Early Oscar™-bait Roundup

Into the Wild (2007, Sean Penn)- it's illustrative to see this movie the same weekend as The Darjeeling Limited, as the two movies so clearly illuminate the differences between spiritual tourists and honest-to-goodness seekers. Anderson's heroes see India as a kind of quick fix for their troubled souls, making a whirlwind tour of the most "spiritual" stops situated along the route of their train before ending up confronting the mother who ran out on them, all in an attempt to confront their troubles. But Into the Wild realizes that it's not as simple as that. Chris McCandless (Emile Hirsch) had his share of demons to be sure, but then so did his sister, and she didn't take to the road. The film shows us that while some people turn their backs on the past and make a new life outside the mainstream, it's got just as much to do with their psychological wiring as it does with the circumstances they seek to escape. But even more importantly, it also says that the seeker's tendency- be it wanderlust or spiritual unrest- is something that can never quite be quenched. I'm not sure about some of Penn's aesthetic choices here- the onscreen text, the occasional chronological jumbling- but there's no denying that this is his most assured film as a director, due in no small part to his kinship with McCandless, being something of a seeker himself. Rating: 7 out of 10.

The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford (2007, Andrew Dominik)- first, the obvious: this movie is completely bleedin' gorgeous. The only movie I've seen recently that can rival this for sheer visual pleasure is Silent Light- it's that beautiful. But it would all just be eye candy if not for the compelling story at its center. Many critics have remarked about the way James' mystique presages our modern-day celebrity culture. But this wouldn't work half so well if Jesse himself wasn't so aware of it. Even in the eyes of his own men James is a towering figure, which goes a long way to explain his power over them- they drop everything to do his bidding, and when he comes around they're justifiably nervous. Jesse is completely mindful of his legend, which made his untimely end sort of inevitable, not least in his own eyes. Being the notorious Jesse James, the only death that would have made sense would have come from the barrel of a gun, and as the idea starts to consume his thinking, he figures why not just offer the chance to someone who's aching to do it? As such, the film becomes a dance of death in its second half, involving the increasingly paranoid and death-minded James and Bob Ford, whose obsessive man-crush (less sexual fixation than childish hero worship) has become bitter and resentful. But for me, the movie really cements its awesomeness in the final reel, following James' death, when it examines the fallout of the killing in the lives of Ford and others. The celebrity that Ford was afforded for a short time after the killing soon gave way to a lonely existence, as James' mystique only grew from being gunned down before his time. Suddenly a cold-blooded killer became a legend of the lawless west, and the man who effectively ended his killing spree was an unloved coward. Shooting Jesse James in the back was simultaneously the best and worst thing that Robert Ford could have done for himself, with his story culminating in one of the most lonely and senseless deaths I've seen onscreen in a long time. I hope to see this again in the near future, and urge all of you (especially you Muriel Awards voters looking for a prospective winner in the Best Cinematography category) to do the same. Rating: 8 out of 10.

Lust, Caution (2007, Ang Lee)- maybe it's just that I was so bowled over by Black Book earlier this year (scroll down to May for review), but while I respected Lee's Occupation drama, it didn't really do much for me. For the most part, Lee's style feels very middle-of-the-road: the visuals are handsome but not lush, the period feel is convincing but never immersive, the story is involving but rarely compelling. Like much of Lee's oeuvre, it's about repressed desire, which this time finds an outlet in the much-ballyhooed NC-17 sex scenes (acrobatic but rarely erotic). But given the relatively tepid approach Lee takes to the majority of the film- sex scenes and protracted stabbing scene aside- I longed to see what a more expressionistic filmmaker like Wong Kar-wai, or a more poetic one like Hou Hsiao-hsien, might have made of this story. Another problem is that despite being more than 2 1/2 hours long, it very much feels like an expanded short story, with a somewhat bloated narrative through-line and some vagueness around the edges. What, for example, were we to make of Yee's wife, played by Joan Chen? We mostly see her playing mahjongg or going shopping, but what is her relationship with her husband (Tony Leung Chiu-wai) like? The film doesn't seem to know, and Chen projects almost no inner life for the character. Clearly the resistance fighters would see her largely as an obstacle to getting to her husband, but there's got to be more to her than that. Also, Tang Wen is pretty and more than willing to get naked, but I wasn't all that taken with her as an actress. She seemed too opaque to successfully sell the role- not opaque in the repressing-her-feelings-for-the-cause way needed for the character, but more in the not-particularly-expressive way. Nice nipples though. Rating: 5 out of 10.

Gone Baby Gone (2007, Ben Affleck) [8]

Well, dress me up in a Santa Claus suit, because I'm just giving 8s away! But I honestly wouldn't be if I didn't think the movies deserved them, and this one is no exception. Like fellow actor-turned-director Clint Eastwood did four years ago with Mystic River, Affleck has turned a Dennis Lehane novel into potent cinema. But although Affleck isn't nearly the director Clint is, I actually think that works to the film's advantage. Eastwood's direction of Mystic River was moody and portentous from get-go, signaling that we weren't just watching another urban murder mystery, but Affleck's more meat-and-potatoes filmmaking actually gears the audience up for a fairly conventional, though well-told, whodunit, all the better the spring the serious stuff on us unawares. Gone Baby Gone is the rare Hollywood movie that actually gets better as it goes along, revealing more interesting shadings. The key to this movie isn't the solving of the mystery or the finding of the little girl, but the moral debate at its center, a conflict between absolutism and relativism. Interestingly, Lehane flips the usual pattern of these films by making the private investigator the story's primary proponent for black-and-white morality. SPOILER: It's because of this that the film's final reel, which will no doubt prove to be a point of contention for many audiences and critics, worked wonderfully for me. Time and again in the film, the line of morality isn't drawn between cops and civilians, but the older and younger characters. Patrick (Casey Affleck) has never really gotten his hands dirty, so he isn't sympathetic to the moral code of the older cops (Morgan Freeman, Ed Harris) who are willing to bend morality to serve the greater good (someone should book a double bill of this and Hot Fuzz in my opinion). In many ways, Patrick is still thinking in the mindset handed down to him by his childhood priest- "clever as snakes, innocent as doves." Yet by the end of the movie, he begins to come around to their way of thinking. He fulfills his moral obligation to return the little girl to her skanky, unfit mother, but while he knows he did the right thing, he finds himself sharing the older men's compulsion to do right by the girl above all else. So he takes it upon himself to keep an eye on her. What else is there left for him to do? END SPOILER. Now, I'm not advocating that Ben turn all of his attention to directing- the jury's still out on how much talent he has in that area. But he's smart enough to stay out of Lehane's way, and in this case that's more than enough.

Michael Clayton (2007, Tony Gilroy) [8]

Over the last few years, more filmmakers have been gravitating toward minor-key films in a style closer to that of 70s-era filmmakers, before the studios decided movies needed to be for everyone. Michael Clayton, much like We Own the Night last night, is a superlative example of this kind of movie, moving at a leisurely pace yet containing almost no wasted brush strokes. It's key that almost every important character, save Michael's young son, is over 40- Michael Clayton isn't a film about youngsters on the make, but about grown adults who have sacrificed a lot to live the lives they lead, and who stand to lose even more. But while the film has the trappings of a legal thriller, it's at its heart a character study, a blinkered story about a blinkered man. Michael doesn't have much of a life- he's always traveling between assignments for his job as a law firm's "fixer," and in between he picks up his kid, occasionally plays in a backroom poker tournament, and worries about the debt he's incurred on his failed restaurant. He almost never smiles, and I don't think we ever see him at home. He's always being sent somewhere or other on business. Clooney is perfect for the role, a well-dressed professional with no small amount of skill but who feels no love for what he does. And the rest of the cast is just as good- Tom Wilkinson somehow pulls off crazy without resorting to histrionics, and Tilda Swinton plays her cool-customer corporate counsel while suggesting the great sacrifices that she's had to make along the way in tiny but indelible touches (the no-nonsense suits, the on-the-fly makeup job, etc.). Like a con artist has to be more convincing than the people he's trying to imitate, so she has to be even more on her game than the men surrounding her in the boardroom boys' club. Michael Clayton is that rarest of things, an entertainment designed specifically for adults, and it's even more impressive for being Gilroy's first film behind the camera. Many screenwriters-turned-directors can't strike the right mix between screenplay and direction, but Gilroy is a natural.

We Own the Night (2007, James Gray) [8]

One of the charms of James Gray's films is his unabashed love for classical style. Gray has never been one to rely on narrative tricks or show-offy direction, grooving instead on sturdy, unhurried storytelling, handsome cinematography, and atmosphere to burn. So it is with his finest film yet, which falls under the Howard Hawks rule for a successful film- three great scenes, no bad scenes. I'll leave the pleasures of the three scenes for you to discover, except to say that I find it admirable that Gray, who can shoot a crackerjack scene of action and suspense as well as practically any filmmaker currently working, doesn't allow the film to get bogged down in action. We Own the Night is at heart a drama about family- the somewhat dysfunctional family at its center, the police who protect their own, the Russian mafia who welcomes a trusted surrogate son as long as he's not a risk. It's also a world of men in the old-fashioned sense, men who keep their own counsel, who bottle up their emotions even at the most difficult of times, who recognize the value of duty and loyalty and keeping your mouth shut and ears open. There are few stars of the younger generation who can pull off characters like this, and it's a credit to Mark Wahlberg that he manages to pull it off from the get-go, and to Joaquin Phoenix that he can convincingly and seamlessly show his character changing from a hard-partying, independent-minded youth into something resembling Gray's concept of the old-school "man." I wasn't quite buying his character's naiveté in being blind to the club owner's mob connections, but that's a minor quibble. Gray keeps most of the film at a simmer, but when he turns up the heat, We Own the Night cooks. The film's title was taken from the NYPD's motto in the late 1980s, which is when the film is set, and Gray perfectly captures the gray, dingy New York of the period, back before it got a fresh new coat of PR paint. In addition, the tension between law enforcement and the crime element at the dawn of the War on Drugs is surprisingly palpable. Gray isn't interested in a neon-colored VH1-style nostalgia trip dress-up party, but in portraying a time and place where people actually lived.

Week of October 1-7, 2007

The Heartbreak Kid (2007, Peter and Bobby Farelly) [4]- it's sort of bracing to see a big-budget comedy that's this brazenly caustic nowadays, unafraid of giving the audience a weaselly protagonist who lies and cheats on his wife and acts like an all-around assbag. In addition, there's the Farellys' usual body-panic issues, plus a lot of anti-romantic, male-centric thoughts on modern marriage that no doubt will alienate any unsuspecting women in the audience. But just because it's interesting doesn't make it especially good. The film has ideas, but they don't mesh especially well, nor does the movie really do a whole lot with them. Instead, the story eventually settles into a predictable, almost lazy rhythm, with Ben Stiller skipping out on his honeymoon with his convalescing, hot-psycho wife Malin Akerman to spend time with the adorable Michelle Monaghan, another in a long line of super-cool Farelly dream babes, who can swear and drink and play with the boys but still be, y'know, hot. Hell, there's even one of those scenes where Stiller and Monaghan try to have an important conversation but aren't actually talking about the same thing- what's the Ebert's Movie Glossary name for that again? Glad to see the story take a darker turn at the very end, but unfortunately the film just kind of throws it out there before the credits. And I won't even start comparing it to the Elaine May version of the film, not just because it's been years since I saw that one, but also because this film has enough problems without comparing it to its betters.

The Kingdom (2007, Peter Berg) [4]- another film that feels a little schizo in its execution, and not necessarily in a good way. After an opening-credits rundown of American history in Saudi Arabia and a double act of terrorism in an American compound near Riyadh, the movie is mostly content to be an procedural thriller, closer to network television than big-screen cinema. In fact, aside from the costumes and the heavy artillery, this could easily be a story about a serial killer or mad bomber on U.S. soil. Supercool FBI agent Jamie Foxx assembles a crack, motley crew to investigate the case, and with help from the Saudi military, headed by a west-sympathetic family-man officer, they hunt down the terrorists responsible for the attacks. For most of its duration, the film is clearly for U.S. involvement in the investigation- there's even a face-off between action-minded bureau chief Richard Jenkins and wishy-washy cabinet member Danny Huston ("interventionism: not a funny matter"). And then when the team is attacked, there's no choice left but to strike back. But in a movie that practically ignores the geopolitical implications of its storyline, the final scenes feel like a last-minute stab at topicality. Without them, one might half expect a fade-out followed by a sneak peek at next week's episode. There's certainly a place for something in the style of CSI or 24 against the backdrop of the Middle East, but if you're going to do it, fer chrissakes commit to it.

Rocket Science (2007, Jeffrey Blitz) [7]- as a former high school policy debater, I was grateful to see that for once a movie got the world right. Real-life policy debate is a far cry from the common image of two polished speakers standing at podiums and oratorically delivering prepared speeches. Instead, it's standing at a table, evidence at hand, and aggressively barreling through as much as you can in 8 minutes (the technical name is "spreading"). But this but one of the many ways in which the film defies expectation. The film sets up conflicts and situations but resolutely refuses to resolve them in a conventional manner, often just letting them simmer through the very end of the movie or just die away. Nothing is ever quite solved in Rocket Science, and the film ends up becoming not about how we overcome our problems but rather how we eventually learn to resign ourselves to them and move on. But even this doesn't quite happen for our hero, in large part because he's too young to know better. But by the final scene, he's well on his way.

The King of Kong: A Fistful of Quarters (2007, Seth Gordon) [7]

Not being a gamer myself, I had a hard time believing the hype about this crowd-pleasing documentary. However, I was quickly won over, largely because the characters are so engaging. There surely must be some editing-room magic at work in making Billy Mitchell into the manipulative villain here, but no matter- the film works best as a contrast between cunning gamer-world "insider" Billy and straight-shooting outsider Steve Wiebe. Steve doesn't fit the gamer stereotype, but more important he's completely guileless, challenging Mitchell to a mano-a-mano to break the Donkey Kong record in the spirit of healthy competition. For his part, Mitchell shirks from the challenge, covering his anxiety with mindfucks and manipulating the system, run largely by his cronies. In a way, gaming needs guys like Mitchell, charismatic lifelong gamers who have built a mystique through decades of long-standing records. But what the film shows us in the end is that gaming also needs someone like Wiebe, who can claim the record as his own and give hope to all others who would try, and do so in the most sportsmanlike manner.

Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? (1966, Mike Nichols)

I've seen this before, but the older you get, the more it hits home. I really liked the way the filmmakers didn't really disguise the film's theatrical roots, but at the same time added some subtle touches to make it work as cinema. Of particular interest are the occasional bits of behavior that might involve a character walking offstage, doing something, and then returning to the main action, but here Nichols holds on these people for just a moment, not just as a concession to the new medium, but also because that's where the really interesting stuff is happening. And make no mistake, this works like gangbusters as cinema. Despite the theatrical acting and the talkiness of the script, the end result is a movie instead of simply a filmed play (hard to believe it was Nichols' first feature). On top of that, this is one of the few movies that actually benefits from the very public relationship between its stars. Rather than distracting us, the film assumes that the audience knows all about its principal performers, and it builds on this knowledge only to shoot it right in the ass. Liz gets the really showy moments, and she sells them wonderfully, but it's Burton who really kills here. Instead of simply indulging in histrionics, he gives a magnificent, completely lived-in performance that's a wonder to behold. Oh, that voice! Rating: ***1/2 out of ****.

Zoo (2007, Robinson Devor)

While I certainly applaud Devor's avoidance of sensationalism in addressing "zoo culture" in general and the late Enumclaw horsefucker specifically, but I'm not sure this is a satisfactory alternative. So committed to making non-exploitative art is he that his film is gorgeous but has nothing to say. Devor speaks with everyone except those who might have made the film complex and interesting- no interviews with the deceased's ex-wife, no ER doctor or coroner, but hey, they found time for one of the actors in the re-enactment. Another problem is the idea of "bad laughs"- sure, I understand that with such a touchy subject you can't tear your hair out about the parts that will elicit nervous titters in audience members, but certain parts of this movie (like the bit with the miniature horse) were just a bad idea. Rating: 4 out of 10.

Brand Upon the Brain! (2006, Guy Maddin)

As clever as anything Maddin has done, but doesn't quite satisfy otherwise. Maybe it's just that it's too long- all the frenzied imagination wears me out after a while, while Cowards kept it brief at a little over an hour. Pure unadulterated Maddin can be wearying, at least for me, and around the 80 minute mark it just got to be a little much. Still, if that's the worst I can say about it then maybe I'm underrating it after all... Rating: 6 out of 10.

3:10 to Yuma (2007, James Mangold)

Fair to middling oater for most of its running time, but rallies in the final reel with an exciting final gun battle. Nice to see Crowe playing his role with a light touch for a change, and Bale's just as good here. Biggest complaint is that Ben Foster as Crowe's lieutenant is too self-conscious to work in the context of the film. Mangold is mostly an anonymous hack, but at least he's smart enough to stay out of the way until he's needed. Rating: 6 out of 10.

Angel-A (2005, Luc Besson)

Dopey, semi-worthless cinema du look version of It's a Wonderful Life, with a statuesque blonde angel coming to Earth to pull shlumpy loser Jamel Debbouze out of his rut despite the fact that he's one of the least appealing onscreen heroes I've seen in ages (not his appearance necessarily, but the fact that the character is such a cartoonish, uncomplicated loser). Notable only for the black-and-white 'Scope views of Paris, and for the super-foxy Rie Rasmussen- previously featured as the slow-motion legs in Femme Fatale- as the angel. Not that she's very good in the movie (or has much to work with) but she's extremely easy on the eyes, and this film made them eager to latch onto anything worth looking at. Rating: 3 out of 10.

2 Days in Paris (2007, Julie Delpy)

Unlike many films set in Paris, both good and bad, this one doesn't romanticize it, and it's this warts'n'all portrayal of the city that really makes the film feel lived-in. I also like that the central relationship story never quite goes where one would expect it to go- yes, he's jealous and neurotic, but she's no prize either, and if they decide there's going to be a happy ending then it's going to be a hard road to get there. Also, Adam Goldberg gets more comedic mileage with his sotto voce kvetching asides than anyone since Woody Allen in his heyday. The ending is a botch, but it's still well worth seeing. Rating: 6 out 0f 10.

Half Moon (2006, Bahman Ghobadi)

Starts off promisingly, as Ghobadi's direction feels more expressionistic than usual, and his story contains quite a bit of humor. However, the spirit of the early scenes eventually gives way to Ghobadi's usual miserablist portrayal of modern Kurdish life. And while I know that life isn't easy for the Kurds, Ghobadi's insistence on turning every film of his into a tragedy makes it feel like he's making his films solely for Western festival audiences grooving on liberal guilt. Put it another way- if Kurdish life was as consistently bleak as Ghobadi shows it to be, how could they possibly live? Rating: 5 out of 10.

Halloween (2007, Rob Zombie)

Sure, it's an uneasy mix of the original's narrative and Zombie's frenzied imagination, but it's pretty fascinating stuff. And despite all the references to the original series and to other old-school B-movies, Zombie mostly takes his story seriously. My favorite scene finds the grown-up Michael Myers killing a mental hospital orderly played by Danny Trejo. As Myers drowns his victim in a sink, Trejo can only whimper and cry out, "but I was good to you!" It says so much about Trejo's character that he would be nice to this monster and that he believed his kindness would be returned, and so much about Michael that he could find no place for gratitude or sentimentality. Also, great art direction- as in The Devil's Rejects, Zombie takes sets that are atmospheric as hell and makes them look grimy and lived-in instead of simply dressed the morning of the shoot. Rating: 6 out of 10.

Eastern Promises (2007, David Cronenberg)

Pretty good genre film, but little more. Could have done without the plot device of the newborn baby, for one- Naomi Watts gives a solid performance, but I'm not sure an audience surrogate was altogether necessary here. Much more interesting is Cronenberg's portrayal of the cutthroat underworld of the Vory v zakone, ruled over by the sinister yet avuncular Semyon (the great Armin Mueller-Stahl), and the rise of driver Nikolai (Viggo Mortensen) in the Vory's ranks. Here's where the film's fascination lies, and whenever we step outside that world the interest flags. Likewise, I'm not sure I liked the plot revelations that occurred near the end of the film, but after the already famous naked fight scene I was willing to forgive quite a bit. Worth seeing, but something of a disappointment from Cronenberg. Rating: 6 out of 10.

In the Valley of Elah (2007, Paul Haggis)

Yes, you read that right- I preferred the new Paul Haggis movie to the new David Cronenberg. Maybe Crash was a movie Haggis needed to get out of his system, as if the film's success allowed him to make a movie that wasn't trying nearly as hard to impress people. Or maybe it's just that the murder mystery story of Elah hews more closely to Haggis' background in episodic television, giving him a clean narrative through line rather than the tortured contrivances of the previous film. Wisely, Haggis lets his actors shoulder much of the emotional weight of the film, and Tommy Lee Jones is more than up to the task, giving perhaps the best performance of his career. Hank Deerfield is a hard, emotionally withdrawn veteran, and Jones gives a performance with no wasted gestures or actorly mannerisms. Look at the way he trembles during the fateful phone call to his wife, or the un-softened manner with which he tells the story of David and Goliath to Charlize Theron's young son. In the Valley of Elah is surprisingly apolitical in his approach to the War in Iraq, as Haggis doesn't lay the blame at the feet of the government or the armed forces, but merely questions and despairs at the logic of our country sacrificing its young on the battlefield. Much to my surprise, I was actually thinking Elah might be one of the best films of the year, but then I saw the final few minutes of the film, in which we first see the characters underscored by a baldly heartrending ballad, after which Haggis feels the need to go and Haggis up an otherwise fine film with a positively groan-worthy final shot. Why, Haggis? I was with you right up until the end, pal- why did you have to piss it away? Rating: 7 out of 10.

The Matador (2005, Richard Shepherd)

As expected it's even better the second time. The funny stuff is just as funny, the emotional stuff hits even harder, and my misgivings about the ending melted away. Julian and Danny are more than just an odd couple- they're yin and yang, and that's the key to their friendship. They don't need to spend all their time together, but each needs the other in the world, and they both acknowledge this without having to come out and say it. It's there in the way Danny runs to answer the door to his hotel room when the drunk, sobbing Julian comes knocking, and it's there in the way Julian makes his final exit at the end of the film. Also, if there was ever a director who was born to adapt Hunter S. Thompson, it's Richard Shepard. Rating: 8 out of 10.

Killer of Sheep (1977, Charles Burnett)

After I saw this for the second time in two days, I was leaving the theatre and the two douchebags leaving behind me complained about how it sucked because "it didn't have a plot." Yes, and? Killer of Sheep isn't a plot movie, but that's why it's a masterpiece, I think. It's a portrait of lives from which there is no escape- with a plot there has to be resolution, and resolution would magically clear up the troubles from which Burnett's characters suffer. It's the difference between the games the kids in the film play and the lives of their parents. When something happens to a kid, he'll walk away, cry it out, and then continue like nothing happened- problem resolved. But the problems facing the adults linger. The gangsters who try to bring Stan in on a crime will eventually be replaced by other gangsters, the white woman who runs the liquor store will keep trying to sweet-talk him into working for her (and screwing her on the side). And Stan's bone-deep weariness won't subside, despite his wife's hopes that it will. I didn't get a good look at the naysaying cheesedicks behind me, but when they complained that Killer of Sheep "didn't have any redeeming value," I quickly pegged them as spoiled rich kids. Anyone who has ever worked paycheck to paycheck, or has despaired that life seems like nothing but a long string of jobs interrupted occasionally by sleep, or has simply gazed at a loved one and wanted to cheer him but had no idea how, will find something in Killer of Sheep that speaks to them, no matter what color he is. And all that aside, Burnett gives us one small, perfect moment after another. Like Stan's daughter singing along with Earth Wind and Fire's "Reasons" and stumbling through the words until she gets to the "la la la" interlude, which she sings with the utmost confidence. Or Bracy berating Eugene in rhyme for getting a flat during a road trip to the track, but running out of words to rhyme: "you need to have a spare/but you's a square/that's why you ain't got no spare." Or the rare instance of Stan smiling in the film, when he jokingly explains to his daughter why it rains, and his wife beams back at him, as though she's finally seen the sun break through the clouds.

Also, having come to Killer of Sheep through George Washington- a film I love, mind you- I couldn't help but think of something John Lennon once said in an interview. When a reporter asked him what he thought of kids imitating the band by wearing Beatle wigs, he responded, "they aren't imitating us because we don't wear Beatle wigs." It was a joke, but it says a lot about the nature of homage. Whereas David Gordon Green paid homage to Killer of Sheep as a deliberate, affected style, Burnett simply made his film that way because it was the best way to tell his story under the circumstances. It was born of necessity, but it worked. Someone also needs to take a look at the influence of Killer of Sheep on Stranger Than Paradise. Jarmusch's film is more self-conscious to be sure, but it's also a similarly low-key, black and white portrait of go-nowhere city life. Even when Jarmusch's heroes take to the road, they don't really go anywhere in a deeper sense. Rating: 10 out of 10.

Across the Universe (2007, Julie Taymor)

There's a good reason why Beatles songs are covered again and again- aside from the band's enduring popularity, the songs are compulsively singable. However, most people can't resist the temptation to over-sing- whereas the Beatles themselves generally sang the songs pretty straightforwardly, most who cover them feel the need to squeeze every drop of emotion from the lyrics, tricking them up in order to make them their own. This is one of my big issues with Taymor's film as well- she just can't stay out of the way of the songs. She lavishes layers of visual pageantry on songs that don't really need the extra goosing. For the most part, the numbers that are most effective are the ones that are fairly straightforward- the dual-funeral "Let It Be," "Because" in nine-part harmony, and especially Martin Luther McCoy's take on "While My Guitar Gently Weeps." Meanwhile, the big production numbers are mostly labored, none more so than the Army-induction number that funds a group of new draftees carrying the Statue of Liberty on their backs while singing "She's So Heavy." The screenplay doesn't help matters- the format is little more than the miniseries The 60s but with all-Beatles music, and too often the transitions between the songs and the dramatic scenes are forced and obvious, as when a lovesick girl named Prudence locks herself in a closet. Gee, wonder what song her friends will sing to cheer her up? Might have been more interesting- if not necessarily better- had Taymor ditched the spoken dialogue altogether and made the movie all Beatles, all the time. There was a dust-up earlier this year between Taymor and studio head Joe Roth when Roth tried to pare down this movie. Now, I don't condone studio intrusion on an artist's vision, but on the basis of the three films she's made to date, Taymor could really use someone to keep her more indulgent side in check. Not studio meddling, mind you, but friendly constructive criticism. Someone to tell her, say, that the Eddie Izzard version of "Being For the Benefit of Mr. Kite" serves no purpose in the film, shoots the pacing all to hell, and is incredibly annoying to boot. Rating: 4 out of 10.

September 2007 mini-reviews

9/29- Feast of Love (2007, Robert Benton) [w/o] {Now that I'm paying to watch movies, you'll probably see more of these than before. Between Freeman on autopilot, Kinnear as the world's most oblivious man, and the vapid kids, I found absolutely nothing to latch on to here. I bailed just after Fred Ward threatened his son's girlfriend with a knife. No compelling reason to stick around- even the musical choices are lazy. I hope I never hear the Jeff Buckley cover of "Hallelujah" again in my life, and the Frames song just made me wish I was watching Once instead.}

9/23- Inferno (1980, Dario Argento) [***] {Bugfuck and nonsensical, but not in a bad way. Definitely suffers with home viewing (I saw it dubbed onto VHS from a DVD), will need to catch this on the big screen. Only real quibble is how dated the Keith Emerson (of ...Lake, and Palmer fame) score is, although it also contributes to the crazy otherworldliness of it all. And the scene with Kazanian and the rats is pretty goddamn incredible.}

9/23- Phantom Lady (1944, Robert Siodmak) [***1/2] {What she said, basically. Ella Raines- whoa. Raines aside, what really makes this cook is that it's a scruffy, seedy noir, but it's also at its heart a love story. Raines isn't a goody-goody, but she's not a femme fatale. She's a smart, resourceful woman who will do whatever it takes to free the man she loves. In a genre full of double-crosses and friends who are really users, this kind of unconditional devotion is rare and special.}

9/16- The Crying Game (1992, Neil Jordan) [***1/2] {What more can be said? Jordan's knack for switching gears both tone-wise and narratively is uncanny here. Jaye Davidson gives one of the great one-off performances in cinema history, but it never feels like a stunt. And Stephen Rea is of course a treasure.}

9/15- No End in Sight (2007, Charles Ferguson) [7] {The perfect film to pair with Redacted for your why-Iraq-is-a-clusterfuck double feature. Still mainly a talking-heads-and-stock-footage affair, but the talking heads are so well-chosen and insightful that I didn't really mind.}

9/14- The Italian Job (1969, Peter Collinson) [***] {It's illustrative to compare this to the 2003 version, which added a revenge plotline and the father issue, while subtracting the very specific British humor and setting the main heist in L.A. instead of Turin. Also, I like Wahlberg, but he can't match Caine at his most caddish, plus there's no Noel Coward or Benny Hill ("I like 'em biiiiiiiiiig!") equivalent. I think the chase is actually more exciting in the original, and certainly more intentive. Also, LOVE the ending.}

9/12- Wojaczek (1999, Lech Majewski) [**1/2] {If Aki Kaurismaki made a biopic, it'd probably look something like this. Worth seeing, but lacks the rigor of Van Sant's Last Days and doesn't give much insight into what made the title character a compelling poet. But then, that may be the point- he drank and screwed, he threw himself out of windows, he finally OD'd on pills, but before that he wrote some poems. It's almost an afterthought.}

9/6-9/11- Toronto International Film Festival

The Earrings of Madame de... (1953, Max Ophuls)

Look in the dictionary next to "elegance" and "sophistication" and it'll say "see The Earrings of Madame De...". But if this was all about making a movie look pretty and moving the camera like a champ, this wouldn't be a classic. What sets it apart is that it successfully overcomes the biggest trap for films about the privileged classes- the thing most of these movies get wrong but what nearly all the best ones (Barry Lyndon aside) get very right. Its characters transcend their social class and are engaging and sympathetic, and Ophüls makes us forget that they were all born with loads of money and are passing around earrings that are probably worth more than most people's cars. And that's no mean feat. People never tire of quoting Rules of the Game in reviews when they say, "everybody has his reasons," but they almost never quote the whole line, which begins, "the great tragedy of life is this." By the time Madame de..., approaching death, staggers up the hill to the place where her husband and lover are dueling, this idea is unmistakable in Ophüls' film as well. Rating: ***1/2 out of ****.

Les Enfants Terribles (1950, Jean-Pierre Melville)

I wasn't sure what to expect from a Melville/Cocteau collaboration, but their styles fit together surprisingly well. It's not as fanciful as one of Cocteau's own directorial efforts- compare the snowball fight here with the one in Blood of a Poet- but Melville is able to stylize this in his own way. The biggest kinship I see between the two filmmakers is that their best works deal with death, although they diverge there, and instead of the blurred line between the living and dead common to Cocteau's work, Melville imbues the story with a sense of gloom, like a fog that settles in over the action. Watching it, I never quite felt like I was watching events play out- rather that they'd been filtered through the prism of memory. But whose? Cocteau's, I dare say. I can definitely see the debt The Dreamers owes to this film, and Dreamers writer Gilbert Adair freely admits it, to his credit. Rating: ***1/2 out of ****.

The Bourne Ultimatum (2007, Paul Greengrass)

The most exciting Bourne adventure yet, all the more surprising from being crafted seemingly from thin air. Bourne may be impeccably played by Matt Damon, but he's still defined largely by his momentum, not unlike Walker in Point Blank. His motivation never changes- he wants to find out who he was before he lost his memory, and will barrel through anyone who tries to stop him. While this has been called a "thinking man's action movie," that has less to do with any substance than with the chilly, Jean-Pierre Melville-esque tone that's maintained throughout. Truth be told, the Bourne movies have always been more setpiece-dominated than most action movies, and this has three of the series' best- the Waterloo Station sequence, the three-way pursuit in Tangier, and the New York switcheroo followed by a car chase that's simultaneously ridiculous and grounded in real-world physics. And even more than the other Bourne films, this is wonderfully cast- even Julia Stiles seems more at ease now that she's more than a surveillance functionary behind a desk. Sure, it's all motion, but when you're watching you'll be too wrung out to complain. Rating: 7 out of 10.

Talk to Me (2007, Kasi Lemmons)

Solid entertainment, and occasionally more than that. Don Cheadle's performance as Petey Greene has been getting most of the press, and it's nice to see him really dig into a showy lead role- he sells the funny stuff but also the more serious moments, especially when Petey takes to the airwaves on the night of Dr. King's murder. But Chiwetel Ejiofor is just as good, taking an upright Sidney Poitier type and showing both the careerist hunger that drives him and the difficulties he has as a minority in a white-driven world. Dewey may be an exec at a station catering to an urban audience, but aside from the on-air talent and the receptionist he's the only black face in the office, which obviously weighs on him. I appreciated that the film doesn't shy away from the racial issues at play, not only in Dewey's life, but in his relationship with Petey as well, which play out nicely in an early game of pool and take off from there. Ultimately, despite the historical backdrop, the film works primarily as a story of their friendship, which causes both of them to grow. This is why I think the film's final half-hour is necessary- rather than finishing up at the high point of Petey's professional career, Lemmons shows us how their rather unlikely friendship plays out over the years. Rating: 7 out of 10.

Red Desert (1964, Michelangelo Antonioni)

Visually, as gorgeous as anything Antonioni has ever done, but as wonderful as the images are, they're never comforting or reassuring. As with L'Avventura and later Blow-Up, Antonioni places his protagonist in a situation from which she'll never emerge, but unlike those films she's already there when the film begins. Having sustained minor injuries in what was by all accounts a small car crash, Giulietta (Monica Vitti) has become deeply wounded psychologically. Those around her can't relate to her troubles, and the only one who tries is her husband's friend Zeller (Richard Harris). But despite his attempts to get to the bottom of her condition, nothing changes. It's a deeply existential problem from which she suffers, and one can't help but wonder if she's been predisposed to her mental illness all her life and the accident merely set it off. But Antonioni isn't about analysis, nor does he even try to answer the question, and good on him for that. As expected, there are a handful of magnificent setpieces, like the extended party/aborted group sex experiment at a boathouse, as well as a strange fairly tale Giulietta tells her ailing son during his temporary paralysis (when he recovers, it's almost as though he's mocking his mother's lingering malaise). The film lacks the kind of bravura ending usually associated with Antonioni's work, but the film was so deeply rewarding that I didn't really miss it. Two more thoughts: (1) I need to see this on a big screen, like, yesterday, and (2) maybe it's just me, and I know this is kind of heretical, but Monica Vitti was actually foxier with dark hair. Rating: ***1/2 out of ****.

Bamako (2006, Abderramane Sissako)

My reaction as the credits rolled: "if the trial scenes weren't real, they should have been; if the non-trial scenes were't fake, they could have been." In many ways, Bamako is a unique achievement- an unapologetically political statement about the World Bank and the pragmatic side of international humanitarianism in which the African people, usually presented only as smiling children or miserable adults in charity ads, have a say about their plight. It's talky as hell, but all the better for it, and the trial scenes are so fascinating that they give didacticism- a word often connoted as negative- a good name. I could've watched 90 minutes of these scenes, frankly. The scenes not devoted to debate are more uneven, sadly- Sissako too often resorts to uninspired setup-and-payoff, most egregiously in the subplot involving some business over a gun. Some of this seeps into the trial as well, when the man not permitted to speak in the early scene finally leaps up during the final arguments and pours out his heart in song (I was kind of troubled by the lack of subtitles here- if it was the filmmakers' idea, it strikes me as a clumsy way to portray a pure, un-Westernized bit of African culture; if it was the subtitlers' doing, what gives?). Fortunately, the good stuff far outpaces the dodgy stuff, and Bamako proves far superior to Sissako's last film, the inexplicably-lauded snoozer Waiting for Happiness. Also, while I'm not as high on Bamako as this guy is, I'm with him on what the final shot should have been. Don't you hate it when directors have a perfect finish in their grasp but can't manage to stop there? Rating: 7 out of 10.

Broken Trail (2006, Walter Hill)

There seems to be a strain of hybrid Western, existing between the old-guard oaters of John Wayne and the bleaker, more self-aware reinventions that sprung up starting in the late sixties. Like its spiritual brother Open Range- and to a lesser extent the films of Sam Peckinpah- Broken Trail contains some blood and brutality, but it nonetheless has a moral code to it (loyalty, caring for women and the helpless, etc.), and its tone isn't so much despair as elegy. A lot of the charm comes from the leisurely pacing- the baddie don't even show up until an hour in, giving us time to immerse ourselves in the lives of the heroes and to enjoy their relationship before the plot comes a-callin'. Mostly Broken Trail is just a rock-solid Western, with an entertaining old-lion performance from Robert Duvall- also in Open Range- and a surprisingly effective taciturn one from Thomas Haden Church. Broken Trail touches on some unsavory ideas about the old West- our government's eradication of Native Americans, the selling of young Chinese girls into sex slavery, and so on- but the film treads lightly, with Hill satisfied to simply make a good cowboy yarn. And it's a damn good one, truth be told, which is too rare a breed nowadays, no matter what strain of cowboy movie you're talking about. Rating: 8 out of 10.

Superbad (2007, Greg Mottola)

Consider this rating highly tentative, as it's hard to this independently of the obviously-awesome experience of seeing it in a full auditorium. But yeah, it's damn funny stuff. Strangely enough, compared to most of the best recent comedies, this goes fairly light on the real-life themes, although a few times when they pop up, they overwhelm the plot by being used in fairly unimaginative ways (like the temporary falling-out between Evan and Seth, to be followed by the inevitable reconciliation). There's also a strange but not unwelcome tension between the authentic nature of the heroes' friendship and the sumo-wrestler's-ass-broad scenes involving the local police. But while the tension makes the film interesting, it's the slapsticky, repetitive feel of the cop scenes that keep Superbad from really attaining classic status. Don't get me wrong, the movie is funny as hell, but only sporadically does it show real comic inspiration, although when it does, buckle up (I especially loved the bit involving a stain on Seth's trousers). Jonah Hill (as Seth) and Christopher Mintz-Plasse (as Fogell aka McLovin) are awesome and will almost certainly become fan favorites, but I think Michael Cera should be singled out for recognition. While his costars play to the rafters, Cera grounds the film firmly in reality, reacting in a wholly believable- and hilarious- manner to the chaos that mounts around him. Plus his timing is spooky and- at age 19!- he's already a master of the throwaway line, as when he randomly references a lesson in health-class while in mid-seduction. I was also pleasantly surprised by the strangely bittersweet tone of the final scene, which true to form the movie follows with a bunch of drawings of cocks. Rating: 7 out of 10.

A Nightmare on Elm Street 3: Dream Warriors (1987, Chuck Russell)

It's refreshing to look at an early entry in this deathless series again, from back when they were still trying to make them interesting, rather than just a series of clever, convoluted kills. Part of it is that there's just enough Freddy to make this a Nightmare movie- in the small doses we see him in here, he's still a frightening boogeyman, rather than the quippy parody of same that he would become later on. I also enjoyed the effort they put into advancing the mythology of the Nightmare universe- the characters still relate somewhat to the events that started it all, and in an interesting twist, one is even able to call others into her nightmare to fend off Freddy. Watching this, I figured out what bugs me about Patricia Arquette nowadays- it's that marble-mouthed girlishness, which doesn't really wash when you're 40 years old but actually suits this role pretty well. Rating: **1/2 out of ****.

The Man With Two Brains (1983, Carl Reiner)

As the Bible might have said, it's easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a movie this silly to actually be good, but somehow this one manages it. Really, either it works for you or it doesn't- like the fellow said, these are the jokes, people. But if it's your thing, The Man With Two Brains is pretty sublime in its ridiculousness. The closest recent equivalent I can think of is something like Anchorman, in which the story is a clothesline for the silliness, and the whole cast is completely game. Compare Steve Martin here to contemporary comics like Adam Sandler or Dane Cook- whereas those guys seem just as concerned with looking cool and acting likable as they do with making you laugh, Martin was 100% committed to the silliness, and wasn't shy about making himself look like an ass if it would get laughs. Martin's innate likability helped- it's the disconnect between his whitebread charm and the goofiness of his early characters that made them so funny. But most of all, The Man With Two Brains survives on its jokes, mini-masterpieces of silliness. From the time Martin recited "In Dillman's Grove" (written by John Lillison, England's Greatest One-Armed Poet) to the bedridden Kathleen Turner- so soon after Body Heat, no less!- I was hooked. I just feel sorry for those kids out there who don't recognize the true identity of the Elevator Killer, since this deprives them of perhaps the film's biggest laugh. But if the face of Merv Griffin hasn't quite permeated the consciousness of the younger generation, they can always enjoy "Pointy birds, oh pointy-pointy / anoint my head, anointy-nointy..." Rating: ***1/2 out of ****.

Lady Chatterley (2006, Pascale Ferran)

What I enjoyed most about Lady Chatterley was its focus on the physicality of sex, something that is often sketched over by most "erotic" films, with their sex positions which are dictated more by their effect on the audience than their relation to the characters involved. In addition, the lack of physicality in most American films seems to be a way of turning attention to the emotional and psychological states of the characters in those films, perhaps due to the guilt and shame that has been handed down from our forefathers. But enough of this tangent- Lady Chatterley is pretty potent stuff, beginning with the strange tension between Britishness of the original story and the Frenchness of the production. In addition, I appreciated the sensuality that went hand in hand with the Lady's sexual awakening- as in other female-directed sex-themed films like The Piano and Friday Night, Lady Chatterley makes one acutely aware of the sensory possibilities of the film's setting, be they a field covered in daffodils, or the layer of sweat that covers the heroine after a day planting in the garden. Most Chatterley adaptations before this concentrated mostly on the erotic aspects of the story, but much of the added running time of this one is devoted to painting the mundane, repetitive life of the Lady, who as a result of her position has almost nothing to do with her days, which makes her ripe for an awakening, both sexually and to the possibilities of life in general. There are a few things that don't quite work, in particular the simplistic dichotomy between Parkin, the personification of the physical, and Lady Chatterley's husband, all upper-class haughtiness in his wheelchair (although the scene of the motorized chair struggling up the hill is a vivid portrait of impotence). However, it's a major work, and certainly one of the best sex-themed films to come along in years, and good on Ferran for not casting the lead roles with toned, contemporary-looking hotties- Marina Hands has a tantalizing bit of tummy, and Jean-Louis Cullo'ch looks like a burly outdoorsman, and since that's who he's playing it works. Also, this is the rare erotic film that doesn't front-load its nudity, which was nice. Rating: 8 out of 10.

Regular Lovers (2005, Philippe Garrel)

In a way, this movie is almost all third act, with most of the film comprised with the fallout of May '68. The funny thing about revolutions- people can only sustain their revolutionary impulses for so long before their more basic concerns can no longer be ignored. In other words, changing the world is good and noble until the food and money run out. So it goes in Regular Lovers, and the tragedy of Francois (Philippe Garrel) is that he lives for his ideals long after everyone has moved on. The revolution is over, the survivors are hooked on drugs or in debt or working for a living, anyone who looks suspicious is subject to random frisking by cops, and the pure artist of the bunch dies without publishing a word. Also, William Lubtchansky's black and white cinematography is pretty breathtaking in my opinion, and man it's been ages since I listened to the Kinks. Will rectify this situation momentarily. Rating: 7 out of 10.

In the Shadow of the Moon (2006, David Sington)

This is a solid crowd-pleasing documentary that should do good business with arthouse audiences and maybe get an Oscar attention. But while the copious NASA footage is impressive, this is the rare documentary where the talking heads (all former Apollo astronauts) are actually the highlight. What comes through even now in the interviews is Tom Wolfe's idea of "the right stuff"- that these men were intelligent, engaging, and above all fearless. The Apollo program captured the hearts of the nation in large part because it presented them with real heroes at a time when they needed them. And while I'm skeptical of people being anointed as heroes willy-nilly, these guys really deserved it. Rating: 6 out of 10.

Janus Films Retrospective

Vengeance Is Mine (1979, Shohei Imamura)- What makes this work is the way it so resolutely resists psychoanalysis. A lesser film would fixate on Iwao's shame at his father for being the wellspring of his insanity, but here it's at most the incident that sets him off. Many people experience disillusionment when they're young, but they don't all go on murderous rampages- clearly there was something amiss with Iwao, and a simple Freudian reading of the story seems woefully inadequate. But I also was taken with the way the film portrays all of its principal characters as highly flawed- Iwao's father and wife have a quasi-incestuous fixation with each other, Iwao's inkeeper mistress is basically kept woman to her landlord, and so on. Perhaps what separates Iwao from the rest isn't simply his acts, but that he doesn't feel guilty about them? Rating: ***1/2 out of ****.

WR: Mysteries of the Orga[ni]sm (1971, Dusan Makavejev)- In many ways, this feels like a "you had to be there" sort of experience- distant as we've grown from the world of the Iron Curtain and Vietnam, there's something vaguely alien about a movie that takes on both of these targets, and more besides, but doesn't so much take them down as tickle them for 80-odd minutes. One gets the impression that Makavejev put just enough controversial stuff in his movies to get the censors steamed, without actually compelling them to cut him down, which is no small feat considering the environment he was working in. Plus it's really goddamn funny, which shouldn't be ignored. But even more than with most movies, your mileage may vary. Rating: ***1/2 out of ****.

Cria Cuervos... (1976, Carlos Saura) This is one of the most bracingly unsentimental portraits of a young girl dealing with the presence of death in her life I've ever seen. Little Ana has been present for the deaths of her mother and father, but she doesn't know how to process it in a mature way, and as such the concept of death becomes almost trivial to her (for example, how casual she is about trying to poison those she dislikes). I also liked the ambiguousness of the scene with her father's handgun. I doubt she actually intends to use it, and I'm not even sure she knows it's loaded, but what would an 8-year-old want with a gun? To be honest though, I don't think this would have been nearly so effective if not for the perfect pairing of Ana Torrent and Geraldine Chaplin- there's one scene in particular in which Torrent is photographed from below and her facial structure matches Chaplin's so well that it's almost eerie. Also, there's a guinea pig, which was fun, although I have to admit that mine are cuter. Rating: ***1/2 out of ****.

Death of a Cyclist (1955, Juan Antonio Bardem)- Alternately compelling and hamfisted exploration of upper-class morality in Franco's Spain works better now as a cultural artifact than as straight drama. Unfortunately, Bardem's use of a reluctant member of the ruling class strikes me as misguided, since he's too obviously meant to be a surrogate for the director's own feelings about social stratification in his native land. Technical issues aside (it appears than Spanish dramas of the period were roughly equivalent to mid-30s Hollywood from a tech standpoint) the film would have been helped most with a greater emphasis on its female protagonist over the more wishy-washy male lead, not least because of Lucia Bosé, who had screen presence to burn. Rating: **1/2 out of ****.

Autumn Sonata (1978, Ingmar Bergman) This, folks, is what you might call "minor Bergman"- not a disaster like The Serpent's Egg, but more of a regurgitation of pet Bergman themes and tropes than a fully-realized vision. The film works mostly because of the onscreen pairing of Liv Ullmann and Ingrid Bergman as daughter and mother, and the clash of styles that results. Ingrid always feels a little out of place in Ingmar's world, which creates an interesting tension that might not have resulted had the director cast one of his regulars in the role. Ingrid feels too composed for Bergman-land, but that's the point- she's so unwilling to feel the world around her, so prone to keeping them at a distance with lots of talk and easy laughter, that she's become alienated from everyone, especially those who love her most. If the long and impassioned two-hander that dominates the film's second hour works at all, it's because of her and Ullmann. Rating: **1/2 out of ****.

Cléo From 5 to 7 (1962, Agnès Varda)- I love how much Cléo grows during the course of this film. At the beginning, she seems to fear death mostly because it'll wreak havoc on her looks and her youth, but she has very little stake in anything else. But it's as though when she whips off that wig and storms out of her flat alone, she willfully pursues her own betterment. Could make an interesting double feature with INSIGNIFICANCE, another movie about a famous blonde who refuses to play the vapid sex object so many others would have her be. Rating: ***1/2.

The Cranes Are Flying (1957, Mikhail Kalatozov)- Still gorgeous. It's actually more emotionally overwhelming on the big screen, and not just because of Kalatozov and ace cinematographer Sergei Urusevsky's use of closeups. Amid all the bravura direction, the emotional timbre of this feels almost like Jacques Demy, trading in the same kind of sad irony as a film like THE UMBRELLAS OF CHERBOURG. Rating: ***1/2.

Summer With Monika (1953, Ingmar Bergman)- First time seeing the original cut [as compared to the STORY OF A BAD GIRL cut]. While I admit that this one works better, I still have my reservations about it. From a storytelling standpoint, the deck feels a little too stacked to me. Aside from his drunk and largely-absent dad, practically every adult in Harry's life at the beginning of the film is an asshole, and so when Monika comes along the choice to steal away with her is remarkably easy. And then after she gets pregnant and has the kid, her character turns on a dime into a bitch (I almost said irresponsible as well, but she was always that). As a result, the film comes off as baldly moralistic- if you turn your back on responsibilty to spend your youth frivolously, you'll end up paying for it the rest of your life. What mostly makes the film work in spite of the message is the magical middle section, in which Harry and Monika enjoy their titular summer together. In keeping with the film's message, Bergman's style in this segment of the film is strictly in-the-moment, as heedless of what is to come as his protagonists. Once the fun stops, it gets more boilerplate, although two extended closeups- one of Monika, one of Harry- are justifiably acclaimed. Rating: ***.

Lola (1981, Rainer Werner Fassbinder)- Sweet Jesus is this movie gorgeous. For my money, Fassbinder's talent as a visual stylist doesn't get nearly enough press- most of the stuff I see about his work tends to focus on his pet themes (sexual power dymanics, recent German history, etc.) and how the film relates to Fassbinder's own life. But any filmmaker who does work that's even remotely "personal"- even visually-impaired dudes like Kevin Smith who might as well be directing for radio- has his own bunch of pet themes and obsessions. But Fassbinder is visually gifted, and versatile to boot, which may have been why his talent as a stylist are overlooked (stylistically speaking, The Merchant of the Four Seasons is not Effi Briest, which in turn is not The Marriage of Maria Braun). Of the Fassbinders I've seen, Lola has to be the most visually ravishing. Fassbinder's use of color and lighting is stunning, especially in scenes where he washes different actors in different hues, even within the same shot. It's also sort of amazing how quickly he was able to get his cast, many of whom were Fassbinder newcomers, on his wavelength so quickly, a testament not only to the strength of his material but also to his sure-handed direction. I'm so glad I saw this for the first time on the big screen, since the directorial niceties wouldn't have hit me nearly as hard on DVD. Rating: ***1/2.

The Flowers of St. Francis (1950, Roberto Rossellini)- I'm woefully underversed in Rossellini, since Italian New Wave has never been my favorite period in film history. Like many Italian works of the period, I respected this but didn't quite manage to love it, although admittedly if I was one of the faithful I might feel differently about it. I'm just waiting for some Final Cut Pro-savvy movie nerd to post The Wacky Adventures of Brother Ginepro on YouTube. Rating: ***.

The Boss of It All (2006, Lars Von Trier)

In a way, this feels of a piece with Von Trier's more polemic works, particularly the way it holds the greedy capitalists up to scorn. This time around, Von Trier goes about this by making the big-business character a coward who would rather be loved by his coworkers than fess up to the unpopular decisions he makes, and eventually the character he exploits- an actor he hires to play the feared "boss of it all"- ends up taking him down by giving him a big, bitter spoonful of his own medicine. But this is also a film about ceding control, not only by the characters in the film, but also by Von Trier himself, who famously used a computer program called Automovision, designed to control camera framing, editing, and sound mixing randomly. Surprisingly, it's not as distracting as I'd feared, especially not the visual style, which merely feels skewed and sort of quirky (the non-matching soundtracks did get jarring at times). Mostly though, it's just funny, and if you'd told me a year or so ago that the biggest impression I'd take from an upcoming Von Trier film was that it was funny, I would have looked at you funny. But there you go. Rating: 7 out of 10.

My Best Friend (2006, Patrice Leconte)

Fascinating and exasperating in equal measure, Leconte's latest film is a step toward lighter fare that left me conflicted. Many of my negative feelings toward the film comes from the dum-dum premise, in which a friendless man is bet by his business partner that he can't produce a best friend within 10 days. The film's first reel or so is easily the least interesting part, as associates of Daniel Auteuil's character, with next to no provocation, come right out and tell him that he doesn't have any friends. Now come on dudes- I don't think there are any adults, particularly not in the cultivated circles Francois runs in, who come right out and tell someone this. They'd be more likely to simply humor him until he does something abominable, at which time someone would blurt it out and everyone else would find themselves inclined to agree. Fortunately, the film gets better, due in large part to the performances of Auteuil and Dany Boon, who plays a cab driver Auteuil enlists to teach him about friendship. The two actors have an easy chemistry, and their scenes together are charming, up until a boorish miscalculation on Auteuil's part alienates his new pal and they have a sudden falling-out, in a scene that feels forced and silly. However, the film rebounds in the final act, involving Boon's last-minute booking on Who Wants to Be a Millionare?, works like gangbusters, with Leconte milking real suspense partly by exploiting the manufactured suspense of the game show, and partly by the turn of events. My Best Friend is inconsistent and occasionally exasperating, but I'll certainly take it over the somnambulent Intimate Strangers. Rating: 5 out of 10.

Blue Collar (1978, Paul Schrader)

On one level this is a bitter portrait of organized labor, but delve a little deeper and you'll see that this is Schrader's attempt at bemoaning the death of 60s idealism. The film's multiracial trio of heroes gets pissed off with their lot in life and decide to stick it to the man by ripping him off, but they end up either dead or manipulated so that they're against each other in the end. Schrader comes right out and says it- the powers that be keep the rest of us down by steering our hostilities away from them and toward each other, and most of us don't realize it until it's too late, if ever. Harvey Keitel and Yaphet Kotto are solid as expected, but Richard Pryor owns this movie. It's fascinating to see him outside his straight comedy element, with the anger that he leavened with hilarity onstage standing on its own here. Pryor's character is the one who changes most over the course of the film, and not always for the better, but throughout his metamorphosis from angry worker bee to union patsy he's always completely authentic. It's sad to think what potential he held as an actor that remained untapped due to his self-destructive tendencies and his all-too-frequent retreat back to safe low-comedy vehicles and late-period Superman sequels. Rating: *** out of ****.

Offside (2006, Jafar Panahi)

It's a crying shame that this never made it to Columbus screens, since it's really the sort of crowdpleaser that should be enjoyed with a nice big audience. As with many of the most lauded Iranian films, Panahi is dealing with his country's treatment of women, this time by centering the story around the banning of women from sporting events. But his approach is neither satirical nor didactic. Instead he tells his story in microcosm, focusing on a small group of female soccer fans and the soldiers who guard them after the women are arrested and sequestered from the male spectators. By situating his story at the fringes of a major soccer game (Panahi shot large portions of the film at a 2005 World Cup qualifying match versus Bahrain), the absurdity of the situation can come out through the characters and their actions rather than the convolutions of the story. It's telling that the soldiers are extremely pissed off about their task, not just because they can't enjoy the game, but also because they're sort of at a loss to explain why female soccer spectators are such a bane on society. They hem and haw and regurgitate the orders they're given, but in the face of the women's conviction they're sort of helpless. Against this lazily united front, the women band together. They knew the risk when they came to the game, and now that they've been caught they're going to make the best of it. After Iran wins the game, the women end up getting away, but it's telling that their joyous escape isn't a victory for feminism, but nationalism. And what is nationalism if it can't be shared by everyone? Rating: 8 out of 10.

August 2007 mini-reviews

8/31- Lonely Hearts (2006, Todd Robinson) [4] {Mostly forgettable, aside from the ways in which director Robinson practically jumps through hoops to lionize his grandfather, the detective who cracked the case, played by John Travolta. The connection is pretty cool, I guess, but it doesn't exactly make for riveting cinema. The real story is Beck and Fernandez, and whenever we're not with them the movie sags, sags, sags.}

8/26- Ball of Fire (1941, Howard Hawks) [***1/2] {Was Barbara Stanwyck the coolest actress from the golden age of Hollywood? She very well might've been. She was just about the most versatile- not in the Master Thespian look-how-I-transform-myself-for-my-art sense, but in the sense that she could kill in damn near any genre. And she was sexy as hell, all the more wondrously so because she wasn't as conventionally glamorous as many of her counterparts, but unlike them she realized that sex appeal was above behavior more than appearance. Who else could've pulled off a character named Sugarpuss O'Shea? Yeah, didn't think so. Oh, and the movie's pretty damn great too.}

8/24- She Done Him Wrong (1933, Lowell Sherman) [***] {If Mae West's innuendos have lost much of their shock value, they're as funny as they ever were. What keeps this from being a really great film like the best work of Fields and the Marx brothers was West's use of conventional plotting. Much of the charm of those Fields and Marx classics was their cavalier disregard for conventional narrative setup-and-payoff, but in the world of She Done Him Wrong the true wrongdoers get punished, and the wrongs are made right. If there's any outlaw charge at all, it's that West herself is exempt from these rules, partly because she talks bad but isn't a crook, but also because of her ever-present belief that sex cuts through morality, rather than the other way around.}

8/24- Cobra Woman (1943, Robert Siodmak) [**] {Not a good movie by any means- I can't imagine watching this alone- but certainly a lot of fun. Sequences of this movie, especially the notorious King Cobra dances, are so jaw-dropping that they're unforgettable. Easy to see Jack Smith's obsession with Maria Montez too. Like many B-movie icons, she may not have been much of an actress, but she had style and presence out the wazoo, so much that you could forgive her shortcomings as a thespian.}

8/23- Pennies From Heaven (1981, Herbert Ross) [***1/2] {What he said, basically. I actually prefer this to Dancer in the Dark because of Ross' fidelity to the style of elaborate Hollywood musicals in the fantasy sequences. Whereas Von Trier's visions look like just regular Von Trier but with music, the contrast of the fantasies in Pennies make them switch between fantasy and "reality" all the more jarring. And strangely poignant too, as when Steve Martin finds himself alone but for his Hollywood-fed fantasies at the end of the film. I guess I need to see the BBC original, but as a remake this blows the 2003 Singing Detective out of the water.}

8/19- The Band Wagon (1953, Vincente Minnelli) [****] {Doesn't quite sustain the level of joy one gets from Singin' in the Rain, but that's about the only thing you can say against this. So many pleasures to be had- the urbane elegance of Fred Astaire, the in-every-way awesome legs of Cyd Charisse, the great songs, the gorgeous sets, and so much more. And why has Eli Roth's Thanksgiving trailer been posted dozens if not hundreds of times on YouTube while nobody has bothered to post "Triplets?" A sad state of affairs for today's tech-savvy movie lovers...}

8/7- Lorna (1964, Russ Meyer) [**] {As propulsive and convulsive as Meyer's films tend to be, I never expected to say this, but Lorna is mostly just kinda meh. A lot of the blame can be heaped on Lorna Maitland who, far from being the archetypal Meyer Amazon, is just sort of a wet blanket. Admittedly she has considerable natural, um, talents (lovely talents too, I must add) but she doesn't have much else going for her. As a result, the film is built around a vacuum, so despite some entertaining business on the fringes- especially Hal Hopper egging on Lorna's husband- the center cannot hold. In addition, the fire-and-brimstone morality of the story (including the "Man of God" narrator) feels fairly cynical here, a spoonful of medicine given to the audience so they don't feel so bad about eating the sugar.}

8/1- # /Mala Noche (1985, Gus Van Sant)/ [**1/2] {It's very much a first film, which doesn't quite make it good but certainly makes it interesting. The black-and-white helps- it lends the images a beauty they would otherwise lack, not to mention that it gives me more motivation to lend the film some extra goodwill. And some of the images are legitimately beautiful, especially the shot of Pepper's newly-dead body, having just fallen out of a window into the street, with steam rising from it as the rain comes pouring down. Still, more interesting as an early indication of Van Sant's later films- especially My Own Private Idaho and his Tarr-inflected "Death" trilogy.}

Transformers (2007, Michael Bay)

Michael Bay movies are like race cars- they're sleek and loud, and every spare inch of surface area is devoted to selling you something. It's not just that this is a movie based on a series of toys. Bay is a commercial veteran, and while you can take Bay out of the commercial, you can't take the commercial out of Bay. As a result, TRANSFORMERS mostly feels like a 2 1/2 hour advertisement- Hasbro, GM, Nokia, the U.S. Military, Dance Dance Revolution, and a little kid waiting for the Tooth Fairy are all shot for maximum selling power. And as with any commercial, this one is chock full of babes- aside from the hero's mom and Anthony Anderson's grandma, I'm not sure I remember a single actress with a speaking role who doesn't look like she stepped out of the pages of Maxim. Of course, I don't think I'd be complaining about all of this if the movie worked, but it really doesn't. The first half of the movie has some of the charm of a Spielberg-lite boy-and-pet robot adventure (if nothing else, Shia LaBoeuf justifies his recent hype), although with doofy Bay humor- LaBoeuf riding a pink girl's bike, lines like "I want to ride you, er, drive you home," the business with the dad's lawn, and so on. But the big action stuff, frankly, sucks. There's no coherence or spatial dynamics in these scenes at all, especially when the Transformers are fighting. Heck, Bay's famously-antic editing style is so omnipresent here that the film never even affords us a good long look at the Transformers, which might afford us a good chance to enjoy the fruits of the FX teams' labors (compare to something like STARSHIP TROOPERS, which gave us some nice long shots of the giant bugs). Bay shoots his action scenes using a whole mess of whip pans and perspective shots and shakycam closeups, so that it's hard to make out what's happening outside of "OK, they're fighting." This would be OK if there were two humans engaged in hand-to-hand combat, since we've seen the human body so many times that it's easy to figure which body part is which in closeup. But since the Transformers aren't just robots but robots that have been reconfigured from automobiles, these shots become little more than metal grinding against metal. And these scenes drag on FOREVER. By the end of the movie, we're back in advertising mode, with porny-pouty ingenue Megan Fox making out with LaBoeuf on the hood of his pet Camaro named Bumblebee, and Optimus Prime standing on a hill overlooking an all-American vista (I half expected the voiceover to contain the line: "I'm Optimus Prime, and I approved this message"). Let it not be said that TRANSFORMERS is not the ultimate Michael Bay vehicle, playing to all of his fetishes and (for lack of a better word) his strengths. But while I recognize the skill and care that have gone into this movie, they aren't my cup of tea. We may very well be living in a Michael Bay world, but I don't have to like it. Rating: 3 out of 10.

The Big Lebowski (1998, Joel Coen)

Funny how most viewers and even critics simply shrug off the fact that Lebowski is stuck in the 60s, because honestly, I think the fish-out-of-water formula is the key to why this movie works so well. The unreformed hippie meets up with a Raymond Chandler plot- this is more or less The Big Sleep, with some Coen-style wrinkles added- and nothing quite turns out as it should. Whereas Marlowe's efforts, intentional or accidental, usually bring him closer to the truth, The Dude keeps running into dead ends and slammed doors. Is it simply that he's listless, or is it the more confounding world he lives in? It's both, really. Not only is The Dude out of place in the plot, but the plot is strangely out of place in near-contemporary L.A. But while the storyline never pans out in a satisfying way, that's the point (Sam Elliott's wrap-it-all-up final monologue is the final, ironic nail in the coffin if you're paying attention). But while the story and the setting don't quite mesh, The Dude fits in perfectly, one of those only-in-L.A. types that populate the world of the film. This is not the cops'n'robbers L.A. of detective fiction, but a circus of humanity in which The Dude can co-exist with a rich-bitch artist, a yammering millionaire, a body-stockinged pederast, a sarsaparilla swilling cowboy, and John Milius as a security store owner. Rating: ***1/2.

The Face of Another (1966, Hiroshi Teshigahara)

As with Teshigahara's masterpiece Woman in the Dunes, it'll take more than one viewing for me to be able to satisfactorily explain this film's effect on me. Based on the synopsis, I expected this to be a mood piece like Eyes Without a Face, but it comes across more as a Tod Browning/Lon Chaney film with added dissonance (Takemitsu rules!). From the opening moments, it's clear that the unseen incident that caused the protagonist's disfigurement cut him more deeply than any cosmetic procedure could ever hope to cure, and part of the charge of the final scenes is how inevitable they all were from the get-go. I also found the story's use of the other disfigured woman to be interesting, especially given how sharply she contrasts with the protagonist- his injury was partly his fault while hers was, we gather, due to the A-bomb; likewise, he goes to great lengths to cover his face, while the most she does is comb her hair down over it, and so on. I'd complain about the over-literariness of the idea of the conflict between our antihero and his new face if I thought Teshigahara and writer Kobo Abe meant it to be taken at face value, but it goes deeper than that, to issues of identity and the responsibility that comes with it. And what to make of the hallucinatory mise-en-scene in the director's office? Rating: ***1/2.

Kiss Me, Stupid (1964, Billy Wilder)

Wilder's late-period farce is sinfully fun, and not just because it got condemned by the Catholic Legion of Decency. One of Wilder's biggest assets was his understanding that placing characters at cross purposes is positively ripe with comedic potential. And so it is here, as Ray Walston's Orville Spooner is so at war with his impulses- his jealousy over his wife Zelda, his desire to make it as a songwriter, etc.- that he ends up painting himself into the proverbial corner, and half the fun of the film is watching him trying to get out. But if he's the comedic crux of the film, Kim Novak's Polly is its heart. On the surface, the character seems like your garden variety tart-with-a-heart, but Novak gives the character a touching vulnerability, with her head cold and her attempts at domesticity. One of the most magical moments in the film comes when Orville realizes that he genuinely cares about Polly as well- not as a husband or a lover, so much as a protector of the honor she mostly lost years ago. The film isn't so much an flat-out farce a la ONE, TWO, THREE as a classic comedy of remarriage, but what sets it apart is that both husband and wife end up getting their hands dirty before coming back together (more so in the European version than in the American). SPOILER: The film's title ends up doubling as its final line of dialogue, and one that takes on a poignant meaning in light of what has come before. Zelda says more in three simple words than she could in a long and teary-eyed soliloquy- "OK, honey, we both fucked up. You put me in a terrible spot and I didn't exactly act like a saint when I was in that spot. But I know that your mistake came from a place of love, and even if I had some selfish reasons for what I did, I also did it to help you. And it worked. But it won't mean anything unless we can forgive each other. And to do that we have to put it behind us, accept the past, and above all stop worrying so damn much about the impossible perfection we want from our marriage. So..." Also, Dean Martin is nothing if not a good sport here, and if his role is more as a plot device than an emotional anchor for the film, he nonetheless plays the part impeccably. Rating: ***1/2.

Day Night Day Night (2006, Julia Loktev)

This is the film I hoped PARADISE NOW would be- no ideological discussions or hand-wringing, but a portrait of the last days of a suicide bomber. But we shouldn't mistake this for pure realism- with a few exceptions, Loktev sticks to her heroine, played by Luisa Williams, using the camerawork and the exaggerated sound scheme (kudos to Leslie Shatz) to suggest a first-person experience. The film is divided into three clear acts- the protagonist arriving in town and waiting to be contact, the preparations for her operation, and finally her being turned loose to go through with the plan. The first two acts have a certain fascination, as Loktev observes the goings-on in detail, and Williams' performance really sells it- she's not a zealot or even a lamb being led to slaughter, but simply a girl who is fully committed to what she is about to do. But the film really takes off in the third act, in which Williams is practically the only character of note. As she wanders around in Times Square looking for the ideal moment to carry out her task, the film becomes almost unbearably tense. The emotional turmoil manifests itself on Williams' face- the fear she'll be caught, the last-minute misgivings about her task, her unwillingness to end her life. SPOILER: And when she finally does decide to blow herself up, it turns out that the device doesn't work. Some reviewers have complained about this, but frankly I thought it took the film to another, more existential level. Before this, she knew she was going to die, and she knew more or less when. She was prepared for every eventuality except for this one. So instead of blowing herself up- which she was fully ready to do- she's now alone in New York, wandering around with an undetonated explosive strapped to her back. She can't tell the police, and she can't contact her handlers. By the time Williams sits down on the sidewalk, whispering "why don't you want me?" to God or whoever she's doing this for, DAY NIGHT DAY NIGHT has turned into a film about limbo, and as a result it's one of the loneliest films I've seen in a long, long time. Rating: 8 out of 10.

Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (2007, David Yates)

After the perfunctory feel of GOBLET OF FIRE, the franchise finds itself back on solid ground with its fifth entry. Due credit should be given series newbies David Yates as director and Michael Goldenberg as screenwriter for distilling one of the longer Potter novels into a fairly satisfying 2 1/2 hours- whereas GOBLET felt almost like a highlight reel in its storytelling, this film fairly successfully boils down to feature length. Likewise, the supporting characters get more time to make an impression this time out. Best in show is chirpy little terror Dolores Umbridge, played by Imelda Staunton, as much of a pink lover as Elle in LEGALLY BLONDE, but with a positively Rumsfeldian heart. Plus it's nice to see Oldman, Thewlis, Smith and especially the priceless Alan Rickman back on their game this time after being skimmed over in the last installment. That said, the series suffers as ever from a workmanlike feel, the better to court both Potter-philes and non-reading moviegoers. Even the installment directed by Cuaron (the only true artist to helm a Potter film so far) hasn't gotten over this hump. In addition, the story is too dependent on last-second entrances and coincidences to be really effective in a narrative sense- I know these are magical folk, but come on. Rating: 6 out of 10.

Hairspray (2007, Adam Shankman)

Easily the best Hollywood musical I've seen since the otherwise completely different MOULIN ROUGE! A lot of this has to do with the relative lack of LET! US! ENTERTAIN! YOU! direction, which worked in ROUGE since it was such an oddball, but gets tiresome in stuff like DREAMGIRLS or CHICAGO. By contrast, HAIRSPRAY is more in the spirit of classic Hollywood, lighter on the pyrotechnics and much heavier on the dancing than most of its contemporaries. I also liked the relative innocence of the narrative- this isn't the wink-wink nostalgia trip of GREASE, but a timewarp back to a mindset of the early sixties. Some of the harder (weirder) edges have been sanded off the John Waters original in translation- there's no Pia Zadora reading "Howl" this time out- but much of the naughtiness manifests itself instead in the sexed-up dance moves of lead newcomer Nikki Blonsky, a plus-sized dynamo possessed of an infectious energy. Unexpectedly, I also enjoyed John Travolta in drag- his performance is distracting at first, given that it's both heavily stylized and unmistakably Travolta-esque, but once Edna begins coming out of her shell, Travolta's performance feels less fussy and more fanciful. Plus it's nice to see him dancing again as something more than just a gimmick (Christopher Walken, as her husband, is a joy as well). As for the rest of the cast, top marks go to Elijah Kelley, who's got a smooth voice and dance moves to spare, and surprisingly, James Marsden as the ever-smiling Corny Collins. Some of the supporting characters are too sketchy to be very interesting- Motormouth Maybelle (Queen Latifah) is more a symbol than anything, and Aryan stage-mother-and-daughter terrors Michelle Pfeiffer and Brittany Snow are broadly-drawn villainess cariactures. Also, the portrayal of the civil rights movement in Baltimore '62 is simplistic- not so much the marching and the protests, but the quickness with which integration is embraced by the viewing audience. But then, we don't come to HAIRSPRAY expecting MALCOLM X, do we? As an entertainment, it's fairly irresistible, reminding us of the pleasures only a good musical can provide. Rating: 7 out of 10.

Eureka (1983, Nicolas Roeg)

The party line seems to be that Roeg tailed off once the eighties hit, which probably explains why despite my love for his 70s work, I'm only now getting to the stuff that followed. The film never quite lives up to the operating opening section, complete with a river of gold that erupts from the ground to the strains of Wagner's Overture to Das Rheingold. As with THE MAN WHO FELL TO EARTH, Roeg's previous collaboration with screenwriter Paul Mayersburg, EUREKA is the story of a man who gained the whole world only to lose his soul. But while its predecessor was distinguished by its innovative style and unexpected characters, this film treads a more worn narrative path. As such, it lacks Roeg's usual mastery of tone, and consequently only really comes alive during the scenes of heightened emotion. Thankfully, the film's three principals- Gene Hackman, Theresa Russell, and Rutger Hauer- are up to the task. Hauer in particular is a marvel, especially during the scene where he destroys a party after learning his mother has died. His talent and magnetism serves as a reminder of what a magical actor he can be, despite being mired in dreck most of his career (come to think, you could say much the same of Russell). The film becomes a kind of magnificent folly in the final act, following an brutal, protracted murder scene. By the time Russell takes the witness stand to be interrogated by Hauer (playing her husband!) about his own possible involvement in the killing for almost ten minutes, a kind of Rubicon has been passed- either you give up and laugh or give in and hold on. It's implausible, absurd and kind of stupid, but it's anything but lazy, and it's impossible to watch it without reacting. It's entirely possible that EUREKA is a bad movie, but if it is it's my kind of bad movie, the kind that can only be made by a great filmmaker so sure of himself that he's willing to go for broke. Whether that means I'm over- or under-rating the film, I'm not sure. Plus it's got naked Theresa Russell in her prime, which is always welcome. Rating: **1/2.

Sunshine (2007, Danny Boyle)

For the first hour or so, I was seriously thinking this was going to be Boyle's best yet. The film does a splendid job of portraying life on a long space mission like this- the human chaos resulting from people cooped up together for long periods, the small pleasures each crew member finds, the things that can go wrong, and how they have to be fixed. And there's enough interesting character business to make them interesting and even sympathetic- for example, the way Cliff Curtis takes time out to look at the sun in the observation deck, and the way his skin is a little more burnt every time we see him. Unfortunately, the awesomeness can't last. For some reason, Boyle and screenwriter Alex Garland decided that it wasn't dramatic enough to show us a mission beset by technical woes on its way to detonate a nuclear device into the sun. I'm not sure why they felt it necessary to turn the third act into a slasher movie, in which a sun-charred survivor of a previous, lost mission finds his way onto the ship and begins killing in the name of God. It just doesn't work, and frankly I don't think I've seen a movie shoot itself in the foot so grievously since BATTLE IN HEAVEN. What happened, dudes? How do you start out shooting for 2001 only to end up aiming for EVENT HORIZON? On a more positive note, the cast is good, but it's more than a little surprising that the film's most interesting performance is given by Chris "Human Torch" Evans, who starts as the requisite jocked-up American but ends up as the one who's most fully committed to the mission. Way to grow, bud. Rating: 6 out of 10.

Insignificance (1985, Nicolas Roeg)

It feels vaguely like an exercise, but one of a particularly intoxicating sort, an experiment to bring together Marilyn Monroe, Joe DiMaggio, Joe McCarthy and Albert Einstein in one room in one night. The center of the film is the kinship between "The Actress" and "The Professor," which leads to a magical discussion of the theory of relativity that ought to be shown in high school physics classes, followed by some efforts to connect on her part and a great deal of reluctance on his. But all of the characters pull their weight, even "The Senator," who comes off initially as little more than a hateful demagogue. Also, remember when Tony Curtis was still trying? Remember when Gary Busey wasn't a joke? Most of all, I just miss seeing Theresa Russell in movies like these rather than showing up for a scene in SPIDER-MAN 3 while barely concealing her contempt for the hackneyed dialogue she was given. Rating: ***1/2.

The Simpsons Movie (2007, David Silverman)

I laughed fairly steadily throughout this, but didn't laugh as hard as I did during the greatest of the classic-years episodes. The problem isn't so much the jokes aren't there as that they don't have the same spark, the inspiration that makes them come off both as inevitable and out of left field. Now you get some of the former, some of the latter, but rarely both. I honestly can't imagine this holding up on multiple viewings, which seems strange for a phenomenon that owes much of its enduring success to syndication. It's been scarcely four hours since I saw this, and the only quote I remember that gives me that old feeling is, "Have you ever been mad without power? It's boring! Nobody listens to you?" Oh, and would it have killed them to include some kind of tribute to Phil Hartman? Rating: 6 out of 10.

Czech Dream (2004, Vit Klusák and Filip Remunda)

As a performance piece, this is actually more like an 8 or 9, but since the filmmakers are also the perpetrators, grading this is a little tricky. For a film that credits itself as a reality show, the filmmaking is fairly unpolished- the directors get the insistent camerawork down cold, but I didn't think they really captured much else (the Mickey-Mousing music, the graphic bumpers, the montages, and so forth), or maybe it's just that these aren't as prevalent in Czech TV. In addition, I wish they hadn't felt the need to appear on-camera again after the prank went down and discuss it with the "victims." Better, I think, to stand back and observe the fallout, both among the people there and in the media. Still, it's pretty potent stuff, especially its commentary on marketing and manufacturing hype. In our age of viral marketing of movies (e.g. the 1-18-08 hype) the lessons learned here are relevant as ever. But what really hit home was the portrait of the particular Czech mindset, a society that's still new to capitalism, with adults full of wonderment at the opportunities it's finally presented them, and the children who've basked in its glow practically all their lives. If we take our shopping malls and our Wal-Marts for granted, it's because we've never known another way, but these people have seen the alternative and they like the current option better. Sure, standing in line at the opening of a new hypermarket looks much the same as standing in line under Communism, but at least now you just might bring home a cheap TV and 20 lbs of bananas. Rating: 7 out of 10.

July 2007 mini-reviews

7/28- Rescue Dawn (2006, Werner Herzog) [6] {Most certainly Herzog's most conventional fiction film, but still very Herzogian in its observation of the details of Dengler's story. Bale's performance feels overly fussy at the outset, but once he gets in the camp his work becomes more effective, or maybe I'm just saying that because he's acting opposite Jeremy Davies, twitchy as ever. Steve Zahn is sort of a revelation as Bale's escape companion, as frightened and doomed as Bale is determined. Still not sure about the "up" ending, but it's not nearly as jingoistic as I've been hearing.}

7/24- The Shining (1980, Stanley Kubrick) [****] {May be the 2001 of horror movies, reconfiguring the DNA of the traditional fright flick into trippy, uncompromising art. Like 2001, it ends up falling down the rabbit hole into another, more twisted dimension, and by the time it's over you realize that it asks more questions than it answers. Perhaps the key to the movie is that Danny knows that, as Halloran told him, the visions are "just like pictures in a book. It's not real." Whereas Jack lets them get to him, and they drive him off the deep end. Also, Garrett Brown is a god.}

7/15- Paprika (2006, Satoshi Kon) [5] {Meh. Some clever and well-drawn dream imagery amidst a muddle of convoluted narrative. Never boring, but doesn't exactly make the heart leap either.}

7/14- Private Fears in Public Places (2006, Alain Resnais) [8] {Although honestly I'll have to watch this again to be able to really appreciate what's going on in a really deep thematic sense. Mostly I just grooved on Resnais' direction, as prone to experimentation now as it ever was. There's got to be more going on here than people failing to connect (reflected in the shots of people talking through screens and panes of glass and the like), but for the first viewing the style is more than enough for me to chew on.}

7/9- Sherlock Jr. (1924, Buster Keaton) [****] {In the old days before CGI, when an enterprising director wanted to do something that hadn't been done before, he figured that shit out or he didn't do it. Thank goodness for Keaton, who took the former route, and it led him to big-screen immortality. Plus this is just really goddamn funny. But I mean, duh, it's Keaton.}

7/7- Pride (2007, Sunu Gonera) [4] {These sports movies might wash better with me if I was a sports fan, but I'm not. Is there a screenwriting program out there that allows people to input their true inspirational sports stories so they can be spat out in screenplay form? Terrence Howard is solid as expected, and I liked Bernie Mac as well- he does his avuncular-grouch routine here, but doesn't really play it for laughs as much as usual, and his expressive face could prove well-suited for more dramatic roles in the future. Otherwise, this is pretty mediocre stuff. Under the circumstances, could it possibly have been otherwise?}

7/4- To Be and to Have (2002, Nicholas Philibert) [***] {Most successful documentaries work because they illuminate what we don't know already, or at least what we don't know that well. However, nearly everyone has gone to school, yet this still works beautifully because it reminds us of things we've long forgotten. That coloring requires deep concentration. That playing in the rain or snow can be a whole different kind of fun. That the only thing worse than writing in cursive is learning to write in cursive. That a field trip or anything else out of the ordinary can be exciting. That there's always one new kid who cries on his first day. And, above all, that there was a time in our lives when the idea that nothing stays the same forever was still a novel idea to us.}

7/3- /Jaws (1975, Steven Spielberg)/ [****] {In today's bigger-is-better blockbuster climate, it's a little amazing to think that one of the most popular movies ever (not adjusted for inflation) eventually boils down to three guys in a boat, hunting a shark. Not only are the guys interesting, but Spielberg wisely sticks with them once they've cast out to sea. This is the rare big movie that actually becomes smaller-scaled as it progresses, and that's why it still works. As far as movies like this go, JAWS is perfect.}