best friend (Rosario Dawson), the shallow party guy (the ever-enjoyable Matthew Lillard)- it's like a recipe for a bloodbath. And of the whodunnit nature of the story, we really can't get to know them... because ANY ONE of them could be the killer. The filmmakers keep you guessing right up until the big reveal (which does take on an air of the Bond villain "this-is-how-I-did-it" expositional moment, but it manages to hold on to enough suspense to keep it from seeming blatant). Frenetic, funny, bloody, and clever, Scream is the best horror film to come out of the nineties, and a fantastic viewing experience whether your a fan of scary movies or not. Sure, it started a trend of Dawson's Creek wannabe teens running from faceless killers in the movies, but, like the Matrix, it's progeny does nothing to diminish the quality of the original. And hey, at least Scream's sequels were good...

Let me be clear about a few things. I have always had a great distaste for Disney fare. Typically, I find it to be poorly written, under-budgeted saccharine schlock, executed in consistently predictable ways and increasingly irritating as one grows older. Of course, that's not to say there aren't Disney films that I enjoy- there just aren't many. Likewise, I've never been all that captivated by pirates, and even after public opinion swayed towards their fancy, I couldn't help but think that pirates were one-note relics of history, best left discarded and forgotten in films like Cutthroat Island. That's why it took me until last night to see Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl- being a non-conformist by nature and an opposer of substandard Disney releases, I held out for as long as I could. But now that I've seen it- much as it pains me- I have to admit that it's definitely good. Better than good, really- it harkens back to films like Raiders of the Lost Arc and Star Wars, bringing that sorely lacking spirit of adventure and fun back into film in the way that Lucas and Spielberg haven't been able to do themselves. Of course, Captain Jack Sparrow is the centerpiece of the whole film, being both gloriously over-the-top while still coming off as bizarrely believable- it's not hard to see why the academy gave him due consideration at the Oscars. His morally ambiguous nature brings a much needed x-factor into what could have been a fairly straightforward, predictable Disney flick. Speaking of predictability, Orlando Bloom is the epitome of Disney's stereotypical straight-laced heroism as Will Turner, son of Bootstrap Bill. He doesn't really have much of a personality, but he doesn't need to- he's the straight-man foil for Cap'n Jack, and he does the job well. Keira Knightley as Elisabeth Swann makes for a great female role model in the film, being smart, heroic, and self-sufficient despite being a woman in the culturally oppressive seventeenth century. Lastly, Geoffry Rush as the sneering Captain Barbossa is having a grand old time as the villain of the movie, playing to the pirate stereotype that Johnny Depp steers away from but doing it well enough that he never comes off badly- in fact, he makes a perfect counterpoint for the unusual Captain Jack, and the scenes between them are some of the best in the movie. The action is impressive- the sword-fights in particular seemingly channeling Errol Flynn or Edmund Dantes- though the violence has been toned down for a Disney audience. Still, there are some pretty gruesome insinuations that show a willingness to keep the story's integrity strong, despite the censorship. Concerning the script, my greatest qualm with this film originally was that it was based on, of all things, a THEME-PARK ATTRACTION. How much inspiration could really be furnished by a theme park ride? Thankfully, unlike the ill-fated Haunted Mansion, POTC doesn't make the mistake of letting the attraction be the film's drawing factor; instead, Pirates featured a fun, witty script filled with entertaining characters and clever situations, and it had the benefit of a skilled director to bring it all to the screen (thankfully, one not involved in making Disney pictures, but... well, REAL pictures). It might not be my favorite kind of movie, made by my favorite production company, but Pirates of the Caribbean is by far a more thoroughly entertaining film that most of what Hollywood is producing at the moment. It has that spark that so many films had back in the eighties... that spark of originality, of creativity, that made Indiana Jones and Luke Skywalker household names. It's good to know that that spark is still out there.

The horror... The horror. I'm a die hard fan of Bela Lugosi's iconic performance as the prince of the night, so it's taken me a long bloody time to get around to actually watching this thing. The first word that I'd use to describe it is... British. Undeniably British. I spent almost half the movie trying to decide if I was watching a bunch of stuffy Brits trying to be actors or a bunch of actors successfully (and brilliantly) becoming stuffy Brits. Either way, this movie has much less atmosphere than its forebears, going instead for more visceral horror (by the day's standards, at least) and vividly colorful compositions (thanks, Technicolor!). The scary bits are surrounded on all sides by languorous minutes of conversation between our leads, all of which is delivered either mechanically or overly melodramatically (depending on the situation) by the actors. The Count's first moments on screen were an incredible disappointment: he appears in heavy shadow at the top of a staircase to heavy fanfare on the score, only to walk briskly down to the waiting Harker and deliver his few lines as if he were trying to get past them as quickly as he could. Worse, he didn't even sound too menacing; his voice wasn't as deep as it would grow to be, and I couldn't detect much of any accent as he spoke- bizarrely, he sounded... American. But at the very least, the filmmakers know they have a piss-poor gentleman vampire on their hands, and so he only has one speaking scene. In fact, they are straying as far from that as possible, and the remainder of the film made up for his disappointing entrance. This Dracula is either a monolithic shape that fills a doorway or a snarling fanatic with fangs, flinging his foes across floors or bolting violently from danger. While Lugosi was a plotting prince, Lee is a wild animal; this is a Dracula that gets his hair mussed. On the other side of things, Peter Cushing plays a far more formidable Van Helsing that we've yet seen- decisive, intelligent, as fleet of foot as the speedy Count, and far younger than most interpretations have him. This Van Helsing is so effective that he actually gets into a physical confrontation with Dracula- and WINS. On the supporting side, it was great to see Michael Gough as a young man (I'm used to seeing him only from the Batman films), though he never really changes his inflictions or expressions throughout the film unless something really horrible happens (in which case he goes a little overboard). As for the rest, Harker is a stereotype, Lucy is a joke (red hair and pigtails? What is she, a Wendy's model?), Mina is kind of flat, and all of the other vampires (all of whom are women) are buxom, over-the-top... well, vamps. The horror is actually somewhat effective, as the low budget ensures that we get the stripped-down ugliness of the violence; In particular, the stakings have a sort of bleak matter-of-fact-ness that makes them more disturbing to watch. It's just too bad that the blood is way too damn red to believably be blood. By far, however, this Dracula movie has the best action of any that I've seen; the chases, in particular, are exhilarating, and it actually climaxes in a fight between Van Helsing and Dracula that's so good that they used it as the prologue for the following film. It's not the same as the '31 classic- hell, it's exactly the opposite, truth be told- but Horror of Dracula is an effective film with its own merits, its own weaknesses, and, beneath it all, its own style.

Again, with the enjoyment of garbage. I'll admit that Ghost Rider doesn't have the most realistic dialogue, the most thrilling action sequences, or the highest IQ of any comic book adaptation I've ever seen (let alone any film in general), but Mark Steven Johnson really impressed me with this one. After the excrement that was Daredevil, I didn't think Johnson worthy of directing street traffic, let alone a big-budget motion picture, but Ghost Rider is much more competent than his previous works, showing a visual flair that's a bit less forced and a bit more interesting, a great sense of atmosphere and mood (at times), and a greater willingness to have fun with the material (or at least, a more appropriately implemented willingness). Ironically, it is not in the action set pieces or the superhero spectacle that the greatest entertainment is to be found, but in the quirky character work, the dramatic tension, and, yes, the awe-inspiring special effects for the Rider (though whenever he talks, all his mystique melts away- they seriously needed a better voice, or less dialogue for Ghost Rider). But in fact, the best parts of the movie don't even deal with the flaming one, but rather his alter ego, Johnny Blaze. Nicolas Cage is obviously having a blast as the stunt biker Blaze, and brings to the table more than a few... unusual character traits that transform what could have been (another) two-dimensional stereotype character into a living, breathing weirdo. But a fun weirdo. And he's not the only one that breaths life into the film; Eva Mendes is totally believable as a down-to-Earth Roxanne Simpson (which the name alone makes this a hard part to swallow). She makes the character not only seem real, but grounded and approachable- despite being quite preposterously attractive. I can't say that Peter Fonda gave an award-worthy performance as the devil Mephisto, but I did enjoy watching him, and he also seemed to be enjoying himself; and Sam Elliot plays, well, Sam Elliot, as only Sam Elliot can. As far as the cast is concerned, my biggest gripe would have to be with Wes Bentley as Blackheart. Seriously, who thought Wes Bentley would make a good villain? The man couldn't intimidate his way out of a paper bag, much less cut the mustard as the son of SATAN (without at least underplaying it- but that's not on the menu here). The fact is, once the villainy pops up, you're forced to check out, as we are treated to more M.S.J. trademark exposition-through-dialogue, not to mention (oh dear sweet Jesus) hero-villain banter ("Sorry- all out of mercy!" "You're going down!" "You cannot catch the wind!"). And because this is a film about magical, mythical beings, the script is confronted with a quandary- how do you defeat a demon/angel?- that is solved with a paper/scissors/rock mentality that makes no sense (fire beats EVERYTHING!), resulting in dramatically devoid action scenes. An action movie where the action is the lamest part may sound terrible, but for the life of me, I can't help but enjoy watching this movie. The score is moody and appropriate, the humor is funnier more often than not, the effects are amazing, and everyone seems to be having so much fun making it that it makes it fun to watch. It's appropriate that a movie about a carnival stunt biker would play so much like an amusement park attraction, and in the end, that's really how you should look at this movie- just check your brain at the door and enjoy the ride.

Why? Why do I allow myself to watch movies like this? Frogs is the epitome of stupid filmmaking- beginning with the film's laughable premise, things only go further downhill, with cardboard acting, uninteresting sets and locales, totally absent character motivations and cringe-inducing dialogue. By far the ONLY reason to watch this movie is to see Sam Elliot- whom I never would have believed to be young during his lifetime, had I not seen this movie- and/or to try (and fail, probably) to figure out WHY this movie is called "Frogs" when frogs are the only creatures in the movie that don't kill anyone! At all! Not recommended for those allergic to stupidity.

Quite possibly the worst motion picture in the history of cinema. It's like... the regurgitated vomit of a student filmmaker that had ingested too many David Zucker and disaster flicks. Sometimes clever dialogue is cut down by poor sound quality, and the editing pace is as close to comatose as a movie can be. Almost enough to make me lose my faith in low-budget filmmaking, this abomination should have been put out of its (and our) misery a long time ago.

As a general rule, I can't stand musicals. Hello Dolly, West Side Story, Grease... (shudder). Movies like this are overdone, overbearing, and too kitsch-y for my tastes. To date, there are only three musicals that I can stand: South Park: Bigger, Longer, and Uncut, the Phantom of the Opera, and this, a humble, earnest tale of the poorest, most hated people on the planet trying to live their lives in the face of changes from outside and in. It helps, of course, that John Williams did the score, thus elevating what may have been underwhelming stage orchestrations into full-blooded symphonic movements. The characters are far more relatable here than in most musicals, where people are pared down to two-dimensional caricatures (which, don't get me wrong, happens here, but the core characters are very human). This is a much more subdued musical than most, giving almost plausible explanations for everyone to suddenly burst into song (my biggest problem with similar musicals). I have always held that if a character's going to burst into song, there has to be a sincere emotional driving force; the song has to be an expression of something inside the characters beyond "Hey- I can sing!" Here, we get that- we get the dizzying highs of celebration and the abysmal lows of despair, all in equal measure, and always motivated by the people on-screen, not by the director. And wonder of wonders, this is a musical that doesn't end too happily to be believed, instead trying to fit some stark reality in with the fanciful musical numbers, creating an intriguing blend. Its a melodic tragedy, but with hope for the future and faith in a higher power built into every moment. When it goes for fun, though, it doesn't come across as overdone or hammy, but instead honestly joyful and truly lighthearted (unlike the artificial Technicolor brightness of, say, Singing in the Rain). This is one of those movies that can leave you with a warm, fuzzy feeling inside without making you feel like you've been manipulated, and you might even find that you can't get the songs out of your head once you've heard them. This movie isn't so much a musical, actually, as a fantastic comedy/drama with an incredible score (that the characters happen to sing to), and that's why I love it- because even when the everyone becomes part of a clearly rehearsed song-and-dance number, it just never seems fake to me.

Silent films are hard to sit through. It's something that most hardcore film lovers would deny, of course, but the fact is, silent movies are often slow, monotonous, and difficult to pay attention to (especially for a modern viewer, who's been weened on television commercials and music videos)- it's just a result of a lack of stylistic and dramatic advancement of the art form at the time. So it always impresses me when I watch a silent film that not only doesn't bore me, but succeeds in holding my interest for an extended period of time. Potemkin is one of these movies, Caligari is another, but of all the silent films that I've seen, my favorite is Nosferatu. Nosferatu is a strange movie, filled with strange-looking people that do strange things. I still haven't determined if the actors erratic behavior and bizarre appearances are because the film is German, because the film is silent, or if they are an actual creative choice made by F.W. Murnau, but no matter which is true, it lends the film a distinctive style that makes it just as creepy today as it must have been in 1912. Even though this leaves us with no one to relate to- Hutter, our preposterously upbeat hero, never acts like a real human being for one second- it helps to divorce the film from reality, and that is where the film's historical significance lies. Nosferatu is one of the best examples of German Expressionism, and it's also the only one of its kind that was shot on location, instead of on a soundstage. Thus, it is the surreal and oft-inexplicable behavior of our leads that brings this to the realm of Expressionism- that, and the famous use of Count Orlock's shadow whenever the dread Nosferatu strikes. Orlock, incidentally, is one of the best-looking vampires committed to film, and the aged film stock only serves to mask the seams of his make-up- it really looks like he has fangs, pointy ears, and talons. The film also creates a great sense of moodiness through its interesting camera angles, its use of Gothic architecture, and its strange and disquieting effects (some of which haven't aged terribly well). Overall, Nosferatu is a creepy, entertaining film; it is a movie whose power lies in lingering, disquieting visuals and a pervasive sense of mood. It's not a film for anyone with a short attention span, but those willing to slow down and enjoy the film at its own pace will be well rewarded.

Get ready to be... DEPRESSED! There are very few movies that I've ever watched that left me with the feeling of wanting to throw myself off of a building, but this one is numero uno on my list. There is nothing about this movie that ends well. NOTHING! Well, okay, there is ONE thing, but everything else is Prozac city. Shot in grainy digital video, the film conveys the dull, downtrodden drudgery of reality with flying colors, achieving a quasi-documentary style that makes the despair just that much more believable. Bjork, as Selma, pulls off the repressed daydreamer role as if she were born to play it, but even before things start taking a nasty turn you can tell that life isn't going to be sunshine and lollipops for her anytime soon (for most of the film, I was expecting her to lose a limb in a hydraulic press). Strangely, though, we receive glimpses of her daydreams throughout the film- which, as she is a lover of musicals, take on the form of choreographed dance and song numbers that, while still shot in digital, have brighter, more vibrant colors, premeditated camera placements, and more elaborate shots. Unfortunately, because they signify Selma's retreat from reality, these tend to come up when the film is at its most abysmal, and since they are only imaginary, they have no impact on the events of the film. Since Selma never develops a means to cope with reality beyond escaping it, she ends up royally screwed when the reality of her predicament slams into her like a friggin' freight train. Things go from bad to worse to bleak to nightmarish, and the rules of reality dictate that there can be no happy ending. No justice is served. No truth comes out. No purpose is satisfied. This is, of course, the point of the film, but that doesn't make it any easier to take. The one high point is Peter Stormare, one of my favorite character actors, playing the only nice-guy role I've ever seen him in, the simple but wholesome Jeff. This film has been described to me as an anti-musical, and I think that's apt; it is a well-made look at the harsher side of life, and how sometimes reality isn't like the movies. It does what it sets out to do, and it does it excellently, but unless you're into heavy, HEAVY tragedy, I think most would be hard-pressed to enjoy it.

I just finished watching this movie a few minutes ago, and I have to admit that I was impressed. It's a well-shot, well-acted, well-scored film, definitely amongst the best horror flicks of the century. With that rather hyperbolic praise in mind, this movie did leave me with a few quibbles. First of all, the opening prologue, while excellently executed, did come off as somewhat contrived, and a lot of the significance of it (which it is shot and treated as if there is going to be some sort of a payoff) is never really explained- it just seems like arbitrary back-story to flesh out the premise. And by extension, the ending seems a LOT like the ending of Brazil, and feels just a bit like a cop-out, "gotcha!" kind of ending. Which leads me to my final little nit-pick: there are just a few too many cheap scares in this film- you know, moments when it's quiet, and everything is normal, and someone's contemplating something when BOOM! Loud noise/ person pops out of nowhere/ GOTCHA! and then all's back to normal. I hate that. 'Course, every horror film ever made has those kind of moments, but here they just seem to stand out more. But when you look at the film as a whole, these problems aren't really that bad- the Descent is still a wonderfully made picture, with believable, relatable performances all around, a truly terrifying premise, and a masterful manipulation of fears, especially fear of the dark and claustrophobia. I also love how many levels the title works on- it's much more metaphorically significant than one might suspect from just seeing the trailer, and in more than one way, too! And the score- oh, my God. The score is best when savored like a fine swiss chocolate or a glass of red wine (which I've never actually had, but I hear it's nice). David Julyan is a composer I will be looking for in the future. This film is one of the few scary movies that I've seen recently that actually scared me, and man, it does that well. A really great horror movie- if you're up for a good scare, look no further!

In general, I am not a proponent of switching out directors for a film franchise. When Tim Burton left the Batman series and Joel Schumacher took over, we ended up with Batman and Robin. When T3 was handed to Jonathan Mostow instead of James Cameron, we got a Terminator that insisted that we "talk to the hand." And when Brett Ratner- and unabashed X-Geek whose best work to date was the original Rush Hour- took over the X-Men franchise for Bryan Singer, what we got was a mixed bag, a film that tries valiantly to live up to its predecessor, but never makes good on what it promises. The portrayal of the Phoenix is an interesting idea, though it doesn't jive well with the established character arc, and Famke Jansen is more than up to the task of playing her, turning what could have been a pretty cheesy character into a truly scary wild card. While she does garner early fatalities, however (which are done for shock value, but are nonetheless done well), for the latter half of the film she doesn't really do anything but stand around and watch the movie unfold. Patrick Stewart as Professor Xavier is as dignified and as subdued as ever, but this time around his actions take on a certain moral ambiguity that I couldn't help but find intriguing- it raises the question, however briefly, of "how can you trust your actions or beliefs around a psychic?" On the other hand, Ian McKellen's Magneto and Aaron Stanford's Pyro seemed to have lost all of their ambiguity, and I found to my great disappointment that even McKellen's performance came off as less nuanced and much more obvious than I would have liked (despite a few moments of greatness that even Ratner couldn't stifle). Of all the problems that this movie has, the worst by far is the criminally short running time- half of which is spent introducing characters and sub-plots that are immediately forgotten. Ratner almost seems desperate to introduce all of his favorite characters without going over the two-hour mark; Ben Foster's Angel barely makes a blip after the prologue (he only has THREE SCENES), Juggernaut is horribly underused considering how well Vinnie Jones plays the role, and Kelsey Grammer's Beast gets the best treatment of all... but that's not saying much. It's also a pity that the franchise finally settled on a good Kitty Pryde (in the personage of Ellen Page) right before it came to a close... but at least she gets some good moments. What's worse is that, even with these characters getting so little screen time, the returning cast don't fare that well, either- except for Storm, thanks to Halle Berry's continued whining about how her character should have more to do, and Hugh Jackman's Wolverine, whom Ratner does not get at all. Wolverine's characterization is off by a mile- for some reason, he becomes team leader in this film (mainly because Ratner callously tosses aside Cyclops in the first act), and he seems so willing to accept the role (and to spout team-spirit speeches right before the big showdown) that one can't help but agree when Phoenix hisses that Xavier has "tamed" him. A deleted scene, featuring a disillusioned Logan returning to the wilderness of Canada to sort things out for himself, would have given the film, and the character, a much more appropriate send-off, but Ratner instead decides to give us the "sunshine, loolipops and rainbows" happy ending... despite the fact that HALF THE ORIGINAL X-MEN ARE DEAD. Overall, X-Men the Last Stand isn't a bad movie, but it's not a great movie, either; it's full of bad humor, sometimes clever (but most times cringe-worthy) dialogue, spectacular special effects, the occasional moment of brilliance (Phoenix vs. Xavier), and utterly dispensable characters that serve no purpose (Callisto, anyone? Or Archlight?). It serves as a fitting end to the X-trilogy, but one can't help but wonder what someone like Bryan Singer (or at least Matthew Vaughn) would have done with it.

Whenever I watch this movie, I have to marvel at the fact that it was ever given a theatrical release. Captain America didn't get one, after all, and this movie really isn't any better than that one. So why the double standard? Well, thanks to the brilliant filmmakers and marketing people of the late eighties, the difference is that, while Captain America is so clearly a superhero, the Punisher could be pared down to a gritty ex-cop out for revenge, not particularly any more "super" than Martin Riggs or John McClane (okay, that is still pretty super, but you get the point). It's funny to me that superheroes used to be an embarrassment in Hollywood, even with the box-office success of Superman (except the last two) and Batman (except the last one). Because of this, characters like Spider-Man couldn't have their movies made for years because they were too bright and overtly fantastical for what was perceived to be the tastes of the audience at the time (probably a good thing, since the effects could never have worked fifteen years ago). However, this was not the case with Frank Castle. Take the giant white skull off his chest and voila! You have a completely nondescript vigilante killing machine, exactly identical to the hordes of revenge-flick heroes that populated the screen at the time. The Punisher is just that kind of movie, too: poorly thought-out, badly acted, devoid of tension or character, filled with improbable action sequences which don't come off as too convincing, and ultimately forgettable. Truthfully, the most fun to be had while watching this one is to see Dolph Lundgren hold the exact same emotional state through the entire film, no matter what actually happens to him (it's funny, in some scenes it looks like he's actually fighting NOT to react). This is about as cheesey and predictable as action gets, my friends; if you have a couple of hours to kill, and want to see just how much better Marvel's films have actually gotten in recent years, this is your movie. It's not as good as Captain America, though.

The best thing that I can say about Rob Zombie's sophomore effort in film making is this: not once during the running time of this film did I ever think that the events on screen weren't happening. On the contrary, Zombie creates a world that is immersive and believably real, and that is by far one of the biggest problems with this film. There is no respite; the movie jumps from one realistic scene of carnage or brutality to the other, and the audience is given no time to catch their breath. This is the sort of movie that kept me at arm's length of horror until I was fifteen; this is the kind of movie that gets conservative Christians demonstrating against violence in cinema. The movie is a brick wall of sadism and depravity, and it is treated so seriously that it is more traumatizing for viewers than cathartic. But just because I didn't like the movie (and I REALLY didn't like this one), it doesn't mean that I can't acknowledge that it is well done. Quite the opposite, in fact- this film ably does what it sets out to do to audiences, and I have never been as horrified by a film as I was by this one (but not necessarily in a good way). The film is also blatantly manipulative, especially near the end as we begin to realize that the cop chasing the murderous family is just as sadistic and depraved as they are, and that (with the possible exception of a extreme sideburn-wearing cop we seen in the opening and closing) there is not a single decent human being in this movie to which we can relate. The result, especially during the climax as the Rejects are being tortured, is that we are forced to sympathize with the psychotic killers that are presented as our main characters- even after a graphic display of just how vile these people are. One could argue that this sends the message that violence is inherently evil no matter who is on the receiving end, but that seemed like a poor excuse for the heroic portrayal of the trio in the film's last few minutes. Overall, the Devil's Rejects is a well made movie that accomplishes exactly what it sets out to do, but considering it's aims, it might be best to just avoid the experience altogether. You've been warned.

After I watched this movie, I did, indeed, feel as if my brain were screaming. This movie was, to put it simply, PAINFUL to sit through- it's full of sub-corny jokes, cheesy effects, virtually no budget (the poster is actually the cover of the comic book adaptation, for cripe's sakes!), nothing but daytime shooting (as there was not enough money for a night shoot), hence no atmosphere, pathetic attempts at acting, and a rapping Russian played by Ted Raimi. This direct-to-video tripe has so few redeeming qualities that I wouldn't recommend this movie to ANYONE- and no, there is no exception to this. Still, though Bruce Campbell fails on almost every level in his first outing as a director, his own performance is as all-out as anything else he's done, and he goes garner a few chuckles; and Stacy Keach is always nice, even with a phony Russian accent. All in all, though, unless you are obsessed with Bruce Campbell to an unhealthy degree, DO NOT SEE THIS MOVIE!

I have a great appreciation for stage plays. Having participated in some dramatic course every year since junior high, I've become quite familiar with the conventions of the form, from the necessity of blocking and motivated action to the often-stilted, exposition-heavy dialogue that has to fill in the blanks of the story (something harder to do on stage than in film, where we can flashback or change location at a moment's notice). What strikes me as funny about this movie, though, is that, even though we do a bit of jump-cutting and the locations are more plentiful than they could be on stage, throughout the picture it feels as if we are watching a stage play. The dialogue is sharp, almost too much so (but then, the lead characters ARE playwrights), and the cuts are long and widely spaced, rarely moving in close (in particular, a scene in the opening is shot practically from an audience's point-of-view, and doesn't cut until the scene change). What's funny is that Deathtrap has been written to have the same self-reflexive nature as, say, Wes Craven's New Nightmare or the Scream trilogy, so the characters start pointing out how perfect the story's events, characters, and setting would fit into the mold of a stage thriller, and how the two characters are essentially plotting the whole story as they go along. Michael Caine is great fun as the elder playwright whose four most recent plays have flopped horribly, and who, after learning of an amateur's brilliant first work, is willing to do anything for a hit... no matter how cold-blooded. He gets to be so deviously clever and has so much fun reveling in his own manipulations that you can't help but like the character, despite the somewhat morally bankrupt nature of his actions. By contrast, the filmmakers really made a great call in the casting of Christopher Reeve as the young novice writer, using his typecast "Superman" image to lull you into instantly liking and believing you know his character, when, in fact, he goes through a number of sudden and jarring transitions that Reeve handles excellently, holding his own opposite Caine almost effortlessly (one wishes after watching that he had received more opportunities to show his true versatility as an actor). Dyan Cannon (as Caine's wife and supportive sugar-momma) really pushed all the wrong buttons with me- probably because of her character's satirical habit of screaming at everything that catches her off-guard- but she mostly functions as a straight-man (or straight-woman) foil for Caine, and in this she does well. More entertaining, however, is the intervention of Irene Worth as a psychic (of all things) who makes disturbingly accurate predictions about the play's events through her thick German accent- she's a fun character that simultaneously adds and lightens up the tension in the film. Unfortunately, to tell you almost anything about the plot would ruin the movie irreparably for anyone who hadn't seen it, as the story winds around so quickly and in such unexpected directions that to let you know any of what happens ahead of time would spoil the intent of the earlier scenes of the film (think "Keyser Soze" or "I see dead people", except throughout almost the whole movie). But what's best about the plot turns are that the foreshadowing is so obvious AFTER they've happened that the film demands either a second viewing or some focused contemplation to fully appreciate it once it's over, something that's always a plus for me (I like movies that make you think, even if it's only about the construction of the movie). The film is incredibly witty, and it has a bit of fun toying with audience expectations, pointing out the conventions of the thrillers that sired it while nonetheless ratcheting up the suspense using those same conventions. All in all, Deathtrap is just a great exercise in twist-filled storytelling, a tale that isn't a mystery but keeps you guessing until the ironic, yet appropriate, end- it's the kind of story that's as much of a blast to play out as it is to watch, and a play that I would love to be a part of someday.

I like Frank Capra. He makes good stuff. Of course, usually his movies are about the working man, and how money isn't everything in life, and how there are ideals that men can live up to like integrity and honesty- which is why it's so refreshing to watch Arsenic and Old Lace, a film about madness, murder, and Teddy Roosevelt. Based on a stage play from 1941, Arsenic and Old Lace is the tale of Mortimer Brewster, a newly married drama critic who discovers mere moments before leaving for his honeymoon that his two kindly old aunts have been poisoning old transients and burying them in the fruit cellar with the aid of Teddy, Mortimer's eccentric brother who believes that he's Teddy Roosevelt. Making things worse for Mortimer is the unexpected arrival of his other, criminally-insane brother, Jonathan, newly escaped from the police with the weaselly plastic surgeon Dr. Einstein and the very deceased Mr. Spinalzo. Things rapidly get complicated as bodies are misplaced, policemen stop in for a chat, newlywed brides are ignored, and new lots are dug in the "Panama Canal." This is easily the darkest comedy Capra has ever done, but that doesn't mean it's heavy viewing- on the contrary, Old Lace is filled with slapstick, sillyness, and a generally farcical tone that belies the macabre nature of its subject matter. Despite the dark and shadow deeds being done- and covered up- the movie creates an ironic juxtaposition by being uniformly bright and chipper, both in dramatic tone and in cinematography (how that one room stays so darn bright during the evening, I'll never know- you'd think it was noon, the way the film looks). Cary Grant is at his hammiest here as the overwrought Mortimer, who bounces between over-the-top shock and horror and callous single-mindedness as he tries to get Teddy put away for the murders. His character is put through so much stuff during the course of the movie that his reactions, exaggerated though they are, are really perfect, making Grant work as a guy who's so afraid of letting the insanity in his family get out that he almost drives himself nuts. Josephine Hull and Jean Adair are likewise brilliant as Mortimer's doddering old aunties who are just so sweet and so innocent that they can make murder into a "charity". It's wonderfully bizarre how they give Mortimer their recipe for poisoned elderberry wine as if they were boasting about the secret ingredient for their home-style gingerbread cookies- both women are impeccably cast, and both get some of the best lines. John Alexander as Teddy is a great character, who has just as much fun with facial expressions and posture as he does blowing his bugle and screaming, "CHARGE!" when he thunders up the stairway. Raymond Massey gets the unfortunate job of playing Jonathan Brewster, the criminal mastermind who looks exactly like Boris Karloff thanks to a botched surgery (and who, in the original play, was portrayed by the actual Karloff). Massey had some pretty big shoes to fill, but he does his job well, even delivering what is easily one of the best lines in the picture ("He wouldn't have died of pneumonia if I hadn't shot him!"). Backing him up, however, is the always-awesome Peter Lorre as Dr. Einstein, playing the alcoholic doctor exactly as you would expect him to (hey, sometimes typecasting works). Things get pretty dicey when the cops get involved, but this is a Frank Capra picture, and if anyone had any doubt that there would be a happy ending just because of all the murder and insanity, they obviously didn't know Capra. By today's standards, it's hardly the edgiest comedy of all time, but it's a marked departure for the grounded Capra to venture so far into the silly and the farcical, and it's a gamble on his part that payed off for everyone- especially for its audience.

I remember when the trailer for this movie was released. It was dark, moody, and intriguing, giving a fair glimpse of some patented ostentatious action sequences while juxtaposing them with bits of dialogue about impending doom, and ended with some interesting hints at a theme about the nature of free will. The trailer was a blast. Imagine my disappointment when I found out that it was actually better than the movie. Terminator 3 is a perfect example of a misconception that is spreading in Hollywood: that when you have a successful franchise, all you need to keep it going is a guy (ANY guy) who can competently direct a film production, a script featuring the characters from the previous films, and a big enough budget to gloss over the rest. Unfortunately, without any creative direction or a filmmaker who is passionate about the material he's working on, half the time the result of such thinking is a film like this- a flashy, ridiculously expensive piece of fluff. While the trailer insinuated a dead-serious film about humanity's self-inflicted Armageddon, the film can't decide whether it's a Terminator movie or a PARODY of a Terminator movie, and it's loaded with self-referential jokes that are way too corny and just don't work- not to mention that they undermine the integrity of the characters, the story, and, in the end, the whole production. Director Jonathan Mostow, whose only notable prior film credit was U-571, not only didn't have the experience to make a movie like this, but obviously didn't have any real interest in the Terminator films, warping around the story elements of the previous films (and sometimes ignoring them completely) to suit his own ideas; the result is a film loaded with continuity errors and plot-holes that take a viewer right out of the movie. What's worse, Mostow apparently brought in his own writing team to rework the script when he was hired, none of whom could keep their facts straight (is Arnold a T-101 or a T-850, and how is a T-850 different from a T-800? Arnold calls the T-X a T-X for the WHOLE FILM, yet for some reason they also feel the need to label her a Terminatrix... why?). Everyone in this film suffers huge character inconsistencies (that is, when they're given any character at all). Arnold is back as the Terminator, proving beyond a shadow of a doubt that without James Cameron to guide him, he can't play a Terminator to save his life; I'm sure he just wanted the paycheck before taking office in California. Nick Stahl as John Connor is a whiny brat on par with Luke Skywalker- he makes you believe that when he says, "I'm no leader! I'm no hero! I never was!" that he is absolutely right. Claire Danes as Katherine Brewster is much more mature and level-headed than John, so it's too bad that she spends half the movie either gaping in horror or screaming in terror- it's a waste of a good actress. Kristanna Loken as the T-X, on the other hand, admirably maintains a perfectly placid face through the whole movie, but at the same time, she projects no threat or menace- her character is so ill-defined that it's hard to really be afraid of her, and conceptually, she's just too sci-fi to be practically frightening (laser-blasts aren't nearly as visceral as a giant knife through the gut). The film, unlike the first two, is shot almost entirely in the daytime, which has the effect of diminishing the severity of the action (because everything's so damn bright and colorful outside!), and the framing is often cheesy or forced. The actions sequences, for what it's worth, were expensive-looking, but without fostering any interest in the characters involved (while incorporating shoddy cartoon sound-effects and misplaced attempts at slapstick), they're just CG-laden wastes of money. The score, while appropriate to the film, suffers from the lack of a Terminator theme- perhaps for good reason, as the film itself seems to be missing any of the spirit of the Terminator franchise. T3 was a shameless attempt by a studio to cash in on the creative successes of a brilliant filmmaker, and it is simultaneously an insult to everything that said filmmaker had accomplished. In the annuls of film history, Terminator 3 will stand forever as the perfect example of what NOT to do when making a sequel for a popular franchise- if, that is, if anyone even cares ten years from now.

From looking at the poster, one begins to form an idea of the shape of Paul Leni's adaptation of the Victor Hugo novel, The Man Who Laughs. The portrayal of the giant, leering face of the title character, for one thing, creates a creepy image for the film, thanks to the choice of under-lighting actor Conrad Veidt's face for the painting. This effect is magnified by the judicious placement of hanging corpses in the background and the depiction of the main character standing ominously over a sleeping damsel, his cloak giving him more than a passing resemblance to Dracula. To see this poster possessing no knowledge of the film's plot, one could only assume that this is, by far, one of the creepiest, most horrific films of the silent era, featuring one of its most effective monsters. What a shock it is, then, when you watch the film and discover a rich, emotional melodrama on par with the Hunchback of Notre Dame or the Phantom of the Opera, and featuring a character far more sympathetic than either of them. The Man Who Laughs is the story of Gwynplaine, the heir of a Duke who spoke out against King James during the 17th Century. In retaliation for the Duke's defiance, James had Gwynplaine sold off to a nomadic band of child traffickers, who surgically mutilated the boy's mouth into a permanent grin and later abandoned him to eliminate evidence of their misdeeds. The boy wandered into the care of a gypsy philosopher and playwright, who raised him to adulthood and made him the featured act of a traveling repertory theater. His life as a famous clown is made bearable only by his relationship with Dea, the blind girl he grew up with who loves him for who he is, but soon his identity is discovered and he is forced back into the aristocracy against his will. Conrad Veidt as Gwynplaine is, without a doubt, the most visually striking character to come out of the silent era (whose likeness was reportedly the primary inspiration for the creation of the Joker)- the prosthesis that kept his mouth fixed into a grin must have hurt like a bitch! But despite his outwardly menacing appearance, Veidt conveys a world of longing and suffering with the use of his eyes, making us feel the lifetime's worth of ridicule and self-loathing that he must have felt, and when he finally reaches his boiling point, we cheer as he rebels against the corrupt aristocracy that tries to use him for their own ends. It's an effective criticism of the system of rule of the time period, run by a shallow and thoughtless class that see people only as a means for the manipulation of power, and one that is furthered by the two-dimensional portrayals of all of the members of the hierarchy (of course, the acting is far from subtle due to the fact that it's a silent film, but it's even farther from subtle with characters such as the queen, King James, the duchess, and especially Barkilphedro). Mary Philbin as Dea, on the other hand, is a surprisingly touching performance, bringing quite a bit of genuine emotion to a part that essentially only required her to stand around and pretend to be blind (which she does okay). Cesare Gravina is kind of hokey as Ursus, the gypsy playwright with wild hair and disturbing pop-eyes, but even he musters some considerable pathos during the film, especially when he believes that Gwynplaine has died and can't bring himself to tell Dea. The production values are pretty good for a silent film, and the camera is a lot more active that in certain other silent films (Nosferatu comes to mind...). What makes the Man Who Laughs a great movie, though, is the genuine, heartfelt love story that drives it, a beauty and the beast tale that, unlike the stories of the Hunchback or the Phantom, actually ends well for our heroes... maybe because this time, we have a hero that truly earns the right to call himself a man, and not a monster.

Damn you, Ron Howard. Every time you and Russell Crowe get together, you've gotta make something bloody brilliant, heartwarming, and inspirational- and not in a stupid Kodak or Hallmark way, either. Cinderella Man, despite having a title that kept me away for two years, is definitely an example of skilled film craftsmanship, a testament to the passion that director Howard has for history, and a reminder (for me, anyway) that the DaVinci Code was probably just a fluke. Capturing perfectly the despair and bleakness of the Great Depression, Howard creates a feeling of hopelessness and impending doom throughout the first half of the movie, but even when the circumstances seem to have changed, there is a palpable tension that gives us even greater reason to root for our main character. I kept thinking of it as being similar to Rocky, except here we are given a main character with more to fight for than his pride or his dignity- here we are given a man who is, in many ways, fighting to survive. Russell Crowe as boxer James J. Braddock is absolutely exceptional. There's always been a quality to Crowe that seemed pugilistic to me, which brings an innate believability to the part, but it's more than that; Crowe goes through a gamut of emotional extremes here (with the sole exception being that Braddock is a fairly calm guy- he never really gets angry), and he does it so well that the audience takes it all for granted (and if that's not the definition of "good acting," then I don't know what is). Renee Zellweger seemed a bit less steady as James' wife, Mae, at first- her accent threw me off, but only because it was spot-on. Her portrayal of a woman torn apart by mounting financial pressures and then the fear for her husband's life is very down-to-Earth and very real, creating an intimacy between her and Crowe that is rare to see in movies these days. Paul Giamatti as Braddock's sharp-dressing fight manager Joe Gould was phenomenal (Giamatti is always a pleasure to watch)- his camaraderie with Braddock comes off warm and natural, as if they'd been friends for years, and his own desperation, hidden behind his nice clothing and high-rise apartment, is wonderfully underplayed, but present nonetheless. I feel I should also mention Craig Bierko as Max Baer, the heavyweight champion of the world, for bringing to life such a thoroughly hate-able bastard so believably, and also giving him such a strong, dangerous undercurrent of ferocity, which makes the final fight all the more harrowing (it's funny, I spent a great deal of the movie trying to place Bierko in my memory, and after the film, I found out that he was the male lead, Tom Ryan, in Scary Movie 4- which I NEVER would have realized, if not for the miracle of IMDb). The film itself is surprisingly vivid; most period pieces these days go for sepia tones and static cameras, but, while the lighting does occasionally take a turn towards the color of old paper (thanks mostly to the worn-out settings we see), it's not afraid to make things colorful, and the camera, especially during the fights, likes to move around a lot. Howard employs P.O.V. shots expertly in this movie, putting us in Braddock's shoes at just the right moments (say, when Baer sticks his glove in Braddock's face) to get maximum audience identification- to get us IN the fights. Some of the shots (like the aforementioned glove close-up) give the movie an experimental feeling, almost like a student film, and it keeps the whole thing fresh and exciting (despite it being a concept that, in many ways, has been done to death). By the end of the film, Howard has worked the audience up as much as the people watching the fight, getting us to invest heavily in the films outcome and in the fate of Braddock. The fight becomes symbolic, as it always does in this kind of movie, for the character's whole struggle, for his entire life. It's manipulative, I know (what many film-goers refer to as a "tear-jerker"), but dammit, it takes skill to manipulate an audience so well, and that, after all, is the name of the game- to get the viewer to feel what you WANT them to feel. In this case, Ron Howard, you win, you tricky bastard. And so do we.

There are certain parts of the nineties that I try to block out of my mind whenever possible: Batman and Robin, the long-hair or ponytail trend (which even spread to Superman, for God's sakes), and the sudden surge in "grim 'n gritty" entertainments, spurred on by Frank Miller's comic book success in the eighties and the tremendous box-office returns of the first Batman movie- in fact, the only thing I despised more than "grim n' gritty" was "extreme", but that's a point for later discussion. For the longest time, I included the Crow on the extensive list of Batman's bastard step-children, right before the shallow Dick Tracy and right after the flat attempt the Shadow. I never actually watched the movie, 'cause I figured I had it pegged- black leather, grimy sets, and bad mattes. Thankfully, as it turned out, I was wrong. Darker and much more Gothic than Burton's Batman, the Crow is a story about the depths of despair and the catharsis that sweet, bloody vengeance provides, all while maintaining a genuine emotional core and a connection with our main character. It's undeniably tragic to hear of Brandon Lee's death on the set (SOMEhow, live rounds were switched into the actors' guns on the LAST DAY OF FIREARM STUNTS), and it has an impact on how much you can enjoy certain parts of the film (the gunfights in particular feel decidedly morbid), but had Lee lived, I have no doubt that this would have been a star-making turn for him; his Eric Draven, a man who returns from the dead to avenge his girlfriend and himself, is vulnerable and emotional, but when he sets his sights on the men who murdered him and his girlfriend, he becomes nihilistically jovial, taking his time and reveling in his vengeance. The character is sardonic, brooding, and genuinely likable, all thanks to a phenomenal performance from Lee that really drives the movie... which is why the scenes where a stunt man takes his place are all the more glaring and out of place. On the other hand, EVERY ONE of the villains is brutally overplayed, making them more caricatures than real people- but likely, this was done to eliminate moral ambiguity and get us on Draven's side 100%. Michael Wincott is always good at playing pure, undiluted evil (see the Three Musketeers or the Count of Monte Cristo), and he does not disappoint here as crimelord and cutlery enthusiast Top Dollar, a man with a rather disturbing relationship going on with his weird Asian half-sister Myca (Ling Bai). We also have a bunch of cut-out thugs that work for Top Dollar, and whom Draven is gunning for: Tin Tin (Laurence Mason), another knife-lover; Funboy (Michael Massee), the morphine addict; T-Bird (David Partick Kelly), the arsonist; and Skank (Angel David), the speed freak. Thankfully, we have Ernie Hudson as Sergeant Albrecht to bring things back down to Earth; an honest cop with enemies in all the wrong places, Hudson once again pulls off the blue-collar hero routine as a guy who's just trying to do the right thing. Rochelle Davis, a one-film wonder, is still convincing as Sarah, the skateboarding little girl and friend of Eric, both before and after death. The film itself does have its nineties Goth moments- pretty much any scene in the nightclub, for instance- but the darkness and constant rain of the setting is expressionistic, reflecting the inner turmoil of Draven as he seeks his revenge and mourns for his lost love; this gives a great hopeful and metaphorical meaning to the recurring line, "It can't rain all the time..." (e.g. there's light at the end of the tunnel). As I mentioned before, the film does fall prey to matte shots that attempted to push the limits of film at the time a little TOO far; the model shots are obvious, but impressive nonetheless- Alex Proyas was clearly honing a visual style that he would expand upon greatly in the aptly-named Dark City. Overall, the film is dark, intriguing, dark, action-packed, dark, emotional, and, uhh, dark. It is surprisingly touching for a leather-and-vengeance flick, and it is surprisingly funny for a Gothic film about death and despair. Mostly, though, it is just a surprisingly good film that stands on its own, owing its existence to nothing that had come before and making a mark for itself in cinema history. And it's WAY better than Dick Tracy.

When the first teaser trailer for Cloverfield was released, I thought there was something REALLY big being covered up about this movie. "No title?" I thought. "But why?" The only thing that could possibly occur to me was that the title was going to be a surprise- that the subject of the film was something that would have to be sold BEFORE it was revealed, to ensure that people would watch it. Therefore, I surmised, the title was probably going to be... GODZILLA. That's right- a REMAKE of a REMAKE, and this time with a competent story and a unique point-of-view. Alas (or perhaps thankfully), no, the title was just Cloverfield, and I'm certain that it's because the filmmakers genuinely COULD NOT THINK of a title for this movie until after the first trailer (or, more likely, they wanted to spur interest in a film that may have been overlooked if it was hyped like a normal blockbuster). But though the film actually has no surprises going for it (pretty much what you see is what you get), I have to admit that it is a stellar piece of work, taking the first-person approach of the Blair Witch Project and applying it to a long-dead film standard- the giant monster flick- to produce a wonderfully effective thriller. Like everything else that J.J. Abrams has his hands in (he produced the film, though it's written and directed by one Matt Reaves), Cloverfield works because it keeps an intimate perspective with likable characters placed in extraordinary circumstances. Filled with a cast of complete unknowns (thus enhancing the illusion that this is a tape of real people), the film nonetheless has a spate of genuine performances, such as the guilt ridden Rob (Michael Stahl-David), who's on a quest to save his friend-cum-lover Beth (Odessa Yustman) with the help of his brother's girlfriend Lily (Jessica Lucas) and the traumatized Marlena (Lizzy Caplan). Recording the whole thing is Rob's friend Hud (T.J. Miller), easily the most likable character in the film (despite the fact that we only actually see him a few times), who tells jokes that help to lighten the tension of the situation (which can be rather heavy). Because the story is told from the perspective of one person, we are never really filled in on what's happening between everyone, but it just creates the feeling that there's more going on than we are privy to (as if these things were actually happening)- we just get the emotional highlights. One of the aspects that I admire about this film is that it sticks absolutely with only these characters while the shit is going down, and since they have no idea what the hell is happening or where the monster comes from... NEITHER DO WE. The film makes NO attempt to justify the existence of this creature with a lengthy expositional explanation, instead forcing the characters to simply DEAL with it and try to survive (which also makes the monster that much more frightening)- it's extraordinarily refreshing, considering how many horror movies these days feel the need to explain everything. And while most other giant-monster movies have their characters escape from ridiculously dangerous situations (by just the skin of their teeth), this film makes no qualms about killing off its characters (even if that camera never gets so much as a scratch on the lens or a dead battery). The cinematography was something that stuck out in my head... I have experience with digital cameras, so I noticed whenever the light was too intense or too dark or when something got really close or far away and the image didn't get blurry or out of focus; but that's probably just because Rob is loaded, and so his camera is probably top-of-the-line. And though, yes, the situation is far from realistic and the circumstances are sometimes quite convenient, you never once question it as it keeps you riveted to the edge of your seat, putting you alongside the main characters as they fight to survive. While the title may not have held some significant revelation about the nature of the movie, I have to say that "Cloverfield" is actually very fitting for the movie: it's simple, intriguing, it insinuates some hidden information or an unknown meaning, but it doesn't tell you a damn thing about the movie- it simply confronts you, and you have to make your own judgments about it.

To watch Catwoman is to know the true meaning of pain. It's the kind of movie that makes you want to claw your eyes out over just how many levels of stupidity it achieves- the premise is stupid, the performances are inane, the technique is atrocious; it's hard to justify abstract statements like "the worst movie of all time," but if someone were ever to compile an unbiased list of the poorest excuses of storytelling ever put to film, this film would sure as hell be somewhere in the top twenty. The story, such as it is, is simple: Patience Phillips is an extremely introverted graphic designer who looks an awful lot like Halle Berry. She works for a cosmetics company. She one day overhears that the company is going to release an evil, addictive beauty cream (?), and then she is killed for it. Her corpse is found by an army of cats led by an Egyptian mau, which spews green mist into her face (??) thus resurrecting her and granting her amazing cat powers- not to mention a string of feline characteristics like hissing at dogs, munching on fish, and freaking out for catnip. She then dons a chauvinistic S&M cat outfit for no discernible reason and seeks vengeance, all the while dating a cop who's investigating her case. Frankly, the concept is a transparent attempt to ride the coattails of the ultra-successful Spider-Man, crammed haphazardly into a story that sounds like a fifth grader made it up (an evil cosmetics company? Seriously?). Add to that some of the most preposterous plot devices of all time (a LIP PRINT confirms Catwoman's identity- I don't think THAT'S ever been on CSI), and you have a script that is a recipe for disaster- even BEFORE you factor in cast and crew. But dear God, the director- some guy named Pitof (and you just know a one-named director is never a good thing)- actually takes the thing to a whole new level of horror. I get the idea that he got his start shooting, appropriately enough, cosmetics commercials, or maybe music videos, because the guy's camera simply WILL NOT SHUT UP. What I mean is, a good director knows when to pull back, and just take in his actors and the scene- when, in essence, to quiet down, and not call attention to himself or his technique. For God's sake, even Tim Burton can do that much. Pitof, however, doesn't seem to want to pull back- he keeps the camera mobile during dialogue scenes, he cuts excessively and arbitrarily, and he insists on throwing a bunch of unnecessary zooms and CGI-assisted camera tricks into the film, which, in the end, becomes distracting and jarring, steamrolling over the actors and forcing the viewer out of the movie (not that anyone would really want to be there to begin with). The cinematography also seems to be focussed on turning this into a Maybelline photo shoot- the daylight is always too golden and perfect to possibly be real, and the nights never even approach actual darkness; everything is so glamorized it's sickening, and it ironically works against the intended subtext about vanity and inner beauty. And the score- sweet Jesus, the score- is nothing but psuedo-R&B girl-power pop garbage, ridiculous to the point of being laughable. Halle Berry, for what it's worth, seems to be enjoying herself, but when she actually becomes Catwoman, she's way too over-the-top to be a relatable hero. Benjamin Bratt is just... there as Tom Lone, the cop that Patience falls for because we can't have a movie like this without a love interest. And Sharon Stone is an appropriate choice for the villain, considering how she's been a symbol of brainless chauvinistic filmmaking for the past fifteen or twenty years. But Catwoman, first and foremost, is an adaptation of a comic book, so I would be remiss if I didn't point out that this film is NOTHING LIKE its comic counterpart, which features a completely different character named Selina Kyle that does NOT have cat-powers and is a significantly more complex, morally ambiguous figure (despite the attempts by the filmmakers to make Patience seem conflicted between good and evil by... ummm... telling us that she is, even when her actions don't support the idea). The way I see it, it's like Warner Bros. decided to purge all the crap and idiocy that had accumulated in their minds about comics before they released their big comeback films- Batman Begins, Superman Returns, etc.- and in one great swell of celluloid bile and stomach acid, they coughed up Catwoman. Honestly, I could go on for hours tearing this movie a new one- it's the most entertaining thing you can get out of it, frankly- but bottom line, this film is a mess. DON'T WATCH IT.

Ooooookay... where to begin. If you take one look at the poster for this movie, you'll realize how tricky reviewing this movie is going to be. Sure, it's the first full-length feature film ever made, which makes it a watershed moment in cinema history, but... but... it's so... damned... RACIST! ... Okay, I have to start from the beginning. Birth of a Nation is the story of two families- the Stonemans from the North and the Camerons from the South- who are great friends with one another. Suddenly- BAM!- the Civil War breaks out, and the two families find themselves on opposite sides. The first half of the film is actually a really good Civil War drama, showing us some of the most important moments in the nation's history (the signing of the Emancipation Proclamation, the surrender at Appomattox, the assassination of Lincoln) while simultaneously illustrating the toll that war takes on the people on either side (well, mostly the South). But when the war is over and Lincoln is dead, the narrative takes a nasty turn as the abolitionist leader from the North institutes "black rule" in the South, with the intent to "crush the white South under the boot of the black South." And here's where the racism comes in... from here on in, the film is intent on demonizing the freed slaves, portraying them as ignorant, cowardly savages who know nothing of the use of power save how to abuse it. It's hard to say if the portrayals in the film were just blatantly prejudiced, or whether it's an artifact of the acting style of silent films (that is, to overact so the audience understands your intentions), but either way, the freed slaves are shown to be little more than animals- and that "little more" amounts to nothing but duplicitousness and malice. Of course, it isn't saying that ALL African-Americans are bad- on the contrary, two black people help to save the day near the end- just the ones who talk about "equality" and "equal rights," and try to raise themselves up to the white people's level (or drag the white people down to theirs). And in a film so unabashedly racist, full of the worst African-American stereotypes imaginable, who, in the end, becomes our hero? That's right... the KU KLUX KLAN. We are treated to the creation of the Klan, as a reaction to the tyranny of the black masses given power in the South (lead by a "mulatto" who speaks of "his people... building a Black Empire" with himself as king- I swear to God I am not joking), and wouldn't you know it, they're portrayed like nothing less than a roaming band of superheroes- before the Lone Ranger or Zorro graced the screen, there was the KKK! If it wasn't so deeply offensive, I would have been laughing throughout the entire final half-hour. And the last minute or so, depicting a perfect world of peace, or something like that, is like a bad trip- poor composites of a teeming masses (uniformally white, incidentally) dressed in robes and head-dresses, a guy on a horse swinging a sword around, and a full-body shot of... JESUS. Yep- the big J makes a cameo to support Aryan supremacy. That's... just so wrong. Now, while the film is definitely a big prejudiced pile of white-power shite, I will admit that the praise heaped upon the film for its technical mastery is warranted. It makes excellent use of cross-cutting (especially to build suspense during the whole "white girl about to be raped by a black soldier" fiasco) and the framing is sometimes very clever and artfully arranged. And the battles are magnificent; Griffith makes use of a crap-load of extras to create the first truly epic war scenes to ever hit the screen (not to mention the massively populous riot sequence and celebration scenes). But by the same token, the most truly sickening sight I have ever seen in a motion picture has to be a seemingly endless legion of Klansmen riding across the Southern plains, every man garbed in flowing white gowns and wearing faceless hoods, wielding burning crosses and Confederate flags before them. And what's worse- these are our heroes. This is the fucking Cavalry coming to the rescue. And that has to be the most wrenching thing of all in this technically masterful movie: for all its protestations about brotherly love and unity, in the end, the title isn't talking about the United States of America- it's talking about the Confederacy, a nation of white supremacists who keep those uppity black people in line in order to preserve their Aryan birthrights. And as you are probably thinking right now, that... is just evil.

Arnold Schwarzenegger vs. SATAN. That's all I had to hear to get me to watch this movie. See, I like Schwarzenegger- mostly for the first two Terminators, mind you, but also as a perfect escapist hero who, for a very long time, was synonymous with action films. Of course, by the late nineties, Arnold was suffering from a lack of good, iconic roles, appearing mostly in bland, forgettable pics and, well, Batman and Robin. But for me, End of Days was his last truly decent movie, and a perfect send-off for his career (though hardly a perfect film in and of itself). The film, as it is, is pretty preposterous: Jericho Cane, a former police officer turned bodyguard-for-hire, must protect a young woman from a sect of Satan worshipers. Seems that, with the new millennium fast approaching, Satan himself has risen from the depths of Hell and taken a human host so that he can consummate a predestined union with the girl and bring about- get ready for it- the End of Days! Jericho, a man who lost faith after the murder of his wife and child, must find a way to stop the ultimate evil without falling prey to it. Jericho is a very different character that we're used to seeing Schwarzenegger play- cynical, slovenly, even suicidal- and you get the idea that Arnold was trying to stretch himself as an actor; in the end, however, the character is nothing more than the Arnold Schwarzenegger we always watch, but with really severe stubble and messy hair. For a Schwarzenegger performance, though, it's not bad, and he even comes close to achieving genuine pathos a few times. Interestingly, this is also a film where Schwarzenegger gets his ass handed to him worse (and more frequently) than ever before, further emphasizing the idea that brute strength doesn't matter when facing the Lord of Lies- but it's hard to take it seriously when he's getting thrashed by a middle aged fat woman with inexplicable talons for fingernails. Robin Tunney as Christine York, the girl destined to sleep with the Devil, does convey the feeling of being perpetually on the verge of a nervous breakdown, but other than her ability to scream for help, her second most defining character trait is her giant doe eyes. Gabriel Byrne is a bit of obvious casting, being the second most likely person on the planet to actually BE Satan (the first, depending on who you ask, is either Christopher Walken or George W. Bush); he has fun with the part, sometimes a bit overmuch, but he is an admirable Lucifer- and the verbal (and physical) sparring between him and Jericho are the highlights of the movie. Interestingly, Kevin Pollak appears as Jericho's partner Chicago (who came up with these names?), a perfect sarcastic foil for Arnold that is greatly appreciated amid all the Satanism and brooding. In addition to Pollak and Byrne, the film is rife with Usual Suspects innuendo, none more prominent than the inclusion of the line, "the greatest trick the devil ever pulled was convincing the world he didn't exist." Unfortunately, the film gets kind of bogged down by its own premise, drudging through perfunctory scenes of Satanism and Catholic church politics that might have been interesting... if they hadn't been done so often before. Mostly, these scenes serve as a sort of window-dressing for the film, almost as if it were pretending to be a supernatural thriller while actually, at heart, still being an action flick. Either way, it's something to get past, so that the action- which is all spectacular, if almost entirely ludicrous- can have more of an impact. Arnold does do his job just as well here as we would expect of him, and with the degree of artillery he brings for the final showdown, we just know to expect a good degree of pyrotechnics. The green-screens for the movie haven't aged well, and some of them are pretty blatantly bad, but the CGI finale- in which Schwarzenegger comes face-to-face with Satan's true form- is still surprisingly good (when they don't go in TOO close on the model). All in all, End of Days seems like a transitional piece between Arnold's high-concept early days and his poorly-defined later work. It's not a great movie, not by a long shot- it can be cheesy, and clichéd, and predictable, and sometimes all three- but it's the last film that had that little spark of pure escapist entertainment that I loved from Schwarzenegger's movies. It's appropriate to me that this should be the first film in which a human Arnold dies at the end, as this was, in many ways, the death of the Schwarzenegger film, but at least he goes out in a blaze of glory. And hey, imperfect though it may be, it's still WAY better than Terminator 3.

Mmm, mmm... that's good satire. Seriously, if I had known this movie was as funny as it turned out to be, I would have watched it YEARS ago. A blazingly written stab at the heart of the television ratings game, Network is everything an intelligent satire should be: funny, poignantly ironic, and intensely thought-provoking. The story is about one Howard Beale, a network newscaster for a low-ranking station, UBC, who cracks when he learns of his impending dismissal and announces his intended public suicide on the air. The station managers initially try to keep Beale off the air after repeated instances of uncensored rantings, but thanks to the efforts of a ratings-hungry lady programming head (Faye Dunaway) and an ambitious corporate middleman (Robert Duvall), Beale is instead granted a syndicated television show of his own when his anti-establishment ravings prove popular with the viewers. Peter Finch as Howard Beale is wonderfully volatile and quite clearly a nutcase, and even though he has no character arc- he's pretty much crazy for the whole movie, though to different degrees- Finch keeps it from being a one-note perforance, and it's clear to see why he won the Oscar for the part (the one and only actor to receive an Oscar posthumously). William Holden as Beale's best friend and news manager Max Schumacher is, by contrast, calm, earnest, and ultimately the only character who amounts to a decent, individual human being in the story. His unlikely romance with Dunaway's character manages to bring the film down to Earth a bit and ground the story with human interaction, as the satire can get to be somewhat over-the-top at moments, but soon enough the relationship deteriorates into yet another indictment of television and its effects on people. Dunaway's Diana Christensen, the programming executive trying to break through to the popular counterculture, is a cold, hollow character, incapable of feeling anything deep or meaningful, beholden only to the materialistic and the base, and ultimately described by her lover as "television incarnate." It surprised me to see her in such a good role- the only thing I'd seen Dunaway in before was Supergirl- and she pulls it off marvelously; another Oscar well earned. I've never seen Robert Duvall as young as he is playing Frank Hackett, manipulative corporate representative for UBC's owners, and I've also never seen him play such a massive douche bag- a symbol for the ethically bankrupt management of television whose only motivation is the bottom line. Ned Beatty also makes a short, but amusing (and somehow sinister) appearance as the head of the corporation that owns UBC; he's only got one scene, but it perfectly sums up big-business egotism and capitalist philosophy (and appropriately presents it as a convincing ethos for a madman). The film is an ironic one, in that it points out the depravity of a network that irresponsibly presents the ravings of a lunatic to its audience, while at the same time presenting those surprisingly convincing ravings (this IS a hell of a script) to us, the audience. The humor comes in, though, when we see how television bastardizes everything it touches- Beale's famous call-to-arms, "I'm as mad as hell, and I'm not going to take it anymore!", is reduced to a popular slogan for the audience to chant at the start of his new program. My favorite scene has to involve the contract negotiation with the Ecumenical Liberation Front, a terrorist sect that films its many terrorist acts, over the production of a weekly hour-long television drama based on their actions; it's so utterly ridiculous, but the whole thing is played completely straight, and it works. When the ending finally comes, it comes from WAY out of left field- literally the last two scenes take things to a greater extreme than you might have imagined possible; but what's great is that it's a natural extension of the themes of the film (NOTHING matters but the ratings), and when it happens, you believe it 100%. What's most interesting about Network is that a lot of the exaggerations of the filmmakers... well, they kind of came true. Television is a powerful tool that's fallen into the wrong hands (and ANY hands are really the wrong hands, in some ways); it's all about chaos- pandering to the lowest common denominator, doing anything to get the ratings- and integrity is now a thing of the past (if it ever was a part of television history). And there really are people who've been raised on nothing but television (more so than when the movie was released, I'd wager), who don't read or really think for themselves because the TV tells them what to think. The problem is, television is only an illusion, it isn't reality; and the greatest irony is that it takes an illusion- a film- to point that out to us.

I am not, nor have I ever been, a fan of fantasy. As a genre, it's always seemed too feeble for me to really get attached to, significantly more so than science fiction or horror, because EVERYTHING is made up: the landscapes, the kingdoms, the animals, even the species of the main characters is all make-believe. Often none of it is grounded in any identifiable reality, and it's very, very hard for me to give a damn about a world where nothing is relatable. Of course, there are a few exceptions to this- I did enjoy the Lord of the Rings trilogy a great deal- but with fantasy, it takes extremely skilled storytelling to bridge that gap to the audience and make the viewer invest interest in the film. Sadly, Dungeons and Dragons never even comes close to this. Based on the most popular role-playing game of all time (yippee-kai-yay), D&D is a perfect example of fantasy at its worst, concocting a meaningless threat to a poorly-realized world that must be saved by two-dimensional characters who go on a cliché-filled quest to find a convenient magical plot device- one that the ridiculously over-the-top forces of evil wish to obtain for themselves. Justin Whalin (you may remember him as Jimmy Olsen from TV's Lois and Clark... but if you don't, I don't blame you) stars as Ridley, the young thief who just might have what it takes to find the red-dragon controlling staff and save the kingdom of Izmer (or he could die a horrible death, but I guess no one else would find that entertaining. At least, as much as I would). He plays the standard Luke Skywalker part okay, but he just doesn't seem to know the meaning of the word "subtle"- I never laughed as hard as I did when I saw him react to an on-screen death (Jesus Christ, man, take it down a few notches!). Also in this film is Marlon Wayans as comic relief sidekick Snails, and since I don't really have anything nice to say about him, I'll just change the subject. Together with a bargain basement team consisting of a red-headed, fake bearded dwarf and a pretty elf in plastic armor- neither of which do a damned thing to move the plot forward, or even add some character to the proceedings- they set out to find... something. I don't know, I really didn't care what they were doing. In fact, in the end, they end up destroying the plot device anyway, and they were the only ones with the map to the cavern that held it, so... why didn't they just burn the map and call the quest a victory? Oh well- who cares. On the villains' side, we have the normally awesome Jeremy Irons... ripping the scenery to shreds with his teeth. I have never seen such incredible overacting in my life- I think he had fun with it, mostly because he knew that fun would be the best he could get out of the experience. Anyway, he's trying to overthrow the rule of the grossly miscast princess Savina, played by Thora Birch- she just couldn't seem to stop fidgeting, as if she just couldn't wait to finish shooting and get off the set (and frankly, I can't blame her). Finally, there's the Darth Vader of the whole thing- a guy named Damadar, played by a guy named (heh) Bruce Payne. About his performance, I can't help but say that it's kind of sad how he seemed to think speaking really slowly and quietly would make him sound menacing; about his character, I have only two words: BLUE LIPSTICK. As for the rest, it's all fairly derivative, with a "maze" in the second act (consisting of only three rooms) that's a straight rip-off of Raiders of the Lost Arc, and it's filled to the brim with questionable CGI shots that would look more at home in a TV show than a major motion picture. In fact, the whole thing has television production values, from the shoddy lighting to the minimal set design. There's no drama in the compositions, or the editing. Really, there's no drama anywhere in this movie- if you don't know how it's going to end going in, then you obviously haven't watched many movies lately. The screenwriters do try to throw in a curve ball or two, but they're poorly conceived and executed haphazardly (one concerning Marlon Wayans did catch me off-guard, but I didn't care- I come too far without caring to muster a reaction by then). The script is juvenile, the plot is irrelevant (it's good guys vs. bad guys, there doesn't have to be a reason). Frankly, all Dungeons and Dragons managed to illicit from me was a deep feeling of apathy at best, and an irritated annoyance at worst. It did get some laughs out of me, but none of them were good-natured. When it was finally over, I could feel the hole in my life where two hours had previously been, but that was all. It takes a lot to make a fantasy film really work, and a hell of a lot more to make one great. Of course, that doesn't keep Hollywood from trying; sometimes the result is Lord of the Rings, but sometimes... MOST of the time... it's this. Save your two hours, friend. Go forth, live life, and never think about watching this movie ever again. Trust me.

I'm an Evil Dead guy. The sequels, mostly- the first one is both a little too disturbing and a little too amateurish for me- but when it comes to comedy-horror, I've primarily stuck with Sam Raimi. Recently, however, I had become more and more aware of another film in a similar vein- Stuart Gordon's Re-Animator, to be precise- and had become intensely curious about it. Truthfully, I was hoping for another find of an Evil Dead 2 caliber- funny, occasionally startling, and horrible only to the point of absurdity. What I found wasn't QUITE up to expectations (and given my expectations, how could it be?), but was definitely a fun movie, nonetheless. Re-Animator is a B-Movie in the truest sense, schlocky and melodramatic, full of grotesque make-up effects and gratuitous nudity, but sublimated by a wonderfully dry sense of humor and a willingness not to take itself too seriously. Loosely based on a series of stories by the late, great H.P. Lovecraft (whom I have never read the works of, but will probably get around to someday), Re-Animator tells the story of Herbert West, a student newly transferred to Miskatonic University after leaving his previous, European university after the ominous death of his mentor. He finds lodging with Dan Cain, a fellow student who happens to be sleeping with the Dean's daughter Megan. Soon, he involves Dan in his research: West has discovered a solution that can re-animate previously deceased tissue, which he proves by resurrecting the very dead carcase of Dan's cat. West, however, vies for human subjects to works with, which Dan can secure for him with his intern position at the hospital; things don't go too smoothly, however, and before long, unexpected consequences begin to rear their heads. Jeffery Combs as Herbert West is the only character who, in and of himself, is interesting. Two-dimensional, to say the least, Combs takes the callous, single-minded scientist character to wonderfully droll extremes, reciting the most absurd lines with a deadpan demeanor that makes them twice as funny. Bruce Abbott, as our straight-man (and our ostensive protagonist) Dan, is pretty placid, affecting anxiety decently enough but never really making much of an impression in the viewer's mind. Ditto for Barbara Crampton as Megan, whose most remembered contribution to the film is a protracted nude scene near the end in which she is nearly violated by a reanimated decapitated corpse. Said corpse would be our villain, Dr. Carl Hill (as portrayed by David Gale), who conveniently enough is the only revived decedent to retain any vestige of intelligence; it's ironic that his character, while alive, is so overdone (particularly in his last few scenes) that when he finally buys the farm (and then gets his refund), he seems to be almost underplaying the role of a sinister talking head (of the undead variety). The direction has the occasionally over-done hallmark of a novice filmmaker going for it, and Gordon works well with what little budget he has to evoke maximum horror from the proceedings. The violence and gore, while not cartoony, is played to such an extreme degree as to become darkly humorous, and it does work, but it's also more visceral than I was expecting. Surprisingly, the film is actually successfully scary at times, something that few horror-comedies can seem to achieve (if you're laughing, it's hard to get scared). The effects are occasionally hokey (almost self-consciously so), particularly in the case of Dr. Hill's headless body, but for the most part, they impress, and you do get a great deal of them throughout the movie. The score stuck out pretty prominently as I watched, primarily because it was such a blatant rip-off of the music of Psycho that I couldn't quite believe I was hearing it; it worked for the film, I guess, but it struck me as tasteless and obvious. Re-Animator is not a brilliant film, nor an innovative one. It didn't change the course of cinema history, it didn't influence later generations of filmmakers, and nobody involved in it became a superstar. But as far as cult films go, Re-Animator is definitely one of the better ones, if not one of the best- it's a funny, freaky horror pic that has fun with the absurdity of its own premise, and on its own terms, it works. Kinda like Evil Dead.

Death. Needless to say, it's a pretty serious topic. With the philosophical impact that its subject matter immediately has on the viewer, and bearing in mind the deeper metaphysical questions raised by the film itself, I have to admit that I'm not entirely certain if I'm qualified to review a film like the Seventh Seal. It's one of those timeless, immortal, and (inexplicably) world-renowned films that have, to me, surpassed the realm of simple cinematic criticism; it's like a monolith of a movie, great and intimidating, taken as a given rather than as an expression of creative intent- or (in this case) an astute observation of the natural order, and society's way of coping with it. After all, everyone has to die, sooner or later, and we spend a great deal of our lives dreading its inevitable victory over us, trying to find ways to put it off for as long as possible. Most people have faith in some form of afterlife, a continuation of our existence beyond the morbid finality of death, but the fact is, there is no physical, tangible proof to support this claim, which begs the question: are we kidding ourselves? Is death really the end? Strange as it may sound, I LOVE these sort of questions, philosophical quandaries that can never truly be answered, yet are constantly debated, both with others and with ourselves. The Seventh Seal is a cinematic representation of these quandaries, a journey for the characters, the audience, and the filmmaker, the late Ingmar Bergman, that never really comes to any conclusions about the bigger questions (as there can never truly be answers to them until it's too late), but strives desperately towards them nonetheless. Filled with wonderful symbolism and metaphor, it is a film that stimulates thought and conversation (something too few films do these days), and an intriguing observation on the natures of life, death, and faith that never takes any sides in the debates it raises. In the film, a weary knight is returning to his homeland, dejected and questioning his faith, after a long and purposeless crusade. He and his squire soon meet with a band of traveling performers, a jealous blacksmith and his promiscuous wife, and a mute woman as they make their way to the knight's castle. Along the way, ominous portents of doom become prominent as a plague ravages the countryside, and it becomes clear that an end, if not the end, is coming. As the disillusioned and questioning knight Antonius Block, Max Von Sydow is wonderful, bringing a deeply felt desperation to the role as Antonius quests vainly for truth. Block, it seems, can no longer subsist on faith- he now yearns for knowledge, for assurance and fact, and he exhausts every avenue, even going so far as to question a condemned witch about Satan, in the hopes of finding it. Of course, the film's most iconic and prominently symbolic scenes concern Block's attempt to beat the Grim Reaper at chess, a fantastic metaphor for Block's (and Man's in general) attempts to forestall the onset of the inevitable (Block's ultimate goal being to accomplish one truly meaningful deed in the remainder of his life). Death, in this case personified perfectly by Bengt Ekerot, is a cold fellow, impassive and unemotive, but with a touch of a dry, dark sense of humor that makes him all the more chilling. He occasionally comes off as smug and condescending, but only when someone tries to cheat him- it's appropriate that he would act so, considering that he's the one being that can never be cheated. With the knight during his sojourn is his squire, a cynical and faithless man named Jöns (played by Gunnar Björnstrand). The squire is, in many ways, the voice of reason and fact, pointing out the bitter truths of reality to those who will not ultimately listen, but he is also a character with no hope, instead laughing and reveling in tragedy with a morbid and sardonic sense of humor. On the opposite end of the spectrum, we have Jof, Mia, and their little boy, who COULD be metaphors for Joseph, Mary, and Jesus, or they could just be metaphors for the love of life and faith in the divine. Jof, played by Nils Poppe, is a constantly cheery performer who occasionally entertains spiritual visions that, of course, his wife doesn't believe in (and, of course, are real. Apparently). Seeing in them a quality that is precious and important, Block makes his meaningful deed the distraction of the Reaper at the chessboard, thus allowing the family to escape unnoticed and, ultimately, for life to persevere, even if his own must end. The film's final scenes, in which Death finally catches up with the band of travelers as they reach their destination, are a sombre and thoughtful finale, with the characters arguing amongst themselves about the nature of death even as they greet it, Sydow's Block praying for salvation while the others face death resignedly (save the one mute girl who greets the Grim Reaper as she would have a returning love). The resolution is somehow melancholy, yet full of hope- as a film about death must, it ends full circle with the continuation of life. Not as intimidating as it had seemed before I sat down and actually watched it, Bergman's film is a preponderance on death, certainly; a meditation on the nature of dying and the possibility of a God and an afterlife. But at the same time, it is a reaffirmation of life, a call to live to the fullest and to enjoy the strange and wonderful experience that is living while we still can. It recognizes that answers about the afterlife can never come as long as we are still alive, and so it reaches the only conclusions it logically can: Death is inevitable, and so we must make the most of the time we have left, and focus on what is good about life. It's a simple point to make, and one that has been made numerous times since this film was released (and an incalculable number of times before), but like all good, solid bits of universal wisdom, sometimes we need to be reminded of it.

Well. I may never look at a television set the same way again. David Cronenberg, while expressing a great deal of opinions concerning TV that I share, has once again presented a movie that is so bizarre in its sensibilities and so extreme in its symbolism that I can't help but feel slightly alienated by it... and more than a little amused by the audacity of it. Visceral, violent, and disturbing, it is a movie that is hard to put out of your mind, and, like all good films, leaves you with something to think about (delivered in true Cronenberg style). It starts off simply enough: Max Renn is one of the proprietors of a minor cable TV station that specializes in the tasteless and taboo. He visits a video specialist to try to find new, underground material for his station by pirating random TV signals, and stumbles across something called Videodrome, a "show" that's nothing but continuous torture and murder set in a dungeon. Unable to take his mind off it, and convinced that he's on to something big, Max tracks down the source of Videodrome, only to discover a dark secret: the signal itself gives the viewer a brain tumor, which causes surreal and nightmarish hallucinations and renders them programmable. James Woods as the sleazy, exploitative Max is perfectly cut-out for the role, a guy who rationalizes his morally challenged existence to everyone, including himself, and who doesn't see himself as a bad person- who really isn't, actually, until he lets his voyeuristic obsession with the darker side of human nature take over. Probably the most telling symbolic moment is when Max, under the thrall of a Videodrome cassette, is seduced by his own television set, burying his face into the image of his lover's lips as he gropes the screen wantonly; soon he is a slave to his addiction, literally and figuratively, and it's difficult to tell if he does what he does because Videodrome forces him to or because he'll do anything for more Videodrome. As Nicki Brand, Max's mysterious lover and most frequent hallucination, Deborah Harry (who made her major motion picture debut with this film) is alluring and seductive, offering noir-ish hints of sadomasochistic temptation for Max before he's even affected by the evil TV signal; while she almost plays as an evil Jessica Rabbit, she's not really in the film enough for this to be a major issue (after act one, she just sort of pops up once or twice). The rest of the characters are too two-dimensional to really mention- there's the evil suit pulling the strings (Leslie Carlson as Barry Convex), the video-pirating nerd with delusions of grandeur (Peter Dvorsky as Harlan), and... okay, there is the bizarre preacher of the advent of television civilization, one Professor Brian O'Blivion (played by Jack Dreley), but he has more for an interesting face than any sort of an actual performance. The film calls into question a subject that has weighed on my mind heavily- the increasing immersion of society in a growing sea of video and audio stimulation. Especially relevant now (what with the advent of the Internet and mobile phones that can play TV shows and movies), Cronenberg associates the false stimulus of the image of a TV set with a hallucination, which is where the make-up effects come in, as these visions start to manifest in the real world in increasingly strange and off-putting ways. As usual, the weirdness of the film takes center stage here, with prosthetic effects that are visceral and disturbing creating the most horrific of hallucinatory nightmares to come out of Cronenberg's sick, sick mind (the fact that the word "flesh" keeps popping up in his movies genuinely disturbs me, though I'm not certain why). I couldn't help but compare the latter half of the film to a Freddy Krueger flick, and by then, of course, the line between reality and fantasy is so blurred that it's hard to guess what's supposed to be real and what isn't. Probably the strangest of these effects is the decidedly symbolic slit that appears in Max's midsection, into which videocassettes are inserted that control his thoughts. Freud would have had a field day with that one. Overall, I'd say that, while Videodrome has some good and interesting points on the subjects of television and video's effect on the viewer and the nature and perils of voyeurism, it is, like so many other Cronenberg flicks, really, REALLY f-ed up, and with little to no explanation provided- making it less palatable to the casual moviegoer than some of his more mainstream flicks like the Fly. Still, I have to admit that it's a hell of a viewing experience, and it really sticks with you when it's over (especially given its rather abrupt and startling ending). Definitely worth the watch.

It's nice to see what can happen when a talented creative mind steps outside of his or her comfort zone. Sure, sometimes the results can be kind of lame (take Wes Craven's Music of the Heart, for instance), especially if the director doesn't have any real zest for the project to begin with, but occasionally, such as in the case of Paul Verhoeven's RoboCop, the jump between one creative track and another can be a breath of fresh air that results in a new, unique perspective on an established theme. While Cape Fear certainly had the makings for one of these kinds of movies, it never really brakes through to anything new or unique, instead playing somewhat as an exaggerated homage to the sources of its inspiration. This is not to say, however, that it's a bad film; quite the contrary, while it may not be Scorsese's most phenomenal work, it's still a riveting and energetic thriller, full of suspense and a good deal of shock value, and it seems like Scorsese had plenty of fun with it- as if he felt liberated by knowing that there wasn't even a chance for an Oscar in this one, and just decided to cut loose. The story concerns one Sam Bowden, an attorney whose family is being stalked by a former client, Max Cady. Cady had been sent to prison on a battery charge fourteen years earlier, and while in prison learned that he had been improperly defended by Bowden, who had suppressed documents that could have gotten him acquitted. Now, having served his sentence, Cady maneuvers around the edges of the law to exact his revenge upon the troubled lawyer. Based on the 1962 film of the same name, Cape Fear takes the simple, straightforward story- an innocent man trying to protect his family from a lunatic- and paints it in shades of gray. Sam Bowden, our protagonist (played by Nick Nolte), is neither an innocent nor an honest man, but instead gets by with the illusion of happiness and well-being by piling deception on deception- lying to his family about Cady's crimes, seeing a female coworker (seemingly the beginnings of an affair, but one that never comes to fruition) without telling his wife, agreeing to commit perjury in court for his friends, hiding crucial evidence in Cady's case (and possibly others). At best, Bowden borders on decent, but as the film progresses and the law fails to protect his family, he degenerates into savagery, at first in a "civilized" way (hiring men to beat Cady to a pulp), but by the films end, he's left all pretense of decency behind, trying to smash Cady's head in with a rock. The film's point is that all men have the capacity for this savagery in them, that all men, in essence, are equal... except for Max Cady. In Roger Ebert's review of this film, he points out that Scorsese's films usually deal with bad guys- wiseguys, street punks- but Max Cady is more than just bad... he's evil; unlike everyone else in a scorsese film, he has NO redemptive qualities (he is, as he himself claims, "the Big Bad Wolf"). As played by Robert De Niro, Max Cady is a force of nature, a hurricane that blows through Bowden's life and threatens to rip it asunder. De Niro is good as Cady, despite his jarring accent, and he takes to the morally uncomplicated part with relish. The film itself features an assortment of camera techniques that are, frankly, disjointed and almost experimental, going to radical extremes to emphasize the on-screen action (and featuring such B-movie mainstays as the swift zoom in/out and [God help us] the dreaded Dutch Tilt). It seems as if Scorsese is channeling his inner film student here, and the uses of filters and zooms can pull you right out of the movie if you don't take it with a dose of good humor. Truth be told, I can't say for certain if Scorsese is trying to imitate the thrillers of the past or send them up, but at least during the most dramatically tense scenes, the camera calms down enough to take everything in. As I said, this is clearly not the best film Scorsese's ever done (though which exactly would be is a whole 'nother can of worms), and it's not something that was specifically suited to his strengths. But as Roger Ebert observed, the only reason he made this movie is because, while J. Lee Thompson and the makers of the first Cape Fear saw Samuel Bowden as one person, Scorsese saw someone completely different, someone more in line with the morally blurry sensibilities that he had established for himself over his years as a filmmaker. As he saw things, Samuel Bowden was a man who had a lesson to learn- one that only a man like Max Cady could teach him. The film itself was an experiment, a chance to break out of the routine that Scorsese had made for himself and his movies, and while it didn't launch his filmography down a completely new path (like RoboCop did for Paul Verhoeven, who later made Total Recall and Starship Troopers), it is an intriguing landmark in the director's career, and a fantastic entry into the thriller genre.

Max Fischer is the person whom I have always wished I could be, tempered with a light dose of bitter reality (of which I also have some familiarity with). This has likely interfered with my judgment. Therefore I recommend you cease reading this review immediately.
...
... Still there?
Okay. I warned you.
Rushmore, the sophomore feature effort by director Wes Anderson, is an intriguing film that veers between the paths of personal fantasy (most aptly illustrated by the opening scene, in which Max solves "the most difficult algebra problem in the world" in a matter of seconds- in a dream, of course) and interpersonal reality. It's sort of a love letter to the schoolboy crush and to first loves, examining what the limits on that kind of love really is, all with a wonderfully dry, witty sense of humor that is balanced with moments of surprisingly raw drama. Jason Schwartzman plays Max, a scholarship student at Rushmore Academy, a prestigious prep school. Max is in love with being a student- he's a member of practically every extracurricular activity available, and the founder of quite a few- but all of that falls apart when he falls for a first grade teacher and tears his life apart in his efforts to win her affections, and to fight off the attentions of a rival. Filled with betrayals, deceptions, and heartbreak, Rushmore is a pretty jarring look at relationships, both between friends and more-than-friends. Schwartzman as Max is brilliant, just on the right side of nerdy, an overachiever (and an underachiever, in a way) who tries to play around the rules and manipulate situations to his liking. He's sort of like Ferris Bueller gone horribly, horribly wrong, with a massive ego that sometimes forces the viewer to hate him (particularly when he tries to force others to do as he wishes- he takes rude to a whole new level, at times), but also fills us with a sense of glee when he steps outside the bounds of acceptable behavior and becomes, essentially, a power fantasy. Still, there is a person underneath all that, and a complex one at that- obsessively devoted, as we learn from all his after school activities, but single minded; he can't make good grades because the extracurriculars keep him from studying. Olivia Williams plays Mrs. Cross, the first grade teacher that Max falls in love with- pretty, but intelligent, and possessed with a certain inarticulable quality that attracts both Max and Herbert Blume. Better still, she has her own emotional baggage, carrying with her the memory of her dead husband, which brings more dimension to her than one would normally get in a tug-o-war of love movie (where all too often the woman involved has almost no input when it comes to who she ends up with). She could easily have been played as a fantasy, yet she is grounded throughout the film, never seeming like anything beyond a real woman. Max loves Mrs. Cross, and Mrs. Cross does seem to have some feelings towards Max, but Max is, well, fifteen, and since that officially makes the whole idea of a "relationship" a moot point, there is absolutely no good that can come of his affections towards her... especially when he decides that friendship just isn't enough. Blume, played by Bill Murray, is a wreck, a downtrodden man stuck in an unhappy marriage an possessed of two very thuggish sons. Murray's knack for desperation comes through for him yet again, as Blume is shown to be a lonely, unhappy person who readily accepts the adoring Max as a friend, and then is drawn to the quaintly charming Mrs. Cross. The movie itself, despite featuring such a seemingly depressing string of characters, is incredibly funny, filled with clever wordplay and deadpan delivery. Never, however, does the humor feel forced or contrived, and it all stems from character (a virtue some more recent, chaotic comedies could never claim for themselves). The shot compositions, as becomes more apparent the more you see Wes Anderson's work, are noticeably centered and straightforward, placing the subjects of the frame dead center in many shots (I guess that's just his style). The cinematography is unusual, with muted tones for the most part, but never saturated or unsaturated- which is nice. It's funny, but I'm fighting the urge to say that the film strives for realism, mostly because that's a bald-faced lie- there is nothing realistic about this film, except the relationships between its characters. It's funny, it's wish fulfillment, and it's a painful slice of the awkward side of life, all at the same time- I guess the only word that can describe it is "quirky," despite how much I loathe the term, but make no mistake, it is good. From what I hear, that's kind of how all Wes Anderson's films are. If so, then I can't wait to see the rest.

Generally speaking, I love pilots. A well-made pilot can be a beautiful thing- if the director knows how to use a small budget to its best advantage and the script is competent and well structured, a pilot can be on par with a feature film. Just look at the Incredible Hulk, or Terminator: the Sarah Connor Chronicles. To me, the best pilots are entertaining (setting up plot and character naturally) but self contained, resolving an initial conflict of some sort while leaving an opening for a continuation of the story that isn't forced or predictable. On the other hand, you'll notice a startling tendency in pilots to introduce menial, uninteresting conflicts to introduce their characters, or pilots that have mediocre actors that are later phased out when the show becomes a series and/or cheesy effects that get better only later in the show's run (Star Trek TNG being a prime example). As for Spider-Man, pilot of the shot-lived TV show from 1978... well, it has EVERY ONE of the above mentioned qualities, good AND bad, going for it. It's sort of a great relic of seventies television that seems to have some potential to it, but is bogged down by sheer corniness. In this one, Peter Parker, college student and freelance photographer, is bitten by a radioactive spider (ahhh, the days before gene-splicing), and instead of developing leukemia he gains the strength of two or three men and the ability to slowly glide up walls as if he's being lifted by wires. Having been spotted scaling a wall and realizing that he can use the skill to sell pictures to the Daily Bugle, he stitches together a brightly colored costume, constructs an apparatus that fires a web- like substance from his wrists, and decides to fight crime and right wrongs as the Amazing Spider-Man... FOR ABSOLUTELY NO REASON. That's right- there is no Uncle Ben here, no motivation for his sudden ascent into super heroics. He just gets powers and decides to use them to fight crime, 'cause, well, what else is he going to do with them? At the same time, a criminal madman straight out of a James Bond flick is hypnotizing people, forcing ordinary, honest citizens to rob banks and threatening to make ten New Yorkers kill themselves unless the city pays him a ransom. Parker, now decidedly a Super Hero, decides to track the dastardly cur down and stop him. And that's... about... it. What saves this from being a waste of videotape is that, while it lacks in ingenuity, it actually has some good character stuff going for it. Nicholas Hammond, while a little old to play a college student, is actually a pretty decent Peter Parker-earnest and straightforward, he's a nice guy, the kind of guy you'd expect to become a super hero JUST BECAUSE. While he's not any more of a wise-cracker then Tobey Maguire's Spidey, he definitely gets the hard-luck, Charlie Brown image of Pete just right: he suffers from allergies, even when he's Spider-Man, he can't sell a picture to save his life, he's always broke, and he has piss-poor luck with the ladies. Unfortunately, while Parker's on-screen translation comes close to accurate, the other characters from the comics are a little more flat. David White's J. Jonah Jameson, rather than seeming like a gruff but funny thorn in Pete's side, is instead presented here as a full-blown asshole, insulting and condescending Peter left and right and never displaying so much as a single redeeming quality. Hilly Hicks is a little too excitable and a little too hip for the level-headed Robbie Robertson, and Jeff Donnell is there and gone as the stereotypical Aunt May. We also get Michael Pataki as a cigar-chomping cop who has a problem with Peter's convenient appearances at the scenes of crimes; the funny thing about him is, if you gave him a mustache and a buzz-cut, he would have made a great J. Jonah Jameson, but as a cop, he's just annoying and clichéd. Speaking of clichés, the Bond-reject villain of the piece, as played by Ivor Francis, is a subversive New-Age guru (in a suit) who hits all the typical villainous marks. He serves his purpose- namely, to give Spidey someone to go after while he crawls aimlessly up and down the same wall over and over again, and to hire samurai bodyguards to try to beat Spidey with bamboo sticks if he ever gets off said wall. The direction is pretty cut-and-dried; no style, no flair, just medium and close-up shots (with that annoying tendency to zoom from the seventies) set in flat lighting (the dullness of which does make Spidey's bright, colorful costume pop against the drab sets). The effects are laughable, but hey, it wasn't just 1978, it was TELEVISION in 1978... what are you expecting, Jurassic Park? Despite its plethora of failings, Spider-Man is a moderately enjoyable pilot, a toothless 70's crime thriller with a wall-crawling hero and a surprisingly springy sense of humor at times. Just don't go in expecting Superman the Movie- heck, Incredible Hulk had this one beat by a mile. If you have a high tolerance for corn, though, you might just like it.

Now this is more in line with what I always expected to see in a Rocky movie. Unfortunately, that is not a good thing. Stallone is back as Rocky Balboa, who, after the final battle with Apollo Creed from Rocky II, is now the heavyweight champion of the world. He's rich, he's happily married, he has a young boy, and he's a major celebrity, promoting all sorts of consumer products, appearing on telethons, and even receiving a statue in his hometown of Philadelphia. But all this luxury has made him softer, and when a badass young boxer starts working his way up the food chain, Rocky learns that he may not have what it takes to beat him anymore. Stallone, as the writer, director, and star of the film, knows Rocky backwards and forwards, but as he appears here, in pin striped suits and with feathered eighties hair, it's harder to relate to the powerful underdog character from the first movie, and he tends to come off as a bit stiff (which is really weird, considering how much of a relatable nice guy he was shown to be in the last couple of films). The problem with this movie, for me, is that there really isn't any human conflict present in the story- Rocky is doing great, living the storybook life with his family, wanting for nothing... Rocky III is set in a happy ending. The only thing that justifies the existence of this movie at all is the idea that Rocky has gotten complacent; now that he's on top of the world, he's not pushing himself any farther as a boxer, not aspiring to new pugilistic heights. While that's an interesting story (and a fun one, as Rocky goes up against a foe that's more of a beast than a man), it's not very emotionally involving, and the sweet life that Rocky lives only really serves to alienate him from the common-man audience who cheered for him in the first film. They try to compensate for this by killing off Mickey, in a scene which is a strong dramatic beat in the film, but is ultimately arbitrary and forced- particularly since his role in Rocky's life is usurped so quickly by, of all people, Apollo Creed. Carl Weathers as Creed comes off as a mercenary trainer, a guy who doesn't have any affection for Rocky, and is less likely to coddle him (something that's another throwback to the culture of the eighties). He's still a decent guy, but he has no sentimentality to him- which is, presumably, just the kind of guy Rocky needs to train him to go up against Clubber Lang. Lang, played by the then-unknown Mr. T, is like a pit bull, a monstrous, vicious powerhouse of an opponent to tear through Rocky like no one else ever has before. All the guy's character traits- the Mohawk, the trash-talk ("No, I don't hate him, but I pity the fool!")- they're all so inescapably Mr. T that anytime someone referred to him as "Lang," it would take me a second to realize who they meant. As for the rest of the cast, well, Talia Shire's there as Adrian, mostly to deliver one long-winded motivational speech near the end of the second act, and Burt Young actually has a pretty decent character arc here- one that ends five minutes into the film. Oh, and Hulk Hogan plays a wrestler named Thunderlips. The less said about him, the better. When I found out that this film was directed by Sylvester Stallone, it surprised the heck out of me, 'cause the shot compositions and set ups are all pretty good, and I never took Stallone for a director (then again, I never took him for a writer, either). Unfortunately, the trend with actors who direct is that they like to over-glorify their own characters, and this is definitely true here. There is a montage at the beginning of the film that I loved, as we see Rocky defending his title and taking endorsement deals while Clubber Lang trains like his life depended on it- it was really well-done, covering a lot of distance between the second and third films while setting up the villain in three (and set to "the Eye of the Tiger"- which is, let's face it, an AWESOME song). Unfortunately, the OTHER montage- the training one near the end- is a little too vain, a little too overdone to feel as enthralling as the one from, say, the first film. Rocky III isn't a bad movie, by any stretch- it's an interesting continuation of the story, and an enjoyable boxing movie overall- but it's just not nearly as good as the first Rocky, because even going against a monster like Clubber Lang, you can't call Rocky an underdog anymore; he could retire if he wanted to, and live out his days in fabulous wealth and happiness. The only thing that keeps him coming back to the ring is that alpha-dog drive to be the BEST, to win win WIN at any cost, that had infected the American zeitgeist in the eighties, and that shallow drive for material superiority is written all over the whole film in huge, neon letters. I've always felt that the best thing the first Rocky did was allow the hero to lose the match, because it didn't really matter if he lost the game- he won his pride, his self-respect, and the love of Adrian. As a player, he lost, but as a person, he won, and that's why Rocky III just isn't that great: it's not about the people this time, it's all about the game.

The foremost thing I have to say about The Manchurian Candidate is that it is, at times, a surreal film. This is meant, however, on multiple levels. While there are parts of the film (the dream sequences, particularly) where cross-cutting and juxtaposition create an uneven and jarring reality completely intentionally, it is the moments of lucidity that I often found most bizarre (particularly the ones involving Janet Leigh). Apart from this, however, the Manchurian Candidate is an intriguing, if overly long, political thriller that, while it takes far too much time to explain its premise and is often overly blunt in its portrayals, still manages to involve the viewer right up until the emotional and thought-provoking ending. In the film, Frank Sinatra is Korean vet Ben Marco, who is having nightmares about the days he and his platoon went M.I.A. While he claims to remember that a fellow soldier, Raymond Shaw, fought off an enemy troops and saved the surviving men, his dreams are telling him that they were captured and brainwashed, and that Shaw had been programmed to kill two of his own men. Desperate to discover what happened to him and his platoon, Ben tries to get in contact with Shaw to see what may have been done to him... and to try to discover who is behind the whole cover-up. Frank Sinatra as Ben Marco doesn't give a bad performance, exactly... it just wasn't all that great. We see Marco as a military man, whose whole life revolves around being in the service, but beyond that nugget of information, we've got nothin' on him (well, he is a smoker, but then again, wasn't everybody in the sixties?). Sinatra makes the role believable- as in, you don't say "Wow, that guy is a lousy actor" during the film- but he never really pops as a character of his own; he's just... a guy. We get exactly the opposite problem with Raymond Shaw, as played by Lawrence Harvey: at first, Shaw comes off as a stereotypical snobby asshole, complete with a British accent that is never explained, and for the first half of the film, it is hard to feel much but disdain for the guy. However, halfway through the movie, the character actually starts to develop, as we see that Raymond isn't a jerk entirely by choice- he's been forced to give up everything he loves by his controlling mother, and it's his lack of freedom that turned him into the man he is. As the film goes on, his character garners more and more pathos, until, at the climax of the film, we truly feel deeply for Raymond and the tragedy that his life was forced into becoming. Though Raymond is molded into the shape of a monster by the evil Communists (and what a mustache-twirling bunch they are), we soon see that the real monster of the story is Mrs. Iselin (played by Angela Lansbury), the wife of (and brains behind) the oafish Senator Iselin and ruthlessly domineering mother of Raymond. This woman has to be the most despicable character I've yet seen on film (at least, she was to me)- we see that through her insatiable political ambition and her manipulative force of will, she had broken down Raymond's will long before the Commies ever got their hands on him. The irony and hypocrisy of the character just makes her loathsome to my tastes, and it doesn't help that Lansbury gives a dead-on portrayal of a shark in mother's clothing. Also in this film is Janet Leigh as Eugenie Rose Chaney, a character that serves NO PURPOSE WHATSOEVER save as a sounding board for Sinatra. Literally, there is ONE SCENE in which the two meet and have a conversation, which ends with her giving him her ADDRESS and PHONE NUMBER, and then after that, she's an expositional tool, nothing more. THAT, my friends, is just sloppy writing. In fact, quite a few moments struck me as being poorly written, whether it was because the dialogue just didn't sound natural, or because there was too much of a reliance on coincidence to move the plot forward (the bartender says the EXACT WORDS that start Raymond's trance? Jocelyn Jordan just HAPPENS to wear a red queen costume to the Iselin party?), but at the same time, there are some good, solidly written moments, too- which leads me to believe that the book is much, much better, and the movie just applied some standard Hollywood conventions to shorten the narrative to feature length. The shot compositions are great, I will say, and the lighting, as well; there's a dark, shadowy tone to certain parts of the film that really jumped out at me. The editing was phenomenal, particularly during the climax, and also in the aforementioned dream sequences, which jump between hallucination and reality so quickly sometimes that it's hard to sort out which is which, while at the same time presenting a cohesive, comprehensible scene. While it has a few problems on the scripting side of things, the Manchurian Candidate is nevertheless an intricate, suspenseful thriller that gets more and more arresting as it goes on, culminating in a fantastic conclusion that will leave you thinking about it long after it's over. Sure, the Communist themes are now dated and somewhat antiquated, there's real power in its message about the loss of freedom, the manipulation of the masses, and the theft of one man's soul.

I love movies that defy most conventional categorizations. When a movie is cross-pollinated with different genres, the film tends to be less predictable and more entertainingly unique than some of its more formulaic genre brethren. This is certainly the case with Grosse Point Blank, which has elements of drama and surprisingly visceral action, but is ultimately a romantic comedy about some very unusual people. John Cusack plays Martin Blank, a professional hitman who's having some career problems of late. After blowing a high-profile hit, Blank is forced to take a job in his old hometown of Grosse Point on the weekend of his ten-year high school class reunion; having left without a trace ten years ago, Blank slowly revisits the places and the people that he knew before he chose his career, including his old high school love Debbie, whom he abandoned without a word on Prom Night. Unfortunately, he's not the only gun in town, as a rival hitman is determined to force Blank to either join his mercenary union or retire... permanently. What makes this film so damned interesting is that it portrays everyone through the lens of a romantic comedy- fairly well-rounded, everyday people- despite being loaded with characters that, in an action movie, would be played as larger than life. Cusack as Blank is great as a hitman with, while not exactly morals, a set of scruples, who starts to have a bit of a nervous breakdown as his reunion forces him to take stock of his life. He plays the character as cool and collected, actually projecting an underplayed menace to the guy that comes off really well, but while he's all business when he's working (and he can be pretty coldblooded, as we see later in the film), he still becomes personable and relatable when he wants to, and we see that, to him, killing is just a job that he never bothered to put any real thought into. The role shows that John Cusack is much more versatile that one might think him from watching his previous films, while also playing into his established strengths. Minnie Driver plays Martin's ex-girlfriend Debbie, and the two do have a fantastic chemistry together. Driver's Debbie is a smart, fun woman who does DJ work at the local radio station; she's still hurting from that one, horrible Prom Night years ago, and we see that she's struggling to reconcile her anger at Blank with her reawakened attraction to him (she pulls this off quite well). Unfortunately, things only get worse when she finds out what he does for a living. A hell of a surprise in the movie is Dan Aykroyd, of all people, as Grocer, Martin's chief professional rival. Grocer is even more coldblooded than Blank, with a prescription drug habit and a sick sense of humor. Ackroyd plays him unflinchingly as a slimy, two-faced dirtbag, but also gives him that perfect touch of the ordinary that actually makes him more dislikable than, say, a Hans Gruber, Machiavellian type. Jeremy Piven once again gives a fun, thankless supporting role as Martin's former best friend Paul, Alan Arkin has a short but sweet role as Martin's therapist Dr. Oatman, and Joan Cusack plays Blank's nasal, fowl mouthed, no-B.S. secretary Marcella (who speaks in hushed tones only with Blank, mostly out of intimidation and some respect). Appearing almost as an afterthought (particularly near the end of the movie) are two N.S.A. agents played by K. Todd Freeman and the always enjoyable Hank Azaria, who function sort of as the C3P0 and R2-D2 of the film. The script is incredibly good and wonderfully funny, laced with all kinds of witty banter and sharp, character-based humor (a big plus with me). And because all the characters are grounded and down to Earth, it only follows that the action sequences be down to Earth as well, and that is what sells them to me. The shootouts are all intense, but based around common sense (find cover, don't try to fly out into the open to get a shot in), and they're all no-frills, showing the violence of gunplay as well as the excitement. The one sequence that I loved most, however, is the hand-to-hand fight between Martin and the dog-faced Swedish assassin: it's brutal, it isn't polished or glamorized (the characters actually throw punches that miss, which makes the fight seem more real and desperate), and the hero takes as much of a beating as he gives out. The ending of the film, while in a way following the tried and true romantic comedy formula, is still filled with a wonderful moral ambiguity that takes good and bad out of the equation, leaving the viewer (and the characters) with just the people involved. It's kind of a bizarre movie, though it may not seem so much so at first glance, but it's a great movie that I feel is vastly underappreciated, mostly because the story doesn't fit easily into any set category. Definitely one of the funniest films I've yet seen, a fantastic low-key action movie, and a personal favorite all-around, the film is definitely greater than the sum of its genres.

Damn. I never knew Ben Affleck had it in him.

I HATE it when my gut instinct and my intellectual evaluations clash. I may be watching a movie that I absolutely LOATHE, that just fills me with repulsion, that brings to mind all the things I DON'T want to get from my entertainments... but once the credits start to roll and I think about the creative intent of the filmmakers, I end up having to face facts: the movie was fucking brilliant- it was I that was out of synch. Maybe I didn't know what was in store for me, and I came in expecting the wrong thing, or maybe it just didn't suit my tastes (which, though I try my best to expand them, do certainly have limits); either way, though, when my brain says five out of five, but my gut says one, I find myself in the cruelest of dilemmas. Alfonso Cuarón's dystopian movie Children of Men is a film about hope and despair that's loaded with socio-political commentary. Based on a novel by P.D. James, it poses a simple enough question- what would happen if we suddenly lost the ability to have children?- an follows through on it as realistically as possible, extrapolating a future where a fascist British government and a guerilla terrorist movement battle senselessly over immigration issues and civilians are caught in the crossfire. Into this disintegrating world comes Kee, the first pregnant woman in eighteen years, and to keep her alive and discover the secret of her miraculous conception, a government wage-slave, Theo Faron, must get her to the Human Project before she and her child fall into the wrong hands... or become casualties to the death-throes of mankind. Clive Owen as Theo Faron plays arguably the greatest role of his career, and while he is inescapably Clive Owen in every part that he plays (same monotone voice, same mannerisms, even the same damn trench coat half the time), this time he comes across much more vividly, bringing to the numbed former protester a great depth of emotion and a wonderful confused everyman quality in how he reacts to the violence around him. Playing opposite Owen is Clare-Hope Ashitey as Kee, a Zulu native in her late teens who appears to be the only fertile woman left on Earth. Ashitey comes off completely believably as a frightened young girl who isn't, by any means, a flawless person (despite the obvious if underplayed Virgin Mary allegory), but still embodies youthful optimism and hope without slipping into corniness or caricature. Michael Caine also appears in a supporting role as Jasper, a former political cartoonist who raises marijuana plants in his retired years; his aging hippie character is a welcome lighthearted touch in the film, and of course, Caine is fantastic in the part. The film itself presents a gray, dismal world, a world devoid of any hope for the future ('cause, well, there is no future for man), and in which the world has almost entirely torn itself apart, a world where innocence is long gone and all that's left to do is contemplate the inevitability of death, which can now literally come from almost any direction at any time. There is so much metaphor and subtext in this film (fascism vs. terrorism, the human propensity for self-destruction, etc.) that you could probably write an essay or two about it, so I'll be damned if I'm going to get into that here. The cinematography is as one would expect from the film's description: bleak, washed out, and gray, utilizing hand-held camera work to give it that grubby first-hand air of reality. It works. Likewise, the special effects are constructed on the premise of maximum realism, so they come off quite well, and enhance the story brilliantly. From the start, I was filled with feelings of despair, dread, and unpleasant tension when I saw Children of Men. I don't like movies where violence is arbitrary and pointless, even if it serves a purpose to the storyteller or the narrative, and here, it felt as if anything could happen at any time- characters could be slaughtered at a moment's notice, and for no real reason beyond the cruelty of the world in which they live. I guess I've just lost my taste for dystopian futures (most of them, anyway- I still love V for Vendetta); I felt like I was entering a world that I didn't want to be a part of, and because of that, I closed myself off. But upon further examination, I realized that this is what Cuarón intended with the movie; he has painted a portrait of a world with no laughter, no joy, and no hope, but he does it to show us just what it is about those things that we need to survive- and by film's end, he shines a light through the fog of despair and tells us that yes, there is hope for us. So yes, I guess my initial instincts on the film were a bit... hasty. I'm still docking it half a point for being SO DAMN DEPRESSING (this IS my personal opinion, after all), but I can see now that Children of Men is some heavy, powerful stuff- I just needed to work my way up to it.

T.V. movies are not supposed to be this good. Usually, a movie made for television is shallow and forced, with shoddy acting, poor production values and no style. The Incredible Hulk telefilm, on the other hand- aired in 1977, just a year before Superman: the Movie- is so well crafted and marvelously executed that, were it not for a few budget tells, stylistic choices, and its full-frame presentation, I would fully believe it to be a motion picture (and, on many levels, it even out-does the later film adaptation of the character- though not with its effects, of course). The story concerns David Banner, a research scientist who is searching for the key to superhuman strength after a car accident takes the life of his wife, whom he wasn't strong enough to rescue from the wreckage. Discovering a potential link between a DNA irregularity and gamma radiation, Banner tests his theory on himself, bombarding himself with gamma rays and mutating his genetic structure. Now, when he is overcome by anger, he transforms into a large, green monstrosity with incredible strength, a creature that may be the key to everything he's been searching for... or it may be a curse that will tear his life to pieces. Bill Bixby plays Dr. David Banner as a good, likable man who is followed by his own dark cloud of anger and grief, a fog that keeps him from seeing all the good things he still has in life. He also has something of a temper, which we can see simmering in a number of scenes before his experiment- Banner is angry at the world for taking away his wife, and the gamma radiation merely gives his rage form. Working with Banner on the project is Susan Sullivan as Dr. Elaina Marks, a smart, warm woman who clearly has feelings for David, but can't seem to get through the veil of his grief,, instead settling for being his close friend. Sullivan and Bixby have great chemistry together, and the scenes between them are playful and light, evoking a long, comfortable working relationship that may have blossomed into something more under different circumstances. The primary obstacle between them, namely David's grief and rage, is personified in the creature played by Lou Ferrigno (who is never formally referred to as "the Hulk" in the film). Ferrigno cuts quite an intimidating figure as the Hulk, even with the fright wig and huge forehead/nose appliances. He manages to come off as just less than human, and when he needs to be scary, he does the job ably. Finally, there's Jack Colvin as investigative reporter Jack McGee, the pain in the ass who snoops around to find out just what's going on with the giant creature for his news rag. Colvin is bizarrely dated with his brown suits and Elton John sunglasses, and for some reason he's dubbed half the time, but as a persistent, somewhat annoying foil for Banner, he does a great job. What works best about the film is its ability to establish mood and suspense. The subdued opening credits sequence, topped off by that wonderful quote ("Within each of us, ofttimes, there dwells a mighty and raging fury"), creates an ominous tone from the get-go which filters through the movie brilliantly. It culminates in the first transformation scene, set at night in a rain storm, which feels almost like a sequence from a horror movie. Alternately, the movie also builds up suspense masterfully, particularly starting with the gamma injection scene and building all the way up until that first transformation; the director uses audio montage to pile the stresses in Banner's thoughts on top of one another, while each instance of flaring temper makes the viewer try to guess when he's finally going to snap. The shot compositions are really clever (especially with the camera viewfinders during the interviews), the editing is superb (I love the little muted flashes of David's rage that pop up from time to time). Sure, the director has a nasty, television-bred habit of zooming excessively, but it's not as bad as some other shows to come out of that era. The music can also be pretty corny, especially when the Hulk shows up (cue the bongos!), but for T.V. in the seventies, it's not half bad- at least it's not all synthesized. And okay, the effects are sometimes pretty hokey, too (like when the Hulk changes back to Banner in front of Elaina), but they aren't driving the story anyway, so it doesn't matter. What drives this film is good, well done suspense, wonderful character development, and the occasional burst of bodybuilder fury. It doesn't rely on the superficial aspects of its story, instead focusing on the heart of the tale; because things like good storytelling, sharp characterization, and human drama don't cost all that much, the film succeeds with only a fraction of the budget of some major motion pictures. The truth is, the Incredible Hulk is one of my favorite movies because it has everything that most cookie-cutter blockbusters don't, and while it's not technically a film, it's still far better than many of its cinematic counterparts.

So close. So very, very close. First of all, I have to start by saying that, for the most part, I HATE Disney movies. There. I said it. Some of them are clever, and some of them are good, but on the whole, Disney is a merciless marketing machine that churns these suckers out by the truckload. They're all the same, it seems- cheery, optimistic, and sweet enough to give you a mouthful of cavities. That's why I wanted to see Enchanted, you see- because it looked to me like a smart, funny jab at the bizarre simplicity of Disney's animated repertoire, and a fun twist on the traditional fairy-tale story. For the first, say, forty-five or fifty-five minutes of its hour-and-a-half run time, that's exactly what I got, too... but then the ending had to screw it all up. I should have expected as much- what with Disney making the damn thing, how could we expect them to change or ridicule their own formula? But as the movie drew to a close, it became less and less a joke about Disney movies and more and more of a genuine example of one- more so even than some others. The plot is simple: the evil queen of Andalasia, intent on holding on to her throne, exiles young forest-dwelling maiden Giselle to the real world before she can marry Prince Edward, her one true love. Lost and confused in the unfamiliar land of New York City, Giselle is found and helped out by a divorce lawyer, and while she starts to learn more about the real world, she is pursued by the prince, intent on her rescue, and by the queen's henchman, intent on just the opposite. What makes this movie work is the actors. Amy Adams is the epitome of an innocent fairy-tale princess as Giselle, who can talk wildlife and vermin into helping with housework with a well-sung song or start a spontaneous song-and-dance number in the middle of Central Park. What is great about Adams is that she brings just enough over-the-top exuberance to the part to make it funny, but she never plays the character with a wink- she makes it a real person, if a ridiculously naive one. The same can't quite be said of James Marsden as Prince Edward, but he's so funny in the part of the sword-happy, smug, brainlessly devoted prince that it really doesn't matter. I feel bad for Marsden, though; he always plays second romantic fiddle to someone in his movies, but at least this time, instead of Superman or Wolverine, it's Patrick Dempsey as straight-man lawyer Robert Phillip. Dempsey is a little flat as the divorce attorney who doesn't believe in happy endings anymore, but that's okay- the rest of the cast has more than enough personality to make up for it. Susan Sarandon also shows up as the evil Queen, and she does put in her prescribed dose of overacting; ultimately (sadly enough) she fits the part well- except when they have her dubbing lines for a C.G. dragon. The film itself is well shot and edited, I suppose; the animated sequences, as to be expected, are fantastically rendered, and the live action scenes are as slick and colorful as any other Disney flick (one thing I'll say for them: what they lack in creative vision, they make up for in quality control). It's kind of a shame that the closest thing we get to the harsh realities of life in New York is the soft, colorful Disney "real world," but hey, it would probably be a bit much dropping her into, say, Scorsese's Big Apple. The earliest scenes are some of the best, with the patented absurdity of Disney's animated kingdom giving way to Amy Adams as a fish-out-of-water in the big city (though still apparently capable of summoning the wildlife around her with a few oscillating notes). The musical numbers aren't quite as annoying as in other Disney flicks, mostly because of their self-defacing humor and, God help us, their charming wit (Happy Working Song in particular was hilarious- I can see how it got an Oscar nomination). The problem comes when the film starts trying to resolve itself, because even though it has treated all of its conflicts as a joke for most of the movie, in the final act, they try to turn the joke into a meaningful story. Mind you, this might have worked with a clear creative mind behind things or an eye towards a satirical, ironic ending, but nooo- this is a Disney movie. So instead, we get a heavy dose of saccharine-sweet moralistic follow-your-heart drivel, followed by a tussle with a dragon that ends with an arbitrary defeat, and finally, the standard everybody-wins ending where all the plot threads tie together with with a big, bright-red bow. It's like, the first two thirds were a joke about Disney, and the rest is pure, concentrated, uncut Disney- 100 proof product, unfit for human consumption. If not for that damn ending, I would have loved Enchanted. I did love it, in fact- we shared jokes together about Snow White and Cinderella over a pizza and some Pepsi, and laughed as we watched Dopey get plastered at the table across from us. But halfway through the evening, the movie left me for Mickey Mouse, hopping in that big, red, shiny convertible of his and cozying right up to the smug rodent as if I wasn't even there anymore. Another movie lost to Disney, I guess, but I'm okay with that. After all, there's plenty of fish in the sea.

Bone-splitting, blood-curdling horror, in the E.C. tradition! Admittedly, I am a bit biased with this film- I'm a big horror buff, and I LOVE vampires, not to mention having more than a passing affinity for comic books (this film being based on a graphic novel). Because of this, I found myself almost instantly enjoying 30 Days of Night, one of the few horror films fresh out of Hollywood that ISN'T a remake. The premise is simple, but brilliant: Barrow, Alaska, the northernmost town in the United States, goes through a period of thirty days without a single sunrise. So, given the harsh weather conditions and confined spaces, what's the one thing you wouldn't want to run into on those thirty days? Answer: VAMPIRES! Now fighting a pitched battle to survive an onslaught of the undead, the survivors of Barrow- lead by the local sheriff and his estranged wife- hunker down, try to stay hidden, and pray for daybreak. Though the film sounds about as high-concept as they come, it's got good character dynamics going for it, and definitely benefits from originality in its portrayal of vampires. Josh Hartnett plays our hero, Eben Oleson, a good hearted, soft-spoken man devoted to his family who finds himself forced to overcome unspeakable horrors to keep himself, and the people he protects, alive. Hartnett is actually very good as Eben, who starts to unravel a bit as he has to perform pretty brutal acts to survive, and once again he displays a talent that could grow into something great (given the right conditions). Melissa George plays Stella Oleson, Eben's separated wife, who gets caught in Barrow after missing the last plane out and becomes Eben's second-in-command. She is a sharp, intelligent character, and George has a believable chemistry with Hartnett; their problems never really come to light in the film, but you get a sense of a long, happy relationship brought to an end by commitment issues (interestingly, on Stella's part)- that it's only implied helps it to feel more real. Ben Foster plays the Stranger, a mysterious... ah... stranger who appears in town om the last day of sunlight to kill their sled dogs, burn their cell phones, threaten waitresses, and foretell impending doom. Foster just seems to get better and better at playing creepy guys as he goes along; slipping the guy into redneck Fundamentalist territory would have been a part-killing move for other actors, but for him, it comes off as bizarrely appropriate. Also, Mark Boone Jr., of Batman Begins and Memento fame, plays a small but memorable role as Beau Brower, a reclusive, grizzly guy who's the sole loner in the friendly small-town Barrow. Facing off against our troupe of humans is by far the most terrifying set of vampires I've yet to see in film; more than just beasts but significantly less than human, these things are like a cross between man and shark, with jagged, razor teeth and black, upturned eyes ("Like a doll's eyes," to quote Quint from Jaws). These guys are ferocious and deadly- stronger and faster than humans, and capable of slitting your throat with a swipe of their taloned hands. Leading this pack of vicious bloodsuckers, Danny Huston plays Marlow, the only vampire with relatively normal features and one of the few to speak (in a Vampire language, for some reason- I guess to reinforce the idea that vampires have secluded themselves from human society). Marlow has a malevolence and a coolly intelligent, cold-blooded menace to him that makes him a great villain- not to mention having the perfect style (I'm a sucker for black trench coats with red lining). The film is preposterously violent, with the kind of graphic gruesomeness that could only be possible with the advent of computer generated imagery. People are decapitated (ON CAMERA), have their heads blown off, fall into threshing machines, and have fists explode out the backs of their skulls. Needless to say, it isn't a movie for everyone (keep your Grandma away from this one), and though I am no detractor of excessive violence, I found it to be a bit hard to swallow at times (even though it serves a good purpose in the narrative most times). What makes up for it is the style- the film has this blue-gray, bleak cinematography style that accents the biting cold of the environment, and highlights the reds when they come up (making the blood seem quite vibrant), and the shots are all well arranged and frequently picturesque (probably due to the graphic novel's influence). The script is effective and scary, but with a good focus on the people in the town of Barrow and their relationships- how they dissolve or grow stronger in the face of death. The film brings a great, pulpy horror feel to the vampire genre, evoking E.C.'s horror comics that featured vicious, bloodthirsty undead creatures who were far from romantic. Perhaps it is a bit too much of a throwback to those kind of full-steam ahead horror stories- particularly the ending, which is very much reminiscent of a comic book climax without tainting the mood of the film- but for me, it's a breath of fresh air, and while it may not be a watershed in the history of horror movies... it's still damn good.

This is a movie that, by all rights, I should absolutely despise. It has all the superficial qualities that I've always cited as detractors from a film- overdone production design, neon-ridden cityscapes, inexplicable lighting, synthesizer score, midgets for midgets' sake... heck, just three reviews ago I said that I was soured on the dystopic future genre entirely. Yet somehow, the film brings all these together with a well-written script, fantastic direction, a dark, moody tone, and wonderful performances to form a coherent, breathtaking vision- to me, the exception that proves the rule. Damn you, Ridley Scott, for inspiring less talented filmmakers to abuse those elements for years after Blade Runner's release (cases in point: Judge Dredd and Batman and Robin- production design gone amok). The version I saw was the Final Cut, so the visuals were as pristine as it was possible for them to be, the pace was good and quick without cutting out character, and the narrative was uncluttered by poor voice-over narration or a tacked-on ending. The movie is film noir through and through; set in the far future (though not quite as far as it would have seemed in 1982), the film is about Rick Deckard, a cop (or "blade runner") whose specialty is the "retirement" (i.e. termination) of replicants (genetically-engineered androids indistinguishable from humans), who gets called in to do one last assignment when four renegade "skin-jobs" pop up in the middle of 2019 Los Angeles. Now hot on the trail of the rogue replicants and confronted by a newer model who doesn't even realize that she's an android, Deckard has to watch out for his inhumanly strong, super-quick prey while facing up to the question of "what is human?" Appearing in his third sci-fi adventure flick in a row, Harrison Ford plays Deckard, a Chandler-esq private-eye-type who, like all good noir detectives, gets his teeth kicked in more often than not. Deckard is kind of an average Joe character, a guy who's just trying to do his job and go about his own business, and doesn't give a crap about much else; as it is written, the character could have been played by, well, anybody (the documentary even says as much), so any character inflections come straight from Harrison Ford, who makes the guy quiet, contemplative, and occasionally something of a smart-ass. Sean Young also stars as Rachel, a next-gen replicant designed to believe she's a regular human, and the dame who ultimately screws up Deckard's initial world view. Young defines the term classical beauty here, as it looks like she stepped right out of the forties; her deliveries are flat and uninflected at first, as she has this unshakable poise for the early portions of the movie, but that slowly dissolves as she spends more time with Deckard, and strives for the humanity that she suddenly finds has been denied to her. Rutger Hauer knocks it out of the park as Roy Batty, leader of the maladjusted replicants. I hesitate to call him a villain, because even though he does pretty sinister things, he does them, first of all, in pursuit of a fundamentally understandable, universal goal- the drive to live (his replicant model was designed with only a four-year life span)- and secondly, Hauer plays him as a fully-rounded, three dimensional character- though still quite an intimidating one. The dialogue in Roy's best scene- his last- was entirely improvised by Hauer himself, because he felt the soliloquy in the script wasn't relatable; considering that Roy's final lines are beautifully poetic, this knowledge raises my estimation of Hauer's talents a hundredfold. Beside him for most of the film is Darryl Hannah as Pris, Roy's gun moll, if you will; with her white face, blackened eyes, and blond fright-wig, she is the most inhuman of the replicants, both startlingly acrobatic and undeniably doll-like. The visual effects, while more than two decades old, are amazingly effective and captivating, creating a megapolis out of L.A. with huge video billboards, gargantuan buildings, and (hooray!) flying cars. The street-level scenes create a mish-mash of cultures (with a crap-load of focus on the Japanese) and fills it with neon-splattered urban decay, sprinkling atop it generous portions of smoke, steam, and continuous rainfall. The exteriors are all lit practically (for the most part), while the interiors are lit dramatically (and brilliantly) to create the maximum visual effect. The compositions are ALL artful, which is quite an amazing feat, and the camera work is inventive and clever. The one caveat I had with the film was the unicorn dream (from the Final and Director's Cuts only), which didn't seem to have any relevance at all to anything, but thankfully, by the end, the point of it comes to the fore in a clever way, bringing into question Deckard's own humanity (a question which is more poignant when left unanswered and ambiguous). Perhaps it's just the cut I watched, but it seemed to me that Blade Runner was not as abstract, indecipherable, or disconnected from humanity as I had been led to believe; in fact, I got it right off the bat: it is a dark, brooding, intelligent film that, like everything Phillip K. Dick did, questions the very foundations of our reality, and like everything Ridley Scott does, is filled with artistic wonders and brilliant storytelling. It's got heart and soul, and that makes it more than any of its poor imitators could ever hope to be.

Art films are elusive things for me. Perhaps its because I have such a literal, exacting mind, but usually I can't make heads or tails of a film with a free-form narrative, where symbolism and metaphor are more prevalent than plot or action, or at least character (once you start getting into metaphorical, non-literal characters, I completely check out). It's because of this that I'm so shocked by my own reaction to Darren Aronofsky's latest work, which could hardly be mistaken for a five-alarm blockbuster, or even a psychological thriller. It is rare that I want to categorize every element of a film as "beautiful," but for the life of me, I can't think of any more fitting adjectives- the movie is truly film-as-art, and I'll be damned if I don't understand the portrait being painted (at least on that most basic, instinctual level to which all good art appeals). The story revolves around one man living in three times, past, present, and future, all of whom are searching for the same thing: the key to life, the Fountain of Youth, to save the woman they love from destruction. It's very idealized and a lot of it is metaphorical, but there's still a solid, literal storyline that runs through all three time frames (more so in the present and the future than in the past), but as the story's told non-linearly, it kind of ruins parts of it to fully illustrate the chain of events (besides, one could interpret the connectivity of the timelines to a general storytelling device, and it wouldn't greatly reduce the film's impact). Hugh Jackman plays Tom, a conquistador from the time of the Inquisition, a surgeon from the present day, and a Zen space-farer from an undefinable distant future. Jackman is, by and large, the sole dramatic and narrative focus of the film, and he carries it ably, delivering by far his best dramatic performance to date. The conquistador is the closest to traditional Jackman we get- a driven, prideful, violent man obsessed with fulfilling his obligations to queen and country at any cost. The future Tom is a lonely, tortured soul, adrift in the cosmos by himself; easily he is the most symbolic of the main characters. The present day Tom is also driven, but mostly by the fear of losing his wife to cancer- he allows his futile attempts to stave off death to come between them when her time is at its shortest. His story arc is the backbone of the narrative, supported by the bookends of past and future. The lady for who he strives, Isabel, played by Rachel Weiss, is almost ethereal as the Queen of Spain in the past, and is literally ethereal as future Tom's visions of his long-lost love, but in the present, she plays a warm, affectionate woman who is trying to cope with the inevitable fact of her approaching death, and tries to make the most of her time left with Tom. She has a wonderful chemistry with Jackman, and it's easy to see in the present-day segments why the man essentially devotes the entirety of his existence to staying with her. The film itself is a visual feast, with bloody amazing shot compositions, spectacular lighting, and phenomenal visual effects that, despite initially seeming overbearing to me, I now regard as integral to the movie's cosmic aesthetic. The visual symbolism is astounding to me- the motifs that reappear at interesting moments (the star-candles in the queen's throne room, for instance) make the movie a fantastic experience on repeat viewings. There's even a circular motif, which couldn't help but make me recall the Usual Suspects a bit, though here it's used much more powerfully, particularly near the end. The storytelling symbolism of the films is a mite bit more difficult to unravel (it is intensely philosophical), but the themes of grief, death, and life are resonant and thought-provoking- I would have to call the script poetic, though it doesn't come with the overdone verbal flourish of poetry. Ultimately, I wouldn't want to spoil someone's enjoyment of the film by telling them what everything means. That's what makes this film so effective, to me- it makes me think, about the larger meanings of the story itself and also about the themes that it deals with. More than that, though, the film provokes powerful feeling in the viewer, raising them to a plateau of thought and emotion and finally hurling them headlong off of it- in a good way. Sure, there are obviously people who don't care for this film, but that's okay. They didn't miss anything, or fail to understand it in some fundamental way- they just reacted to it differently than I did. Art is supposed to elicit a reaction from the viewer, be it positive or negative, but either one is equally valid, as long as the viewer reacts (in fact, some of the best works are hated as much as they're loved- it shows a commitment to a vision that is uncompromising in the face of public opinion). And much as I normally loathe that term for the incomprehensible drivel that is often passed off in its name, I feel that it is the only word I can use to describe this film. It is art.

Socially, politically conscious super heroism. Who knew? Thanks to the work of director Jon Favreau and company, the first film out of fledgling Marvel Studios is an entertaining yet thoughtful burst of summer movie action and clever, engaging characters. Though it's based on one of Marvel's less iconic characters, the film is accessible and fun for those who may never have read a single comic book; yet for comic fans (such as myself), there are still plenty of easter eggs worked in unobtrusively- little nods to the Marvel universe that promise to bear fruit in later films (such as the inclusion of S.H.I.E.L.D.). The film concerns one Tony Stark, a technological genius and a billionaire weapons mogul, who, while visiting Afghanistan for a demonstration of his latest smart weapons system, is severely injured by shrapnel from a terrorist bomb produced by his company. Captured and imprisoned by the terrorists, who want him to construct a missile for them, Stark instead builds a powerful suit of armor that runs on a dynamo built into his chest (the same device that keeps his injured heart from failing) and blasts his way to freedom. Now disillusioned by the discovery that his weapons are being used by the terrorists he had them designed to fight, Stark creates an even more fantastic armor suit and dedicates himself to ending the threat that he himself feels responsible for. Robert Downey Jr. plays Tony Stark, the sarcastic, eccentric, somewhat naive head of Stark Industries; he has the slick, witty, devil-may-care attitude of Stark down to an art form, and when Tony starts to show a bit of a sensitive side (usually masked by his slick exterior), Downey doesn't disappoint, bringing a great depth to the quieter moments of the film. The fact is, Robert Downey Jr. IS Tony Stark, and the film would have suffered greatly without him. Standing by Tony for most of the film is Gwyneth Paltrow as the bizarrely-named Pepper Potts, Stark's assistant and right-hand woman. While most superhero movies feature the tried-and-true "hero quests after unattainable dream girl, saves her from a deadly fall, and wins her heart" formula, here we have a great work relationship between hero and love interest, who plays sort of a His Girl Friday part with Stark, complete with machine-gun banter and underplayed sexual tension. Potts is actually portrayed as a REAL WOMAN, with a life of her own, her own friends, and her own misgivings about getting involved with Stark; Paltrow channels that 1940's, independent woman vibe deftly, and she has a great chemistry with Downey Jr.- she brings to life the first comic-book heroine that you can respect as an individual, not as a trophy for our hero. Terrence Howard gets a good supporting role as Stark's best friend Lt. Jim Rhodes, whose involvement with the Air Force ends up being a snag to his friendship with Tony when Stark announces that he will no longer produce weapons for the military; Rhodes doesn't get all that much screen time, but his straight-man to Downey's ostentatious billionaire is a great fit, and the hints of more development of his part in the sequel (as the grey-and-white armored War Machine) makes you hope for a sequel as soon as possible. Jeff Bridges as Obadiah Stane presents an interesting character, who flips from a manipulative peripheral character to a devious, cold-blooded maniac; Bridges underplays the menace of the part, which actually helps make him seem more of a bastard (particularly in one of his later scenes with Tony), but once he hops into his Iron Monger suit, the character becomes a little too bombastic (not Bridges' fault, though- that's the need for a climax built into the script). The film is well-shot and well-lit, though nothing visionary in that respect. Its portrayal of terrorism and war surprised me with its drive for realism. It wasn't gruesome or excessively violent, but it didn't shy away from the grubbiness and violent nature of terrorism, and likewise, it doesn't shy away from the idea of the hero killing the villains (which shocked me at first, until I realized that, under the circumstances, Stark would have no compunctions about killing, as long as he felt he was fighting for good). The action is fantastic, and the special effects are first-rate; the dogfight scene between Iron Man and the two jets was a thrilling, action-packed spectacle, by far the highlight of the film. What's probably my favorite element of this movie, though, is its theme of personal responsibility. Sure, responsibility has been covered by superhero movies before (particularly by one arachnid crime-fighter), but here it is given an interesting real-world context, with a fascinating ethical question attached to it about the culpability of weapons manufacturers for the deaths brought about using their weaponry. Overall, I must say that Iron Man is a phenomenal summer blockbuster- a movie with plenty of action, awe-inspiring special effects, great actors having fun as interesting characters, and enough substance underneath it all to make the whole experience resonate in your mind after it's over. A good way to start a summer- a great way to start a franchise.

Here comes the cheese... For a T.V. movie from Fox circa the mid-nineties, yeah, I guess Nick Fury is a halfway decent effort; the problem is, Fox has always made TERRIBLE T.V. movies, and by the standards of any other audio/visual art form, this has got to be the second-to-worst film I've ever seen (with the dubious honor of "worst movie ever" going to the Roger Corman Fantastic Four). Filled with horrible, obvious lighting, incredibly painful acting, and laughably bad special effects, Nick Fury is like an assemblage of the absolute worst spy-movie clichés in the book- which is actually really disappointing, since it's written by David Goyer, the comic-movie golden-boy who brought us the Blade trilogy and the first draft of Batman Begins. The story is a familiar one: terrorist organization HYDRA is plotting to release a deadly super-virus in the greater metropolitan area of New York City, and all that stands in their way is secret intelligence organization SHIELD. With the rise of a new leader in the HYDRA ranks- the daughter of the evil Baron Wolfgang Von Strucker- SHIELD has called their best agent out of early retirement: the grizzled, one-eyed rebel-in-a-leather-jacket, Nick Fury. Portraying our leading tough guy is perpetual running gag David Hasselhoff, and while he does occasionally call forth the gruff loner archetype from his subconscious during his deliveries, the years of oiled-up pretty-boy parts have taken their toll; the Hoff can't act his way out of a paper bag, much less an enemy stronghold, and not once during this film do you buy the man as anything more than a guy desperate for a paycheck and possessed of no discernible skills or assets (save the shape of his chin). Seriously, it's amazing how bad his performance is in this part, but what's even more astounding is that HE'S NOT THE WORST ACTOR IN THE MOVIE. Sandra Hess wins that contest hands-down; as Viper, the wicked, psychotic mastermind behind the diabolical doings of HYDRA, Hess is a nightmare, speaking in an overbearing German accent that renders every line of dialogue intolerable. Her gestures are extremely melodramatic, and her speeches are cringe-inducing. In fact, the only thing that keeps her from being impossible to watch is the fact that she's... well, hot. Still, it's not enough to make her character enjoyable to watch. Besides, it's not as if there's any shortage of attractive women in the film (even if none of them can act worth a damn); Lisa Rinna, for instance, plays Contessa Valentina de Allegro Fontaine (a name which, of course, Nick has to say IN FULL when she first pops up), a fellow SHIELD agent and prerequisite former love of Mr. Fury (who still harbors feelings for the big lug). She, at least, isn't painful to watch, but she sure didn't win any acting awards for the part. Also, we have Tracy Waterhouse as Kate Neville, an agent with an E.S.P. chip (?!?) who makes for a great plot device. And finally, we have Neil Roberts as Alexander Goodwin Pierce, the greenhorn agent who graduated top of his class and idolizes Fury; he comes off better than you might expect, but still predictable and tired as a character. The script is pretty poor- it sounds like they went off a first draft, and I'm guessing they didn't do a polish. Still, the film MIGHT have been something interesting if not for its execution: brightly colored lighting (and an over-reliance on back lighting), poorly arranged shots, and DUTCH TILTS (bane of the serious filmmaker) jut pointedly out at the viewer- not to mention how the piss-poor production values turn all the sci-fi elements into bad jokes (how many low-budget sci-fi shows from the nineties featured a body-scanner machine with flashing neon rings, I wonder?). Not that the science fiction concepts are all that believable to begin with- I mean, a portable, robotic duplicate programmed with your voice and mannerisms? NOBODY thought that was maybe a bit too far-fetched? Or what about the spray-off disguise? Or that bloody E.S.P. chip? The special effects are an interesting blend of models and early C.G.I., which succeeds in looking... completely fake! The design for the Helicarrier is decent, but I see nothing but a toy whenever it shows up on-screen. In summation, this movie of the week is a wreck, a misfired attempt to plunder two then-defunct genres (comics and spy movies) of any entertainment value they may have had left with as little effort as possible. At best, it's a great example of Marvel's long-dead past as a showbiz failure and an amusing piece of garbage (favorite moment: after Viper slips away in a dreadfully slow-moving glass elevator, Fury, after a pause, grumbles, "She's probably halfway to China by now."); at worst, it's absolute drivel, useful only for distracting the feeble-minded or confirming the existence of David Hasselhoff. David Goyer may have cut his screenwriting teeth on this sucker, but it's not even half as good as his following work, Blade. Hell, it's not even half as good as Blade: Trinity. If you want a Marvel fix, I don't care HOW desperate you are, I suggest you look elsewhere.

It's ironic that the feature adaptation of Dracula sold on the premise of staying closest to the book than any other would present a character arc so bizarrely foreign to its source materials. Not that I'm complaining that the film departs from the novel- it took me something like six years to get through all of Bram Stoker's famous work, mostly because it is often unbelievably boring- but never at any point in the book is Dracula played as anything resembling a romantic antihero; this vision of the lord of the undead has seemed to evolve out of cinema, and here it is taken to its utmost extreme, with a Count Dracula who rebelled against the forces of good out of sorrow for his lost love. The film furthermore makes a clear and defined connection between Vlad the Impaler, the Romanian prince, and the vampire Dracula, in a rather well-done prologue that adds to the story immensely. The plot is as it always was- ancient vampire Count Dracula moves from his native land of Transylvania to the bustling metropolis of London in search of fresh blood, finding it in the personages of Lucy Westenra and Mina Harker. When Lucy falls ill, Professor Abraham Van Helsing is called in, diagnosing the problem as an infestation of the undead, and a battle of wits begins between the centuries-old Count and the sharp, eccentric doctor. As Dracula, Gary Oldman is practically unrecognizable, as I would expect from him; the character goes through a myriad of changes, both physical and emotional, throughout the film, and Oldman never falters, giving us a fantastically layered portrayal of a man who has forfeited his soul and lost himself in darkness, but finds his humanity rekindled by the promise of true love. Gary shines during the aloof, creepy moments, making the character foreboding and bizarre and mastering the slow, halting delivery that one tends top associate with Dracula, but he still brings great tenderness and pathos to the emotional beats- he carries the movie, and he makes it look easy. Winona Ryder isn't quite so fantastic as Mina Murray, the wife of Jonathan who apparently possesses the reincarnated soul of Dracula's lost wife Elisabeta, but she holds her own, and her straight-laced schoolmarm character goes through a few transformations of her own that come off fairly well. Anthony Hopkins shows up to play Abraham Van Helsing, and he is in full over-acting mode as the tactless, somewhat ruthless professor; even so, the man is always fun to watch, and his lack of verisimilitude fits well with the film's overall aesthetic, anyway. And then, there's... Keanu Reeves, as Jonathan Harker. I have no idea why this character always gets the short end of the stick on film, but the trend continues, as we get a pre-Matrix Keanu trying to muster a degree of acting credibility here and failing miserably. Moving on, newcomer Sadie Frost plays an innocent tart-let quite well as Lucy, Tom Waits hits new, disturbingly psychotic levels as Renfield, and in addition to Dr. Seward (Richard E. Grant), Lord Arthur Holmwood (Cary Elwes) and Quincy Morris (Bill Campbell) also show up, despite being omitted from most adaptations of the book. The visual style of the film takes its cues from art and cinematic styles from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the period in which the story takes place (and was initially written in); the costumes and sets are all lavish and heavily stylized (not to mention Oscar-winning), and the cinematography often takes its cues from the tricks of early cinema (the film includes a great homage to Nosferatu, the silent classic, when we see Dracula rise from his coffin, remaining stiff as a board while pivoting from a laying to a standing position). The effects are literally taken from the playbooks of the past, using in-camera techniques and double-exposures to accomplish what, at the time, would likely have been done digitally on any other film. The movie sometimes strays a little too far onto the erotic side of the story, inferring much more sexuality than you would likely find in any other iteration of the tale, but when the film goes for Gothic dread, the tone and atmosphere of the film are unmatched. The editing is quite good, especially in the Mina's wedding/Lucy's death sequence which juxtaposes Catholicism with vampirism (and hearkens back to a similar sequence from the Godfather a little bit). The score is fantastic, if a bit overbearing at times (especially with the background chanting). Overall, it's interesting that the most unusual and unique of the Dracula movies would be the one that sticks closest to the book; but even doing so, I guess it still contains some creative tweaks and necessary additions that give the film the personal stamp of the men who made it. Francis Ford Coppola hasn't made many films that I really liked, but those that he has made have all been unquestionably good (even if those that he's fumbled have been unquestionably bad- Captain EO, anyone?), and this one would have to be my favorite (eh, I never much cared for the Godfather, anyway). It'll never be as iconic as, say, the Tod Browning version, but as far as films go, Bram Stoker's Dracula is definitely the best of the vampiric bunch. Hey, it beats Van Helsing any day!

"Horrid" is the first word that comes to mind when I think of Halloween III: Season of the Witch, but somehow it just doesn't seem strong enough. What negative adjective can possibly sum up my feelings for this movie? "Wretched"? "Vile"? "Insipid"? Yes, yes, I like "insipid". And mind you, I'm not one of those censorship advocates who feels that gore and violence should be banned from motion pictures (one look at my favorite movies should be enough to quell that suspicion). This has nothing to do with the movie's excessive violence; this reaction stems from an immediate revulsion to an atrocious, cynical, heartless film that is more disgusting that terrifying and fails to entertain on even the most basic level. Well... okay, maybe I'm being a bit harsh- the film is good for a laugh every now and then, but the gulfs of boredom and repulsion tend to stamp out the fun one usually gets out of watching such a bad movie. The plot is played out like a mystery, albeit one that comes off a bit obtusely: a week or so before October 31st, a toy shop owner is admitted to a hospital clutching a Halloween mask and muttering "they're going to kill us all." Before anyone can fill out the proper insurance forms, someone walks into the hospital, rips the guy's skull in two, gets into his car, and sets himself on fire, causing the car to explode (of course). The guy's daughter, convinced that something foul is afoot, enlists the aid of the on-duty physician who witnessed the whole thing, and the two start snooping, in true Scooby fashion, about the small town of Santa Mira, the last known whereabouts of the shopkeeper prior to the episode, and home of Silver Shamrock, the world's largest Halloween mask producer and distributor. Slowly but surely, they uncover a sinister conspiracy at the innocuous factory, one that could mean the deaths of millions of people. Tom Atkins, the lead for the Fog and a bit player in Lethal Weapon and Escape from New York, plays Dr. Dan Challis, a divorcee with a shrill ex-wife (Nancy Kyes, from the first Halloween) and very, very little character. Of him, I can only say two things: the guy has a thing for phone calls (TEN throughout the course of the movie, the last one actually making up the climax), and he has to be the luckiest son of a bitch alive, hooking up with Stacey Nelkin (multiple times) despite being, like, twice her age and being pretty darn ordinary-looking. Nelkin, who plays the shopkeeper's daughter Ellie, is not much more than a plot device to facilitate Challis' investigations of Silver Shamrock, turning up with convenient bits of information and luring him to Santa Mira. After that, she's just horror movie eye-candy, serving more as the damsel in distress than anything else. On the villainous side of things, the Silver Shamrock company is run by Dan O'Herlihy (the Old Man from RoboCop) as Conal Cochran, an mogul who is supposedly the king of the practical joke (?) and whose Irish descent proves to be the ominous source of his dark plots; commanding an army of business suit-wearing androids (??), Cochran plans to murder all the children he can by booby-trapping his masks with bits of Stonehenge rock (???) that melts the wearer's face and causes insects and snakes to come out of their heads (??!??), setting them to go off with a special T.V. commercial. Why? As Cochran himself says, "Do I need a reason?" (which he follows with some blathering about the Celtic celebration of Sam Hain and the planets being in alignment) The movie starts okay, I guess, but the longer it goes on, the more laughable the unraveling plot becomes, until, by the end, the sense of true danger is completely gone. The filmmakers try to compensate for this by using excessive, gratuitous violence, and concluding the film with a fairly downbeat, cynical ending, but all this does is make the film unpleasant to watch in addition to being poorly written. The framing is dime-store quality; the lighting is occasionally interesting, but mostly bland and not terribly atmospheric; the sets are ridiculously cut-rate (the bad guy command center is pathetic- it's a big, mostly-empty room with a few computers clustered together on one side and a big rock on the other)- it seriously seems that they spent more money on the three Halloween masks (and really, what kind of mask manufacturer makes ONLY THREE MASKS?) than anything else in the film. The music is standard eighties synth- no melody, no theme, just sustained notes, one after another (provided by, of all people, John Carpenter... well, and Alan Howarth, the king of synth). The climax is pretty damn anti-climactic, if you ask me: bad guys fall down in a shower of sparks, the big rock glows, Cochran glows and disappears, and the building has a poor visual effect of a fire superimposed on top of it. It's not like I really, deeply despise this movie, or anything, but the fact is, Halloween III is a boring, pitiable excuse for a horror film, delivering neither the scares of a decent thriller or the laughs of a decent bomb. There's a reason they brought Michael Myers back for the fourth movie; I suggest that you take my word for it when I say that this is two hours of your life you'll wish you could get back.

OH DEAR, SWEET JESUS. I haven't had such a concentrated dose of pure eighties in my ENTIRE LIFE. This movie is like the shallowest, most self-indulgent fluff to come out of that entire materialistic decade- and that is saying something. The funny thing is, I actually do like fighter pilot stories from OTHER films (the climax of Batman counts, right?), but this one is so overdone with melodrama, testosterone, and that wonderful T.V. commercial-style slickness (that would later be adopted by Jerry Bruckheimer for every single one of his movies) that I can't help but, well, hate it. Seriously, it's like the template of a Michael Bay movie, with the simple plot, predictable twists, and cookie-cutter happy ending, played against a rock-filled soundtrack and a series of pumped-up action sequences. And has there ever been a film where the primitive animal drive to be the BEST was so blatant and so central to the film's plot? No, I think not. In fact, the film's entire narrative structure is HINGED on the concept, with a bunch of gung-ho fighter pilots engaging in dogfight tactics training at the Fighter Weapons School pilot training facility, competing both in the skies and on the ground. As part of the new batch of recruits, we meet Maverick, a natural in the cockpit who's out to follow through on his father's legacy as one of the best pilots in the sky, and his rival Iceman, another gifted pilot whose level head and by-the-book skills make him the best candidate for the Top Gun graduation prize. While at a bar with his fellow pilots, Maverick meets Charlie, a feisty girl who turns out to be an aeronautics expert at the training facility; he continues to court her anyway, and soon they are having a steamy affair, albeit one hindered by their working relationship. Maverick finds that, if he is really going to be the best, he has to learn to balance his responsibilities with his gifts, and that he must get past the shadow of his father if he wants become his own man. Now, not only is that an insufferably clichéd plot, but the characters fit right into their molds: Tom Cruise plays Maverick, the headstrong, anti-authority hot shot who has the brass balls to call himself the best, and the skills to back up the claim. While I usually have no problem with Cruise in other movies, here he came off as incredibly annoying, a hot-headed snot who expects the world to pander to him 'cause, hey, he's hot shit! He's the guy who knows he's the best, and lets it get to his head- and in the end, he's still the best, and his arrogance is rewarded. Yay. Val Kilmer plays opposite Cruise as Iceman, the intense, straight-laced big man on campus who says that Maverick is reckless and irresponsible, and is ultimately right; in a nice, unexpected twist, Ice WINS the Top Gun prize, but he ends up overshadowed by Maverick anyway. Kilmer is kind of bland in the part, really- it's a fine line between cool and apathetic, and I think he takes a hop or two across that line as the film goes on. Kelly McGillis is in there as well as Charlie, a fiercely independent woman who is immune to Maverick's baser charms, and sees past the slick exterior to the soft, vulnerable guy inside, the guy she ends up falling in love with (yes, it's that bad). She makes for good banter with Cruise, but the conflicts between them seem incidental, since it's obvious that they're going to end up together before the credits roll- and lo and behold, they do, in a contrived last-minute walk-on that isn't fully explained. Oh, and Anthony Edwards is, in my opinion, the unsung hero of the movie, bringing to the part of Goose, Maverick's partner, a lighthearted sense of fun that the movie really needed, but one that crashes and burns when the character, well, crashes and burns- his death, while necessary to the plot, actually does come as quite a blow to the viewer, and it's hard not to assign culpability to Maverick for the whole thing (there were five targets- he had to tail Iceman?). Michael Ironside and Tom Skerritt appear as too-cool instructors Jester and Viper, and Tim Robbins makes a blink-and-you'll-miss-him appearance as Merlin, whom we never see without his mask. The film boasts golden-sunset lighting and bright blue nights, and like I said earlier, the overall visual look of the film is like the ultra-polished style of a T.V. commercial- a car ad, probably, something from Mitsubishi. The dialogue is so trite that it's almost it's own parody, and it feels unbearably cheesy during a lot of the more tender moments. The score is light and fluffy, mostly dressing for the soundtrack (and DAMN that soundtrack- I can never get that damn "Danger Zone" song out of my head once I hear it). Also, just a note, but this movie features what has to be the most unintentionally homo-erotic sequence I've ever seen in a movie: shirtless volleyball between the guys, set to a peppy eighties beat. I mean, I'm usually not to picky about that kind of thing, and I usually don't like using the word as a descriptor this way, but that scene was gay gay GAY. The action sequences, on the other hand, are really, really well done, with vertigo-inducing twists and high-speed passes between maneuvering jets; it really goes for a high-octane experience, putting the audience right there with the pilots. Going on just the action, I would probably have given this film a much higher rating, but the fact is, the plot is too flimsy and conveniently resolved, the acting is just about average, the script is hokey, and the whole thing just feels like a relic of a by-gone age. Can you imagine a realistic movie about jet pilots in the Navy made NOW? Do you think it'd be nearly so upbeat, given cinema's stance on the military these days? Didn't think so. This is fluff at its fluffiest, only the most insubstantial of intellectual appetizers, and an anthropologist's tool at best. Movies are better than this now. Well, some of them, anyway.

There's a pretty funny story about how I first came to see the Evil Dead. You see, back in the day, when I was a wee lad of twelve or thirteen, I happened to catch Army of Darkness on USA one fine afternoon, and I fell in love with it instantly. The humor, the adventure, the vestige of spookiness without any serious horror (I was terrified of horror films at the time)- it just clicked with me. Well, imagine my surprise when I found out that Army was actually the THIRD in a series of films about the Deadite-blasting hero Ash, but that the first two went by the name "Evil Dead". Well, being a fan, and also a stickler for chronology, I decided to go out and rent the FIRST one. "Shock" does not do justice to what I was feeling by film's end. This movie traumatized me so badly that I wouldn't seek out Evil Dead II for another FOUR YEARS. For this alone, I am deducting a star from my score. Now that I'm older and much more tolerant of scary movies, though, I can see in Evil Dead a perfect example of low-budget horror, a film that builds a relentless atmosphere with inventive camera usage and fantastic sound editing, and can scare the crap out of you at a moment's notice with a deranged demon attack. Sure, the acting is beyond sub-par, the film quality is grainy and blurry (which sometimes works to its advantage), and the make-up and effects are oftentimes transparent, but ultimately, the first Evil Dead is like a dose of distilled terror, a shock to the senses that sticks with you long after it's over. Headlined by a motley cast of (at the time) nobodies, the film features the first recorded cinematic appearance of the great Bruce Campbell, appearing as his most famous character, Ash. Fans of the other films might be dismayed to find that, in this film, Ash is just an average college kid, a reserved everyman who falls to pieces as his friends are transformed, one by one, into vicious, bloodthirsty undead creatures. He actually seems the farthest thing from a hero for most of the movie, too terrified to attack the monsters at first and displaying a bizarre weakness to overturned shelves (he gets trapped TWICE in less than twenty minutes)- he actually seems more like he's the panicky guy who might make a break for it near the end of the film and end up zombie food. You could be forgiven for thinking Scotty, played by Hal Delrich, was the hero, given that he saves Ash and company more than once and kicks a fair amount of ass early on, but ultimately the guy turns out to be too much of an asshole to live ("An animal? An ANIMAL?!? HA HA HA HA HA- that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard of! Jesus Christ..."). Ash's eternally-lamented-for girlfriend, Linda (as played by Betsy Baker), makes for a kind of cutesy love interest for Ash, but as a Deadite, she's top-notch creepy, playing her demented china-doll look to the hilt and chanting a sing-song taunt that you'll have trouble getting out of your head. Shelley, played by Theresa Tilly, doesn't have such a stand-out demon trademark... no, she just gets stabbed through the back with a foot-long dagger, gnaws her wounded hand off like an animal, and spews milk and blood shortly before getting hacked to pieces by her boyfriend Scotty. So yes, she has the most graphically violent scene of the film going for her, but before any of that, she's just kind of... there. As the main Deadite baddie this time 'round, though, we have Cheryl (Ellen Sandweiss), Ash's sister (!) and the mysterious fifth wheel of the group who's apparently just there to take in the scenery. Unfortunately, the scenery takes an unusual shine to her, and as a result, we get the most tastelessly exploitative scene in the film (and possibly all of cinema history): the Tree Rape scene. What a way to start the movie. Following that, however, she makes for a gloriously psychotic demon presence in the film, calling out horrible, demonic taunts from her prison in the cellar, and the final battle with her is fantastically gripping and suspenseful. Like all of Sam Raimi's films, the camera plays as big a part in the story as any of the actors, and here we see him stretching his creative muscles as far as they can go, giving us such extreme shots as the "between Ash's feet shot", with accompanying pivot-foot-wipe to the next shot. The last act, in particular, bears the stamp of Raimi's direction boldly, filled with Dutch tilts, overhead shots, bizarre angles, and sight gags that build the dread of the scene to a dramatic crescendo (with one of the Evil Dead franchise's patented mirror gags). The sound editing on this film is absolutely phenomenal, I must say; the use of silence, coupled with the juxtaposition of slavering, undead growls and moans magnifies the movie's impact a hundred-fold. The lighting is moody and atmospheric, if a bit on the cheap side; the same can be said of the score, which sometimes elevates the film to spooky new levels, and other times descends into synthesized cheese. The make-ups for the monsters are sometimes quite convincing, even if you can see the actress's thumb sticking out from her monster glove or the seams on the prosthetic appliances every once in a while, and the all-white contacts are used to great effect, giving us soulless cyphers where our characters used to be (there's something really terrifying about losing someone's eyes...). If you're a fan of either of its subsequent sequels, the likelihood is that you'll be just a bit disappointed with this paired-down, less comedic entry into the franchise, but as a horror film that stands on is own, the Evil Dead is a one-of-a-kind experience in visceral terror. I may have become jaded to the ways of scary movies, but even now, this is a film that can chill me to my very bones; a film not to be underestimated.

There was a time, not all that long ago, when comic book movies were the exception and not the rule. A time when, for comic geeks like myself, the release of a superhero movie was a momentous occasion, one that happened only every few years or so, and, other than the initial releases of DC's biggest guns, one that was most often a disappointment, delivering watered down interpretations of beloved characters and concepts (Two-Face, mayhap? Catwoman? Or Steel?). Marvel, in those days, was a mass-media piss-ant, a small-time outfit trying to squeak out a profit by selling out their lower-tier characters for cut-rate prices, resulting in cheap garbage like Captain America and the Punisher. Sometime around the turn of the millennium, though, the tides began to turn; slowly, but surely, Marvel got a foot in the door, getting out the dark action-thriller Blade and the sci-fi-heavy X-Men. Then Spider-Man changed everything. Suddenly, superheroes weren't just cool, they were blazing hot, and the face of summer cinema was changed almost overnight. The only reason it all came to pass, however, is that Sam Raimi made a smart, funny, action-packed film that won over the hearts (and wallets) of movie-goers everywhere. Spider-Man is a superhero movie that broke all the rules while simultaneously setting new ones: it had a cast of well-known actors (instead of big-name stars) playing fleshed-out characters in a fairly realistic, relatable world. Peter Parker, a nerdy kid from Queens, is bitten by a genetically-enhanced spider, and gains the powers and abilities of said arachnid. At first lured by the idea of using his powers for personal gain (and to win the heart of classmate and girl-next-door Mary-Jane Watson), Peter learns the hard way that he has a responsibility to use his powers to help others, and so he becomes our friendly-neighborhood Spider-Man (just in time to stop a maniac on a jet-propelled glider who happens to be his best friend's millionaire father). Playing Peter Parker, Tobey Maguire brings to the part a boyish charm that a bigger star would have been lacking, while pumping up sufficiently to look believable as the super-strong superhero. Maguire shines as a decent guy who's been picked on most of his life and can't seem to catch a break (except for his romantic night-life as Spidey), but his Spider-Man... well, it's missing something. In this film, Spidey doesn't banter. It's my one, big criticism of the whole movie- the whole franchise, actually. Spider-Man is supposed to be funny, but in the movie he only cracks one joke in costume, and it is so lame it hurts (mostly because Maguire tries to deepen his voice heroically in hero mode, which might work for Batman or Superman, but not for Spidey). Other than that, Maguire is pitch-perfect as Peter, the first superhero in film history to make you care more for the man beneath the mask than the mask itself. Playing opposite Maguire is Kirsten Dunst as M.J. Watson, the girl of Peter's dreams. Just as Peter would perceive her character, M.J. is played with a multitude of layers, scores of which are only alluded to in the film, and you get the sense that there's a lot of stuff going on with this girl even if all we ever see is her screaming in terror or chatting pleasantly with Pete; Dunst plays the role ably, and her romantic scenes with Peter seem honest and believable with their bits of subtle character development. "Subtle" is a word that doesn't apply so much to the film's villain, Norman Osborn, a.k.a. the Green Goblin, whose gleefully evil performance by Willem Dafoe is a great example of over-the-top caricature in villainous parts, but I liked it- it works for the role, and his two-sided psyche is actually well played. The costume he wears gets a lot of flack for being cheesy and Power-Rangers-esq, but the Goblin costume was a tough look to translate into reality, and I thought they did a pretty good job of it. James Franco doesn't really have that much to do in this film as Harry Osborn, but every one of his emotional beats is hit surely and confidently, and the complicated relationship with his father is set up brilliantly for sequels. Finally, who could review this movie without acknowledging J.K. Simmons and his hilarious turn as J. Jonah Jameson, publisher of the Daily Bugle and the most vocal of Spider-Man's public detractors? No, not I, it seems. This being a Sam Raimi film, I'm sure a lot of people were taken aback by the camera techniques employed- the final battle sequence alone feels almost surreal with its use of slow-mo and tracking P.O.V.- but the man knows how to tame his visual wild side for the quieter moments, and the film benefits greatly from it. The cinematography is a bit too bright and colorful sometimes- M.J.'s hair can give you a headache, if you stare at it too long- but it makes the Spider-Man and Goblin costumes pop satisfyingly, and gives the rest of the world a vivid life of its own. The music is a little too techno, perhaps, but regardless, the score is effective, establishing character themes that stick with you (the Green Goblin, in particular, has a doozy). The script is clever, entertaining, and, at the time, unique; rather than just using concepts from the source comics, this was the first film to actually draw plot points from story arcs in the books, and its fidelity to the characters and their histories is remarkable. Ultimately, Spider-Man is the movie that brought comics into the big-time, forcing studio execs to re-evaluate the viability of superheroes on film and, as a result, creating a boom of comic book movies that hasn't subsided since its release. More than that, though, Spider-Man is a fun, exciting, enthralling film, one that creates a world of characters that we actually feel for and brings a real dramatic tension to events that some might once, not all that long ago, have dismissed as childish melodrama.

Everywhere I've gone recently, I've been hearing the same thing about this, the latest in the series of popular franchise revivals from the seventies and eighties: "Good, but not great. Doesn't live up to the previous movies." Me, I don't really care if the new entries into franchises live up to the old ones anymore- if they don't, I just forget they ever existed and enjoy the old ones again (this is also a good strategy for remakes). However, it always makes for a nice surprise when the new ones are good, too (Live Free or Die Hard was an awfully fun movie), and that usually happens when the filmmakers don't try to ape what made the original films work and just approach things from a fresh angle. Ultimately, that's what I liked the most about Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull: it never tries to cut corners by retreading the successes of the past (I'm looking at you, Austin Powers). Instead, we get the same characters and the same basic concept in a new setting, namely 1957, and because of this, the movie has a subtle tonal shift from the sepia-toned late thirties/ early forties to the shiny, colorful fifties. On top of that, we get the most serial-like objective yet to be featured in one of these films (which were initially based on the movie serials of the '40's): the search for a bizarrely inhuman-looking crystal skull that may be connected both to the fabled El Dorado (or Akator, as the film calls it) and extra-terrestrial life, and which holds the key to a whole new generation of warfare that the Soviet Union is intent on getting its hands on. At the center of it all, of course, is Indiana Jones, professor slash archeologist slash adventurer, played once again by Harrison Ford. The character is old hat (no pun intended) to Ford, who, despite being significantly older this time around, still pulls the character off well, both as a thinker (he seems to have aged into the part of professor nicely) and as a scrapper, getting into quite a few fights through the course of the film. It helps, of course, that Indy has always been something of a grizzled underdog in these movies, so if anything, the effect is compounded with his age. Playing his sidekick this time around (and he always has one, doesn't he?) is Shia LaBeouf as Mutt, a twenty-something greaser with a switchblade and an attitude. It's funny that they've hired LaBeouf to play what is, essentially, a tough-guy part, considering his track record as losers and geeks, but strangely, he works as the crude young man who finds himself out of his depth very quickly. The fact that he's a greaser is another great facet of the decade the filmmakers are trying to evoke, and he makes for an interesting, enjoyable character- one that, due to his lineage, may be destined for future adventures of his own. Karen Allen also puts in an appearance as Marion Ravenwood, Mutts mother and Indy's one-time love (from Raiders of the Lost Arc, specifically). While it's fun to see her character again, she doesn't really contribute much to the story except a viable love interest for the septuagenarian hero (I don't think it'd be too believable to see him get together with another one-shot twenty-something beauty this time around) and as a device to get Mutt to meet Indy. Villain-wise, though, I couldn't be happier with Cate Blanchett as Irina Spalko, a Soviet agent who studies (and possibly possesses) psychic abilities and wields a rapier instead of a gun. She is a great, implacable Russian mastermind, cold and intimidating yet strangely alluring, with an iron will and a ruthless streak that makes her a classically appealing antagonist. What's great about the movie is that it embraces the new era its set in, and as a result it has a somewhat different feel to it than the first few. The film opens with a spectacular sequence set in Nevada, one that pays tribute to the original films before quickly setting the tone for the new one in a fantastically unexpected way (I usually don't avoid spoilers, but this was such a great surprise that I don't want to give it away- they didn't show any of it in the trailers...). From then on, it sometimes feels like the world of Back to the Future or American Graffiti, and even when the characters venture into foreign lands untouched by time, Mutt is a consistent presence that keeps the film locked into a specific timeframe. The film does falter a bit in its choice of McGuffins, unfortunately- the science fiction flavor of the story is sometimes a bit too corny, lacking the awe-inspiring mythic quality of the prizes of the previous films. However, when you think of this as a film based on serials (which often employed such corny sci-fi plot devices) and a tribute to the corny-sci-fi heavy fifties, suddenly it seems a much more appropriate choice to have aliens as the ultimate discovery of the film, even if the revelation of the crystal skull's origins is telegraphed to the audience far too early. The action sequences are fantastic, even for an Indiana Jones movie, with exciting car chases, motorcycle chases, fist fights, gun fights, sword fights, and plenty of deathtraps and destroyed vehicles, many of which are C.G.I. assisted just enough to look phenomenal, but not so much as to rob the thrill from them.The music, as would be expected, is great, but I didn't get as much out of it as I did from the others- I think John Williams is slipping a bit in his old age. Finally, the movie ends on an incredibly upbeat, colorful note, which feels just a little bit forced to give the series a sense of closure while opening the door to possible future installments; but for a forced dramatic note, it is an appropriate way to end the film, and a decent conclusion to the cinematic life of Indiana Jones. When it gets right down to it, I think the main reason that people didn't like this film is because it didn't deliver exactly what they were expecting. Sure, it has its faults, but the other Indy films did, too (well, maybe not Raiders), and it's still got quite a bit of life in it for a twenty-seven-year-old concept. It's one of the few sequels that embraces the idea that times change, people age, and that this is not necessarily a bad thing. It may not be the best of the bunch, but it still satisfies my basic need from an Indiana Jones movie: the need to be entertained.

I hear amazing things about this movie all the time. People- a LOT of people- seem to consider this the be-all, end-all of cinema, like they think that DeNiro and Scorsese crafted the celluloid Holy Grail with this flick. I've been hearing this kind of stuff since I was in high school, and it just seemed to grow more pronounced as I got older; over time, my estimation of the film had risen preemptively, and even though I never saw it myself, I knew I would appreciate it when I did- after all, with so many people vouching for it, it had to be something I could dig into, right? Well, that made it all the more surprising when I found I had an extremely hard time just getting through the thing. It's set in a world that's a cesspool of corruption and vice, featuring a main character, Travis Bickle, who is quite literally insane (or possibly just greatly maladjusted)- who can't seem to function on either side of society's social scale, and ultimately goes down a self-destructive path of violence and carnage out of sheer nihilism. Frankly, from start to finish, the movie just... bothered me. It's an intensely uncomfortable viewing experience, even when nothing much is really happening, because the film builds up this powerful feeling of repressed aggression and paranoid anxiety that is never given any sort of release. It has racial and sexual overtones that are dealt with in a frank and polarizing way, and the world that Scorsese created just absolutely filled me with loathing. And then, as always seems to happen these days, I finally got the bigger picture AFTER the movie ended. We can sympathize with Bickle, despite his actions and his obvious psychosis, because the world he lives in is so horrible; when Bickle says that he just wants to do something about all the terrible things going on around him, we can see where he's coming from, even if we can't make heads or tails of the man himself. It makes the viewer wonder if Bickle is nuts because he was born that way or because he's a product of the nightmarish city that he lives in (which, apparently, is what New York was really like back in those days. Thank God for Rudi Gulianni). Bickle, of course, is played by Robert DeNiro, and as always, DeNiro knocks it out of the park in pulling off the character (though it's weird to see him so young and fresh-faced- I'm used to the older, weather-beaten DeNiro of, say, Goodfellas). In every conversation, you can see Bickle struggling, either avoiding eye contact or holding it for far too long and holding up uncomfortable silences, and it's clear that the man has the interpersonal skills of a chunk of dirt. Completely bereft of a sense of propriety (asking the counter girl at the porn theater concession stand for her name? Big no-no) and completely lacking in knowledge of the world beyond his own experience (he doesn't follow movies, music, politics...), Bickle is completely baffled when a girl he likes is offended by his choice of movies for their first date: namely, the porn he watches because he can't sleep (which he himself has no reaction to). His dark feelings about the people he sees on the streets rings powerfully of film noir; the narrative device of the disjointed Bickle recording his irrational, anti-social thoughts in a notebook has been ripped off quite a bit by some pretty prestigious writers (comic god Alan Moore uses the tactic in his masterpiece, Watchman, and Frank Miller riffs on the obsessive voice-over device for, well, everything he does). His final resolution to arbitrarily choose a meaning for his life- ANY meaning- first leads him to try a political assassination during a rally, and then, failing that, to save an underage prostitute from her pimps... violently. The prostitute, Iris (played by a young, post-Freaky Friday/pre-Clarice Jodie Foster), is an incredibly disturbing, complex, intriguing character who, needless to say, has issues, the surface of which are just barely scratched by the film; Foster plays her well, brushing off the severity of her problems with an adolescent indifference that makes them all the more impacting. Her pseudo-Electra-complex relationship with her scumbag pimp (a young, well-muscled Harvey Keitel) is infuriating to watch, and we do root for Travis to do something to help her... but in the end, his rescue ends up causing her more trauma than ever before, and her ambiguous resolution leaves you wondering if things are truly better for her. Also in the film is Cybill Shepard as Betsy, a political campaign worker whom Bickle idolizes in his mind as a symbol of purity. The character isn't really too well elaborated on, beyond the disclosure that she is just a normal, average person through her at-work banter with friend Tom (Albert Brooks, sporting a hell of an afro for a white guy), and though she does seem to have a deeper personal connection with Bickle than you would think, she can't understand him any more than the audience can, and her rejection of him at the porn theater sparks his initial drive to murder the candidate she is working for. Oh, and Scorsese himself has a part as a homicidal passenger in Travis's cab- and damn, the guy can actually act. The cinematography is gritty and urban, using mainly real lights to illuminate the scenes. The shot compositions are indefinably fascinating- mostly straightforward and realistic, but with the occasional bit of ostentation (such as the overhead shots just following the climax, which have a feeling of newspaper photography or crime scene pictures). The score, though, is kind of annoyingly repetitive, going over the same saxophone piece over and over again. Still, at least the piece is good, setting the mood effectively, and while sometimes the score jumps into melodrama (once again, the moments after the climax), it fits the film like a glove (Bernard Hermann's last work, and you can hear his stamp on the whole movie). The film spirals towards a destructive conclusion that somehow, despite the seeming impossibility of the situation, turns out all right for Travis and Iris, and Bickle goes on with his life unassumingly, his impotent rage and mounting anxiety having been purged... for the moment. After the movie was over, I took a step back from it, trying to see things from a different perspective (what was the director trying to do here? Did he do it? How did it affect you?), and I came to a pretty simple conclusion: yeah, Taxi Driver really is as fantastic a film as they say. It's a movie designed to disturb, to get to you where other movies don't, can't, or won't, and even though I wouldn't want to feel this way too frequently, I have to admit that it succeeds brilliantly. The whole thing feels like a nightmare once it's over, a horrible trip through a harsh and unforgiving land that thankfully dissipates with the breaking dawn. This nightmare was a reality for many, though, and it still is; though the eyes of our imperfect protagonist, we see the most twisted side of the world we live in, and when you realize that this place, this hellhole, makes you sympathize for a psychotic murderer, you have to wonder which is more crazy: the man, or the world he lives in.

Does the term "fantastically fantastic" sound too ostentatious? Not to me, it doesn't. No, after seeing this movie for the first time, I would have to say that I've found in it one of the greatest movies I've ever seen, a perfect example of what I feel film is at its best. Having seen a fair share of prison movies in my life- none of them terribly palatable to me- I was shocked to find in the Shawshank Redemption a prison film that actually had me contemplating the deeper ramifications of living in a jail cell: the time lost, the day-to-day life, the routines that make it impossible to return to the outside. On top of that, it has a resonant philosophical message about hope that makes it an extremely optimistic movie, despite taking place in one of the least optimistic settings that one could conceive of. Based on a novella by Stephen King, the film is about Andy Dufresne, a young banker who is tried and wrongly convicted of the murders of his wife and her adulterous lover, and is sentenced to two terms of life imprisonment in Shawshank Prison. It's there that he meets Red, the man who would become his best friend, as he slowly uses his talents with numbers and with people to gain the respect of his fellow inmates and the corrupt administration; but life on the inside is tough for anybody, and the hardest thing to hold on to is the knowledge that there's more to life than the walls surrounding you and the hope that you might one day return to it. Dufresne is a smart man, but quiet and inscrutable, making him a difficult character to get a handle on- play him too mysterious, he becomes ominous and foreboding, play him to harmless, he becomes weak and uninteresting. Tim Robbins finds a great balance between the two, creating a meek and unassuming character whom we soon learn has a number of unexpected layers; a man whose wheels always seem to be turning, though more often than not we aren't privy to what's going on inside his head. While he's primarily a man who, by his own admission, is difficult to read, Robbins knows exactly when to animate him, giving him just a hint of a smile or a defiant flare in his eye that becomes all the more dramatic from his usual placidity. We gather what we do about Andy, however, from Red, Andy's best friend and the narrator of the story, as played by Morgan Freeman. This being, of course, Morgan Freeman, the role is brilliantly well played: Red is a man who's adapted to prison life perhaps a bit too well, a man who "knows how to get things" and has connections with pretty much everybody on the inside (and a few people on the outside, too). He, in a sense, is the true main character of the film, as he is forced to question his own beliefs by the examples set by Andy, and ultimately becomes a "changed man" because of it (ironically after his knee-jerk protestations to this effect fall on the deaf ears of the parole board for something like forty years). He also, as I mentioned, narrates a good part of the film, and Freeman's deep voice and conversational manner make the voice-overs work much better than they might have (voice-over is usually a terrible storytelling device for a filmmaker. Just look at what it did to the theatrical cut of Blade Runner). The villains of the film are truly repugnant excuses for humanity, making the hole that Andy is stuck in that much more bleak: Warden Norton, played by Bob Gunton, is a cold, slimy bastard who hides behind a facade of righteousness and Christianity (very Bible belt), and his right-hand man, head guard Heywood, is played by Clancy Brown, who ALWAYS seems to play a borderline sadistic strong-arm type, though never so much as he does here. The film uses crane shots incredibly effectively to establish a massive scope, and the fluid camera motion is used to great effect in certain scenes (the moving camera shot as Heywood holds Andy on the edge of the roof makes the scene both dramatic and dynamic) without calling too much attention to itself; the cinematography is fairly plain and drab grey, but with occasional hints at an idyllic, golden world lurking beyond the walls of the prison. The style of the film itself is keyed into that same sense of despondent realism, but with hints of a better, happier world beyond what we are seeing. What really makes the film work is that it never strays too far into either extreme. It manages realism without excessive grittiness, a major stumbling block with most "real-world" dramas (especially those dealing with criminals); it's real but it's clean, it hurts at times but it's not a miasma of torture. At the same time, the polished "happy ending" never gets too out of hand because it's balanced by the prior tragedy of the movie, making it feel more like a welcome respite from darkness than a candy-coated crowd pleaser. The script for this film is, in my opinion, phenomenal; while the film moves languorously through a two-hour-twenty-minute run time, the plot is still tight as a drum, bringing together all the relevant plot threads of the story into a thoroughly satisfying (and, in my case, completely unexpected) conclusion. There's a lot going on sometimes, but the film never loses its audience to incomprehensibility, and the climax is a fantastic payoff to the gradual build-up of the story. I also loved that there's plenty of symbolism to the tale, as well, such as the elderly Brooks' pet bird Jake, whom Brooks initially only takes in 'til he's big enough to fly, but ends up caring for until he is sent out of prison himself, or the harmonica that Andy gets for Red when he learns that Red used to play one. Hell, the very setting of the film can be seen as a metaphor for fear, if you want to get really abstract about it, and that makes the film interesting- that is, how many levels you can watch it on. So many people have referred to this as one of the best movies out there that it's hard to recognize that not everyone feels that way. I can't help but notice, however, that many of the reviewers who gave the movie sub-par rankings have tastes that range towards the darker end of the cinematic spectrum- the works of Tarantino and Scorsese, who create cold, heartless worlds where human life means next to nothing. Don't get me wrong, or anything- I like Scorsese, and I LOVE Tarantino, but their work is world away from this kind of movie, so it's not hard to see why the fans of their work would have such a different reaction to this. Ultimately, the whole thing is subjective anyway; there's no such thing as a perfect movie, a flawless film that can be universally claimed as the greatest ever made- or even just one of the best. I guess what it all comes down to is a matter of taste, really: do you like your masterpieces to be with hope, or without it? Me, I've always been the foolishly optimistic type, so I usually go for the former; and when it comes to films about hope, I have never seen a movie as good as this one. It's well-crafted, terrifically performed, and well-executed, a model of studio filmmaking at its finest. I'd say that deserves the term "fantastically fantastic", wouldn't you?

Now this is more like it. Having gone into the first Hulk movie with astronomical expectations (while I had never read the comics much before, I did love the T.V. show) and having come out hugely disappointed, I just didn't really give much of a rat's ass about the Hulk franchise for a long while. That's actually the one reason why I was willing to give this thing a shot, despite it looking a bit fuzzier than its predecessor in terms of dramatic focus- after all, I reasoned, they already nose-dived this character into the ground, so where else is there to go but up? Well, I was right to feel that way. By taking the concept in exactly the opposite direction than the first film did, building on action and suspense instead of intense character drama, the Incredible Hulk takes a few popcorn-flick missteps, but is ultimately a far more entertaining and engaging film than it's precursor, unburdened by the psychological baggage foisted upon its protagonist, instead focussed on the universally understandable concept of an ordinary man who must keep his anger in check for fear of hurting those around him. What really clicks this time is that the film is played as a suspense thriller, with a good dash of horror thrown in to spice things up. The character of the Hulk never really worked much as a superhero, and he didn't really click as a psychological metaphor for repressed rage, but as a straight-up MONSTER... as a giant, unstoppable force of pure destruction, the Hulk is awe-inspiring, terrifying, and empowering, serving as both a wish fulfillment and a cautionary tale in the Dr. Jekyll vein. In this episode, Dr. Bruce Banner (physician, scientist) is on the run from the U.S. government, hiding in Portugal and trying to find a way to control the raging spirit that dwells within him. After an accident leads General Thaddeus "Thunderbolt" Ross to bring an end to his Central American getaway, Banner heads back to the states in a desperate attempt to locate a cure for his condition, reuniting along the way with his lost love and former colleague Betty Ross. While they race to find the mysterious Mr. Blue, Bruce's benefactor who claims to have a lead on a cure, General Ross begins injecting aging hard-case Emil Blonsky with a super-soldier serum. One thing leads to another, and Blonsky transforms into an "abomination"- a creature stronger than the Hulk and retaining the intellect of Blonski- leading Banner to face the fact that his own inner demon might just be the only hope of stopping him. Edward Norton carries the movie's dramatic elements almost single-handedly, bringing a lonely desperation to Bruce Banner and evoking a man who always seems worried that he might be on the edge of exploding (a trait which leads to one of the movie's funnier comic relief bits). More in line with the television show than the comics or the other movie, Banner is shown here as a relatable everyman type (albeit with a brilliant intellect) who helps others whenever he can, and finds in the Hulk a way to help people on a bigger scale by the end of the movie. His perennial love interest, Betty Ross (a.k.a. Liv Tyler), is unfortunately a little flat by comparison, and actually comes off pretty bad when you consider that (at least in the theatrical cut) she drops her psychologist boyfriend Leonard Samson (played by Ty Burrell) like a hot potato at the first sign of Banner's return. I have to admit, I liked Connelly more, as she was one of the Lee film's biggest assets. General Ross doesn't come off that much better, either, as William Hurt is no substitute for Sam Elliot; the senior Ross reeks of the "irrational government heavy" stereotype, so obsessed with bringing in his quarry that he takes unnecessary risks and creates the film's real monster. Other than Norton's Banner, though, the movie's best performance comes from Tim Roth as badass mo-fo Emil Blonsky, a soldier in his late thirties who takes General Ross up on an experiment meant to make him into the next super-soldier (the first one being Captain America, incidentally). Blonsky is aching for the youth that he once had, but once he becomes enhanced, he gets addicted to the physical power he develops, and becomes desperate to use it, to prove that he's the best there is; Roth plays Blonsky's wounded ego and subsequent lust for power wonderfully. The action, of course, is good, ranging from taught chase scenes to spectacular super-powered brawls, and Louis Leterrier's penchant for ridiculous CG-assisted camera tomfoolery only gets in the way twice (which isn't all that surprising, since the hero is already computer generated- something that would make the camera tricks stand out a lot less than in his other films). The script actually feels really sharp this time, with all the plot dividends coming together nicely by film's end, but it has two strikes against it: one, it feels abridged (the cuts enforced by Marvel are felt throughout, but particularly during the character scenes), and two, it gives in to the popcorn-flick humor trap a couple of times (that is, making jokes about plot elements in light-hearted moments that keep the film from getting too heavy), albeit quite well most of the time. The effects, while exaggerating the more cartoonish elements of our protagonist's dark side, are still noticeably better than the first film's (not really that shocking, given the time lapse between the two) and, similar to the techniques from X-Men: the Last Stand, are used in new and interesting ways (for instance, to give the reasonably fit Tim Ross a cut musculature after he takes Ross' super-soldier serum). The change from Bruce Banner into the Hulk is done in a very American Werewolf-esq way in one scene, and the effect is much more impressive than what has come before: we hear Banner's bones crunch together as they grow, shifting radically beneath his darkening skin as the blood in his veins turns green and his flesh starts rippling outward, growing thicker and tougher. It's a classic horror movie moment that just happens to be in a superhero movie- one crafted by people who understand what makes the Hulk such an interesting, alluring character to begin with. It's not the darkness of unspeakable childhood trauma that draws people to him; it's that force, that dark, terrible force that, to some extent, we all have lurking inside us, unreasoning and destructive- a force just waiting to be unleashed. It might not be Greek tragedy, but the Incredible Hulk is a popcorn flick that knows what it is and has fun with it; this time, the filmmakers knew exactly what we wanted to see: specifically, Hulk Smash.

Looking back on it through the ensuing changes of time, this movie seems to be more of an experiment than an actual film. It seems to me as if Bryan Singer, whose previous works were smaller-scale, character-driven thrillers, was testing the waters with X-Men, trying to bring his own dramatic sensibilities to the material and root it in reality while, at the same time, measuring out how far to take the science-fiction elements without breaking the viewer's suspension of disbelief. Sometimes, the film strikes a very strong, resonant note dramatically- say, during the opening sequence set in World War 2-era Poland, or the cage-fight scene in Carson City, British Columbia- and sometimes it falters, particularly during the numerous expository moments and with the plot-device machine that Magneto constructs, but all together, the movie maintains a cohesion and relatability, particularly due strong character development, that makes it a fun viewing experience and an overall good, if not great, movie. The film, while based on a comic book, is more heavily rooted in sci-fi than superheroics, and because of this the story bears a metaphorical depth that you might not expect: a new order of human beings, referred to as mutants, are springing up among normal people. Born with extra-normal abilities that kick in at puberty and range from the novel to the extremely dangerous, they are regarded with fear and hatred by the people around them. Out of this climate of intolerance and prejudice, two reactionary groups are formed: the Brotherhood of Mutants, a terrorist organization led by mutant radical Magneto (a Polish Jew who escaped the Holocaust as a child), and the X-Men, a paramilitary group of peace-keeping mutants lead by the pacifistic Professor Charles Xavier. Caught between the two are an unlikely pair of mutant outcasts: Rogue, a young woman whose touch drains others of their life force, and Logan, a gruff loner with twin sets of razor-sharp metal claws, an incredible healing factor, and a mysterious past that he remembers only bits and pieces of. Hugh Jackman was a far cry from any comic fan's idea of the perfect Logan- he was too tall (Logan's supposed to be only 5'3"), he was too handsome (Logan never really was much of a pretty boy), and he was a complete unknown. What made Jackman overcome all this is that, well, his Logan is a complete badass. He channels a rebellious tough-guy vibe that never comes off as phony or forced, but he also has this haunted, distrustful air about him at times that makes his anti-social attitude more understandable. While Jackman excels as the world-weary, cynical mutant, Anna Paquin plays the young, awkward mutant Rogue just as well, if a bit unevenly. Rogue wields a dangerous power she can't control, and feels like an outcast both with humans and with other mutants; this is a great metaphor for any member of persecuted minority group, struggling to find acceptance in society, and Paquin portrays the despair and fear of her character well. Playing the benefactor of our heroes is Patrick Stewart, everyone's favorite bald thespian, as Professor X, the X-Men's telepathic founder and mentor. Stewart has a commanding presence about him that brings gravitas to the part of Xavier, which is a really good thing, because Xavier is ultimately nothing more than an expositional tool. Seriously, almost all of the film's exposition (and there is a LOT) comes from this one character, and when he finally stops expositing, he literally goes into a coma until the movie ends. The one thing that keeps him from being a one-note character, in fact, is his relationship with Eric Lehnsherr, typified by three scenes that establish a long friendship embittered by rivaling ideologies. Lehnsherr, alias Magneto, the leader of the enemy camp, is played by, of all people, Sir Ian McKellan, a Shakespearean actor from the British stage who pumped the role full of dramatic integrity and an undercurrent of sympathy and understanding for Magneto's perspective on things. Having lived through the worst example of racial intolerance in human history and convinced that mankind isn't far from launching a war to eradicate mutants from the face of the Earth, Magneto's agenda is to fight back against the looming human oppressors with his considerable power (he has the ability to generate magnetic fields) and to establish mutants as the dominant species on the planet. The rest of the cast, while solid, is mostly peripheral: James Marsden plays team leader Cyclops as the stick-in-the-mud he's always been, but the script never gives him any good character moments, so he comes off flat; Famke Jansen is great as the telekinetic Dr. Jean Grey, who is the crux of a love triangle with Logan and Cyclops; Halle Berry is grossly miscast as Storm, a character that is just badly portrayed and not terribly interesting; Bruce Davidson plays slimy politician Senator Kelly with aplomb, showing us the selfish side of prejudice; Tyler Mane makes for a great heavy as wooly thug Sabertooth; Ray Park hops about gleefully as Toad; and Rebecca Romijn-Stamos kicks butt quite well (despite not wearing what you would traditionally call "clothing") as Mystique. The script for the film is sodden with exposition, mostly because there are so many concepts from the comic to fit in to it that there's no other way to introduce them effectively (without giving this a four-hour run time, that is); for the most part, though, the characterization is right, and the dialogue is natural enough... despite a few bile-raising gems ("Do you know what happens to a toad when it's struck by lightning?"). The shot compositions are unique for a Bryan Singer film, with many more intimate close-ups than he's used before or since, and some unusual arrangements. The sound design is fantastic- so much so that I felt compelled to comment upon it- and the score is fitting and melodic, much less brassy than the later scores for X-Men movies. Despite the few misfires that keep it from being a truly great film when taken on its own, X-Men is still a fun, entertaining movie, a crowd-pleaser that raises some interesting questions (even if it never takes the time to answer them) and creates a group of interesting, unique characters (even if it doesn't have the time to properly introduce us to all of them) that we want to see more of when the film is over. While it might have mixed results at times, I think that Bryan Singer's X-Men is an experiment that can ultimately be called a success... and I know of a few million moviegoers who would have to agree with me.

That's the thing about good ideas- sometimes the timing just isn't right. Take, for example, the Flash, a television show that was at LEAST ten years ahead of its time. To better understand what I mean, just break it down to the core components: the story concerns a SUPERHERO who, for a day job, is a CRIME SCENE INVESTIGATOR. If that isn't a dynamite recipe for creative synergy, I don't know what is. Had the Flash been conceived in, say, 2003 or 2004, it would have tapped into a HUGE fan-base established by C.S.I. and the emerging superhero movie boom. Instead, it came out in 1990, trying (and failing) to ride the wave of hype generated for Tim Burton's Batman, and was ultimately felled in one season by another new program running in the same time slot: namely, the Simpsons. But the Flash, while it wasn't horrible, wasn't a perfect show, either, as is perfectly exemplified by the pilot movie that launched the series. It displays more than a few shimmers of inventiveness and creativity, and it's an entertaining way to spend two hours, but it's bogged down by a cheese factor and a lack of subtlety that crops up unexpectedly and kind of kills the mood, making it something of a mixed bag. The story concerns Barry Allen, a forensic criminologist caught in a freak lab accident (the chemicals he is working with are struck by LIGHTNING and explode in his face) who finds himself suddenly able to move with incredible speed. At first seeking a cure for his "ailment" (enlisting the aid of metabolic specialist Dr. Tina McGee), Allen decides to use his abilities to fight crime after a motorcycle gang led by a psychotic ex-cop murders his police officer-brother (in an obvious attempt to re-use the revenge theme of Batman for another superhero). Portraying our hero, Barry Allen, we have John Wesley Shipp, who plays the character as a likable everyman (despite his soap-opera good looks and rippling muscles) with a chip on his shoulder. Born into a family of cops- his dad was a cop, and his brother is a cop (well, for a while, anyway)- he has something of an inferiority complex about "only" being a police scientist, which drives him into workaholic tendencies and, eventually, vigilante activity. The problem with Shipp's Allen is that he's never really believable as a studious, intellectual scientist, mostly because he behaves so melodramatically emotional that it's difficult to see him as a rational person sometimes. As a superhero, though, he does seem to fit the bill, even if he's more stoic and angry than the Flash usually is, and the ripped musculature of his costume looks preposterously bulky on his already athletic frame (another touch of Batman- the dark, brooding hero in the sculpted muscle suit). This implausible outfit is provided for Barry by his specialist and accomplice, Tina McGee (played by Amanda Pays), a British scientist working for state-of-the-art S.T.A.R. Labs who happens to be the only person that knows of Barry's condition. Pays plays McGee as a much more believable scientist than Shipp does, even if the science she practices is more sci-fi than anything else. The two have a good, subtle chemistry, but Pays comes off as just a bit hollow in her part, despite the writer's attempts to give McGee some depth with a personal tragedy that influences how she works with Barry; it just seems like she's playing more to a British stereotype than to the idea of a real character, but she ultimately seems natural enough in the part. One character who does NOT come off naturally would have to be Michael Nader as bad guy Nicolas Pike, a scarred and grizzled ex-cop who would seem to be doing his best Stephen Seagal impression for the whole movie. The script suffers badly from the weakness of its villains- the theme of urban decay isn't really explored deeply enough to make these outcast biker-punks interesting characters, and they all play like cardboard cut-outs anyway (plus, I can't help but laugh when, in one scene, they reveal the names of two of the bikers to be "Bill" and "Steve"- badass mofos, to be sure). Other than this, though, the script is a surprisingly strong one, with good character development, interesting dialogue (despite a few patches of clichés), and a good (if occasionally wicked) sense of humor; it also introduces some fascinating concepts to the character, such as Barry's voracious appetite (he has to replace the calories burned when running with copious amounts of food) and the explanation for the suit (so that he can run without friction tearing his clothes to bits). The cinematography is kind of overly colorful sometimes, using gel-colored lights and neon to get that comic-strip look popular in the early nineties (most noticeably in Dick Tracy), but it stays classy during the character moments, and the compositions are actually pretty good for a TV movie. The effects, which cost a pretty penny at the time, modulate between the corny and the utterly fantastic (the multiple-exposures and blur effects are phenomenal, even by today's standards). The music, specifically the theme by Danny Elfman, strongly recalls the music of Batman, but with a much more adventurous streak that makes it sound quite good on its own. I can't say that the Flash was a sure-fire hit that just got shafted by a time-slot disadvantage; the pilot would never have passed muster as a feature film, and almost as often as it hits on moments of greatness, it sinks to lows of unoriginal thinking (thankfully, there are more highs than lows). But despite this, I still love the Flash as a great bit of light entertainment that had the potential to be something a lot better, even if we never saw that potential fully realized (either as a successful T.V. show or as a self-contained movie). Besides, it's a perfect fit with the superhero films of the day- Superman and Batman, that is- in its sense of fun and adventurousness, a style that has gone out of fashion in the current world of ultra-realistic, angst-ridden superheroes. It may not have been a superhero C.S.I. (and how cool might that have been?), but considering the time it was released, the Flash is a good, solid bit of fun, as a lead-in to the show or as a movie on its own; I honestly believe that the only reason it didn't stick around longer was because it just happened to show up on the wrong night at the wrong time.

Al Pacino and Robert DeNiro- two of the greatest actors of their (or any) generation, performing opposite one another for the first time on screen (the only other film that featured them both at the time, The Godfather part II, kept the two chronologically separated). That alone would probably have guaranteed interest in this film. But Heat is more than just the first time DeNiro and Pacino did a scene together, and it's more than just another run-of-the-mill cops and robbers crime thriller- this is some serious, heavy-yet-entertaining drama, which explores the more intimate notion of what it's like to live as a criminal or as a cop- lifestyles which, according to the film, are actually quite similar, in that both avocations lead to cold and distant relationships that never seem to work out... not to mention the high likelihood of getting shot while on the clock. The main characters of the film, a career criminal and the cop who's out to bring him down, are shown to be driven, intelligent men who stop at nothing to achieve their goals, who are both ruthless and cunning- they're two sides to the same coin, separated only by a minor shift in ideologies and strangely dependent on one another to justify their own existence. The film concerns Lt. Vincent Hanna, an LAPD detective who's called in to investigate a series of high-profile robberies, the work of career criminal Neil McCauley and his group of professional bank robbers. When Hanna starts to get wind of who's behind the thefts and McCauley realizes his group's been made, it becomes a tense battle of wits to see who can stay one step ahead of the other until they finally collide in an intense cat-and-mouse finale. Al Pacino plays our hero, Lt. Hanna, a man who sees the darkest side of urban life every day on the job, and as a result he erects an emotional barrier between himself and others that keeps anyone from getting to close, including his (third) wife Justine (Diane Venora) and her daughter Lauren (a fourteen-year-old Natalie Portman in her post-Léon, pre-Star Wars days). Pacino always tends to alternate between over- and underplaying his parts, and here he kind of does both, punctuating his cop dialogue with sudden, violent outbursts ("Because she's got a GREAT ASS!") and becoming a sort of larger than life (if a bit unsavory) personality while on the job, but playing the part of husband and stepfather with a less energetic, more bitter mentality; Hanna is only really alive when he's on the hunt for a criminal, but his obsessive desire to bring justice to the crimes he sees drains him of his soul, leaving him hollow and detached when he comes home to his wife and ultimately destroying his marriage. His devotion to his job is echoed powerfully by McCauley, who, played by Robert DeNiro, is a man who lives only for his profession, living by the credo that he shouldn't have anything in his life that he can't walk away from in 30 seconds or less; but when he meets a young woman named Eady and starts a relationship against his better instincts, he finds himself torn between the possibility for personal happiness and the strict code that he's set aside for himself. DeNiro brings to the part his signature charisma and intensity, crafting McCauley into a disciplined and unyielding man who is willing to kill at a moment's notice if necessary, and I would actually have to label this as the last of his really great performances before he started sliding into comedy and self-parody (well, either this or Ronin). The highlight of the film has to be the beautifully underplayed scene where Hanna and McCauley have coffee together in a small diner, talking about what they do for a living and sort of just shooting the shit. Surprisingly, they understand each other's problems and have a lot in common, and you get the idea that, were they two different people, they might have been good friends; underneath all that, though, there is a current of tension and suspense that runs through the scene as we see our hero and villain confront each other for the first time and make a respectful, civilized declaration of intent before the chaos finally erupts. Working with McCauley is Chris Shiherlis, ably portrayed by Val Kilmer. Chris needs the money from the scores he takes down to cover his bookies, which leads him to take unnecessary risks; his spouse Charlene (Ashley Judd, of all people) is sick of it, threatening to leave him and sleeping with another man behind Chris's back (Hank Azaria, of all people). For Chris, though, the sun rises and sets on her, and so he goes ahead with the big job McCauley orchestrates (despite the cops who are after them) in the hopes of squaring things at last and making up with Charlene; he represents the fears that McCauley harbors about getting involved with other people- a hardened criminal whose only vulnerable point is the woman he loves. The rest of the cast is a veritable who's-who of familiar faces: Jon Voight as McCauley's fence Nate, Tom Sizemore as accomplice Michael Cheritto, Danny Trejo as other accomplice (and aptly named) Trejo, Ted Levine as detective Bosco, William Fitchner as corrupt businessman Roger Van Zant, Kevin Gage as psycho loose-end Waingro, Henry Rollins as bodyguard Hugh Benny, Wes Studi as Detective Casals, Jeremy Piven as Dr. Bob- the list goes on and on. The script (written by director Michael Mann), while a really freaking long and complicated one, leaves no loose ends, tying the winding plot together by film's end (though it leaves a few of the resolutions intentionally ambiguous, such as what happens to Chris or whether Justine and Vincent stay together); the dialogue is crisp and authentic, never coming off as forced or clichéd (a big problem in crime films). The action is absolutely riveting, coming in a sudden, explosive crescendo after the litany of character and plot development, driving the film into high gear. While it may try the patience of some with its nearly three-hour long run time, I savored each minute of this film, taking it in like a fine wine. Heat is a brilliant film, perfectly encapsulating all that is great about crime thrillers (without resorting to using the Mafia, which I liked), bringing a star-filled cast to bear in the best way possible and creating a classic crime movie in the process. Of all the spectacular films they've ever appeared in, it's actually this one that made me really like both Pacino and DeNiro most; you have to admit, the two work well together.

Eeeeeeew. I was going to give this a better rating- I really was- until the bloodshed started. Going in, I thought to myself, "Wow! This film is really good! It's moody, atmospheric, and genuinely creepy, and the suspense that's building is really great! And hey- there's Ted Raimi!" (he has a cameo) But about halfway through the movie, the evil Candyman made his dreaded appearance, and after that, things just seemed to get really unnecessarily... sticky. I have a personal standard that I have always stuck to, and that is that I don't like horror movies with serious, gratuitous blood and gore. I don't want to see people getting skinned, or gutted, or dissected in horrible, vivid detail- that kind of stuff is more revolting than terrifying, and I much prefer a good scare to fighting back the remnants of my lunch. More than just being too gory, though, this film is just a mite bit too morbidly disturbing than I would like, bandying about concepts like infanticide and castration just a little too freely for my taste. Of course, it has other themes that are much more alluring- class discrimination, urban legends, and race relations among them- but there are so many that none of them are ever fully developed, and they're so entrenched in extreme violence that it's difficult to really get anything out of them. In the film, we have Helen Lyle, a graduate student doing research for a paper on urban legends. It is because of this research that she comes across the legend of the Candyman, a supernatural killer with a hook for a hand who appears when you speak his name into a mirror five times. Lyle, believing the tale to be simple urban folklore, accidentally summons Candyman into being, and he proceeds to go on a bloody killing spree that is soon attributed to Helen, and the only way she can stop it may be to sacrifice her own life to appease Candyman's bloodlust. Virginia Madsen is pretty decent as Lyle, a smart but slightly arrogant grad student who disregards the reality of the violence she researches and ends up in way over her head; by uncovering a gang leader who uses the Candyman name to strike fear in his enemies, she prompts doubt of Candyman's existence in the residents of Cabrini-Green, a housing project in Chicago where the legend first emerged- an affront to Candyman's power that forces him to appear and prove his existence once again. The Candyman, played with gravelly-voice menace by Tony Todd, is the cultured son of a slave, murdered for sleeping with a rich white man's daughter, who has returned from the dead with a hook for a hand and is ostensibly responsible for the daily horrors of life in the projects. The deeper reason for his reappearance, however, seems to be the resemblance of Helen to his former love, making his ultimate goals in the film even more enigmatic. The character is supposed to be somewhat sympathetic, but I don't see how I'm supposed to feel anything for the sinister, bloodthirsty Candyman, considering his continued statements of perverse, sadistic joy ("They will say I have shed innocent blood. What's blood for, if not for shedding?") in his monstrous acts of violence (give Todd credit, though, for summoning some pathos for the character near the end). Rounding out the main cast is Xander Berkeley (who you might recognize as Todd, John's foster father from Terminator 2) as Helen's dubious husband Trevor, a professor who probably is having an extramarital affair before the whole "mass-murder" business, and, upon learning of his wife's possible psychosis, drops her like a rock and starts rooming with a tasty co-ed within a month. There's actually a funny bit near the end where, after the main plot is resolved, Trevor broods moodily in his bathroom, when suddenly (just as I was thinking, "Aw, I thought for sure he was going to bite it") he meets a grisly demise- after which we see him with that same eyes-rolled-up slack expression as he had in T2. I couldn't stop laughing- the guy almost made it through a whole movie without getting slaughtered, only to get picked off as an afterthought just before the credits. The script, adapted by director Bernard Rose from a short story by Clive Barker, is interesting enough, even if, as I said before, the themes are a bit thrown-together and the ending is a bit jarring; the bizarre parallel that the screenplay draws between religion and folklore is intriguing, and also darn disturbing at times. The score, a minimalist work by the inimitable Phillip Glass, is truly chilling, even with the synth elements given a place of prominence (something about well done choir work always gets under my skin, though). Overall, I have to admit that the film has some good stuff going for it- after all, my first impressions were great, given the great urban-Gothic atmosphere the film evokes. Unfortunately, it's just to perversely violent for me to really get into (I mean, come on, just the word "flesh" makes my skin crawl in this context). I found myself really, deeply bothered by how far the movie goes- it takes horror from the realm of the cathartic (thank God we got away from that thing!) to the traumatic (oh, dear God, why did this have to happen?). Perhaps unpleasantly disturbing the audience is the goal the filmmaker was going for to begin with, and if that's the case, bravo, cause he succeeded here with flying colors; but as for me, I like to watch horror movies that DON'T scar me for life, thankyouverymuch.

Existential comedy. It sounds like a contradiction in terms, when you think about it- people contemplating the vagaries of existence hardly sounds like the makings of a laugh riot. And an existential comedy based on Hamlet, one of the most famous stage tragedies in theatre history, sounds even less feasible. But somehow, probably due to the incredible wit of writer-director Tom Stoppard and the fantastic pairing of Gary Oldman and Tim Roth, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead manages to overcome its potential shortcomings, achieving a level of philosophical sophistication that is belayed by its lighthearted sense of humor. From seemingly out of nowhere, we are greeted by two riders, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern- friends who find themselves wandering aimlessly with no memory of who exactly they are (or more specifically, which is which), where they've come from, or where they're going. Finally, they come across a rabble of traveling actors (slash prostitutes), or "Tragedians", led by a nameless Player, and shortly thereafter are stranded in the castle of Elsinore, watching as the events of the play Hamlet unfold mystifyingly around them (and trapped within the span of those events) while the Player alludes to truths that neither man can understand- that they aren't the architects of their own fate, and that they are simply bit players in a far grander story. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are a comic duo who are a lot like Laurel and Hardy, Ren and Stimpy, or, most accurately, C-3PO and R2-D2 (inconsequential characters weaving through an epic tapestry). Rosencrantz (or Guildenstern), played by Gary Oldman, is an innocent, simple character, taking simple pleasures out of his situation and never really looking past the immediate (though he often shows startling flashes of insight that catch us off guard, such as with his preponderance of death at the end of act two). He's sort of a childlike character, and the fact that Gary Oldman is able to channel that so convincingly is astonishing (especially considering the number of evil bastards he's played); he really keeps the film from getting too morbid and serious. The straight man to Oldman's clown, Guildenstern (or Rosencrantz), played by Tim Roth, is a more analytical, hot-headed guy who finds the inexplicable nature of their situation infuriating and is consistently exasperated by his more obtuse companion. While it's not as fun of a part as Rosencrantz (or Guildenstern), Roth does get some good bits as the brighter of the two wits, and all of the dramatic beats originate with him (especially by the end). The pair find themselves subject to the whims of a reality that they have no memory of or control over, forced to take their situation for granted in the hopes of finding a deeper meaning to their presence or, at least, a way out of it all. The key to this would seem to be the mysterious Player, played by Richard Dreyfuss, a burlesque character who mocks their search for truth and seems to be the orchestrator of their situation (even if he, too, is bound by his own part- or parts- in it). Dreyfuss is fun as the all-too-knowing showman whose whole existence is defined by his craft (hence his lack of a proper name), a seemingly obscene character (especially after his first scene) who is blunt and uncaring- representative, maybe, of an indifferent world. The funny thing is that the play (upon which this is based) seems to tackle the idea of "what do Rosencrantz and Guildenstern do between their scenes in Hamlet" from a sort of ironic standpoint- that what their doing between their Hamlet scenes is trying to justify their own existence until another scene crops up (in which they are suddenly playing the parts assigned to them naturally and unquestioningly). The fact that these are characters defined solely by what's been written about them makes it interesting when they become befuddled by the gaps in their information (such as who is Rosencrantz and who is Guildenstern, since, in their Hamlet scenes, they are virtually interchangeable) and question exactly where it's coming from. The script is unbelievably good, filled with machine-gun dialogue that toys with the basic structure of language with zeal and wit; it poses some heady philosophical points wedged between almost incomprehensibly fast games of Questions between our heroes. Technically speaking, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead is a simplistic film: while a lot of the film is shot on location, the sets stand out when they do appear (particularly the boat set at the end of the film) as, well, sets- the film feels enclosed at times, like it's on a soundstage. Also, the few effects that pop up are far from convincing, but then, that's probably not the point (we see during the Tragedian's faux-Hamlet performance how even the most rudimentary effects can be effective). The cinematography is pretty decent, playing very naturalistically (firelight is the only noticeable source for any non-daylight); the compositions are also decent, sticking to standard two-shots and close-ups (it's actually quite proficient, considering that this is playwright Tom Stoppard's directorial debut); editing-wise, the use of juxtaposition is excellent, especially to show the jump between performance and "reality". Overall, it's sort of a bittersweet tale, which skirts the edge of tragedy and comedy at the end, but its very premise makes it impossible to feel too disheartened when the inevitable finally happens (after all, it's in the bloody TITLE- it shouldn't come as a big surprise), because, as the film establishes, neither Rosencrantz nor Guildenstern really have a life outside of the one Shakespeare created for them, and technically they are reborn each time someone watches the play/movie- which, considering the sharp, clever humor at work here, should be quite frequently. It's a thinking person's comedy, a self-referential exploration of the nature of life and death itself. That, and it's damn funny.

This is the movie I have been waiting for since I first became a devoted film fanatic. It takes a perfect distillation of everything I love about truly great cinema (e.g. "the classics"- Godfather, A Clockwork Orange, Silence of the Lambs, etc.)- the depth of emotion, the layered plot, the thematic consistency, the dramatic intensity (ESPECIALLY the dramatic intensity)- and seamlessly fuses with it my favorite genre character of all time: the Batman. The result is the first film based on a superhero that takes itself 100% seriously, never condescending the integrity of its own premise and, in the process, creating a brilliant work of action, drama, and suspense, a crime thriller that just happens to center around a hero in a cape and cowl. As a viewing experience, it's a white-knuckle affair; there is really nothing to prepare you for how powerful this film is, from the shocking intensity of the violence to the dark tragedy of the characters. It's a film that wrings you out, keeping you breathing hard and bolted to your seat, and finally leaving you emotionally drained and, bizarrely, wishing for more. Picking up shortly after Batman Begins left off, we find Bruce Wayne diligently working to bring down the mob as the Batman, joining forces with Lieutenant James Gordon and the newly-elected District Attorney Harvey Dent to stop organized crime in Gotham City for good. Everything seems to be going to plan, until a recent rash of mafia-bank robberies brings to the attention of the mob a criminal called the Joker, a madman slathered in clown make-up who offers to rid them of the Batman once and for all. Suddenly, no one in Gotham is safe, and as the Joker's chaotic rampage through the city racks up more and more victims, Batman finds himself struggling with the moral code he's set for himself in the light of the Joker's limitless cruelty. For his second go-round as the Dark Knight, Christian Bale has got his character down pat, from the vapid playboy facade (that creates some of the lighter points of the movie) to the dark, gravelly-voiced creature that is Batman (who gets much more screen time than Wayne does, actually); but as the real Wayne, who so few are privileged to see, Bruce is deeply conflicted about his double life, torn between the desire to leave it all behind (an opportunity presented by the rising star D.A. Dent) and his need to fulfill his self-appointed mission. Things become even more complicated when the Joker turns his double identity against him, shifting public opinion against the Dark Knight and trying to force him into turning himself in. Working with Batman this time is Harvey Dent, as played by Aaron Eckhart- a public crusader for justice who personifies the hope for a better future in Gotham City. Harvey is a truly good, decent man, trying his best to do the right thing in the mire of corruption and politics, but unfortunately he still is just a man, and every man has a breaking point; Dent goes through a major character arc through the course of the film, one that twists his ideals against themselves and transforms him into a tragic, all-too-plausible monster, and Eckhart plays the descent into darkness phenomenally. The third man of our trio of heroes in this film is Gary Oldman, back for round two as Lieutenant James Gordon. This time, his skills as an actor are put to much better use, as Gordon has much more to do here than before: he is a father, a friend, a cop, and a man of action in this film, and especially near the end his character is put through the wringer, but Oldman delivers like he always does. And then, there's the Joker. There really aren't enough good things I can say about the late Heath Ledger's turn as the Clown Prince of Crime- he IS the Joker. He manages to craft a completely unpredictable character, one that is both amazingly scary and surprisingly funny at the same time (as perfectly captured early on in the film: "How about a magic trick?"). A self-described engine of chaos, everything about him is chaotic, from his often violent actions and statements (he describes several different scenarios for how he acquired his scars, investing himself intensely into each one) to his facial tics and mannerisms; Ledger disappears completely into the role, so much so that it's hard to connect the tragedy of Ledger's death to the character when you're actually watching him (which is both a great relief for the audience and a hell of a compliment to his performance, when you think about it). Even though he has the least screen time of all the principal leads, his presence looms over the entirety of the film (kind of like Thomas Wayne's in Batman Begins, but much more potently), creating a disorienting sense that absolutely ANYONE can die at any moment. As for the rest of the cast, they are all expanded upon from the previous film, and they are ALL fantastic: Michael Caine's Alfred has the unenviable task of keeping Bruce's spirit intact through the pain he's subjected to, Morgan Freeman's Lucias Fox faces up to an ethical dilemma of his own when Batman's quest to fight crime pushes past the boundaries of basic human rights, and Maggie Gyllenhaal, infinitely more pleasant as Rachel Dawes than Katie Holmes was, is stuck in a love triangle between childhood friend Bruce and the handsome, likable Dent. The script is tight and powerful, despite the film's long run time; there is not a single scene that could have been left out, and the intricate plot that's constructed is incredibly elaborate, thematically rich, and deeply engrossing. The character work and dialogue is fantastic: the dramatic highlight of the film would probably have to be the interrogation room scene between Batman and the Joker, in which we learn a lot about the Joker's twisted ideology and his perceived connection with Batman. The action this time around is astonishing, too; Christopher Nolan, apparently tired of complaints about the shooting style of the fight sequences in Batman Begins, now shoots simple, straightforward angles of the energetically choreographed clashes, making them much more effective. The stunt work and effects are blazingly good, keeping C.G. use to a minimum to maintain maximum believability (they flipped a semi truck. For real. Even seeing it in the trailer doesn't diminish the awe inspired by that moment). The cinematography trades the golden hues of Begins for colder blue tones, which creates a bleak landscape for our heroes to fight in; the music, by Hans Zimmer and James Newton Howard, is electrifying, conjuring the twisted darkness of the Joker while holding true to the heroism of Batman and Dent. All around, the Dark Knight is a quantum leap forward from its predecessor (described aptly by some as the Godfather II of superhero films); Christopher Nolan has really stepped up his game with this one, creating for the first time a rich, deeply layered cinematic experience that centers around a superhero, albeit one that's as flawed and human as any other film protagonist. This is the first superhero film that could rightly be categorized as an achievement in film as an art form, and not simply a commercial venture, and I hope that it gets the recognition that it deserves. Frankly, my only real concern is with how Nolan is going to top it, especially without Ledger around to conjure his magically sinister Clown Prince of Crime anymore (there is no way they can recast that role), but even if this were to be the last Batman film ever produced, I think it would be a hell of a good way to go out. Ultimately, this movie is everything I've ever wanted in a film- it's as simple as that. "Why so serious?"

Meditations on the inevitability of death and the unfathomable implacability of evil. Sounds like a barrel of fun, now doesn't it? Too often in cinema, we are treated to stories that are about beating the odds- characters who overcome circumstances that are seemingly insurmountable, felling adversaries that are next to unstoppable, and who walk away with nary a scratch to live happily ever after. It's strangely gratifying to see an exception made to this storytelling tradition: a film that acknowledges that there are harsh truths in life, not the least of which is the powerlessness of the individual will in the face of impending, certain doom. It's not a movie about beating death and the evil that causes it, but rather facing up to that unfeeling, unreasoning force, and seeing how different people deal with it and react to it. As is everything the Cohens have ever done, it is a fantastic character piece, even managing to spin some honest, realistic humor out of the different people involved and how they interact with each other (which this film desperately needed, given the weight of the material) while simultaneously crafting a seriously disturbing villain whose deranged actions are belied by his calm, relaxed (if exceptionally creepy) manner. The plot is fairly conventional: trailer-park resident Llewelyn Moss stumbles upon a botched drug deal while hunting on the plains of Texas, discovering a satchel that contains two million dollars in cash. Moss takes the money and goes on the run, but is relentlessly pursued by the Mexican drug-runners who were behind the deal and a psychopathic killer who uses a pressurized air canister as a weapon. Trailing behind both of them is Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, a lawman in his autumn years who's seen a lot of misery and suffering in his time, but finds himself completely unprepared for the way the world has become. As Llewelyn Moss, Josh Brolin is a tough but likable kind of guy, a country boy with just a touch of smart-ass to him. Llewelyn is a capable man, certainly- he served two tours of duty in the Vietnam War, so he knows his way around a gun and basic tactical situations- but he's also just an ordinary guy caught in the middle of a situation he doesn't fully comprehend, trying to get away with significantly more than just his own skin; Brolin's performance gets us to root for Llewelyn, even though we know that, looking at things logically, he has no reasonable hope of getting through the coming ordeal in one piece. Another, lesser film might have vindicated that non-existent hope against the sheer inevitability of his predicament, like so many other thrillers have before it, so it really gets your attention when the Cohens allow his character arc to come to the most realistic conclusion possible. Hot on Llewelyn's trail is perhaps one of the most villainously evil characters in film history: Anton Chigurh, as played by Javier Bardem. Chigurh is something of a mystery, his introduction at the beginning of the film (his arrest for a crime that is never mentioned and his subsequent, violent escape) setting the tone for the character while never explaining who he is or where he came from; his allegiances are never really clear- if they aren't non-existent, that is (he tends to kill pretty much everyone, no matter who they're working for)- though his aims are crystal. What makes Chigurh so disturbingly evil isn't just the atrocities that he commits, but the laid back, detached air with which he commits them, and the total lack of empathy or conscience that he displays afterwards (a recurring motif is how he tries to make sure he never gets blood on his shoes, seemingly more out of concern for the shoes than anything, which is really subtly chilling). The film is really entirely hinged on this character, who (or rather what) he is and how others interact with him, and Bardem gives the character a perverse life that makes him both fascinating and terrifying to watch at the same time. Rounding out the principle cast is Tommy Lee Jones as Sheriff Ed Tom Bell, a weathered country cop who's trying his best to get to Llewelyn before Chigurh does. Bell is even more of a cowboy than Llewelyn is (but then, almost every guy in the film wears a cowboy hat at least, with the notable exception of Chigurh), but he's basically from a bygone era, ill-equipped to deal with the kind of horrors that the world presents him with and ultimately ineffective against the crushing tide of darkness that he's sworn to battle. Jones gives a spectacular performance here as a man who's lost faith in his own calling, dispirited by everything that he's dealt with and forced to accept the inevitability of death- both his own and that of others. As usual, the Cohens fill out the supporting cast with a gaggle of brilliant character actors; the one who stands out most to me is Kelly Macdonald as Carla Jean Moss, Llewelyn's strangely childlike, innocently naive wife. The two of them- Llewelyn and Carla Jean- have a sassy, easygoing chemistry, and through their banter we see a truly loving relationship between the two. She has one wonderful scene right at the end of the movie that sort of sums up the film's whole theme- the collision of innocent people with incomprehensible evil- and she just pops as a nice Southern girl who's completely in the dark about what's going on. The script is tight and naturalistic, drawing you in with sudden, shocking violence and then investing you with sharp characterization and blazing dialogue (Roger Ebert and I agree that the scene in the Texaco station is absolutely masterful, and yet, ultimately, nothing actually happens in it. Can you imagine how hard it is to write something like that?); having never read the book, I can't honestly say how much of the film's impact stems from the work of the author, but I can say with certainty that the adapted script packs quite a punch. The shots are visually compelling, making use of the vast emptiness of the desert the contrast of light and dark brilliantly; the cinematography only emphasizes this, giving us a dusty yellow color palette that evokes thoughts of desolation and decay. The score- that is, what little score there is- is also naturalistic, forgoing melody in favor of simplicity and ambiance, working heavily with wooden percussion instruments and shakers. Many people claim that No Country for Old Men is the return of the Cohens to greatness. Truthfully, I couldn't say as much for myself, because I skipped out on most of their lamented recent works (though I did get an eyeful of the Ladykillers, and boy, do I wish I hadn't), but I will say that this is absolutely the Cohens in top form, reaching the brilliant heights of Fargo and then, dare I say, surpassing them easily. This is definitely the best film of 2007 (but it's not as if Spider-Man 3 was giving it a run for its money), and the best Cohen release I have ever seen (I'll always have a soft spot for Raising Arizona, though). A must-see.

Bad bad BAD bad bad f%$#ing movie. Just very, very bad, this is. Not bad as in good, even, but bad as in HORRIBLE. If you were to watch this without knowing who Arnold Schwarzenegger is... well, you wouldn't, because you'd have better sense than to watch a piece of crap like this without the added incentive of seeing a world-famous action star engage in a wrestling match with a stunt man in a bear costume. And you know what? Even THAT'S not enough reason to watch this. The "plot" concerns the demigod Hercules, who is sick of hanging around Olympus and wants to go to Earth again... for some reason. He gets down there and meets a weasley friend who sells pretzels named Pretzi (of course) and a cute girl who finds his psychotic babbling about Greek gods charming and oh my GOD I can't even get through the damn plot recap. Arnold's accent in this film was so bad that the producers opted to do a voice-over track (which sounds about as believable as Jackie Chan being dubbed by Greg Kinnear), and having seen the version with the original, Arnold audio track, I gotta say... I can pride myself in being able to understand most any accent, but Arnold is absolutely unintelligible sometimes. He says "deity", I hear "diet". He says "insolence", I hear a string of vowels and consonants that I have never heard work in concert before. I always suspected that Arnold only really worked well when he was working with James Cameron, but DAMN- this performance gives bad acting a bad name. And it's not just him (of course)- EVERYONE in this film is crap. The characters are all cartoony cut-outs, and they're played by some of the worst actors I've ever had the chance to see in action. The film reeks of a lack of money (if they used sets, they surely didn't pay more than $20 to put them together, but I'm convinced they shot the whole thing in their apartments when they aren't spending all their time in Central Park)- I can't believe they let these guys shoot in Times Square, even in the middle of a Sunday morning (as I imagine it would have had to have been, since there are hardly any cars on the road...). It's shot on poor film stock, with cheesy lighting, using flat, uninteresting angles- it looks like a seventies T.V. movie, or a G-rated porn film. The action is laughable, the plot is non-existent (I haven't even mentioned the racketeers or the whole pro-wrestling thing); the best set pieces- Hercules going through Times Square and the fight with a brown bear- were done better on the Incredible Hulk television show, for God's sake. The music is repetitive and annoying- the same lute theme is played over and over and OVER AGAIN. It's just... so... AAAARRGGH! I... I can't keep talking about this travesty of a movie. I like Arnold Schwarzenegger, but not nearly enough to make me EVER want to see this film again. It was a waste of ninety minutes of my life, ninety minutes that I will never, ever get back. I should have stopped watching this after the first five, but dammit, the only movie I've ever taken out before finishing was Attack of the Killer Tomatoes, and I wasn't certain that it was that bad... until now. It's too late for me, but it's not too late for you. Heed my words! Save your ninety minutes! DON'T WATCH THIS FILM!

This has to be the most perfect example of pure Hollywood filmmaking I have ever laid eyes on- which is appropriate, considering it's set in L.A. during the height of the studio system's reign. It's got everything that Hollywood cinema does best: action, romance, mystery, suspense, twists, turns, and it even wraps up with a perfect Hollywood ending. At the same time, however, it pokes holes into the glamourous vision of Hollywood of the 50's by creating a theme of illusion versus reality that really drives the film on to the next level of cinema, transforming what could have been a simple (and much shorter) cop thriller into a truly great film. A neo-noir set in the L.A. of mid-1950's, the film follows three very different police officers- Lieutenant Edmund Exley, Officer Bud White, and Sergeant Jack Vincennes- as they try to solve a series of crimes (a massacre at a late-night diner being the catalyst for it all) that appear simple on the surface, but start raising disturbing questions the further each man digs. As bodies start to pile up and the coincidences start to mount suspiciously, the officers are forced to work together as they draw precariously close to uncovering a massive criminal conspiracy: someone is out to take control of a power vacuum left by the arrest of L.A.'s greatest crime lord, and they're not above the murder of criminals and cops alike to reach achieve aims. Intriguingly, this film introduced not one, but two new faces to American cinema that have since gone on to garner more that a fair share of notoriety. Guy Pierce plays Det. Lieutenant Ed Exley, a straight-arrow, by-the-books cop whose rigid, idealistic code of morality leaves little room for the grey areas that are part of enforcing the law in a city like L.A. Exley is trying to follow in the footsteps of his father as an honest cop, but his natural tendencies towards politics and manipulating the system make him very unpopular, very quickly; Pierce plays Exley as incredibly sharp and rather bookish, a man whose clear, sheltered view of right and wrong is questioned by the situations that he finds himself in and the facts he is presented with, and who struggles to figure out what exactly is the right thing to do. Also making his Hollywood debut in this film is Russell Crowe as Exley's opposite number, Officer Bud White. White is portrayed at first as a thug whose own simplistic ethical code doesn't preclude abusing his authority to punish the guilty, and whose powerful hatred of women abusers drives him into fits of rage. As the film progresses, though, White is fleshed out by his affair with a prostitute who manages to draw out his humanity, and in time he is shown to be just as analytical and sharp as Exley, despite frequently being ruled by his emotions. This must be the most complex role in the film (or possibly the second most complex, but I'll get to that later), and Crowe is masterful here, building a number of layers in his brutish anti-hero and imbuing him with a great, powerful reality (it's no wonder he went from a relative unknown to the cream of the Hollywood crop in just a few short years). Rounding out the big three is good ol' Kevin Spacey as Sergeant Jack Vincennes, the coolest cop in the whole L.A.P.D. Taking a page from the Frank Sinatra playbook, Jack is a slick dresser and a cool customer, parleying his gig as creative consultant on the T.V. cop drama "Badge of Honor" (a pastiche/homage to "Dragnet") into local celebrity and bolstering his reputation with set-up busts provided by a local tabloid news-hound (Danny DeVito as slimy, double-crossing Sid Hudgens, a role he was born to play [kinda like his turn as the Penguin, but less disgusting]). Soon, however, Jack is having a crisis of conscience, as he realizes that the money and fame that he's garnered as a high-profile dope-buster has undermined his very soul, leaving him hollow and, ultimately, seeking redemption for one big mistake; Kevin Spacey is always a joy to watch, and here he stretches his "cool" muscles like crazy before succumbing to the moral ambiguity that has enveloped his character's life. Finally, in a surprisingly rich performance, we have Kim Basinger (who, prior to this, I had ONLY seen in Batman and, for a brief bit, Wayne's World 2) as Lynn Bracken, a high-class hooker involved in a prostitution ring that promises girls who look like movie stars (she bears a strong resemblance to Veronica Lake). At first, she seems like something of a vamp (and a dame who's nothing but trouble, for sure), but soon Bracken ends up getting involved romantically with Bud White, and suddenly we see a vulnerable side to this woman that had been absent before; Kim Basinger does an incredible job in this, the other extremely complex role in the film, and she earned her Oscar for supporting actress without a doubt. The plot is extraordinarily dense, starting with a free-for-all brawl in the holding area of a police station and branching off into seemingly random directions until, near the end, the plot comes into sharp focus and the threads all come together. It's great that the film is so clearly a neo-noir (with its imperfect characters, ambiguous morals, and intricate plotting), yet it ends on an up note, unlike most other films of the genre. The script itself is impeccably written, with crisp dialogue, fantastic characterization, and good pacing; Curtis Hanson's direction really gives it a life of its own, though, throwing in period stylistic elements (such as old propaganda-like footage of life in California, which really helps to set the tone of the movie and provide a powerful contrast with the events of the story) and utilizing unusual narrative elements (such as Sid Hudgens' voice-over narration) to surprisingly good effect. The cinematography helps to emphasize this contrast with bright, cheery colors and lots of light that act in direct opposition to the traditional noir style. The music, provided by the inimitable Jerry Goldsmith, is underplayed here, bolstering the dramatic impact of the film without overwhelming it (something that Goldsmith has been known to do, from time to time)- the tone is set more by the soundtrack, which is loaded with jazzy, upbeat period numbers that further emphasize the themes of the film. It's a shame this had to be released the same year as Titanic- I think one of the major contributing factors to how overlooked this film has become is the fact that it didn't win any of the headlining Oscars (Best Picture, Best Actor). Any other year, I think it could have won (it certainly deserved to), but Titanic kind of steamrolled the competition in 1998 (some would say without justification). Regardless of this fact, L.A. Confidential is a brilliant piece of moviemaking, easily one of the best films of the nineties, and a sharp, clever mystery that keeps you on your toes until the very end (even while you're stuck on the edge of your seat during the action sequences). If it's slipped under your radar (and I could see how it might have- this movie doesn't get NEARLY enough respect), I recommend you watch it immediately; it's an example of everything that's good about Hollywood movies, without any of the excess, oversimplification, or commercialization that we associate with major motion pictures these days. I guess it took a film about Hollywood itself to bring out the best in it. Kinda says something about the place, doesn't it?

It's funny how movies that you used to love as a child can suddenly seem so very different when viewed through the lens of adulthood. Take, for instance, True Lies. When I was a kid I LOVED this movie- I first saw it when I was about twelve, and it stuck with me for a long time. I hadn't seen it for a little more than a year until, just recently, I got a copy and popped it in on a lark. Now, I love James Cameron movies- Terminator 2 is one of my favorite films of all time- but watching True Lies, one of my favorite Cameron films before, I was struck by how... different it seemed. If I had to put it into specific terms, I'd say this was James Cameron doing his best Michael Bay impression: the film's action is ridiculously over-the-top, the characters have little to no regard for human life, and the violence is always punctuated by tasteless humor. Add to this that the film's theme of terrorism and covert government operations is pretty touchy material these days, especially considering the stereotyped Arab villains used in the movie, and you have a film that is suddenly not as carelessly entertaining as it was before. Not to say that it isn't still fun- it IS James Cameron, after all, and his worst Michael Bay impression is still infinitely better than the real deal any day of the week- but it's the kind of fun that requires you to check your brain at the door. In the film, Arnold Schwarzenegger plays Harry Tasker, a secret agent for the black ops government agency Omega Sector. Tasker is also a husband and a father, but neither his wife Helen nor daughter Dana know what he actually does for a living, and his job (and the lies he tells to cover his tracks) often interferes with his personal relationships. When Harry learns that Helen might be cheating on him, he uses his resources at the agency to follow her and try to find out what's really going on- but with a terrorist organization known as the Crimson Jihad (led by terrorist mastermind Salim Abu Aziz) plotting to bring nuclear weapons onto American soil, things threaten to become even more complicated for him as he has to find the balance between his job and his life and, ultimately, decide whether he can lie to his wife any longer. Schwarzenegger, playing a sort of American James Bond (and isn't it funny that there's never been an American James Bond that stuck?), is in fine form as Harry Tasker, once again proving that he really works best as an actor when paired with James Cameron. The film plays to his strengths- the comedy is structured mainly around his power to intimidate and his action-hero image, and he works surprisingly well as a husband and father (especially one that bores the hell out of his own family). Playing his wife Helen is Jaime Lee Curtis, channeling the mousy secretary vibe preternaturally well; her character gets put into a lot of extreme situations, so it's really quite astounding that she holds on to her foundation of naiveté for the whole movie (which does result in some groan-inducing moments). And yes, she does have a somewhat out of character sexy dance number near the end of the film, but hey- I'M not complaining. Filling out the principal cast is Tom Arnold as buddy cop/comic relief Albert "Gib" Gibson, a roll that I maintain is the best Tom Arnold has ever- and will ever- play (but that's not saying much...). The rest of the cast is great, of course: Tia Carrere plays a good psuedo-Bond girl as the sexy femme fatale antiquities dealer (?) Juno Skinner, Art Malik reinforces the notion of the skinny evil mastermind with the giant head as diabolical terrorist Aziz, and Bill Paxton plays a role that Cameron HAD to have written for him (more than likely as a joke on him)- the sleazy used-car salesman Simon, who tries to bed Helen by convincing her that he is (coincidentally) a super-spy. Oh, and a young Eliza Dushku plays Dana, Harry and Helen's daughter, a character of absolutely no importance whatsoever until the last few minutes of the movie. The script is slick and witty, poking fun from time to time at action films and spy stories without compromising the integrity of the world it creates; at the same time, it's also rooted in a very black-and-white, good-guy-bad-guy mentality that just reeks of American arrogance circa the early 90's, which, for me, was a little distracting. Beyond that, though, the script is very clever, and the action set pieces are spectacular- in fact, I'd say they're a little TOO spectacular, sometimes. Sure, we've all seen Schwarzenegger shoot his way through legions of adversaries before, but once he starts using a Harrier jet to take them out in a skyscraper whilst simultaneously trying to save his daughter, who just HAPPENS to be suspended above the city streets on a construction catwalk with the main villain... well, then, it gets a little hard to swallow. The cinematography is crisp and clear- Cameron's knack for heavy blues and yellows comes through again- and the score by Brad Fiedel is similar to T2, but with some jazzy saxophone work and much more heroic overtures. Overall, I'd say that True Lies is still a fun film for me to watch- the Bill Paxton stuff alone makes it worthwhile- even if I can't get as much fun out of it now as I used to. The trade-off is that all of the relationship stuff is a lot more interesting to me than it once was- the scenes with Schwarzenegger and Curtis, especially after she discovers his secret, are still incredibly funny. If you can look past the themes (which at the time seemed a lot more harmless, I'm sure) and the plethora of unlikely situations (the terrorists take DANA as a hostage when they have a friggin' nuclear bomb set to kill everyone in the city? And somehow they get all the way to her home- from the Florida Keys- kidnap her, and drag her to an abandoned building in a matter of- what, one hour?) to the exaggerated action spectacle and the great comedy work that makes up the movie, I guarantee you'll find True Lies a hell of an entertaining movie. It may not be James Cameron's best, but hey- it's still James Cameron.

There are two kinds of really, really good movies: the kind that are made so by the director, and the kind that are made so by the performances. This is unequivocally the latter. Not that its direction is without merit- of course the movie wouldn't work if there were an incompetent behind the lens- but unlike, say, Alfred Hitchcock, the thing that Elia Kazan is known for is being an actor's director, a guy who can coax the best work possible out of even the most brilliant- or difficult- actors (both categories which unquestionably include the film's star, Marlon Brando). And here, Kazan is front-loaded with talent, all of them newly-minted Method actors who could bring genuine emotion and drama to the events on-screen- a radical departure from the stilted melodramatics employed in cinema (for the most part) beforehand. Add to this a fantastic screenplay by Bud Schulberg and a jazzy, sinister score by Leonard Bernstein, and you get one of the genuine classics of American cinema, a film that stands up to repeated viewings and still packs a punch every time you see it. Based on a series of articles about crime on the New York waterfront in the late 1940's, the film concerns Terry Malloy, a dock worker and former prize-fighter whose relationship to brother Charlie "the Gent" Malloy, an officer in the corrupt dock worker's union run by a thug named Johnny Friendly, ensures him steady, easy work at the shipyard. When Terry unknowingly sets up another young man to be killed before he can testify to the Waterfront Commission, however, his conscience begins to nag at him, especially once he begins seeing- and falling for- the dead man's sister, Edie. Her dedication to finding the men who killed her brother, coupled with the efforts of a Catholic minister who vainly tries to rouse the dockworkers from their ingrained policy of being D&D (deaf and dumb) to the wrongdoings on the docks, forces Terry to take a hard look at his life and his friends, and finally he decides to do the right thing- even if it means losing the respect of everyone he knows. Headlining the film, of course, is Marlon Brando, hot off his success from Kazan's film adaptation of A Streetcar Named Desire, as conflicted protagonist Terry Malloy, a decent guy who just happens to be friends with the wrong people. Malloy is ultimately trying to do what he feels is the right thing, but in the world he lives in, it's more honorable not to rat out your "friends" than it is to turn a criminal over to the justice system, and it's only when he sees the depth of the corruption on the Waterfront (to the point where his own brother threatens to shoot him) that he starts to get his priorities in order. Brando's naturalistic performance creates a lot of weird little moments of mundane realism (his fidgeting with Edie's glove being one of the most renowned examples) which really serve to ground the film and the character; Malloy is a believable average joe whose actions and mannerisms don't always have concise objectives, and who kind of muddles his words a little bit when he's talking (save during his big speech at the start of act three- you know the one I'm talking about). Playing opposite him is Eva Marie Saint, in her first film role, as Edie Doyle, the sister of the murdered dockworker and the loudest voice of conscience for Terry. Edie, having lived a sheltered life in a private Catholic school, is an innocent, naive girl who is shocked to see just how poor the conditions are at the docks, and is confounded by the workers' refusal to step forward and tell the truth about them. Her decent, straightforward nature intrigues Terry (who believes that everyone has an angle), but her continued attempts to find those responsible for her brother's death are torturous for him. Saint, also being a Method actor, brings a lot of pathos to the young woman, whose desperation and grief are far more believable than you might expect. As for the villain of the story, union leader Johnny Friendly, he's played by none other that Lee J. Cobb, the biggest A-hole-character actor in black and white pictures (just look at 12 Angry Men). Friendly is sort of an uncle figure to Terry, having known him since he was a kid and treated him well enough... but he's also exploitative, demeaning, and violent, traits that Terry can see but chooses to ignore on the basis of their "friendship". Ordering the death of Terry when the merest possibility of him snitching comes to light, the ironically-named Friendly is shown to be cold, ruthless, and motivated solely by greed (of course, his most prominent bit of dialogue is the word, "Gimme!")- basically, a standard cinema bad guy (albeit a great one), no gray areas here. The gray areas come in with Terry's brother Charlie, played by Rod Steiger. Charlie, in some ways, is just as greedy and manipulative as Friendly, but at the same time, he actually cares about his brother, and sees himself as taking care of his brother. Steiger plays the character as street wise (for the time) and somewhat condescending to Terry, and his conflicted loyalties between his brother and his outfit come to a head in a certain famous scene in the back of a taxicab (a scene which he doesn't get much credit for being in, incidentally). The script is very keen, making some good use of symbolism (the dead man's jacket, in particular) and building up sharp characterizations for the actors to work with (this is, after all, very much a character piece). The lighting is very dramatic with its use of contrasts- heavy shadow and bright lights, very film noir; Kazan lays out some really great shot compositions, such as the static camera shot at the mouth of the alley as Terry and Edie are chased down by a truck, or the lolling P.O.V. shot at the end as Terry walks to the dock entrance (and really, who was doing P.O.V. back in the fifties?). The score by Leonard Bernstein is brassy and jazzy, kinda like something from a nightclub, setting an interesting dark, urban tone for the film. As a whole, On the Waterfront is a great morality tale, featuring deftly rendered characters brought to life by some of the best of Hollywood's performers from the time. Brando gets all the credit, sure, but if he hadn't been surrounded by a fantastic set of actors- Saint, Cobb, Steiger, and Karl Malden, just to name a few of the many- and directed by such a skillful filmmaker, the movie couldn't possibly have been the classic that it ended up becoming. One of the best, without a doubt.

There are some movies that are bad because the people making the film are incompetent, or the studio interferes with the creative intent of the film, or any number of other reasons that boil down to a miscalculation on the part of the creators. Then, there are the movies that I would swear to God were DESIGNED to be pieces of crap from their very inception- as if the director and producers thought that "bad movies" were simply another genre to be conquered, and set out to make the best one of all. Troma makes movies like that. Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer make movies like that. And waaayy back in 1989, Sylvester Stallone and Kurt Russell starred in a movie like that- a movie called Tango and Cash. Directed by the inimitable Andrei Konchalovsky (and come on, we all know who that is, right?), Tango and Cash is a story about two rival L.A. cops- Raymond "Ray" Tango and Gabriel "Gabe" Cash- who are both the best at their job, but are complete opposites and will have nothing to do with each other. When a diabolical gang lord arranges to take them out of the picture by framing them for drug-running and murder, however, the two unlikely pals must join forces to clear their names, first by breaking out of prison and then by shooting their way through an army of henchmen to get to the guy behind everything- all while avoiding the cops, who are after them because they're, you know, escaped convicts. Along the way, Gabe gets friendly with Ray's showgirl sister, and the two of them visit a police gadget wizard to get their hands on a monstrous S.U.V. with machine guns and a roll bar. Hilarity ensues. Is this plot sounding paper thin to you, too? Well, it should. This movie is like a perfect blend of every cliché to ever appear in a buddy cop movie- a neapolitan crap milkshake, if you will. To get a good idea of just how far off the mark this movie is, just consider the fact that for some unknowable reason, out of the two cops, they cast Sylvester Stallone as the smart one. Not to insult Stallone personally or anything, but his onscreen persona has never been terribly eloquent or intellectual, so casting him as the slick, erudite, yuppie crime-buster Tango comes off as nothing less than mind-blowingly ludicrous. To emphasize his intellect, of course, he wears glasses- this is the depth of the character work done for the film. But as a contrast to the casting of Stallone against type (okay, WAY against type), we also get Kurt Russell playing... Kurt Russell! That's right, as the street-wise, jeans-and-T-shirt, plays-by-his-own-rules Cash, Russell is as egotistical and smart-aleck-y as he is in every other movie he's in (save the "Escape" movies), and his legendary mullet is displayed in all its glory. There is one attempt at stretching Russell's predictable character a bit, though, but since it involves him in drag, I consider it more of a point against than for. I will give the filmmakers some props for featuring future Lois Lane Teri Hatcher in her first notable screen role as Ray's sister, the showgirl-slash-drummer (?) Kiki Tango (which has got to be one of the worst names in film history); the part is really just damsel-in-distress eye candy, even if they do make her an independent biker-chick masseuse (??), so it only goes so far to save the movie. The finishing blow to the film's credibility comes from the ridiculously hammy performance of Jack Palance as Yves Perret (what is with these names?), the drug kingpin who wants Tango and Cash out of the way... permanently (because apparently they are the only two cops on the entire force that do much of anything). Now, Palance was always a little over-the-top in his movies, but this is just ridiculous. He speaks in a husky whisper at all times, drawing out his "s"s and chuckling sinisterly, and in one particularly memorable scene he has two mice, which he can't resist referring to as Tango and Cash, which he's holding while he's talking about sending the real people to prison, and at the end he just has to illustrate his point by locking his two mice into a glass maze, grinning diabolically as he does it. I would actually recommend watching this movie just to see how incredibly bad and utterly hilarious this scene is. In fact, I would say that the whole movie has to be seen to be believed, from the "Tango shooting a semi-truck with a snub-nosed .38" scene that opens the film ("He thinks he's Rambo.") to the demolition-derby climax with the S.U.V. and the moment when the bad guys activate a self-destruct mechanism WHILE THEY'RE STILL IN THE BUILDING just before the big, final confrontation with the heroes. The dialogue is filled with lame jokes and banter that is just plain annoying; if there was a script, then the screenwriter ought to be ashamed (and I know he was, 'cause he only wrote two movies after this- one was a Van Damme vehicle, the other an Eddie Murphy cop movie). The music is overbearing and filled with psuedo-rock (but hey, this was the guy who did Beverly Hills Cop, so I can't fault him; I LOVE "Axel F."); the lighting is by turns too melodramatic and too plain, and more often than not is completely illogical (don't you hate those nights where the sky is just filled with bright blue light?). Tango and Cash is almost a parody of an action film, using the tried-and-true genre devices of cop films to the point of absurdity. Everything is overdone: the humor, the villainy, the action- subtlety is nowhere to be found in this film. And I can't help but wonder after watching this: did the director KNOW how bad this movie really was while he was making it? Or was he somehow convinced that he was making the next great action-comedy? Either way, if you have a couple of hours to kill, and you want to spend them watching a movie that's so bad it's funny (except for when it's TRYING to be funny, in which case it's just bad), look no further.

Stephen King, David Cronenberg, AND Christopher Walken, all in one movie- you would think this would be right up my alley, and frankly, you'd be right. The only problem is that usually, Stephen King and cinema are like infants and carving knives- they just don't go well together. Almost every film adaptation of a Stephen King novel has been a disappointment in one way or another. Just look at the Shining: the book was genuinely thrilling and spooky, while the movie was... significantly less so (I love Jack Nicholson like anyone else, but even he couldn't save that mess). Frankly, the best ones are the ones based on his short stories, where the writer and director can take his core concepts and run with them, instead of having to hammer all the material of the book into a ninety-minute framework. The film that I think suffers most from this compression problem would have to be the Dead Zone. The book has a narrative that spans decades, yet the film's running time is only 103 minutes, so a lot of the plot development seems rushed to me (probably because I loved the book). Then again, while it does have its choppy bits, the Dead Zone also has some moments of real greatness, thanks in no small part to the efforts of Cronenberg and Walken; they take what could have been just another B-movie thriller and make it genuinely chilling and honestly affecting. The film concerns the conspicuously-inconspicuously named Johnny Smith, a schoolteacher and an all-around nice guy who's just getting into a relationship with a fellow teacher, Sarah. On his way back from a date, however, Johnny is in a major accident that puts him into a coma for five years; when he awakens, Sarah is long since married, his muscles have atrophied, forcing him to walk with a cane, and he develops an unstable psychic ability that manifests whenever he touches someone. At first feeling alienated and embittered by his lost time and his newfound power, Johnny soon realizes that he can use his ability to help change the future- a realization that presents a horrible dilemma when Johnny shakes the hand of a psychotic politician bent on reaching the White House. As Johnny Smith, the affable teacher whose life gets shot to shit virtually overnight (to him, at least), we have Christopher Walken, who brings to the part brooding despair, simmering anger, and soul-crushing guilt, all with that patented Walken touch (and those patented Walken speech patterns). It's cool to see a film from back in the days when Walken was actually a really good actor, and not just a pastiche of himself (kinda like William Shatner and Adam West are now); this is definitely one of his better dramatic roles, loaded with pathos and powerful moral dilemma without losing the lighthearted personal moments that keep things from getting too dark (he pretty much carries the movie by himself). I think it's funny that, as a teacher early in the film, he has fairly normal hair- short with bangs- and when he comes out and his powers develop, his hair starts standing up the way Walken's always does, which is actually pretty funny- apparently, Walken's normal hair is used as a symbol for his transformation into a freak. Playing opposite Walken is Brooke Adams as Sarah Bracknell, Johnny's great love who's moved on and settled down without, him but still has feelings for him. The part is pretty truncated, all things considered, and Adams isn't exactly a high-caliber actress, but she holds up well in the role, and the character and emotional beats all work. And as for the villain, Martin Sheen hams things up as the insane political candidate Greg Stillson, a character that is fairly extravagant from the get-go (an insane politician? That's a recipe for overacting if I've ever heard one) and which gets pushed right over the edge by Sheen's overbearing performance. The character is sort of a borderline evangelical rabble-rouser, a guy who gets elected because he can stir the passions of large groups of people (you know, like Adolph Hitler did); sometimes, however, the depths of his evil are so hilariously over-the-top that you can't help but laugh (especially when he grabs a little kid to shield himself from a sniper- I mean, COME ON!). What really holds it all together is David Cronenberg's direction, the way he brings tension and suspense to the scenes; I know he's known for his violence and gore, but in this one he keeps that to a minimum, instead playing on the audience's anticipation of violence and gore to keep us on the edge of our seats (such as in that scene with the scissors... You know what I'm talking about). Also incredibly helpful is the way Smith's psychic flashes are portrayed, with us seeing him thrust violently into the past or the present and becoming a part of what he sees- the moment when he finds himself in a burning building, his covers on fire, is especially good. The score by Michael Kamen ties everything together beautifully, with a soft, underplayed theme that builds slowly into a tragic crescendo. You know, maybe Stephen King's films aren't ALL bad- they're just sort of hit-and-miss. After all, Misery is a classic, and Cujo is great... Stand By Me was fantastic- hell, the Shawshank Redemption is one of the best movies ever made, in my opinion. And while the Dead Zone may not rank up there with the greatest films of our time, I think it's safe to say that it falls on the "good" side of the Stephen King spectrum, even if it seems that David Cronenberg crunched it down a bit to make it play more like his kind of movie. The Dead Zone is my favorite King book, and one of my favorite Cronenberg movies- note, however, that the terms are mutually exclusive.

Every superhero's gotta have an arch enemy. In the comics, the Flash has always had a phenomenal assortment of costumed sociopaths ready to do battle with him at a moment's notice (especially in recent years), but none of them every really stood out as the yin to his yang, the oil to his water, the Al Pacino to his Robert DeNiro (well, except for the Reverse-Flash, but that one always felt like sort of a cop out to me). So when the ratings were flagging on NBC's ridiculously expensive T.V. adaptation of the Flash, the creators set out to save the show by taking one of their hero's more... ehhh... JESTER-like enemies and transforming him into a full-fledged nemesis. The ploy might not have worked- in fact, it DIDN'T work in the end (the show tanked after one season), but dramatically speaking, it might not have worked at all if not for the producers' one magical (re-)discovery: Mark Hamill. You see, while Hamill made his mark as a naive young farm-boy-turned-intergalactic-knight in the Star Wars films, he was so typecast because of the role's popularity that it took a good fifteen years before anyone discovered that Hamill had some acting range, after all. Turns out, Mark Hamill is surprisingly good at playing over-the-top giggling psychotics, as he proves amply as the titular villain of the movie, the Trickster. The "film"- actually two episodes of the television show spliced together as a continuing narrative- features Barry Allen, a.k.a. the Flash, getting back together with private investigator and former flame Megan Lockhart after rescuing here from the clutches of a madman. Said madman, one James Jesse, is a homicidal role-player with a truckload of aliases who, after nearly sawing her in half with a chainsaw, develops a psychotic fixation with Lockhart, conjuring a new, twisted personality to cater to his delusional fantasies; now calling himself the Trickster, Jesse sets out to destroy the Flash in order to rescue his love Megan, whom he sees as his sidekick, Prank, from the speedster's "hypnotic powers". John Wesley Shipp returns as the Flash, this time more often than not playing the straight man to Hamill's clown; Shipp still tends to get over-dramatic when his character is supposed to be emotional (hey, working on soap operas will do that to you), but the tendency towards excess seemed to be dying down as the show progressed; who knows? He might have achieved subtlety had the show gone on longer. Of particular interest, though, is the character change he goes through in the second half, when the Trickster brainwashes him; now no longer playing a stiff, Shipp gets to have some fun as a cartoon-y bad guy with super-speed, which makes for some pretty funny moments- even if it is completely implausible and out-of-character. And then... there's Mark Hamill, as the Trickster. The character is campy, sinister, and loony at the same time, and somehow Hamill makes that work. The guy is a walking cartoon, with an extreme face that's set off by his absolutely bizarre (and initially poorly thought-out) outfit, and his delivery is over-the-top in all the right places. And his laugh! Mein Gott, he has the most perfect insane laughter I have ever heard, and he has it down to a science! I never would have guessed that Mark Hamill could be so funny, but he really makes the comedy in the movie work, even though it's not exactly gut-busting material he's working with. In fact, any value that can be derived from this movie is thanks almost entirely to him (which is probably why I like this better than the first Flash movie)- he steals the whole show. Sure, they made a bad call dressing him in a unitard in the first episode (Spandex without thick undergarments is a BAD IDEA), but the fact that you only really notice that, like, once or twice, says a lot about his performance, but I digress. There ARE other characters in the movie- Megan Lockhart, for one, as played by Joyce Hyser (you may remember her from the eighties teen comedy Just One of the Guys... then again, you may not); she's a hard-boiled private detective who knows that Barry is the Flash, and as such, she's tough, capable, and still completely unable to save herself from Mark Hamill (of all people). Hyser is pretty good in the rather shallow part: the victim to the Trickster's stalker and the loner who doesn't like to be tied down; she also has pretty good chemistry with Shipp, so their on-again, off-again relationship is actually borderline interesting. Also on the sidelines for the film is Amanda Pays as Barry's faithful British sidekick Dr. Tina McGee, the Alfred to his Batman (albeit with a weird sexual tension that thankfully isn't present in the aforementioned relationship). In this movie, McGee is part of an ill-defined love-triangle with Barry and Megan, one that is forced into resolution when Megan and Tina have to work together to find Barry. Other than that, she's just a convenient excuse for expository dialogue- AGAIN. The script is filled with funny bits and some interesting gimmicks, but falls prey to rushed characterization and clunky dialogue (the inevitable stumbling-point of all television shows); it's fun, but there's no real substance to it (despite failed attempts at substance). The set-ups are meh for the first half, and actually pretty fun for the second, with a lot of camera movement and a sustained shot at the beginning making things interesting (especially good is the last shot with the Trickster, which uses expressionist camera movement to draw us in almost against our will). The lighting is sometimes film quality, and sometimes just a step below (what the obsession was with using primary-colored neon lights to insinuate comic books in the early nineties, I will never know). The score is by Shirley Walker, whose ability to come up with simple, catchy themes never ceases to amaze me (her Trickster theme is especially infectious, even though you really can't hum it). What's really cool about the Flash II is that, unlike its predecessor, it doesn't take itself too seriously, allowing it to go from a bad "movie" that's just painful to watch to a bad "movie" whose faults actually make the whole thing more enjoyable. Sure, some of the jokes misfire, and sure, sometimes the heroic stuff gets cheesier than a quesadilla, but as long as you're willing to suspend your sense of good taste long enough to get through it, you'll find plenty of great little moments that make the whole viewing experience worthwhile. And seriously, Mark Hamill is a blast to watch in this movie- so much so, that he would ultimately parley the experience (and his maniacal, zany delivery) into a continuing voice-acting gig playing the greatest criminal trickster of all, the Joker (a role he's been doing, on and off, for a good ten or fifteen years- and STILL nobody does it better). So the Flash T.V. show may have bombed in the end... but at least it wasn't all in vain!

Redford shoots- he scores! (more to come)

Stanley Kubrick, you bastard. You took the best, most chilling work of Stephen King's entire oeuvre and, through your detatched camera style and flat color palette, reduced it to a nearly two-and-a-half hour case study of mood. I've never been much of a fan of the works of Stanley Kubrick (I think Eyes Wide Shut kind of got me started on the wrong foot), and I'll admit that my earliest impressions of this, his adaptation of the Shining, weren't informed by an appreciation of the workings of his style; but while the Shining does have a spooky atmosphere (bolstered by the discordant, atonal music and a great deal of sound editing) and it even makes good use of jarring visual jumps in place of the unusual narrative play of the novel, it is also filled with long stretches of dullness, distracting camera work, and excessive overacting. Ultimately, it never goes beyond the realm of unsettling and into the realm of terrifying. The film is about Jack Torrence, a former teacher and aspiring writer who is hired on as a live-in caretaker for the massive Overlook Hotel, a mountain retreat nestled high in the Rockies. Along with his wife Wendy and young son Danny, Jack moves into the hotel for the whole of winter, secluded from any contact with another human being by twenty-five miles of snowed-in highway. But the Overlook has a dark history, and that darkness lingers in its corridors, waiting to be discovered; slowly Jack succumbs to its allure, slipping closer and closer to madness, until the last hope for the splintering family may rest with Danny's special gift- a psychic ability to see into the past... and the future. Front and center of this production is Jack Nicholson as Jack Torrence, loving husband and father turned axe-wielding psycho; Nicholson famously raises over-acting to an art form with this wild, often animalistic performance. I find it disconcerting that the character is presented here as irredeemable and acerbic even before his exposure to the hotel; it seems to me that Jack Torrence never really was a decent person- the hotel just brings out the worst in him at full-force. Further strengthening this impression is Shelley Long's performance as Wendy Torrence, a template for a battered wife if there ever was one, who slowly slides from her standard mousy nervousness into screaming, bug-eyed hysteria through the course of the film. I can't really blame her for going as far as she does- Kubrick's disconnected visual style demands compensation from its actors for the coldness of its frame- but near the end of the film it sort of twists into a sick joke as the story tosses one overplayed horror after another at her, forcing her to keep reacting even as she starts running out of steam. Stuck between the two of them is Danny, played by a strikingly unemotive Danny Lloyd, who, despite moments of believable terror, is about as flat of a child actor as they come, speaking in disinterested monotone even during the more dramatic scenes and forced to do an "evil voice" (while wiggling his finger in time with his words, of course) to play his ominous imaginary friend in a way that we can see and hear. I guess he does okay, considering his age, but the character sort of takes me out of the film at times. Even weirder at times is the portrayal of Dick Halloran, as played by Scatman Crothers, who bounces between avuncular nice guy and black-man stereotype more than once during the film. I know it's just part of the construction of his character, but it's just damn bizarre to see the camera pull back from a close-up of him in his bed to squeeze a portrait of a naked black woman with an afro into the frame behind him. Is that necessary? I guess it tells you something about his character, but it seemed more like a joke than an actual bit of relevant storytelling. Other than that, though, Scatman does just fine as Halloran, with the wee exception of getting an AXE IN THE STOMACH just when he bursts in to save the day (in the book, the same thing happens, but with a croquette mallet instead of an axe, and he manages to help the remaining Torrences escape). The score is minimalist and kind of extreme when it actually kicks in, playing off the themes from Psycho a bit when the horror kicks up. The lighting is cold and dull, I guess emphasizing the coldness of the hotel and its surroundings, and as I mentions before, the shots are all still and objective, framing the tiny figures of the characters within the immensity of the hotel to make them seem more fragile (despite a few moments where a ridiculously quick zoom or pan is used, which always looks cheap and corny, like a remnant of seventies television). The editing does have its moments, particularly during Danny's visions, which are presented as soundless jump-cuts to shots of abject horror. Overall, if you are willing to accept the film on its own terms, there is a lot to be had from this movie, and I'll admit that I enjoy it more now that I know where its distinctive style is coming from than I did when I simply took it at face value. It's nothing like the book it's based on, unfortunately- King and Kubrick constructed their tales on diametrically opposed premises, with King advocating the presence of real ghosts in the Overlook while Kubrick saw them more as a manifestation of the growing psychosis and abusiveness of Jack Torrence, a physical realization of cabin fever and insanity- but as an entity unto itself, the Shining is a great work of cinematic ingenuity... even if it is a little overdone.

Buckaroo Banzai: neurosurgeon, particle physics engineer, martial arts master, rock and roll star, consultant to the President, and head of the influential Banzai Institute. Has there ever been a cooler character to appear on the silver screen? While it is true that the eponymous lead of the film is a fantastic bit of comical exaggeration, and that many of the characters surrounding him are just as strange and uniquely interesting, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eight Dimension suffers from a serious, fatal flaw: it literally does not have anything resembling a coherent plot. The funny thing about this is that, at first, this is a great asset; the film is at its best at the beginning, when crazy concepts are tossed about with wild abandon, a random melange of wackiness with no form or structure to it. The problems come when the bizarre mish-mash of ideas thrust upon the screen finally do resolve themselves towards a specific dramatic destination; its as if the film becomes lackluster and uninteresting BECAUSE of its attempts to pull itself together into something more lucid, rather than in spite of this. The story, such as it is, begins when Banzai and his crew of scientists and engineers construct a jet-car that, through the use of a lazer channeling energy through the ingenious device called an Oscillation Overthruster, pierces the barrier between our world and the Eighth Dimension, a formless, electric limbo. Banzai soon discovers that he has inadvertantly opened a doorway for the malevolent Red Lectroids, an alien race from Planet Ten who are imprisoned in the dimension and whose remaining agents, led by Dr. Emilio Lizardo (alias John Whorfin), a scientist possessed by a Lectroid during an initial experiment with the 8th dimension, need the Overthruster to free their comrades and return to Planet Ten to rule over the benevolent Black Lectroids. In response, the Black Lectroids present Banzai with an ultimatum: stop the Red Lectroids from succeeding, or the Black Lectroids will instigate World War III. Or something like that. Leading the charge against this indecipherable onslaught of insanity is Peter Weller as the good Dr. Banzai himself, a man so immersed in the bizarre that he regards everything with cool scientific objectivity, no matter how outlandish it may be. Weller is the grounding force for the movie, the straight man to the plot's clown, even though his character is just as extreme as any other in the film; combining bits of a tweed-wearing professor with a rock-and-roll star, he projects an air of cool confidence that never goes too over-the-top- though it does go just over-the-top enough to fit into the movie (only Peter Weller could deliver a line like "Oh... the deuce, you say" without sounding like a moron). On the other side of the spectrum, you get John Lithgow going completely nutty as Dr. Emilio Lizardo, a scientist possessed by the interdimensional alien John Whorfin. With a preposterous accent, ghoulish appearance, and perpetually hunching, sinister gait, Lithgow plays the villain-as-cartoon, the zany bad guy stereotype who's more a bungler than a threat to anyone. Lithgow claimed to be going for a Dr. Caligari, silent-film presence with the character, and he does well with the operatic-ness (is that a word?) of the guy, which, on the screen, just makes him funnier. The rest of the cast, which includes Clancy Brown, Jeff Goldblum, and Christopher Lloyd, are pretty much just along for the ride, as the plot zig-zags in bizarre directions, from the revelation that Orson Welles' broadcast on Halloween 1938 was, in fact, real, to the discovery of sinister Red Lectroid sleeper agents at a press conference (with the accompanying dialogue "THERE! EVIL PURE AND SIMPLE BY WAY OF THE EIGHTH DIMENSION!"). The special effects are pretty decent by the standards of the time (a lot of lightning effects pepper the film), though I think the spaceship models were intentionally made to look fake- and if so, bravo; the fact is, the plot stretches credibility so much that feasable special effects are completely unnecessary- it's SUPPOSED to look stupid (though I can't help but think that Banzai's rock-star get-up was actually supposed to be cool at the time). The music is... painfully bad. Synthesizers were never my thing, and this movie is rife with them; I always thought they served to lessen the dramatic impact of music rather than enhance it. Sure, the joke is that the music is supposed to be "futuristic", but come on, they could have done better than that. The fact is, The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the Eighth Dimension is kind of a mixed bag, with its uniquely dry sense of humor sometimes working marvelously and other times falling flat on its face (the original opening being a sterling example of the latter). Still, it is an immensly enjoyable trek through the depths of science fictional absurdity, one that merrily pokes fun at all the pretentions and cliches of the genre while playing the whole thing straight throughout. It ultimatlely comes across as the most bizarre, over-the-top sci-fi movie serial you've ever seen, kind of an anti-Star Wars. It may take some getting used to, but there's a quirky, hilarious film here, made just for the kind of high-brow sci-fi fans who may have forgotten just how absurd this genre really is.

Never before has a film stirred such deep emotion in me. Of course, the emotion in question was mainly disgust, loathing, and repulsion, but the sentiment remains nonetheless (and yes, if you like this movie, prepare to hate me). Gone With the Wind really demands to be evaluated on two levels: the production quality, which, given the time the film was made, is absolutely, unquestionably phenomenal (bravo to the cinematographer, art director, costumer, and composer Max Steiner), and the narrative itself, which I found so utterly infuriating (and often unintentionally funny) that I marvelled at the sterling reputation this film has, both as a whistful fantasy and as a testament to a proud society long since vanished. For God's sake, the thing plays like a gussied-up remake of Birth of a Nation, but saddled with a narrative about a spoiled, manipulative, conceited bitch who goes through husbands like Kleenex while nursing an infatuation with her saintly best friend's spouse. The character and thematic overtones of this picture are, well, sickening to me, even more so when I consider how it's prettied-up for ready, unquestioning consumption by a movie-going audience- it was clearly designed to cater to the desperate fantasies of Depression-era filmgoers, what with the themes of overcoming poverty with wonderous, opulent wealth. The movie isn't 100% bad, mind you (there are quite a few funny and entertaining moments scattered throughout the film, and the performances, if a bit overwrought, are all spot-on), but ultimately it operates under the same romantic assumption- that slaves were content and treated well, and that the South was a peaceful Wonderland until the meddling Yankees destroyed everything- that, when dealt with directly, made D.W. Griffith's earlier film so objectionable to so many people. The story concerns young Southern belle Scarlett O'Hara, the daughter of a well-off plantation owner (an Irish one who dresses conspicuously like a leprechaun) who is in love (supposedly) with Southern gentleman Ashley Wilkes. When Wilkes decides to marry one of her closest friends on the eve of the Civil War, Scarlett decides to try to win him back by... marrying someone else. And when Someone Else is K.I.A. on the front lines, Scarlett is forced to move all the way to Atlanta just to attend a party where her carefree dancing and socializing won't crush the charred tatters of her reputation as a lady. Cutting through all of this is Rhett Butler, a vulgar but charming pragmatist whose knowing derision of Scarlett's childish ways engenders a hate in her that lasts most of the film (until, of course, they inevitably marry in Act Three). The plot goes on for quite a while, so to make a long story short: the war breaks out, the South is losing, Atlanta burns to the ground, Scarlett goes home to find it ransacked by Yankees, the war ends, Scarlett marries twice more (first her sister's boyfriend/fiancee[!], then Rhett) but still loves Ashley, Ashley's wife dies, Scarlett realizes her love for Rhett, Rhett walks out, "tomorrow is another day!" There's more, but I just... don't... care. At the heart of the picture is the enchanting Vivian Leigh as the impetuous Scarlett O'Hara. Her initial childish exhuberance makes her likable at first, and keeps her so long past when she sensibly should be, but the character's willful manipulations and disregard for other people forge a persona with seemingly no redeeming characteristics, save perhaps a romantic loyalty that keeps her from falling for the right man until the wrong one finally confirms that he never really loved her at all (in the last bloody act, of course). The character gets more and more dislikable as the film goes, pushing her through the hardship of poverty and transforming her into a greedy, materialistic weasle with no principles and no empathy (her last two marriages are both for money); were Leigh not such a beautiful, charismatic actress, the film may well have fallen apart under the weight of this one, horrible character. Balancing out the equation, however, is Clark Gable as the rakish scoundrel Rhett Butler, who I swear to God is the Han Solo of the Civil War- a mercenary blockade runner working for the Rebellion for profit (eh? Eh?). Rhett is uninterested in the pretensions of the Old South, seeing beyond their assumptions of superiority and victory to their inevitable downfall; seeing through Scarlett's delusions of ladyhood to the cunning, cold-blooded creature that she really is... and loving her for it. Rhett is something of a cynical realist, but with a smirking sense of humor- a roll that Gable slides effortlessly in to (he was apparently the unanimous choice for the roll amongst the novel's fans). The only thing about Rhett is that he's quite a flagrant mysogynist, forcing his kisses on Scarlett and ultimately drunkenly raping her (AFTER they're married, of course, so it's okay), but overall, Gable is the life of the party, oftentimes laughing seemingly at the movie itself. The rest of the supporting cast is too monumental to cover entirely, so I'll just say this: Ashley (Leslie Howard) is a bit of a stiff; Melanie (Olivia deHavilland) is so ridiculously pure-hearted that she should very well have been canonized: Mammie (Hattie McDaniel) was, perplexingly, the lowest-key of the racial stereotype characters (which may have been why they gave her the BEST SUPPORTING ACTRESS OSCAR); Gerald O'Hara (Thomas Mitchell), Scarlett's father, dressed like a freaking leprechaun; and Prissy (Butterfly McQueen) IS Jar-Jar Binks. The cinematography is, of course, bright and vibrantly colorful, lending even the darkest spectacles a splash of pigment through the magic of Technicolor (hooray!). Story-wise, there's no denying the epic sweep of this thing, crossing the span of the Civil War and the first years of the Reconstruction easily as the years pass within minutes, throwing its characters into the midst of massive chaos and destruction. Structurally, the script is sound, even if it does tend to ramble and wax melodramatic (likely the result of continuous rewrites, even during shooting), but the setting and the temperment of the characters just aren't relatable. In the beginning, we see a group of aristocratic Southern dandies who turn giddy at the very though of war; later, we are expected to mourn for the loss of their opulent lifestyle following the loss of the war they were so eager to jump into. The writers seem to have no concept of responsibility and consequences- or, more accurately, they belabor the point of illustrating these concepts to ridiculous lengths. And don't get me started on the slavery/carpetbagger issue. The fact is, Gone With The Wind is a big, giant, overdone, hollow spectacle of a film, a relic of a generation of filmmakers who gave little thought to the subtext and meaning of their films as they churned them out under the lash of the all-powerful producers. You could well say that the system that produced this juggernaut, like the gentlemen and ladies of the South that it depicts, is also gone with the wind, driven to extinction by the same arrogance, greed, and impetuousness that destroyed the Old South once and for all. When I watched this film, I didn't mourn for the loss of their way of life, because I saw the people who were bred by it- people whose feelings of entitlement and superiority ultimately turned them all into monsters (except, of course, the angelically-perfect Melinda, who merely becomes a doormat). I see Scarlett O'Hara as the perfect metaphor for this film: stunning and vibrant on the outside, but cold and cruel at heart. Sorry, but that's just not my cup of tea.

One of the big drawbacks to the concept of the remake has always been the prospect of spoiling what was great about the original movie to begin with, killing that rarified mystique truly classic films acquire by adding a trendy new soundtrack or over-doing it on the special effects. What excited me about this remake, though, is that the original films- the basis for this whole thing- were, well, crap. I've always maintained that a remake of an initially bad film- something with maybe a kernel of a good idea that was buried under a cheesy script, bad direction, and/or porno-calibre acting- could only turn out better than its predecessor, if for no other reason than that the new filmmakers could see what didn't work in the original movie and fix it, or find what could have worked better and tinker with it until it does. In the case of Friday the 13th, the original films created a very workable horror formula that, over the course of ten films, they proceeded to grind out obtusely and obviously with no real style or craftsmanship. What the remake manages to bring to the table is the one element missing from the entire preceding franchise: good presentation. While it follows the same basic formula as all the other Fridays, this one doesn't telegraph its intentions to the audience, nor does it feel as hastily pieced-together and by-the-numbers. Most astonishingly of all, however, is that this is the first Friday the 13th movie that scared me- I mean, it REALLY scared me! The film's look is more ominous and creepy, the scares are more shocking and violent, and the new Jason is like a whirlwind of carnage and death (who for once is as fast as he is strong, maniacally charging after people with what looks like a two foot long machette in his hands). Adding to the effect is the fact that the teenage characters, while still written as paper-thin stereotypes, are played by decent actors for a change, which makes them more relatable and adds significantly to the shock value when they start dying horrible, gruesome deaths. Taking its cue from the first three Fridays, the film opens with a flashback to the death of Pamela Voorhees (the end of the original film), then jumps forward twenty-plus years to show us a burlap sack-wearing Jason (a la part II) massacre a small party of teenage campers in quick succession. The story proper starts when a group of vacationing teenagers, headed to a house by the lake, crosses paths with Clay, the brother of one of the girls we saw Jason... deal with earlier, who's trying to find his missing sister. Ultimately Clay stumbles across Jason, now wearing a hockey mask (see parts III through X), and joins forces with the newly-targeted teens in a fight for survival. As I mentioned, the actors are a step up from previous entries in the series, even if Jared Padalecki does seem like a bit of a stereotype riding around on a motorcycle with his leather jacket and razor stubble, and yes, this even extends to Derek Meers as Jason, who not only plays the most fierce and frightening Jason the series has ever seen, but also manages to convey that yes, there are wheels turning behind that hockey mask... sick, malevolent wheels, but wheels nonetheless. The teenagers this time around are also unusually likable, especially Aaron Yoo's pothead and Arlen Escarpeta's easily offended black rapper, both of whom were so funny that I was disappointed to see them inevitably bite the big one. The special effects makeup in this film are extraordinarily real-looking... either that, or the more shadow-heavy cinematography lends it a realism that it wouldn't have under brighter lights, but either way, the effect is the same: gut-churning. The script is pretty decent for a Friday the 13th film, the characters thankfully not as mind-numbingly stupid as they may have been in previous installments; that being said, it still follows the Friday formula to the letter, including a rather astonishing degree of female nudity that is certainly gratuitous... but not entirely unappreciated (well, except perhaps for the topless surfer girl- that just seemed kinda pointless). While remakes of films like Halloween and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre can't avoid running afowl of comparisons to their vintage namesakes because the originals were the product of unique, creative filmmakers whose original works were inexorably linked to them and their style, Friday the 13th (like the Fly before it) can only benefit from similar comparisons. The old films, while they had a decent concept and a firm grasp of what would be scary on the big screen, just didn't have the money or the talent pool to follow through on what they promised to the audience; in an ironic twist, the slick bells and whistles that critics blame for compromising the integrity of other remakes have only added to what people like about Friday the 13th in the first place. This is one of the very few remakes that is actually better (far, FAR better) than the film(s) it's based on: a fun, scary ride of a film that's perfect to see on a Saturday night with a bunch of friends. And really, how long has it been since we've had one of those? I'd say... twenty-nine years or so. And it's about time they did it right.

Adaptations are always tricky. When a book gets adapted into a movie, there's usually a lot of material- good, solid storytelling- that has to be cut (or altered) from the source narrative to make the story work as a movie. Sometimes this works out fine- such as with the Godfather, the Lord of the Rings trilogy, and Jurassic Park- and sometimes it doesn't go so smoothly- see The DaVinci Code, Lord of the Flies, or the Bonfire of the Vanities. In the case of Watchmen, adapted from the epic graphic novel by Alan Moore and Dave Gibbons, director Zack Snyder faced the task of taking one of the most intricate, complex, lengthy comic book tales ever written (one considered to be "unfilmable" by previous filmmakers) and pairing it down to a reasonably long, commercially viable film without watering down the weighty philospohical heart of the story or, worse still, alienating the hundreds of thousands of fans who want to see nothing less that absolute, unwavering fidelity to the book. Amazingly, I believe Snyder has has accomplished these tasks to an extraordinary degree, and furthermore, he brings a specific style to the film (a flourish, if you will) that makes the film unmistakably his without steamrolling over the tone of the original... too much. Certainly more explicit than the graphic novel, the movie plays to Snyder's strengths (action, violence, suspense, slow-motion), thus coming off as a sort of Americanized version of the more intellectual, philosophical, detatched (Dave Gibbons' distanced, matter-of-fact illustrations and moving-camera perspectives remind one of a Stanley Kubrick film) British tale (Alan Moore being a Brit). It's not a perfect film; there are times when the dialogue feels forced and expository, and certain elements of the story go unexplained (such as Ozymandias' genetically-engineered lynx Bubastis), but as a whole, Watchmen is an excellent adaptation of the book, and a great movie on its own. Set in an alternate 1985 in which superheroes, having been a reality for more than forty years, have totally changed the course of history and brought mankind to the brink of World War III, Watchmen begins with the murder of Edward Blake, a.k.a. the Comedian, a superhero working for the government. Suspecting that Blake's death is just the first in a campaign against costumed heroes, the vigilante Rorschach begins hunting down leads and warning the few remaining heroes- retired crimefighter Dan Driedberg (Nite-Owl), multimillionaire industrialist Adrian Veidt (Ozymandias), indestructible superbeing Dr. Manhattan and his girlfriend, Laurie Jupiter (Silk Spectre)- that they may well be next on the hitman's agenda. But as the circumstances surrounding Blake's death come to light and the mystery deepens, the question becomes: what is the ultimate goal of these attacks? And will anyone be able to stop it? Leading the cast of relatively unknown actors is Jackie Earle Haley as Rorschach, a street-level crimefighter whose extreme methods have made him an outcast even among fellow superheroes. Haley dives headfirst into the role, bringing a slightly more human dimension to the grungy misfit while maintaining his polarizing, black-and-white attitudes towards morality and justice. Haley has the unenviable task of having to act through a full face-mask for most of the picture (during most of which Rorschach is a mysterious, aloof character whose journal reads like something out of Taxi Driver), and he does an admirable job of projecting through it with his voice and body language, but it's when the mask comes off that the character comes to full, ferocious life. Rorschach eventually joins forces with Nite-Owl (played by Patrick Wilson), a retired hero who's having trouble adjusting to his civilian life. Wilson is fantastic in the role, conveying Driedberg's feelings of vulnerability and uselessness in the face of Armaggedon while still being a formidable figure physically (despite his pale, doughy appearance). Driedberg pines for Malin Akerman's character, Silk Spectre, the crux of a love triangle between nice guy Dan and a certain omniscient superbeing; she's not portrayed as quite so horribly damaged of a person as she is in the book, and the result is that the character loses some of her bite, becoming a bit more like superhero eye-candy than a complicated character (but quite effective eye-candy, at least). Another kind of eye-candy comes in the form of Dr. Manhattan, a walking special-effects extravaganza played phenomenally by Billy Crudup. I couldn't say enough for this performance: Manhattan is a veritable god walking among men, and his detached, emotionless delivery gives us an immediate understanding of a "man" no longer moved by the petty affairs of human beings. On the other end of the spectrum, Adrian Veidt cares perhaps too much for the fate of humanity. Supposedly the world's smartest man, Veidt, played by Matthew Goode, is a humanitarian searching for long-term solutions to the ills that beset modern civilization, whose coolly arrogant demeanour only hints at the calculating ruthlessness he is capable of in pursuit of the greater good. But of course the catalyst of the film's plot is the Comedian, an ironic symbol of America's pursuit of power and a sterling example of the fascist potential of superheroes as secret police, accountable to no one ("Who Watches the Watchmen?"). The Comedian is probably the most straightforward character in the book, a malicious scumbag who enjoys hurting people and has little respect for anything, let alone human life; nevertheless he has layers that come to light as the story unfolds, and that slight, almost nonexistant humanity is hinted at perfectly by Jeffery Dean Morgan, who somehow makes this twisted human being strangely likable, like a beligerant uncle that you wouldn't mind sharing a beer with sometimes. The script is about as tight as it could have gotten and stayed coherant, keeping all the major dramatic beats of the book and condensing as little as possible while keeping up the pace of the story and making certain parts more... cinematic, shall we say. Snyder doesn't try to perfectly duplicate the comic panels- at least, not all the time- an his tendancy to emphasize the drama of the story over the philosophy make the transition from page to screen run pretty smoothly (even if his action sequences are a bit ostentatious, considering that none of the characters other than Manhattan have superpowers). The film maintains the graphic novel's preference for secondary colors- purple, orange, and green are rampant- and the world is shown to be a dark, grimy place, no matter how colorfully lit it is. The movie makes use of some truly unorthodox musical choices, going with period accurate music to emphasize the timeline- ergo we are treated to Jimi Hendrix, Bob Dylan, and a number of great artists of the past (the song "Unforgettable" is used to amazing effect to underscore a fight scene, as strange as that sounds). Okay, let's face it, Alan Moore's works have rarely been translated to celluloid with any measure of success. For every V for Vendetta or Constantine, there's a From Hell, League of Extraordinary Gentlemen, and Swamp Thing, so for Watchmen to have arrived as anything other than a catastrophic failure is a victory unto itself. What we should judge the film on isn't it's inability to perfectly duplicate the complexity of the book, but rather the degree to which it was able to translate the themes and characters of the book into a completely new, more inhibiting medium, and how entertaining and thought-provoking it proves to be in and of itself. While it's not as revolutionary a superhero movie as the Dark Knight proved to be, Watchmen stands on its own as an involving, uncompromising neo-noir, a character study populated by great actors and look into the past as seen through the looking glass, different yet the same. So much for "unfilmable".

High school movies, for the most part, never convey the feeling of what high school is really like. They tend to present an exaggerated view of what teenagers might wish it was like: a constant explosion of high-spirited activity, with big plotlines that are neatly resolved before graduation and clearly defined groups that all the characters fit unquestioningly in to. But as many of the damn things as I've watched (it's like they churn these things out like candy bars), I'd never seen a movie that captured what it was like for me to go to high school- the aimless freedom, the formless melancoly, the fun of just hanging out with your friends without necessarily doing anything- until I saw Dazed and Confused. Similar to American Graffiti in its recreation of the teen culture of a bygone era (yet different in that it refusues to see this era through the rose-colored lens of nostalgia), and similar to Fast Times at Ridgemont High in its frank depiction of this culture's actions and perceptions (yet different in that it places no more moral significance on these actions than the characters do themselves) Dazed and Confused is a guided tour through one day in the life of a group of teenagers living in a small town in Texas circa 1976- that day being the last day of school, and the first night of summer. The film opens with next year's seniors preparing for the traditional hazing of next year's freshmen- a series of humiliating and degrading rites of passage for the girls, a swift, painful paddling for the boys. After we see the carnage play out and the sun go down, the teens start crusing the town's main drag, searching vainly for something to do after the pplans for a big party at a senior's house fall apart due to parental intervention. Finally, the film culminates with a new party forming at the rural "moon tower", one that doesn't break up until near dawn. Looking solely at its plot (or lack thereof), you may think that there's not much to this film; but the ultimate driving force behind the movie is the characters, not the plot, and one of Dazed and Confused's greatest strengths is the diverse and energetic ensemble cast composed entirely of unknowns, many of whom would go on to great success later in their acting careers. (more to come)

Alright, embarassing confession time: I have always been a Star Trek fan. Be warned, my review may be a bit biased. It's not like I've ever recited Shakespeare in Klingon or dressed as an Andorian for Halloween, but when it came to the big two sci-fi properties, I was always more of a Trek guy than a Star Wars guy. Of course, the movies weren't quite on the same level as Lucas', I had to admit- the first Trek was a bloated mess, and Khan, while fantastic, wasn't as cinematic as Empire; and after First Contact, my favorite of the old films (I liked TNG), the quality took a sharp decline that it never came back from. Like everyone else, I got tired of it. Star Trek had gotten old, and it was time to move on to greener pastures (Serenity being a personal favorite). But leave it to J.J. Abrams to take what might have been the final, pitious gasp of a dying franchise and turn it into something fresh, new, and exciting, taking the very elements that had made the Star Wars films great (before Lucas lost his touch) and blending them brilliantly with the best of Trek to create something unique and interesting. Vibrant, visceral, and intense, Star Trek is a fantastic jolt of summer escapism, with a refreshingly upbeat aesthetic and a spirit of adventure that harkens back to Star Wars and Raiders of the Lost Ark- a spirit absent from the cineplex in recent years, but is starting to come back with films like this and Transformers. Set in a utopian future of space travel and interplanetary harmony, the film revolves around Cadet James T. Kirk and Commander Spock, two men born on different worlds whose lives are ultimately fated to collide. When the USS Enterprise ships out from Earth to answer a distress call from the planet Vulcan, the crew confronts a threat that can destroy entire planets: a starship from the future captained by a man with a vendetta against the entire Federation, and with an unusual connection to both Spock and Kirk. Now with millions of lives at stake, the brash, impetuous Kirk and the coldly logical Spock must find a way to work together to avert impending disaster and save Earth from annihilation. Actor Chris Pine plays James T. Kirk, the one character in the film who least resembles his T.V. counterpart (which is not a bad thing). Kirk is young and arrogant, but he's also smart, courageous, and self-assured; he has all the makings of a great man, but he sorely needs experience and seasoning. Playing opposite him is Zachary Quinto as Spock, a half-human, half-Vulcan commander whose unwavering adherance to logic is sometimes compromised by his conflicting human feelings. Quinto is an excellent Spock, playing him as much more subtly emotional than Leonard Nimoy portrayed him and thus making him a more dramatically interesting character. The rest of the cast, however, should be given their due credit: Karl Urban is amazingly good as surly Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy (forcing me to re-evaluate my opinion of him as an actor), John Cho brings some ass-kicking skill to Lieutenant Hikaru Sulu, Anton Yelchin is immensely likable and full of energy as Ensign Pavel Chekhov (that accent is absolutely spot-on, even if it is absurd), Zoe Saldana brings drive and an edge of firey independence to Lt. Nyota Uhura (even if it is sort of out of left field when she starts a romantic entanglement... WITH SPOCK), Simon Pegg is bloody brilliant as Lt. Commander Montgomery "Scotty" Scott (who arrives late in the film but makes a great impression), Bruce Greenwood makes a father figure out of Captain Christopher Pike (but a cool father figure- you know, the kind you wish your father was like), and Eric Bana alternates between chewing scenery and getting bizarrely casual with his enemies as the villainous Captain Nero (probably my favorite line in the film is his breezy greeting to Capt. Pike: "Hi, Christopher. I'm Nero."). Oh, and Leonard Nimoy makes an appearance as Spock-Prime, the Spock from Nero's future who helps Kirk out of a bind in the second act. He is, as usual, the only guy who could play Spock... other than Zachary Quinto. The script is clever and charming, giving fans plenty of winks (Kirk's dating an Orion girl!) without alienating any newcomers to the franchise. Thanks to the time-travel-centric plot, the film is both a prequel AND a reboot, altering the timeline to suggest the possibility of all-new adventures with the original Enterprise crew without negating the original series. Hooray! The special effects are astonishing, from the sleek exteriors of the brand-new Enterprise as it glides through space before blasting into warp speed to the dizzying orbital skydiving sequence, with Kirk, Sulu, and some poor red-shirted bastard freefalling from a shuttlecraft into the skies of Vulcan and landing on a lazer drilling platform. J.J. Abrams once again proves hims mastery of subjective camera techniques, using handheld cameras and an almost annoying amount of lens flares to create a sense of immediacy and reality for the viewer, making everything a bit more exciting. In fact, the whole aesthetic of the film is geared towards grounding the fantastic in relatable modern reality, the result being starships with enormous, industrial engine rooms complete with I-beams and visible rivets, and a bridge that looks and functions like a giant, immersive iPod, albeit with a motorboat throttle to engage the warp drive. The movie has an epic scope, one that the score by Michael Giacchino tries perhaps too hard to live up to at times (the titlecard is steamrolled by brass and percussion), but for the most part it fits the heightened dramatic thrust of the film. The great thing about this new Trek film, though, is that what really makes it work as more than a spectacle-driven piece of fluff- the humor, the characters, the ideas- these things were already there, and had been for years. What J.J. Abrams' Star Trek does is that it gives those elements a new life by reintroducing them in a new and exciting way, bringing it all back to what worked in the first place while contemporizing and reinvigorating the framework of its presentation. That's the beauty of this movie: if you've always loved Star Trek, you're going to love the movie, but if you never gave a crap about any of the old Trek stuff, you're still going to love the movie! Abrams has finally made Trek as good as Star Wars once was, a real cinematic contender that appeals to sci-fi fans and the uninitiated equally. It's a hell of a movie that keeps you invested right up 'til the end and leaves you wanting more. In short, not only is it good, but for the first time since its conception, Star Trek is actually cool. And it's about time.

You know, after T3, I really just stopped caring. Sure, I'd watch the Sarah Connor Chronicles sometimes, to see if it was going anywhere interesting with the franchise (it isn't), but for me, the Terminator films died with Arnold talking to the hand and Nick Stahl whining about not being a hero (which I couldn't have agreed with more). And I was cool with that! I was content to look back fondly on Cameron's two-film opus as a great but ultimately self-contained story that ended with the Terminator's noble self-sacrifice. So when it was announced that there would be another Terminator film, written by the guys who wrote Catwoman and directed by McG, of all people, I just shook my head, more apathetic than angry, and conceded that it was par for the course in Hollywood. Despite myself, though, I did start to get excited when Christian Bale was cast as John Connor, and the first trailers looked pretty cool; but while it is somewhat entertaining (much more so than T3, anyway), I can see that my initial reaction was spot-on: Terminator Salvation is dramatically pointless and episodic, an attempt at dystopic poignance without any real meaning and an action film that doesn't take any joy in its action, nor does it build the suspense the first movies were founded upon. It's like a slightly less competent Michael Bay film. Set in a post-Judgment Day wasteland, TS shows us the fledgling days of the Resistance and their battle against Skynet and its army of Hunter-Killers and T-600s. John Connor is only a lieutenant at this point, and his claims to forknowledge of Skynet and its tactics are met equally with awed devotion and blatant skepticism. Things get complicated with the arrival of Marcus Wright, a former Death Row inmate who knows nothing of Judgment Day and who may be the key to infiltrating and defeating Skynet. And caught in the middle of it all is Kyle Reese, a young man who doesn't realize just how important he is to the future of mankind. Ironically, the biggest draw of the movie for me- Bale as humanity's savior, John Connor- turns out to be one of its biggest disappointments; the John Connor of Terminator Salvation is flat, uninteresting, and uncompelling. Bale growls his way through the part to the best of his ability, but there just isn't enough there to work with- Connor, as written, doesn't have a dramatic arc or much of a personality, and he comes of as nothing but an angry, anonymous soldier, overcoming obstacles without character development or growth. The more interesting of the two leads by far is Marcus Wright, played by relative newcomer Sam Worthington. Wright is a mysterious character whom we first see being put to death in prison pre-Judgment Day, and whose reemergence some fifteen years later is as much a mystery to him as it would be to the audience if it hadn't been given away in the trailer; as it turns out- surprise!- he's a Terminator prototype, an experimental human-machine hybrid that's the first step on the road to the T-800 (a.k.a. "the Schwarzenegger"). The character himself is presented as enigmatic and inscrutible, a bad guy looking for a second chance whom we're never certain we can trust, and his arc is actually the central dramatic arc of the film (which is sad, for reasons I'll get to later). Though his dialogue is written somewhat obtusely (that's a word, right?), Worthington is good in the part, and I can definitely see him going on to great success as an actor. The rest of the cast is hit-and-miss: Anton Yelchin, another rising talent fresh from his stint as Chekov in Star Trek, has a prime role as John's future father Kyle Reese (who is inexplicably a target of the machines already, despite the logical inconsistency that they should have NO KNOWLEDGE of his- or John's, for that matter- importance in the years to come); Bryce Dallas Howard is all but wasted as John's wife Kate Brester, who's gone from the confident, capable woman of T3 to the dramatic equivalent of wallpaper (through no fault of the actress's); rapper Common proves that you don't have to be able to act to get a part in a movieas Connor's right-hand man Barnes; Moon Bloodgood is fiercely independent, if strangely trusting of strangers, as Blair Williams; Michael Ironside has a surprise role as Connor's direct commander and one of the first leaders of the Resistance; and an even bigger surprise arrives in the film's climax in the form of Roland Kickinger, a bodybuilder who, through the magic of C.G.I, is made to look like the original Terminator himself, Arnold Schwarzenegger, circa 1984! The effects, incidentally, are spectacular, even if the gritty-realism aesthetic detracts somewhat from the spectacle; the T-600s are especially cool: big, clumsy, cumbersome precursors to the T-800, these things look primitive, but destructive... kind of like a bipedal tank. The script is shoddy, with some serious plot holes and piss-poor character development (the prologue sequence is so crappy it's surreal)- it mostly serves as an excuse to string together set-pieces. But seriously, what's with the Resistance and their rather impressive military resources? Submarines? Airplanes? Where the hell do they get fuel for these? And how do bustling airfields and Napalmed riverbanks NOT attract Skynet's attention, when a f*%$in car radio calls down the H-Ks? Oh, and HOW THE F%$# DOES THE TERMINATOR SURVIVE MOLTEN-METAL IMMERSION??? Did these people even SEE T2? The score by Danny Elfman is a treat, at least, even if it's only interesting when it reprises the themes of the first movies (I did love the title sequence...). The whole movie's like that, really- interesting only when it recalls the Cameron films. The ending, you may have heard, was changed after a script leak. (SPOILERS!) Originally following his excessive chest wound, John Connor was supposed to DIE, and Marcus Wright, seeing his opportunity for a second chance, had Connor's face grafted onto his skeleton, so that the legend of John Connor can live on and inspire humankind to victory. Now, since Connor has always been a messianic figure in the Terminator films, I could understand the writer's desire for this metaphorical ending of death and resurrection- it would explain why Connor is so ill-developed and Marcus is given so much attention. However, the obvious Internet backlash ("Whoa, whoa, whoa... the John Connor I've been following for three movies isn't the real John Connor? F%$# you, McG!") resulted in a rewrite in which Connor survives after Wright donates his heart to him (wait, what?) in a noble act of self-sacrifice (sound familiar?). Since the script was never adjusted to make Connor more interesting or likable, though, this means that the most interesting character in the film is killed, leaving us with bland, boring Connor to lead us on into the inevitable sequel. This renders the movie ultimately pointless. But who's to say which would have been the better ending? Neither were any good, really. Perhaps it would have been better simply not to make the movie at all, but hey, that's never stopped Hollywood before. At least it was better than T3.

Thank God, Sam Raimi's back on his "A" game! I was really worried there, I'm telling you. Spider-Man 3, while it was... alright... didn't have the spark of originality that the first films had, and I was starting to think that maybe doing three straight movies about the same character may have killed that bat-shit crazy innovator at the heart of his work, the quality that made Raimi such a fun filmmaker to begin with. Maybe Raimi was starting to think that, too; why else would he return to a genre that he hadn't seriously confronted since his first feature film? (c'mon, we all know Evil Dead 2 is dark comedy, not horror). But unlike certain filmmakers, for whom a return to familiar ground would only breed stale and uninspired work (Lucas, Spielberg- for shame...), Raimi has come roaring back onto the horror scene with everything he's got, flexing his aesthetic muscle once again while nimbly dodging any ground he'd already covered in his other films- or attacking them again with renewed vigor. The result is a film that is inimitably Sam Raimi (somehow that's the only adjective that fits) without being hackneyed or cliched, a suspenseful, intensely scary horror movie that uses Raimi's gift for character, macabre sense of humor, and (of course) astonishing visual sensibilities to their fullest effect. Drag Me To Hell is, in true Raimi fashion, a story about bad things happening to good people- in this case, Christine Brown, a soft-spoken, haplessly nice bank employee with her hopes set on an assistant manager position. In an attempt to show her boss that she can make the "tough decisions", however, Christine makes one huge, fatal mistake: she denies a loan extension to Mrs. Sylvia Ganush, an old, decrepit gypsy woman. Furious at the seeming callousness of the girl and at the humiliation she suffers, the gypsy unleashes a terrible curse upon young Christine; now she is plagued by an unholy evil- a demonic presence called the Lamia- and unless she can find a way to dispell the dark forces that have been set against her, in three days Christine will be dragged screaming into the pits of Hell, to burn for all eternity (because just dying isn't bad enough). The plot may sound like some lame B-movie potboiler, but then it's not the plot that's really driving the movie- it's the director. Sam puts the audience through it's paces, using dutch tilts, P.O.V., whip-pans and extreme close-ups (at one point a demonically-inclined fly actually lands ON the camera lens; at first it's merely a gray-black smudge on the side of the screen until the focus pulls WAY back and we see the underbelly of the fly in sickening detail) to their maximum effect, keeping the audience anxious and off-balance without divesting their involvement in the action on-screen. Of course, he couldn't invest us without having a subject to torment, and Raimi makes the most of it with Alison Lohman as Christine Brown, a nice, quiet, downtrodden young woman whose single attempt to put herself before someone else (a really harsh attempt, mind you) ends up condemning her to a fate worse than death. Christine is a loveable loser, the kind of character Raimi loves dealing with, and Lohman manages to be immensely likable from the outset, her character's evident insecurities both believable and endearing. By film's end, she ultimately comes off as sort of a female version of Ash, the hero of the Evil Dead films: first a helpless victim of the unspeakable evil loosed upon her (which, like in any good haunted-house attraction, pops up suddenly and unexpectedly at every turn), she finally reaches a breaking point late in the third act and decides to fight back, turning her victimization into empowerment (never to better effect than her final confrontation with a haunted hankerchief). Lohman is the centerpiece of the film, around which everyone else revolves: Justin Long, in particular, is more a function of Lohman's character that a character himself as Professor(?) Clay Dalton, a doting, loyal boyfriend with a love for coin collecting. Long is sort of the realist in the story, the guy Lohman confides in that tries to reassure her that such things don't exist, but goes along with her anyway to placate her fears. He's also supposed to be a root of her insecurities- she's afraid that she's not good enough to be with an up-and-coming scholar from a wealthy family, hence her misguided attempt at moving up in the world- but other than being a caring and sensitive "nice guy", there really isn't much of a personality there (which isn't Long's fault- there's not supposed to be one). Much more personality is lavished upon Mrs. Ganush, the evil gypsy woman played by Lorna Raver, who is the epitome of the heinous horror hag type that Raimi loves to play with in his movies- and quite possibly the most disgusting character I've ever seen put to film. The script is fairly light- if playfully sadistic- tracking the escalating disturbances around Christine and her escalating efforts to battle them with a good sense of pace and suspense (and establishing the stakes quite well with a prologue that is jarring and unexpected); and best of all, it doesn't give in to pressure for a happy ending- the climax is shocking and brutal, and while I would have wanted to see something more upbeat, dammit, it's the only ending that would have worked for the film. The special effects are stupendous- Raimi clearly cashed in on his connections from the Spider-Man franchise, because this seems like the most technically proficient film he's yet done than didn't have an arachnid superhero in it. He puts every penny of the $30 million budget up on the screen, but it is fun to notice stylistic throwbacks to his earlier films (the floating, dancing Lambia-possessed guy was unexpected, but appreciated). A friend of mine remarked that even the sound editing in Drag Me To Hell was unbelievable, and he's right- in fact, every element of this production is masterful, from the vivid cinematography to the score by Christopher Young, which is much more effective for this movie than his work was in Spider-Man 3 (I think the guy can really only do horror well). Make no mistake: I loved Spider-Man. Being a huge superhero geek, the Spidey films are like catnip to me, and I think Sam did a really amazing job with all three (well, the first two, anyway, but critics be damned, I do love Spider-Man 3. They had Venom, for Pete's sake!). But before he had even considered shooting the first one, I was already a fan of the Evil Dead films, and that's how I think of him best: a gonzo horror-comedy director, a madman behind the lens who could do things with a camera that never would have occurred to anyone else. That's who I was hoping to see when I walked into Drag Me To Hell- the guy who seemed to be making the movies just for the fun of it, rather than for a huge box-office take; and after taking a turn for the serious in films like A Simple Plan and for the lucratively melodramatic with Spidey, I had to wonder if that guy even existed anymore. I walked out of that theater with a huge smile on my face.

... Now if only he would get off his ass and make Evil Dead 4 already!!!

Oh, the folly of spin-offs. Get ready for a rant, dear reader, because not only is this a poor excuse for a movie- even a crappy mid-eighties fantasy flick, which Supergirl resembles much more than a superhero movie- but it is, at times, completely incomprehensible and utterly devoid of even the most rudimentary sense of logic. The ironic thing about this whole mess is that the title character is actually quite charming and very well portrayed, but it's as if, having come up with a unique spin on Kara Zor-El that made her more than just a female Superman, the filmmakers had no idea what to actually DO with her... so they crammed her into a weird cross between a tame teen movie and a sword-and-sorcery (minus the swords) flick. The plot, such as it is, starts in Argo City, a tiny chunk of Krypton that inexplicably survived the f*@%ing PLANET exploding and now resides in "inner space" for some reason; it seems the city crackpot inventor Zaltar decided to have his jollies one day by stealing one of the city's primary power sources, the Omegahedron, and using it to make shiny pieces of modern art (and yes, it gets weirder). He then hands it off to a wide-eyed teenage girl, our heroine Kara, who promptly blows a hole in the city wall (nearly killing herself and everyone else in Argo City) and lets the Omegahedron slip through the gap and into outer space, where it inevitably lands on Earth. Without it, Argo City only has days to live. Kara, in lieu of saying "I'm sorry," jumps ship, hopping into a floating metal bubble and blasting off to Earth, where she arrives, underwater and in full costume no less, as Supergirl! Now, instead of heading off immediately to track down the Omegahedron and save her home from a slow and painful death, Supergirl decides to adopt a human identity (using her unaccounted-for ability to shapeshift her clothes and turn into a brunette at will), infiltrating an all-girls boarding school as Linda Lee, Clark Kent's cousin (which, while Kara really is supposed to be Superman's cousin, it's never explained how she's supposed to know about him at all- let alone being aware of his secret identity); meanwhile, the Omegahedron is found by a megalomaniacal witch, and since it is now also a source of unfathomable black magic for some reason, she plots to use it to take over the world (after she forces some thick-skulled gardener to fall in love with her- a character and situation so contrived it's hardly worth mentioning, though it takes up a great deal of the movie). SEE! Supergirl fighting a giant monster that isn't there! SEE! Zaltar getting drunk in the Phantom Zone before convincing Kara to climb a mountain that's next to a technicolor tornado through the magic of reverse psychology! SEE! Jimmy Olsen stand around and try to figure out why he's in this movie! Supergirl is just a hodge-podge of bizarreness, ranging from the unintentionally funny to (more often) the mind-numbingly stupid. For all the failures going on in this movie, only a few things actually work, and foremost among them is Helen Slater as Supergirl. Capturing a sense of childlike innocence and wonderment at the world around her, Slater brings sincerity to a film sorely needing it- even when things get downright nuts, Slater delivers every line like she really believes it. Her youthful energy really sells what's ultimately the best scene in the movie: Kara discovering her powers on Earth, gracefully floating through the air like a dancer before setting off across the country (by means of the greatly improved flying effects, the second thing in this movie that works well). Unfortunately, the villainess of the story is just the opposite of Slater: an overdone, hammy performance of a poorly-conceived character. Faye Dunaway plays Selena, an amature witch who lives in in an abandoned amusement park with her wisecracking best friend (a set-up that reeks of sitcom, not cinema) and who nurses ambitions of ruling the world. Dunaway, indisputably a good actress, apparently took a page from the '60s Batman's playbook, vamping it up for the camera and killing any respect that the Oscar may have garnered for her (kinda like Halle Berry in Catwoman). Not helping matters is Peter O'Toole as Zaltar, Kara's obligatory mentor and the only sweater-wearing Kryptonian I have ever seen (I don't know why, but in Argo City all the Kryptonians dress like futuristic hippies). O'Toole's greatest asset in this part is his aristocratic British accent, which lends some authority to the psuedo-psuedo scientific drivel he's forced to spout whenever he's on-screen; the funniest moment in the movie, for me, is when we meet the cynical, broken Zaltar of the Phantom Zone, whom I couldn't help but see as O'Toole's personal reaction to the very movie he was in. The script (assuming there actually was one) is inconsistent and directionless, stringing together random set pieces with god-awful romantic comedy bits that play like a twisted episode of Three's Company. The filmmakers never deign to establish any logical rules for the magic or science fiction stuff, making Supergirl's inevitable triumph over them seem as flatly contrived as the magic itself; the characters' marked stupidity grows increasingly glaring as the villains actually WATCH Linda Lee transform into Supergirl and somehow still fail to deduce her identity in scene after scene; and the final act of the film is about as devoid of reason as a pair of three-legged pants. The special effects are pretty good for the time, save the occasional slip-up (let's play Spot the Wires! Or how 'bout Travelling Mattes?), but the fact that their use services a story that makes no bloody sense (Supergirl beats the Invisible Demon with a lightning-shooting lamp post?) takes away a lot of the luster, especially since most of the experimental stuff would only be excusable if you were really into the movie (lens distortion is not a storytelling device, dammit!). Saying that Supergirl is the worst movie ever made would be a slight to a lot of crappy movies out there more deserving of the title, but you wouldn't be far off to put it in the top twenty. It's a brainless, formless, and, worst of all, boring attempt to cash in on two distinctly seperate genres, the superhero and the epic fantasy, the result of which does justice to neither. The first total superhero flop- but sadly, not the last.

Oh, we believed, all right. In a decade defined by Watergate, the continuing atrocities of Vietnam, and a mounting national rebellion against authority and an increasingly oppressive socio-political climate, one movie had the guts to stand for Truth, Justice, and the American Way without a hint of irony or sarcasm. Following hot on the heels of Star Wars, the Man of Steel's big-screen debut was- and is- an epic, high-spirited adventure, the absolute gold standard for superhero movies for decades after its release, and a film that's so clearly a labor of love that it's practically stamped on every frame. What's really great about this movie is that, instead of ignoring the climate of cynicism that had been cultivated in cinema for the past decade, Superman posits itself as an ideological response to it, placing its hero in a world not far removed from the likes of The French Connection or All the President's Men and playing against that well-established stark realism for a brilliant contrast between the two aesthetics. The irony of this is that Superman, whose idealism and relentlessly good nature might make him seem hopelessly naive to many of the citizens of Metropolis, is the only character who is portrayed absolutely seriously, while the disillusioned pragmatism of the other characters is played for laughs- a clever strategy, because it makes Superman sort of the audience's perspective on the rest of the world, the identifiable character through which we evaluate the rest (which he maintains even as Clark Kent, his sly smiles and small gestures letting us in on the joke that he's only pretending to be clumsy and oafish... taking advantage of society's preconceived notions to hide in plain sight). Despite a few... problems with the screenplay (i'll get to those), Superman: the Movie remains the ultimate portrayal, in any medium, of the Man of Steel, and one of the greatest adventure-fantasies to ever grace the screen. The film opens on the planet Krypton, as a desperate scientist tries in vain to warn his contemporaries of the imminent destruction of their world. Jor-El, rebuked by his peers and forbidden to leave the planet, places his infant son Kal-El into a starcraft and sends him to Earth just as Krypton's sun goes nova. The craft lands safely in Kansas, where a kind and decent couple discover the child and raise him as their own. Flash foward several years, where we meet Kal, now rechristened Clark Kent, as a teenager in Smallville, just discovering that he has powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men. After his adoptive father dies of a heart attack, Clark discovers a mysterious crystal- a piece of the craft he arrived in- that leads him to the arctic, where it grows into a massive crystal palace: the Fortress of Solitude. Here he learns all about his heritage and how to master his powers, and after twelve years of study, Clark sets out to Metropolis, becoming a reporter for a great metropolitan newspaper and concocting a mask of impentirable meekness to ensure his anonymity. But when fellow reporter Lois Lane finds herself in mortal danger, Clark reveals his true nature to the world: in a flash the reporter is gone, and in his place stands the red, blue, and yellow figure of Superman! Filling in those big red boots, of course, is Christopher Reeve, and actor who so quintissentially embodied the qualities of Superman that even now it's hard to seperate the image of the man from the character itself. Reeve projects an immutible confidence as the Man of Steel that makes you believe that he actually IS bulletproof, but is tempered with an easy charm and an earnest innocence that is somehow worldly, not naive (as if he was aware of the depths of humanity's darkness- and he certainly acknowledged it- but still ultimately believed that mankind was inherently good, and could be, well, redeemed [yes, he's a Christ figure. Secular Jesus. Deal with it.]). More impressively, however, he creates a Clark Kent through body language, a subtle slouch in posture, and a higher octave speaking voice, that you actually could work next to every day without once suspecting that the most powerful being on Earth was sitting right across from you; for once, the glasses are just an accesory, not a disguise. Playing opposite Reeve (both spectacle and bispectacled) is Margot Kidder as intrepid reporter Lois Lane, the feisty-yet-jaded yin to Superman's yang who, in this incarnation, is a chain-smoking working girl, a sort of avatar for urban life in the 1970's, who knows all the angles and sniffs out bullshit for a living. Kidder plays her with manic energy; Lois is a woman on the go 24/7, and that's the way she likes it- which is why she finds Clark Kent (slow, fumbling Clark) so unappealing. Superman, however, is a different story; the romance between Lois and Superman is the dramatic crux of the movie, and it is executed wonderfully as a sort of screwball-comedy, His Girl Friday courtship, with the hard-nosed Lane turning to butter every time the Man of Steel locks his cobalt-blue eyes on her. The Flying Sequence is the unquestioned centerpiece of the film, a majestic, romantic flight through the clouds that somehow never feels overwrought or cheesy, even with Kidder doing a lyrical voice-over through half the scene. But while the love story dominates the majority of the film, you can't have a hero without a villain, and in this film Superman faces off against Gene Hackman as Lex Luthor, the personification of all the worst qualities of humanity. Keeping with the thematic conceit of the film, Lex is kind of a clown, dressing in cheesy plaid suits with ridiculous "wigs" and referring to himself as "the greatest criminal mind of our time", but beneath it all there's a current of genuine menace that Hackman brings to the part- a mean-spirited cruelty that he disguises as wit and sarcasm (an interesting reversal from Clark Kent). The part is definitely a little overdone (the Abbott and Costello-ish relationship with Otis is sometimes a bit much- sometimes- and WHY does he have an evil underground lair?), Hackman makes Lex into a perfect foil for the Man of Steel, exploiting his seemingly only weakness- overconfidence. Last but not least (first-billed, in fact) is the legendary Marlon Brando as Superman's father, Jor-El, who, for the latter part of the film is portrayed as a giant floating head (which seems somehow appropriate). Brando is good as the wise alien scientist, lending the film's opening some serious gravitas (balanced nicely against the incredible Terrence Stamp-but more about HIM later...) and anchoring the more fantastic elements of the story to the tone of the rest of the film. That tone is set by director Richard Donner, the strongest guiding force behind the film, who somehow manages to evoke three distinctly different styles in the film- the quasi-biblical science fiction opening, a nostalgic portrait of rural America, and a modern urban comedy- that mesh together as a complete, integrated story. His camera moves in slow dollies and pans, giving a sense of scale and grandure to his big scenes, and his color palettes are rich and vibrant, from the bright blue skies and amber fields of Kansas to the deep browns and grays of Metropolis, against which Superman pops out like a beacon (the cinematography by Geoffrey Unsworth is phenomenal; I can't say enough about the visuals in this film). Production designer John Barry gives us a Krypton that still looks majestic and awe-inspiring today, set against an Earth grounded in realism; the flying effects are still impressive, even to today's jaded viewer... with the occasional exception (did anyone EVER buy those young-Clark-running-home shots?); and John Williams crafts a score that captures everything we love about Superman in a single, powerful title march (the score is so good that it was re-used for every single sequel with virtually no thematic changes- a cheap move, but surprisingly it works). The script is the area in which the movie fumbles worst; the climax makes the ridiculous assertion that, by flying around the planet so fast that he reverses its rotation (which would more likely rip the atmosphere to shreds than make the world spin backwards), Superman can TURN BACK TIME, which he does only to save Lois just this once (and yet, while the nuclear bomb clearly still hits the San Andreas Fault, the fissure that forms under Lois's car and killed her the first time DOESN'T HAPPEN the second time around. Go figure). Add to this the most mind-blowingly stupid scene in the film- Lex Luthor's deduction of the existence and effects of Kryptonite (try to follow his steps in reason without getting a splitting headache)- and you have a movie that has some definite problems with logic. Be that as it may, the fact remains that Superman is the patriarch of all superhero films; without it, there would be no Batman, no X-Men, no Spider-Man, and certainly no Dark Knight or Iron Man. More than that, though, Superman: the Movie was a landmark in popular film, its hero held in the ranks or Rocky Balboa, Darth Vader, Indiana Jones, and the shark from Jaws as an icon of pop culture and a herald of a new, brighter era in cinema- for better or worse. The film is a love letter to a character who had been around for nearly forty years (now nearly seventy-five), a story that took the ideals of its hero and contrasted them with a world rendered in ever darker shades of gray... making those ideals stand out that much more. Of course, it's not a political picture; Superman: the Movie is escapism at its finest, and adventure about a man who can fly, who bends steel in his bare hands, and who always tells the truth. It's hard to say which it was of those that was hardest to accept in the decade the film was released, but audiences believed every minute of it- and we still do.

The fact of Halloween II's existence caught me entirely off-guard. I'd heard nothing about it until the first trailer was released, and frankly, I was shocked; Rob Zombie had claimed publicly that he wouldn't do another Halloween film after his first one, and yet here was the sequel, proudly trumpetted as "a Rob Zombie film". I was immediately interested- I'd enjoyed the first film, and the trailer for this one promised to take things in a more interesting (if strangely colorful) direction than the original Halloween sequel had- but at the same time, I was leery. Zombie claimed he came back to the franchise when he realized (or, more accurately, producer Malek Akkad told him) he could take the story anywhere he wanted to now that he wasn't beholden to Carpenter's original; he could make the sequel a REAL Rob Zombie movie. Having seen- and loathed- the Devil's Rejects, this proposition naturally worried me, and rightly so, as it turns out. Like Tim Burton with Batman Returns, Zombie allows his filmmaking style to completely overpower the picture and the characters, making the film more a statement of individual taste than an attempt at mass entertainment; but unlike Burton, his style is cluttered and excessively graphic, his visual taste skewing towards the over-stimulation of music videos (it may look cool on MTV, but it's not cinematic) and the bloodshed bypassing scary or shocking and going straight for sickening, with lingering shots of crushed heads and mutilated bodies that repeat so often that they become more exasperating than frightening. While it does make a decent attempt at developing the characters from the first film in new and different ways (most of which will probably piss off die-hard horror fans), Halloween II is too uniformally dark, light on plot and heavy on visual gimmicks and gore to be anything more than another pointless Rob Zombie splatterfest. After a brief prologue flashback shoehorned in to explain a recurring motif (the much-maligned white horse), the film picks up where the first Halloween left off, with Laurie whisked away to the hospital and Michael Myers' corpse being carted off on a meat wagon... only to mysteriously and inexplicably re-animate after the vehicle crashes into a cow (darn rural backroads...). A seven-or-eight minute hospital sequence follows- an obvious homage to the original Halloween II, and in my opinion the best sequence in the movie- before we smash cut to one year later: the now twice-orphaned Laurie is living with fellow survivor Annie and her father, Sheriff Brackett, in an isolated house on the edge of town. Laurie's been having pretty intense nightmares for the past few months- dreams about Michael, a liitle boy in a clown costume, and a mysterious woman in white- and with Halloween approaching in a few days, she can't seem to ignore the sneeking suspicion that Myers (whose "corpse" vanished without a trace) might still be out there, waiting to come back and finish what he started in the first film. Of course, she's absolutely right: Michael's been living the hillbilly life, holing up in an abandoned barn and surviving off the land, preparing to bring Laurie back into the family she'd mercifully escaped from years ago. Slowly throughout the film, Laurie becomes more and more aware of her twisted lineage (the big reveal courtesy of Dr. Loomis' new tell-all book), and inevitably Michael shows up at the end, severing her last ties to normalcy in typically gruesome fashion and driving her just as crazy as he is. Trust me, if the synopsis doesn't sound appealling to you, the movie will be even less so. Returning as Laurie Strode is newcomer (I still haven't seen her in anything else) Scout Taylor-Compton, whose character is now (once again) the focus of the Halloween films. This is a much different Laurie than we're used to; she's lost her friends and family, she's dealing with her feelings of loss and regret by acting out rebelliously, and- oh yeah- she's suffering a complete psychotic breakdown, either due to her traumatic experiences or her genetic dispositions- or both. Taking care of her at this point is Brad Dourif's Sheriff Brackett, a character much expanded from the first one who, in my opinion, is the most likable person in the film. Brackett's kind of an old man at this point, trying to handle these two independent teenagers that are staying under his roof- Laurie and Danielle Harris's Annie (the only OTHER likable character, who gets very little screen time this go-round)- and it's wearing him out... especially when he hears that Dr. Samuel Loomis is putting out another tell-all about the Myers family. Loomis, once again played by Malcolm McDowell, has undergone a startling metamorphosis in this film: while previously he was a slightly phony pop psychiatrist, now he's made the transition to full-fledged asshole, a self-obsessed prick who is so immensely unlikable that you kind of root for him to just die- but even when that actually happens, there's no real payoff to it, and you feel kinda cheated (unless you are a Loomis fan, in which case you should feel infuriated). I get the distinct impression that Rob Zombie actually HATES this character, which may be why he's barely involved in the story and has no redeeming qualities, so while it's nice to see McDowell back in the part, the character doesn't even feel like Dr. Loomis anymore. Lastly, Tyler Mane is back as the seemingly unkillable Michael Myers... albeit with a giant beard, long, grimy hair, and a hooded coat in place of the traditional overalls (at least he still has the mask). Frankly, Michael is such a two-dimensional character that anyone can play him as long as they get the mask right, so while Mane is still the tallest Michael I've ever seen, there's nothing good or bad to be said about his performance- but it's bothersome just how berserk Rob Zombie has chosen to make the guy. Does he have to stab EVERYONE at least twenty times? It gets old fast, and the last thing you want your monster to be is boring. Worse still is young Michael, now played by Chase Vanek (Daeg Faerch apparently went through a growth spurt and couldn't reprise the part) who may be the WORST child actor I have ever seen- nothing kills a horror movie like a creepy child character that isn't remotely creepy. Direction-wise, Rob Zombie makes some... questionable choices here; for some reason, he's enamored with slow-motion shots that weren't shot in slo-mo, which as an aspiring filmmaker, I can tell you authoritatively that this technique ALWAYS looks bad, but especially when shooting in digital (what were you THINKING, Zombie?). Many of the dream sequences look like bad music video set-ups, and it's particularly jarring when the visions take on a hyperactive strobing quality (I honestly think this movie could be dangerous to watch if you have epilepsy). I feel no need to dignify the script with an analysis, as there is barely anything present to analyze- it's pathetic how the film clearly has to contrive things for Michael to be doing before Halloween night, because otherwise there would be nothing interesting (let alone frightening) happening until the final twenty minutes of the movie. The violence in the film was also preposterously overdone, with lingering shots of mutilated corpses that serve no purpose (in the beginning of the film, after the car wreck, we cut back to a gratuitous shot of the driver's mangled head THREE TIMES before the plot starts moving forward again). As iffy as the first Halloween remake was, with this one Zombie has transformed a potentially artistically valid horror franchise into pure, disgusting exploitation. Worse, it's JOYLESS exploitation, not even reveling in the ridiculousness of the situations and taking itself so seriously that the audience can't enjoy any of it (or, to enjoy it, they have to be some seriously disturbed people). Sadly, this is where the zeal to create "realistic" films can take filmmakers in the wrong direction. A Halloween film that's not fun is a Halloween film that's not worth watching.

GENERAL. ZOD. The very mention of the name is enough to bring a smile to the face of any Superman fan. Never before in cinema history has there been a villain as megalomaniacal- as egotistical- as prone to referring to himself in the third person- as Zod. Plenty of super-criminals have expressed the desire to take over the world; Zod ACTUALLY DID IT. After the phenomenal tease of the character played out at the beginning of Superman: the Movie, it was obvious where the filmmakers were set to go with the sequel: a titanic, superpowered battle royale between the Man of Steel and the three Kryptonian criminals, Zod, Ursa, and Non. Even better, though, the second film works to add a new dimension to the character of Superman himself, approaching him with more evident humanity by taking his relationship with Lois Lane to the next level. This particular outing in the franchise benefits (for the most part) from a combination of filmmaking styles: the epic scope and colorful sense of Americana of former director Richard Donner (who'd shot most of the sequel during the production of part one), and the more down-to-Earth British sensibilities of newcomer Richard Lester, whose dry wit is frequently an asset (Clark Kent has some great moments this time around) and occasionally a hinderance (I find his portrayal of rural Americans insultingly juvenile; "Holy skunk-sweat", indeed). Whatever your position is on the whole Donner/Lester debacle (which I won't get into in THIS review), it's impossible to deny that the final product of their haphazard collaboration is a solid sequel that manages to one-up its predecessor in a number of ways, and while it's not a perfect film (far from it, actually), it is a hugely entertaining action-adventure movie, the apotheosis of the pretensionless superhero film. With an opening credits sequence that serves as a recap of the previous installment, Superman II hits the ground running, with the Man of Steel averting a terrorist attack in Paris. Disposing of a nuclear weapon in the terrorists' possession by chucking it into space, Superman inadvertantly releases General Zod, Ursa, and Non from the Phantom Zone- each of whom gain all of Superman's powers as soon as they're freed. Meanwhile, Clark Kent is having troubles of his own, as Lois Lane is slowly closing in on his secret. Before long, Lois discovers that Clark is actually Superman, and the two fly off to the Fortress of Solitude for a romantic rendevous. Torn between his duties as Earth's protector and his love for a human woman, Superman, blinded by his feelings, sacrifices his powers to be with Lois... just as the trio of Kryptonian criminals descend upon Earth, leaving a trail of chaos and destruction behind them. Now, with the world on the brink of annihilation, how will a powerless Superman ever hope to defeat the greatest threat the Earth has ever seen? Despite creative shake-ups behind the camera, virtually the entire principal cast is back for Part II, with Christopher Reeve front and center as the Man of Steel once again. Reeve continues to excell as both the confident, charismatic Superman and the bumbling Clark Kent, and the line between the two is pretty well defined- even when we see Superman in Clark Kent's clothes. The character is fleshed out much more this time, though, transforming the slightly authoritarian Superman of the first film into a more human character by focussing on his love for Lois Lane and their burgeoning relationship. Now that we know what he can do and what he stands for, it's his personal vulnerabilities that make the story interesting, and discovering those, we become more invested in seeing him overcome them- this time, we root more for the character than for the concept. Playing opposite Reeve once more is Margot Kidder, returning for her second go-round as Lois Lane. Suffering, I suppose, (if that's the right term) from a real-life smoking habit (even her character smokes like a damn chimney), Kidder is noticably emaciated and her voice is much more shrill than in the first film, but Lois is still feisty and sardonic, even if she's not as up-beat under Lester's direction as she was under Donner's. The scenes between her and Clark are screwball comedy gold, and her love scenes with Superman are just as solid- if not as blazingly flirtatious- as before; ultimately, though, Lois is just a footnote to the bigger things going on around her, and the tragedy is that she knows it... a sentiment perfectly captured by Kidder in her final scene with Reeve, by far the best contribution to the film Richard Lester provided. Her only chance at happiness with Superman is crushed, ultimately, by the timely arrival of the three criminals from Krypton: the mute, brutish Non, played to comically menacing perfection by Jack O'Halloran; the sultry and malicious Ursa, wonderfully played by Sarah Douglas as something of a playful femme fatale; and, of course, General Zod, flawlessly played by Terrance Stamp (who, for some reason, gets last billing in BOTH Superman movies). Stamp plays Zod as pretty much the exact opposite of Superman: an absolute, irredeemable bad guy, the personification of egotism and the lust for power, and (getting back to the biblical symbolism of the first film) the Lucifer to Jor-El's God and Superman's Jesus (which I guess makes Luthor the Anti-Christ by default). What's really fantastic about this character is that he bounces between scenes of overplayed malevolence ("Come to me, son of Jor-El! Kneel before Zod!") and smooth, underplayed menace ("I see you are practiced in worshipping things that fly. Good."), and Stamp is at home with both of these extremes, creating an unbelievably arrogant and strangely charismatic presence the makes him (to fall back on a cliche) a villain you love to hate. Stamp's Zod simply OOZES evil- so much so that it turns the returning Gene Hackman's Lex Luthor into a mere comic foil for the Kryptonian trio (poetic justice given Lex's treatment of Otis, his own comic foil). Actually, Hackman didn't sign on to come back for the sequel- all of his scenes were shot by Richard Donner, with a body double and voice impersonators used to smooth the transitions between Donner's original scenes and Lester's revised ones. But regardless of a few strange digressions with his character (the most obvious being during the climax), Hackman gets to play his twisted mastermind to the fullest, even though this time, in trying to manipulate General Zod, he bites off more than he can chew. The composite Donner-Lester script is, on the whole, surprisingly coherent. Here again, however, is where some of the film's biggest faults lie: thanks to the omission of Marlon Brando's Jor-El from the film on financial grounds ($3 million for three weeks was bad enough, but asking to be paid twice was pushing it), there's never any proper explanation given for how Superman gets his powers back at the end of act two, as Jor-El was to be instrumental in his son's re-empowerment. And speaking of powers, apparently they don't have Superman comics in Great Brittain, because Richard Lester seems to have no concept of what exactly the Man of Steel's powers ARE, throwing everything from telekinesis to teleportation to intangibility into the pot; and while the amnesia-inducing super-kiss may've had some basis in Silver-Age comics lore, I suppose, there is no excuse for turning Superman's S-shield into a giant cellophane net that dissolves shortly after contact with its target. That's just stupid. The special effects are at least as good as the first film's, with improvements in some areas and weaknesses in others (the use of animation sticks out glaringly); the movie's twelve minute battle-royale in the streets and skies of Metropolis is the highlight of the film, bringing together all the effects techniques from both films into one massive, pulse-pounding action sequence, which suffers only occasionallt from flying-toy shots and a dummy Zod being whirled in circles. The cinematography is decidedly bi-polar, flipping from the muted color schemes of the Lester material to Geoffrey Unsworth's more vibrant palette, but the mix is effective since the Lester scenes are more subdued anyway, and the Donner scenes more operatic. The score is just a re-orchestration of the first movie's, rearranged by Ken Thorne to fit the new scenes, which is a tragedy, because I would give my left nut to hear John Williams' composition of a General Zod march theme (I'm a Williams enthusiast, so sue me). While it may not be as good as the first film (a position that is highly debatable, and I've found myself on either side of the argument from time to time), Superman II is easily one of the best sequels ever made, and probably the most underrated action film of the '80s. They say heroes are defined by their villains, but Superman has always been an exception to that: a mythically powerful hero with a rogues gallery that, compared to Batman or Spider-Man's, was pretty pathetic. Superman II is the movie that finally created a threat to match the Man of Steel, and, in a way, a villain that was defined by his hero- General Zod, along with Ursa and Non, the only forces ever able to overpower, if not necessarily out-think, Superman. They are the perfect opposites to Reeve's perfect hero, and that alone is quite an achievement.

Buddy cop movies don't get much better than Lethal Weapon. It didn't invent the genre- T.V. had sort of hatched the idea, with Starsky and Hutch being the earliest example I can think of, if you don't count Dragnet- but it sure as hell perfected it, and everything from its plot structure to its distinctive score has been imitated so many times that they've entered the the official lexicon of movie cliches. But what it's sometimes hard to remember, following three progressively sunnier, cheerier sequels, is that the first Lethal Weapon was a surprisingly gritty, even edgy film, and, while it was certainly a rollercoaster ride of thrills and excitement, don't get me wrong, the story goes to some pretty dark places before it's all tied up with a bullet-riddled bow. I mean, one character is contemplating suicide for half the film, the other's daughter is kidnapped and nearly raped, and both of them are tortured pretty mercilessly before story's end; but somehow this sardonic sense of almost gallows humor belies all that darkness, making the film tolerable to the viewer, not to mention entertaining (it's the kind of sense of humor I imagine real cops might actually have, just so they can deal with their jobs). Of course, the film's greatest asset is the pairing of Riggs and Murtaugh, two polar opposite cops who are somehow perfectly complimentary to each other because of their dedication to the job- and while that may sound like an umbrella pitch for every shitty buddy-cop flick ever made, that's just because they were all trying to rip off this movie. Mel Gibson and Danny Glover click so harmoniously together as a team- the loose cannon and the straight shooter, the clown and the straight man- that it's just as much fun to see them hating each other for the first half of the movie as it is to see them working together in the second half. Set in L.A. on Christmas (and what was it with setting cop movies on Christmas in the '80s?), Lethal Weapon begins with Sgt. Roger Murtaugh investigating the death of an old friend's daughter. While initially it appears to be a suicide, it soon becomes clear that the girl was murdered- but the who and why are still a mystery. Things get complicated when Murtaugh is assigned a new partner: Sgt. Martin Riggs, a former Special Forces operative transferring from Vice, who may or may not have a death wish following the death of his wife. Riggs and Murtaugh don't work well together at first (Riggs jumps off a building, Murtaugh tells him to just kill himself already, hilarity ensues), but both of them realize that there's more to the girl's death than it seems, and after they work out their differences over dinner with Murtaugh's family and a frosty brew afterwards, the pair unravel an intricate web of drugs and secrets that go back to the Vietnam War. One kidnapping, a drive-by, some torture, and a heck of a body-count later, the day is saved, and the two men forge a bond of respect and friendship that will last them for at least three sequels. Making his first big splash in the world of American cinema is Mel Gibson, whose mullet-sporting Martin Riggs is supposedly such an indisputable badass that he IS the "lethal weapon" of the title. Gibson pushes crazy to some fun new levels, giving new meaning to the term "loose cannon", but it's almost more fun to see him toying with people who expect him to act crazy, throwing on a laid-back, "hey-man-what's-the-big-deal" attitude when people start tip-toeing around him. Still, his temper-tantrums are legendary, and he does bring a lot of- well, if not realism, than emotional investment and energy- to the part. Curbing his enthusiasm, so to speak, is Danny Glover's Roger Murtaugh, an old-school cop with a wife and kids who still wields a six-shooter. Murtaugh is kind of set in his ways and starting to feel like an old man when the movie starts, so being teamed with an unpredictible, potentially-psychotic partner drives his stress levels through the roof (which is why, at some point in every film, he finds an excuse to start screaming "RIGGS!!!", a quote I associate inseperably with Glover now). Together, though, Glover and Gibson just click, and all the comedy in the film comes from their character dynamics- Lethal Weapon would have tanked without these two guys as the leads. The rest of the cast is pretty solid, too- Gary Busey in particular as the inhumanly tough, sadistic Mr. Joshua, whose final battle with Riggs in the mud of Murtaugh's decimated front lawn is a classic action sequence- but make no mistake, this is Glover and Gibson's show, and all the other players are incidental. I like that the script for the first film is tighter than the ones for any of the sequels, and while we know from early on in the movie who the villains actually are, there are some intriguing twists in the film's plot as we learn the whys behind the whodunit opening scene; and the character work is stellar, bringing both men through a distinct arc (though strangely, Murtaugh's arc is all about how he reacts to Riggs, while Riggs' is about not just Murtaugh but his outlook on life). The action in this movie is pretty darn spectacular for 1987, and while it may not hold much of a candle to the preposterous sequences in the sequels to follow, I'm sure the stunt coordinators had their hands full- and it's hard to beat the visceral intensity of Rigg's foot-chase after Mr. Joshua's car, which just had badass written all over it (especially given that Riggs is barefoot and toting a machine gun). The score, as I mentioned, is probably the most iconic part of the movie: composed by Michael Kamen, the score featured the guitar work of Eric Clapton, coupled with the saxophone stylings of David Sanborn (The guitar was used for Riggs' themes, the sax for Murtaugh's). Interestingly, Clapton and Sanborn would become joint composers with Kamen for all of the sequels, as the guitar-and-sax combo proved perfectly emblematic of the style of the film; it's fun and engaging and hard to get out of your head once you hear it. And while the first film might be a little grittier than the later sequels, Lethal Weapon is kind of the same way: two hours of pure entertainment, the kind of movie you can watch again and again because it's just so much fun. It lightly engages you in the whydunit without demanding too much attention to the details, because the point isn't the mystery but the characters, and watching them come to an understanding about each other. It's a difficult dynamic to put into words, so I guess you're just going to have to trust me when I say: Lethal Weapon is a damn good movie. Why do you think it has three sequels?

They say hindsight is 20/20, and I tend to agree with them- whoever "they" are. For this reason, I pity Ivan Reitman. I'm sure every time someone brings up Ghostbusters II, Ivan kicks himself for what he did on that film- maybe he even wishes he could go back and do things differently. You see, Ghostbusters II is a sequel that suffers from the most basic (yet most devastating) mistake a storyteller can fall prey to: misinterpreting your own characters. While it may have a lame late-'80s soundtrack, an annoyingly hyperbolic score, and a damn baby as a plot device (I HATE babies... Yeah, you heard me), ultimately, the biggest misstep in Ghostbusters II is that it re-envisions the jaded, blue collar title characters of the first film as branded, iconic quasi-superheroes; it tries so hard to make the heroes "cool" instead of funny that it accomplishes neither. Sure, it's not all bad. Some of the bits come together really well ("WIIINSTOOON..."), and Vigo is actually a much scarier villain than Gozer was. But the magic from the first film is just gone, replaced with bad taste (egad, the fashions from that period were atrocious!) and eerily familiar plot turns (New York is under supernatural siege! The Ghostbusters are in custody! The mayor releases them to save the day!). Picking up five years after the first one left off, we find that the Ghostbusters are out of business, the staff gone their seperate ways: Egon's back at the university, studying the effect of human emotions on the environment; Ray owns and operates an occult bookstore in the city, but moonlights doing children's birthday parties with Winston; and Peter has a cheesy daytime television show called World of the Psychics. Seems the four of them are under court order prohibiting them from acting as paranormal investigators or eliminators... so inevitably they come back together again when an unexplained incident with Dana Barrett's infant son, Oscar, brings her to their doorstep. After the guys are caught trying to drill a hole through Fifth Avenue to investigate, the court order is lifted (after a pair of ghosts crash the trial) and the Ghostbusters are back in business. Soon enough, they discover a river of slime leading to the museum Dana works at, controlled by a painting of a brutal warlord and sorcerer, Vigo the Carpathian. One thing leads to another, and in the end the Ghostbusters have to stop Vigo from transferring his soul into Oscar's body, thus bringing about the end of the world on the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve. The whole cast is back for part II- likely anticipating the same success as the first one... man, I feel bad for them- along with a couple of new faces. It wouldn't be a party without Bill Murray's (more to come)

Meet Sam, the cutest, most precocious killing machine in movie history. He's the Anti-Claus, the mischievous, trick-or-treating spirit of Halloween, clad in burlap-sack mask and orange footie pajamas and wielding razor-stuffed candy as a deadly weapon (a far better avatar for the holiday than the grossly-overmarketted Jack Skellington); he's also the linchpin of easily the best film about Halloween since Michael Myers first came home over thirty years ago. Writer/director Michael Dougherty's debut feature is a masterful ode to All Hallow's Eve, bringing together all the things we most associate with Samhain (ghosts, vampires, maniacal killers) into a single film composed of four seperate stories interwoven on a dark Halloween night. The stories all have a decidedly Tales-from-the-Crypt flavor of irony to them, turning the viewer's expectations on their heads while keeping them bolted to their seats. The tales are cleverly interconnected and threaded together to make the film more cohesive (than, say, Creepshow, which felt more episodic than cinematic), but the seperation of the stories allows Dougherty to play with a number of Halloween conventions from a wide range of perspectives. The first, and in some ways most obvious vantage point (not that they're in this order in the film) is that of the children, for whom the traditions of Halloween are more immediate and more meaningful. Their story is, appropriately enough, a ghost story: five trick-or-treaters, including a developmentally disabled young girl, venture to a rock quarry to appease the spirits of children killed in the "Halloween School Bus Massacre". As it turns out, the whole thing is a cruel prank played on the handicapped girl... but soon the children discover that the legend behind the prank is all too real. The kids in the story are all pretty good actors, in particular Samm Todd as the misguided prank's victim Rhonda, who is both tremendously sympathetic and just detatched enough to believably be disabled (even though it's never explicitly stated just what her disorder is- I'm guessing autism). Also a standout is Britt McKillip (a girl I loved in the TV show Dead Like Me) as Macy, the group's de facto ringleader, the prank's orchestrator, and a proto-bitch who, well, gets what she deserves. We also get to see Halloween through the eyes of young adults, for whom the whole holiday takes on a more sexual connotation. Again, their tale is a fitting one (think Freddy or Jason) of supernatural creatures: four college co-eds are gearing up for a Halloween party out in the middle of the wilderness. Little do they realize that one of them is being stalked by a mysterious man in black, who plans to make a meal of their virginal friend. Anna Paquin is at the center of the story as Laurie (har har), a twenty-two-year-old virgin trying to find that special someone on Halloween night, and getting more than she bargained for; Paquin is always great at creating wholesome, sympathetic characters, and here the skill works two-fold- as an inlet for the audience to quickly identify with her, and, by story's end, as a brilliant weapon against said audience's expectations. For the mature, settled-down adults, Halloween takes on a different aspect, newly populated with real, terrifying threats- not just to ourselves, but to our children. This brings us to Steven Wilkins, the elementary school principal who also happens to be a serial killer. Mr. Wilkins gives out poisoned or razor-filled candy to trick-or-treaters, and when one gluttonous boy dies on his doorstep, he has to cover it up, burying the boy in his backyard while trying to curtail the suspicions of his next door neighboor. Wilkins, played by Dylan Baker, is sort of a twisted comic figure, a bumbling psychopath trying to hide his handiwork, and his story is the funniest of the four, which is why most of it plays out early in the film; Baker is hilarious in the role as he juggles trying to bury a still-kicking victim with trying to quiet down his energetic, wide-eyed five-year-old son. Finally, there's the elderly, for whom a tide of masked, sugar-craving schoolchildren knocking at the door seems horror enough. This point of view gets the best story of all (saved, appropriately, for last): Mr. Kreeg doesn't celebrate Halloween. He has no jack-'o-lanterns, he doesn't wear a costume, and his dog chases off any would-be trick-or-treaters. But this year, someone won't let Mr. Kreeg off that easily- one sack-faced, pajama-clad boy has had it with those who disrespect the traditions of Halloween, and now Kreeg is at the business end of one hell of a trick. Brian Cox (another X-Men alumnus after Anna Paquin) plays the bitter Mr. Kreeg, the Scrooge of Halloween who hates children and, apparently, even candy (though he's more than happy to steal some from from fleeing trick-or-treaters, even if he won't eat it). The guy's such an all-around jerk and a foul-mouthed dirtbag that it's fun to watch as he's increasingly terrorized by the spirit of Halloween himself, Sam (played by 6-year-old Quinn Lord). Sam is the one constant we see (peripherally) in every story, taking center stage only by film's end; cute though he may be, he's also a vicious little sucker with a freaky jack-'o-lantern skull-face under his mask, and he's not afraid of getting hands-on when he's out of lethal confections (which is both startling and strangely adorable when it happens). The film's script is funny, clever, and tight as a drum, twisting the viewer's expectations back on themselves in unique ways; EVERY STORY has a twist in it, and they all flow around each other seamlessly, creating a singular narrative structure from seemingly disparate tales. Better still, it's all aptly directed and swimmingly woven together in post, so that writing, directing, and editing all seem to coalesce and become inseperable from one another. The movie is like a tapestry, and as such, the whole is far more than the sum of its constituent parts. There has never been a movie that so perfectly paints a portrait of Halloween: the brown-and-gold autumn leaves littering suburban streets dimly lit by jack-'o-lanterns and the glow of a full moon, kids in costume moving from house to house and cleaning up on candy, adults reveling in debauchery and sinister deeds under cover of darkness. Who knows what lurks behind the next door, or around the next corner? Who knows what lies in wait beneath the most innocuous mask? Dougherty knows... and with his debut film, he invites us to take a peek. For a film that's been held up for nearly two-and-a-half years, Trick 'R Treat is most definitely worth the wait.

I don't like animated movies. Sure, animation's great for Bugs Bunny and Saturday morning, but I've always felt that feature length cartoons don't really qualify as films, theatrical release or no, because they almost uniformally lack the subtlety and nuance of live-action films- after all, when your only creative limit is what you're able to draw, why bother with something like subtlety? Interestingly, I am also not a fan of Wonder Woman. Unabashed comic junkie and raging geek though I may be Wonder Woman is one of the few major superheroes- besides Aquaman and maybe the Fantastic Four- that just never really appealled to me; her origin is convoluted, her motivations ar hazy, her powers are ill-defined, and her costume (aside from being a bit skimpy for a feninist icon) makes no sense- why would an Amazon dress in red, white, and star-spangled blue? So taking these facts together, one would think that an animated Wonder Woman movie would would have about as much appeal to me as reading the Complete United States Federal Tax Code from cover to cover. One couldn't be more wrong. Wonder Woman, as it turns out, is the best superhero movie I've seen this year, with a script as solid as bedrock and a cast that can actually do good voice-work (I can't tell you how many dramatic animated features I've seen have just been killed by poor casting). The direction in particular appeals to me: unlike many other animated films, this is a movie that allows the story to unfold at a natural pace, taking the time for character moments and dramatic beats without going too far in the other direction- that is, building huge, minute-burning pauses where the characters just stare each other down or grunt (GOD, I hate Dragonball Z!). Refreshingly, the movie also doesn't seem overly censored- in fact, the violence on display is somewhat shocking for an animated feature, with stabbings, beheadings, broken necks, and plenty of bloodshed on hand (even if the swords never get any blood on them). Overall, the movie is like an intriguing cross between Superman and 300 with strong (but thankfully not overpowering) feminist overtones; it is a deftly crafted origin story that draws you quickly and completely into the character whom I once found shallow and uninteresting. The story opens in ancient Greece, during a fierce battle between an army of men and mythical beasts and a clan of Amazonian women. Their leader, Queen Hippolyta, bests the army's commander- Ares, the God of War himself- in combat, but before the final blow can be stricken, her hand is stayed by Ares' father, Zeus. While Hippolyta is furious that she cannot avenge the deaths of her people, she is granted instead a reward by the goddess Athena: an island paradise, Themiscyra, hidden from the world of man, where she and the Amazons construct a utopia free from the ravages of time and the deceit of mankind. There, she is granted another blessing- a child, fashioned from clay and given life by the gods, whom Hippolyta names Diana. Flash-forward a few millenia to the present day, when Air Force pilot Steve Trevor is shot down over the middle of the ocean and accidentally crash-lands on Themiscyra, where she is captured by the Amazons, including the now-grown Diana. Deciding that the best course of action would be to to return the pilot to his home, the Amazons hold a contest to determine who will be their emissary to "Man's World", and despite her mothers attempts to bar her from competing, Diana enters and emerges the victor. Unfortunately, as the contest is held, an Amazon turns traitor and unleashes the shackled god Ares from his prison on the island. Now Diana must find the God of War and stop him from bringing forth a plague of misery and death upon Man's World. (more to come)

What is Eraserhead? Where did it come from? What does it mean? What madman could have created it? These utterly understandable questions are the first thing that entered my head right AFTER watching Eraserhead for the first time, at the tender age of eighteen. I had seen the mysterious black-and-white box leering at me from video store shelves since behore I could remember, and I decided to put a story to the face- so often, the mystique of a classic book can be dissipated when you actually read it, and so far it'd been the same with movies for me too. Not anymore. This movie just refused to be understood in a conventional sense, defying all attempts at explanation or examination, and it bothered the hell out of me. Years have passed since that first unsatisfying viewing, however, and I like to think that my tastes have matured since then (my knowledge and appreciation of film have, at least); so I decided to give Eraserhead one more shot. I'm glad I did, because Eraserhead is a movie that kind of grows on you; the second time through I was struck by the dream-like quality the whole thing had, how it is nearly impossible to tell someone what HAPPENS in the film as you're struck by the feelings and apprehensions it engenders in you without a definable, concrete story. (more to come)

See, this is why producers should never be in charge of story on a movie: the thinking is always, "How can I get the most profit from the least investment?", and that can lead them to do some pretty stupid things- like casting Richard Pryor in a superhero movie. When the first two Superman films were a hit, the Salkinds knew they wanted to do a Superman III (they'd even announced it in the credits of II) but they didn't know where to take the story- Mario Puzo had written I and II as a self-contained two-part epic, so they had to come up with III from scratch. And while Ilya Salkind did write a treatment for a cosmic-minded, kid-friendly sequel (featuring Brainiac and Mr. Mxyzptlk as villains who team up for some reason, and including a romance between Superman and the newly-arrived Supergirl, which, being as that they are cousins in the comics, is truly horrifying), the story that the filmmakers ran with ended up evolving out of two primary considerations: budgetary concerns and box-office appeal. The result is a much smaller scale film than the first two, the plot entirely contrived to shoehorn Richard Pryor into Superman's world (or perhaps to shoehorn Superman into Pryor's world; most of the film feels more like a god-awful comedy than a superhero flick). Director Richard Lester's shortcomings as an action director are much more apparent now that he doesn't have Richard Donner to fall back on (his action is flat and not terribly exciting, as if Stanley Kubrick decided to take on action), and his penchant for lame gags coupled with the already comic bent implied by Pryor's presence make this a film that you can't take seriously (unfortunately, it's not terribly funny either). Ironically, the film is at its best when it steers away from the flimsy main plot, indulging in sentimental moments between Christopher Reeve and Annette O'Toole or pitting Reeve against himself- literally. The story (if you must know) begins with Gus Gorman, an unemployed shmuck who finds out during a basic computer training class that he is a computer programming idiot-savant. Landing a job at Webscoe Industries, Gorman hatches a scheme to embezzle thousands of dollars through a computer manipulation (if you've seen Office Space you know what I'm talking about), but is discovered by CEO Ross Webster, a corrupt businessman who decides to use Gus' talents for his own benefit. Meanwhile, in a completely unrelated series of events, Clark Kent returns to Smallville to write a story about his high-school class reunion (it's an 18-year reunion, for some reason- class of 1965?), and there he reunites with Lana Lang, former prom queen and Clark's would-be high school sweetheart, now divorced and with a young son, Ricky. The two hit it off again, and romance starts to brew. After that... well, some stuff happens, and Webster gets Gus to produce synthetic Kryptonite to get rid of Superman. The substance is flawed, however, and instead of killing him, it transforms Superman into a cruel, malicious dirtbag. Finally, the Man of Steel splits into TWO people- the degenerate Superman and the wholesome Clark Kent- and in the film's absolute best sequence, the disparate sides of the Man of Tomorrow fight it out to see who will survive. Then, ah... more stuff happens... giant computer, blah blah blah. If any of the films in the franchise could really be said to showcase Christopher Reeve's versitility as an actor, this would be the one. Reeve plays THREE parts this time: the upright, heroic Superman (whose character significance is greatly reduced this time around), the nerdy Clark Kent (who has evolved from previous films; no longer the uncoordinated klutz, Clark is far more self-possessed and confident, and is presented this time as the "true" personality- the actual person behind the gaudy spectacle), and the new Dark Superman, a character not so much evil as he is base and ugly, ruled entirely by the darker impulses in man's nature. Reeve is unbelievably good in this new persona, deftly creating a mean, self-loathing, destructive mirror of the clean-cut hero that's almost unpleasant to watch. But what actually IS unpleasant to watch are all of the scenes featuring the film's villains, none of whom are from the comics and all of whom are grossly uninteresting comedy types. At least Richard Pryor is enjoyable at times as Gus Gorman- the guy was a phenomenal comedian, so he couldn't possibly be all bad- but the man is just horribly out of place in the middle of a Superman movie, skewing the film's sensibilities in the wrong direction. Worse still is the actual villain of the film: Ross Webster, a dime-store Lex Luthor played by Robert Vaughn who possesses no menace, no charisma, and should pose no threat to the Man of Steel. It is so painfully boring to watch this psuedo Bond villain schlep around his rooftop ski slope with his bulldog of a sister and his shrill trophy-girl that sitting through the whole thing sometimes feels like watching C-SPAN on mute. But for all the mistakes Lester and the Salkinds made in the production of this movie, the one thing they got absolutely right was the casting of Annette O'Toole as Lana Lang. After two films with a grating, chain-smoking Lois Lane, O'Toole is like a breath of fresh air as the beautiful, wholesome good-girl Lana, who cares more for Clark than she does for Superman, and whose sweet, down-to-Earth charm harmonizes so well with Reeve's good-natured nerd that the romantic scenes become the highlight of the film- the one instance when Lester's storytelling strengths click with the character. Unfortunately, Lester isn't the film's sole hindrance; writers David and Leslie Newman just can't dream up a story big enough for the Man of Steel, cramming him instead into a dull, episodic faux-comedy in which, to a large extent, HE ISN'T EVEN THE MAIN CHARACTER (Gus Gorman is the focus of most of the film's narrative, and he has the biggest arc). Making things worse is that the producers cut corners in virtually every department, particularly the score, which sounds like a cheesy cover of the previous films' music and fails to deliver the scope or grandure of the original Williams themes (the bizarre opening credits swap the soaring space-flight titles for a street-level chain-reaction gag that is anything but funny- ominous portents of what is to come). In fact, the only area in which the film is a real improvement are with the flying effects, particularly during the Grand Canyon missle battle- but hell, after two films, I would hope they'd have a better handle on flying; and while the split-screen effects for Clark vs. Superman were okay, the rest of the effects are old hat (but at least we didn't get any more saran-wrap S-shields). Anyone who was expecting something on par with the first or second Superman films were in for a disappointment with Superman III. While it has its moments, and introduces some interesting new characters- Lana Lang and Dark Superman, namely- it also introduces quite a few boring ones- Gus, Brad (yeah, I didn't mention him before, but trust me), etc., etc.- and tries to pass off Robert Vaughn as a Superman-worthy threat. More than anything, though, part III fails because they tried to make it a funny movie with a superhero in it, as opposed to a superhero movie with funny moments in it. I don't care how much Richard Pryor loved the first Superman films, comedy and superheroes don't mix. But I guess we'd never know that if not for this movie.

I guess it's a pretty solid tradition that every ten years or so, someone has to re-invigorate the Halloween franchise, usually by disregarding something of what came before. There was Halloween H20, which marked the twenty-year anniversary of the first film and ignored a decade's worth of Halloween sequels, and there was Rob Zombie's Halloween remake, which was released nearly thirty years after Carpenter's original- but before either of them was Halloween 4: The Return of Michael Myers, a film meant to wash away the foul taste of Halloween III by returning the franchise to its slasher roots and resurrecting the eponymous villain Myers, who had (to all appearances) burned to death at the end of Halloween II. Part four is the start of what I refer to as the "Jaime Lloyd Trilogy": a storytelling tangent in which Michael chases not Laurie Strode but her seven-year-old daughter, Jaime (in this tangent, Laurie died in some sort of accident before the start of 4; this storyline was ultimately ignored so that Halloween H20 could feature Laurie as the heroine again, which is why I gave these films so little credence until recently). While it has its moments of patchy production values and questionable creative merit, Halloween 4 is easily the best of this vestigial trilogy, conjuring the spirit of the season more ably than any other Halloween film (Carpenter's included), introducing a new, even more wholesome and adorable lead to the Halloween franchise (one that gives us access to a child's perspective on the holiday, something lacking in most of the sequels), and bringing it to a close with perhaps my favorite ending from ANY slasher film: a sequence that starts with an homage to the original film's P.O.V. opening, and ends with Dr. Loomis screaming in horror as he discovers that little Jaime Lloyd is a chip off the old block. The movie opens with a heavily burned, nearly catatonic Michael Myers escaping during a hospital transfer when he learns of the existence of a single living relative- seven-year-old Jaime, who, being recently orphaned, is living with a foster family, and has a repeating nightmare of being attacked by the boogeyman. When Halloween arrives, Jaime goes trick-or-treating with her foster sister, Rachel, little suspecting that her uncle is on the hunt for her- and that he is in turn being hunted by the inexplicably un-exploded Dr. Sam Loomis, whose conviction that Michael is evil incarnate has not wavered with the passing of a decade. But even with the full cooperation of the sheriff's department and a gun-toting militia of pot-bellied locals, on the alert after what happened ten years ago, patrolling the streets, can Loomis track down Michael before he can get his hands on Jaime? Short answer: no. (more to come)