Bored to Death (2009)

I love the premise of Jonathan Ames’ semi-biographical noir comedy Bored to Death: a neurotic 30-year-old novelist named, not surprisingly, Jonathan Ames (Jason Schwartzman, styled like the love child of Demitri Martin and Wes Anderson), decides to become an unlicensed private detective by posting an online ad. He gets his first case--locating a missing woman who's been kidnapped by her tattooed, meth-smoking hooligan of a boyfriend. Despite his venture being a spectacular failure, Ames finds it gratifying enough take on more cases.

The pilot features two great side characters: George (Ted Danson), Jonathan’s chronically inebriated ne’er do well boss, and Ray (Zach Galifianakis), his artist best friend. Unlike Diablo Cody, Ames does not have the problem of writing characters that all sound the same (Juno, while endearing, featured characters whose hipper-than-thou lines all made them sound like Cody was running a one-woman puppet show). Ames has come up with some well-defined, interesting characters for his new comedy, and their verisimilitude made me want to keep watching the pilot. There is, however, the problem of the throwaway dudebro banter that permeates most of the dialogue. While both of the main side characters are entertaining, they are both remarkably unlikable. At times, Ames’ script plays up misogyny and boorishness for laughs, and appears to be taking to easy tactic of excusing this fact by putting his despicable lines into the mouths of despicable people. Ames is going to have to find a way to provide development and enlightenment for his characters if he wants me to keep watching.

Seeing Schwartzman swig white wine out of an old coffee mug while scanning through Craig’s List, I couldn’t help but relate to him. On the other hand, his character seems to be the typical man-child-who’s-too-pop-culturally-aware-for-his-own-good—a trope that is ubiquitous on modern American television. Do we really need another one? I hope that his character gains more dimension in future episodes. While he may come off as a smug, emotionally disabled asshole in the pilot, there are kernels of self-analysis planted liberally through the brief 30-minute episode. It is possible that the show, in addition to being a half-hour whodunit, will also explore Ames’ growth into a reluctant adult. Possible, but not probable.

The Brothers Bloom (2009)

Where do I begin with The Brothers Bloom? The film, directed by Rian Johnson (Brick), looked great in the previews: a fun caper comedy starring two of my favorite actors (Mark Ruffalo and Adrien Brody) set in Prague, Mexico, Montenegro and Greece. The trailer made it look like a modern day combination of The Sting and Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, but the finished product is all candy coating with nothing substantial in the center. Ruffalo and Brody play the titular characters, two men who have spent their lives making money from spinning elaborate cons. They find a new mark in Penelope Stamp (Rachel Weisz) and trick her into following them to Prague for a phony antique smuggling caper. The plot becomes more convoluted from there, as one con piles up on another.

The first thirty minutes of the film pulled me in: from the opening sequence of the Brothers as children to the introduction of Penelope's character, I was into the movie and ready to have some fun. By the time they reached the continent, however, I had lost interest in the whole mess. I was distracted by its similarities to other films (Hal Ashby's Harold and Maude, Jean Pierre Jeunet's Amelie and Fellini's 8 1/2 being the stand-outs). I was irritated by the dialogue which, while clever, failed to create separate voices for the characters. The main problem with The Brothers Bloom is that it is so self-consciously whimsical, so obviously desperate for the audience to fall in love with it, that the intricacies of the plot seem oddly unnecessary. Johnson goes for a Wes-Anderson-style fantasy character study (complete with cutesy title cards) which does not mesh at all with the story he is struggling to tell. Perhaps it comes down to the genre: con and caper movies let us know up front that the characters are spinning lies and that nothing on the screen can be trusted. The great con flicks pull us in by forcing us to have a relationship with the characters. In Matchstick Men, we end up empathizing with Nick Cage's pathetic obsessive compulsive. In Paper Moon we start out despising Ryan O'Neal but want him to have a good relationship with his daughter anyway. In Charade, we know we can't believe a thing Cary Grant says but dammit, we want him to marry Audrey Hepburn. All of these films have whimsical comic tones, as well, yet they all possess something that The Brothers Bloom lacks: characters who could be real people with real lives somewhere in the world. I never for one second believed that the brothers were real; they were more like characters in a fairy tale. As a result, I didn't really care if one of them got shot or got the girl or got a case of cholera; they did not matter to me one bit.

Strangely, a film that fails in so many way also showcases some excellent performances. Rachel Weisz, who to my knowledge has not done much comedy before, is so wonderful as Penelope that I wanted her to have her own film and leave the brothers Bloom in the dust. Her timing, delivery and physical mannerisms are pure comic perfection. She reminded me of Katherine Hepburn in Bringing Up Baby. Mark Ruffalo is charming as he swaggers around as Stephen Bloom, and Adrien Brody does his best to lend a unique voice to a poorly drawn character. These great leads, however, cannot save the sinking ship of The Brothers Bloom. There is too much going on, too much cuteness, too many twists and offshoots in the script, and too many damn climaxes (three, to be exact). Give it a passing glance if it comes On Demand, but don't spend your hard-earned money on this Hindenburg of a film.

The amount I would pay to see this: $2

Terminator: Salvation (2009)

I went to see Terminator: Salvation against my better judgment. I thought, hey, I love Christian Bale, and I enjoy the Terminator mythos, and any trailer with Nine Inch Nails in it can't be all bad, can it? Much to my dismay, I discovered that yes, yes it can be all bad.

The plot of Terminator: Salvation is a good one: Marcus Wright (Sam Worthington) is on death row and, at the last minute, agrees to donate his body to Skynet for mysterious experiments after his state-sanctioned death. We jump ahead to 2018 to find a future in which man and machine are at war. John Conner (Christian Bale) leads the resistance against Skynet with the support of various colorful yet never fleshed out supporting characters. Marcus wakes up in 2018, and it's not clear exactly how or why he has survived all these years and still appears to be in perfect physical health. He teams up with Kyle Reese (Anton Viktorovich Yelchi of Star Trek and numerous other films of late) in an effort to aid the resistance. None of this really matters, however, as the initially engaging plot devolves into a mindless hurricane of ballistics and over-the-top CGI. The film is overly concerned with giving shout outs to its predecessors (to wit, the dubious Arnold cameo, as well as Kyle's "come with me if you want to live," line). While this is momentarily amusing, it only serves to remind the audience of how much it fails to measure up with the first two Terminator films.

The sets are impressive, but again, the obvious big budget only made me regret (and resent) how crummy this installment was compared to the first two Terminator films. How dare they get a good actor like Christian Bale and then give him a crummy script and mediocre direction? Director McG has proven adept at handling light-hearted stuff like Charlie's Angels and the Offspring's obnoxious "Pretty Fly for A White Guy," video. Here he is in way over his head with Terminator: Salvation, a serious film that would have been better served by Christopher Nolan or Ridley Scott. The shchmaltzy ending only served to piss me off more. In short, don't blow your hard-earned money on Terminator: Salvation unless you're seeing a matinee. And even then, do yourself a favor and have a few drinks first.

Star Trek (2009)

Sorry I'm posting this review a little late. I saw the new Star Trek after everyone else, mostly because I was afraid I wouldn't like it. For me, Star Trek isn't just a great show-it was a formative influence in my life. As a kid, I loved "Star Trek: The Next Generation," a show that ran from the time I was seven to the time I was twelve. Everything about that show resonated with me, from the intergalactic politics to the contrived period pieces on the Holodeck to Data's identity crises. Later, I got into the original series and have since seen every single episode (I thought there were hundreds, but upon looking back there were only eighty or so...it seems like there were more to me, but now I realize they just reran them numerous times. Ha!). My favorites were the episodes "Bread and Circuses," which was about an early version of reality television and "The Omega Glory" which was a metaphor for the Cold War. It was such a thoughtful, interesting program, full of good (if hammy) performances. And that's why I was worried about the 2009 Star Trek film. Would it measure up? Would it just be a second-rate regurgitation of Roddenberry's mythos? What about the casting? How could anyone be a new William Shatner?

The answers to these concerns is: Yes it does, No, it's not, the casting is good, and Chris Pine is as good as we're going to get when it comes to replacing William Shatner. J.J. Abrams' Star Trek provides us with a prequel. It's like a Degrassi Junior High Star Trek. But in a good way. We see Kirk (Chris Pine) meet Spock (Zachary Quinto) as they go through Starfleet Academy. Of course, we also meet Uhura (Zoe Saldana of Pirates of the Caribbean) and Bones (the perfectly cast Karl Urban) as they all learn to work on the Enterprise together. The script is crisp and intelligent with just enough humor thrown in to keep it light. Not only that, the film manages to throw in clever references to the original series without it being a giant nerd in-joke. Scotty (Simon Pegg) gets to clamor about the engines, Bones gets to say "Dammit I'm a doctor not a physicist!" Sulu gets to show off his fencing skills and of course Spock gets the mind meld and the Vulcan neck pinch. And, finally, Uhura is able to make out with another cast member without some contrived mind control plot device. We've come a long way, baby. The film even gives us the terrific Leonard Nimoy in a cameo that is integral to the plot as opposed to being heedlessly tacked on. The special effects are well-used; I never felt like I was in the middle of a CGI onslaught. Not only that, we get a good villain: Eric Bana as a Romulan renegade. It was fitting, given their conflicts in the original series, that the Romulans would be the villain of choice. Not that I don't miss the Klingons, Cardassians and Betazoids, but you can't introduce too much in the first film. Originally, the Romulans were supposed to represent the People's Republic of China and the Klingons were supposed to be the Soviets. Abrams' Star Trek is much less political, but not necessarily to its detriment. Perhaps as a way to revise the previous references to China made in the original series, the new Star Trek names the Romulan villain Nero, as if to pretend that the Romulans were a reference to the Roman Empire. Maybe in sequels (and rest assured, there will be sequels) they can start to tackle international relations. For now, I'm happy with Black Hole devices and time-travelling Vulcans.

The amount I would pay to see this film: $10

Sunshine Cleaning (2009)

I have a major girl crush on both Amy Adams and Emily Blunt, so it wasn't hard to sell me on Sunshine Cleaning a lightweight dramady about a pair of sisters who start their own crime-scene cleanup service. Adams plays Rose, a single mom and former high school cheerleading captain whose life is not unfolding as she had planned. She works as a maid and is still having an affair with her high school sweetheart (Steve Zahn) who is the father of her son, and who happens to be married to another woman. Her sister Norah (Blunt) is a slacker who can't do anything right and who still acts like a fifteen-year-old. Their father is played with a mix of bittersweet humor and weary grit by Alan Arkin. Both sisters (as well as their father) are still grieving over the suicide of their mother some twenty years prior. When Rose gets a chance to switch from dusting to mopping up blood, she leaps at the highly lucrative chance. Soon her sister joins her and the two learn all about biohazard disposal with the assistance of Winston (Clifton Collins Jr) the one-armed cleaning supplies salesman.

This might not sound like a great opportunity for comedy, but the film's light script, upbeat performances and bright, saturated colors make it all work. It's also, surprisingly, not the precious and twee indie comedy it could have been. Suitable weight is given to the themes of death and loss, and Adams and Blunt have enough acting chops to make their characters seem like real individuals. So often films hold up the fading prom queens of the world for laughs and mockery, but this film provides Rose with vulnerability and depth. The director, New Zealander Christine Jeffs, hasn't done much yet; she directed the 2003 film Sylvia about the life of Sylvia Plath, as well as the 2003 family drama Rain. In Sunshine Cleaning, however, she shows a lot of promise as an up-and-coming director, showing a deft comedic touch for serious subject matter without glossing anything over. In addition, I was impressed by the cinematography of John Toon (Broken English, 1996). One scene in particular, featuring Blunt beneath a railroad bridge, is so beautifully photographed that it alone makes the entire film worth seeing.

On the downside, the film has pacing problems, with an ending that feels a bit rushed and tacked on. I was sometimes distracted by the abundant use of handheld camera, but it's clear that Jeffs wants her audience to feel as though we are in the lives of the characters. Finally, there is the slightly clunky metaphor of cleaning up after the dead, an activity that both women are psychologically unable to do with respect to their own mother. Jeffs' overuse of flashbacks to remind us of the parallels between cleaning out dead people's houses and letting go of mom's memories beats the horse to death, but I'm willing to forgive it in light of the film's overall quality.

Is Anybody There? (2008)

It took me three days to muster up enough strength to review Is Anybody There? an absolutely heartbreaking film that slowly broke me down over the course of its brief 95 minutes. It is a small, good film, full of tart and funny moments. It also made me cry. I'm not talking about the kind of misty, watery eyes I got when I went to see Life Is Beautiful, or even my slight blubbering at the end of Million Dollar Baby. I'm talking about tears streaming uncontrollably down my face and dripping onto my shirt. My friend and I were both complete messes when we walked out of the theater. We walked straight from the theater to a bar. In the middle of the day.

Is Anybody There? centers around ten-year-old Edward (Bill Milner) who lives in a retirement home run by his struggling parents. He is surrounded by eccentric elderly people and, inevitably, by death. He deals with death in the only way he knows how: by obsessively recording and documenting it in an attempt to understand what happens afterwards. He records the death rattles of the residents and holds seances to talk with souls "on the other side." Not surprisingly, he drives his parents nuts. He meets his match in Clarence (Michael Caine) a retired septuagenarian magician who is grieving over the death of his wife. He is also slowly going senile, a process that is tortuously laid out for us over the course of the film.

I wanted Is Anybody There? to be a great film, but it's a tad too maudlin and tries too hard to tug on the heartstrings of the audience members. That said, it has some wonderful moments, particularly between Caine and Milner. It also has a deft touch with the residents of the home. So often the elderly are depicted in films as lovable cartoons. The seniors in Is Anybody There? actually come across as real people, which is a welcome achievement. So give it a look and see what you think--but I'm warning you, bring a handkerchief and do not, under any circumstance, wear mascara.

The amount of money I'd pay to see this film: $7

Six Remakes Better Than Their Originals

So, I just found out that Robert Rodriguez is remaking Barbarella with Rosario Dawson in the lead. I don't know how I feel about that. On one hand, I say "why?" The original, starring Jane Fonda, was so bizarre and wonderful, yet still pretty disjointed and messy as a film. Remaking it could wring out everything that was great about the original while still being a sloppy mess. Or it could be fine. But will I want to watch it instead of watching the original? This got me to thinking: what remakes would I rather watch than their original source films? Here's a short list.

Ocean's Eleven
This is an obvious choice. Steven Soderbergh's remake of the 1960 Rat Pack movie succeeds because it took an awesome, star-packed heist story and made it even more star-packed, while updating it for today. It doesn't copy the original, it improves upon it, and manages to be very entertaining as a result.


The Thing
John Carpenter's remake of Howard Hawkes' The Thing from Another World makes the most of the greatest special effects that 1982 had to offer.


Dirty Rotten Scoundrels
Who would have thought you could do better than Marlon Brando and David Niven? Frank Oz's remake of Ralph Levy's 1964 comedy Bedtime Story is great because it does better than Brando and Niven by giving us Steve Martin and Michael Caine in one of their most hilarious outings ever as a couple of Riviera con men.


Little Shop of Horrors
Okay, this kind of doesn't count because it was based on a stage musical that was based on the original 1960 Roger Corman film. But let's face it--never have we seen such a whimsical and quirky remake brought to the screen.


Ben Hur
Ben Hur has actually been remade three times, in 1925, 1959 and in 2003 as an animated film. The remake I'm referring to in this case in the 1959 film starring Charlton Heston. What a spectacular period piece!


The Birdcage
Director Mike Nichols reminds us that he can do comedy with this 1996 remake of La Cage aux Folles, a 1978 French by Jean Poiret and Francis Veber. I saw it when it first came out and it still makes me laugh.


The Good Thief
This 2002 film starring Nick Nolte is a remake of the 1955 French film Bob le flambeur. It is atmospheric, intense and insanely well acted (but then, with Nolte, everything is insane).

Happiness

No, I'm not referring to Todd Solondz's ironically titled 1998 film Happiness, although it's awesome. No, I'm talking about the concept of happiness, as viewed from both sociological and psychological perspectives, in the context of modern film.

This week, I was a guest on Under Surveillance, the awesome radio show on WLUW here in Chicago produced by my friend and fellow cinephile Kevin Fullam. This week's show explores how the pursuit of happiness is depicted in various films and television shows. Check it out here: Under Surveillance

We explored a number of films and shows, including About Schmidt, American Beauty, Mad Men and The Sopranos. Many of these examples don't explore happiness so much as the absence of happiness. Characters such as Lester from American Beauty, who is incredibly unhappy despite achieving the American Dream. Check out the radio show (also a podcast for all you high tech kids) and enjoy these clips from the films and shows we discuss:

The Watchmen

The first time I read Alan Moore’s 1986 comic series “The Watchmen” was in 1993. It was the summer before I turned thirteen and my sister’s college boyfriend lent it to me to read, telling me “if you like the Phoenix Saga, you’ll love this.” I read it all in a day, and then I read it again. I did not entirely appreciate it until later, but my initial exposure to the work changed the way I saw comics and, in a way, it changed the way I viewed U.S. history. Now, fifteen years later, I finally got to see the amazing story brought to the screen. I entered the theatre with both excitement and dread, fearing that my favorite graphic novel of all time would become another League of Extraordinary Gentleman. I am happy to write that Watchmen stands unique as the best and most faithful Alan Moore screen adaptation to date.

The story is set in an alternate universe in which superheroes are a real and controversial part of America’s social landscape. It introduces us to two generations of crime-fighting superheroes: the Minutemen of the 1940s and later wave known as the Watchmen. None of these superheroes have superpowers, save Dr. Manhattan who can manipulate time and matter. In the alternate present, Nixon was never impeached and has brought the U.S. to the brink of nuclear war. Superheroes, once accepted and sanctioned by the government, have been outlawed as vigilantes. One of the old guard, The Comedian (the perfectly cast Jeffrey Dean Morgan), is assassinated under mysterious circumstances. This brings the Watchmen back together as they attempt to figure out who is knocking off old superheroes and why.

Director Zach Snyder (Dawn of the Dead, 300) creates a lush visual tableau peppered with perfect period details. He also casts the film amazingly well. Patrick Wilson makes a first rate Nite Owl. As Rorshach, Jackie Earl Haley manages to steal most scenes despite spending 90% of the film with his face fully covered. Dr. Manhattan is mostly CGI yet still human thanks to the competence of Billy Crudup. Malin Akerman and Carla Gugino are the only disappointing additions, turning in rather stilted performances. The real strength of Watchmen is that it doesn’t dumb itself down. Rather, it trusts that audience members, both long-time fans and newcomers alike, will be able to follow the considerably complex narrative without extraneous exposition or oversimplification. At two and a half hours, I expected to get a stiff neck and bleary eyes by the film's finale, but I found myself entranced until the very end. Some die-hard fans may be disappointed by the parts of the book that are missing, such as the “Tales of the Black Freighter” comic book within the comic book, or the side story of Rorshach’s psychiatrist. You fans will be pleased to know, however, that these nuggets were in the original film and will be released on the DVD as extras.

The amount of money I would pay to see this: $10 all the way. And I’ll see it again.

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

I went into Benjamin Button with very high expectations, being a great fan of both David Fincher’s direction (Zodiac, Fight Club) and the formidable acting chops of Cate Blanchett and Brad Pitt. After sitting through its 166 minutes of unbearably maudlin weirdness, I have to come right out and say it: despite its achievements in the areas of makeup, special effects and cinematography, Benjamin Button is a tedious and insufferably twee film. What is it about F. Scott Fitzgerald adaptations? The 1974 film version of The Great Gatsby managed to turn a short novel into a two-and-a-half hour melodramatic snore-a-thon. Shelley Duvall starred in a regrettable though mercifully short version of his even shorter story, “Bernice Bobs her Hair.” De Niro practically carried The Last Tycoon , but alas Elia Kazan, after wringing all of the spontaneity and life out of the story, took the movie out back and shot it in the third act. Yes, it seems Fitzgerald has a curse hanging over his adapted works, and Button is no exception.

The story is simple: Benjamin Button ages backwards. He starts out as very small old man with the mind of a curious child, ages into a middle-aged man with the mind of a middle-aged man, and ends up a confused toddler towards the end of his life. The film examines the ephemeral nature of love, specifically how the two main characters enjoy brief moments of happiness with one another before passing in and out of each other’s lives forever. It’s a sweet enough idea, but it lacks any real nuance or depth. Benjamin Button is not a guy I really care about. Beyond the fact that he is a backwards-aging-freak-man-baby, he has no interesting qualities. I don’t get what Daisy (Blanchett) sees in him, beyond the fact that, on a good day, he looks like Brad bloody Pitt. While Fincher’s recreation of New Orleans from the Jazz Age up to Hurricane Katrina is beautiful and mesmerizing, I kept regretting I couldn’t just watch the whole thing without the creepy, vacant-eyed Button marring my view of the riverboats and French Quarter. 13 Oscar nominations? Really Academy? What about Rachel Getting Married, or Persepolis, or In Bruges or Che or Synecdoche, New York? If there’s one thing I will say about the Academy, it’s that its members just love a bandwagon. The smoke-and-mirror superficiality of Benjamin Button, however, make it impossible for me to root for.

Blind Picks from Netflix: The Strangers (2008)

First time director Bryan Bertino's The Strangers may not offer anything new to the home-invasion-torture-horror subgenre, but it certainly builds up enough suspense and atmosphere to keep your pulse high for most of its lean 85 minutes. Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman play a young couple staying in a nice and conveniently out of the way summer house. After coming home from a wedding they kick off their shoes, light a fire and slip into a night of utter terror as they are stalked by a trio of masked sociopaths. The Strangers is not unlike Pekinpah's Straw Dogs or Michael Haneke's Funny Games in that it takes its time establishing its characters and setting and introduces the invaders slowly, waiting until the forty minute mark to spill any real blood. This is to its advantage, as the best scares come from small things--a skipping record, a smoky fire, a knock on the door that just might be the wind, etc. The director doesn't really give us characters we can root for, as they make dumb choices and don't seem all the sympathetic. I'm pro-gun control, but this movie had me yelling at the screen "WHY don't you guys have more GUNS!" Then again, when I picture how I would have handled the situation (and sitting alone in my dark apartment you better believe I'm mulling it over) I can't say I would have behaved with any more grace or competence. Bertino wisely avoids showing us the killers, as that big reveal can so often be a let down in suspense films like The Strangers. Rather, he dresses them in baby doll masks and a flour sack, respectively, displaying gaping black holes where eyes should be and thusly scaring the crap out of me. Bertino has stated that the "real event" the film is based on is the Manson Family Murders. For me, the comparison is very loose at best, the biggest similarity only occurring in the last ten minutes (don't worry, no pregnant ladies get stabbed in the gut).

Slumdog Millionaire (2008)

Hi everyone! I'm starting out 2009 with a review of a movie that was released in 2008. I was so impressed by it, however, that I thought it deserved a review, however late.

Slumdog Millionaire, the latest effot by director Danny Boyle (Trainspotting, Sunshine) is a hugely entertaining modern-day fairy tale set in the slums of Mumbai, India. The story centers around Jamal (Dev Patel, whom you might recognize from the BBC series Skins), an eighteen-year-old kid of humble means who gets a chance to be on India’s version of Who Wants to Be A Millionaire. He does well—so well, in fact that he arrested on suspicions of cheating. Stuck in a police interrogation room, he tries to explain how he knew the answers to all those questions. Each question leads to a flashback sequence of Jamal’s childhood, from his beginnings as a poor but happy street kid to the tragic death of his mother and his struggle to survive on his own with the help of both his older brother Salim (Azharuddin Mohammed Ismail) and his true love Latika (Rubina Ali).

Walking in, I was concerned that the narrative structure would get old fast. I was pleasantly surprised, however, as Boyle manages to play with time and use montage in a way that keeps the action going without the film ever feeling stilted or regimented. Most of the scenes, particularly the ones depicting the chaos and momentum of Mumbai (population nineteen million), crackle with raw energy. The performances, especially Patel’s, feel authentic and unselfconscious. The screenplay, adapted by Simon Beaufoy (The Fully Monty) from Vikas Swarup’s novel, makes few missteps and clips along at a good pace. The highlight, however, is probably the score, arranged by famous Indian composer A.R. Rahman and featuring the work of British hip-hop artist M.I.A. As soon as I got home I bought the soundtrack off of iTunes and if you have even a passing interest in Indian pop you should, too. It’s not too often that I see a film that instills me with joy without leaving me feeling manipulated, but Slumdog Millionaire succeeded in spades; it is weet without being saccharine and emotional without being maudlin. For a taste, check out this clip below:

Presidential Roles

In celebration of President Elect Obama, Celluloitering presents this list of actors who have filled the role of President of the United States. Many different actors and actresses have filled the role over the years. In my opinion, having a versatile group of actors portraying fictional U.S. Presidents helped pave the way in American minds for more diversity in politics. Rather than cementing the image of the 50-something white man as our President, some modern films and television programs chose to cast someone different in the role and, in their own small way, plant a seed of tolerance in audience's minds.

Deep Impact (1998)
Let's face it--Morgan Freeman is an obvious choice to play the President. He has gravitas, intelligence, warmth, dignity--it's a pity all that good stuff was wasted in the terminally silly Deep Impact.


The Man (1972)
James Earl Jones plays President Douglass Dilman, the first African American President who ends up in office when the President dies and VP declines office. It takes an accident to get Jones into office and by the end of The Man's thoughtful and often painful analysis we see that the U.S. in 1972 is far from willingly electing an African American President.


Air Force One (1997)
Glenn Close plays the Vice President who fills in as Acting President in this action thriller. Personally, I think McCain would have garnered more votes with Close as his running mate.


Fail Safe (2000)
Richard Dreyfuss plays the President in the Cold War drama Fail Safe in which the President and his advisors debate a full-scale nuclear attack on the Soviet Union. We've never had a Jewish President and, after doing a little research, I found that there haven't been many Jewish actors playing the President either. Dreyfuss is one, and not a surprising choice--he has certainly filled his share of blowhard politician roles (e.g. The American President, W.).

24
For all of it's pro-torture, anti-civil liberties messages, 24 is pretty awesome for casting Dennis Haysbert as President David Palmer. Palmer was calm, cool, full of integrity and willing to listen--all things we sorely needed from our real President for the past eight years. President Palmer helped people get used to the idea of a Black president.



The West Wing
The West Wing scores double points, first for casting a latino actor (Martin Sheen, AKA Ramon Antonio Gerard Estevez) as President Josiah Bartlet, and then for casting Jimmy Smits (who is half Puerto Rican, half Surinamese, all Brooklyn) as Mexican American (and Catholic) President Matt Santos. According to West Wing writer and producer Eli Attie, Santos is based on Barack Obama.

Fat Girl (2001)

There’s a lot that can be said about Fat Girl, Catherine Breillat’s 2001 film about female adolescence, sexuality and rivalry. On the surface, it is a coming of age story that examines sister dynamics. On another level, however, Fat Girl is a film about self-loathing and tragic consequences it can have on young women.

The story concerns two sisters, beautiful 15-year-old Elena (Roxane Mesquida) and pudgy 12-year-old Anaïs (Anaïs Reboux) who go on vacation with their mother (Arsinée Khanjian). Elena constants seeks (and receives) attention from men while her sister is forced to make up fantasy suitors and seek solace in double portions. Elena eventually attracts a lothario law student (Libero De Rienzo) who takes her virginity after he promises to marry her. Of ourse she is found out and he disappears; everyone, including the audience and Anaïs knows that the young man is only after sex and nothing more. However, Elena feels pressured to have sex and then feels ashamed of her sexual desire and choice to have sex for the first time.

We sense that Elena has deep insecurities that lead her to constantly need male attention and that her sex appeal and sexual habits lead to a crisis of self-confidence and a self hatred that only becomes apparent at the end of the film. Anaïs, on the other hand, hates herself for not being as pretty as Elena and longs for intimacy while dreading the powerlessness that appears to accompany many young women’s journey into sexual relationships. She sees her sister’s resistance worn down by hours of bedside courtship until, finally, after she hears the words “I love you,” Elena gives in to the pressure. Her sex scenes, incloving anal, oral and eventually, vaginal intercourse, are exhausting and painful to watch. I felt like Anaïs (who is forced to watch all of this because she shares the room with Elena), who cries because, we suspect, she is both disappointed in her sister’s weakness (having sex when she doesn’t yet feel ready) and disappointed that she doesn’t have anyone to try to cajole her. If you think that whole scenario sounds uncomfortable, wait for the ending—It is a disturbing and unexpected solution to the character’s problems.

Religulous

Make no mistake, Bill Maher's Religulous is not really a documentary. A documentary is supposed to show us some aspect of real life. Rather, this is a stand-up routine with great scenery. Maher travels the world, showing us various sects, some major, some fringe, and pokes fun at faith. He interviews member of Jews for Jesus, Mormons, Catholics, Evangelicals, Muslims, Satanists, and Hasidic Jews. He even throws in a piece about Scientology. But most of the people Maher interviews are not the sharpest tools in the shed; one gets the feeling that he picked them for his film just to be certain he could make them look stupid. One wonders what would have happened if he had sat down with a learned theologian like Mona West or Peter Gomes.

Maher has some great moments, such as his manic Scientology preaching in Hyde Park, London, or his attempt to "meet the Pope." Although Religulous is directed by Larry Charles of Borat fame, Maher is hardly Sacha Baron Cohen when it comes to his on screen pranks and antics. He is more like a bemused Devil's Advocate, questioning his interviewees faith in his smart-ass way. His interviewing techniques alienate some but completely expose others; he gets a snazzy but crooked television preacher to spout off about how "Jesus dressed very well." He gets Arkansas Senator Mark Pryor to accept the premise that religion is a remnant of the Bronze Age, to which Pryor defends his evangelical faith by replying "Well, you don't have to pass an IQ test to be in the Senate." It is painful in parts to watch, such as when Maher interviews a "recovered gay man," who insists on hugging Maher, to which Maher replies "you don't have a hard on right now, do you?"

In the end, Maher's smart-assery leaves a bit of a bad taste in your mouth. If you already agree with Maher, you will undoubtedly laugh or cringe accordingly and leave feeling validated. If you don't already agree with Maher, you will probably not question your world view after seeing this film. It's a shame, really, because Maher makes some great points about the detriments of religion on our modern world. When he looks us in the eye and espouses the Freudian sentiment "Grow up or die," it's hard not to feel like he's just preaching to the choir.

Burn After Reading

There are two kinds of Coen brothers films: grand, sweeping epics like No Country for Old Men,, Fargo and Oh Brother Where Art Thou (to name a few) and lighter, throwaway films like The Ladykillers, Intolerable Cruelty and The Hudsucker Proxy. Their latest, Burn After Reading, definitely qualifies as a throwaway—but that’s not to say it isn’t funny.

Burn After Reading is a spy movie about one of the Coens’ favorite topics: a crime gone horrible and comically awry. An exiled CIA agent named Osborne Cox (John Malkovich) loses a CD with his memoirs on it. A lonely, self loathing gym attendant (Francis McDormand) finds it and thinks it’s classified information. She and her dim but enthusiastic coworker (Brad Pitt) decide to blackmail Malkovich in order to pay for the plastic surgery that McDormand is convinced she needs in order to find love. She manages to find lust with a U.S. Marshall (George Clooney) who cheats on his wife with anything that moves, including Osbourne Cox’s icy wife (Tilda Swinton). Of course, the blackmail goes wrong, things spiral out of control and everyone ends up worse off than they began.

What really saves Burn After Reading from being a flop is the performances. Clooney reigns in the goofiness enough to be funny without turning into a human cartoon; Pitt manages to channel the golden streaks, enthusiasm and naivete of golden retriever; Swinton is the most hatable she’s ever been; Malkovich is crusty and whisky-soaked as the conceited, patrician Osbourne Cox. In the end, the whole thing turns out to be a big shaggy dog story with liberal streak of nihilism. Althought the film has some dark touches, the directorial touch is light enough to make it work. I thought it was pretty entertaining, with splashes of brilliance. While it doesn’t really break any new ground, it’s a fun way to spend ninety minutes of your time.

Hole in The Wall May Be A Portal Into Hell

The idea of Fox’s new game show, Hole in The Wall is a simple one: You stand on a platform as a giant styrofoam wall slides towards you. There is a hole is the wall. If you can fit through the hole in the wall, you win. The show, we are reminded by the smarmy, unctuous host, is based on a “hit Japanese game show,” a fact that is suppose to keep us from noticing that the entire thing is incredibly stupid. We have truly reached the bottom of the barrel; this is 1 step above the game shows from the dystopic game show in Cyril Kornbluth’s The Marching Morons

Three people, all unfortunately proportioned and shoehorned into sliver lamé jumpsuits, line up on each team to compete for who can fit through the hole. If they fail, they fall into the chartreuse pool below. I came in on episode four in which six shrieking gorgons get soaked as punishment for not conforming to size norms. How dare they.

First up is Portia, who, we are told numerous times, happens to be the daughter of Fred "Rerun" Berry from the 1970’s sitcom What’s Happening? Apparently, Rerun’s genetics, or perhaps simply the shame of being Rerun’s daughter, have gotten the better of Portia, who stands 4’11’’ and weighs 320 pounds (we know this because Fox displays her stats in big, pastel digits next to her). She has spunk, however, and she greets the oncoming wall with admirable alacrity. The crazy-yoga-ballerina cutout shape in the wall is obviously too small for poor portly Portia who tumbles, vanquished into the neon ooze. Next up is the fat girl on the other team, 270 pound Beth. She makes a better effort than Portia, but alas, her hips are too wide.

The Japanese version, referred to as Brain Wall or “Human Tetris” on Youtube, is almost identical, save it features smaller players and more difficult shapes:


Indeed, Fox might as well just call the American version of the show “Is Your Ass Too Big?” What apparently started out as a test of spatial reasoning has turned into a simple test of girth. It is also a test of my patience. I hated I Survived A Japanese Game Show, another recent Japanese-inspired program that can be seen on ABC, because I found it to be silly and dismissive of Japanese culture. Hole in The Wall, however, is really just a testament to how dumb we are getting all over the globe. Now I realize there is a counter argument to this, namely, “why is it okay to have a game show testing random trivia but not spatial reasoning?” That’s a good argument, since both are important measures of intelligence. The program I just watched, however, only appeared to measure one thing: the willingness to humiliate one’s self for ephemeral television exposure. And I got a chilly feeling about why people watch this in America—they like to see someone who is even heavier or clumsier than they are fall down and get hurt. Make no mistake, the people on this episode of this show were all overweight, and I don’t think that was an accident. They failed almost every challenge, falling consistently, screaming and flailing around in the pool like stuck pigs. This is how far our schadenfreude has taken us—through a hole in the wall that may very well lead us straight to hell, full of Cenobytes with puzzle boxes threatening to tear my soul apart. Don't make me go through that hole, Fox; I don't want to fit through that hole. What's next? How about Coverage, the show where Americans compete for health insurance? Or maybe Hammer on a Table in which you have to sit at a table and hit yourself on the hand with a hammer until they give you money?

Why Was This Popular? The Bank Job

Here at Celluloitering, I have decided to start a series called “Why Was This Popular?” in which I examine films that miraculously garnered critical praise despite numerous flaws and sometimes outright suckage. Have you ever seen a film that everyone else loved but that you thought was terrible? And you wondered what you were missing, what was wrong with your interpretation? You are not alone. If there are any popular films that you hate, leave a comment or e-mail them to me at mmcashan@gmail.com and I will feature them in the blog.

I was inspired to start this series by the 2008 film The Bank Job a dreadful heist picture directed by Roger Donaldson (Species, Dante’s Peak). Donaldson is not a bad director, just mundanely competent; and his films are only as good as his material. For example, he made the delightful 2005 film The World’s Fastest Indian in which Anthony Hopkins breaks the land speed record on his old souped-up Indian motorcycle. Then again, he also directed the 1994 remake of the Getaway which was never worth remaking in the first place. The Bank Job’s plot is as vague and pedestrian as it’s title. Former hood Terry Leather (yes, that's right, his name is Leather), played with indifference by Jason Statham (Snatch), and a congeries of hastily sketched ne'er-do-wells played by people I don’t particularly care about are hired by government officials to break into a London bank and steal some nasty pictures of Princess Margaret engaged in a steamy tryst. The pictures belong to Michael X, a black militant who is using the pictures to blackmail his way out of a prison sentence. A good heist picture requires that you be able to root for somebody (usually the thieves), but The Bank Job doesn’t provide well developed characters or character arcs. Furthermore, they aren’t particultly subtle or clever thieves, and their burglary is a variegated tapestry of incompetence. The criminally slow first 40 minutes is only made worse by a second half that is too fast, too choppy and too disorganized to follow. Also, a I the only one who noticed that the black political radicals in this film are depicted in the most egregiously stereotyped way possible? What little character development we see involves smoking weed and bedding white women (mindless, nattering white women devoid of personality, no less). The real Michael X, who called himself the “Britain’s Archbisop of Violence” and who was jailed for publically calling for the execution of interracial couples, was a despicable character—but at least he was a character. The film’s Michael X, played by Peter de Jersey, is a lazy, poorly drawn afterthought. Like all the other characters in the film, he is flat, lifeless and completely uninteresting to me. I don't care what happens to any of these people because the film sets them up to be two-dimensional pawns in a needlessly convoluted game of chess.

For a film based on a seemingly fascinating real-life case, The Bank Job is really very boring. I think we should begin clearly marking movies featuring Saffron Burrows because everything she touches turns to absute shite. And as much as I love Jason Statham, he’s no great thespian. Perhaps if the film was been made by David Mamet and starred Daniel Craig we would have had something. As it stands, the best thing about The Bank Job is the awesome leather jacket worn by Statham in most of the scenes.

Why it was popular: Awesome leather jacket, gratuitous tit shots, cool accents

Tropic Thunder (2008)

I was dubious about Tropic Thunder when previews first appeared. Would it just be a big budget Delta Farce? Would Robert Downey Jr. in black face be reminiscent of C. Thomas Howell in Soul Man? Thankfully, the answer to both of these questions is “no.”

Tropic Thunder is a daring satire of film actors, film makers and war movies all rolled up in one crude, politically incorrect package. The roman à clef plot is a clever one: four actors go to southeast Asia to make a Vietnam film, get lost in the jungle and end up fighting in a real conflict while thinking they are making a movie. These actors are Tugg Speedman (Ben Stiller), a has-been action star, Jeff Portnoy (Jack Black) a drug addled scatological comic who wants to be taken seriously, Alpa Chino (Brandon T. Jackson ) a product-hocking rapper turned actor, and Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey Jr.) a five-time Oscar winner and method actor who undergoes surgery in order to portray an African American soldier. All the while, studios executives, agents, an explosives expert (Danny McBride) and a screenwriter (Nick Nolte) scramble around trying to figure out what to do about their missing all star cast.

Tropic Thunder begins with fake previews for films starring Alpa Chino, Kirk Lazarus, Jeff Portnoy and Tugg Speedman. One of those previews, Satan’s Alley, a drama featuring a forbidden monastic love affair set to the tune of “Enigma,” is so hilarious, it almost outshines the main feature. The trailers also serve a purpose, introducing the main characters in a creative way without painful, boring exposition. The film moves quickly and lightly from point A to point Z thanks to the great screenplay by Justin Theroux, Etan Cohen and Ben Stiller. For every joke that falls flat there are three jokes that work, which isn’t bad for an animal comedy filled with farts, blackface and gags featuring the mentally disabled. Does the movie have some incredibly inappropriate moments? Sure. But what great satire doesn’t? I am sure some people will feel uncomfortable with Downey Jr.’s character, but I think that’s a knee-jerk reaction. Kirk Lazarus and his crazy surgery, especially when juxtaposed with Alpa Chino, the real African American character, pokes great fun not just at method actors but at Hollywood’s tendency to cast whites in the roles of minorities. I loved Downey Jr.’s performance; it made me want to stand up and cheer. Equally hilarious is Jack Black’s character of Jeff Portnoy whose slow, unexpected heroin jones in the jungle lead to hilarious complications. Finally, Tom Cruise, as the truly despicable studio head, serves as the film’s crowning comedic achievement. Okay, I never thought I would ever write that about Tom Cruise. I’m still not giving any money to the Church of Scientology.

Celluloitering on Under Survellance

Check out Kevin Fullam's show Under Surveillance this week, where he and I discuss Time Travel in television and film!
Under Surveillance

And just out of curiosity, what are some of your favorite time travel movies? Please post comments with your favorites!

The Dark Knight (2008)

The Dark Knight is not exactly a lightweight summer blockbuster. At 152 minutes, the film is part action movie, part police procedural and part morality play. It is also everything that a Batman movie is supposed to be: dark, funny, scary and entertaining.

The film begins with the Joker (played with grungy, terrifying glee by the late Heath Ledger), knocking over a mob bank. His aim is not to get rich, but to piss off as many crime bosses as possible and then offer up his services as an assassin-for-hire. The Batman, he points out, is the real fly in their ointment. He’s right, as Batman (Christian Bale) and Lieutenant James Gordon (Gary Oldman) are planning to bring down the mob by tracking marked bills stored in mafia banks around the city. Of course, their plan for tying that money to specific big-time criminals involves a not-so-legal extradition of a mob accountant (Chin Han). Their shady dealings are scrubbed up and sold to the public by “white knight” district attorney Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart), who opts to prosecute all the mobsters that proudly hold Gotham in the palms of their greasy hands. Batman is a Harvey Dent supporter, believing that he is a hero for the people that he himself can never be. That support is tainted, however, by the fact that Harvey is dating his ex-girlfriend Rachel Dawes (played by Maggie Gyllenhaal, a welcome reprieve from the wooden Katie Holmes).

The Dark Knight is a dark film, indeed; a filthy odyssey into the worst aspects of human, punctuated by sudden, unspeakable acts of violence. Dent, the man who is supposed to serve as a hero, becomes the villain Two Face, resorting to his own brand of randomarchical justice. The Real Hero, Batman, retreats as his public turns on him. The Dark Knight is extremely nihilistic, constantly jabbing you in the ribs and daring you to look for a silver lining to life’s dark clouds. In the end, the film struggles to demonstrate that the world is still worth protecting; why does Batman still care about the hopeless denizens of Gotham City?

There is also a strong political streak in The Dark Knight. The Joker, a criminal whose acts strike innocent people at random and follow no logical course, represents Terrorism. Batman’s response to Terrorism—a computer that monitors ever citizen’s cellular phones—is a little bit too much like Homeland Security’s answer to our post 9/11 society. It’s not hard to see how Batman could become real metaphor for Cowboy Diplomacy. Like the most recent James Bond incarnation, he is a character who exists outside of the law, for better or for worse, and because he is crusading against “evil,” his vigilante tactics are considered to be “good.” Of course, being a superhero is never that easy, and the final moments of the film acknowledge that not every cowboy gets to ride off into the sunset.

All in all, director Christopher Nolan has set the bar for comic films very high with The Dark Knight. It is a superhero film with the gritty realism of Heat and the epic feeling of Gangs of New York. I barely thought about the fact that yes, I was watching a man run around in a rubber suit. Of course, The Dark Knight is less focused on the character of Batman and much more focused on the character of the Joker. Ledger, with his twitchy, lip-licking, serpentine performance, gets a lot more screen time than your average villain. I got the feeling that Nolan couldn’t bear to cut a single moment of Ledger’s work, allowing him to blithely spin his darkly comic venom in scene after scenery-chewing scene. While the film is about forty minutes too long (The Two Face origin story, beginning two-thirds of the way through the film, could well have been the end of The Dark Knight, allowing a third installment to pick up where it let off), it’s worth the blood pooling in your legs to see as much of Heath Ledger’s Joker as possible. Mr. Ledger was a true professional and a definitive Joker; he will be greatly missed.

The amount I would pay to see this film: $10! And I did. It was so worth it.

Blind Picks from Netflix: Margot at The Wedding

I rented Noah Baumbach's Margot at The Wedding because I adored his humane, tragic 2005 family drama The Squid and The Whale. Like The Squid and The Whale, Margot has a very strong cast, with Nicole Kidman and Jennifer Jason Lee wringing all they can out of the script as the eponymous Margot and her estranged sister Pauline.

Acclaimed author Margot (Kidman) and her androgynous son Claude (Zane Pais) return to the family home to see her sister Pauline (Lee) get married to the oafish Malcolm (Jack Black). She brings with her a cloud of bitter poison that taints the entire affair. She hates her sister's taste in men, hates the man she's having an affair with, and hates herself for a variety of reasons. She also has unbelievably poor boundaries with her young son, her neighbors, and pretty much anyone who can stand being in a room with her for more than five minutes. Plot-wise, this is about all we get; Margot at The Wedding is a character study that focuses on family dysfunction without any notable plot points, conflicts or climaxes.

I found Margot at The Wedding to be unbearably pretentious, humourless and utterly without purpose. With its washed out colors, long, drawn out scenes and forced dialogue, it almost seems like a parody of an artsy Sundance film. Almost, but not quite; you can tell that Baumbach is taking his character study all too seriously. Pauline and Margot are so thoroughly bricked up in their ivory towers that nothing can drag them down to earth with the rest of humanity. Maybe that's to Baumbach's credit, though; he accurately depicts the Literary Genius in its natural habitat. When you hear Margot laughing about how her older sister was raped as a child by her horse trainer, you start to get a picture of what Joyce Carol Oates' or Anne Sexton's family reunions might have been like.

The Happening (2008)

M. Night Shyamalan wants to remind up that It’s not nice to fool Mother Nature.

I went to M. Night. Shyamalan’s The Happening with high hopes; after the abysmal, ridiculous Lady in The Water, I figured The Happening, a B-movie with an environmentalist message, would provide more than enough material for a gleefully snide critical dissection. Alas, The Happening is not bad enough to warrant such a treatment. It’s not, however, very good, either.

Here’s the plot in a nutshell: In the Northeast United States, a chemical is released into the air that causes people to become disoriented and then suicidal. A science teacher Elliot (Mark Wahlberg), his wife Alma (Zoe Deschanel), friend Julian (John Leguizamo) and his daughter Jess (Ashlyn Sanchez) all flee Philadelphia because they fear a terrorist attack. Unbeknownst to them, the danger, created by Mother Nature herself, follows them to their rustic hideout.

There are a few key things wrong with The Happening. Shyamalan clearly set out to create a modern day incarnation of Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. He picks an unlikely villain (nature), pits it against a small group of unsuspecting victims and then ends the conflict with no explanation. I have to say that I really like The Birds and I thought it provided a good scare. However, I’ve always found birds to be rather sinister looking, what with their prehistoric frames, sinewy claws, pointed beaks and beady eyes. They just look nefarious to me. The toxins released by plants in The Happening, however, did not scare me. With his lurching, jibbering suicide victims Mr. Shyamalan evokes both Invasion of the Body Snatchers and Night of the Living Dead yet he never achieves the intensity of either because he is self-consciously attempting to serve up a “B-movie.” We see a man lie down in front of a lawn mower and get his face chopped up; we see a man feed himself to a lion at the zoo; we even see a woman stab herself in the neck with a chopstick; all of these stage blood-soaked deaths come off as cartoonish and laughable. There’s nothing wrong with a horror movie being funny, but it can be problematic when the humor—intentional or otherwise—undermines the suspense of the film. If it was Mr. Shyamalan’s intention to create a strictly campy B picture, why waste the rich, sweeping cinematography by Tak Fujimoto (Philadelphia , The Silence of the Lambs)? The photography sets you up to expect a thrilling suspense film and then the writing leaves you with a half-baked Saturday morning serial installment.

But, as I said before, it’s really not all bad. The strongest parts of the movie are in the beginning, before the stilted characters have worn out their welcome and while the plot still seems novel. Mr. Wahlberg, a gifted actor, doesn’t have much to do as Elliot. He does manage to squeeze a remarkable amount of humor and charm out of a tepid, one-dimensional character, however, Ms. Deschanel (Elf, Almost Famous , Weeds) is one of the more believable people in the film as the quirky Alma. Poor John Leguizamo is just plain wooden as Julian. He is not to blame—the fault, dear Brutus, lies not within the stars but within the script. If Mr. Shyamalan ever reads this (which I doubt, but I can always dream) I hope he takes heed of the advice I am about to dispense: stop writing your own scripts. You can be an auteur and still let other people work on your scripts. Stanley Kubrick worked with other writers and used novels and plays as source material. Hitchcock knew that writing wasn’t his strong suit so he focused on what he was good at. If you don’t stop spreading your genius so thin you will keep on making mediocre pictures until the day you finally lapse into obscurity. Or you could hire a real screenwriter and compromise your vision just a teensy bit. Think about it M. Night.

Blind Picks from Netflix: El Orfanato (2007)

It’s been a while since a film made me check all my closets before going to bed. It’s also been a while since a film made me out-and-out bawl like a little kid. Antonio Bayona’s supernatural thriller El Orfanato managed to achieve both in one fell swoop.

The plot is fairly simple: Laura (Belén Rueda), and her successful doctor husband (Fernando Cayo) buy the orphanage that used to serve as her childhood home. Laura has fond memories of the place and she intends to turn it into a home for disabled children. Her own child, Simon (Roger Príncep, otherwise known as the Cutest Child Ever), was born HIV+ and needs extensive care of his own. At the home, Simon finds friendship with an imaginary boy. This friendship begins to frighten Laura when she begins to wonder if the figment is all in Simon’s head—or the ghost of one of her former playmates.

The plot may sound pretty pedestrian so far; I was unimpressed with the set up of the film, thinking to myself “this is going to be like every other haunted-house-with-cute-kid-who-sees-dead-people movie.” Then Simon disappears, a mysterious nurse with Mr. Magoo glasses shows up and the plot gets much more interesting.

The film is well acted and strongly directed. Rueda is a beautiful and phenomenal actress who has done a lot of work on Spanish television but who is only starting to build a fan base in the United States. Nine-year-old Roger Príncep, with his transfixing gaze and expressive face, is clearly built for a lifetime on the big screen. Bayona’s direction skillfully uses all of the great spooky movie elements: long menacing stairways, hallways, jarring close-ups, warped camera angles and several shocking moments that will scare you out of your seat. While it has been said that El Orfanato is similar in tone to Alejandro Amenábar’s frightening 2001 filmLos Otros, but I found El Orfanato to be both less surreal and more human. I could relate to Laura, so much so that by the twist in the end of the film I was a complete mess. And unlike Los Otros, I did not see the end of El Orfanato coming. For those who want a creepy, atmospheric horror drama to rent, check out El Orfanato. Just don’t rent it on Mother’s Day like I did—you’ll end up surrounded by wadded up Kleenex.

Watch the trailer:

Iron Man (2008)

Unlike his contemporary Marvel characters Spiderman, the X-Men and the Fantastic Four, Iron Man has never ranked as one of America’s premier superheroes. Similarly, Robert Downey Jr., though praised by critics for his work in such films as Chaplin, Restoration and Zodiac, has never been counted as a great actor or blockbuster superstar. In addition, Iron Man's alter ego, Tony Stark, is deeply troubled and an alcoholic--and we all know about Mr. Downey Jr.'s struggles with addiction. It seems perfect, then, that he would be cast as this flawed and underappreciated comic book character.

Iron Man originally appeared in Tales of Suspense #39 in March of 1963. The character was originally created by Stan Lee, who was interested by eccentric billionaire Howard Hughes and wanted to create a “businessman superhero.” Thus he created Tony Stark, a weapons developer who gets a taste of his own creations when he is kidnapped by Communist insurgents in Vietnam using weapons made by his company. He builds a metal suit with the aid of fellow prisoner and physicist Ho Yinsen. Stark breaks free and returns home a changed man.

The film version of Iron Man brilliantly tailors the origin story for modern times: Vietnam becomes Afghanistan, the Viet Cong become the Taliban, Ho Yinsen becomes an Afghan named Yensen, and virtually everything about the story remains the same. After all, we are still in an arms race, we are still selling weapons to the enemy under the table, and we are, yet again, stuck in a quagmire overseas. Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) is a brilliant industrialist with a penchant for scotch and a weakness for beautiful reporters. During a routine missile test in Afghanistan he is kidnapped by a group called The Ten Rings, who brandish his own weapons at him and tell him that he must build a missile for them or face a gruesome death. Stark is already facing death, as his initial kidnapping left him with pieces of shrapnel next to his heart. He designs a mechanism called the “arc reactor” which powers both an electromagnetic pacemaker to keep the shrapnel from entering his heart, and the giant mechanical suit that he builds in the relative isolation of his cave prison. He escapes and is rescued by his military friend Colonel Rhodes (Terrence Howard).

After his return, Stark makes an announcement at a press conference that he doesn’t want to be a war profiteer anymore and that his company will no longer manufacture weapons. Hi s business partner Obadiah Stane (a terrifyingly bald and bearded Jeff Bridges) disapproves and freezes Tony out of the company, telling him he needs therapy for post-traumatic stress disorder. Stark takes the opportunity to perfect his suit and fight the Ten Rings, one small desert town at a time.

One of the best things about Iron Man is the way it handles Stark’s origin story. Most superhero films are required to spend half the movie just setting up how the hero got his powers in the first place. The audience has to wait to sit through the set up in order to see our hero fight the villain. In Iron Man, the film’s chief focus is on Tony Stark’s creation of the Iron Man Suit with less screen time given to villains. This origin story is a great adventure in itself—we have explosions, escapes and several very funny sequences showing how difficult it is to pilot test a robotic suit in the first place. There is no lumbering back-story filled broken hearts and childhood trauma. Rather, the origin is action from start to finish. The screenplay by Mark Fergus, Hawk Ostby, Art Marcum and Matt Holloway wisely avoids long monologues and expository paragraphs. They show us, rather than telling us, what kind of person Tony Stark is. The final line of the film, in all of its subversive glory, sums it all up—but you’ll have to go see it for yourself.

The amount of money I would pay to see this film: $8

Funny Games (2007, 1997)

Funny Games is a film about the way the media deal with violence. It is also a scathing analysis of how we, the audience, clamor for brutality while still expecting a happy ending. By the end of this piece of "torture porn," however, it is the audience that is taken hostage by the film—a film that leaves us with no possibility of redemption, justification or even an explanation for its contents.

Funny Games begins with lovely Ann (Naomi Watts), her devoted husband George (Tim Roth), and their twelve-year-old son, Georgie (Devon Gearhart), all driving to their summer home somewhere on the East Coast. They are just settling in when some “friends” of their neighbors, awkward Peter (Brady Corbet) and glib Paul (Michael Pitt) invite themselves over to borrow some eggs. The two young men begin to manipulate Ann and George with their polite yet creepy ways. Before long they turn violent and take the family hostage for no other reason than “entertainment.” Peter and Paul (who remind me of Alex and Dim in A Clockwork Orange) also refer to themselves as Beavis and Butt-head and Tom and Jerry. In this way they identify themselves as entertainment archetypes: a pair of mischief-makers packaged for mass consumption.

There is something you should know about the 2007 version of Funny Games: it is an exact replica of the original. This is not like Gus Van Sant’s perverse and artistically bankrupt “shot-for-shot” remake of Psycho in which new subtexts and twists are added to the original story. No, with a few very negligable exceptions, the 2007 version of Funny Games is an exact replica, from the Mise-en-scène to the dialogue. Even the raucous thrash metal in the opening credits is exactly the same. This leads me to ask the question: why? Why remake one’s own film in the same exact way for an American audience? I believe it was made to address a pair of particularly American conceits: an obsession with torture and violence and the substitution of film entertainment for reality.

Normally such a film would immediately ally us with the family, the victims; the people who are being needlessly tortured. The film anticipates this and undercuts it by allowing Paul to break the “fourth wall” and communicate with the audience. Paul taunts us, asking us if we are betting that the family will survive. Since Paul speaks to us we naturally feel a stronger relationship with him—in fact we become co-conspirators in the torture. Later on in the film Paul states, “A film is reality. If you can see it it’s really happening.” This statement is the closest thing we get to a motivation for their actions. As consumers of mass media we have reached the point at which we cannot tell the difference between film and reality. The violence on television that we view for entertainment is the same violence that these two perpetrate….for their entertainment.

Top Chef: Chicago!

Top Chef is back for its fourth season of variably qualified judges, choppy editing and shameless product placement. This season of Top Chef also presents us with the seemingly most talented crop of chefs yet, and the next dozen episodes should prove to be mesmerizing for foodies everywhere.

For those who don’t know, I’m a lover of movies and television but also an avid cook and Food Network addict. I am especially excited because this season of Top Chef takes place in my current home, Chicago. The Top Chefs shop at my Whole Foods! I have no idea why it excites me, but I get some small thrill from knowing that they’ve obtained ricotta salata from my cheese merchant. But enough of that, let’s get on with my summary of how Top Chef, Season 4 promises to shape up so far:

*This season features two chefs who, in addition to competing against each other for the win, are also a lesbian couple from San Francisco. You can say it’s a gimmick, but I don’t care. Bring on the sniping! I want to see a catfight in a cloud of potato starch!

*This season also features an extremely unctuous and Botoxified Rocco DiSpirito smarming it up, now with 150% more bitchiness. I know you’re a genius and what not, Rocco, but we still haven’t forgiven you for The Restaurant, you petulant muppet.

*The first episode featured the chefs at Uno’s making deep dish pizza (yawn), but the next episode (airing 3/19/08 on Bravo at 9PM Central) features the chefs cooking farmers' market ingredients at the Lincoln Park Zoo!

*Mark, the contestant from New Zealand, is totally adorable and, get this, he cooks with Marmite! .

*Owner and chef of the Chicago gourmet Mexican food staple Frontera Grill Rick Bayless will be judging one of the challenges! If you haven't had their Chilpachole de Camarones, walk, do not run to the North Loop and remember: they don't take dinner reservations so have a huge margarita at the bar while you wait for your table.

*I’m pretty sure Padma Lakshmi has a few too many benzos rattling around in her oversized Hermes bag. That woman is a little too mellow, like, barely alive mellow.

*One of the later challenges (leaked by my friends at the Television Without Pity comment boards) requires the chefs to crate a full entree with only five ingredients. Goodbye candied peppercorn coated foie gras with edamame dumplings and truffled haricot verts, hello three bean soup!

George Romero's Diary of the Dead

George Romero's Diary of the Dead, Romero's fifth installment in his Dead series, is more giggle-inducing satire than powerful horror picture. In fact, I laughed so hard in the theatre that I embarrassed the person I was with ("hey, hey, it's not THAT funny," "YES IT IS!! AH HA HA HA HA!"). The film starts with a group of University of Pittsburgh film students (a cast of relative unknowns) making a horror movie in the woods. The director is doing it for a class project, but he really wants to be a documentary filmmaker. As it turns out, he gets to be both when the Pennsylvania countryside is overrun by flesh eating zombies. The film crew drives across the state in a large RV, braving militias, national guards gone awol and, of course, the sauntering jaundiced undead.

Diary of the Dead manages to borrow the best elements of all the other Dead flicks: the satirical tone of the original Dawn of the Dead, the eerie countryside setting and racial commentary of Night of the Living Dead and the criticism of military and policial machinations seen in Day of the Dead. Diary of the Dead really tackles the topic of mass media, however, focusing on the political power of bloggers/youtubers and touting both the value and detriment of technology in an apocolyptic setting. Like Cloverfield, Diary of the Dead is shot on hand-held digital. Romero mixes it up, however, using second and third cameras (after all, this is a film crew lost in the woods, not just one guy with a camera phone) as well as video surveillance systems to switch up the angles and persepectives. Hitchcock pointed out that suspense often hinges on the audience knowing something that the stars do not, and the use of the surveillance cameras really utilizes that concept for maximum results. Romero's approach provides 1st, 2nd and 3rd person points of view, allowing the audience the greatest amount of suspense while simultaneously commenting on the ubiquity of video coverage in modern culture.

There is one big problem with Diary of the Dead that keeps it from being great: its tone vacillates between horror and comedy in an incongruous and unintegrated way. Perhaps if Romero had just thrown himself into making a comedy (like Robert Rodriguez in his film Planet Terror) it would have worked. Scenes like the mute Amish farm killing zombies with a sickle, or the zombie in a mummy costume, or the undead family swimming in the pool...these are pure comedy. Rather than sticking with laughs and social satire, however, Romero throws in an annoying "I told you so" expositive narration that feels very forced and tacked on. Had Romero focused more on the horror aspects with a few moments of comedy sprinkled it it could have also been great. Unfortunately, Romero just doesn't seem to achieve the balance of comedy in Diary of the Dead that he managed in Dawn of the Dead or The Crazies. Still, Diary of the Dead is worth checking out at your local indie theatre, if only for the chance to see an Amish farmer kill undead motorists with a pitchfork.

The amount I would pay to see this movie: $6.50

Cloverfield Is More Than Another Blair Witch Project Redux

Cloverfield is being touted as "Godzilla meets Blair Witch." However, Cloverfield is a little more sophisticated than Blair Witch and a little less monster-centric than Godzilla. Cloverfield is not about the monster or where it comes from; it is a story about how people respond to catastrophes.

The film begins as the screening of a secret For Your Eyes Only style tape branded "Property of the United States Do Not Duplicate" pertaining to U.S. Case Designate "Cloverfield" found in an area "formerly known as Central Park". So right off the bat, we know that we are in for lots of destruction. The tape, it turns out, is the home video belonging to Rob Hawkins (Michael Stahl-David), a successful young man who just received a job offer as a corporate vice-president in Japan. In the home video, we see Rob and his latest conquest, Beth (Odette Yustman), who is sitting in her gorgeous Columbus Circle apartment yammering to Rob about how she’s never been to Coney Island. Seriously? Jeez, you have to get out of Manhattan, lady.

The video continues but this time with a new cameraman, Hud (T.J Miller) who is accidentally taping over the trip to Coney Island while filming Rob at his goodbye party. At this point, the home-video format is milked for all it’s worth in order to develop the characters. Twenty minutes go by and no monsters are in sight. Indeed, all we see is a group of sweet but somewhat self-absorbed yuppies obsessed with immortalizing themselves on film. Then the lights go out, the building shakes and everyone runs up to the roof to see what’s going on. For a long period of the film, all of the action happens from a distance, with clouds of dust, collapsing buildings and screaming looters only hinting at the horrors waiting in Midtown. Rob, Hug, Lily (Jessica Lucas) and Marlena (Lizzy Caplan) all decide to run the opposite way from everyone else and head to Columbus Circle to save Beth from her almost certain death. Along the way, they fight off small, crab-like monsters, swarms of rats and flying shrapnel, only to be grabbed by a group of army men a la E.T and stuck in plastic tents. In the end, however, Rob gets to Beth and….well, I wouldn’t want to spoil it.

Comparisons to 9/11 are inevitable, and indeed, they are necessary as it is clear that director Matt Reeves is trying to evoke the sensation of observing a terrorist attack caught on home video. Except in this case it is a mysterious 300-foot monster, not a group of suicide bombers, caught on tape. I admit it: seeing the Chrysler Building collapse got me. It upset me. And then I became self conscious about the fact that it upset me and it led me to consider how the 9/11 footage as changed the way I, and perhaps many others, view the destruction of cityscapes in movies. I remember thinking it was really cool when the aliens blew up the White House in Independence Day. Watching the destruction of lower and midtown Manhattan in Cloverfield, however, was less cool than it was eerie. I guess that all of those people who said that it would be in bad taste to destroy New York City in the movies after 9/11 were a bit short sighted. The expiration date on tiptoeing around the World Trade Center attack has officially run out, ladies and gentleman.

Perhaps the most interesting thing about Cloverfield is how it illustrates out current obsession with technology and with ourselves. Indeed the film would not exist if it were not for camcorders, picture phones and all those other gadgets we use every day to immortalize the moments of our self-important lives. Hud starts out filming a movie about Rob’s last night in New York but ends up filming a movie about the destruction of New York. His justification in the beginning is “We have to record this event because it’s important!” His justification for continuing to film is “We have to record this! It’s really important!” It would seem that in the Facebook/Youtube generation, anything you can upload—from the lonely confessions of mallrats to the brutality of war—it worth preserving as a legacy.

The amount I would pay to see this: $6

The List: Unfaithful Adaptations That Worked

Sometimes we fans foam at the mouth when a film adaptation of our favorite book strays from the source and produces a new interpretation. Some books, however, have spawned films that go in a new direction and succeed because of it. Here's Celluloitering's list of adaptations that achieved greatness by straying from the source material.

1) The Shining
Stephen King notoriously loathed Stanley Kubrick's rendition of the The Shining. Although the film is very different and Nicholson's performance veers away from King's literary depiction of Jack Torrance, the resulting film is so visually arresting that it takes on a life of its own that is completely separate from the novel. Sure, a miniseries came out later that was completely faithful, just as King wanted, but it fell flat precisely because it was too painstakingly true to the book (well, that and it stars Steven Webber of the sitcom Wings).

2) Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory
I love Roald Dahl and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory was one of my favorite books growing up. The 1971 film adaptation by Mel Stuart borrows more of its aesthetic and quirks from the psychedelic film era than from Dahl's book. It's kaleidescopic weirdness is perfect for its time, and the unexpected casting of Gene Wilder is oddly fitting.

3) Carrie
The literary character of Carrie is hardly as beautiful or ethereal as Sissy Spacek in Brian De Palma's film. Still, De Palma's changes to Stephen King's original novel all served to make Carrie more of a sympathetic monster.

4) MCCABE & MRS. MILLER
Robert Altman took the bare bones of Edmund Naughton's novel and created one of the greatest alternative "modern" westerns in film history. The unexpected soundtrack by Leonard Cohen makes it that much more awesome.

6) HIS GIRL FRIDAY
Howard Hawks' 1940 adaptation of Ben Hecht and Charles MacArthur's play The Front Page brilliantly plays with gender, making Hildy's character a woman (played by Rosalind Russell) in this romantic comedy about the newspaper business.

7) The Wizard of Oz
VIctor Fleming tweaked L. Frank Baum's novel to maximize the visual impact of The Wizard of Oz. The silver slippers of the book became ruby slippers. The often friendly flying monkeys of the book become terrifying spectres (or at least I thought so as a child) and the hammerheads and deadly desert are, due to the technological limitations of the time, edited out completely. The result may have received mixed critical reviews but today it stands as one of the most beloved early color films.

Why I Hate "The Real Housewives of Orange County"

I don't usually write informal rants but certain shows ignite my wrath. One of those rare shows is The Real Housewives of Orange County, a reality program alluding to both The O.C and Desperate Housewives featuring a bunch of "real" women living in a gated community in Orange County, California. The show touts itself as a real-life counterpart to The O.C. If anything, it is a lot closer to Nip/Tuck. The ladies on this program are as stretched, tanned and cured as the leather of their Hermes bags. In addition, they are boring. And tacky. Let's look at some of the episode descriptions. "Kimberly discusses the option of breast implants." "Kimberly is being pressured into upgrading her car." "Vicki attends her high school reunion." "Lauri puts her townhouse on the market." "Jeana and Kara consider posing in mother-daughter pictorial for Playboy." All of this excruciating analysis of the modern condition would be great if it were scripted by Edward Albee or John Guare. Sadly, however, the only script here is the rambling narration of five histrionic, spoiled women and their stupid self-centered families. It could have been saved from total worthlessness if its content possessed some--any--glimmer of irony. But no, sadly The Real Housewives is as serious as a dirge. Watching it, I get angry. This is not simply a program that I do not care for. No, this is personal. The Real Housewives has moved me out of the realm of pop culture critic and into a terrifying new space. I hate this show. HATE. My feelings of loathing and nausea associated with simply watching a commercial for Real Housewives is a mystery even to me. I think it might have something to do with the fact that I do not understand why so many people think these women are interesting to watch. I do not understand what is happening to television when The Real Housewives gets a third season. I sit at home, quietly enjoying Inside The Actor's Studio or Project Runway when I see a little ad run across my screen reading "Now even more Botox-y! Watch The Real Wives of Orange County!" I know I totally sound like Andy Rooney right now, but is that supposed to be funny? Who watches this? Please, I urge you, if you are a fan of the show and come across this blog, leave me a comment on why you watch it. I need to know. Because it is a bizarre phenomenon, like a bridge into some Ray Bradbury story where we all have our own shows and everyone watches each other 24-hours a day. Call it what you will--Horror show, Harbinger of Doom, Omega Reality Show, Time Capsule of the Bush Era or Rome Before the Fall-one thing's for certain: if this is what life is going to be like without television writers, I say give the WGA everything they want.

Dexter Finale with Spoilers!

If you don't want to know how it all ends, don't read any more. If you want to know what happens to Dexter, however, read on!

I was privy to the final episode tonight and I'm happy to say that everything finally falls into place. First of all, Lila finally serves a purpose when she discovers Doakes in the cabin in the Everglades and...blows it up! That's right, pyro Lila finally does some good for someone. Doakes takes the fall for the Bay Harbor murders. Dexter gets his groove back and celebrates by doing everything he normally does and a few things he normally doesn't (like having sex with Rita). Deb and Lundy are still screwing around and bickering about their relationship. Lila knows Dexter's terrible secret and holds it over him. Dexter counters by accusing her of being a sociopath. Lila tells him they're soul mates, Dexter tries to kill her but ends up putting Deb in a choke hold by accident (awkward!). Lila fucking KIDNAPS Cody and Astor. I know! And she tries to kill them all in some crazy Jane Eyre-esque housefire. I KNOW!! In an uncharacteristic display of actual police skill, Deb rallies the troops, finds him and puts out an APB on Lila. Awesome. Dexter, who is singed but alive, could not be happier. The kids are fine and Lila is AWOL. But not for long. Dexter tracks her down and kills her like hog in the yard. I sort of wish Lila had a more climactic commupance than a simple spinal epidural and knife to the chest, but hey, you can't have everything. And Dexter is back to his old ways (but with a new slide box). It's going to be a wonderful third season.

Blind Picks from Netflix: Bug (2006)

Bug is a love story for the ages. Waitress Agnes (Ashley Judd) and Peter (Michael Shannon) meet, fall for each other and hole up in her dirty hotel room in backwoods Oklahoma. Agnes is lonely and paranoid that her recently paroled ex-husband Jerry (Harry Connick Jr.) is going to come get her. Peter is convinced that the U.S government planted an egg sac in his mouth and that he is infested with "bugs." As the couple becomes more isolated and more dependent upon each other for support, Agnes begins to share his paranoid delusions.

The clinical term for the psychiatric phenomenon seen in Bug is "folie à deux," French for "madness shared by two." According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders 4th Ed., this diagnosis is rare, and it usually occurs when the partner who is very passive takes on the beliefs of the partner who is very dominant. Agnes, still haunted by the kidnapping of her young son, dwells broken and passive in a dingy rented room waiting for her life to pass by. Peter, though clearly insane throughout the film, is undeniably charismatic, and it is easy to see how one could get sucked into his belief system. Peter offers her something she has been waiting for: a system of belief that answers all of her questions. Why was it her son that was taken? Why did she have to pick an abusive man for a husband? We all look for giant cosmic explanations for the hardships we endure. In the case of Bug, the placating expression "everything happens for a reason" begins to take on a whole new meaning.

Bug is based on a stage play by Tracy Letts and was adapted by Letts for the screen. Director William Friedkin sticks with the spatial limitations of stage set, resulting in a claustrophobic film that often feels like a teleplay. Friedkin's use of the camera, however, draws it up out of the realm of the stage. His use of close-ups, angle shots and brilliant lighting (particularly in one sequence filmed only in the light of bug-zappers and aluminum-lined walls) make Bug a dynamic film that is interesting to watch. Friedkin also wisely kept Michael Sheridan, who originated his part on stage, as Peter. Judd, who has done mixed work in the past (for every De-Lovely there's been a High Crimes) is completely convincing as the damaged and desperate Agnes. In short, Bug gets everything right: from the unsettling set design to the authentic performances, it manages to drag itself up out of the realm of the cheesy thriller and establish itself as a perceptive human drama and love story (for what is love if not a shared delusion of sorts?) that just happens to feature a guy pulling his teeth out with pliers. Bug belongs on your queue! Add it now!

No Country for Old Men

No Country for Old Men, the new offering of the Coen Brothers, is a brutal nihilistic western in the tradition of Sam Pekinpah. The film is based on the novel of the same name by Cormac McCarthy. It begins the way many westerns begin: a wide pan across the desolate west Texas landscape. A voiceover from Sheriff Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) tells us a story about a fourteen-year-old serial killer he apprehended. As this narrative paints a vivid picture, we are introduced to an even more brutal criminal: the sociopathic Anton Chigurh (Javier Bardem with a bizarre pageboy haircut). Chigurh has lost a great deal of money with a drug deal gone awry and he is seeking it out with the use of a silenced shotgun and a tank of compressed air (for sinister reasons revealed later in the film). He is quiet, unflappable and, it seems, absolutely unstoppable. He is after Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin), a smart and savvy retired welder who stumbles upon the money in the desert. He plays a game of cat and mouse with Chigurh, who never seems to doubt himself as the final, terrifying figure of retribution. Chigurh is positive that he will get what he believes is rightfully his. Chigurh adheres strictly to a confusing but consistent moral system all his own. As his bounty hunter (Woody Harelson) puts it in the film: "He has his principles."

No Country for Old Men is a great crime drama and western all rolled into one, but it is also a great film. The Coens take McCarthy's dialogue and adapt it for the screen with perfection. The photography by Roger Deakins is stunning. Once again, the Coens use a perfect cast (made possible by veteran casting director Ellen Chenoweth). Bardem surely deserves an Oscar nod for his capacity to channel sheer evil. Jones is great, as always, as the jaded sheriff. Finally, Brolin, whose character acting has long gone underrated, gives the performance of his life with his wry, understated turn as Llewelyn. The Coens have made their west Texas Fargo--No Country for Old Men is as good of a film as they have ever produced, and it is sure to gain praise from the Academy next march.

More Promising Fall Shows: Whimsy, Anyone?

Whimsical fantasy shows appear to be gaining steam lately. Of course, Ugly Betty continues to be its whimsical, bubbly self, but there is a whole new generation of shows entertaining us with their oddly fanciful plots and characters. First up is Samantha Who?, a fantasy that brings an entirely new twist to transformation fairytales. Instead of Cinderella changing into a princess or the Ugly Duckling changing into a swan, Sam (Christina Applegate) is a bitch trying to turn into a decent person after a car accident renders her with retrograde amnesia. Listen, I made that face too when I read the plot on imdb, but Samantha Who? is much funnier than it sounds, mostly because Christina Applegate, Melissa McCarthy and Jennifer Esposito have enough talent to take the material and run with it.

Even higher on the whimsy scale is Cavemen, a show that totally fails simply because it assumes its premise will be enough to keep us laughing. Okay, so a bunch of Cavemen live in an apartment in San Diego and deal with everyday human problems. The plot is borrowed from the Geico commercials, who unabashadly stole it from Saturday Night Live's "Caveman Lawyer" sketches. Frankly, I thought it sounded like a great idea upon first pitch; after all, what better way to illustrate modern day racism and discrimination than to use such extreme satirical subject as neanderthals? Well, it's way too heavy handed and obviously aimed at the dim-bulb demographic, so all the possible social commentary is crushed.

Of course, no new show can begin to compete with Pushing Daisies for pure whimsy. The hero, a pie-maker named Ned, has the power to touch dead people and bring them back to life, but if he touches them again, they die. He works with a PI, touching people in the morgue to find out who killed them. Awesome. Predictably, he touches the woman he loves after she is killed and then he can't touch her again. I assumed I would love Pushing Daisies after reading the description (and after finding out that it stars both Ellen Green AND Kristin Chenowith of Broadway and occasional primetime fame) but I just haven't been able to stay interested. That's right, it's just a little too whimsical for me. Maybe if it were a film (like Big FIsh or I Heart Huckabees) it would have been right for me. But I have the strong sense that I will like it in very small doses later on, and that anyone who appreciates fine comic acting and glorious cinematography should give Pushing Daisies a chance.

Hey, I just realized that these are all ABC shows! ABC is not paying me to write about its shows, I swear. I think I shall christen ABC the "Whimsy Channel." Wow, that used to be Showtime's title. Get back on your toes, Showtime, you're losing steam!

Gross! Hollywood Gross-out Flicks

The Heartbreak Kid is the Farreley’s remake of the classic 1972 Elaine May comedy starring Sybil Shephard and Charles Grodin. While it’s better than Shallow Hal, it’s only about a tenth as good as its source material. Good Luck Chuck is an original from first-time director Mark Helfrich. It takes a good idea and runs it dutifully into the ground.

Both Good Luck Chuck and The Heartbreak Kid have good basic plots. Good Luck Chuck features a protagonist who is burdened with a curse that makes every woman he sleeps with run off and marry someone else; Heartbreak Kid features a leading man who unknowingly marries a harpy and then meets his real dream woman while on honeymoon. Both are good setups for comedies and both feature decent comic talent (although let’s face it: Dane Cook isn’t as funny as he thinks he is and Ben Stiller, while immensely talented, is no Charles Grodin). In the end, however, both prove to be nothing more than C+ gross-out flicks.

“Gross-out” is a subgenre of film characterized by disgusting and disturbing material, such as sexual or scatalogical humor (or some combination of the two). I actually enjoy quite a number of gross-out films: Animal House, Scary Movie, Stripes, Pink Flamingos, Kingpin and Superbad to name a few. But what makes a film like Superbad funnier than Good Luck Chuck? What makes There’s Something About Mary so much better than The Sweetest Thing?

In this writer’s opinion, there are three main reasons why gross-out comedies fail. First, you have to be able to root for someone in the movie. This is a notable problem with The Heartbreak Kid. You can’t root for Ben Stiller because he’s kind of an asshole. You can’t root for his wife because she’s awful. You can’t root for his real love because she’s underdeveloped as a character. The same was true of Me, Myself and Irene, a film that could have sorely used a more relatable protagonist (Jim Carey, usually a master of the lovable oaf, failed to come through with his Stanley character). When we the audience love and empathize with the main character, however, we wind up actually caring what happens to him/her, which makes the gross-out humor more effective in provoking the desired response (shock, laughter, awe, etc.). In other words, There’s Something about Mary worked because there actually was something about Mary.

Which brings me to my next reason why gross-out flicks fail: the gags are too gross, not gross enough or simply so ridiculous that they snap the suspension cable of disbelief. A perfect example can be seen in The Sweetest Thing a film that features women I can’t relate to doing things I don’t believe anyone would do, ever. The gags aren’t quite gross enough and some scenes, such as the scene in which Selma Blair’s throat gets stuck around a guy’s Prince Albert, are simply too unbelievable to garner any sympathy laughter. Of course I laughed when Steve Carrel snaps himself in the balls while putting on a condom in The 40 Year Old Virgin. Why? Because that really happens. There is enough embarrassing horrible stuff that can happen in life to fill a thousand 90-minute gross-out films; to just make up an impossible gross situation is soulless and, quite frankly, just plain lazy.

The final and most important factor in the success of a gross-out film is the plot. Simply, is this plot going to make a good breeding ground for gross humor, or is the plot so incongruous that the gags distract from what’s going on? Fusing the romantic comedy with the gross-out film is tricky because there are so many elements that don’t mesh; simply put the sweetness can be seriously tainted by the nasty factor (e.g. Along Came Polly). Historically, successful gross-out films have either had plots that work well in the gross-out vein (such as the frat-boy antics Animal House or the awkward teen sex scenes of American Pie) or writers who were brilliant enough to make totally orthogonal elements work (Bad Santa, Team America). In the end, the best gross-out films have all of these elements. Sadly, many writers and directors go for cheap and easy gross-out laughs because they know they can at least break even and appeal to the lowest common denominator. That’s a shame, because gross-out humor, if done well, possesses the potential to penetrate and proliferate in American popular culture.

House MD and Ugly Betty Premiere!

The fourth season premiere episode of House aired Tuesday, September 25th. Last season things looked pretty bleak for Dr. House when his diagnostic team leaves (the bleeding heart and the contrarian quit while the Australian suck up was fired). They weren’t missed, however, and the season opener proved to be as engrossing as any episode from the third season. I really don’t miss Jennifer Morrison (or her bangs) and I was actually getting pretty damn tired of Omar Epps (despite his thespian wiles), so watching Hugh Laurie prance around all on his lonesome suited me just fine. Of course, he gets a little help from hot Lisa Edelstein, who is still rocking my world as Princeton Plainsboro Hospital’s Dean of Medicine, and from Robert Sean Leonard, the oncologist with a system of relative morals so convoluted that it puts Nancy Botwin to shame. Without his team, House is left to diagnose the survivor of a building collapse who has a mysterious fever and a nasty cast of internal bleeding. Dr. House, who is always in need of a lackey off of which to bounce his brilliant ideas, enlists the help of a hospital janitor as an assistant. This works out fine until the janitor’s morals get in the way. At the end of the day, House saves his patient, but he is forced to acknowledge that he would have saved her faster with a team. The last scene of the episode reveals a classroom full of young doctors, all hoping to work with Dr. House. The catch: for the next six weeks, House will put the thirty-two (!) of them through diagnostic trials and tribulations in an effort to weed them down to three. This is, of course, an awesome set up for guest stars. Kal Penn (of Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle fame) and Olivia Wilde (better known as one of the few people who could act on The O.C) will star as two of the doctors who make it onto House’s short list. I can’t wait to see smartass Kal Penn go up against Hugh Laurie in the differential diagnosis lounge.

While the premiere episode of House was missing a few cast members, the premiere of Ugly Betty had entirely too many people and too much going on. Of course, given how many loose ends the heart-wrenching season one finale left untied, it’s easy to understand how the premiere could fumble in an effort to resolve everything. Here’s what’s going on in a nutshell: Alexis and Daniel are in the hospital but they’re stable. Santos however, didn't make it (okay, I have to admit it: I teared up a little when I realized Santos died in that liquor store robbery). Henry goes off to Arizona with the pregnant Charlie. Mr. Suarez is still stuck in Mexico. Wilhelmina is still marrying Bradford Meade, much to the chagrin of Claire and her escapee pal Yoga. Amanda (thirty pounds heavier due to her constant stress-related binging) confronts her parents (and their unexpected swinger friends) about Fey Sommers being her real mother (and Bradford, we suspect, is her real father). Amanda, of course, slept with Daniel so she’s freaking out over her possible incestuous affair. Justin (who I swear grows an inch every) runs away from camp and hides out at Mode, giving stalking Wilhelmina and giving out free fashion advice (awesome!). All in all, the episode had no real cohesion but had a lot of cute throwaway lines and set ups that I think will be very entertaining as they develop throughout the season. Every shortcoming melted away when I got to see Judith Light punch Vanessa Williams in the face.

Superbad (2007)

Greg Mottola’s Superbad is a raunchy teen summer comedy in the tradition of Sixteen Candles and Animal House. Like John Hughes' films, Superbad perfectly captures the plight of the teenager. Three teenagers, in this case: Seth (Jonah Hill), a pudgy, self-loathing party animal, Evan (Michael Cera), a nervous nerd and Fogell (Christopher Mintz-Plasse), their awkward, bird-like sidekick.

The plot is a tale as old as time: Evan and Seth want to go to a party in order to score with their respective romantic prospects. They believe that the only way they will be accepted is if they can score a bunch of liquor, which they attempt to do using Fogell’s ridiculous fake I.D (on which he uses the single moniker “McLovin.”). Disaster follows, of course, and the three end up on a wild goose chase. What happens, however, is unpredictable, uproarious and unusually engaging for a teen comedy.

What really struck me about Superbad is the complete honesty and comfort with which the characters discuss their sexuality. Gone is the staunch hetero ideology of Porkies; sure these guys are out to get laid, but they are also surprisingly comfortable with their own sexuality and with their bond as friends (which, at times, has vaguely homoerotic overtones). These kids are almost overly familiar with sex, having educated themselves on a strict diet of Internet porn. However, they are afraid of what they know, afraid of what they would do with a willing girl. The girls of their dreams must be drunk because, in their minds, no sober girl would have them. I identified with these characters because they are smart, insecure and totally believable. The comfort with which Mottola depicts Seth and Evan’s discomfort is what makes the film so sweet and fun to watch. Superbad was written by Seth Rogen and Evan Goldberg, who named the main characters after themselves. It is, indeed, a deeply personal and hilarious script, and Rogen is to be commended for both his dialogue and his portrayal of an unlikely suburban police officer on a mission. Cera, however, really steals the show with his anxious, deliberate comic timing. A lot of the jokes are dumb but a lot of them are highly intelligent, too, making Superbad a comedy that will appeal to a very broad range, indeed.

Michael Moore finally picked a villain that we can all agree on burning in the public square: the U.S. health care system. In his latest propaganda piece, Sicko, Moore explores the policy behind our current health care model, lots o tear-jerking anecdotes recounting times when the system has failed Americans and, finally, an analysis of so-called “socialized medicine.”

Sicko could have been nothing more than a collection healthcare horror stories. However, Moore manages to transcend the realm of shock schlock and use the anecdotes to show that for-profit healthcare dehumanizes patients and is ineffective (ranked at No. 37 in the world, "just slightly ahead," Moore says in that disbelieving voice, "of Slovenia.").

There are lots of lovable Michael Moore stunts in Sicko, including a scene in which Moore takes a group of suffering 9/11 rescue workers to Guantanamo Bay because “it’s the only place in the U.S. where people can get free healthcare.” Poised at the gates, Moore hilariously intones, "We don't want any more care than you're giving the evildoers. Just the same." When Gitmo won’t let them in, they go to Cuba and get medical care for the cost of a shiny new whistle.

Clearly Moore is being selective about the situations he shows us. Furthermore, he paints an unrealistically rosy picture of Europe’s healthcare system. Despite these broad strokes, however, Moore does make a cogent argument for “socialized medicine.” Moore still uses the shifty manipulation that has become his calling card, but in Sicko he is less concerned with influencing the vote and more concerned with getting the audience to adopt a new perspective on one of the United States’ most important issues.

Economics, Rational Choice Theory, Fall Television!

The average American works more hours a week than ever before, yet there are more television shows this season than ever before. Clearly there aren't enough hours in the week to watch everything, which is why we put our trust in critics, advertising, promotional spots and websites like Television Without Pity. We, the viewers, are reluctant to invest a valuable resource (time) without some promise of utility maximation (entertainment). Fear not, gentle reader; let Celluloitering aid in your tough decisions this television season!
Here is a preliminary list of the television shows I plan on watching and reviewing this season:

Boston Legal--and I promise that I won't spend the whole post writing about how much I love James Spader

Dexter--If it's anything like the first season, I'm all over it like Dexter on a child-murderer

House--with the irritating half of the cast gone, this show can only get better.

Project Runway--Tim Gunn is staying, which means I'm still watching.

Ugly Betty--yes I still watch it and it is still totally over-the-top awesome.

Weeds--possibly the coolest sitcom of the decade. Seriously.

I'm also going to be catching up on "The Shield," as well as watching and reviewing the second half of "Damages."

Stay tuned for reviews, behind the scenes information, sountrack listings and more...

Damages (2007)

I watched the pilot episode of “Damages” completely by accident. I’m not one to gush about today’s rather abysmal television landscape, but his dark legal thriller completely mesmerized me.

“Damages” starts out looking like any other Jerry Bruckheimer or Dick Wolf legal procedural drama. Unlike the CSI and Law & Order series, however, “Damages” manages to be consistently unpredictable, unfailingly intelligent, meticulous and, above all, subtle. Mind you, I’m not knocking “Law & Order,” which has fed my id and kept me entertained for years. After seeing only two episodes of “Damages,” however, I can say with certainty that this show is in a completely different league; this is a new kind of television.

Glenn Close plays Patty Hewes the always unrelenting and often vicious head of a high-stakes litigation firm in New York City. Ellen Parsons (Rose Byrne) is a brilliant young lawyer who gets mysteriously poached and hired by Hewes herself. Ellen is soon drawn into the den of iniquity, coaxed by a new apartment, a staggering salary and a brand new designer wardrobe. The plot of “Damages” seems at first to be an old one, similar to The Firm, Devil’s Advocate or even The Devil Wears Prada. Patty’s big case, a lawsuit against a billionaire (Ted Danson) who sold off his company and lost his employees’ pension plans with Enron-style chicanery. With more probing, Ellen begins to wonder if she was hired merely because she's related to a potentially key witness. Soon it becomes apparent that everyone is hiding something, especially Patty. There are no clear moral lines in “Damages.” Everyone has a price, an agenda and a skeleton in the closet.

Part murder mystery, part courtroom drama, “Damages” is so richly nuanced and so well acted that it almost feels like a high-budget miniseries. Glenn Close is stellar as the passive-aggressive, morally ambiguous Hewes. Ted Danson wisely makes his villain role a sympathetic and complex one, and the result is his best work in ages. “Damages” could very well be FX’s sleeper hit this year.

FX at Tuesday, 10:00 PM EST

Blind Picks from Netflix: Baise Moi (2001)

All you need for a movie, according to French New Wave cinema's Jean-Luc Godard, is a girl and a gun. With Baise Moi, director Virginie Despentes gives us two girls and a gun, but doesn’t quite manage to give us a whole movie. I recently ordered Baise Moi via Netflix after my boyfriend recommended it to me. He enjoys verite horror films and told me I should see it, if only for the “authentic” rape scenes and realistic violence that supposedly set it apart from other films of its genre. What the hell, I thought, I’ve seen Last House on the Left, The Hills Have Eyes, and I Spit on Your Grave; one more movie of that ilk won’t hurt me. I found out, however, that while it couldn't hurt me, it certainly could bore me.

Baise Moi tells the story of two young women, Manu (Raffaula Anderson), a porn actress, and Nadine (Karen Bach), a prostitute who react to being violently raped by going on a fucking/killing spree. While this set up could have made for some compelling fair, Baise Moi gets bogged down in its own X-rated agenda and the story is unfortunately eclipsed by gun and money shots. The most interesting thing about it--the relationship between Manu and Nadine--is overshadowed by the nonstop brutaity of the film. I was struck by Baise Moi (which is, just in case you were wondering, French for “rape me,”) not because it is filled with shocking imagery but because it lacks the intelligence and sophistication that might have lifted it to another level (of, say, Blue Velvet, Natural Born Killers or Falling Down). Baise Moi is filmed with a low-rent, hand held verite style that is reminiscent of the introductory French show I used to watch on PBS. Within its first ten minutes, Baise Moi is already knee-deep in a violent rape scene. Is there a set up? No. Is there anything afterwards that leads to a satisfying, cathartic conclusion? No. One could say that rape is an act so awful that a “satisfying conclusion” cannot exist, and the film is, by denying the audience satisfaction, forcing us to recognize and appreciate the gravity of the act. After all there are plenty of films depicting realistic violence and rape (Kids comes to mind) that make valuable statements about society. However, Baise Moi’s clumsy direction, didactic sex scenes, terrible acting and crap editing belie a more profound intention. This isn’t John Carpenter, Takashi Miike or Dario Argento. This isn’t even John Waters or Jess Franco. This is a pure porno flick with a slightly higher budget and wider distribution. I found myself resentful that I was able to order this through Netflix, yet I have to go through other avenues to track down Alice’s Erotic Adventures in Wonderland and Behind the Green Door, two pornographic films with much more artistic content than Baise Moi. Just because it’s French doesn’t mean it art, Netflix, get it straight.

It's Just The Way That You Sicken Me: Paula Abdul and The Rise of the Celebreality Star

In the tradition of Anna Nicole Smith, Danny Bonaduce and Flava Flav, Paula Abdul has her own reality show, Hey Paula. Okay, first of all, I have to admit that is a great name. Too bad it’s wasted on such a wad of dreck. Hey Paula follows Paula Abdul and her world-weary assistants around the country as she stumbles glassy-eyed and slack-jawed through QVC spots, animal rights events, Starbucks outlets and awards dinners. The woman is clearly debilitated in some way.

Ah, but I’m getting ahead of myself; my intention in this post is not to critique the show but question its very cause of being. Who thought this would be a good idea? Clearly, Bravo thought that people would tune into the program to see Paula act insane. Paula and her handlers clearly thought that the program would be a great way to quell the rumors of her alcohol and drug abuse. But why do such programs exist in the first place? Why would we possibly want to see the waning glow of a former pop star as she goes gently into that good night? Celebrity-focused shows have been everywhere for the past ten years. It started with the rise of VH1: Behind the Music, the show that allowed me to watch Milli Vanilli crash and burn a total of 27 times during the rerun laden summer of 1997. Since then we have seen the birth of the “celebreality” program, a portmanteau describing a reality show featuring a celebrities as they “really” are. Such programs include The Surreal Life, Strange Love, My Fair Brady, Hogan Knows Best, Breaking Bonaduce and Dancing with the Stars. I was tempted to assume that these shows are so popular simply because Americans love to watch beautiful, wealthy and famous people fall horribly. We love heroes and villains, and we love it when our heroes become villains and vice versa. We love professional wrestling. We love easy formulas and guilty pleasures. Watching Paula Abdul drunkenly break a heel on MacArthur Blvd while trying to avoid getting stabbed is one of those guilty pleasures. However, I am beginning to think it is slightly more complicated than that. Celebreality is, above all things, a voyeuristic artform. We, the peons get to peek into the special worlds of movie stars and rappers. We get to be a part of their lives and, by association, form some libidinal ties to the Worthy, the Worthwhile, the Celebrities. Ironically, when you sneak into the VIP entrance of Paula's elite club you find out that her life is boring and sad, not glamorous and fun. In this way, the audience is able to conquer and destroy the very object it once revered and coveted. We the voyeurs get to violate the privacy of a celebrity and are vindicated when we exploit her, critique her and deem her life inferior to our own.

I should say at this point that I’m in no position to deduce whether or not Paula Abdul is on drugs. I have spent a fair amount of time with alcoholics and pill-poppers, however, and I can say her erratic behavior, unsteady gate, slurred speech and poor impulse control are all suggestive of such habits. Sure, it could be a brain tumor, a sleep disorder, a mild case of mental retardation, low-level environmental toxins, closed head injury, carbon monoxide poisoning or, possibly, Naegleria infection. It could also be a buttload of Xanax with a Vicodin chaser. In the end, it doesn’t really matter what’s wrong with her; all that really matters is that she leads a sad, lonely and interminably dull life. She is clearly too self-absorbed to understand how pathetic and unimportant she appears on television. Even her audience, a crowd of jackals salivating with shadenfreude and ill will, is bored and saddened by her state. Anna Nicole was hard to watch, but at least she seemed somewhat aware of how she masochistically paraded her fatuity for public scrutiny. Paula just seems terribly out of it. She constantly complains about how tired she is, and about how dramatic her life is; yet she neither tries to get rest nor resolve her paltry conflicts with brevity or grace. Everything is a telenovela with Paula Abdul. Everything is crisis. It is unclear whether she simply lacks any kind of coping skills or, sadder yet she simply cannot accept the fact that she is no longer an international pop star. By touting her schedule as “hectic” and “non-stop” she holds on to her dying dream. If I were a betting woman, I would bet double or nothing that Paula will check into a “spa” for “some rest” by the end of the year. This woman is one bottle of Stoli short of stumbling down a staircase asking for her close-up, Mr. DeMille. At what point do producers, assistant directors, friends, family, press or entourage step in and offer to get her some real help? Hey Paula is a clear case of enabling self-destructive behavior for entertainment value. Sure, it might all be an act, but I have a feeling Paula isn’t that great of an actress.

Bonus: Alternate Names for “Hey Paula”

Most people who know me do not know that I was a huge Paula Abdul fan in the late 80s. When no one in my family was around I watched the video for “Cold Hearted” over and over and tried, in vain, to copy all of the dance moves. It is in this spirit that I decided to come up with some alternate titles to Paula’s show:

1) Straight-Up (Now Tell Me Cause I Really Wanna Know, are You on Quaaludes?)
2) Opposites Attract Unwanted Media Attention
3) Imbibology
4) I Need You (To Score Me Some Barbies)
5) Crazy, No Longer Cool
6) Knocked Out (Because I’m HIGH)

Ocean's Thirteen

This is truly a summer of sequels. Spider Man 3, Live Free or Die Hard, Rush Hour 3, 28 Weeks Later, The Bourne Ultimatum, Evan Almighty, Fantastic Four 2, Hostel 2, Harry Potter , Pirates of the Caribbean, Shrek 3, Resident Evil 3 and, finally, Ocean’s 13, the latest installment in Steven Soderbergh’s cooler-than-thou heist flicks.

Ocean’s 13 finds Reuben Tishkoff (Elliott Gould) building a huge new hotel in Vegas with the loathsome Willy Banks (Al Pacino with a weathered, spray-tanned face). Banks double-crosses Reuben, who subsequently has a heart attack. As a result, the rest of Danny Ocean’s crew vows revenge. Rather than a big heist, the boys basically want to bleed a lot of money out of the casino by rigging all of the games. For those who worry that there isn’t enough grand larceny to accompany all of this fraud, never fear; a diamond heist is planned in order to finance the operation.

The cast is great and they look like they’re having a blast. Bernie Mac and Don Cheadle both got the short end of the schtick, script-wise, while Eddie Izzard has lots to do as Roman Negel. Julia Robert and Catherine Zeta Jones are nowhere in sight. The only female around is Ellen Barkin as Bank’s neurotic but vampy personal assistant. I liked her character until I realized she was only written in order to be exploited and belittled by men. Then I wasn’t so into it. One scene shows Matt Damon, sporting an awkward and ridiculous fake nose, drugging her with pheramones and tryng to seduce her. Watching this scene, I felt uncomfortable, yet, I have to admit that it’s the kind of old-school contrived screwball moment that you often find in movies like Pillow Talk or Will Success Spoil Rock Hunter.

The film is rife with Godfather references (with one scene featuring Clooney actually quoting Michael Corleone’s lines at Al Pacino). In addition, there are the obligatory nods to Casino, Rounders and the original Ocean’s 11. Yes, yes, this is all so very clever, but pop culture references and a great ensemble cast do not a great heist film make. The climax is decidedly anticlimactic and, unlike in Ocean’s 11, the crew comes off as a little mean. Putting bedbugs in the hotel rooms? Causing a 6 point earthquake in a lobby full of people? This stuff seems a little disproportionate given the initial crimes committed by Pacino’s character. Then again, out country is all about disproportionate and poorly planned counterstrikes, right?

Ocean’s 13 is three times as convoluted and three times as self-indulgent as the original. Alfred Hitchcock lamented those moviegoers who constantly scrutinize far-fetched plot points (he called them “The Plausibles,”). I am willing to accept that, as an avid watcher of films, I must Suspend my Disbelief once in a while. Ocean’s 13, however, demands that I build a scaffolding for my disbelief. This house of cards is so flimsy that it’s amazing it takes as long as two hours to fall apart. The cinematography, masterfully executed by Steven Soderbergh, is one of the greatest strengths of the film. It’s a shame the script doesn’t generate anything all that interesting to photograph.

Top Show!

The major network shows have all had their season finales. Now it's time for summer replacements! I remember when I was little there was never anything good on television in the summer because all of the networks showed reruns. This dearth of original programming forced us out of the house to experience the best years of youth and all that rot. These days, the networks can't afford to lose any viewers, so they have a lineup of summer replacement shows. A lot of them, not suprisingly, are reality shows.

American Inventor
Twelve inventors and their products are chosen from a pool of hundreds by four judges. Those twelve are given seed money to improve on their ideas and come up with a prototype. The greatest thing about this show, like many other reality shows, is the weeding-out process in the beginning. We see hundreds of mentally unstable people proudly displaying inventions that, in the grand tradition of and thetan e-meters and orgone accumulators, stun and stupify with their inanity. The people who succeed are only marginally interesting, but the people who fail make the show entertaining. I guess I get the patent on schadenfreude while they get the patent on sucking. Wednesdays, ABC.

The Next Best Thing
What's better than a reality show featuring celebrities? How about a reality show featuring celebrity impersonators! Unlike "American Inventor," this show generates nausea and discomfort with its losers and entertainment with its winners. When an impression is spot-on, the show is really entertaining. Unfortunately, many of the impersonations are terrible. Watching comics fail is like watching the authorities hose blood off the asphault after a pile-up. Wednesdays, ABC.

Hell's Kitchen
Chef Gordon Ramsey screams at cooks on the line while diners watch and wait for their meals in what can only be described as a gustatory circus maximus (except totally boring and horrible). Mondays, FOX

So You Think You Can Dance
You can't fake good dancing. Unlike American Idol and, well, pretty much every other talent reality show out there, most of the people who try out for this show are very serious about their art. The contestants on this show really are talented athletes who train incredibly hard. If you like watching people dance well, this is a decent way to kill an hour of your week. Sure the judges are clones of the American Idol judges, but, unlike the AI judges, the SYTYCD judges don't pander, smear or appear drunk on camera. Too bad it conflicts with Top Chef (see below). Wednesdays, FOX

Top Chef
This foodie reality show is based on the Project Runway format. 15 professional chefs and caterers compete to win the title. Rocking its third season, Top Chef learned its lesson from last year; less focus on drama, more focus on food. Bravo still can't get its food terminology right, and it still can't seem to find decent background music to go with the chopping post-production, but the challenges are interesting and the results are a blast to watch. Wednesdays, BRAVO

Hostel Part 2 (2007)

Eli Roth's Hostel Part 2 could have been a repeat of the first Hostel installment. The young Splat Pack director could have just tortured young people for 90 minutes and made millions of dollars. Fortunately, however, there is a little more to Hostel Part 2 than just formulaic gore.

The protagonists are Whitney (Bijou Phillips), Beth (Lauren German) and Lorna (Heather Matarazzo), three American co-eds studying abroad in Italy. They meet Axelle (Vera Jordanova) who persuades the girls to join her on a spa vacation in Slovakia. They check into the hostel, the clerk scans their passports; this is where the fun begins. He uploads their photos to a website and an auction begins with an American named Todd (Richard Burgi) winning Beth as a gift for his friend Stuart (Roger Bart). This auction scene, which features businessmen all around the world bidding on the girls using their PDAs and cellular phones, manages to be hilarious, terrifying and essential to the plot, all at the same time. Unfortunately, the rest of the film struggles to maintain this balance.

The biggest problem with Hostel Part 2 is that it can't seem to decide what kind of movie it wants to be. It lingers in limbo between horror and comedy, a gap successfully traversed in the past by films like Evil Dead 2 and Sleepy Hollow. As a comedy, Hostel Part 2 works very well. The trouble with mixing horror and comedy is that the humorous elements have the potential to dilute the impact of the horror elements. While it is possible to mix the two seamlessly (The Little Shop of Horrors, Theatre of Blood, An American Werewolf in London) Hostel Part 2 never quite finds the right balance. The film's comic tone distracts from what few real scares there are. In addition, there is a certain self-consciousness in Hostel Part 2; this doesn't look like a horror movie, it looks like a commercial designed to look like a horror movie.

For all of its awkwardness, however, I should stress that I really did enjoy this film. I love the fact that the protagonists, particularly Beth, are sympathetic and three-dimensional. I love the fact that Hostel Part 2 shows us the mechanism behind the Elite Hunting operation. I love the fact that we get to see what kind of people pay for the chance to use its sevices (interestingly, both Bart and Burgi play characters on "Desperate Housewives," ABC's own account of the evils that dwell beneath a seductive surface). And I love the fact that money, the force that fuels the mechanics of the film, is the only force that can save Our Heroes. Hostel Part 2 isn't a slasher picture so much as it is a bloody meditation on international finance.

Celluloitering: Under Surveillance

Hey readers!
This week I had the pleasure once again of being a guest on Kevin Fullam's Under Surveillance, the bi-weekly radio show covering politics, popular culture and mass media. We talked about how mental illness is portrayed in film and television, and we got enough out of it for two shows. Check out the first installment:

Under Surveillance

Hot Fuzz (2007)

Edgar Wright’s latest film Hot Fuzz is a small, clever homage to big dumb action movies. Hot Fuzz will undoubtedly draw comparison to Wright’s 2004 film Shaun of the Dead. Like Shaun, Hot Fuzz suffers from odd pacing and an ending that seems to drag out forever. Hot Fuzz is so rich with sight gags, one-liners and great performances from some of Britain’s best actors (Jim Broadbent, Bill Nighy, Stuart Wilson and Timothy Dalton, to name a few) that the l21 minute running time is enjoyable more often than not.

Simon Pegg plays Nicholas Angel, the best police officer in London. He is so good, in fact, that his coworkers conspire to get him transferred to the small town of Sandford. He is partnered with Danny Butterman (Nick Frost), the pudgy, slow-witted son of the Police Chief who desperately wants the policing business to be less about paperwork and more about car chases. Nicholas slowly begins to discover that something is rotten in the town of Sandford; a series of mysterious deaths point towards a serial killer (or two). Taking notes from American action films such as Point Break, Lethal Weapon, Commando, Men in Black, Chinatown, Bad Boys, Straw Dogs and even He-Man, Angel and Butterman step over the thin blue line and take down the evil forces in the town in a truly breathtaking artillery display. The reason behind the murders is incredibly funny and oh-so British—any fans of the BBC mystery series Midsomer Murders will especially appreciate it. All in all, Hot Fuzz accomplishes its goals of entertaining us while analyzing, in its own shallow way, what clichés are needed entertain an American audience. Hats off to you, Mr. Wright—I’ll never watch Point Break the same way again.

Vacancy (2007)

Nimrod Antol’s latest thriller, Vacancy, is a simple little movie about a snuff film business run out of a motel. Kate Beckinsale and Luke Wilson play Amy and David Fox, two miserable soon-to-be divorcees who are traveling the back roads of California by car. David wanders off the Interstate looking for a shortcut. Naturally, the car breaks down and the two are stranded at a squalid and seamy motel run by Mason (Frank Whaley, who looks like a white trash Norman Bates in his trucker cap and wire-rimmed aviator glasses). You would think that Amy and David would flee when they hear screaming emanating from the manager’s office in the lobby, but no, they take the honeymoon suite and end up the stars of a real-live snuff film.

With Vacancy, Antol proves himself to be a more than capable director. The pace is brisk, the visuals are interesting and the shots are thoughtfully composed for maximum suspense. The only big problem with Vacancy is that it has no cause to exist. We have seen it all before, in films like Psycho, Identity, and Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer. Vacancy almost reaches the point of campy parody, but does not inject enough humor and self-awareness into the screenplay to quite pull it off. The plot, performances and dialogue are all so average in every way that the film will, undoubtedly, fall into that deep dark pit of obscurity reserved for mediocre suspense films. Deep down, I was hoping that the unlikely snuff scenario would turn out to be some sort of bizarre futuristic marital counseling (like a trust-building ropes course or wilderness weekend or what not) designed to reunite the feuding couple. Lamentably, this is not the case.

The amount of money I would pay to see this film: $4

Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film for Theaters

What makes Aqua Teen Hunger Force funny? I’ve been sitting here at my computer trying to find a way to put it into words. There are no lines I could quote here that would be belly-laugh inducing out of context, nor are there any particular highlights that would make me recommend it. The overall effect of the Aqua Teen gestalt, however, is to make you come close to peeing your pants (and maybe even change your name to MC Pee Pants).

Perhaps the most amazing thing is that I’ve been watching it since it made its debut in the fall of 2001, and I still find it funny. How many jokes can you make out of sentient fast food, space aliens and suburban New Jersey? Show creators Matt Maiellaro and Dave Willis answer this question with Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film for Theaters, a feature film that relentlessly drains every possible drop of humor out of its source.

For those of you who have never heard of Aqua Teen Hunger Force, let me explain the basic premise: Frylock (Carey Means), a cynical, airborne box of fried, Shake (Dana Snyder), an egotistical and oversexed milkshake, and Meatwad (Dave Willis), an amorphous and hirsute hunk of ground beef (we think) all live in suburban New Jersey together. They have adventures with space aliens (like the Mooninites, Ignignokt and Err) and with their neighbor, Carl. There is no water involved nor are there any teens (although the protagonists certainly act like adolescents). The show, which only lasts 10-15 minutes on Cartoon Network’s Adult Swim, is an absurd parody of situation comedy that pokes fun at cookie-cutter television by placing bizarre characters in formulaic situations. It’s very funny, but it’s not the kind of show that a person can tolerate for very long. I was surprised, then, to find that Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film for Theaters did a pretty decent job for engaging my attention without exasperating me, at least for the first 45 minutes. The stream-of-consciousness plot, involving a futuristic exercise machine that could destroy the world, is only superficially important and only sometimes clever (kudos to the writer for making the MacGuffin a computer motherboard shaped like a giant “M”) but the film contains enough laughs to keep the audience consistently entertained. I hate to fall into fangirl mode when critiquing a movie, but I have to admit I clapped when the Mooninites came on screen. And maybe that’s part of why Aqua Teen Hunger Force Colon Movie Film for Theaters works with its target audience: it capitalizes on their nostalgia for all those late nights in college filled with kind bud, cheap beer and basic cable. The animation is crude, the jokes are juvenile and the plot is stupid, but for those who cut their teeth of Aqua Teen shorts, it is definitely worth the price of admission.
Watch a clip and judge for yourself:

Shortbus (2006)

Shortbus is a tragic comedy (or humorous drama, depending on your point of view) from the fertile imagination of John Cameron Mitchell, writer/director/star of the wonderful play and film Hedwig and the Angry Inch. Unlike Hedwig, however, Shortbus is a lot less interesting. Perhaps that is because one of the themes of the film is the collective ennui of young bohemian New Yorkers struggling with post-9/11 disillusionment. Or maybe it is because it depends too hard on the supposed shock value of its content and not hard enough on stuff like direction, writing and editing. Shortbus received a lot of criticism for containing real sex scenes, which is quite possibly the stupidest reason in the world to criticize a film. How could people have trashed this movie for such a superficial reason when it has such a host of other shortcomings?

Shortbus is a modern day counterculture film, reminiscent of the many free love art house pictures that grew popular in the 1960s. The youth of that decade cried out "You're either on the bus, or you're off the bus,” in defiance of the norm and in praise of the new countercultural ideal. Shortbus’s title is clearly a reference to this slogan, and, like that era, it contains a number of jaded hipsters for whom there are no clear social boundaries. So far, so good…I would have loved to see a real examination of what makes my generation tick. Lamentably, Shortbus only provides a peep show without taking us into the Champagne room. It strives for Tinto Brass but it only manages Russ Meyer.

The Shortbus is a kinky salon that serves as a node for a number of characters, including a dominatrix named Severin (couldn’t they have some up with something less obvious?) a marriage counselor who can’t have an orgasm, and a stable, loving couple who is neither stable nor loving. Their lives intersect in various ways that are only marginally interesting and not particularly well written. The only problem with writing witty, intellectual characters is that they have to actually say witty and intellectual things. The actors are generally okay, and many of the Hedwig players make appearances. I really liked Sook-Yin Lee as Sofia, the marital therapist. Most of the other actors, however, are only minimally competent.

Shortbus toys with being hard core, but many of the pivotal scenes left me feeling bored and impatient precisely because I felt so emotionally detached from the poorly written characters. The countercultural and sexually explicit imagery Shortbus was nothing I haven’t seen before (especially since I have a penchant for male masturbation scenes and guy-on-guy action). A compelling, well-written screenplay with consistent and believable characters could have set it apart and made it really special; Shortbus’s shortcomings make it a disappointing and, ironically, a decidedly anticlimactic film going experience.

Grindhouse (2007)

The term “Grindhouse” refers to the subgenre of exploitation films that was so utterly ubiquitous in the 60s and 70s. As such, it encompasses a vast array of film types: burlesque, horror films, sexploitation, blaxploitation, biker films, car-chase films, cannibal films, chambara [a kind of samurai] films, kung fu films, Mondo [“shockumentary”] films, Nazisploitation (yes, there is such a thing), Giallo [erotic Italian horror], and women-in-prison films, just to name a small few. Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez’s joint project Grindhouse pays tribute to all of these films in countless minute ways, from the intentionally rough editing to the post-production dust and scratches on the film, to the non-sequitur burlesque numbers, to the throwaway references so obscure that it’s almost shameful to catch them (my god, one scene actually references the 1974 film Killdozer. Shut up, I know I’m a total geek)). To put it simply, Grindhouse is a movie geek wet dream: it is 200 minutes of obscure pop culture references mixed with a liberal helping of tits, ass and blood.

The film is structured as a double feature, with fake “trailers” in between the features. The first installment, Planet Terror, is a zombie apocolypse cum hixploitation adventure featuring Rose McGowan as a one-legged go-go dancer. Picture a drunkenly directed joint project of Roger Corman and Russ Meyer and you’ll have a close approximation. There are lots of partially nude women and flesh-eating zombies (and, at a certain point, partially nude Fergie devoured by a whole gang of flesh-eating zombies. I’ll skip the obvious jokes about her being “Fergilicious”). Planet Terror has pretty much every cliché character and situation you can think of: the pompous foreign scientist (Naveen Andrews), the Sheriff with something to prove, the woman and young son running from her abusive husband, the biker rebel (Freddy Rodriguez) running from his past, the stripper with a heart of gold, etc.. Overall, the film has the effect of a big bowl of sugar cereal: there’s a lot of color and stimulants, and not much substance. There is something a little bit soulless about some of Rodriguez's work. He is very good at parroting a genre, but he rarely steps outside to comment on the genre. Planet Terror feels like it's supposed to be satirical, but you can't really have satire without critique. All in all, however, Rodriguez serves up a lot of laughs and a few genuine scares: it's a good old-fashioned zombie picture with a sense of humor.

I think the previews in between deserve some comments, too, as it is clear that a great deal of thought was put into them. The first installment, Werewolf Women of the SS, is director Rob Zombie’s tribute to the Nazi-themed pornographic horror films that grew prominent in the 70s (e.g. Ilsa, She-Wolf of the SS, Love Camp 7). It features Nicolas Cage as Fu Manchu, Udo Kier as Franz Hess, the commandant of Death Camp 13, and Zombie's wife, Sheri Moon Zombie and Sybil Danning as SS officers. The second preview, Don’t, is director Edgar Wright’s parody of cheesy low-budget British horror and Mondo movies. The trailer, like the trailers of British horror films released thirty years ago in the United States, is haphazardly edited together with no audible dialogue from the film (a frequent tactic taken to prevent US audiences from realizing the film wasn’t American). Finally, Eli Roth’s Thanksgiving is the over-the-top slasher parody in the tradition of Creepshow, April Fool’s Day and Prom Night (in fact, the music in the Thanksgiving trailer is taken from Creepshow). All three trailers are hilarious, with Roth's being both the most absurd and the most true to its source.

The second feature, Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof is almost too good to be a believable grindhouse film. Death Proof is a traditional slasher film disguised as a car chase film. The structure is that of a typical killer-in-the-woods movie like Friday the 13th. The cars, the dialogue and the way it’s shot, however, are all reminiscent of classic flicks like Duel, The Getaway and, most of all, Richard Sarafian’s 1971 film Vanishing Point. Tarantino doesn’t simply make reference to the Dodge Challenger from Vanishing Point; he takes it a postmodern step further by having his characters make reference to the Dodge Challenger and seek one out for a test drive. The characters in question are Zoe (played by Zoe Bell, Uma’s stunt double in Kill Bill), Abby, Kim and Lee, four young women who work in the film industry. Kim and Zoe decide they want to play ships and masts with a 1970 Dodge Challenger that they see for sale in the newspaper. Little do they know that they’re being stalked by a homicidal maniac named “Stuntman Mike,” (Kurt Russell) who kills women with his “death-proof” stunt car. As incredible as it sounds, Death Proof is completely engrossing and utterly satisfying. I found myself invigorated halfway through it, despite having sat in the theatre for more than two hours by that point. At the conclusion, Tarantino pulls out a surprise ending and mystifies the audience, which might be the most compelling and difficult to capture qualities of the best the Grindhouse subgenre has to offer.

Zodiac (2007)

By the time I was born in the Bay Area in 1981, the Zodiac Killer was a mere buzzword that people threw around to scare their kids. As the Age of Aquarius met its inevitable demise, so did the media’s preoccupation with the mysterious mass murderer who was never apprehended. One man, cartoonist and amateur code breaker Robert Graysmith, didn’t let it go; his obsession with the case rests at the center of David Fincher’s new film Zodiac.

Zodiac presents the case through the perspectives of four different hunters: Dave Toschi (Mark Ruffalo), the San Francisco policeman who is looking to arrest him; Paul Avery (Robert Downey Jr.) the reporter who wants a lead on him; Robert Graysmith (Jake Gyllenhaal) the everyday guy who simply wants to understand the killer; and, finally, the killer himself, who hunts for the thrill of the chase. The newspaper and police eventually zero in on Arthur Leigh Allen, whom the film concludes was the most likely person to be Zodiac.

Zodiac is one of the better period pieces I have seen in a long time. Harris Savides's digital cinematography is on a whole new level; I never thought I would ever see that shade of 1970s yellow again. David Fincher decided to use the digital Thomson Viper to shoot the film. The Viper is able to shoot with extremely low light levels and at very high resolutions. Zodiac is the first full length film shot entirely with a Viper and, based on the clarity and richness of picture, I know that it will not be the last. The incredible cinematography, combined with set design and costumes brilliant in both their authenticity and their subtlety, make for a very realistic and believable film (which is, in many cases, the hardest quality to achieve when creating a period film).

Zodiac also doubles as a fascinating police procedural. The Zodiac killer murdered victims in several different jurisdictions; the investigation was hindered because the departments refused to cooperate and share information. As Dave Toschi reminds us, he doesn’t work like Dirty Harry; he has to follow procedure, even when it drives him crazy.

A lot of people have criticized Zodiac for its length of 160 minutes. I, for one, did not feel impatient in the theatre; I thought the pacing of the film was brisk and the performances good enough to keep me engrossed for almost three hours. If the movie has one flaw, it is that it never fully fleshes out its protagonist, Robert Graysmith, whose obsession with the case is never fully explored. Is it possible to lose your job, wife and kids simply because you like puzzles and want to look a killer in the eye? In spite of this weakness, the film redeems itself in the last few minutes with what is quite possibly one of the best-acted moments of film so far this year.

The amount of money I would pay to see this film: $8

Blind Picks from Netflix: Schizopolis (1997)

I rented Schizopolis knowing nothing about it, other than the fact that it is an independent comedy directed, written and starred in by Stephen Soderbergh. I’m a big fan of his work, so that was enough of a reason for me to put it into my Netflix queue.

The plot is the least important part of the film, so I'm going to try to explain it using as few words as possible. Fletcher Munson (Steven Soderbergh) works for an organization (similar to Scientology) known as Eventualism. When the speechwriter for T. Azimuth Schwitters (Mike Malone II), Eventualism’s founder, drops dead from a massive coronary, Fletcher has to step up and write an empty, meaningless but totally emotionally engaging speech (similar to something our President might present). Meanwhile, his relationship is falling apart with his wife, who is having an affair with a dentist (also played by Soderbergh). Throughout the film, we also see a pest exterminator, Elmo Oxygen (Mike Malone II), who is hired by a mysterious couple to star in a violent cinema verite production.

Schizopolis is a truly bizarre combination of absurdist imagery, visual puns, slapstick and strident surrealism. There were segments I truly loved, and other parts I merely endured. I am reluctant to call it a whole film, as it is more of a series of loosely associated ideas organized into a makeshift postmodern framework. In the opening of the film, Soderbergh speaks to the audience in a style meant to evoke Cecil B. DeMille's intro to the Ten Commandments. "In the event that you find certain sequences or ideas confusing, please bear in mind that this is your fault, not ours. You will need to see the picture again and again until you understand everything." Ha. The most wonderful scenes are those that satirize everyday social situations, specifically the interactions between Fletcher and his wife. As Fletcher moves through his day, he pays more attention to the purpose served by everyday dialogue rather than what is actually said. His interactions with his wife and child are literally exchanges of generalities (similar to the generalities spewed forth by the new age hegemon for whom he’s writing). Here’s an example:

Fletcher: Generic greeting.
Wife: Generic greeting returned.
Fletcher: Imminent sustenance.
Wife: Overly dramatic statement regarding upcoming meal.
Fletcher: Oooh, false reaction indicating hunger and excitement!

These scenes are very clever; so clever that one gets the feeling that Soderbergh tried to write a whole movie around them. At times, Soderbergh’s writing conveys the kind of brilliance seen in Woody Allen’s early essay and plays. At other times, it is not sturdy enough to support the length of time it occupies. The product is, therefore, noticeably disjointed and lopsided. I would, however, recommend Schizopolis to anyone who likes unconventional comedy.

There is nothing in Schizopolis that I have not seen before, but I have the impression that Soderbergh was making the film as a tribute to the avant garde, rather than as an actual showpiece of the movement. The film is reminiscent of Richard Lester’s Beatles comedies, Luis Bunuel’s more surreal outings, Monty Python’s Flying Circus and David Byrne’s early films and videos. Schizopolis owes its greatest debts to the Dada movement, as it is pretty much 90-minutes of irrational anarchy wrapped in an aesthetically disturbing package. At no point does Soderbergh deny his influences; at one point he even includes Richard Lester’s name in a funeral scene. "Lester Richards is dead, and aren't you glad it wasn't you?" This scene is one of many in which the characters externalize their internal monologues. My personal favorite line comes from a news anchor on television reporting a big story:

“A New Mexico woman was named Final Arbiter of Taste & Justice today, ending God's lengthy search for someone to straighten this country out. Eileen Harriet Palglace will have final say on every known subject, including who should be put to death, what clothes everyone should wear, what movies suck, and whether bald men who grow ponytails should still get laid.”

If this line and the general tone of the DVD commentary are any indication, it is clear that Soderbergh has a real problem with critics in general. Why should a handful of people get to decide what the majority should like? Why should the Eileen Palglaces of the world tell us what to watch and what to read? As a fan of the eccentric, I’m with him. As a film critic, well, no one takes my recommendations seriously anyway.

INLAND EMPIRE

Before I attempt to review David Lynch’s new film INLAND EMPIRE (and yes, it does need to be in all capitals) I think I should make it very clear that I am going to be viewing this film as a piece of surrealist art, not as a source of entertainment. How do we judge movies? Personally, I like to look at what I think a filmmaker is trying to achieve with a piece, and then assessing whether or not that goal was met in their final work. Then, finally, I synthesize that with my personal tastes, and I have a critique. Maybe it’s not the way a film reviewer should work, but until someone starts paying me, I’ll stick with what I like. So what can I say about INLAND EMPIRE? I’ve been trying to figure out for the past two days what David Lynch’s goal was in making this film. It’s a haunting film, filled with disturbing and beautiful imagery. It is the first Lynch film to be completely shot in digital video, shot with a Sony DSR-PD150. He has stated that he will no longer use film to make motion pictures. I can see why—DV seems to work perfectly with his style. Too bad Kubrick died before he got to make the switch, too.

A good friend of mine says “Surrealism is lazy,” meaning it’s pretty easy to put a bunch of random things on a page and hope someone sees meaning in it. I contend that surrealism has a little bit more thought put into than that, and that truly effective surrealist imagery is easy to spot simply because it’s hard to do. I could put a tampon in a teacup (thanks Ghost World) but I doubt it would stand up next to the razor/eyeball shot in Luis Bunuel’s Un Chien Andalou.

A chief aim of surrealism is to revolutionize individual human experience by freeing people from the restrictive customs and structures of society. This freedom is, supposedly, achieved through exploration of the unconscious mind. I write this huge preface because I think it’s an important foundation to Lynch’s work. INLAND EMPIRE is a tiltawhirl surrealist epic that explores every single one of the director’s favorite themes: sexual paranoia, Madonna vs. Whore, Doppelgangers, patriarchal oppression, time distortion, voyeurism, loss of innocence, it’s all in here (somewhere). If I had to sum in up in one sentence, I would have to say that INLAND EMPIRE is a little bit like Alice Through The Looking Glass, if Alice were a Polish whore on crack.

The film doesn’t have much of a cohesive storyline. Every morning, Lynch handed each actor several pages of dialogue that he had written that morning, which says a little bit about how much of it was planned out ahead of time. Planning free association is a bit of a contradiction in terms, however, so I can understand and appreciate his sponaneous approach. I’m going to try to sum up the plot as briefly as possible. The story begins with a preamble explaining the character of the Polish girl, who is sitting in room 47, watching a film that is, possibly, the film we, the audience, are watching. Yes, there is a scene at this point in which three people sit around a room dressed like rabbits. Some people have interpreted this as a reference to Alice in Wonderland, but I think it’s just Lynch quoting and following up on his own previous work; the rabbits scene in INLAND EMPIRE is actually the ninth episode in Lynch’s “Rabbits” series, the rest of which which can be seen online on youtube or at DavidLynch.com. Yeah, it’s a rabbit mystery. Okay, moving on.

Nikki Grace (Laura Dern) is an aging Hollywood actress (with the tackiest porn star name in all creation) who is hoping to make a comeback in her new film role. She lives in a this giant house that reminds me a little bit of the evil hotel in The Shining, decorated like my grandmother’s country club and generally incongruous to Nikki’s personality in every way. Her neighbor, a batty old Polish woman, drops by for coffee, over which she prophesizes a few disturbing things. She says, "You will get the part, but beware the consequences of your actions." She then tells Nikki two stories. "A boy goes out to play and evil is born and follows him. A girl goes out to play, but gets lost in the marketplace. She then offers her final warning and clue about the meaning of the entire movie: Sometimes you forget whether it's today, yesterday, or tomorrow, or in other words, “hey audience, this fable is going to confuse the hell out of you, so just remember it’s not necessarily linear.”

Nikki gets the part and begins her loss of identity cycle as she begins to take on the role of Sue. She meets costar Devon (played by a greased up but still undeniably hot Justin Theroux) and has an affair with him. This affair is creepy and it plays out like it’s in a script. Nikki appears to feel the same way as she begins to confuse fantasy and reality, thinking she is acting when she is not and vice versa. Eventually, she is stuck in her own film, her own husband is now Sue’s husband, etc. At the same time, a separate storyline, involving women being smuggled over from Eastern Europe, is sporadically introduced using musical numbers that can only be described recursively as “Lynchian.” The Polish whores are the little girls who got lost in the marketplace. Simultaneously, Nikki is also one of them; what is Hollywood, if not a dangerous place where pretty girls get bought, sold and thrown away? INLAND EMPIRE juxtaposes the physical act of selling one’s body in the red light district to metaphorically selling one’s self for the sake of celebrity. INLAND EMPIRE is the third installment in what I think of as Lynch’s urban underbelly trilogy along with Lost Highway and Mulhollad Drive. All three films examine the splitting of the good and bad parts of human nature into two figures, usually the hero and the hero’s doppelganger. Everyone in INLAND EMPIRE has a double, everyone is pretending to be someone else, and the film threatens at several points to become completely incomprehensible. It redeems itself, however as Laura Dern’s character(s) is killed, is reborn and throws off the shackles of patriarchal oppression (a common theme in Lynch’s work, represented this time around by a fantastic Jeremy Irons) only to discover that she is trapped in a film. She ends up going into the room that we started out in, where she meets the woman who has been watching this whole mess.

My graduate school experience gave me an education with a sickeningly psychodynamic foundation, which means that, for better or for worse, I’ve read a lot of Freud, Jung and Klein. While watching INLAND EMPIRE I couldn’t help but look at the film as an analysis of the process of projective identification and of the birth of the self. That, however, could take two thousand more words to explore…so I think I’ll save that for next week’s installment. That's right, INLAND EMPIRE is so complicated, I need to take a break to finish reviewing it properly. Thanks David Lynch, you've given a whole generation of film students material for their theses. Stay tuned....

All Roads Lead To...oh, never mind

So I recently watched a few episodes of "Rome," a truly awesome (if totally melodramatic) show on HBO about the last years of Julius caesar's reign. Like "Deadwood," it presents a very specific and historically significant time period as the backdrop for the soap opera plotlines. Anyone who took ancient history in school will immediately be able to identify the potential for a soap opera in ancient Rome: murder, incest, extortion, rape and plotting, oh the plotting!

For those who forgot the basics, here's a quick review. After assuming control of the government in 49 BC, Julius Caesar reformed Roman society and government, proclaimed himself dictator for life, and he heavily centralized the bureaucracy of the Republic, thus pissing off all the wrong people and forcing Marcus Junius Brutus to conspire with others to murder the dictator and restore the Republic. After Caesar's death, there was a huge power vacuum as many people struggled to take over the remains of the crumbling republic. Antony allied with Gaius Julius Caesar Octavian and Marcus Aemilius Lepidus to form an official triumvirate (aka, the second triumvirate). It broke up in 33 BC and the disagreement turned to civil war. On one side was Antony, of Shakespearean fame, and his buddy Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, a patrician with a really bad attitude. On the other side was Octavian (later known as Augustus), Caesar's adopted son/nephew. Octavian married Livia, mother of Tiberius and Drusus, who was a controlling, power-hungry diva. In soap opera lingo, she was pretty much the Alexis Colby of her day. In approximantely 30 BC, Antony was defeated by Octavian at Alexandria, and Octavian was officially declared the first Emperor of Rome. Octavian ruled for 41 years or so, with Livia wielding a whole lot of power.

Halfway between a History Channel miniseries and Peyton Place dwells "Rome." What makes the show so fun to watch is not the overarching plot--the writers cannot rewrite history, so there can be few surprises in that respect. The joys of Rome come in the personal storylines of two Roman soldiers: Lucius Vorenus and Titus Pullo, two soldiers mentioned in Caesar's Commentarii de Bello Gallico. The first season explored Julius Caesar's rise to power, the second season, so far, is exploring the struggle for power between Mark Anthony and Octavian. With a first season budget of 100 million dollars, "Rome" has the look and feel of a feature film. The sets are unbelievable, the costumes authentic and the cinematography unlike anything else on the network (except, of course, for "Carnivale," which still reigns supreme as the most beautifully photographed HBO show). The anachronistic dialogue (studded in an odd but compelling way by contemporary swear words) is delivered with flair and gravitas by a stellar cast. I haven't seen all the episodes yet, but I'm working my way through. I like the fact that the show respects the intelligence of the audience and I like the fact that people can actually learn a little something from the show while being entertained. Take a look at the first few episodes of the series and see if you don't agree.

Celluloitering on Under Surveillance

This week, I was lucky enough to be a guest on Under Surveillance, a radio show covering topics involving politics, popular culture, and mass media on WLUW 88.7 FM here in Chicago. I discussed the topic of Hollywood remakes with host Kevin Fullam, who gave me a lot to think about. Check it out, and while you're there, listen to some of his archived shows--they're really good.

You can listen to Under Surveillance here.

Notes on a Scandal

Richard Eyre’s Notes on a Scandal will leave you feeling unclean enough to go for the soap and the pumice stone in a Chyrsanthemums-style attempt at redemption. I haven’t felt so deliciously filthy in a movie theatre since that midnight showing of Caligula I saw last year. Unlike The Chrysanthemums however, Notes on a Scandal, is less about what makes an unhappy marriage and more about the qualities and consequences of toxic friendship. The unhappy marriage in question is the unlikely one between the young, beautiful, liberated art teacher Bathsheba (Cate Blanchett) and the stable, boring, “crumbling patriarch” Richard (Bill Nighy). Desperate for something different, Sheba stupidly engages in an illicit love affair with one of her fifteen-year-old pupils. She runs into a bit of trouble when a coworker named Barbara (Judi Dench) discovers the affair and decides to use it to lure Bathsheba into an intense, unhealthy friendship. Notes on a Scandal is based on Zoe Heller’s novel of the same name. I have to admit that I have not yet read the book, so I cannot say whether or not the film does it justice. Given the fact that I was completely and utterly spellbound for the film’s entire ninety minutes, however, I suspect that it does.

A lesser actor might have easily taken the character of Barbara way over the top. Judi Dench’s performance, however, is perfectly chilling and terrifyingly real. Anyone who has ever been stuck in a toxic relationship will be able to identify with Sheba. Barbara is two parts Iago, one part Marquise de Merteuil, and one hundred percent pure evil. Cate Blanchett, as usual, delivers a natural and complex performance as Sheba. Sometimes sympathetic, often reprehensible, Sheba is one of the most believable desperate wives I have seen on the screen in a long time.

Richard Eyre, who directed the heartbreaking 2001 film Iris and the underrated 2004 film Stage Beauty, has a real knack for portraying complex family dynamics in a simple, subtle way. The screenplay, adapted by Patrick Marber, is absolutely perfect. Narrative from the book is elegantly and sparingly incorporated in voiceover, a technique that often feels trite but which seems right at home here. Mr. Marber is nominated for an Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay. Although he is up against Sacha Baron Cohen and Alfonso Cuaron, I think he should get it.

The amount of money I would pay to see this film: $9

Most Overrated Films: It's Time for Part Two!

Okay, here's the rest of my list! I might have to go back and make some changes as the week goes on...whenever I put up a list, I either get e-mails with alternate suggestions, or I engage in conversations with people that make me reconsider my choices. I'm always willing to concede that I may have erred, but here's the second half of the list as it stands now.

The Breakfast Club: The Breakfast Club is a classic case of something you love as a child/teenager and cling to desperately as you grow up. All in all, it is pretty silly and superficial; and it’s not even John Hughes’ best film (that prize has to go to Ferris Bueller or Planes, Trains & Automobiles).

Shaft (1971): Have you ever watched Shaft all the way through? As awesome as Richard Roundtree is, I was disappointed by the original Shaft. The music, production design and imagery are wonderful, but the plot and acting are so ridiculous that it is hard to sit through.

Chasing Amy: Where do I even begin? Chasing Amy was so painfully self-conscious and boring to me that I could barely sit still in the theatre. The playful free spirit of Clerks (and even Mallrats ) is attempted but ultimately smothered by an intolerable miasma of forced, hollow, self-serving blather. Ugh.

Saving Private Ryan: Great battle scenes, decent acting but, overall, not deserving of all the praise it received. The Thin Red Line was ten times better. To me, Saving Private Ryan felt like a regurgitation of every World War II drama that Spielberg ever watched as a child, revamped and sewn together into a Frankenstein’s monster. While I think it was well executed, I’m not sure why it’s on everyone’s favorites list.

The Big Chill: Great movie if you feel like watching a bunch of neurotic people have sex with each other, not so great if you want a decently paced, emotionally engaging film experience. The Big Chill cannot be redeemed by Tom Berenger’s hotness. It does have one of the better soundtracks, however (which reminds me, I should make a best movie soundtrack list).

Dirty Dancing: Dumb, dumb, dumb. Poor Jerry Orbach must have lost a bet to have been involved in this silly fiasco.

The Blair Witch Project: I have nothing but respect for this film’s marketing campaign—how genius! The film itself is, however, kind of disappointing overall. Of course, I felt nauseated by the camera work, so that might have something to do with its inclusion in this list.

A Beautiful Mind: The best thing about this movie was Ed Harris, who is so good he should just get an Oscar in the mail every year. While I thought Jennifer Connely and Russell Crowe were both quite good, I found Howard’s direction a bit too sentimental for the material, and I ultimately felt like I was watching a toothpaste commercial (but with game theory and schizophrenia).

The English Patient: The best thing about The English Patient was the dress that Juliet Binoche wore to the Oscars. I think it was Oscar de la Renta. Fabulous. The film is an interesting but awkward combo of Casablanca and Lawrence of Arabia. Unfortunately, it achieves the greatness of neither. The sad fact is that The English Patient was a good film that achieved greatness because its studio, Miramax, whored itself out big time to get award nominations. Seriously, if production companies were women, Miramax would never keep her legs together.

Children of Men

We’ve heard politicians tell us “the children are out future”so many times that the words have begun to lose all meaning. When you really stop and think about it, however, it’s a very true statement. Without a next generation, the human race would only have a few decades left on earth. This is the premise of Alfonso Cuaron’s latest film, Children of Men , a bleak, violent but ultimately beautiful and moving dystopian drama. Based on the novel by P.D. James, Children of Men tells of a future in which no one is able to procreate. The world is in chaos as people lose hope and wage war on each other. In the year 2027, the UK has closed its borders and is slowly rounding up all immigrants and refugees and putting them into camps. Constant, Orwellian advertisements all over London remind us “Only Britain soldiers on.” Naturally, it turns out that one of these persecuted refugees is the first person to get pregnant in eighteen years. Theo (played without a bit of pretense or sanctimony by Clive Owen) is a disenchanted government worker who is enlisted by his ex-wife (Julianne Moore) to help transport the young pregnant woman to a safe place called “The Human Project.”

Children of Men is part fantasy and part thriller, and all heart-wrenching drama. I walked in fearing that the film would be brimming with maudlin symbolism but was pleasantly surprised to find that I never felt manipulated or cynical while watching it. I felt disturbed, upset, angry and, eventually, hopeful that the human race will have some kind of a future, however bleak. The scenes of the refugee internment camps are chilling in their realism. One of the reasons Children of Men makes such an emotional impact is that it doesn’t look like “the future,” but rather the present world with a little more smoke and twisted metal thrown in for good measure.

Although the pacing of the film was just right, I almost wish the film had been longer; I loved the expositional material and longed for more of it. A particularly amusing scene features Danny Huston as Theo’s wealthy art collecting cousin who lives in what looks like some kind of converted industrial high-rise, drinking Pinot and admiring Picasso’s Guernica and Michelangelo’s David (sans a leg). His character uses the insulation of wealth to protect him from the impending extinction of the human race. Theo’s friend Jasper (Michael Caine) adopts a different strategy, living out his life in the woods, surrounded by psychedelic rock and homegrown ganja. For the rest of the country, suicide kits (“Quietus: you decide when”) are routinely purchased and used at home. How would you adjust to the end of the world?

The amount of money I would pay to see this movie: $7

Celluloitering’s Top 20 Most Overrated Films of All Time (part one)

Premiere Magazine just put out their list of the 20 most overrated films. I agree with some of their picks, but not with others, so I thought I would make my own list, complete with explanations for why I chose them. Before anyone sees one of their favorites on this list and writes me an angry e-mail, be warned: [almost] every movie on this list is a good movie. This list isn’t a list of bad films, but rather films that didn’t live up to their hype, their awards, etc. Today I’m posting the first ten; next week, I’ll post the rest.

The Sixth Sense: M. Night Shyamalan’s first major studio success is frightening and atmospheric, but it’s also cheap and mawkish. I saw the end coming a mile away. That said I enjoyed watching it anyway; it’s an entertaining film. The way people talked about it when it came out, however, I thought it was going to be another Exorcist or Suspiria. The Sixth Sense also irritates me because it seems to have given Shyamalan the idea that he can do no wrong, no matter how many crappy movies he makes.

The Greatest Show on Earth: This 1952 Best Picture winner from acclaimed director Cecil B. DeMille is…not that good, especially when you consider it won over John Ford's The Quiet Man and Stanley Donen’s Singin’ in the Rain. This drama about circus performers has an all-star cast including Cornel Wilde, Dorothy Lamour and Charlton Heston, but it fails to be anything more than an annoying, overblown melodrama with a truly laughable climax.

Napoleon Dynamite: This movie never lived up to its hype, Gosh! Jon Heder’s funny little film about awkward adolescence is just that: a funny little film. It’s got some great site gags and one-liners, but it hardly deserved the rabid fanaticism it inspired. If I see one more Vote for Pedro t-shirt I am going to hurl.

Garden State: I love Zach Braff, and I thought Garden State was really cute, but its Emo McHipster chic was hardly deserving of the indi lovefest it inspired. It was hailed as a landmark film for my generation, but it didn’t break any ground that Harold and Maude and The Graduate didn’t break first.

Crash: People are diverse! This corny Hollywood civics lesson about race and prejudice is very well acted but so mediocre in every other way that its Best Picture win is a total mystery to me. Don Cheadle=awesome, but you’d be better off renting Hotel Rwanda.

Moulin Rouge!: I'm going to get hate mail for this one. I liked Moulin Rouge! I really did. I appreciated the intense, polychromatic musical numbers and clever anachronistic humor. John Leguizamo's Toulouse-Lautrec is hilarious and the Roxanne tango is truly a spectacle to behold, but in the end, it's nothing more than an MTV version of Camille.

A Man For All Seasons: Brilliant acting from stars Paul Scofield and Wendy Hiller? Sure. Great screenplay adapted by Robert Bolt from his original play? Definitely. Deserving of two-dozen film awards, including and Oscar for Best Picture? Not really. This 1966 film about Sir Thomas More was soporifically under-directed by Fred Zinneman; its two-hour length feels more like three hours.

Forest Gump: When I was thirteen, my mother took me to see both Forest Gump and Pulp Fiction, both of which were later nominated for Best Picture. Even at that young age, I thought that Pulp Fiction was better than Forest Gump and was confused by Gump’s win. The film, like its protagonist, is sweet, good-natured and simple. Zemekis tries to force us to identify with mentally disabled Forest, instead of focusing on the dark irony of an idiot making millions of dollars by being in the right place at the right time. It shoots for brilliance, but it’s just one more decent film with a good cast. Stupid is as stupid does, indeed.

Magnolia: This movie hit me in all the right places; I laughed, I smiled, I blubbered. BUT, the three-hour character study is a little too sprawling and self-indulgent to qualify as one of the greatest films of all time (it’s #175 on IMDB’s top 250).

Monster’s Ball: Halle Barry, Peter Boyle and Billy Bob Thornton are all fabulous in this gothic southern melodrama. The plot, however, is so emotionally overwrought that watching it is like watching a very long Tennessee William’s play, only with lousy dialogue and ham-fisted symbolism.

Volver (2006)

Part zany telenovela, part classic Hollywood melodrama, Pedro Almodóvar’s latest film, Volver, is a sweet, funny film about mother-daughter relationships and the resiliency of women. Penelope Cruz plays Raimunda, a hard-working woman juggling a boorish, unemployed husband, a teenage daughter and an invalid aunt. She is also haunted by the deaths of her mother (Carmen Maura) and father in a tragic fire.

Raimunda’s troubles only grow when her husband takes a carving knife to the gut and bleeds out all over the kitchen floor. The scene in which Raimunda furiously mops up his blood is both horrifying and comic. In media res, Raimunda is interrupted by a neighbor at the front door. He notices a streak of blood on her neck and asks if she’s all right. “Women’s troubles,” she says with a smile. Boy, she’s not kidding.

Women’s troubles are, indeed, the theme throughout the film. Almodóvar focuses on the special kinship and friendship that exists between women in patriarchal, gender-separated societies. The details of the film, which include death, cancer, sexual abuse, teen pregnancy, betrayal, parental abandonment and yes, more death, make it sound like one long dirge, but it’s not. Volver is upbeat without being flip and serious without being grim, making it an easy pill to swallow.

There has been a lot of Oscar buzz around Penelope Cruz this year, and after seen Volver I can say it is justified. Cruz exhibits a kind of raw, sensual performance reminiscent of Sophia Loren's early film work (Two Women, Il Segno di Venere) and her performance in Volver is very real and engaging. Almodóvar could have done a better job dubbing Cruz's voice for her titular musical number, though; the poor dubbing distracts from one of the film's big dramatic moments.

The amount of money I’d pay to see this film: $7

Sur-Reality Television: Previously on Panopticon...

I remember it well: Who Wants To Marry A Multi-Millionaire, February 15th, 2000. It was my first exposure to the tacky modern reality television shows that are now omnipresent on network television. I turned it on with the same morbid curiosity exhibited by the twelve-year-old who follows his friends down to the railroad yard because they heard there was a dead body by the tracks. I watched it while on the phone with my boyfriend at the time, who was also tuned in; our mutual affinity for mocking the circus before us brought us closer to each other, and one step closer to hell.

Of course, reality television has been around much longer than seven years. Precendents for television that portrayed people in unscripted situations actually began in the 1940s. Debuting in 1948, Allen Funt's Candid Camera broadcast unsuspecting ordinary people being pranked. American Idol was predicted in 1968 in the Star Trek episode “Bread and Circuses,” in which gladiatorial combat was featured on television, with viewers calling in to vote for the winners (I’m sure the Trekkies out there remember the immortal line "You bring this network's ratings down, Flavius, and we'll do a special on you!").

The first reality show in the modern sense was the PBS series An American Family. Twelve parts were broadcast in the United States in 1973. The series dealt with a nuclear family going through a divorce. Of course, An American Family was presented as more of a documentary, made for the sake of education rather than entertainment. Albert Brooks predicted the fundamental struggle between scientific observation and entertainment when he made the satirical 1979 film Real Life. Using An American Family as its basis, Brooks made a “reality” film portraying himself as a reality television director making a show about a “real family” in Arizona. What emerges is a clear paradox: mass entertainment media can never portray reality because the very act of being part of such media warps “real” behavior. The fact that there were so many predictors of reality television is not terribly surprising. Alfred Hitchcock, among others, often commented that watching a film is an act of voyeurism. Audiences go to the movies not just to escape, but to spy on the lives of other people. Reality TV seems like a natural next step. Producers love reality television because it’s cheap; audiences love it because it is, supposedly, “real.” However, as Brooks pointed out in Real Life, “reality is boring.” So the producers manipulate the people involved and then edit the footage in order to tell a more appealing story. The term “reality television,” is, therefore, a misnomer.

Don't get me wrong; I have a few reality television shows that I enjoy. Usually, I like the ones that involve some kind of skill or profession; Project Runway and Top Chef are my favorites. What concerns me is that, given the natural progression we have seen thus far, truly awful things could lie ahead in the arena of “reality television.” Eventually, there will be a backlash against all of the scripted, fake reality shows and a demand for “real” reality shows will grow. At this point, the networks will either A) abandon the genre entirely (which, given the cost-effective nature of reality television, is unlikely) or B) find some way to make it all more “real.” The only way to do that (and now I’m starting to think in terms of 1984 and Sliver) would be to put people on television without them knowing. Yes, this has been done on shows like Punk’d and satirized in movies like The Truman Show but I'm talking about a whole new level. I'm talking about a reality show called Panopticon! Imagine, a show in which a large family is contacted, one at a time, by producers. Each one is given a set of small, state of the art cameras and asked to spy on their family. However, none of them knows that the others are also spying. What results is a reality television show, made by the cast itself, in which no one knows he is a star. Now that, ladies in gentleman, could be the future of reality television. You heard it here first. For those of you who doubt me, I can only say that I successfully predicted the shows Intervention, Who Wants To Marry My Dad and The Real Housewives of Orange County. I'm not proud, I'm just saying. If it makes you feel kind of sick to your stomach and unclean, it's probably in pre-production right now.

Casino Royale (2006)

It is important to judge James Bond films within the context of the James Bond series. Good James Bond films are frequently just mediocre films with regards to acting or pacing or what have you, but are great when compared to other James Bond films. For example, Live and Let Die is a pretty decent James Bond movie. It has a hot Bond girl (Solitaire played by Jane Seymour) and a cool villain (Baron Samedi played by Geoffrey Holder) and plenty of good chase sequences and fight scenes. Is it a good film in general? Heavens, no! By general standards it’s cheesy and ridiculous.

My reason for the long prologue is because Casino Royale is one of the most unusual and unconventional Bond films ever made. While it falls short of the some of the standards of its genre, it triumphs in regards to other aspects of filmmaking. As Casino Royale opens, James Bond (Daniel Craig) is new to his 007 title. Even though Casino Royale is supposed to take place at the beginning of his career, the film takes place post-9/11. The villain? Terrorism. Instead of focusing on one kind of terrorist to battle (which could have been disastrous), Casino Royale focuses on the real problem: financial support of global terrorism. An evildoer named Le Chiffre (which is French for “The Chiffre”) backs terrorist acts in order to force stocks down, then makes a tidy profit. Unfortunately, he loses 150 million after James foils one of his plots, so he has to go to Montenegro to win the money back (lest he face the wrath of his backers, who are all pretty mean). Of course, James Bond has to beat him at cards to keep him from taking the pot. If Bond loses, his government will have directly financed terrorism. God, I love this plot. Craig’s Bond is an intense, violent badass. He comes off as more of a vigilante than a secret agent. The fight scenes in Casino Royale are simply breathtaking. A chase sequence around a construction site in the beginning is one of the most incredible things I have witnessed in an action movie this decade. After an incredible beginning, however, Casino Royale starts to drag a little, if only because so much of it takes place at a card table and in a hotel room.

As I said before, Casino Royale breaks a lot of the standard James Bond conventions. If there is a problem with the film, it is that it doesn’t break enough Bond conventions. By only going halfway, the filmmakers create a slightly lopsided film that gives us a brand new take on James Bond while trying desperately to remind us what James Bond movies are supposed to be like. Are there scenes at the card tables with vodka martinis? Yes, but they’re playing Texas Hold ‘em. Bond has a cool car, right? Well, sort of…but it’s a Ford. Casino Royale shows us a James Bond who is rough around the edges; he lacks the sophistication and chivalrous qualities of previous Bonds. I don’t think that’s a bad thing; after all, it’s nice to know that the James Bond we know and love didn’t just spring, fully formed from his father’s head. Like Frank Miller’s The Dark Knight Returns, Casino Royale attempts to show its protagonist’s evolution while revolutionizing its genre for modern audiences. Bond is, above all things, a symbol of the sociopolitical zeitgeist. The cold war is over, as M reminds us in the beginning of Casino Royale, and the time for soigné spies has come to an unceremonious conclusion. Today, Bond is a cavalier hawk who fights terrorism by shooting one mad bomber at a time. Make no mistake, Casino Royale might be about MI 6, but it’s really a comment on how the United States is handling the war on terror. Bond drives a Ford, Bond plays Texas Hold ‘em, Bond breaks through a wall while the guy he is chasing uses the door. In the first fifteen minutes, Bond breaks into an African embassy and kills everyone for no good reason. Bond is a callous, impetuous juggernaut who has been given too much power too quickly. Bond is the United States of America.

Casino Royale has the benefit of an excellent cast. Eva Green is good as Vesper Lynd; she is everything a Bond girl should be, plus a little added depth. Oh, as a side note, I would love to delve into the sexism that runs rampant through this film, but I checked my feminist hat at the door when I entered the theater. Vesper is a stereotypical martyr character, punished horribly for the stereotypical "weaknesses of her sex." Does that bother me? Okay, yeah, it kind of does, but asking for an enlightened portrayal of women in a Bond film is as futile as asking for Oliver Stone to tone down his use of gratuitous violence. Jeffrey Wright (Broken Flowers, Lady in the Water), one of today’s great character actors, plays Felix Leiter. Scary Danish guy Mads Mikkelsen is just right as Le Chiffre. Director Martin Campbell knows how to make a great action movie (GoldenEye, Mask of Zorro) but also has a flair for portraying the dark, sinister side of human nature (Cast a Deadly Spell). I thought Casino Royale was a good film. As a James Bond film, however, it was somewhat lacking. The parts of Casino Royale that felt the most awkward were parts in which square Bond conventions were being hastily forced into round holes (clumsy sexual dialogue, bad puns, martini-dry one-liners). Daniel Craig is too good for the Bond conventions. He can’t quite make the smarmy lines sound convincing; when he says them, they seem so cheap and noticeably dated. I thought his performance overall was quite astounding in its depth and sophistication. If they can just get writers to keep up with him, the next Bond film should be a real firecracker.

The amount of money I would pay to see this film: $7

P.S. Before I get any e-mails for corrections, let me note that "Le Chiffre" is actually french for "the cypher." I was just being glib 'cause I'm a smart ass.

Don't Be Stupid, NBC!

There is a rumor going around the net that NBC might cancel Aaron Sorkin's latest smartass liberal project, "Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip." While I often get the urge to pull Sorkin's soapbox out from under him and beat him like a dead horse (an act that Sorkin himself is no doubt familiar with), I will say that "Studio 60" is a great show that demonstrates a potential for brilliance. After eleven episodes, it is not quite there yet. Give this fledgling program a chance to finish out the twenty-two episodes season before you pull the plug, you corporate goons!

"Studio 60" follows the adventures of a sketch comedy show (similar to Saturday Night Live) in Los Angeles as the program and the network both go through a regime change. Wes (Judd Hirsch), the head producer and father of "Studio 60" has a Peter Finch inspired meltdown on the air and is fired for criticizing the "lobotomized" programming and telling his audience to change the channel. Matt and Danny (Matthew Perry and Bradley Whitford) are brought in as head writers. At the same time, the network, NBS, has a spunky new president (Amanda Peet) who is, of course, at odds with everyone, including NBS chairman, Jack (Steven Weber). She wants to Sorkinify the network, putting on intelligent programming (including an hour long drama about the UN called "Nations"). Of course, the network would rather have reality shows that will make them lots of money. Philistines. The cast of "Studio 60" (including D.L. Hughley, Sarah Paulson and Nathan Corddry) is genuinely funny and talented. Like SNL, many of their sketches are only marginally funny, with the occasional spot of brilliance. Their "Santa: to catch a predator" sketch actually made me laugh to the point of choking. Oh, and the "Meet the Press hosted by Juliette Lewis" sketch deserves its own hour, by the way. Some viewers have complained that the sketches aren't funny enough--personally, I think if they were any funnier, the show would not be realistic.

I avoided "Studio 60" at first because I was doubtful. While I loved "Sports Night" and miss it dearly, do we really need another show-within-a-show? Meta is getting kind of old, isn't it? What Sorkin knows, however, is that the metashow is one of the best ways to critique out popular culture and the medium of television itself; not to mention that he knows that world so well that he could write snappy backstage dialogue in his sleep. The acting is strong, the casting is great and the writing is good enough to make seemingly boring storylines interesting. Everyone in this show has, at some point, carried another show. That can be dangerous, because everyone associates them with their previous starring roles. The characters on "Studio 60" are strong enough to avoid this pitfall, however. What results is an incredibly strong and talented ensemble cast with a chemistry all its own. My biggest beef with the show is its depiction of women. don't get me wrong, I think Sorkin writes well for both men and women, but "Studio 60" has a tendency to put women in servile, objectified positions. The male characters act like juvenile jackasses and the women sheepishly smile and laugh that "boys will be boys." Besides this annoying characteristic, however, "Studio 60" is pretty awesome, and I hope NBC decides to keep it around for another season.

Stranger Than Fiction (2006)

Life imitates art in Marc Forster’s latest film Stranger Than Fiction. It’s very sweet and funny, and deserves a lot more publicity than it has received thus far. Sadly, it was unwisely advertised as a zany comedy. Mr. Ferrell, who is normally all schtick, turns in a very reserved and sophisticated performance that may not appeal to the viewers who come to the theatre expecting Ricky Bobby or Ron Burgundy. I hope that people will give Stranger Than Fiction a chance, however, if only because it is a very intelligent little meta-movie that is neither condescending nor preciously clever.

Will Ferrell plays Harold Crick, a mild-mannered IRS agent with a mundane and lonely life. One day, Harold Crick hears a voice narrating his actions. She knows everything about him, including his thoughts. What he does not know is that the voice is that of Karen Eiffel, a neurotic J.D. Salinger type whose brilliant new novel is supposed to end with his poetic yet violent death. Suprisingly, Harold freaks out a little but insists that he is perfectly sane. Rather than seeking therapy, he decides to seek another authority— English professor Jules Hilbert (Dustin Hoffman).

The basic plot of the film is familiar: a repressed man finds out that he is going to die and decides to live it up while he still has the time. What saves it from being trite, however, is the sheer surrealist idea behind the machinations of his impending doom: he’s in someone else’s novel. The third-person omniscient narrator is his God, and she‘s going to smite him down for the sake of a literary theme. While trying to figure out how to prevent his death, Harold falls in love with Ana (Maggie Gyllenhaal) a Harvard-educated baker with more than a touch of Henry David Thoreau in her.

Mr. Forster, who directed such films as Monster’s Ball. and Finding Neverland, has both a flare for the dramatic and the ability to depict the gravity and tragedy of everyday life. If you think that sounds like an odd match for a comedy, you’re wrong; to the contrary, the dramatic heft behind Stranger Than Fiction is precisely what keeps the audience engaged and the characters sympathetic. Interestingly, Stranger Than Fiction is a film without a villain. Karen Eiffel is not a malicious character, as she does not know that Harold really exists. She wants to end the novel with his death because she always ends her novels with death; in a way, the only villain in this film is unoriginal story telling. Tragedies end with funerals, comedies end with weddings; can Harold escape the “fate” of literary cliché?

The amount of money I would pay to see this movie: $9

Dexter Recap

Well, I just watched episodes seven and eight of "Dexter." Episode seven features a truly chilling psychiatrist who drives his patients to suicide. Dexter stalks him by seeing him for therapy, and the therapy turns out to actually be helpful. Meanwhile, we find out that Deb's boyfriend, Rudy the hot prosthetics doctor is—drum roll--the ice truck killer! Christian Camargo is suitably creepy as Rudy; the same character could have been played by Cillian Murphy, but I guess he was too busy being preternaturally good-looking. In episode eight, we find out that Dexter's biological father never died when Harry said he did, and that he's been living in suburban Florida. Living, that is, until he suddenly dies of a heart attack and names Dexter as executer of his estate. Of course, it turns out that Dexter's dad didn't really die of a heart attack after all--could it have been an injection of insulin from a mysterious "cable repairman?" Yes, and that cable repairman is, conveniently enough, also Rudy. Boy, Rudy really gets around! I am never going out with any guy who has a walk-in freezer in his apartment.

What Were They Smoking? Eve of Destruction (1991)

I haven't done a "What were they smoking," piece in a while, but I was inspired to bring it back yesterday when I walked into my neighborhood supermarket and heard the Turtles' bubblegum pop version of "Eve of Destruction," on the overhead speaker. My first thought was "why would Jewel Osco pick a song about nuclear war to play for its customers?" Then I thought, "Wasn't that also a really terrible movie?" Oh yes, it was.

Gregory Hines is inexplicably cast as a counterinsurgency expert. The movie actually describes him as "the guy the Government calls in when they don't want Congress to know." Maybe the government was taking softshoe lessons and wanted to surprise Congress at their 215th anniversary party. Anyway, he's called in to track down Eve (Renée Soutendijk), a sexy cyborg run amok. Eve's standard weapons include a nuclear bomb, which for unexplained reasons is on board during Eve's pilot testing. So of course it is up to Hines and a few incidental military types to hunt Eve down and diffuse her.

Eve was designed in the likeness of a scientist (also played by Renée Soutendijk) and is even programmed with some of her memories and feelings. If you are wondering why her programmers would do that, I can offer you no explanation other than the writers needed an excuse to put the sexy cyborg in sexy positions. Guys seem to like Eve because she's hot and Dutch and she doesn't say much (a la Species). They are all OVER that Eve of destruction. Yes, there is actually a scene in which she bites off a guy’s penis. I was only eleven and fairly innocent when this movie first started playing on Cinemax (eight times a day) but that image will be forever emblazoned in my memory. Hilariously, Eve takes particular exception to being called "bitch" and always uses it as a trigger to go violent. I’m guessing the writer/director, Duncan Gibbons, might have had a few issues with the ladies. Then again, looking at his brief filmography, which includes “The Best of Wham!” and a series of Eurythmics videos, I’d wager that he was probably gayer than dad’s old hat band.

What they were smoking: judging by the body count, I’d have to go with PCP.

Blind Picks from Netflix: Looking for Comedy in The Muslim World (2006)

“You just assume there are comedy clubs everywhere.”

That’s what Albert Brooks says when he arrives in India in his latest film, Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World. It pretty much sums up the theme of the entire movie: The Americans tend to be painfully ethnocentric, even when they are trying hard to understand other cultures. Of course, Americans aren’t alone in this respect, but it is the U.S. nation’s misunderstanding of Islam and of Pakistan and India that is the particular subject of Satire in Brooks’ latest film.

The folks at Warner Independent made the mistake of marketing Looking for Comedy in the Muslim World as a comedy. Although it has a few moments of hilarity, it is really more of a quasi-fictional sociology experiment. The US State Department hires Albert Brooks (played by Albert Brooks) to go to Pakistan and India and figure out what the Muslims find funny. The plot is reminiscent of some of the wacky tactics employed by the U.S. in the 50s and 60s, such as spiking foreign leaders' beverages with acid or attempting to defeat Cuba by making Castro's beard fall out. Brooks is aided in his survey by an enthusiastic local woman, Maya (Sheetal Sheth), who types 135 words a minute and has both a journalism degree and a jealous Iranian boyfriend. Sheth is really one of the highlights of this film and I predict that she will go far. Brooks puts on a comedy show in New Delhi, and he fails miserably, not because the audience doesn’t have a sense of humor, but because his jokes are badly delivered. People who are familiar with Brooks’ standup comedy and film career will recognize some of his routines, such as his ventriloquist act and his fake improvisation bit. Normally, these acts are good, but Brooks butchers them here; the comedy in this film is not in the form of deliberate jokes but in the overall concept. America wants to find out what the Muslims think is funny? And they send Albert Brooks? Throw a cream pie and chimpanzee into that equation and you’ve got my money. There is some real throwaway gold here, such as a running gag in which Brooks walks through an office building, hearing Indian operators helping customers of US corporations as he walks by. Another hilarious scene involves Brooks getting a sitcom pitch from Al-Jazeera.

The funny part is that the material Brooks is using in the film isn’t even funny in his own country, yet he somehow expects it to kill overseas. I’m not going to repeat his Gandhi joke here because it is too embarrassing, but suffice to say is both offensive and sophomoric. Even funnier is the idea that “the Muslim world,” would all agree on what’s funny. Even if he did come to understand the cultures of the people involved (which, when you’re talking about “the Muslim world,” includes many different cultures), he would still have address individual tastes. Could you honestly put into words what makes you laugh? I don’t think I could, and neither can the people Brooks interviews in India.

There is a brilliant little clip of Brooks watching Indian television in his hotel room. It reminded me of an experience I had watching Greek television while I was staying Athens. It was a sketch comedy show, involving a hirsute, bejeweled man stuffing dolmas into his mouth while watching a naked woman dance behind a screen to the song “You Can Leave Your Hat On.” I was simultaneously amused and perplexed, and I suspect that the look on my face at that moment was the same as the look on Brooks’ face as he watches the Indian couple on television chasing each other around with pillows. It pretty much sums up the film: no one can just fly to another country and figure out what is funny in that specific culture. In order to understand humor, you have to immerse yourself and truly understand the culture, the people, and the history of the place. When he gets to India and Pakistan, Brooks tries to fit everything into his already narrow framework of what comedy is, which is why he fails. Looking for Comedy isn’t really a comedy—it is a critique of ethnocentrism and American solipsism. The film ends on a perfect note. It doesn't look to solve all of our problems or tie up all the loose ends; rather, it points out the futility of backwards government missions. Of course Brooks doesn't succeed--he was doomed from the start because his task was impossible.

Early in the film, Albert Brooks walks up to a stranger in the streets of New Delhi and telling him a Polish joke. The man laughs. Brooks concludes that, “Polish jokes work in any country.” The moral? The safest (if cheapest) way to make people laugh is to make fun of someone else’s culture.

The Departed (2006)

I try not to gush too much in my reviews, but today I can't hold back. The Departed has everything: intense performances, gorgeous cinematography, perfect pacing and a script that would make David Mamet weep. The plot of The Departed is just complicated enough to be interesting without being confusing. Colin Sullivan (Matt Damon) and Billy Costigan (Leonardo DiCaprio) are two Massachusetts policemen. Colin has a sterling reputation and is rising quickly in his department. Billy, who comes from criminals on one side of his family and from north shore money on the other, is good at playing roles; so good that his superiors Dignam and Queenan (Mark Wahlberg and Martin Sheen) sneer that he’s still playing a role by pretending to be a cop. They tell him he’s not police material. Then they ask him to go undercover for them. Billy has to buddy up to Frank Costello (Jack Nicholson), the Irish mob boss who rules Boston with an iron fist in a velvet glove. What Billy doesn’t know is that Costello has his own rat on the inside: Colin Sullivan. The two rats try to find each other, outsmart each other, and avoid being killed in the process.

While the plot of The Departed is similar to it’s 2002 Hong Kong progenitor Infernal Affairs, the direction is unmistakably Scorcese’s. The camera work, low to the ground and punctuated by rapid cuts, is reminiscent of his early work (Mean Streets). The choice of music, featuring The Rolling Stones, Pink Floyd, Patsy Cline, and The Dropkick Murphys ties with Casino for best Scorcese soundtrack.

Few people play villains with as much relish and finesse as Jack Nicholson, and as Frank Costello he turns in a performance that make many of his other roles seem pale in comparison. The screenplay, deftly adapted by William Monahan from Fiu Fai Mak’s original, gives Nicholson all the best lines (such as, “One of us had to die. With me, it tends to be the other guy, ” and “In this archdiocese, God don't run the bingo.”). This is not to say that The Departed is a one-man show; on the contrary, it has one of the strongest ensemble cast performances of the past few decades. The roles of the “rats” require a lot of nuance. I am not normally fond of DiCaprio’s work, but his performance as Billy is Oscar-worthy. Matt Damon is a tour de force as Sullivan. Martin Sheen (is it ever really a movie without Martin Sheen?) turns in a nice, subtle performance as Queenan. Alec Baldwin entertains as the tough-talking, unshaven Ellerby. Call your ex-wife, Alec, you’re going to need to borrow her Oscar polish. The only person with whom I am not so impressed is the wooden Vera Farmiga as Madolyn. She is not particularly believable as a psychologist, or even as a woman. Then again, her character, while important to driving the film, is written carelessly. Female characters, sadly, get a short shrift and end up as weak links in mob genre pictures ( Diane Keaton in The Godfather Part III, Michelle Pfeiffer in Scarface, and even poor Lorraine Bracco in Goodfellas).

I’m going to get some heat for this, but I have to say it: I think The Departed is better than Goodfellas. A lot of people argue that Goodfellas is more profound than The Departed. While I definitely think that The Departed is more entertaining and, in some ways, more fun to watch, I do not think it is less profound. Both deal with similar subject matter—family, loyalty, the American dream and the search for the Self. What makes The Departed better is the acting, pure and simple. They say there are two kinds of Ray Liotta movies: Goodfellas and everything else. However, after watching Ray again in his career-defining role as Henry Hill, I can say that his performance can’t touch that of Matt Damon or even Leo. The Departed is the best movie I have seen all year, and I hope that Mr. Scorcese finally claims the recognition owed to him by The Academy after all these years.

The amount I would pay to see this movie: $10

Horror Special: Top 50 Horror Films!

Okay, I have to do my obligatory (albeit late) list of my all time favorite horror movies! See if you agree! If I missed any, please leave a comment and I'll add it!

1) Halloween (1978) --John Carpenter's masterpiece. Michael Myers behind his frozen mask=pure terror.
2) Psycho (1960)--There is a good reason why everyone picks Psycho as a favorite. I especially love the stair scene.
3) Alien (1979)--Just one can kill seven.
4) Se7en (1995)--Speaking of seven, don't open the box!
5) Freaks (1932)--One of us! One of us!
6) Audition (1999)--As I mentioned earlier, the only movie to ever to make me physically ill.
7) Don’t Look Now (1973)--Beware of spectres from your past, they might turn out to be...
8) Dawn of the Dead (1978)--Zombies! On an escalator!
9) Night of the Living Dead (1968)--Zombie children are NOT okay.
10) Silence of the Lambs (1991)--It rubs the lotion on its skin...
11) The Thing (1982)--When you consider how many people have ripped this movie off, you start to appreciate it more.
12) The Ring (American Version) (2002)--Finding the dead girl in the closet was more than I could take.
13) Jaws (1975)--We're gonna need a bigger boat.
14) The Exorcist (1973)--Take meee!
15) Suspiria (1977)--Satan's ballet company. Don't stand under the chandelier.
16) Creepshow (1981)--Hilarious, campy, terrifying...this one's got it all!
17) The Shining (1980)--Okay, so, it's not the book, but Kubrick manages to tell a story that is, in some ways, better!
18) Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)--The scene with the girl getting dragged up and down the walls...holy shit.
19) Cat People (1942)-- Strange, fierce pleasures that no other woman could ever feel!
20) Rosemary’s Baby (1968)--It is only really scary the first time, but it is truly creepy.
21) The Haunting (1963)--For very little money, Robert Wise scares the crap out of Claire Bloom.
22) Texas Chainsaw Massacre (1974)--Doesn't anyone care about ME and MY BOY???
23) Carrie (1976)--One of my all time favorite films. Piper Laurie is as scary as Ann Coulter.
24) Aliens (1986)--Not as scary as the first, but almost.
25) Arachnophobia (1990)--More funny than scary, but it is truly one of the finest additions to the creature subgenre
26) The Last House on the Left (1972)--Rape is much more terrifying than giant subterranian worms.
27) Tremors (1990)--AGH! Giant subterranean worms!
28) House of Wax (1953)--Vincent Price at his finest.
29) Child's Play (1988)--This movie made me too scared to play with my My Buddy Doll. I locked him in the closet.
30) Dracula (1931)--He never drinks...wine.
31) An American Werewolf in London (1981)
32) The Fly (1986)--I used to fantasize about Jeff Goldblum. Then I saw his face fall off. Thanks a lot, David Cronenberg!
33) The Hills Have Eyes (1978)--Brutal.
34) The Lost Boys (1987)--A bunch of angst-ridden pseudo-gay vampire teenagers, plus Corey & Corey. Awesome.
35) Evil Dead (1982)--A fabulously sick movie that changed the face of horror forever.
36) The Vanishing (1988)--When you lose your wife at a truck stop, let it go.
37) The Birds (1963)--Phone booths are NOT seagull proof, you fool.
38) Peeping Tom (1960)--The cameraman as the angel of death. Truly rare and disturbing.
39) Invasion of the Body Snatchers (1978)--Better than the original, and absolutely terrifying.
40) Silver Bullet (1985)--My favorite werewolf movie, it manages to be scary and lighthearted at the same time.
41) Nosferatu (1922)--I think Max Schreck really was a vampire in real life.
42) The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari (1920)--There is a good reason why Rob Zombie rips off this movie so often.
43) Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer (1986)--He killed his momma!
44) Franksenstein (1931)--The best adaptation of the book, in my opinion.
45) White Zombie (1932)--Bela Lugosi's classic zombie slave love story.
46) Scream (1996)--I just love meta-horror! Scream is a rare combo of tongue-in-cheek and real suspense.
47) 28 Days Later (2002)--A terrifying, breakneck zombie picture.
48) The Devil’s Backbone (2001)--The Spanish Civil War, orphans, ghosts, gold, and masterful direction by Del Toro.
49) Dog Soldiers (2002)--Werewolves of Scotland...Aaaooooo!
50) Eyes Without a Face (1960)--The original Face Off.

Masters of Horror: Imprint

How disturbing do you have to get to be turned away from Showtime's inconsistent but nevertheless entertaining series Masters of Horror? Takashi Miike's incredible short film Imprint proves that some things can be too brutal even for American cable television. Miike, of course, is used to having his work labeled "grotesque" and "disturbing." His film 2003 film Gozu famously nauseated its audiences, and his 1999 film Audition is the only film to ever make me physically ill. Miike is so revered and influential in the horror genre, Eli Roth featured him in a memorable guest role in Hostel , a movie that owes much of its imagery to Miike's work. While the promise of nausea hardly sounds like a ringing endorsement, it is all part of Miike's unique style, and it is central to the messages he tries to convey in his work. Imprint, like Audiion, juxtaposes the very beautiful with the very ugly, and parallels the tortures of guilt with, well, actual torture.

The story is very simple. Christopher, an American journalist, travels through mid-19th century Japan searching for a long lost love. Well, actually, it's a long lost whore, but she is the only woman he has ever loved and, as he sees it, his last shot at redemption. Many years ago, he promised to take her back to America. As the film begins, we see him travelling to a nefarious island of ill repute in the hopes of keeping that promise. The brothel on the island is inhabited by, we are told, whores and demons. He spends the night in the brothel, accompanied by a deformed whore with no name who tells him horrific tales about the fate of Komomo, his lost love. As the film progresses, we begin to discover that the demons we see are projected by Christopher himself, and that he is pretty much beyond any kind of redemption.

Imprint is an incredibly upsetting film that touches on every evil imaginable. In one short hour the audience is exposed to incest, rape, murder, torture, abortion, child molestation and spousal abuse. While this imagery might seem gratuitous, I found it to be a necessary device. After all, how can a man confront the evil inside him if he censors the evil? Although one could interpret the film as a criticism of exploitation of Japanese culture by American culture, I got the feeling that this film had little to do with cultures or nations. Rather is is about the true evil that exists in human nature. Imprint has a nightmarish and surreal quality, reminiscent of Rashomon and The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari. It suffers somewhat from a dearth of Japanese: the film is shot entirely in English, in spite of the fact that only one cast member could actually speak english, and Miike himself only knows a few English words. As a result, some of the dialogue comes off as odd and stilted. The photography makes up for the script, however; I have not seen such a bold and symbolic use of color since The Last Emperor. This film is not for everybody. I found much of it hard to watch, and I am not a squeamish woman. However, if you are a fan of Miike's work, Imprint is not to be missed.

The amount of money I would pay to see this: $6

Dexter Hits Its Stride, Weeds Leaves Us Hanging

Attention: the following review contains spoilers. I, personally, love a good spoiler, but I don't want to ruin it for the rest of you and have to sift through hate mail so...close this window now if you don't want to know what happened to Nancy Botwin or if you still don't know who the Ice Truck Killer is.


In it's fifth episode, Dexter really hits its stride. Dexter offs some baddies who make their living hustling Cubans into Florida (and murdering the ones who can't pay for the service). Meanwhile, the Ice Truck Killer (we presume) follows Dex on his kill and decides to turn the cops onto his trail. That's right, one serial killer is outing the other. The relationship between Dex and Rita is becoming very sweet, and I get the sense that Dexter is starting to understand what love is (while he's stalking one of his victims on a yacht, Dexter thinks "I wonder if Rita and the kids would like fishing? No, no, focus..."). I also like the fact that Rita's character is becoming more developed; she is not just a two-dimensional love interest, she has her own story line and her own personality. Now that Dexter has piqued my interest, I wonder how it could possibly maintain its momentum to the end of the series. Here is my biggest question: will Dexter stick with the same plot line as the book, thus introducing the same character as the killer? The show has begun to deviate from the book's plotline already, so it is very possible that the show's writers have something special in mind. Personally, I would appreciate that because the end of the book is a big disappointment. I have big respect for the Law of Economy of Characters, which states that there are no unnecessary characters, and all characters are really clues to the plot's mystery. The Law has driven some of the greatest films and television shows ever: The Usual Suspects, The Woman in White, Twin Peaks, Psycho, Dressed to Kill and Desperate Housewives to name a few. Saw, while fundamentally flawed, used the Law brilliantly, introducing the killer early while planting the notion that he could not possibly be the killer (what with the terminal cancer and all). I absolutely hate it when a film (I'm looking at you, Bone Collector) introduces a total stranger as the killer. It makes me feel cheated, because it means I never had a chance of figuring out who the killer was the whole time. Dexter, if it stays true to its source material, should be introducing Dexter's brother Brian any episode now. If they wait for the last episode of the season to trot out an evil twin, I'm going to fashion wax effigies of the writers and set them on fire.

Weeds had its season finale yesterday; one of the best season finales I have ever seen. Jenji Kohan borrows an awful lot from Tarantino in the final episode, but that particular style fits with the complex characters structure and subject matter in the show. I have never held my breath while watching a sitcom, but Weeds manages to create such suspense in the cliffhanger ending, I had no choice but to clutch onto my coffee mug in anticipation. Here's the lowdown: Celia finds out that Silas took all of the drug free zone cameras and signs. She comes to Nancy's house with a gun (oh, Celia) and shoots Nancy's china cabinet, then stumbles off to crawl inside a bottle of Belvedere. Nancy attends Shane's graduation (at which he gives a very Abby Hoffmanesque speech) and then goes off to meet UTurn and Peter for the buy. Peter, however, is taken by surprise when the Armenians grab him and drag him into a garage. I have a feeling that that's the end of Peter, because the next time we see the Armenians they are spattered with blood and they don't look like they're bleeding. UTurn and the Armenians are both standing in Nancy's--sorry, Lacy LaPlante's--growhouse kitchen holding guns at her head telling her that they want to take her weed. She goes to open the safe to give it to them and...she finds a drug free zone sign. Yes, Silas, her 16-year-old son, has stolen her weed in order to muscle in on "the family business." Stupid child. With eight semi-automatic weapons aimed at her face, Nancy calls her son...just as he is being accosted by a police officer for stealing Celia's cameras. In the meanwhile, Shane runs off with Cat, Andy runs after them with Cat's Inuit bounty hunter, and Doug and Dean get into a girly slap fight at their kids' graduation party. Now for my complaint: Weeds is a 26-minute show that lasts 12 episodes a season. That is so not fair. I'm not sure I can wait until next August to see what happens, so, um, Showtime, if you are listening, bring the damn show back in February instead of August. I'm serious, your fans don't want to wait, and this fickle world of cable television, you can't afford to disappoint them

La Niña de tus ojos (1998)

La Niña de tus Ojos is an interesting but strange film about a troupe of Spanish cinema actors who go to Nazi Germany to make a musical. Interestingly, there were in fact a handful of Spanish films made in Nazi Germany during the Spanish Civil War. Franco’s National Department of Cinematography forced a lot of actors to go into exile. You know you live in a fascist regime when you have to travel to Nazi Germany to get a break from the censors. This particular group of exiled actors starts out blissfully ignorant and happy to be working. They know that the Nazis hate the Jews but they want no part of the war, stating that they are artists, not politicians or militants. Conscience drives them to speak up, however, and they end up harboring a Jewish prisoner and subsequently fleeing for their lives.

The film, directed by Fernando Trueba (most famous for the 1985 film Sé infiel y no mires con quién) is a bizarre mish mash of silly humor and shameless melodrama. That said, it is not really a bad film. The sets are gorgeous and the performances are decent. Particularly marvelous is Penelope Cruz as Macarena. I have never been a fan of Ms. Cruz, but she exhibits such wonderful timing and delivery in this particular film that I can say nothing but good things about her. There were a few moments that made me long for a gun to shoot out my telivision set a la Elvis, the most notable being a love scene in which Penelope Cruz and her Jewish fugitive lover have sex next to an unconscious Joseph Goebbels. Oh, and while we’re on the subject, I don’t really understand the point of portraying Goebbels as a bumbling oaf. He was a very frightening psychotic man, and a film that attempts to portray the horrors of the Nazi regime should depict him as such. All in all, it is a good production with some amusing and suspenseful moments, but nothing special. A lot of the humor is derived from the miscommunication between the Spanish and German languages, so a lot of the dialogue (poorly translated into English subtitles) may be lost on viewers. Audiences will either love or hate the references to other films, particularly Casablanca.

Blind Picks from Netflix: Series 7 (2001)

This week Netflix delivered one hell of a movie: Series 7: The Contenders. Imagine watching a version of Survivor in which contestants are given weapons and told to kill each other. The "winner" gets the most important prize of all: life. Series 7: The Contenders takes place in what looks like the present (or at least the very near future), in which the most popular television show in history, The Contenders seems to exist above the law. There are hints that the game is sanctioned and possibly even run by the U.S. Government, although this is never explicitly stated. The contestants are chosen at random on television with the use of a state-lottery-style set up (picture a smiling woman holding numbered ping pong balls). Then, without warning, the contestants are taken from their homes and handed guns. Unlike most reality shows, this one is mandatory. In this way, it is kind of like the draft, except no one is excused from service. An 18-year-old girl, a 73-year-old-man, a cancer patient, a middle-aged nurse and a 8-months-pregnant woman are all cast on the show. It features a cast of relatively unknown actors running around with handguns trying to kill each other. Sound stupid? Parts of it are. At a lean 80 minutes, however, the film consciously avoids wearing out its welcome. This gruesome satire of reality television is so pitch perfect in its presentation that you almost believe it is a real tv show. Everything from the voiceovers (done by the hilarious Will Arnett of Arrested Development) to the "previews" and "recaps" throughout the movie make Series 7: The Contenders feel eerily familiar. The main character, the very pregnant Dawn, is played by the fabulous Brooke it-rubs-the-lotion-on-its-skin-or-else-it-gets-the-hose-again Smith. Smith has been on a lot of television shows and on Broadway lately, but I really wish she would make more movies. She was great in Six Feet Under as Carolyn. The rest of the cast is almost as good, with Glenn Fitzgerald shining as Jeff the gay, cancer-stricken artist. Series 7: The Contenders is gruesome, but it also has an almost Christopher Guest feel about it. Interestingly, it's not a sci-fi movie like Rollerball. Rather, it's about the narcotic effects of television and how dissensitized we have become to the violence that is already all around us. The ending, which is utterly brilliant, really drives home the point that reality television is the ultimate fantasy.

Dexter (S1-EP3)

This week, we learn a little more about Dexter's childhood, his foster father and his first kill. Miami PD finds another dead prostitute in a hockey arena, which Dexter describes as "like a present on Christmas morning." The Ice truck killer is at it again, and the cops are looking for the wrong suspect. Meanwhile, Dexter hunts what he suspects may be a budding young serial killer staying in a halfway house. This was the first episode so far that I found to be genuinely terrifying.

One of the only irritating aspects of Dexter is the recurring voiceover by Michael C. Hall. Voiceovers tend to be irritating, especially when they overexplain plot details that are already obvious to the audience. I hope that this element of the storytelling will decline as the show progresses, as it is distracting and silly. Mr. Hall is a good enough actor to convey his character's motivation through facial expressions and body language--we really don't need a disembodied voice saying things like "If I had a heart it would be breaking right now."

The United States of America Ferrera

I just adore watching America Ferrera (Real Women Have Curves). She is beautiful in a very real, approachable way, and she is a good actress with a real knack for comedy. So when I heard that she was chosen to play Betty in the ABC's Ugly Betty, the new U.S. incarnation of Yo Soy Betty La Fea, I was excited. There are many people in the U.S. who might not be familiar with the original Colombian version of Betty, nor its Mexican version, La fea más bella. The ugly duckling story will no doubt resonate with viewers, however. Ferrera plays Betty Suarez, a young woman from Queens who is determined to be a magazine editor. She is confident, intelligent and ambitious--she's also a bit on the plain side. When she applies for her first job after college, the human resources manager takes one look at her and lies that the position has been filled. Fortune smiles on Betty, however, when young Daniel Meade, the son of magazine publisher Bradford Meade, is made editor in chief of Mode magazine. Daniel can't keep his hands off his assistants and it's keeping him from doing his job--so his dad decides to hire Betty, a girl he knows daniel won't want to sleep with. Daniel starts out hating her but then realizes that she has ideas that might help save his job. The first two episodes have been absolutely charming, filled with cartoonish energy and sly humor. Ms. Ferrera shines, and even when she is surrounded by models, you can't take your eyes off of her (in a good way).

Of course, there are a lot of unsettling feminist implications in Ugly Betty. It all depends in which direction the U.S. version decides to go. Will Betty end up getting a makeover and marrying her boss like she does in Yo Soy Betty La Fea? I hope that the show comes up with a slightly different ending, for the sake of novelty and dignity. At this point, I'm not going to be too critical--having a normal looking Latina woman starring in a primetime tv show on a major U.S. network seems like enough of a victory for now.

Ugly Betty airs on Thursday nights on ABC at 8 ET/PT. Give it a chance!

Dexter (S1-EP2)

This week on Dexter, our hero/villain hunts down a serial DUI murderer while trying to figure out who put the doll limbs in his freezer. His sister finally gets assigned to homicide, much to the chagrin of her boss. The more I see of this show, the more I like it. Dexter adds depth to its titular character by analyzing what it must be like to be a sociopath (i.e. to not be able to empathize with others). Dexter has difficulty relating to anyone, cannot feel erotic love for his girlfriend, cannot feel sympathy for the victims of crimes he solves every day. Or can he? Once in a while, Dexter experiences twinges of sensations that seem foreign to him (yet human to us). Could it be that Dexter is learning to be more human? This posits a fascinating question that often arises in developmental psychology: is a person’s personality malleable in adulthood, or is it forever written in stone? Is it possible to teach empathy? Most researchers say no, but it is an interesting topic to explore on TV nonetheless. Dexter has a lot going for it: good performances, clever writing and the coolest opening credits since Carnivale. Of course, it’s too early to tell if it has staying power, but I predict that it will have at least one excellent season; and on Showtime, that is pretty much the standard.

Jackass II (2006)

I admit it: I saw Jackass II. And I laughed pretty hard.
The folks at Jackass deliver exactly what they promise--you get to see Steve-O, Bam, Johnny Knoxville and the gang all get abused horribly with comic results. Jackass has always made me feel a little uncomfortable because, quite frankly, I do not like to see people get hurt. Laurel and Hardy and the Three Stooges are one thing--they were physical comedians playing parts.The Jackasses are really hurting each other, and something about watching it seems lurid and grotesque. I really did not need to see someone have a leech attached to their eyeball. Holy shit, what are you thinking? However, I could not help but laugh at the limo filled with bees, the see-saw rodeo and Tony Hawke getting knocked off his skateboard by a giant swinging sandbag. Hilarious. The movie starts with the cast being chased down a suburban cul de sac by a herd of angry bulls. It ends with a giant musical number. Need I say more?

The amount of money I'd pay to see this film: $5

Blind Picks from Netflix: After Hours (1985)

After Hours is a very rare thing: a comedy that is thoughtful, significant and meticulously crafted. Scorcese is known for his serious films about New York City: Mean Streets, Gangs of New York, Taxi Driver, etc.. After Hours, his comic odyssey about the city that never sleeps, is just as effective and just as well made as any of his dramas. Griffin Dunne plays Paul, a lonely computer expert who hates his job and longs for a fuller personal life. One night, eating out alone, he strikes up a conversation with Marcy (Patricia Arquette) about Henry Miller. She asks him to come home with her and, in a fit of what we assume is extremely uncharacteristic spontaneity, he agrees. What begins as a romantic adventure into the wilderness turns into a journey though Hades as Paul loses his money, his keys and his dignity in an attempt to get home.

This movie is genius for the camera work alone. Dunne is sympathetic, funny and lovable as Paul. Linda Fiorentino, John Heard, Terri Garr, Catherine O'Hara, Cheech Marin and Tommy Chong all play characters that are totally believable as the people you run into late at night in New York City. Scorcese said that the inspiration for this film came from a move from downtown to TriBeCa that he almost immediately regretted and the sense of entrapment that ensued. The script was originally going to be done by Tim Burton, but Scorcese needed money to back The Last Temptation of Christ, so he took the project. I'm glad he did, because no one else could have made this film.

The Black Dahlia (2006)

Brian DePalma has a polariazing effect on people. On one hand, he has made some real schlock: Snake Eyes, The Bonfire of the Vanities, Mission to Mars. On the other hand, he has made some truly amazing movies: The Untouchables, Carrie, Blow Out, Scarface, Dressed to Kill. Personally, I thought his 2002 Femme Fatale was one of the best films of the year. I’ve gotten into shouting matches and had to be removed from the premises over Femme Fatale. DePalma is a director of great craft and questionable taste, and as such generates controversy and extreme viewpoints with all of his remarkable creations. Now we see The Black Dahlia, an overtly Hitchcockian 1940s-style film noir campfest that is more admirable than it is watchable.

Based on the 1987 novel by James Ellroy, The Black Dahlia tells the sordid tale of Elizabeth Short, a young woman who came to Los Angeles looking for fame but, instead, ended up chopped up and exsanguinated in a ditch. Truly, it’s a tale as old as time.

In Post World War II Los Angeles, Police officer Lee Blanchard (Aaron Eckhart) becomes obsessessed with the murdered Elizabeth Short. Acting like he’s hopped up on Benzedrine and spouting dialogue that walked right out of Murder, My Sweet, Eckhart gets to chew a lot of scenery. His partner, Bucky (played by the exceedingly pretty Josh Hartnett) is embroiled in an asexual ménage-a-trois with Lee and his live-in mol Kay. Both Kay and Bucky try to reign Lee in to no avail, and tragedy begets the lot of them. I could delve into the specifics of the plot, but I would get a headache and you would get discouraged. Simply put, the twisted plot is too contrived and convoluted to be enjoyed.

Although Hillary Swank has two Academy Awards, I found her performance in Dahlia to be a little over the top. That said, the whole film is a little over the top, so she finds the right pitch. Scarlett Johansson turns in a slightly wooden performance as Kay. Mr. Hartnett is good looking but not particularly profound as Bucky. His character requires a melancholic, complex performance but Mr. Hartnett just seems like he’s bored. The best performance, by far, is seen from Mia Kirschner as the titular character. Seen in archived film footage, Kirschner is haunting and lovely.

The Black Dahlia is a very old fashioned film, with sweeping, unbroken sequences, gorgeous costumes, unabashedly campy performances and a score that’s one theramin short of being a complete joke. It feels like a curious hodgepodge of famous noir films—a dinner sequence taken from Sunset Boulevard, a murder scene taken from Vertigo, and sleazy bedroom interrogations from Touch of Evil. It shoots for a bizarre Chinatown-like climax but instead ends up confusing and frustrating the audience. While it's an interesting and beautiful exercise in filmmaking, Dahlia isn't solid enough to be anything but a pulpy homage to better, older movies.

The amount of money I’d pay to see this: $5

Snakes on a Motherf*cking Plane

Snakes on a Plane is possibly if not probably one of the most amusing action films I have ever seen. This is not to say that you will definitely love it. SoaP, as it has come to be known online, will seriously polarize its audience. Either you will run out into the street singing its praises or you will repeatedly wash your hands while rocking ever so slightly back and forth. But in a country full of boring, safe films that leave audiences feeling nonplussed, isn’t it nice to see something that brings out passionate responses? I say Yessssssss.

It would be ridiculous for me to explain the plot. It’s all there in the title. There are snakes, and they are on a plane. Technically, the snakes have been placed on the plane by mob boss Eddie Kim in an attempt to assassinate a key witness for the prosecution against him. When Eddie is asked by one of his colleagues why he went with a crate full of poisonous snakes as a murder weapon, he replies, “Don’t you think I exhausted every other option??” Um…right. I suppose that putting arsenic in the room service scrambled eggs or blowing up his police escort were just too much trouble. Ridiculousness aside, there is a plane full of snakes, and they bite a lot of people.

What did I love about this movie? First and foremost, the excellent b-list character actors that squeeze every possible laugh out of the mediocre script. Especially good are David Koechner (better known as Champ Kind from Anchorman) as the lecherous pilot, Kenan Thompson as the PS2 addict who has to land the plane and Rachel Blanchard (TV's “Clueless,”) as a nicer, cooler caricature of Paris Hilton. Of course, Samuel L. Jackson kicks ass and Juliana Marguiles makes a very believable flight attendant (although let's be honest—how man flight attendants in their forties look as good as she does?). The humor is broad, the gags are tacky and the gore is seriously disgusting. I loved it.

What did I hate about this movie? Only the end credits, featuring a music video from a band called—ahem—Cobra Starship. I guess that’s the SoaP version of Jefferson Starship. Anyway, it really sucks, so get out of the theatre before the credits start to roll.

The amount of money I would pay to see this movie: Considering I did not feel cheated in the least, I'm gonna give this motherf*cker $8.

Little Miss Sunshine (2006)

Little Miss Sunshine begins with a swelling score by Devotchka and a sequence that introduces us to all of the members of the dysfunctional Hoover family. We see Sheryl, played with world-weary resignation by Toni Colette. We see grandpa (Alan Arkin) who likes to chase women and snort heroin. He explains that, as a kid, you’d have to be crazy to do heroin, but as an old man, you’d be crazy not to do it. We see Dwayne (Paul Dano), the 15-year-old son who wants to be a fighter pilot, doing his morning sit ups in front of a giant painting of Frederick Nietzsche. We see Uncle Frank, sitting alone in a wheelchair in some far off hospital. But most important we see Olive, the seven-year-old girl whose enthusiasm and effervescence keeps this crazy family together.

Greg Kinnear, a true artist at playing smiling, enthusiastic losers, plays Mr. Hoover. He is a failed motivational speaker who never shuts up about his “nine step plan.” During a hilarious early scene at the dinner table, while discussing Uncle Frank’s recent suicide attempt, Kinnear tells his daughter “your uncle Frank gave up on himself, which is something winners never do.” It is horrifying and yet…well, we all know a guy like that, don’t we? Uncle Frank is the number one Proust scholar in America, whose boyfriend has just left him for the number two Proust scholar in America. I love this character. Steve Carrel conveys his pain in a deft and understated manner. He is able to generate laughs in the audience just by shifting in his chair.

Olive Hoover wants to win Little Miss Sunshine, a beauty pageant in southern California. She came in second at the regionals, but she still trains every day with her grandpa (who coaches her on her “moves,”) in the hopes of someday being a beauty queen. When the little girl to whom she came in second gets disqualified for using diet pills, Olive gets her chance to compete in Redondo Beach for the title. Her entire family, falling apart and virtually bankrupt, pulls together and makes an 800-mile trip across the southwest to the pageant. The family is held together by their love for Olive, and it’s no wonder—Abigail Breslin (Mel Gibson’s adorable daughter in Signs) is one of the most genuine and lovable child actors I have ever seen. The other small miracle in this film is Paul Dano, whose almost mute performance as Dwayne is nothing short of extraordinary.

Like the 1975 film Smile, Little Miss Sunshine paints a scathing portrait of beauty pageants while conveying a strong anti-conformity message. In the same vein as Harold and Maude, Little Miss Sunshine manages to venture into the realm of absurdist black comedy while remaining very human and true to its characters. There is one sequence—involving a dying relative—that skirts very close to the edge of bad taste. What prevents it from going too far is the sheer authenticity of the acting. The characters are so well defined, so believable and so well acted that when act, we understand their motivations perfectly without having to be told. This family acts totally insane and they do stuff that most families would never do. Yet, somehow, their behavior makes sense within the established context of their existence. This film shocks, but it does not shock just to get easy laughs. That restraint should be respected. Little Miss Sunshine makes you laugh consistenly, but also makes you to cry when you least expect it. Go see it, all the hype is true.

The amount I would pay for this movie: $9 (which is 4 less than I did…hooray for matinees!)

Guilty Pleasure Movies

Today, it’s my personal top ten guilty pleasure movies. Yes, these are movies that I watch alone, in my home, away from prying eyes and mocking words.

The Adventures of Baron Munchausen: Terry Gilliam’s fantasy was misunderstood when it came out in 1988. Although it is overlong and some of its scenes incongruous, John Neville is a smash as the title character—not to mention Robin Williams, Oliver Reed, Johnathan Pryce, Sarah Polly, Eric Idle and an 18-year-old Uma Thurman as the goddess Venus.

National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation: It’s hard to argue that anything attached to the words “National Lampoon,” is awesome, but Christmas Vacation manages to make us believe. Randy Quaid is brilliant.

Con Air: Boy is this a dumb show, full of plot holes and two dimensional characters. But with John Malkovich, Ving Rhames, John Cusack and Steve Buchemi, not to mention a screenplay that is full of unexpected delights, Con Air makes for one entertaining (if brainless) diversion.

Caddyshack: It’s so dumb, and yet…I cannot look away. In a sea of fart jokes, there are some real gems here. Every time I hear the phrase “Going to bullfights on acid,” I start giggling uncontrollably.

Miss Congeniality: I generally avoid chick flicks like the plague, but I own this on DVD and watch it more than I would like to admit. The whole mess is held together at the seams by the charm of Sandra Bullock and the skills of Michael Caine.

The Cutting Edge: Did I just say I hate chick movies? Okay, I almost always do, but here is another exception. D.B. Sweeney and Moira Kelly as unlikely pair figure skaters. Even as I write, I am flushed with the ruddy glow of humiliation. Seriously, though, it’s cute, check it out.

Dracula, Dead and Loving It: "Young Frankenstein" it’s not, but there is something about this Mel Brooks installment that just charms the hell out of me. Peter MacNichol’s Renfield is the best I’ve ever seen (sorry Tom Waits).

The Transporter: The plot makes no sense, the acting is terrible and the sex scene is so random it makes the hookup Three Days of the Condor seem like a long courtship. Still, the fight scenes are flawlessly executed, the scenery is gorgeous and Jason Statham is glorious in all his shirtless splendor.

From Dusk Till Dawn: Three words: Mexican. Vampire. Strippers.

Ishtar: The most misunderstood film in history. This 1987 film starring Warren Beatty and Dustin Hoffman is hysterically funny! For god’s sake, it was written and directed by Elaine May!! I am often embarrassed to tell people I love this film. I can’t help myself. It was everything that “Spies Like Us,” failed to be. Long live Ishtar!

Blind Picks from Netflix: Dog Soldiers (2002)

When I was a kid I loved to read horror comics, and I had a very special love for war-themed horror comics. I had a stash from the fifties that were dog-eared and suitably jingoistic. Don’t ask me why, but I just loved stories out of “Two-Fisted Tales,” and “War is Hell.” Fortunately, small time filmmakers in the UK have seen fit to revive the genre with such films as “The Bunker,” “Deathwatch,” and today’s film, “Dog Soldiers.”

I added “Dog Soldiers,” to my queue because it is the only other film made by Neil Marshall (“The Descent”) and I wanted to see his other work. It is a rare thing of beauty—a good, solid, incredibly low-budget werewolf movie. It is obvious watching it that the filmmakers had limited funding—the movie looks like it was filmed in 1992, not 2002. Marshall makes up for this deficiency with a good case, great writing and some very creative editing. Borrowing—or perhaps just plain stealing—the editing style from “The Howling,” he manages to make us scared of the werewolves without showing anything more than a choppy blur. When we do see wolfy, however, it is not disappointing, if only because the werewolves look so very odd. They are approximately seven feet tall, with gangly limbs and giant heads. Actually, if Wilt Chamberlain strapped a wolf’s head trophy to his face, it would give you a decent approximation. This is not a put-down, mind you—I actually thought that the wolf costumes were cool, considering what they could have been like (remember Big Wolf on Campus? No? That’s probably for the best). Marshall borrows heavily from other films; the cast and conflicts are from "Alien," the setting from "Night of the Living Dead," and the broad, gorey humor from "Evil Dead." However, like Brian DePalma, Marshall has a true gift for incorporating the elements of other films into his own to create something fresh and immensely entertaining.

On to the plot: A group of British soldiers is sent on a routine training mission in the Highlands of Scotland against a Special Operations squad. When they find the Special Ops folks ripped to pieces, they realize that their mission isn’t routine after all. They lock themselves up in an abandoned farmhouse with an injured nemesis (Liam Cunningham) who is up to something and a zoologist names Megan (Emma Cleasby) who clearly knows more than she is letting on. What follows is a nasty, bloody, knockdown, drag-out battle of tooth and nail between man and beast. I won’t say it’s a great film, but it is a great werewolf film—and I can say as a seasoned horror movie enthusiast that there are not a lot of great werewolf films. Hmm, just to keep count, let’s end this review with a list!

Best Werewolf Movies:

1) Silver Bullet—This is probably the most satisfying werewolf movie ever. It’s wholesome. I’d even venture to say it’s a family werewolf film.
2) Dog Soldiers—See above.
3) American Werewolf in London—John Landis is one of the few directors who understands the balance of horror and comedy in film. Also, Rick Baker provided very good makeup.
4) In The Company of Wolves—I love Angela Carter, but I love Angela Lansbury even more. This movie is spectacular.
5) The Howling—cheeeeezy, but definitive and, at some points, quite terrifying.

Honorable Mention: Wolf –Great concept. Jack Nicholson rocks and James Spader…sigh, he can mess my hair up anytme.

The Descent (2005)

British director Neil Marshall’s latest film, The Descent, is a unique and intense horror film about a spelunking expedition gone terribly wrong. Shauna Macdonald stars as a young woman trying to escape the ghosts of her past—in this case, the ghosts of her husband and daughter, who are killed in a gruesome car accident three minutes into the film. Her type-A pal Juno (Natalie Mendoza) tries to help her recover by taking her and four other women on a caving expedition. The only problem is that Juno decides to take everyone into a cave that isn’t in any guidebook.

Naturally, some rock falls and traps them inside. This claustrophobic set up is scary enough as it is (the most frightening scene featuring the most grotesque broken leg in the history of film). Just when the audience is starting to feel the walls closing in, enter “the crawlers,” a species of cave-dwelling predators with nasty teeth and bat-like sonar.

The film breaks various horror conventions. Most striking is the fact that the entire cast is female. Furthermore, they are strong, competent females who are destroyed not by their stupidity or sexuality (as many horror films depict) but by selfishness and their unwillingness to stick together. It conveys a message of sisterhood that is rarely seen in horror films. There are no sex scenes, no nudity. The women, free from makeup and styling products, look like real cavers. Another departure is seen in the ways in which the characters die—while most horror films with small casts tend to kill off people one by one, The Descent breaks the rules, often killing more than one person at a time in unexpected ways that will really shock the audience.

Marshall borrows a few of his visuals and concepts from other famous movies, most notably Carrie and Night of the Living Dead. The Descent, however, is a very original piece of filmmaking—one that should not be missed. The film was made and released last year in the UK but is finally here in the US. Go see it!

The amount of money I’d pay to see this film: $7

Scoop

Woody Allen’s new film Scoop is not terrific, but it’s more good than bad. Like its protagonist, played by Scarlett Johansson, Scoop is charming but awkward. With rare exception, most of Allen’s films fall into two categories. There are the dramatic heavies, such as Hannah and Her Sisters, Manhattan and Matchpoint. Then there are the lighter comic films that act as narcissistic tributes to Allen himself, such as Hollywood Ending, Melinda and Melinda and Mighty Aphrodite. Scoop falls into the latter category, with a featherweight script and a lead performance by Allen. Scoop’s sense of humor is reminiscent of Allen’s early films and humorous essays. It opens with a sequence set on a barge sailing down the river Styx. From this goofy beginning launches the majority of the plot—an economic little whodunit reminiscent of Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys. Scarlett Johansson plays Sandra, a young journalism student vacationing in London. While on stage as a volunteer in a magic act, Sandra receives a visit from the ghost of Joe Strombel, a Peabody winning journalist who has just died of a massive embolism. He tells Sandra that he has a big scoop: the real identity of the Tarot Card Serial Killer. He thinks the killer is Peter Lyman, a wealthy aristocrat. Sandra goes on a search for the truth, but ends up falling in love with her murder suspect in the process.

The problem here is not Allen, who is actually quite funny as Sid, nor is it Johansson, who is very pretty and charming. Rather, the problem lies in the interaction between Sandra and Sidney. Johansson struggles with the banter—Diane Keaton she is not. In fact, she’s not even Mia Farrow. Rather, she sounds like a college student who has seen too many Woody Allen movies. When she and Allen are separate, however, she does just fine. The camera loves her cherubic face, and she has magical chemistry with Hugh Jackman.

All in all, I’m certainly not sorry I saw this film, especially since I saw it in the middle of one of the hottest Chicago days of the last ten years. Although it is not Allen’s best work, it is cute and entertaining—in this time of big summer blockbusters, that can be a real breath of fresh air.

The amount of money I'd pay to see this: $5

Blind Picks from Netflix: Lady Snowblood (1973)

I was overjoyed with my recent random pick from Netflix: Toshiya Fujita’s 1973 film Lady Snowblood. Tarantino borrowed music, costumes and fight scenes from Lady Snowblood for his film Kill Bill. He could not have drawn from a better source—Lady Snowblood is an innovative and progressive film far ahead of its time. As a bonus, i’s also a lot of fun to watch.

Yuki is a killing machine born and raised with the sole purpose of bloody revenge (aren't they all?). Early in the film, we see that she was born in prison to a woman serving a life sentence for murder. Her dying mother makes a vow that Yuki will avenge the murders of her father and older brother, who died before she was born. Yuki must kill the three men who are responsible.

The film takes place at the end of the Meiji restoration, a period that saw a shift of power from Shogunate to Emperor and the quick rise of Japan as modern nation. The Meiji Restoration was the catalyst towards industrialization in Japan that led to the rise of the island nation as a military power by 1905, under the slogan of "National Wealth and Military Strength" The military was reformed and the samurais phased out. There were some who did not take kindly to this assertion of government power. In Lady Snowblood, Yuki’s parents are assaulted by four villagers who mistake the husband for an undesirable government official. They stab him and his son and rape his wife. The wife, who survives, goes on to kill one of the men who assaulted them. It is this crime that lands her in jail, where she gives birth to Yuki, the merciless killing machine. The rest, as they say, is all icing and arterial spray.

Lady Snowblood uses a non-linear narrative, with a careful, effective use of flashback and voice-over that make it seem very modern. It is also a technically beautiful film. The opening fight sequence, in particular, is quite breathtaking. As Yuki, Meiko Kaji is beautiful and believable as the titular assassin. The gore is plentiful but never in poor taste. And the dialogue! I want a T-shirt that says “Blizzard from the Netherworld,” on it.

The Lady in the Water

I have defended M. Night Shyamalan in the past but I’m afraid I cannot defend his latest film. For all its weirdness The Lady in the Water fails to create anything more than a strong sense of regret in all who see it. Vapid and shamelessly arrogant, The Lady in the Water is the worst movie Shyamalan has ever packaged for mass consumption—and probably one of the worst movies of the year.

Paul Giamatti delivers a dependably solid performance as the unfortunately named Cleveland Heep, the superintendent in an apartment complex in Philadelphia called “The Cove.” He lives there with a colorful assortment of ethnic stereotypes. These characters are painful, as they appear to be acting not as individual human beings but as puppets spouting Shyamalan’s drivel. Seriously, my Sims have more depth of character than these people. Ironically, the only person in The Cove that has anything remotely interesting to say is Harry Farber (modern master of the deadpan Bob Balaban) a “film and book critic.” Farber provides some of the only moments of intentional levity in the film, describing obvious clichés as they occur and expressing cynicism about all things fantastic and beautiful. He states that “there are no original ideas left.” Boy, he’s not kidding.

One night, Cleveland Heep discovers a young woman in the pool, played with wide-eyed innocence by Bryce Dallas Howard, who turns out not to be a human at all, but a sea nymph from a place called “The Blue World.” No, that’s not a strip club out by the airport—it’s a world populated by helpful, naked people (much like a strip club out by the airport). These sea nymphs, called “narfs” in the movie, have apparently been sent to humankind in order to convey some sort of message about how M. Night Shyamalan’s creative genius will someday change the world. Okay, now, you think I am using hyperbole, but you’re wrong. Actually, this narf, who calls herself “Story” (sigh) comes into contact with Vick Ran (Shyamalan) and tells him that he will write a great work, one that will be read by the future leader of the United States, and his influence will shape the development of our nation and, eventually, the world. Of course, she says, his work will not be understood by many and that he will not become beloved until after he is slain for his radical beliefs (sigh). Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the writer/director of this film actually tells us we’re too stupid to be watching this movie while we’re watching it. I don’t like being told I’m an idiot (although, I did pay eight dollars to see this film, so I guess that does kind of make me an idiot. Damn you, Shylamalan!). The Lady in the Water is, above all things, treatise on the brilliance of Shyamalan's storytelling. In the process of cumbrously dissecting his ouevre, however, he wrings every last drop of magic out of his precious little fairytale.

Of course, Story can’t get home to The Blue World because of the scrunts, nasty little beasties that look like a cross between a wolf, a hedgehog and an actual hedge. Yes, these grassy little werehedges tear up Story’s million-dollar legs and prevent her from being carried home by—get this—a giant eagle. Don’t ask me why a giant eagle would be transporting a sea nymph back to her underwater castle. Maybe it’s an eagle that likes to snorkel.

The Lady in the Water begins with an animated prologue that explains the plot so well that we already feel ten steps ahead of the tenants in The Cove before the movie even begins. Hilariously, Shyamalan tries to pass his fantasy creatures off as being part of an “old Korean bedtime story.” Give me a break (and some heroin to kill my pain).

I read in The New York Observer that Disney execs danced around Shyamalan for months before finally admitting to him that they did not understand his hopelessly ridiculous and convoluted script. See, now, this is the problem. Audiences, critics and producers alike have to be able to gird their loins and admit when something is just plain stupid. You can’t be afraid to criticize self-described genius for fear of sounding dumb. Thus far, I have been reading the reviews of The Lady and trying to discern who, in their right minds, would give the film the thumbs up. Wesley Morris of The Boston Globe said this: “There is a good chunk of ‘Lady in the Water’ that is simply too well made and affectingly acted to dismiss as a mere exercise in arrogance.” Actually, Mr. Morris, it can be dismissed. It can be and it will be, and the fact that you do not have the cajones or simply the basic command of the English language necessary to call Shyamalan out for this self-indulgent piece of tripe is probably why you are stuck writing for the the Globe in the first place.

But enough of putting down poor Mr. Morris. Let’s look at some of the other positive reviews, shall we? Torn Long (who, judging by his name, also works stripping at The Blue World) of the Detroit News says, “It tells a story that is both daringly literary and shockingly direct, with sudden bursts of expositional information followed by dizzyingly complex character crossovers.” The only thing dizzying about this film was the shameful excuse for cinematography by the often competent Christopher Doyle (The Quiet American). If Shyamalan is really trying to present us with a revisionist modern-day magical realist fairytale, maybe he should do a little reading and take a lesson from professionals like Salman Rushdie, Angela Carter and Geoffrey McGuire. Just because a man makes up a story that entertains his daughter does not mean that the world will benefit from its widescreen release. Have a little humility, you pompous twat.

And finally, let’s take a look at Kevin Lafores of The Montreal Film Journal, who says: “Why don't people recognize it as an instant classic like Spielberg's own bedtime story? How is it sillier than an extra-terrestrial stranded in a backyard who needs help from suburbia kids to phone home and return to his planet before the army gets to him? Easy: Night had the balls to make almost all of his characters full-grown adults.”
No, Mr. Lafores, the difference is that Spielberg understood the importance of pacing and character development. Mr. Shyamalan, who is normally much more deft when it comes to maintaining the suspesion of disbelief, totally drops the ball when it comes to making this fantasy believable. If his point is that we should be able to believe in magic in a cynical world, then maybe he should make more than a half-assed attempt to convince us.

I have collected a number of bad reviews that I thought were especially fun to read. Enjoy:

Roger Ebert

Rolling Stone

The Chicago Reader

The Fort Worth Star Telegram

The amount of money they would have to pay me to sit through this again: $10

A Scanner Darkly

A Scanner Darkly, Richard Linklater's film adaptation of Philip K. Dick's 1977 novel, is a unique film that comments on both the dangers of drug use and the futility of the war on drugs. The main character (Keanu Reeves) is both Bob Arctor, part of a household of hippie drug-users, and Agent Fred, an undercover police agent assigned to spy on them. Arctor/Fred hides his real identity from his drug using friends and from his fellow agents, too. In this world, all narcs are required to wear special suits that mask their true identities. While posing as a drug user, Arctor actually becomes addicted to a very potent psychoactive drug called “Substance D.” Although it is never stated outright, it is pretty clear that Substance D is supposed to be methamphetamine. The drug begins to cause permanent cognitive damage, and Arctor begins to see the world as a split-brain patient—that is, his two hemispheres don’t work together. He loses the ability to differentiate his different roles and, as the film progresses, so do we.

The "scanner" of the title is a recorder with which the narrator views clips of his own life but doesn't recognize them. The title is also a biblical reference--"we see as through a mirror darkly" (1 Corinthians 13)—thus conveying the narrator’s tenuous grip on what is real and what is not. Those who are film fans will also recognize the reference to Ingmar Bergman’s Through a Glass Darkly, which also dealt with the themes of mental illness and hallucinations.

The performances in A Scanner Darkly are what really make it enjoyable. Keanu is really good at acting confused, so he is well cast as Arctor. Robert Downey Jr. and Woody Harrelson, famous for their off-screen drug use, are perfect as Barris and Luckman, Arctor’s two paranoid, drug-addled associates. Rory Cochran, who also starred in Linklater’s Dazed and Confused, is really fun to watch as Freck, a jittery drug addict with buggy eyes and persistent tactile hallucinations. His performance reminded me of Benicio del Toro’s character in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Much like Fear and Loathing, A Scanner Darkly has a real knack for conveying the drug experience with remarkable realism. The dialogue, skillfully adapted from Dick’s original prose, is simultaneously comic and tragic. It’s rare to see a film with an anti-drug message that portrays drug addicts with accuracy.

A Scanner Darkly was filmed digitally and then animated using a technique called interpolated rotoscoping, previously used in Linklater's film Waking Life. It is very beautiful and slightly disorienting. Although it can be difficult to watch for long periods of time, this animation technique, being both real and surreal at the same time, was a good choice for the material.

The amount of money I would pay to see this movie: $8