It's the DVD cover!

A Gentleman's Game (2001)

I'm sure you had that figured out by now anyway.

Outline: One summer, Timmy Price (Mason Gamble) decides to take up golf, and his dad (Dylan Baker) decides that he would learn a lot more about the game and Fox Chase (their golf/country club) by caddying. Timmy demonstrates an excellent swing, so a respected club member (Philip Baker Hall) recommends Timmy take lessons from Foster Pearse (Gary Sinise), an one-time amateur champion turned horticulturalist.

If you think that there's something very strange and circular going on with all the F's and P's in the names of people and places, you're not wrong.

This, my friends, is a quiet movie. A quiet movie can only be viewed in a certain state of mind, and it is often an acquired taste. A quiet movie has a few points, makes them, and moves on without bothering itself about what kind of impact it will make. I have half a mind to compare this movie to the game of golf itself, but I really have no idea, having never played myself. A putt-putt movie, on the other hand, I'd be all over that.

I'd like to say good things about this movie or to say bad, but it's all relative in this case. The plot's your garden variety adults-learn-from-the-lessons-of-children with a little this-is-too-heavy-for-kids coming of age business mixed in for good measure, but it's nothing you've never seen before. Co-writers J. Mills Goodloe (who also directed) and Tom Coyne (who wrote the novel) seem to disregard the obviousness of their storyline to concentrate on the individual scenes instead. Naturally I liked that idea.

They also assembled a handy team. Sinise is the ultimate in the "actors who just act the hell out of everything they are in" category. Heck, he's the reason it exists. I've never seen him in anything where I felt he was out of his element.

Gamble's probably got a nice future ahead of him in movie's. I've only seen him in Gattaca and Rushmore, and you know how I feel about those movies. What can I say? Gamble seems to already be taking a page from Sinise's book, and that's not a bad way to go.

The movie probably could have done better if it hadn't been held back by an R rating, but I can see why they gave it one. It also adds to the bittersweet quality of the picture - Timmy must learn who he can look up to and for what reasons, and that's never fun as a kid.

Of course, if you really want to learn about a boy growing into adolescence when he already thinks he's got it figured out, you're better off reading Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. C+

Later Bale

Batman Begins (2005)

Premise: After his parents' murders, Bruce Wayne (Christian Bale) travels to the ends of the earth to understand the criminal mind. In Northern China, Wayne is released from prison by Henri Ducard (Liam Neeson) and Ra's Al Ghul (Ken Watanabe), who train him and teach him to channel his energies. Later, Wayne returns to Gotham to fight injustice and restore the city.

Or, to quote whomever at IMDB, "The story of how Bruce Wayne became what he was destined to be, Batman."

Quite possibly, for the first time ever, I am more giddy about a movie after I've seen it than I was in anticipating it. I know that sounds bizarre, but you'll see what I mean.

After about a year of anticipation, it's finally here. The movie that is supposed to reinvigorate the franchise after a slow and painful death. The movie that is to provide a shot of imagination that had only existed with the delightful Tim Burton at the helm.

Oh, what to say, what to say. I joyously pronounce this fifth installment the best of them all. The best!

With Christopher Nolan, master of tension, co-writing and directing, I was both eager and anxious. Eager because I know how expertly Nolan can pace a movie, how telling his shots can be, how provocative every frame of his work is. Anxious because I was wary of him possibly selling out all those things and more with a bigger budget at his disposal. Also, how would a pitch perfect thriller director handle an action movie/comic book adaptation?

My anxiety was completely quieted in the first act. Nolan is a force to be reckoned with, Hollywood. His Batman was as sleek and stylish as a matinee idol but with the polish and grace of a true box office star. Nolan's interpretation of the story held true to the Bob Kane original with the kind of embellishments that demonstrated his respect for the subject. Nolan and David S. Goyer's (co-writer) Batman didn't just pay lip service to his chilling past, he embodied it. They had my chin trembling (take that, Claire!) on at least three separate occasions in the first twenty minutes.

Also, the story throws its familiarity out the window by presenting as many as three timelines simultaneously. Even though a lot of the in-between of Wayne's life (i.e. between the murders and Batman) is new for this version, I really felt like it explained a lot. Wayne is too literal (occasionally with hilarious results)! Of course he's a ninja! And of course that other's guy's not.

And to my especial delight Wayne's enemies were not necessarily the same as Batman's. I truly appreciated watching him fight battles on all sides.

The thanks goes, in large part, to the brilliantly cast Bale, using two accents of instead of his usual completely new one. I recently added Bale to my list of actors who just act the hell out of everything they're in, and he has once again proven no exception. Bale powerfully played the way Wayne's patrician upbringing and totally disillusionment in adulthood would result in his self-tortured soul. Wayne is a man searching for the meaning he lost at so young an age and is completely unable to accept it until he can find it in himself, until he can find his own forgiveness. Only Bale's quiet and rage fuelled performance could lead me to all these conclusions.


Neeson and Bale

Of course, there are no slackers in the supporting cast, and you're often distracted by spotting other Nolan alums. Neeson's one goal is to steal every scene he's in, turning in a deviously paternal performance. Michael Caine as the new Alfred is never short of a one-liner, a teary-eyed remembrance, or a harsh glare exactly when Wayne needs them. Gary Oldman proves once again that he is not only the man of a thousand faces but also a thousand characters as the not-quiet-yet Commissioner Gordon. Cillian Murphy rocks his mad scientist villain, his American accent, and he rocked his glasses hardest of all. Morgan Freeman has fun as Lucius Fox, as Wayne Enterprises' answer to Q. Tom Wilkinson works it as an improbably cast Italian Mafioso. Rutger Hauer proves wonderfully underhanded, if none too bright, as Earle, the CEO of Wayne Enterprises.

My only regret is the tacked-on romantic subplot with the unfortunate Katie Holmes. Although I despise that show that launched her, she has done some work that I have enjoyed. Here, however, she exists solely to annoy me. A more credible actress could have made this tedious plot contrivance work to her advantage, but all Holmes did was fail to act appropriately frightened.

Clocking in at 141 mins, I can honestly tell you that it didn't feel anywhere near that long. I knew that it had to be, but I still felt like I could have kept watching.

As another plus, I have always believed that Gotham more aesthetically resembled Chicago than the Big Apple it is more frequently likened to. I found it immensely gratifying that some of the film was shot on location in Chicago and none of it in New York.

Nolan and Bale have captivated me separately more than once. Together, they should prove an unbeatable combination.

I know that you are sitting here waiting for my seemingly inevitable A+. But you are mistaken, gentle reader. And that's where my giddiness comes in. That's why I'm bouncing in my chair, rubbing my hands together with glee. That's why I was concerned that a day later, I still shouldn't be writing this review because I haven't quite absorbed the whole thing. All the pieces, you see, were there, but it still hasn't come together. It's forced me to anticipate a sequel, if you can imagine, that will be better than the first. So, for now, A.

Being There (1979) and Birth (2004)

Plot 1: After the death of his employer, Chance the Gardener (Peter Sellers) is turned out of the estate, which he has never left before. Through series of happy accidents, he falls in with a wealthy family (Shirley Maclaine and Melvyn Douglas) and gains the ear of the president (Jack Warden).

Plot 2: At her engagement party, Anna (Nicole Kidman) is approached by 10 year old boy, Sean (Cameron Bright), who claims to be Anna's dead husband.

No pictures today, folks. These movies aren't worth the effort.

Inspired by two recent contests on Slate, I finally found a way I can blog about these two movies. Here goes.

Have you ever been so thrown off by the premise of a movie that you can't possibly buy a single thing that follows? As a dutiful movie goer, I've swallowed down many an questionable pill to make it through an otherwise palatable movie. I've also suspended my disbelief when the films were premised around something as bizarre as a six foot talking rabbit.

But these two films pushed my limits. Both came highly recommended by two very different sources, so I gave them each a go. I shouldn't have.

Forget about what happens to Chance after he leaves the estate because it didn't matter to me one bit. The trailer tells me that Louise (Ruth Attaway), the housekeeper, is the only person Chance has ever known besides the old man. She raised him, she didn't teach him how to read and write, she cooked his meals, she did his laundry, she somehow instilled the virtues of gardening in him.

So how I can be reasonably expected to believe that Louise would simply leave Chance at the estate to fend for himself? She just leaves him there. "I'm going to leave now, Chance," she says, and she does! What is that? What does she think is going to happen to him?

After this happened, I could barely tolerate sitting through the rest of this off-kilter comedy. I just kept waiting for Louise to realize how stupid, selfish, and cruel she was being and come back for Chance, but she never does. Sorry, but nothing on this earth could make me get into this movie after something so implausible occurred.

The second equally unreasonable premise is easier to sum up: She believes him. Anna tries to deny it, but she believes Sean as soon as he opens his little mouth.

To which I say, are you kidding? I could have gotten into it if she was all, "You're a crazy kid!" from the get-go but then Sean won her over, but this? WTF, mates?

Also, Anne Heche with long brown hair threw me off a bit, too. Not as much, though.

I suppose I should give both these movies a rating since I watched them all the way through. I can't. I didn't believe anything about them because I couldn't see my way through the first twenty minutes of either one. I had a complete disconnect from the movies from the word go.

Feel free to throw out any movies with implausible premises that you couldn't deal with either.

Redford and Dafoe

The Clearing (2004)

Short: Executive Wayne Hayes (Robert Redford) is kidnapped by ex-employee Arnold Mack (Willem Dafoe), who demands a $10 million ransom from Wayne's wife, Eileen (Helen Mirren).

And that's what happens. Sounds pretty exciting, right? Three talented leads with an interesting premise to work with.

It is, unfortunately, complete forgettable. Within an hour of watching it, I recommended it to my then roomie Eileen. A day later, I couldn't remember why I wanted her to see it. Regardless of my short term memory flaws, movies tend to stick with me. In such a case as this, The Clearing had absolutely no staying power.

I can't pin point the reason why, but Justin Haythe's screenplay and Pieter Jan Brugge's direction are just so boring. Wayne and Arnold's story is intercut with Eileen's story. Eileen's story, however, takes place over a few days while Wayne's is merely one day. This device should have added to the tension, but it just made it all the more confusing.

Also, much was made in the initial reviews about the "psychic connection" between Wayne and Eileen, which manifested itself not the least bit in my viewing.

Plus the trailer has a scene from nearly the end of the movie, so I found myself impatiently waiting for that one scene to somehow fit into this mess.

I've been sitting here wrinkling up my nose at the screen, trying to find something in particular to talk about with this movie. But nothing exists! It's almost as though there is no movie because of the way it only exists in shadows in my memory. C-

Lovely Clive

As I said I would, a very special shout-out goes to the person who could told me where to find The Hire on-line. This one's for you, Pierre Belanger.

Premise: I'm not going to sit here and type out premises to all eight shorts, but there is a general plot to them all. The Driver (Clive Owen) is hired, and he internationally chauffeurs various celebs around through helicopter and machine gun fuelled car chases.

Okay, there aren't helicopters every time.

Last night, my professor put the final nail in the coffin of my dislike for his grandstanding ways by showing us Ticker and leading quite the involved discussion about whether and how this advertising method works.

One girl pointed out that producing these short films (all under 10 minutes) allows BMW to attract bigger names like Owen, Don Cheadle, F. Murray Abraham, Dennis Haysbert, and Ray Liotta (all in Ticker alone) as well as directors like Tony Scott, Guy Ritchie, John Woo, and Ang Lee. Okay, she really didn't know half those names, but she caught Ridley Scott as a producer and Owen, so bully for her.

Of course, if the girl had done her homework (not that we were assigned homework about BMW Films), she wouldn't have bothered opening her mouth with stupid points like this one. Although we know my love for Clive began some time ago, it wasn't really until Closer that he became a household name. The shorts started long before that movie.

In fact, BMW approached Owen after Croupier, which no one saw. Well, lots of people saw it, but it took forever to turn a decent profit in the box office. It did, however, turn the industry's eye to Owen, and BMW snapped him up before he commanded astronomical salaries and the fantasies of women worldwide.

As for the directors, I've already turned my eye to the startling number of major players at the helm of TV spots, which are shorter and vastly different than The Hire.

Some theorists argue that television shows are built solely to showcase commercials. Outside of TiVo and PVR, they say, you have to watch the commercials in order to get the content you want. So why would BMW place their ads solely on the internet, away from your TV and annoying pop-ups?

BMW says that 85% of their purchases are researched on the internet before hand. A guy in my class pointed out that the shorts don't tell you anything about the car you are seeing. He's right - you are free from seeing a car drive across the desert/salt flat/deserted highway/empty city while a voice over tells you all about the command seating or five-star crash rating or whatever minor improvement a given car company happens to be touting at this moment. No one ever references the car, never mind the make or model.

So you have to go the website to download or stream the shorts, and they still won't try to sell you on the benefits of the Z3. Hmmm. . .

BMW isn't selling a car at all. Commercials sell cars, test drives sell cars, word of mouth sell cars, ratings sell cars. Short films, on the other hand, are about branding - they sell a lifestyle. Obviously you'll never be as sexy, cool-headed, and upright as the Driver, but, when you drive the car, you'll be the next best thing. You'll get to shift the gears (nary a film without at least one shot of the gear shift). You'll hear the engine roar live and in person, and everyone will look at you and what you are driving.

See, when you buy an expensive car, when you really love an expensive car, it's a crime to keep it locked up à la Cameron's dad. All you really want is to see what she can do.

Plus, these films represent a huge opportunity for Owen. He gets to sample the work of internationally acclaimed directors and actors outside of the watchful eye of the press, allowing him to gather what's potentially decades of experience in a few short years.

Above all, for BMW, the consumers come to you. They aren't zipping through your commercials or blocking your pop-ups/behinds. And you don't have to pay like you do every time a commercial airs.

It's bloody brilliant. A+

Someone who can articulate it

All those times people try to get me to watch Quentin Tarantino movies, I find myself defending the absolutely inarticulable reason why I just don't like them. Because I just don't. I mean, sure, there's that thing where I pretty much don't like him either, but I don't connect with anything in his movies.

So, when it came to the two hour, Tarantino-helmed season finale of CSI, I can't say I was particularly excited. It had things I thorough expect from him, and it had things I thoroughly expect from the show.

Much to my glee, Sobell's recap had a little something more. It seems she's none to keen on the overly lauded director either, and she was able to even put it into a few words (click here to view text in original source):

And this is my big problem with Mr. Tarantino. I can handle that he's made a career basically ripping off -- excuse me, being inspired by -- other directors' distinctive visual and narrative styles. I can handle that many of his movies are essentially collections of sets pieces. I can handle that he's over-reliant on using pop culture references as a way to infuse his work with meaning, since he's unwilling or unable to do the hard work and create that on his own. But what really makes me run cold is how Tarantino's depictions of man's inhumanity to man rarely transcend voyeurism. As depicted by him, acts of violence are just some cool shit to show because they make audience members react, and sparking any response is apparently better than striving to make a point that your audience may or may not respond to. Screw that -- if you're going to show something extreme, it should be in the service of a larger point than "I do it because I can."

I feel so relieved now.

Glam rock!

Velvet Goldmine (1998)

Short: In 1984, journalist Arthur Stuart (Christian Bale) is assigned a story about the rise and fall of British glam rock icon Brian Slade (Jonathan Rhys Meyers), marking the 10 year anniversary of the concert where Slade faked his own death. Coincidence of coincidences, the only British man in New York happened to be at that concert, and he knows a lot more about Slade, Curt Wild (Ewan McGregor), and Mandy Slade (Toni Collette) than his editor could even guess.

Once upon a time, April was attacked by the HoYay. See, I so excited to see my long-term and original movie boyfriend in a movie that I started watching it in the middle, and I saw things that made me immediately snap off the movie. In fact, I pretty much broke up with Christian Bale after that.

Many a moon has passed, and I can handle the HoYay now. If you don't know what HoYay means, you aren't reading enough TWoP. And if you don't know what TWoP stands for, you aren't checking out my links. That's too bad for you, ma'am (or sir).

So, consider yourself warned about the HoYay. Apparently it arrives via spaceship with Oscar Wilde and a green pin.

Any way, you know that part in The Boondock Saints were Rocco accidentally shoots that cat, and Norman Reedus yells, (in an entirely Southern US and not at all Irish way) "Did that just happen?" Well, that's how I feel about this movie. There are only a handful of movies that I could toss in this category, but you know them when you watch them. As soon as the credits start rolling, I look around and ask no one in particular, "What did I just watch?" Not because I've instantly forgotten, you see, but because I have yet to process any of the information.

Now, with luck, some of those movies improve with repeated viewing. Others, however, are thrown into what I now refer to as the "take it or leave it" pile. I wouldn't want anyone to see it without being warned, but I wouldn't stop anyone from seeing it. Unless they didn't want to be neck deep in the HoYay.

I seem to be doing a lot of explaining for this movie, which is either a bad or a good sign. At this point, I'm not entirely sure.

I've been thinking about it, and, while many actors are well suited to their roles, there are few perfect role/actor combinations. I mean the ones where you couldn't imagine anyone else playing the role half as well, as though the actor were born to be [blank]. For me, Russell Crowe as Maximus and Renee Zellweger as Bridget spring to mind. She's the very embodiment of Bridget Jones.

To that list I add Jonathan Rhys Meyers as Slade. If any one else could look like, sing like, or be a better sociopathic (tm, Sobell!), androgynous, bisexual glam rock star, you let me know who it is. Because it's no one. Meyers, frustrating and useless as anyone normal, is bloody charismatic, and he knows it. You just sit back and wait for those pouty lips to curl and those expressionless eyes to start to gleam. Good for him.

Todd Haynes, who wrote and directed this bizarre little offering, also gave us the glorious and understated Far From Heaven, which also involved the HoYay. I'm thinking that Haynes wants to be a modern day Tennessee Williams. Good luck with that. Williams had the kind of characterization that speaks volumes decades after writing, unlike Haynes here. Far From Heaven, though, was the kind of film that requires multiple viewings to see past its muted tones and into its core. I'm undecided about Haynes.

Shades of Citizen Kane and David Bowie aside, I still don't know how to grade this one. If I give it a C, I worry that you'll interpret it as "average" or "middle of the road," but it's not middle of the road. It's on another street entirely. Still, C.

Kochi, 10 "Up the Stairs"

Born into Brothels (2004)

Subject: Zana Briski moves in with sex workers in Calcutta's red light district (to document them, perhaps) and is immediately drawn to the kids. She starts a photography class with them, all the while becoming more and more attached.

I've been trying to figure out what to write about this movie for weeks now, but it never seems to come out right. Unlike so many of the subjective documentaries I normally see, this one didn't have anything to prove. Nothing to prove and a hundred silent, eloquent points.

As you watch the kids start to see their world in a different way through photography, you also so the hope that comes alive in their education and the inevitability the girls feel about their future. Suddenly, one of them isn't in the film. No one mentions where she went or what happened, yet we all know that she joined the line. Scores of women packed together in a sea of flesh, waiting for the next customer.

As Briski's relationship with the children grows, so does her desire to save them from their fate. Briski struggles to find them places in school, knowing full well that very few schools will take the children of sex workers. Briski and partner Ross Kauffman manage to fill the film with a quiet urgency, a knowledge that perhaps the sex trade is inevitable for many of these young girls.

Oh, check it out! I didn't want you to think I was just going to steal their work.

Utterly depressing; utterly uplifting. A+

It's nicer than the other poster

It really is. The other poster's depressing.

Crash (2005)

iMDB would have me believe 2004, but I disagree.

Sum: Although much of what you may have read suggests that this film revolves around differing lives in Los Angeles intersecting at a car crash, that's misleading. There are, in fact, numerous car crashes, and many of lives never intersect or involve car crashes. Instead, it sort of goes like this: The young DA (Brendan Fraser) and his wife, Jean (Sandra Bullock), are car-jacked by Anthony (Ludacris) and Peter (Larenz Tate), right after Anthony finishes a diatribe about how whites are unjustly afraid of blacks. Jean takes out her anger on her non-white maid, Maria (Yomi Perry), and the locksmith, Daniel (Michael Pena), the film's sole saint. Meanwhile, Officer Ryan (Matt Dillon) pulls over an affluent black couple and molests the wife, Christine (Thandie Newton), while is partner, Officer Hanson (Ryan Phillippe), and her husband, Cameron (Terrence Howard), do nothing but look on in horror. Also, Farhad (Shaun Toub) takes his daughter, Dorri (Bahar Soomekh), to buy a gun to protect their store with a faulty back door/lock. And Graham (Don Cheadle) and his partner, Ria (Jennifer Esposito), investigate a corrupt cop while Graham deals with his smack addict mom.

It's difficult to say what I have to say about this movie. See, there is all this praise out there for the characters saying that which is never said in American movies. True enough. Paul Haggis and Bobby Moresco's screenplay has people saying things you've quite likely never heard in a movie before.

But do you really need to hear such things?

I'd like to like this movie. I'd like to say that it was powerful and moving and unlike anything I've ever seen before. And it was. It was all those things. It was also something so much worse.

Apparently, Los Angeles is the city where everyone goes to no longer conceal their racism. I believe that everyone is, in one way or another, racist. People who care about their racism, who recognize it as a problem, identify certain feelings, sayings, ideas as racist and work to stop their minds from going in that direction. In Haggis' Los Angeles (he also directed), though, everyone just says exactly what's on their minds about race relations, beshrew the consequences! Of course, this does not include Pena, what with him being Crash's patron saint and all.

And that's the problem. What is this movie about? RACISM. What is everyone? RACIST. In fact, Haggis wants us to know that we are all mean, hating racists out to destroy each other, and nothing can stop us. That's why this movie isn't powerful and moving and unlike anything else I've ever seen. Unfortunately, I've seen plenty of manipulative, melodramatic, and moralizing movies. As much as each and every player tries to rise above the material, there really is no escaping Haggis' vision.

So, Haggis, what shall we do with you? Here's what I want you to do. Grab your Oscar of its shelf, dust it off, and give it a long hard look in the face. Then, rent Million Dollar Baby, and consider your elegant, delicate treatment of an equally sensitive issue. Maybe Clint Eastwood's gentle touch helped more than your hamfists, but you may have something to you yet.

Even so, a movie seeking to bludgeon its audience with their own RACISM isn't worth your $9.95. Wait for the DVD. It is worth that much. C+

The Spanish Prisoner

The Spanish Prisoner (1997)

Perhaps it's a bit redundant to see the title three times before you see the plot description. I'm still working out these photoblogging kinks. Just wait 'til the day I attempt vlogging. Anyway . . .

Brief: Joe Ross (Campbell Scott) is flown, along with George Lang (Ricky Jay) and Susan Ricci (Rebecca Pidgeon), to the Caribbean island of St. Estephe in order to attend a meeting about the top-secret "process" he invented. While there, he is befriended by Jimmy Dell (Steve Martin), a wealthy business man who asks for a favour. Joe complies and quickly finds himself further and further alienated from his colleagues and drawn to Jimmy, a man whose own dubious nature Joe begins to suspect.

I'd tell you to watch the preview to make that clearer, but I watched the preview and thought it was about money laundering, which it is very much not. As usual, I was trying to give you a description without giving too much away. The movie has a fairly long set up, so that made it a bit trickier.

What I love about this film, what I love about all of David Mamet's films, is the innate lyricism to his scripts. There's a rhythm to them that draws you in, lulling and jarring you at appropriate moments. I think that's what makes Pidgeon so well suited to his work. She's the only one who could endear the audience while delivering the odd lines Mamet throws at her.

As much as I always enjoy that work, I didn't find Mamet's story thrilling so much as confusing. Mind you, I was thrown a bit by the lack of money laundering, and I believe I recovered enough to simply not understand. I like that you never find out what the process is, but I don't like that you have absolutely no sense at all of anything that goes on in that secure building. Oh, well.

As for Scott, well, I don't know what to think about him. There's nothing wrong with his acting, and I found his Joe to be over-the-top most of the time in his sense of self-possession. Maybe that's just the way he was written. In any case, as he is the so-called patron saint of the indie film, I suppose I should lay off him.

I saw this movie more than a week ago, and I've been struggling with reviewing it ever since. The truth is, I have nothing in particular to say about it. I didn't really strike me one way or the other except for how confusing it was with all the crossing, double, and triple crossing in the second act. By the third it's all pretty much sorted, so there's less to worry about it.

All in all, I've come to expect a little bit more from Mamet. B-

Sideways

Sideways (2004)

It's RE-view time! To remind you of the rules: I see the movie in the theatre; I see it again on DVD. No plot description and no holds barred on what I may mention for that movie's plot.

While no movie is ever perfect, this movie is the closest offering from last year. Last year, unlike the others between it and my beloved 2000, was an amazing year for movies. Movies were wonderful to watch last year.

As I was watching it this time, I kept trying to put my finger on what makes it so good besides the obvious. Outside of the quality of the actors, the direction, the script, the setting.

The scene that kills me, the scene that breaks my heart and sends it soaring, occurs when Miles and Maya discuss what got them into wine. When he starts to describe the pinot grape as "thin-skinned, temperamental, ripens early," it's as "haunting and brilliant and thrilling and subtle" as the wine he so loves. And then, with the same question, Maya pushes the bounds with how "a bottle of wine is actually alive. And it's constantly evolving and gaining complexity. That is, until it peaks, like your '61. And then it begins its steady, inevitable decline." Chilling and uplifting.

The true triumph of Alexander Payne's latest offering, that which sets it apart from Election and About Schimdt, is that is isn't a mood piece. You need to be in the right frame of mind to find Election hilarious. If you're not there, the movie seems tedious.

With this film, though, you don't have to been in the mood to be amused. You just to watch. The movie will get to you. It's inevitable. It is haunting and brilliant and thrilling and subtle and alive and constantly evolving and gaining complexity as any one piece of time (thanks, JS!) can be.

Plus, I like that it makes me compare Miles' wine snobbery to my alleged movie snobbery. It's not as though I refer to myself as a cineast. I can't even spell cineast.

Although Miles is clearly an alcoholic, the oenophile in him is drawn not to the bottle but to the single mouthful - he's seduced by its colour, clarity, viscosity, and scent long before the wine hits his lips. I'm a junkie for film, but the cineaphile (if I may be so bold as to use that word) in me is drawn to the single scene, the perfect line reading.

Towards the end of the movie, as Miles is bidding Jack so long until the rehearsal dinner, Miles turns back to Jack to get their stories straight.

Miles: Uh, wait a minute, wait a minute. How come I wasn't hurt?
Jack: (throws arm up casually) You were wearing your seat belt.

Perfect, perfect scene. Jack doesn't even pause in his reply, and Miles starts to chuckle softly at the simplicity of Jack's scheme as he heads back to his car. It's the briefest of moments, and it is in those brief moments that the audience gets to feel like they are on the inside. Not because they've just watched this whole movie but because there's an undeniably familiar quality to this one tiny moment.

That's why I'm into movies. And they just taste so good.

What is ePIC?

First, click here. It's pretty self explanatory what to do once you get there. Then, come back here, and we can talk.

So, assuming you don't possess the same level of idiot as the girl behind me today in class ("Is this what's really going to happen?"), what do you think? Does Google want to own my ass?

More importantly, how much of this pessimistic view is realistic? Is the day coming when there will be no discussion of journalistic ethics? No more New York Times?

I have my opinions, and I believe this link will help you generate yours. I'd like to hear yours first.

Inventing the Abbotts (1997)

Summary: JC Holt (Billy Crudup) is obsessed with the Abbotts, the seemingly wealthiest family in the small town of Hayley, Illinois. More specifically, he is obsessed with Lloyd Abbott’s (Will Patton) beautiful daughters, Alice (Joanna Going), Eleanor (Jennifer Connelly), and Pamela (Liv Tyler). His younger brother Doug (Joaquin Phoenix) determines to stay far away from the Abbotts for this very reason, but he is consistently drawn to youngest daughter Pam.

I am of two minds about this movie. It opened with “Undecided”, which is one of my favourite jazz era songs, but it was performed by the Ray Gelato Giants when it should have been the great Ella Fitzgerald.

And that’s the thing about this movie. Right elements in the wrong context.

Ken Hixon’s screenplay, based on Sue Miller’s story, is unbelievably obvious, contrived, and goes on longer than it should. He also wrote City by the Sea, another overblown story, but one I loved because I’m a complete sucker for fathers and sons who say “I love you.”

There’s actually a part where the narrator (Michael Keaton) comes to the realization that “there was nothing especially original about [his] mother”, and the same is true of Hixon and Miller’s story.

Despite the material they were working with, everyone acted the hell out of this thing. Of course, that’s what I’ve always respected and am drawn to the most about Phoenix and Crudup (although he’s never quite caught my eye the way Joaquin has). That’s probably why my memory converted Crudup to Phoenix in The Hi-Lo Country. Because they just act the hell out of everything they are given, completely regardless of everything save the craft.

I was just about to call them actor’s actors, but I’m not sure what that would mean. If anything, they are both acting’s actors and audience’s actors because it’s perhaps loyalty to the art as well as the viewer that they make something so memorable out of something so forgettable.

Plus I think they really could pass for brothers.

I’d give the credit to director Pat O’Connor, but she hasn’t earned it. Her Circle of Friends was lovely, but her Sweet November was one of the most awful things I’ve ever seen. Just thinking about it now makes me want to up-chuck. Unlike Schumacher yesterday, I don’t think the shooting script has that much influence of the quality of O’Connor’s work. I just don’t think she understands people all that well. You need to, though, to tell a story in a way that it will connect with the audience.

Nit-picky point: They couldn’t get a better match for Phoenix than Keaton? That’s not what Phoenix sounds like now, eight years later, and it’s not what he will sound like however many more years down the line the narration is supposed to take place. Surely there must be someone else with similar delivery to Phoenix’s Doug, if not his accent. Keaton’s line readings just bugged me. They came across as lazy.

As always, I raise my glass to the dearly departed Michael Kamen, whose wonderfully evocative score had me tearing up over moments that my mind railed against. Objectively, they weren’t that good, but a well-done scene between Phoenix and the talented and beautiful Tyler or Phoenix and Crudup with Kamen’s string section swelling in the background could get to anyone.

If I could somehow discount the direction, the plot, and Keaton, this movie would get an A without hesitation. But I can’t. B

8 MM (1999)

Outline: Mrs. Christian (Myra Carter) hires private detective Tom Welles (Nicholas Cage) to authenticate an 8 millimetre snuff film she finds among her deceased husband's belongings. Once he does, she asks him to find out everything he can about it: who the girl was, how involved her husband was, and who made it. Welles' investigation takes him to LA, where he hires a porn store clerk, Max (Joaquin Phoenix), to help him navigate through the industry.

My second example in as many weeks of Joel Schumacher (director, obviously) being only as good as the script he's working with.

There are two detective archetypes in movies: 1) The family man whose perfect American life (wife, daughter, nice house) is contrasted with the filth and immorality he pursues or 2) The hard boiled, hard drinking man cut off from the world because of his contempt for it (just look at the base creatures he investigates in his line of work!) who only needs the love of a good woman to straighten himself out.

Welles is the former. The sexy and talented Catherine Keener is his wife. Some baby is his daughter. In the likely way, Welles becomes obsessed with finding the girl in the film, obsessed with hurting those who hurt her, in shocking twists that shock no one. Cage does very little with the role except pull an impressive face at one point. In the same way that Liz has a Michael Douglas rule, I have a Nicholas Cage rule: nothing with Cage can ever be all that good. He does Welles' descent into violence pretty realistically, but, at least at first, he's utterly too squeamish to be a detective. It's like he's never seen anything violent and degrading before, which raises the question as to how he could even authenticate the film if the world of snuff filmmaking is so new.

If I start asking questions like that now, I'll never finish this review. Basically speaking, Cage's characterization was over-the-top, like many of his egomanical performances we are so frequently "treated" to.

Phoenix amused me as a blue-haired, tightly-clad clerk who wasn't as interested in his product as he was in rhyme and his own idiomatic speech patterns (no wonder the band didn't work out). He always manages to rise above the archetype, in this case he who no one believed in, who (likely) ran away, and who never managed to succeed (perhaps he never believed in himself?). Welles takes a shine to him (not like that), and he wants to protect him, so we all know how that's going to turn out.

Andrew Kevin Walker's screenplay didn't do it for me. I'm cracking up because I was thinking about how much better it would have been if Welles' squeamishness had been played up for comedic effect like Ichabod Crane's (Johnny Depp) in Sleepy Hollow, which Walker also wrote. So, there ya go, Walker! Just stick with stuff like that. He also wrote two of the "The Hire" screenplays, all of which I am dying to see. Special shout-out to anyone who knows where I can get them.

Oh, get this: The actual script by Andrew Kevin Walker was reworked by Joel Schumacher and Nicholas Kazan after Walker left the project in disagreement with the director. (Click here for the source).

Also, what was with Jenny Powell's line readings?

Oh, Schumacher. Blindingly brilliant visual style. At an absolute loss for what to do with a formulaic script. Not that it was all that bad. I've seen far, far worse. B

The Interpreter (2005)

Brief: Late one night at the UN, interpreter Silvia Broome (Nicole Kidman) overhears an assassination plot against soon-to-visit President Zuwanie (Earl Cameron) of Matobo. Agents Woods (Catherine Keener) and Keller (Sean Penn) are called in to investigate, but Keller quickly uncovers much closer ties between Silvia and the President than the UN anticipated.

You take three screen writers: one lackluster (Charles Randolph), one medium luster (Scott Frank), and one electric (Steven Zaillian), and add one director (Syndey Pollack) who at least one critic has accused of no longer directing. What do you get?

Something banal, something mediocre, something middle brow. It's not so blah that I wouldn't recommend it, not so enticing that I would. The plot, for me, was a done deal thanks to the lying previews, so it was hard to fall into that sort of pulsing intensity that the film was supposed to have. There was only one scene that had me digging my nails into the arm rests.

There were some great exchanges between Kidman and Penn as well as Woods and Penn, but since I've long regarded the three of them as richly talented performers (although some lacking in discernment when compared to the others), I can't say I was surprised. I wouldn't rank these among their best performances, but they are no where near the worst.

Pollack's main concern is neither the story nor the telling of it; rather, that concern seems to be the building where the majority of the action takes place. He wants you to experience its bass toned beauty, its every surface and texture more lovingly shot than artful directed.

Intended or not, it was Kidman's clothes, Vespa, hair, and apartment that I was most concerned for in this film. If anyone can tell me where I can get that jacket, s/he will be getting a very special shout out. Her whole look was this "I don't care how I look" thing that I would love to start pulling off exactly this minute. Okay, maybe her hair was a little over the top. I think she could have managed a complete ponytail. Ponytails don't really work with my curls, but I want her look other than that.

It's sort of another Closer - I'm not sure how to grade it. Two great performers, not two great performances. Once again, there was nothing wrong with them per se, but there was nothing memorable about them either. Serious clothes envy. Nothing spectacular, nothing horrible.

Ah, what the heck. B

Easy Rider (1969)

Plot: Wyatt (Peter Fonda) and Billy (Dennis Hopper) set out on a motorcycle trip from LA to New Orleans, picking up George Hansen (Jack Nicholson) along the way.

I'm shaking my head at this movie. I watched it nearly a week ago, and I still don't get it. I just don't get it.

It's the supposed quintessential movie of the sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll generation, of the counter-culture, of the independents. Alright. Hopper was stoned out of his mind when he made the movie (true story!), so I can buy at least two of the three.

What is this movie about? What are Hopper (director/co-writer), Fonda (co-writer), and Terry Southern (co-writer) saying? Hippies are misunderstood and frequently the victims of violence? Drugs are both good and bad? Road trips can be fun? Some people are nice and some aren't?

For example, you see complete strangers willing to feed and/or board Wyatt and Billy. Then you see a cafe that refuses to serve them because they have "long hair" (Fonda's hair wasn't long at all) and are strange strangers.

I know I should comment on the acting, but it wasn't acting at all. I know there were screenwriters, but I doubt there was much of a script. I think Hopper and Fonda just said whatever they wanted to say, Nicholson played a character (which, I find, Nicholson basically plays a version of himself in everything), and everyone else did what they could with what they had.

Also, what was with the editing and cinematography? What do you want from me Donn Cambern? Those edits made me feel like I would never really get to know what was happening. If that was the point, though, then good work.

I got the impression that although the film wasn't about following any particular plot, it was supposed to be saying something about America. Is it the sum of its parts? Is it that there is always someone waiting to take away the occasionally glimmer of happiness that few are lucky enough to find?

Perhaps. You won't find it here, though. C- (I can't fail it just because I don't get it)

Moulin Rouge Lite and The Dressing Room

You know that new Chanel No5 spot? The Moulin Rouge-y looking one with Nicole Kidman having an affair with who appears to be Karl from Love, Actually then runs off to some glamorous event?

Well, it looks so much like a Baz Luhrmann production because it is one.

"The Dressing Room" - Again, I know you know the spot. Susan Sarandon/Julianne Moore/Eva Mendes/Kate Bosworth/Halle Berry go from an awards show to a more dressed down look with the help of Revlon cosmetics.

Why is it so elegant and effortless? Because Robert Altman directed it.

Now, I understand the appeal and have long enjoyed the use of actors instead of models as spokespersons for various products. But when did big time directors get into advertising? What's the appeal there?

How can Revlon, a notoriously sinking ship, even afford someone like Altman in addition to all those beauties?

Can someone please explain this to me? Aren't I supposed to be looking to the silver screen for their work?

This isn't what I thought they meant

"Have you noticed that the silver screen is looking a bit tarnished these days?" asks a book review in The Weekly Standard. The tarnish at the multiplex is quite real, according to Edward Jay Epstein, author of The Big Picture: The New Logic of Money and Power in Hollywood.

More . . .

Dear Frankie (2004)

Idea: Frankie (Jack McElhone) and his mother Lizzie (Emily Mortimer) move frequently, so he keeps in contact with his father through letters. Lizzie answers Frankie's letters, and, with the day of his father's visit fast approaching, Lizzie does what any mother would do. She hires a stranger (Gerard Butler) to play Frankie's dad for the week-end.

Oh, c'mon. You know it's sweet and cute and the set-up for lots of fun and misunderstandings.

Andrea Gibb's plot has two "reveals" (I wouldn't exactly call them twists): one you can see coming from a mile off and the other you don't. One, then one I saw coming, could be seen as manipulative.

But it wasn't. And I owe that to the natural interaction of Mortimer and McElhone. I've been a sucker for Mortimer since Lovely & Amazing because that film was so well done that I was a sucker for everyone in it. Mortimer has such sweetness and light to her that it's all the more effecting when she is pushed down by circumstance.

McElhone was also wonderful because he played Frankie in such a way that he seemed unaware of the sadness and loneliness that he should have been carrying around. What's more, Gibb's screenplay didn't reduce him to the now stereotype of being the parent. Mortimer's character was still the adult no matter how far or how fast she ran.

Oh, and Mary Riggans with her cute little no chin.

Butler remains quite sexy and one of my top choice for the new bond. His attachment to Frankie and Lizzie was completely normal and natural, but Butler let it hint at past tragedy or even a failure.

So my hat's off to Shona Auberbach for her first feature film. In the hands of a lesser talent, it would have come across as trite and saccharine. Instead, it was something that awed me.

Plus Sarah loved it. A

Important Advisory (2005)

Two posts in one day! Did I blow your mind?

I've been meaning to talk about this for a long time, so here it is:

Don't go see Kingdom of Heaven. Please do not.

I don't think I ask you for much, and I think you know that most of time when I tell you to do something, it's only a suggestion.

This I am serious about. Do not go see a movie that glorifies the crusades, no matter how much you may like the director or some member of the cast. The crusades were an awful, nasty, brutal massacre. Nothing that involves accounts of children being roasted alive and eaten (thanks MWC!) deserves your attention or your money. Do not help this movie become one of many money-happy summer blockbusters.

This is not some half-assed attempt at reverse psychology. I'm shocked and horrified by the concept of this movie, and you should be as well.

Just please, please wait for the DVD if you must watch it. Please don't make it successful.

Tigerland (2000)

Premise: At a Vietnam training camp in 1971, Paxton (Matthew Davis) meets Bozz (Colin Farrell). Paxton enlisted and is set to record his army experiences, while Bozz was drafted and is set to torture any and all authority figures for sheer amusement. Also, Bozz can get pretty much anybody out of the army.

It's attraction of opposites time! I have a love/hate thing with those times. For example, I am tired of seeing a free-spirited women help a shy/arrogant inhibited man. So tired of it.

I still, however, love a well-done story that pits an Northern Ivy-leaguer with all the education and good breeding in the world against a less-educated Southern jester/slacker type with more charisma and natural leadership than the Northern's ever seen before or will see again.

Or maybe I'm just a sucker for charisma, which Farrell has in spades here. What happened to you? Natural born scene stealer, tremendously talented player, brought down perhaps by his own ego. Why else would he continue on with such vanity projects? He's a star in the most magnetic sense of the word, but he's so arrogant that he doesn't know what to do with it.

Davis and everyone else was good (shout-outs to Shea Whigham, Clifton Collins Jr, Thomas Guiry, and, yes, Cole Hauser), but they are all moths to the raging fire that is Farrell in this, his only note-worthy performance.

Here's to Joel Schumacher - one of the few directors who is made or unmade by the quality of the script he's shooting. He's got a great handle on the visual, but he's truly stuck when the writers give him nothing to work with.

Here's to Ross Klavan and Michael McGruther - may they have more opportunities to write feature films after a brilliant, thoughtful, and evocative first try. Thanks for giving Joel something to work with.

And here's to the year 2000! It tries so hard to never let me down. A

Following (1998)

Premise: A young writer (Jeremy Theobald) follows people for material until a thief, Cobb (Alex Haw), turns the tables on him. Cobb takes the man under this wing, teaching him his personal style of robbery.

Is it me, or is Christopher Nolan kind of obsessed with the criminal mind? Think about it: Insomnia, Memento, soon-to-be-seen Batman Begins, this one. The original. Where it all started.

Ah, who cares if he is. He's a genius filmmaker with a wonderful sense of atmosphere, and he's a master of suspense. As a writer-director, Nolan's unparalled in these unconventional timelines (yet another film with two occuring simuletaneously), but his cinematography and editing reveal someone who revels in storytelling. He loves the details: a business card flicking against a telephone, a single pearl earring.

In the same way that I believe you learn more from a teacher who loves their subject, I think you get more out of a film when the director loves what he is doing, loves the story he's telling. Nolan obviously feels that kind of love. He lives for tension.

Also, because I am constantly anticipating interruptions, I need a film to go above and beyond in engrossing me to garner my complete attention. Sure, it helped that it is a scant 71 minutes, thus leaving less time to be interrupted, but Nolan pratically had me begging the DVD player on my hands and knees when it found an error on the disc in the last scene and quit working.

My heart goes out to Theobald. It's his story through and through, the rest (although talented) just bit players by comparison. He's two men, two roles to play with one body, neither fitting the way he thought they would.

An over-reaction to this gloriously crafted noir thriller? I think not. Yay Colin for recommending it. A

In the Cut (2003)

Plan: After part of a murdered girl is found in Frannie's (Meg Ryan) garden, Frannie meets Detective Malloy (Mark Ruffalo). They begin an affair while Malloy seeks the killer and Frannie's connection to him/her.

I'll confess that Ryan and the bait-and-switch trailers kept me away from this movie for sometime. No number of commercials praising Ryan as a "revelation" were going to make me want to see her to do anything besides be a bubbly, WASPy waif.

No number of attempts at a serious role will shake me of the belief that that's all she can do.

The problem with casting Ryan as Frannie is that Frannie is supposed to be alive with sexuality. Ryan's Frannie, on the other hand, is hollow and empty until Ruffalo's Malloy appears on the screen. There's enough chemistry there to get me through their scenes, but, when she was off without him, I found myself rolling my eyes back into my head from sheer boredom.

Not even Jennifer Jason Leigh as Frannie's half-sister Pauline or an uncredited Kevin Bacon as a jilted ex-lover could make me care about what happened to Ryan's Frannie. In fact, director and co-writer Jane Campion put Bacon in shadow so much of the time that I actually thought he wasn't the real thing but Poor Man's Kevin Bacon for half of the movie.

I'm rolling my eyes at Campion all on her own now. I know she had a brief moment of critical glory with The Piano (which I have never seen), and I certainly didn't see anything worth praising in my screening. The camera angles were poorly chosen, as was her use of steadicam. Of course, it doesn't help that she can't coax a believable performance out of a single one of her cast members.

I give Ruffalo all his own credit. He's a credit to the profession, really. I just love him.

It's funny how many complaints I have heard of the movie in comparison to the book since the co-writer of the screenplay is Susanna Moore herself. I was thinking that it must take a true talent to mess up your own book, but I think I'll go easy on her and just say that she's not cut out for pictures.

And what does the title mean? C- (Ruffalo is always a redeeming factor, but this crap is about two points away from a D)

Frank Miller's Sin City (2005)

Premise: Um, it's hard to sum up. Miller's graphic novels are presented in vignettes, some of which you return to, and some are dropped. Some are longer and others are shorter. I guess I'll give you a taste of each.

Opener: The Customer is Always Right - The Man (Josh Hartnett) approaches the Customer (Marley Shelton) with an offer of help.

The Yellow Bastard - On his last day on the job, Hartigan (Bruce Willis) seeks to save Nancy Callahan from Rourk Jr. (Nick Stahl), who likes to kidnap and hurt little girls.

The Hard Goodbye - Marv (Mickey Rourke) seeks out killer of his only love, Goldie (Jamie King).

The Big Fat Kill - Dwight (Clive Owen) decides to go after his girlfriend, Shellie's (Brittany Murphy), ex, Jackie Boy (Benicio Del Toro), but Jackie heads straight for old town and ends up getting himself killed. Dwight then discovers that Jackie was a cop, prompting his ex, Gail (Rosario Dawson), and Dwight to hide the murder.

I think I got that right. That was tough, man. I hate it when it seems like the plot is much more complicated than it really is. It's not complicated to follow at all, but I don't mean that it's simple either. It possesses the simplicity that all graphic novel plots possess, littered with obscenities, over-the-top dialogue and emotions, and loads of naked/scantily clad women. Just the way it is. Basically, it's rated 18A for many a good reason.

Here's what I know: Robert Rodriguez (writer/co-director/editor/cinematographer/co-composer) filmed the first section, and he handed it over to Frank Miller, telling him that that was the movie he would make. Miller, who co-directed with Rodriguez, had long resisted a feature film because he didn't want his stories to be butchered or to lose creative control of them. As soon as he watched it, Miller signed on.

Alright, the commercials praising the movie are out now, and I want you to think about all the superlatives you have heard applied to this movie, e.g. "Visually stunning!", "Bold!", "Amazing!", "Must see picture of the year!", etc.

They're all true. All of them. It is the most bold, amazing, visually stunning picture of the year, and I can already tell that nothing come Oscar season is going to make me knock this one from my top 10.

Considering that everything was filmed on a blue/green screen and that they had to deliver all the dirty/corny dialogue, the acting is as top drawer as it comes. I mean, the movie was running over with both people I love and hate, but I didn't hate anyone here. Not a single line, not even a syllable. Rodriguez captured everything there is to love about a graphic novel, drenched it in digital blood and rain, and delivered the most captivating labour of love I have seen in a long time.

And the audience was right there with me! I usually can only barely stand audiences, but everyone was there reacting so vocally that I almost wanted to watch their faces instead of the screen.

Okay, almost is a stretch. Rodriguez and Miller had me from frame one. So noir, so very noir. I'm not sure anything beats a well done noir movie that draws so many people in.

And afterwards, I watched the faces of the people streaming out, determining whose mind had been blown and who didn't have the good sense to feel that way.

I was going to single out certain performances, but it's hard to separate anyone out from the package right now. With the completely different stories taking place apart from each other, it doesn't make sense to call it an ensemble piece, but I don't know what else it could be. My dear Owen continues to redeem himself to the viewers, making them forget all about that unfortunate episode. It's a truly talented actor who can do that.

I just don't know where to start. They were all too good. No one struck me as a weak link. Stahl knocked my socks off again; Alba made me like her, as did Willis; Rourke nearly stole the show; Dawson also redeemed herself in my eyes.

It was almost too much to take in. Even now, I'm struggling to come up with the right words to describe something so unique and brilliant (hence the long post).

It's a masterpiece. The end. A+ (with a gold star, too)

Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps (2005)

Normally I like to avoid these types of personal blogs, as this site is supposed to be covertly, not overtly, all about me, my opinions, and everything I hold dear, but the occasion calls for it.

I don't have a lot of time for movies lately (which is all shades of suck), and Graham Ware's comments got me thinking. Maybe, just maybe, I'm taking this whole independent/hidden gem thing a little too far. Not that I have the inclination to watch more mainstream movies (and I likely never will), but it had occurred to me that you, gentle readers, are vast stores of information. You are all out there, watching movies, liking and disliking with perhaps equal passion to mine.

Okay, maybe not that last part.

In any case, although I tear into movies with Macian gusto most days, I don't want you to be afraid to send your suggestions to me. Drop me an e-mail if you are worried about sharing your opinions publicly. I know, after all, that there are those who avoid leaving comments behind for that reason.

If it's a movie that you truly love, you might want to keep that to yourself. But send me movies you hate then. Movies that just plain went over your head. They'll probably go over my head, too, but at least we'll be in it together.

Okay, I think that's the end of my latest appeal to your generosity.

I am pumped about one movie coming out today, and that is Sin City. I invite any and all Ottawa readers to go see the movie with me this week-end. Check the comments section for updated showtimes.

Hopefully this will go better than my last Clive Owen inspired outing.

Iris (2001)

Brief: The beginning of the life-long romance between Iris Murdoch (Kate Winslet) and John Bayley (Hugh Bonneville) is juxtaposed with her later descent into Alzhemier's as John (Jim Broadbent) struggles to care for Iris (Judi Dench) on his own.

I'm watching a lot of juxtaposition lately, aren't I?

Unfortunately, I'm also watching a lot of movies that I don't really connect with emotionally. Broadbent earned his many awards and nominations and then some. His portrayal was so brutal. Everything he did and said was so honest. It hurt to watch. It just hurt.

Dench pretty much seemed like she was slowly losing her mind, so I approve of her as well. I can't help but wonder if it is more like Hagar's point of view in The Stone Angel, but I guess I don't really want to know anyway.

What I failed to connect with - and this may shock you - was the Kate Winslet/Hugh Bonneville early years bit. What I didn't get at all, what Richard Eyre and Charles Wood's screenplay never gave me, was what was so darn great about Iris. Why did John put up with her? Where was this legendary lust for life and love? She would have made a fun friend to be sure, but there was nothing more to it.

Could it be that Martin Walsh left all the good bits on the cutting room floor? He's edited other movies that I've very much enjoyed, so it's tough to say.

But something went wrong here. Something's missing. The heart, perhaps. C

Casa de los babys (2003)

Summary: Six women wait in a Mexican hotel/resort to adopt a Mexican baby. Their stories are juxtaposed with those of the employees at the hotel and those of a group of street kids.

When I heard that this movie was from the critically acclaimed director John Sayles, I knew something was off. I wanted to see it, and I did, but I just kept rolling his name over and over in my head, trying to figure out what was wrong with what I was hearing.

And then it hit me: Eight Men Out.

I'll remind you that that movie made no impression on me. I watched the whole thing, and I didn't care about anything that was going on there. To me, there is no greater failure in a film than the failure to connect with your audience.

This is, of course, different from being misunderstood (kind of like me and modern/post-modern art). Art is made to express something that the artist cannot express otherwise. But when you give your audience nothing at all to connect to, when you cut them off, you may have failed to create art at all.

I mean, even Alexander made me really, really angry. But not this one. It made me feel nothing at all.

That's the problem with Sayles' direction. Something's off about it. Something austere and clinical. It's like watching the movie unfold in a museum. I love museums, by the way. My grandma and I have traveled many a kilometre for a worthy exhibit.

Even so, there's this twinge of disappointment that I feel in museums. It's that whole stripper-like look-don't-touch rule. Never caress the fabric of the beautiful 17th century Acadian dress. Never run your fingers over Van Gogh's loving brush strokes. They have good reasons for these rules, but I still wish I could, y'know?

It's not the performers' faults, mind you. Daryl Hannah, Marcia Gay Harden, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Lili Taylor, Susan Lynch, and Mary Steenburgen all did excellent jobs. They had this way of slowing letting out their characters that suggested there was always more to them than you already knew.

There was this one little part where Vanessa Martinez, who plays one of the cleaning ladies, and Susan Lynch share stories about their daughters. They don't speak the same language and seem to completely misunderstand each other, but it's there. That love that only a mother can know - it's right there. If nothing else, Sayles can write a monologue like nobody's business.

Unfortunately, I do mean nothing else. The cast is this movie's saving grace, so I can't condemn it. C

. . . and justice for all (1979)

Summary: An ethical lawyer, Arthur Kirkland (Al Pacino), is blackmailed into representing a judge, Henry T. Fleming (John Forsythe), who is accused of the rape and battery of a young woman.

I don't have much to say about this magnificent piece of work except to point out that Norman Jewison (director) rocks. I've always questioned his choices, but I'm right behind him here. Man, that final (courtroom - who woulda thunk it?) scene was filmed in a single take! How could that be if everything had no come together so seamlessly? So flawlessly? Who else could be responsible for that exceptional scene if not the director?

Sure, Pacino was in fine form. He may have even been in top form. Pacino may be insanely operatic now but back then . . . oh, Pacino in the seventies. Barely taller than me, he's one of the most commanding screen presences I've ever seen. He is there, and you will look! He speaks, and you will listen! It's a wonderment to see him like this.

And Jack Warden as the possibly crazy Judge Francis Rayford. That's a good time right there. Kirkland reveals something about his character that I didn't think of on my own, and, after that, suddenly that was all I could see. He's good.

All I can say about the screenplay is that inspired me to watch more Barry Levinson. You might think it's riddled with clichés, but I don't think most of them existed a quarter century ago.

Heck, you should watch it just for Dave Grusin's jaunty music. A

Rent

Premise, Act I: It's Christmas Eve. Mark and Roger are best friends and roomies. Benny, who used to be one of their roomies and now owns the run-down former music publishing house they live in, shows up demanding last year's rent. Mark and Roger, of course, can't pay, so Benny offers them an exchange. Benny also owns the lot next door, and he plans to evict the tent city that has sprung up there. Maureen, Mark's ex, is planning a protest, and they are golden if they can get her to stop it. They don't even bother trying.

Meanwhile, their friend Tom Collins is rescued by drag queen Angel after he is mugged, and they take up together. Roger meets their downstairs neighbour Mimi, and they like each other, too.

Premise, Act II: Everyone breaks back into their padlocked building on New Year's, and the rest of the musical chronicles their lives for the next year.

Now I can't technically review something I saw in the theatre. I just wanted to tell you that I went to see it at the NAC, that it was amazing, and that I think you should go.

That's it. Really. Rock operetta's rock, and I would recommend this Pulitzer Prize winning adaptation of Puccini's La Boheme to anyone.

Only don't go see it with Drew Lachey and Melanie Brown. That offends me and Rent, I think. The people I saw peform were virtual unknowns, and I think it was better than way.

My only problem was the trecaley ending.

Return to Paradise (1998)

Idea: In eight days, Lewis McBride (Joaquin Phoenix) will be hung in Malaysia for drug trafficking unless his lawyer, Beth Eastern (Anne Heche), can convince Sherrif (Vince Vaughn) and Tony (David Conrad) to return and exchange three years of their lives for his.

I actually worked the tagline of this movie into a plot description. Good tagline. Tells me just want I want to know, and the poster tells me the names of the three leads.

Too bad it features Vaughn's and Heche's stupid heads. Yes, that's right, for the sake of sweet, sexy Phoenix, I watched a movie that starred two actors that I basically don't like.

Big mistake. I don't know why the three of them are billed above title since Phoenix is barely even on screen, which sucks. He does the insanity that comes from isolation and the certainty of death very well.

Unfortunately the audience spends most of their time following around the antics of the charmless assclown that is Vaughn. He's not charming, and I think he goes for smarmy but ends up coming across as a charmless sadist in everything I see him in. Everything. To call him one note is an understatement. Don't get me wrong - sometimes that works. Sometimes that works exceedingly well, like in Swingers.

It just doesn't work for me here.

Heche is another story. Her singular voice gives me the creeps, as does her nearly singular facial expression. I just don't care about her in movies. Also, what was with the way her character dressed in Muslim Malaysia? Could she be more inconsiderate of their culture? No wonder no one wanted to listen to her.

The only good thing about Wesley Strick and Bruce Robinson's screenplay is that it allowed me to end a sentence with "in the Biblical sense", if you know what I mean. And I think you do. If you don't, you're not reading enough Television Without Pity.

Overall, it's not that bad. I don't want you think that I watch a lot of drug movies now. It's just that this movie focused on two people that I couldn't care less about. Their characters failed to be compelling, and the movie featured a serious lack of resolution in the conclusion. Just don't bother with it unless you love Vaughn. Then you should go ahead. C-

Maria Full of Grace (2004)

Premise: Maria (Catalina Sardino Moreno) takes a job trafficking cocaine from Columbia to New York through her digestive system after she discovers she is pregnant. Her best friend Blanca (Yenny Paola Vega) decides to join up to, and Maria makes friends with Lucy (Guilied Lopez), another mule, who puts her in contact with her sister, Carla (Patricia Rae).

Yeah, I struggled with how much I was giving away there, but Maria throws up pretty early in the movie. As you well know, no one just gets the flu or food poisoning in a movie, so it's pretty easy to figure out what's up at that point.

Oh, fine, we'll go over this really quickly. If a character throws up in a movie, it means one of the following three things:
a) She is pregnant.
b) S/he has cancer/is responding to their cancer treatment.
c) S/he is hung over/just drank way too much.

Any other reasons? Give me a shout out if you think of something.

Moving right along. Let's all give our props to Joshua Marston (writer-director) for his tense and brilliant sophomore offering. How does a Californian man know so much about the Columbian drug industry? I don't know. Call it research, call it a work of pure fiction. Don't care - it was lovingly crafted, beautifully framed, and seamlessly told.

Much of this can be credited to his pitch perfect leading lady. Moreno, only just shy of 23, has never done anything else if IMDb is to be believed. Nothing at all. Maria was supposed to be one of those head-strong, stubborn, singularly beautiful types who always gets herself into trouble because of her chronic inability to rely on anyone other than herself. But in Moreno's hands she was so much more. Not once did I feel like chastising her. Instead, I was struck by how stupid and mean all the other people she had to put up with were.

Consider Blanca, for example. Blanca had no reason to quit her job at the flower plantation. Blanca had no reason to suddenly need a lot of money. Blanca had no particular personality beyond dumb, whiny brat. Above all, she possessed the kind of jealousy that only a best friend can possess in the face of one who is clearly bigger and better than the former ever thinks she will be.

I kept waiting and hoping for the moment when Maria would just reel back and slap her stupid face anyway.

Normally I find this sort of juxtaposition grating and trite, but Moreno and Vega make it work. Mostly Moreno. She is such a rarity that I could have watched her do pretty much anything.

Including waiting for her bowels to pass. Yup, this movie involves watching her swallow cocaine pellets and crapping them out. And it was worth seeing. She's that good.

I know I already made my list top ten for last year, but I'd likely bump one of them for this gem. If I had only known. A+

The Jacket (2005)

Plot: Jack Starks (Adrien Brody) receives a head wound in the first Gulf War and develops retrograde amnesia as a result. Back home in Vermont, he is framed for murdering a cop and ends up in an institution for the criminally insane. Dr. Thomas Becker (Kris Kristofferson) chooses Jack for an experimental sensory deprivation treatment wherein Jack is put in a full body straight jacket and locked inside a morgue drawer. While inside, Jack sees another life, this one involving Jackie Price (Keira Knightley).

Second movie I've gone to see for the male lead[s] despite this particularly leading lady. I don't want to feel like I'm personally forwarding her career, but sometimes I wonder.

Knightley's attempt at an ingenue is not to be rewarded. Her character was over-the-top, just like her American accent which simply involved speaking in a poorly suited, exaggeratedly deep voice. There was nothing compelling about a character that was supposed to be broken and ends up coming across as bratty.

Wait, that's Mischa Barton's Marissa. Holy crap, kid, that's never something to aspire to be.

Brody was fantastic, though, every bit as frustrated and confused and angry and lonely and lovely as he needed to be. I felt bad that he is so much and can do so much, but the script didn't give him clear direction one way or the other. Sometimes it was a thriller, sometimes it was a love drama, sometimes it was both, sometimes it was neither. Because of the consummate actor I believe him to be, I believe he tried to fit his character into the whatever the movie was trying to be at that particular moment, so he can't be held accountable if it didn't all jive.

Jennifer Jason Leigh was there to hand me a beautifully understated performance combined with a bad dye job, and Daniel Craig stole the show with his scary physical chameleon-ness. If it weren't for those eyes, I'd never recognize him.

I didn't really understand where they were going with Craig's character. I thought, "So, what, everyone can do it? Are they supposed to be connected in some way? What does he see?", but, alas, those questions go unanswered.

Oooo, Brad Renfro and Steven Mackintosh were around as well! Hurrah!

Kristofferson gave it the old college try, but I felt like he was distancing himself. Maybe he was trying to do that through his character, a man divided between his paternal desire to help heal wounded souls and the more justice-minded desire to punish criminals for their sins.

Jay Maybury (director) and Peter Deming (cinematographer) kept the camera moving, lulling us with desolate and sterile winter landscapes and the griminess of the world around them. Maybury's a video director at heart, but it works for him here. The middle doesn't start sagging like it should, and he throws all his energy into keeping you from getting bored.

Although, and this is just a knit-picky point, but when you film a movie in Canada that isn't set in Canada, you should try to avoid having Canadian road signs in the frame. It's just a thought.

But, oh, Massy Tadjedin's screenplay. Gaping holes and leaps in logic abound. She wrote a great main character but neglected to fill in the rest. Also, what was the Jack-Jackie-Jacket combo supposed to signify? Is Jack the necessary prerequisite for them both?

Perhaps. B

P.S. I got to experience an entirely empty movie theatre for the first time this week-end. Joy!

They Shoot Horses, Don't They? (1969)

Plan: Gloria's (Jane Fonda) partner is immediately disqualified, so she enlists the aid of a drifter, Robert (Michael Sarrazin), to win a dance marathon during the Depression.

There are all sorts of other characters who are trying to win or draw attention to themselves for various reasons, but they all existed in relation to Gloria and Robert. It's almost as though they weren't characters at all, just reflections of the past and the future.

Hmmm.

Good work James Poe and Robert E. Thompson in your adaptation of Horace McCoy's novel of the same name. It's more difficult to involve your audience and hold them at arm's length simultaneously than to simply draw them in. Their screenplay was so cold. I find it odd when movies set in the Great Depression can seem so empty but never gritty. I always thought it would be a gritty time.

I will warn you that this is quite the mood piece. I was in the right mood just to sit and stare without having to spend much time thinking. Of course, I knew the ending before I started, so maybe I didn't have too much to think about it.

Even so, I loved watching Fonda and Sarrazin. Her Gloria was as tough as nails, so angry and frustrated. When she finally cries over a torn stocking, you don't even feel sorry for her. You just feel confused, and you wish Robert had some more change in his pocket. I suppose it wouldn't change a thing.

Sarrazin was something else entirely. He wanted to see the sun so much that he grew to hate it as the days passed by, as though it had betrayed him by staying outside. I went into the movie wondering how he could do it, and I know now that the question should be, "How could he not?"

Syndey Pollock (director) is downright ballsy. You suffer through this unrelenting movie right along side the contestants, all so you can see what is either the best or the worst movie ending of all time. It's so simple, so mysteriously obvious, so . . . natural? Can it be that it was natural?

Knit-picky point: Did mirror balls exist in the 30s?

Don't watch it if you don't have two solid hours to commit to it and many more yet to its lingering presence in the back of your mind. B+

Oscar Wrap-Up (2005)

April takes requests!

I know you are probably already sick of the endless commentary about one night that always runs too long, but I have a few things to throw out there upon request. I think you can sit through a few more minutes.

Plus, I have more freedom to say whatever the hell I want, and I usually do. So you've got that.

Let it be known that April did not stay up to watch the end of the awards. I had to get up and go to work the next day, so I couldn't. I watched enough to be able to comment on the coups, the high points, and the disasters of the evening.

Truth be told, Gil Cates runs a tight ship. Things were moving along at a pretty good clip by the time I turned in. The supportings were already neatly tucked away, I had heard three crappy songs (during which Beyoncé sported two fugly outfits), and Sideways had received the only award it was bound to get.

But were the sacrifices he made to keep things so tight worth it? Handing out awards in seats or having everyone stand on stage like beauty pageant contestants for so-called "minor" awards?

In a word? No. Those changes, while offering something refreshing in a pretty cut-and-dry world of award shows, were an offence. That's like pretending that sound or editing aren’t important and essential components of a film. It also suggests that that documentary or short films are lesser forms of filmmaking.

Stupid Gil Cates.

Morgan Freeman was the only dark horse candidate that threw me off my game, and his speech was among the best. I wasn’t sure what was going on with his scarf, so I convinced myself that it was a nod to the upcoming Nelson Mandela biopic. I say upcoming like you will soon see it in a theatre near you, but that’s not really the case.

Since Blanchett took the award I knew she would, Madsen wins best dressed Supporting Actress Contender. Her blue and black Versace was sexy and lavish. I was in awe and glad to see her forgo the “Old Hollywood” rule.

Swank beat out poor Bening again, but her simple and silly looking Guy Laroche didn’t compare Bening’s sleek Armani jersey. I think she was hoping that the dress would detract from the scary monotone way she was speaking.

Of course, Kate Winslet gave them both a run for their money is a gorgeous Greek inspired blue Badgley Mischka.

I can’t find Catalina Sardino Moreno’s designer, but someone must tell me as she was the most gorgeous creature there. Her sleek white body skimming dress with thick jewelled straps, hair pulled back in a plain ponytail, and minimal make up to show off her beautiful skin – the combination was breath taking.

Can someone please explain to me what the hell Johnny Depp was thinking? Your lady is a Chanel model, my good man, and you are one of the most attractive people on the planet! Shape up, buddy!

I may get stoned for saying this, but, after the Golden Globes and then the Academy Awards, I confess that I think Leonardo DiCaprio has turned out to be a class act. He carries himself through all of this hoopla with composure and even a measure of grace. He’s aged a lot since Hollywood first started beating down his door.

Who else found Clint Eastwood’s green bowtie cute?

People that should be charged for crimes against humanity (or at least April’s eyes) for their ensembles: Scarlett Johansson, Kirsten Dunst, Melanie Griffith, Carlos Santana, Robin Williams, Laura Linney, Orlando Bloom (wrong collar for the no-tie look), and P. Diddy.

I wish Kidman had been there to pick up were so many starlets left off in the fashion department.

Those they will need to defend the above for their fashion crimes: See above, plus Clive Owen, Emmy Rossum, Sophie Okonedo, Chris Rock, Don Cheadle’s wife (she was wearin’ that dress), Cheadle himself, and Jamie Foxx. The latter two weren’t stellarly dressed, but there was nothing offensive about their outfits.

How is it that P. Diddy does both his suit and Rock’s, but Rock doesn’t look like an asshat?

As a host, though, kind of racist. Died during that “If you can get the star, then wait!” bit. Russell Crowe certainly could be three weeks ago.

Applause goes to Charlie Kaufman for seeing his day (yay!), as well as Alexander Payne and Jim Taylor. Screenplays were good this year.

I was all teary eyed when everyone kept thanking Marty because I knew he had a snowball’s chance of holding a gold statuette of his own. Makes a girl sad.

And so, I bring you something I have no doubt you’ve been patiently waiting for for two months now: April’s personal top 10 of 2004 list. I reviewed nearly 40 movies that came out last year, and I’m sure I will yet see many more. Until that day, though, here’s a sample based on personal enjoyment and final grade.

The 10:

Hotel Rwanda
Million Dollar Baby
Sideways
Finding Neverland
Outfoxed: Rupert Murdoch’s War on Journalism
Mean Creek
Before Sunset
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
Garden State
The Aviator

Holy crap that was tough. I spent nearly two hours picking those out from the crowd. There are many, many others who were close contenders, but I think just mentioning them will make me want to change my mind.