ABOUT SCHMIDT

     It takes about 1 second for Jack Nicholson to elicit the first laugh in Alexander Panyne’s About Schmidt, and to remind us why he’s one of film’s all-time greats. Nicholson’s ability to emote enormous amounts of information without saying a word is one of the central tools Payne uses to tell his story; and it’s one hell of a powerful tool. Nicholson plays Warren Schmidt, an Omaha actuary who, upon retirement finds himself in an existential crisis. Essentially, the film is about the meaning of one man’s life; it’s a tough subject matter and one that Payne and Nicholson handle confidently and effectively.

At the age of 65, Warren Schmidt finds himself with nothing to do but write hilariously overly detailed letters to his African foster kid, Ndugu. When his overbearing wife of 42 years dies suddenly, Schmidt decides to take a cross-country trip on the way to his daughter’s wedding. Warren doesn’t really have a good idea of what he’s looking for on his journey and the trip itself is less than exciting (like Schmidt himself). But watching Nicholson inhabit this drab little man is a wonder. When he does eventually arrive in Denver and meets his future in-laws, the film becomes relentlessly hilarious. Kathy Bates is brilliant as the boozy “free-spirited” mom of Dermot Mulroney (giving a great little performance himself), Schmidt’s dimwitted future son-in-law. And Howard Hesseman – due for a comeback – is very funny as an overly laid back aging hippy. But it’s always Nicholson’s reactions to these characters that really brings out the comedy here… and the pathos as well.

About Schmidt is not a perfect film. The pacing is slower than it should have been and the first two acts drag on a bit too long. Frankly, without Nicholson’s high-wattage brilliance, none of this would have been nearly as effective as it is. But with all the pieces where they are, About Schmidt succeeds more often than it fails and, in the end, presents one man’s quest for meaning as both funny and surprisingly moving.

ANY GIVEN SUNDAY

The game of American Football is, in many ways, a perfect movie sport. First of all, the game progresses in fits and starts, giving plenty of opportunity for dramatic buildup and suspense. Second, the offence and the defense take turns on the playing field, allowing the filmmakers to cut away to active players on the sidelines. Third, and probably most important, football is a sport that closely resembles an ancient battlefield; tight formations of armored men violently advancing and retrieving. This has been the stock and trade of action cinema from Birth Of A Nation to Braveheart.

Oliver Stone’s ANY GIVEN SUNDAY is certainly an action film. It throws you right on the field in the very first sequence and keeps you there for a good forty minutes of it’s near 3 hours. Yet somehow, you get very little feeling for how the game is actually played. Sure, there’s the controlled chaos, the violent hits, and the occasionally acrobatic intensity of the running game… but the game is somehow lost. Too bad because all the elements seem to be there.

Al Pacino plays Tony D’Amato, a legendary head coach of the Miami Sharks. James Woods sinks his sharp little teeth into the team’s sleazbag doctor. And Cameron Diaz, somewhat against type, is the bitch-on-wheels team owner. On top of that there’s quarterbacks Jamie Foxx and Dennis Quade, Jim Brown, L.L. Cool J, Matthew Modine, and Ann-Margaret in a wonderful cameo. Oliver Stone is the ringmaster, and who could be a better choice? Someone who’s both played the game (in college) as well as seen the battlefield (in Viet Nam). ANY GIVEN SUNDAY, unfortunately, is somewhat less than the sum of its parts; failing to live up to its promise as the “ultimate football film”.

Now, don’t get me wrong, ANY GIVEN SUNDAY is full of fun touches. The performances are uniformly terrific and the action is often spectacular. But the film gets so caught up in cliché that it gets difficult to take by the time it’s over. Of course, all sports films rely on a certain amount of cliché; it’s really just a part of the package. But do we need to see all of the sports film cliches packed into one film? There’s the over-the-hill quarterback looking for one more shot, the young star learning how to be a team player, the evil money-grubbing owner who doesn’t give a damn about the players or the integrity of the game, and the idealistic coach trying to hold the team together and to take them to the playoffs, etc, etc, etc.. All this, as always, culminates in the “big game” finale that miraculously solves all dilemmas and resolves all conflicts. The film’s biggest surprise (such as it is) comes over the closing credits, by which time I couldn’t care less.

Here’s a couple more small gripes. One: all through the film everyone is referring to Coach D’Amato as an “old dinosaur”. Huh? Who are they talking about? Pacino looks great, not a day over fifty! Compared to some of the geriatric geezers coaching in the NFL now, he’s a youngster. Two: not a single field goal is kicked in the entire three hours. Come on! Show one field goal! Just one. How hard is that? Otherwise the European audiences won’t understand why the game is called “football”.

BLOW

Ted Demme’s Blow is a film so utterly lacking any originality or individual voice, it’s  amazing that I’m giving it a positive review. A decade-spanning story of George Jung, a man responsible for introducing Columbian cocaine to the US, Blow is a virtual homage to Scorsese’s Goodfellas and, to a lesser extent, PT Anderson’s Boogie Nights. Of course, “homage” could also mean “rip-off”… and that’s what Blow feels like for the majority of it’s 2 plus hours.

            Johnny Depp is good as George, but frankly I could think of 5 or 6 young actors who would have been just as good. Why? Mainly because George doesn’t quite have a character per se. He’s a man completely lacking in any morals, who simply takes advantage of his circumstances to become the drug kingpin of the ‘70s. This lack of morality is also the main feature of the film’s viewpoint. In fact, any character who’s in any way judgmental of George’s lifestyle is shown as an evil hypocrite. Don’t get me wrong: we’ve all seen too many of these clichéd turkeys in which all the drug dealers are scummy thugs and everybody who tries a line or two ends up face down in the gutter. That’s a crock of shit. But Blow’s lack of opposing viewpoints limits it intellectually and makes is so much less than the films it so desperately tries to emulate. That’s too bad since the subject matter is so damn interesting. Unfortunately Blow doesn’t even deal with the mechanics of its subject matter. Unlike Goodfellas, which gave us a fascinating glimpse into the day-to-day workings of the Mob, Blow tells us virtually nothing new about the details of the drug trade. There’s almost a feeling that drugs sell themselves, as though people aren’t even in the equation. All of the film’s focus is devoted to George’s self-centered pursuit of wealth and happiness.

            Yet, somehow Blow manages to pull off being a pretty enjoyable film. All the performances are strong, especially Ray Liotta as George’s existentialist father. And as George’s life spirals further and further down the toilet, the emotional blows the character takes are quite effective. Demme brings a lot of energy to the proceedings, but the screenplay is a bit weak. The film moves to its inevitable resolution without providing any surprises. I’d even say that many plot points are telegraphed in ways that are almost amateurish. And the predictable classic rock soundtrack is, well… predictable.  Blow looks good, it sounds good, but its complete lack of originality keeps it from being a good film. If you set your expectations low enough, you might enjoy it anyway.

DIE ANOTHER DAY

The new Bond film is a bit of the old “good news, bad news” scenario. The good news is, this is a vast improvement over the previous 007, The World Is Not Enough. That installment was long on concept and short on execution; the stunts felt tired, the adventure seemed old-hat, and the drama was forced. The new film addresses most of these issues by jazzing up the formula, amping up the action and mixing in a solid villain and a top-notch leading lady. Yet the ingredients don’t quite add up to an altogether satisfying picture. And, this is the bad news, there’s a bit too much goofiness here for the film’s own good.

Pierce Brosnan returns as Bond for the fourth time, and what can you say about him. His Bond is nearly as good as Sean Connery’s, so accepting him in the role is not really an issue. Frankly he had the character down in Goldeneye. In Die Another Day the opening sequence puts Bond in the hands of the North Koreans, who spend 14 months (and the whole title sequence) torturing him for information. Exactly what information they want from him is unclear, but scenes of Bond getting trounced to the techno beats of a Madonna song are bizarre, to say the least. This is, hands-down, the nastiest title sequence in the franchise history.

Of course, Bond does get released, but M. in what seems for her to be an uncharacteristic bit of malevolence, suspends Bond’s “license” and effectively fires him. Why? I’m not sure. Anyway, Bond escapes from his own people, and in the film’s first bit of ludicrousness, swims all the way to Hong Kong. He then spends the next hour in an unmotivated pursuit of a diamond-studded Korean goon. Along the way Bond meets (and instantly beds) Haley Berry, blows up a genetic clinic, and smokes some stogies. None of this feels like a real Bond film, but it moves along at a good clip.

Then Bond gets back to England and the real movie begins. We finally meet the main baddie, Gustav Graves (nicely played by Toby Stevens), the bad girl (or is she?) Miranda Frost, and Madonna - in the film’s second bit of ludicrousness - as a fencing instructor. Actually the duel between Bond and Graves is the highlight of the whole film; long and brutal. It’s almost hard to believe that the franchise never had a real sword fight, and this one doesn’t disappoint. John Cleese as the new Q is another highlight; his interactions with Bond are dead-on and funny. Obviously Bond gets re-instated, is given new gadgets and sent to Iceland. That’s where the remaining set-pieces take place and they’re fun. Haley Berry’s Jinx comes back to the action and Bond gets to try out his dumbest gadget to date, an invisible car. Now I don’t know who would insure an invisible car, but for all the use Bond gets out of it, it hardly seems worth the R & D. Thankfully this goofy gimmick is not overused. The final showdown takes place on a cargo plane and it’s probably the best finale of the Brosnan films, as our heroes confront their adversaries while the plane disintegrates around them.

Die Another Day is the first Bond film of the 21st Century and it’s the first one to rely heavily on digital effects. This is a departure and I’m not sure a welcomed one. Bond movies always had this stunt-heavy, hands on quality to them. Seeing a computer-generated Bond parasail down a computer-generated glacier is a bit under whelming. I was also annoyed by the overuse of digital slo-mo; if they wanted a John Woo vibe, they should have just hired John Woo to direct. There’s also an ending bit with Miss Moneypenny that’s completely out of left field and is, frankly, a pathetic grab for laughs. But overall, this mixed bag is still worth it. Haley Berry is good, the villains are good, the references to past Bond films are mostly cute, and they even throw in Michael Madsen as Jinx’s boss; what’s not to like about that? So it’s probably safe to say that if there is a world 40 years from now, James Bond will still be around to entertain it.

FIGHT CLUB

            David Fincher’s FIGHT CLUB is easily one of the best films of the year. An original, inventive, and provocative picture that hits upon feelings of Millennial unrest better than any film in recent years. Of course, Fincher’s previous films have all dealt with issues of apocalyptic isolation and madness. THE GAME in particular, tried (not very successfully) to provide a sort of sensualist solution for modern ennui. But the material here is stronger. So is the tone.

Adopted from Chuck Palahniuk’s breakthrough first novel, FIGHT CLUB is a comedy. And a funny one at that. A razor-sharp satire that viciously skewers new age self-absorption, anarchism, romance, and then turns around and smacks you on the face with your own egoism for missing the point. Of course, most of the critics seemed to have missed the point as well. The film’s detractors accuse it of neo-fascist leanings. They call it brutal, sexist, void of ideas. One review I read called the film “irresponsible”! It may be that, but only in the way that art should be irresponsible.

FIGHT CLUB opens with Edward Norton’s character sitting on the toilet, leafing through an Ikea catalogue. It is an indelible film image of the late ‘90s. Modern man: passive, impotent, vulnerable, consumed with consuming. Norton spends the rest of his free time going to various support groups and sharing made up sob-stories with the sick and the terminally ill. It gives him an emotional outlet, but it’s not nearly enough, and he feels like a fraud in the process.

Enter Tyler Durden (Pitt), a slick soap peddler who seems to know Norton better than he knows himself. The two men stumble on the idea of a “fight club” and it catches on quickly. The point of the fight club is not to defeat the other guy as much as it is to defeat your own lack of direction; to beat yourself.  In fact, Norton’s character does exactly that in one very funny scene. This scene, in effect, becomes the main metaphor of the film as Norton struggles to come to terms with Durden’s peculiar philosophy. In order to overcome fear, inertia, and the catatonic state that most of us live in, the men of the fight club beat the shit out of one another in basements of seedy bars. But instead of finding their identities, they seem to lose them, becoming faceless soldiers in Durden’s anarchist militia. Eventually for Durden, the fight club isn’t far reaching enough. He wants to destroy the whole materialistic system. The masked anarchists in the Seattle riots had the same idea when they tore apart Starbucks and Nike stores. And whether you cheered or were repulsed by their actions may determine your view on the film. But if your feelings were conflicted, you have a lot in common with Norton’s character in FIGHT CLUB.

FIGHT CLUB is an infuriating picture. It’s a work that refuses to follow an established story pattern or to provide easy answers. It dazzles you with its over-the-top visuals, surprises you with its intelligence, and finally pulls the rug out from under you. It’s this relentless punk esthetic, the “we don’t give a fuck if you don’t like us” attitude that I found so refreshing about FIGHT CLUB. What other film have you seen lately, that is so willing to piss you off? Kubrick’s A CLOCKWORK ORANGE comes to mind from nearly thirty years ago. That’s it. I can see why some people really hated this movie. All the magazines called it “a bomb” or “a disappointment” both in terms of box office and critical praise. No surprise there: it fails to live up to expectations of genre and provides no emotional resolutions. And it’s certainly no action film. The fights themselves are shot in flat, unglamorous, long takes, without a hint of violence fetishism that characterizes American cinema.  Pitt and Norton give excellent performances. So do Helena Bonham Carter and Meatloaf. But their characters aren’t very likable; frankly they’re all freaks. And if, like me, you really like this film, maybe you’re a freak too.

           

GLADIATOR

It’s been about 35 years since a good gladiator film came along. I’m not counting futuristic gladiator films like Running Man or Rollerball, but classic Roman period pieces. That’s probably why Ridley Scott’s Gladiator was so anticipated. Was it worth the wait? Yes and no. In a nutshell, Gladiator should have been a better film, or at least more balanced and intelligent one, but it isn’t. It’s a standard action epic that reaches for Braveheart but falls short.

Let’s get something out of the way first. Spartacus is the greatest gladiator film ever made. Still. So forget Spartacus. Gladiator shoots a lot lower; focusing on characters rather than social issues, action rather then emotional impact. It succeeds for the most part, specially on the action front. This is a very exciting and violent film with massive action pieces that are nothing short of unbelievable. It’s too bad, though, that Scott didn’t expand on concepts that make gladiatorial combat such an interesting subject matter. Mental slavery, the stupefying effect of mass entertainment, the moral bankruptcy of a waning empire. These are all very relevant ideas that deserve a day in the arena and would certainly make for strong drama. But that’s another gladiator film that’s yet to be made. Gladiator just wants to tickle your eyeballs and it does so rather brilliantly. Everything else, unfortunately, is by the numbers.

The story is as linear as it gets. Noble General Maximus is betrayed by evil prince Commodus, his family executed and he – inexplicably – finds himself a slave in Morocco. Proving himself in the arena Maximus, now known only by his ethnic nickname Spaniard, goes to Rome and becomes a superstar gladiator. His success eventually leads to Commodus’ complete mental breakdown and results in a fifth column that eventually de-thrones the despot. The script is so dry and lacking in irony that the only memorable line from the entire 3-hour film is one that was obviously improvised by Juaquin Phoenix. There’s some seriously stilted dialogue here that proves challenging even for great actors like Crowe and Richard Harris. On top of that, the movie plays it so damn straight and takes itself ever so seriously that the script’s total lack of a viewpoint becomes even more damaging by the time it’s all over. I left the theater wondering what the fucking point was. (I also didn’t buy much of the final sequence.)

It’s not all bad of course. The acting is good all around. Russell Crow rocks, Juaquin
Phoenix is surprisingly menacing, and Oliver Reed delivers a great final performance.
The cinematography by John Mathieson is wonderfully lush. The CGI effects are good and serve the story in an adequate, non-intrusive fashion. The highlight of Gladiator are the action sequences which are truly original and exciting. If you don’t expect too much more, you’ll probably enjoy the film, warts and all. But I for one, am still waiting for a truly great gladiator film. I just hope it doesn’t take another thirty years.

MAGNOLIA

There’s a dizzying feeling one gets watching P.T. Anderson’s new opus, MAGNOLIA. The constantly flying camera, the plethora of characters, making sense of what the point of the whole thing is, and… the frogs. The fact that it actually works is a testament to Anderson’s talent. It is that talent along with a good deal of artistic audacity that makes MAGNOLIA one of the best films of 1999.

There’s no question that Anderson has bitten off more than he (or anyone, really) can chew, here. There are way too many characters and story-lines, some weaker than others. What ultimately carries the film, though, is its energy and heart. MAGNOLIA opens with the recounting of several urban legends; some of which we’ve all heard. All these tales deal with the ironic and sometimes divine intervention of fate. “Why do these things happen?” the film asks, “What’s the point?” These questions could never be answered of course, but they relate heavily to what eventually happens in the film.

MAGNOLIA follows several characters who are dealing with death, loss, lack of love, and the sins of the past. The wonderful cast includes the usual P.T. Anderson suspects William H. Macy, Philip Baker Hall, Philip Seymour Hoffman, John C. Reilly, and Julieanne Moore. Plus there’s Tom Cruise in the scummiest (and finest) role of his career and Jason Robards as the most realistic dying man I’ve seen on film. All of the acting is superb here with Reilly and Moore delivering performances (frankly) too brilliant for Oscar recognition. Love him or hate him, Anderson knows how to work with actors. But that’s not all he knows.

MISSION IMPOSSIBLE 2

In many ways, MI-2 is the ultimate John Woo movie. All his stylistic flourishes are here: the super slo-mo, the two-guns blazing shootouts, and the white doves. All this and Tom Cruise as Ethan Hunt, that unforgettable character from the first Mission Impossible movie. Sarcasm aside though, character is not what this film is about. Woo and Producer Cruise have simply set out to make the most stylized action film of all time. And for the most part, they succeeded.

Let’s go back a second. I was one of fifteen people who didn’t absolutely hate the first Mission Impossible. It had certain energy along with some fun set pieces. But compared to MI-2, it was like an episode of Father Dowling Mysteries. This film is a non-stop amusement-park ride from the first frame to the last. Plot? Who gives a shit! It has something to do with a deadly virus and the antidote that’s worth billions. It makes more sense than the plot of the first MI, but not much more. What the film is really about is action. And it delivers in spades. From the mountain climbing opener to the epic fistfight at the end, MI-2 serves up the high-tech thrills in giant portions. The motorcycle chase alone, will blow you away! Is any of this stuff realistic? Not even close. Is it fun? You bet.

There are some quieter moments in MI-2, mostly involving Thandie Newton as a woman Hunt recruits to get close to her ex-boyfriend, the main villain Dougray Scott. It’s an homage to Hitchcock’s Notorious, I suppose, except none of the leads will make you forget Cary Grant or Ingrid Bergman (or even Claude Rains) any time soon. But MI-2 isn’t vying for “masterpiece” status here. The plot simply serves as a way to connect the action sequences. Now, that would be a serious flaw in a “serious” film. But MI-2 succeeds precisely because it’s not a serious film. It revels in it’s own non-seriousness; just when you thought it couldn’t get any cheesier, it does, reaching almost comic proportions at times. But all this is done in good fun… with a self-depreciating tongue firmly in cheek. In fact the film openly lampoons both Cruise and Woo. That’s cool! So is Jeffrey Kimball’s cinematography which is reminiscent of Eyes Wide Shut in its’ saturated graininess. (Same film stock, if you’re interested.)

Ultimately, like its producer and star, MI-2 succeeds in spite of its weaknesses; perhaps even because of them. It’s not smart, original, or clever, but it looks great and it’s packed with the kind of stylized action that elevates dumb summer movies into the strata of blockbusters. Don’t take it too seriously and you’ll definitely enjoy the ride.

PUNCH-DRUNK LOVE

     There are two major mysteries surrounding PT Anderson’s new film, Punch-Drunk Love. The first is how in the world did this film manage to win the Palm D’Or at Cannes? The second is why Anderson decided to make it in the first place? I can’t answer either of these questions except to say that maybe the French are losing their collective minds and PT Anderson may be doing too much blow. I may be wrong. But I’m pretty sure I’m right about this: if you ignore all the lemming film critics and look objectively at Punch-Drunk Love, what you are looking at is one weak film.

The story centers on Barry Egan, an LA novelty business owner and a major-league idiot. Immature, emotionally stunted, psychotic, and extremely violent, Barry is the kind of guy who is funny in an Adam Sandler comedy but basically scary as a real person. Of course here, Barry is actually played by Adam Sandler and this bit of stunt casting is supposed to transform this goofiness into high art. Hey, it worked on the French! Me, I prefer my high art packaged inside a good film. Punch-Drunk Love, unfortunately, isn’t good.

Anyway, Barry’s sister sets him up with Lena (Emily Watson) who falls madly in love with him. Why? Love is blind, I guess (nor can it hear, taste, or smell). While this is happening, Barry gets involved in a lame-brained plot involving a blackmailing phone-sex scam and collects thousands of instant-pudding packets in order to win unlimited airline miles. All these moronic strands come together in a pseudo-climax involving a showdown between Barry and Philip Seymour Hoffman that is, admittedly, the best scene in the movie. But that’s not saying much.

PT Anderson is a brilliant filmmaker and the concept of doing a “serious” Adam Sandler film may have seemed like a good idea at some late-night soirée, but it’s not. Sandler does some good acting in this film and may go on to do some great work in the future, but the material itself works against him. (Here’s an idea: make a good film and hire Adam Sandler as an “actor”.) One major problem is that the Sandler Archetype is funny only within the realm of the goofy comedy. The same could be said for most comedic archetypes. Can anybody really imagine a “serious” film about Lou Costello’s persona? How about Jerry Lewis? Or even Buster Keaton?

But there’s another problem here, Anderson refuses to stick to the center of the story; which to me is Barry’s love affair with Lena. Punch-Drunk Love could have worked if the character-study approach was maintained for the entire film instead of abandoned after the first act. The sub-plots here are just plain distracting; they add nothing to the proceedings and are either dropped altogether or resolved in a manner that doesn’t seem at all realistic in terms of plot or character. Speaking of character, hiring a great actress like Emily Watson does not relieve one of the responsibility of actually writing her a descent part.

Overall, Punch-Drunk Love is slight, pointless and, worst of all, not very funny. Happy Gilmore was a better film.

SHAFT

Does anybody really remember the original Shaft? I don’t mean the super cool Isaac Hays theme song; I mean the film itself. What was it about, what was the plot? No idea? Me neither. One thing for certain, Shaft wasn’t a very good film. And Shaft the character (with all due respect to Richard Roundtree) was not very interesting. Billed as a cross between Sam Spade and James Bond, John Shaft wasn’t written with the wit and finesse that made those two characters so successful. Shaft was dry. But Shaft was also the first black action hero (if you don’t count Woody Strode and Jim Brown). That made him special and turned the Shaft films into box office favorites of the early ‘70s.

John Singleton’g Shaft 2000 doesn’t have much to do with the original. It’s not really a remake or a sequel. In fact this Shaft isn’t even the same guy. Played by Samuel L. Jackson, Singleton’s Shaft is the ‘70s Shaft’s nephew. Roundtree even has a distracting cameo that runs way too long. Anyway, the young (Jackson and Roundtree look to be pretty much in the same age group) Shaft is cop who is both liked and hated by his fellow detectives. I say this because the film never seems to settle on a definitive viewpoint here. The relationships between Shaft and his colleagues simply change from one scene to another depending on the demands of the story. Maybe they’re just jealous of Shaft’s Armani leather and designer facial hair? Of course, Shaft is a rebel. When a racially motivated murder investigation goes wrong, he instantly hands in his badge and becomes… a street vigilante of some sort.

I love Sam Jackson. He a wonderful actor and a charismatic leading man. That’s why it’s so strange that he comes off just as flat and un-interesting as the old Shaft. I wanted to like this movie… hell, I wanted to love this movie. But it didn’t work out that way. The main problem may have been the film’s tone. Never deciding whether it should play it straight or funny, Shaft just sort of meanders between various genres throwing in an occasional shootout or a cool one-liner. All this moves along to the sounds of the old Isaac Hays score, that’s become a ridiculous cliché by now. And if you expect some really cool action, you’ll be disappointed. After Metrix and MI-2, this stuff looks like “movie of the week”.

What saves the whole film are its villains; Jeffrey Wright and Christian Bale. These guys have some hilarious scenes together that are bound to become classic. Without them Shaft 2000 would be a total waste of time.

SHANGHAI NOON

This is going to be short and sweet. Shanghai Noon is by far the best American Jackie Chan movie. All the action you’d expect plus a ton of laughs provided mostly by Owen Wilson, in a star-making performance. There’s real on-screen chemistry between these guys that’s great to watch. They’re both well defined characters who play off each other very well. In truth, Jackie Chan works well in teams and you’d be hard pressed to think of a single instance where he does not have chemistry with his co-stars. But even by those standards, he and Wilson really shine.

The plot deals with a kidnapping of a Chinese princess (Lucy Liu) and the rescue mission mounted by Chan’s character, John Wane, a not-too-respected member of the imperial guard. Once out West, John is forced into a partnership with a loquacious outlaw (Wilson) who’s own reputation isn’t much better than John’s. It sounds kind of like Rush Hour, but Shanghai Noon is a much better film. Not because it has more action, but because the story actually has something to say about old world values in the new world and the relationship at the center of the film is satisfying and funny. If you want to see great Kung Fu, there are probably better action sequences in other Chan films. And I wasn’t too happy with the tacked-on coda, but overall… Shanghai Noon delivers.

SHORT REVIEWS

High Plains Drifter – High Noon from Hell. A lean, anarchist, and spooky western. Eastwood’s second directorial effort is also one of his best. He’s an ex-marshal back from the grave to avenge himself on a corrupt California town and the men who killed him. Or is he? It’s wickedly funny too. “Let’s paint the town red, baby!”

The Green Mile – A bloated, clichéd and thoroughly insincere piece of Hollywood hokum. Death-row miracles happen to some cardboard characters. Many wonderful actors wasted on another stupid Stephen King story. Frank Darabont desperately tries to mine his Shawshank Redemption gold and comes up with 14-karat crap. Skip this turkey (unless you’re a big Touched By An Angel fan).

Cookie’s Fortune – Intrigue surrounding the suicide of a crazy old lady in small Southern town. Altman’s best film since Short Cuts. Unique and mellow, full of wacky characters and down-home charm. Some wonderful performances too; especially by Patricia Neil and Charles Dutton. I could do without Chris O’Donnel or Liv Tyler, but even they are likable in this fun yet unsettling story, expertly directed and acted.

Pale Rider – Another remake of Shane. Eastwood tries to use some of the supernatural angle from High Plains Drifter to far lesser success. Clint is a butt-kicking preacher inexplicably defending a small mining community from an evil corporation. The film has a great visual feel, but its predictability proves too tough to overcome. Watchable, but ultimately, the weakest of the four Eastwood-directed westerns.

Seconds – The best damn 90-minute episode of The Twilight Zone I’ve ever seen! That’s a compliment, by the way. A trippy, creepy masterpiece directed by John Frankenheimer at the top of his game. Middle-aged businessman finds a fountain or youth and nearly drowns in it. The best performance Rock Hudson ever gave.

Interview With a Vampire – Anne Rice’s masterpiece brought to the screen in a surprisingly faithful, even reverential manner. The novel’s tragic tone and unsettling philosophy are all here, wonderfully directed by Neil Jordan. This probably explains why the film was such a huge box-office disappointment despite Tom Cruise. A good film that even manages to overcome the monumental miscasting of its lead characters. Yet one can’t help but wonder what other actors could have accomplished in these roles.

The Whole Nine Yards – Montreal dentist befriends an Chicago mob hit-man. Garbage. A comedy without any laughs. OK, I admit Mathew Perry did make me chuckle a couple of times; but this tale of kind-hearted assassins and evil French-Canadians is just plain bad. Bruce Willis loses many of his Sixth Sense points in an extremely shallow performance. I think I’d rather go to the dentist then sit thru this stinker.

SOLARIS

            There’s an oft-broken rule that states, “one should never remake a great film”. It’s fortunate for Steven Soderbergh that Andrei Tarkovski’s 1972 Solaris isn’t that great. Frankly that film is ponderous and slow and Soderbergh’s remake is superior in almost every way. Of course, you’ll never hear any “serious” film critic admit it; after all, Tarkovsky is the saint the film-geeks. But nonetheless, it’s true. One of the great accomplishments of the new Solaris is that it makes its point in a quarter of the time it took Tarkovsky in his cinematic equivalent of fishing (remember the first shot of that film?). This kind of storytelling economy is just one of the reasons why Soderbergh is one the best directors in Hollywood and probably the world. Future film-geeks will take note after he’s dead, but for now it’s sufficient to say that he’s a filmmaker at the top of his game.

            Solaris, based on Stanislaw Lem’s novel, is a story of Chris Kalvin, a psychiatrist who’s psychologically devastated after his wife’s suicide. Early in the film, Kalvin is sent on a mission to a space station orbiting the mysterious planet Solaris. His assignment is to find out why the crew refuses to return to Earth. Once on the station, Kalvin discovers that his buddy, the Captain is dead and the rest of the crew is either terrified or zonked out. He soon finds out why; the planet creates living manifestations of the crewmen’s memories. In Kalvin’s case, the manifestation is his dead wife and after some initial resistance, he begins to fall in love with her all over again.

            One of the things I love about this film is how it uses science fiction to tell a romantic ghost story. Don’t expect some pat explanation as to what’s happening. Like the dead Captain tells Kalvin in a dream: “This isn’t about answers, it’s about choices”. Just like real life. The choices Kalvin does eventually make are thought provoking and debatable. Is the manifestation fated to repeat the cycle of Kalvin’s wife? Is she doomed as a result of being based solely on Kalvin’s memories and perspectives? Is she even real? Is any of it real? Are we all doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again? These are fascinating questions that haunted me for days after the movie and are an obvious testament to the success of Soderbergh’s vision. 

            Let me also touch upon the film’s technique. Once again, Soderbergh acts as his own DP and the results are wonderful. The film has an organic feel that’s so desperately lacking in most Hollywood movies. And while many will find the pacing slow, I was drawn into its deliberate and mellow approach to the story. A lesser director would have punched up the drama and suspense. Soderbergh lets his characters propel the plot and it works remarkably well. Again, the economy is wonderful; Solaris is utterly “fat” free. But there’s also real emotion here, based on universal themes, handled skillfully and with great subtlety. Notice the scene where the manifestation of Rhea, visits Kalvin for the first time. The cross-cutting, the camera work, the acting all combine to create an effect that’s emotionally moving and cinematically breathtaking. This is a terrific film that will surely be overlooked. But I’m looking forward to revisiting it for years to come. 

THE CELL

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: MTV will save cinema. In recent years video directors like David Fincher and Spike Jonze have made films that have fearlessly challenged the conservative establishment; giving Hollywood a shot in the arm it so desperately needed throughout the ‘80s and the early ‘90s. It looks like you can now add the name Tarsem Singh to the list. The Cell may not be the pure masterpiece many critics claim it to be, but it’s one hell of a good film, and like a music video it tells its story in primarily visual terms. That in itself is a big departure from the majority of verbose Hollywood product.

The Cell revolves around the efforts of a child psychologist (Jennifer Lopez) to probe the mind of a serial killer (Vincent D’Onofrio) who’s M.O. includes drowning women by remote control. When I say “probe”, I mean literally enter the mind and navigate there as within a physical landscape, interacting with both the ego and the superego in the same way that we interact with real people. What appealed to me about The Cell was its willingness to go with its concept; to take it to the inevitable (if somewhat predictable) resolution instead of falling back on even more predictable clichés. A lesser film would have had D’Onofrio’s character “possess” someone’s body and murder the supporting cast, but not The Cell.
The action takes place almost entirely in the mind and that’s what makes it so original and effective.

The visuals in The Cell are pretty impressive, but not in the usual CGI way that’s been so ridiculously overdone as of late. In fact, most of the effects here are of the standard, in-camera variety. They could have been done 40 or 50 years ago, for the most part. That’s probably why they work so well. What Singh seems to be most concerned with are images, not special effects. And these images are both beautiful and disturbing. The Cell is a triumph of art direction, mixing elements of Dali, Mapplethorpe, Nick Knight and countless other artistic sources. These disparate elements are combined to create unique and cohesive mental landscapes in which the action unfolds and give The Cell a distinctive and original visual style; more Nine Inch Nails than Matrix.

All the performances are good. Jennifer Lopez, as always, is believable and radiant at the same time. The camera really loves her. Vince Vaughn as the fucked up FBI guy, makes Fox Mulder look like a Republican; he’s never been better. And Vincent D’Onofrio is continuing to create a legacy of brilliantly quirky roles that’s bound the make him the Chris Walken of his generation. I love the way he goes from naturalism to operatic expressionism within the same character and occasionally even within the same scene. He’s a great and surprisingly sympathetic villain. That’s another thing I really liked about The Cell, it explained some of the motivation for D’Onofrio’s insanity without making excuses for him. You understand how he became such a monster, but he’s still a monster none-the-less. There are no easy answers here; no simple Hollywood solutions. Even a romantic spark between Lopez and Vaught is left unfulfilled for a change. Good. The FBI plotline is a bit of a bore in its homage to Silence Of The Lambs, but that’s a small quibble. Overall The Cell works. I don’t know if it will be a successful film financially. The Cell is more disturbing than scary. But it is a highly effective and visually daring picture that deserves to become a classic of the genre. What genre, though, I’m not sure.

THE WORLD IS NOT ENOUGH

              Bond fans have had a lot to be thankful for in the ‘90s. Since the release of Goldeneye the series has been revitalized both creatively and in terms of box office power. Pierce Brosnan, the 5^th man to play James Bond, deserves much of that credit. His take on 007 is the best since Sean Connery’s; combining the character’s intrinsic cruelty with just enough tongue-in-cheek charm. Bond fits Brosnan like a tailored Sevile Row suit. In The World Is Not Enough, the 19^th installment of the MGM/UA series, he continues to build on his credentials.

The film opens in Spain, where Bond is sent to retrieve $5 million from a crooked Swiss banker. The mission results in an assassination of a billionaire industrialist and culminates in a spectacular speedboat chase (the series’ best) down the Thames river and downtown London; bringing the action home for a change. All this before the title sequence. The rest of the plot follows Bond as he protects the industrialist’s beautiful (of course) daughter, played well by Sophie Marceau, and attempts to capture international terrorist Renard (The Full Monty’s Robert Carlyle). For a change, the film’s plot is actually its strong point. This is as complex as the series has ever gotten. There are plenty of twists and turns and, believe it or not, real character development. Even Bond himself is humanized somewhat by an injury suffered in the opener that keeps recurring throughout the film. This guy is human after all. But not all the elements come together in a satisfactory way.

The World Is Not Enough is directed by Michael Apted, director of such “chick flicks” as Nell and The Coalminer’s Daughter. Apted is probably the series’ most high profile director to date, and he does bring a dramatic weight to the film that was virtually non-existent before. Where the film fails, however, is the action. Aside from the opening chase, all the action set pieces have a “been there, done that” quality that is reminiscent of the John Glen directed Bonds of the late ‘80s. The ski chase, for example, is probably the series weakest ever. Bond’s car seems like nothing more than product placement. And the mediocre finale is, once again set on a submarine, just like in the last Bond film. Did the producers forget? The goon Renard, who is described as a virtual superman early on in the film, never gets much to do outside of holding hot rocks in his bare hands (ooh!). And when it comes to a final showdown between him and Bond, 007 virtually bitch slaps him. The other Bond girl, Dr. Christmas Jones (Denise Richards), is downright laughable. Way too young to be a nuclear scientist and delivering all of her lines as though she’s auditioning for a high school production of “You Can’t Take It With You”. That’s a shame, especially after a string of terrific Bond women in Goldeneye and Tomorrow Never Dies.  There are some nice moments provided by Robbie Coltrane as the lovable Russian mobster from Goldeneye and ex-Python John Cleese as Q’s replacement, but the film does drag somewhat. And after the last plot twist kicks in, it’s cruise control time.

In the end, it’s almost pointless to grade James Bond films in comparison to the rest of action cinema. The series is it’s own entity and as each new 007 movie comes out, one invariably has to judge it against previous Bond films. Unfortunately, despite its dramatic strengths, The World Is Not Enough falls below Tomorrow Never Dies and Goldeneye. Fans will enjoy much of it, but the series and Brosnan still have a better film in them. Maybe next century.

U571

The Sub-Mariner is probably my favorite of the Combat-Film sub-genres.  I love the way most of the action in psychological rather than physical; the claustrophobic tension. U-571 is a worthy addition to this crop, but I doubt it’ll ever make the list of anybody’s favorite sub-marine pictures. For one, it’s wholly unoriginal; melding the plots of Run Silent Run Deep and The Hunt For Red October into a WWII heist-chase thriller. The object of pursuit this time is the Enigma decoding machine that’s causing us to “lose the war”, as one character points out. (Didn’t James Bond steal one of these things in From Russia With Love?) Actually, the real Enigma was hijacked by the British navy, but… who gives a shit about those kind of historical details! Besides, who wants to watch a bunch of pasty-faced, effeminate Limeys running around a sub for two hours? Instead we get a crew of young US Naval dudes led by everybody favorite bongo player, Matthew McConaughey. We also get Harvey Keitel, David Kieth, Bill Paxton, and John BonJovi, absolutely brilliant in his portrayal of Lt. Nofrigginideahegotkilledfortyminutesago! I’m not trying to pick on BonJovi, here; it was impossible to create a real character in this film, because once it started rolling… who had time for that?

U-571 is pretty exciting. It pushes most of the right buttons in terms of action storytelling. Mainly it never stops long enough for you to concentrate on story points that make no sense.  (Why do submarines always have to “head” someplace? Couldn’t they just stay put at a logical location for a rendezvous?) It was also the loudest film I’ve ever experienced. Actually, Columbia will be hearing from my attorney about that. 

McConaughey (hey!) is Lt. Andy Tyler - not Taylor; a role Tom Cruise was born to play. Andy is an intense career opportunist who doesn’t seem to care much about why he’s fighting the Germans. But nobody in the film really does. U571 is about achieving professionalism. The characters’ highest aspiration is to “just do their job” and Andy must learn to do his as Captain. That job, unfortunately involves sending his buddies to their deaths, but what the hey McConaughey!?

“Professional” pretty much describes Jonathan Mostow’s direction, too. He keeps it all moving along at a brisk pace, gradually building the tension to the point where you really don’t care if you identify with any of these characters or not. You’re in it for the ride. This “Star Wars”, film-as-amusement-park-ride mentality is standard in all big Hollywood releases, but is not really suitable WWII genre pictures; the subject matter demands more weight, more philosophy if you will. The ride does work, however and most of the audience seemed to enjoy it all quite a bit. What I’ll remember from U571 are shots of actors waiting to be hit by depth charges. That’s about all the impact it has, when you come right down to it. Everything else just floats away like bubbles from a sinking U-boat.

X-MEN

7/31/00

A solid effort by director Bryan Singer. Not a great film by any means, but one that stays faithful to its source material. Patrick Stewart leads a band of super powered genetic mutants against Holocaust survivor Magneto (Sir Ian McKellen), bent on inadvertent genocide. We meet plenty of other mutants; some good others bad. There’s some big action sequences and some big talk about racism and bigotry. It ends on an “up” sequel-ready note. You forget it all two hours later.

Just like the comic book.

Actually, I grew up reading X-Men comics. And if I had been 14 or 15, I would have probably loved this movie. But, at 32 it seems a bit silly to me. There’s some fun action stuff and the film’s producers certainly knew the material well enough to mess with it a little. Hugh Jackman plays Logan/Wolverine, the film’s main protagonist. A Bogart-like character, Logan must be convinced to join the fight. Through him we meet the other X-Men as well as the Brotherhood gang (probably the coolest aspect of this film). Jackman’s good, but a bit too cuddly for my taste. I like my Wolverine mean and nasty, but I guess a psychotic lead character would be hard to swallow. Overall, I’d say Jackman carries the film well. Everybody else also does a fine job too, especially Stewart and Femke Jennsen as Jean Grey. (I don’t know who I’m in love with more Jean or Femke?) That’s the film’s main success: making these guys seem human. That so often gets lost in comic book adaptations. Singer does some good work with his actors here, but he is sabotaged by his editing. I heard that almost forty minutes of the original cut have been edited out after a preview screening. That certainly explains why X-Men is so choppy and disjointed.

But please don’t expect too much. Maybe X-Men II will be better.

3:10 TO YUMA

9/11/07

The western is the ‘genre that wouldn’t die’. Every time it seems that nothing more can be said by a man in a cowboy hat, along comes a ‘Dances With Wolves’, an ‘Unforgiven’, or a ‘Deadwood’ to prove everybody wrong. This year brings two major westerns to the big screen: 3:10 To Yuma and The Assassination of Jesse James. Both are A-list, straight up genre exercises that threaten to re-ignite the western as a pertinent American film milieu. Both will probably fail; and I say this without glee because I happen to love westerns.

3:10 To Yuma is a remake of a Glenn Ford film from about ’57. I never saw the original, which means most people never saw it, which means it’s a perfect film to remake. (Unlike many film geeks, I’m all for remaking flawed or forgotten films.)  This seems like homerun material right out of the gate. James Mangold, coming off a fine Johnny Cash bio seems poised for a top-notch crowd-pleaser, assembles a dream cast. Hell, any film starring Russell Crowe is worth seeing. But Russell Crowe and Christian Bale… holy crap! It’s a must-see just to watch these guys share the screen. Put these two in a classic shoot-‘em-up, and how can you go wrong? Here’s how.

Bale plays Dan Evans, a crippled, down-on-his-luck rancher, who volunteers, for pay, to help escort a captured gang leader, Ben Wade to a train that will take him to Yuma prison.  Along for the ride is Dan’s teenage son who loathes his father, and obviously admires the charismatic Wade. Dan’s challenge is to deliver Wade alive, before Wade’s gang, led by the surprisingly effective Ben Foster, catch up with them, rescue their beloved leader; and kill everybody else. During the perilous journey, Dan and Wade develop a strange connection; the two men seem to really understand one another, though Wade is obviously manipulating Dan all the way. This relationship, in fact, is the heart of the film. And watching Bale and Crowe play their scenes together, one gets the feeling that you’re watching two of the finest screen actors in the business; it’s like listening to Miles Davis play with John Coltrane. Pure joy! For the first two acts of Yuma, the interaction between these two guys is so great, it’s well worth the price of admission. Then, it all collapses so fundamentally and spectacularly, that the whole thing just leaves a terrible taste in your mouth; like eating a delicious feast that gives you food poisoning.

What goes wrong?

Let me backtrack. All film genres go