Gerry(February 6, 2003)
You better like Casey Affleck and Matt Damon, because you'll be seeing a lot of them (you'll notice I said SEE and not HEAR... sans their shoes against the gritty ground or their pants rustling in the desert gales) in Gus Van Sant's long-last comeback to making the type of films he was made to make. I mean, PSYCHO and GOOD WILL HUNTING we could all excuse, but FINDING FORRESTER? Lest we forget his ridiculous cameo in JAY AND SILENT BOB STRIKE BACK...? But, all should be forgiven, for GERRY truly proves that Gus is as good as his word, has the passion and love few American filmmakers/artists/people possess today, and can still shake us up, blow us away, and make us sit there for two hours watching, well, pretty much nothin'.
Beautiful, magnificent, ethereal, true, raw and wonderfully hypnotic, this calming, comfortable piece is like a good piece of music you put on while doing homework or chatting with friends on your dusty ol' couch. You can pay attention or kind of drift off... it's not bombarding you with constant and abrassive John Williams scores or bright lights, big booms, annoying celebrities (well... ), or turgid plotlines that take three hours to view. It's just a nice piece for you to rest by, to relax, and to just take a breather from all the crap out there (and in the theaters these days).
Hope you'll enjoy it, but a lot of people walked out of the theater. Please understand: this is a movie in which two guys with the same first name (we never learn their last names) get lost on a hike and try to find their way back to their car. No hyperbole here: nothing else happens. Cathartic and revelatory, but certainly not action-packed. Long shots galore that can sometimes take up to a minute or two of the boys walking across a mountain peak are all over this picture, so don't expect anything else... but, if you can do it, you'll be pleasantly pleased.
Lost in La Mancha(February 6, 2003)
Now, I'm a fan of documentaries. Especially those about the making (or, in this case, the unmaking) of films. Especially those films made by filmmakers of whom I idolize, such as Terry Gilliam. This inimatible, loveable, passionate, insane, infantile character makes the perfect marque folcrum for such a film... but the documentarians just seemed to draw short slightly.
Much like IN THE SHADOWS OF MOTOWN, the subject matter was vibrant, amazing, astounding, revolutionary, shocking, and intimate... but the documentary itself was anything but. Basically, we learn only that which anyone seeing the documentary in the first place already knows. Terry Gilliam fucked up big time once too many times, and might finally have had his cummupins, as his never-to-be opus, THE MAN WHO KILLED DON QUIXOTE, loosely based on Cervantes' epic, surrealist-realist novel, falls completely apart with everything from planes flying over head during production to freak flash floods sweeping away equipment to actors getting sick and actors not even showing up at all (including Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis, the two principles).
Unfortunately, we see, but never feel the anguish and frustration of Gilliam. We never go past that which we could just very well read in the Trades, as I would imagine, again, most people have whose interest would be piqued in the first place. Frankly, if you don't know anything about the man behind some of the most important American films ever made including: BRAZIL, TWELVE MONKEYS, THE FISHER KING, FEAR & LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS, and the Monty Python sketches/movies, you probably wouldn't get it anyway.
Confessions of a Dangerous Mind(January 12, 2003)
Most people could probably care less about Chuck Barris, the innovator behind such dribble as "The Gong Show," "The Dating Game," and a few other peripheral derridols. In fact, most people probably could even care less about the fact that Mr. Barris might have or might have not been an operative for the CIA during the Cold War. However, I cared a great deal about this idea, as, in the words of Andy Warhol, it is the banal that intrigues me. Now, as precocious as I might seem or am, it really matters not because, frankly, I find more intrigue in a film about the creator of a bunch of shitty television shows from the late 70's than a film about how New York was cultivated through bloodbaths and riots (which, in actuality, were usually a lot less brutal than certain filmmakers would make us think, much like the Boston Tea Party).
Anywho, everyone kept the film alive throughout the entire picture. I hated to admit it, but I could not help but be hypnotized by George Clooney's (or, maybe, Steven Soderbergh's) able-minded direction style, in its wry stylistic vision, mixing music video aesthetics of today with the saturated video look of television gameshows of the 70's. The music helped transplant me to the world and mind of Barris, as well, as did the magnificent acting on the part of all involved. I normally cannot stand looking at the frog-pig beast Julia Roberts, but as she was fortunately only in the film for all of about ten minutes, a little dab'll do ya, as my old shop teacher used to say. And, she really didn't bother me too much this time round. Sam Rockwell and Clooney both allowed themselves to be lost in the film, as Drew Barrymore, though certainly not at her "Poison Ivy" best, rang true as the hapless Penny, unaware of her fiancee's possible dark history.
I have been greatly disappointed with Charlie Kaufman's screenplays made into film, as I read pretty much all of them a few years ago, back when I thought there was no one someone would actually make them into film. However, "Confessions of a Dangerous Mind" is the closest I've seen yet to keeping with Kaufman's absurdist pesudo-cartoon worldly mind, rife with sexual tension, mental frusrtation, and peppered beautifully with a few homages and quotations here and there from everyone from Thomas Carlyle to Dick Clark.
Again, you might not give a damn about Chuck Barris, but hopefully, you'll give this flick a try anyway, and not really worry about the fact that you're watching a movie about "The Gong Show," but instead realize that you're watching a film about the guy who made "The Gong Show"! That is fucking weird!
Max(January 12, 2003)
I've actually seen this film twice already, and I'm already contemplating a third. Maybe it's because I've been reading "Mein Kampf" for the second time (now doing my own little project with the book), or maybe it's just because I think that films that actually try to delve into the minds of those normally not allowed to be delved into are grand regardless (as long as they're not dumb).
"Max," from Enno Meyers, the writer of "Empire of the Sun," "The Color Purple," and a few of the other Herr Schpielberg flicks that were made before Steve became a kook, takes an unparalleled look into the mindset and emotional state of Adolf Hitler as a young artist before he had the chance or know-how to kill six million people and almost take over the world. The film truly takes a gander at this little, angry, punk-rock kid who never had a chance to slam-dance or rant frustrated little tidbits about Straight Edge in a dingy stage because, well, he just was a bit ahead of his time. So, instead of taking the same type of frustration we all have at this age out on others to the tunes of Black Flag or Sonic Youth, he instead takes a few steps towards the dark world of propaganda and politics, forever just questing on his way to a life of the famous artist.
What I loved so dearly about the picture is the fact that there's really no reference to the fact that Adolf Hitler is Adolf Hitler, except for the fact that his name happens to be Adolf Hitler and that every now and then, he makes some seething anti-semetic remark (though eschews it later, as merely a new type of art piece). We are allowed to empathize with the silly, stupid, insepid little cry-baby Hitler, rather than sympathize with him or even, dare we say, hate the arriveste. Interestingly enough, the film's main character is in fact not Hitler, but rather, Max Rothman, one of the art dealers a party to the Dada period of art in the late 20's and early 30's of Germany at the time. We meet a vast array of various others such as George Grosz and Max Ernst, learning of Duchamp's implication that art is dead because in the future all will be art, and so forth.
Noah Hathaway and John Cusack are the perfect match of mentor-protege (eventually transforming, to an extent, to child being the father of the man), and even Leelee Sobieski isn't too annoying. The film is just beautiful, filled to the brim with artwork, amazing sets, and a certain tone that I've rarely seen in cinema in the past few years. Give it a go, even if you haven't read "Mein Kampf" (twice).
Chicago(January 12, 2003)
I feel afforded the credence to say very little about "Chicago," as everyone else seems to be talking about it for me. Though, of course, they're all saying the wrong things. My award for "Emperor's New Clothes Syndrome," (which seems to have permeated everyone involved in the film/entertainment industry in years past) goes to... "Chicago" (obviously... why would I talk about another film in this review? What are you, simple?)
My Jesus, after the first ten minutes, I realized it was time to leave the theater. Not that I mind watching Catherine Zeta-Jones sing and dance for ten minutes straight, then watch Renee Zelweger sing and dance for ten minutes straight, then watch Richard Gere sing and dance for ten minutes straight, but I do (mind). Frankly, this film is a brilliant, shining example of just how well Hollywood/Media has tricked even the actors THEMSELVES into believing they're truly better than they actually are. I mean, for chrissakes, I make no hyperbole in saying that the whole movie is based SOLELY on the screen presence of these three actors. The sets and lighting sequences are vaguely reminiscent of a Kelly Osbourne music video, with all cathexis on the one actor/actress involved in the dance routine at that time.
It just grows more and more boring over time, as each and every scene is just one more routine, one more observation of how incredibly jaded and narcissistic these actors are, how well they've fooled themselves to think they can carry each successive scene, which they, as any sane person could tell you, can not do.
Spare yourself the money of seeing "Chicago," and just buy yourself an issue of "Us Magazine" or an old photo album of Gere, Zelweger, or Zeta-Jones, flipping through it with a glass of brandy, while watching "Moulin Rouge," and you'll have the same affect.
The Hours(January 12, 2003)
Yawn. This movie was even more gay than all the characters in the film were apparently supposed to be in this travisty of a piece of shit of a joke of a film. I only stayed as long as I did because it was so fucking funny watching how pretentious and ridiculous a flick could be, how it could just spew out random tidbits of metaphors and poetry, how it could elucidate upon life, love, and the world at large (without committing itself to cinematic expression, but rather simply allowing the characters to say whatever it was on their mind, or rather, the mind of the screenwriter).
As soon as Ed Harris appears on screen, I knew it was time to go, for fear that I would "ruin" the film-going experience for the old bitties around me, crying and laughing at the same time because, ostensibly, they're a bunch of manic-depressives. Normally, I'm a fan of Harris, but he really fell off the wagon in this one, as I just gave up entirely. It was when Jeff Bridges came aboard and made sure everyone knew he was from San Francisco so that those squares in the audience could know just how gay he really is supposed to be, that I left the theater, never to return.
Russian Ark(January 12, 2003)
A brilliant, beautiful culmination of 300 years of Russian history, in a landmark cinematic event that conquers almost every other endeavor attempted this year by another filmmaker. Of course, the film is foreign, made by a bunch of cats who decided it's time to fuck with us all by, yes you heard right, allowing one long shot (89 minutes) to transpire without cut, going through over three decades of Russian history, with, yes you heard right, over 2000 actors. More intriguing is the fact that the filmmakers apparently had no rehearsals and just went and did it without fear of repercussion.
You truly lose yourself in this ethereal think piece, where every time you find yourself softly lulled to sleep, you awaken in the same place, the same time, and the same magnificent Russian palace where the entire movie takes place. There's really nothing else to say, so I'll just leave you with, "Take some drugs and go see this. Maybe Valium or Avril." Love, Matt
Catch Me If You Can(January 12, 2003)
You know, I have to admit it: this movie was a lot better than I had expected. I mean, sure, now that Tom Hanks has left his "Bossom Buddies"/"Bachelor Party"/"Family Ties" days long behind him, and has decided instead to make dribble like "Castaway" and "My Big Fat Piece of Fuck," I thought we've lost him to the world of Herr Schipelberg, but apparently, his mind has been left not totally lobotomized, as he can still ably play a whole new character without forcefully trying to make us cry, and even allowing us permission to laugh a little. Even Spielberg himself, though not originally the director of the film when it was first developed over twenty years ago, decided to allow us to just enjoy ourselves and not be hammered into the ground by yet another overwhelming, booming score by John Williams or his patented "filmmaker insecurity" inferority problem. He regresses, fortunately, back to the basics, making a fun popcorn flick that even angry, repressed, pretentious indie fans like myself can enjoy.
The ending went on way too long, proving that Stevie still has that inferiority problem, and that it will probably haunt him until he drinks himself into the grave, but what can you say? It's not like he was ever a good filmmaker in the first place. We should expect only what we get. And, with "Catch me if you Can," we even got a little more than what we expected. Good job, Steve! You did it! We love you again!
Love Liza(January 12, 2003)
This movie was just awful. The nerdy guy from "High Fidelity"/Chad from "Jerry Maguire" falls flat on his face with the help of Philip Seymour Hoffman's fledgling writer of a brother, in this mundane and boring, pedantic mish-mash of a film about, well, I don't really know what, but I'm sure somebody did.
As usual, the film leans on that age old plan of making the protagonist a "computer person" so that he can go off and find himself in America without worry of losing money, so that he can just flounder about, sniff his gasoline (???), and meet new and interesting people who help him with his quest of himself, eventually being disappointed that when he does, there's nothing there. "Center of the World" was pretty much the same movie, but at least Molly Parker, though old and skeletal, was somewhat pretty to look at.
I just couldn't follow what was happening, namely because nothing was at all, and though the acting was so-so (what can you expect from Hoffman? He's going to be good no matter what he's in), and was irritated to the core that Jim O'Rourke, who happens to be my favorite living musician this month, blankets the entire film, casting a very odd, incongrous mood on the entire picture, as if what was being said should create some sort of edification for us that just wasn't there. Normally, O'Rourke enlightens me with every note, but here, I was just mad and upset.
25th Hour(January 12, 2003)
Though nowhere near his recent opus, "Bamboozeld," Spike Lee surprises me yet again, by allowing some of the ever-present chip on his shoulder to be left where it belongs (on his shoulder and not in his films) and just make a pretty decent, very simple little piece about one man's redemption, and his voyage into a city and life that has so recently and spontaneoulsy been destroyed.
The acting is sensational, first and foremost. This is one of the plethora of films that we see Philip Seymour Hoffman this season, and though his and Anna Paquin's little corollary chapter has absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the film whatsoever (lasting, in fact, only a few minutes, then never being returned to again), the pair are astounding, both the best in their league, and, though I usually relegate myself to such speech, "Christ, Anna Paquin is hot as fuck!" Of course, this is in fact what Lee excels at most of all: making women, no matter if they're Rosie Perez or Milla Jovovich, look their very, very, very best, utilizing moist sweat, gritty lighting, and just perfect clothing, makeup, accents, and bodywears to make any actress look perfect, yet just out of reach (as he did amazingly, though without too much need for the exterior, from the immaculate Rosario Dawson).
Unfortunately, there are a few little skews from the main story, as Ed Norton, who was at his very best in this one, goes off on a five minute rant about New York (yeah, it was cool, but it was totally extranneous), and as the movie ends with a blatant and totally unneccessary rip-off of "Raising Arizona's" epilogue, but wadda ya gonna do. Though it had much difficulty being made, I'm glad someone decided "25th Hour" was worth the wait. It definitely LOOKED great, if nothing else.
Modvern Caller(January 12, 2003)
I love Samantha Morton. I think she's gorgeous and extremely talented. One of the few actresses around today who actually can act and don't make me wretch. The film is basically just her, as a young woman on the run from a terrible incident she wishes not to deal with, as she flies around the globe on minute adventure after another with her best friend in the whole world (ably played by a non-actor, as with most of the film, many non-actors) and accompanied by an ecclectic ring of music given to her by her ex-boyfriend, playing everything from Ween to the Velvet Underground.
The cinematography was simply amazing, and just the brutal sense of realism with a certain akward surrealism made the film great and greater.
10 Best of 2002(January 4, 2003)
OK, gang, without first having seen Chicago, Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, Catch me if you Can, The Hours, Russian Ark, Love Liza, or Lost in La Mancha, here are my favorite and not-so-favorite films of 2002 (with a tince run-off from 2001 and to 2003). Remember, loved ones, this was one of the most disparaging years of cinema (worldwide and otherwise) that we've ever experienced, at least in our generation, so other than the top three best, I couldn't quite care as much about the others, still OK in their own right, yes? Also, remember to throw bricks at movie theaters. Man, movies sure did suck this year!
1) The Piano Teacher: you didn't see it because everyone told you it was slow and pretentious, or maybe they just didn't know about it at all, and when you asked them what movie to see, they said "My Big Fat Greek Wedding"... had they not been saddened by 9/11 and in need of some time of saccharine release through untalentless drivel, they would have instead said, "Why, a film for 2002? Are you mad? At the very least, we have 'The Piano Teacher,' which emmenates human emotion, as if on tap. Watch it, and... feel. I love you." That's EXACTLY what they should have said. Haneke's Code Unknown came out in America this year, too, but it actually came out the year before... I would reccommend this piece, as well
2) Hell House: you didn't see it at all because it probably didn't even come to your theater, even if you do live in LA or New York (you lucky bastard, you!... except in this case)... you'd think a cinema verite styled documentary about a group of fanatical Christians setting up an "anti-haunted house" haunted house with key purpose in mind to frighten the bejesus out of people under the guise of heathenous Halloween in order to win them back to the Lord might be boring and derivative, but then you're just not American (or, in this case, maybe too much so)... give it a go, because unlike the innovative Christopher Guest mock-u-mentaries, the freaky-freak freaks in THIS flick are REAL!!
3) Max: who, other than your intrepid reviewer, would ever call a movie in which its most empathetic character is the man responsible for those silly German barbershop haircuts? if you guessed your intrepid reviewer, you are correct... the third and last of the films that made me feel anything at all while in a theater this year, Max bravely and deftly takes us inside the world and emotional instability of one of history's most misunderstood murderers in a fresh fashion that will educate, inspire, and enlighten... but, please don't kill 6m people (thanx)
4) The Pianist: unlike Max, The Pianist takes a look at the Holocaust from a different point-of-view: one of absolute horror, disgust, and fear (how bold!)... anywho, Polanski rarely steers us wrong, and he does so not this time round, as well... The Pianist is a ripe remedy for surely one of the year's biggest disappointments: Gangs of New York (which, actually, was not nearly as terrible as one would think, but truly, anyone could have directed the film with such immaculate production/art design and the like) in which the sets, costumes, actors, etc. are actually used for the film rather than just allowing them to stand there and be edited together very, very inconsistently; no, rather than doing that, Polanski takes us into the everyday struggle of a young pianist trying to survive war-stricken German ghettoes while still maintaining his passion for his instrument (heh, heh: instrument)
5) Morvern Callar: another film you probably didn't get to hear about while you were busy watching 45 minutes worth of commericials before viewing About Schmidt... proving yet again that though American woman can't direct to save their career (sans Nora Ephron, who occassionally succeeded, I suppose... eh) yet the foreigner broads know their shite better than most American MEN, we are taken into the Scottish life of two nice young ladies who drink, party, and party while drinking... with authentic actors (meaning, hmm... OK, they're not actually actors, many of them, but still act better than you or I) and an eccentric organic soundtrack, the film's cinematography and general mood bring about this terrific Friday morning thrill that can't be beat... I mean, Samantha Morton: what else do you want?
6) Mai's America: Requiem for a Dream or Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas both capably succeeded in proving the downhill slope of the myth of the American Dream, but then again, both were more or less fiction... you want to see an actual young lady's life totally destroyed by, well, us? (or US) then check this documentary out about a naive teenage Vietnamese girl coming to America to find Disneyland, and discovering instead that we're all a bunch of disgraceful White Trash rednecks, predjudiced and easily manipulated by Christian fanaticism, all the while not having the patience or compassion to help out any of the new kids find a job or speak English correctly... though frightened Daddy'll beat her good back home, Mai eventually leaves the USA, probably never to return
7) Spellbound: these lucky fucks didn't really do too much with their documentary, except leave the camera on at the National Spelling Bee, but boy what they found there, so I suppose I don't enviously despise them as much as others... a prime example of the insepid educational system at work, Spellbound drags us through the harsh mires of studying thousands of words for hours a day, the pressure and sweat of an actual spelling bee up on stage in our nation's capitol (I think), and the wins, but mainly losses, for these sometimes tiniest of tykes who one would think could barely spell his name, yet are spelling words like anthropomorphism
8) Spider: yes, maybe this film wasn't as good as you wanted it to be (or, you maybe didn't see it), but it's Cronenberg... and not only is it Cronenberg, but its direction and silent derision is so hauntingly intriguing that you just end up sitting back in your seat, and softly sighing as you simply enjoy the range of emotions and the interweaving tale of a man (played by Ralph Fiennes, who hardly talks, but mainly grunts or mumbles throughout the whole picture) who hallucinates constantly about the time when he was a bright-eyed little boy who murdered his mom (or step-mom, depending on how you take it... don't worry, a woman is put to sleep either way)
9) Secretary: one of the most astute reviews of Punch-Drunk Love I've heard all year was my friend Mike who told me, "Fun to watch, hard to like"... I believe this to be true of both Punch-Drunk and Secretary, but somehow, Secretary just did it for me a bit better... the tale of a sadist meeting up with a masochist in a love bound to make you feel like fuckin' and then punching your lover in the nose, Secretary does for modern romantic-comedies (???) what Lolita did for pedophiliac love stories, in that it makes us all feel a little less guilty about having evil, evil, evil thoughts... the acting was tip-top, the direction was fresh and wry, and the script was cutting, though in all fairness, the third act (to be the film student you know I am!) was dumb as dumb could dumb
10) Talk to Her: what movie in which a portion of it contains a silent-film era repro in which a shrinking man crawls inside a woman's vagina couldn't be considered great? certainly not this movie, that's for sure... the end
Special Mention (in no particular order): Punch-Drunk Love (fun to watch, hard to like), Das Experiment (why wasn’t this marketed better?), Bowling for Columbine (I don’t care if you think Michael Moore is mean to Charlteon Heston; someone had to do it), Tadpole (why see Igby goes Down?), Personal Velocity (sure looked good), Crime of Father Amaro (better than Y Tu Mama), Y Tu Mama Tambien (better than other movies), Far from Heaven (disappointing, but still Todd Haynes), The Good Girl (better every time I see it), The 25th Hour (sure looked good), Roger Dodger (you know, there’s one scene towards the end that was pretty damn good), Hysterical Blindness (Gena Rowlands, Ben Gazzara, and those two other chicks? can’t go wrong)
The year of the passionless, simple film, of the huge studio vehicles hidden under the guise of independent labors, of overused voice-over and uncinematic exchanges of exposition for fear of insecurity on the part of the director, and of a bland look with overwhelming scores blasting us into submission has finally come to a welcomed close. On the horizon? More adaptations and sequels. Where's Ken Park when we need it?
10 WORST (AND I MEAN, JESUS FUCKING CHRIST BAD) MOVIES OF 2002(January 4, 2003)
1) The Believer: OK, as difficult as it was to figure out the absolute WORST film of the year, I would go with The Believer only because it's not even a movie in the first place... fortunately, you'll probably never even be bothered by any marketing or nothin' for this pile of shite since no one wants to show it or see it, so don't fret
2) Full Frontal: close to not-being-a-movie, Soderbergh proves just how much he next to take a few years off and stop making a movie every weekend with the gang almost as well as he proves, yet again (man, they really want to drive this home!) just how ugly and untalented Julia Roberts truly is (by the by, though she would do whatever Steve-o asked vis-a-vis this "groundbreaking" piece of revolutionary cinema, she would not fuck with her hair as asked, wearing instead a wig... celebrities: the crack me up)... boring, pedantic, melodramatic, and futile... I knew that "joke" or whatever about how porn stars supposedly come up with their name when I was six years old
3) CQ: the mind behind all the Strokes' music videos brings us into a world of being the most privileged young man in all of Hollywood... rather than telling his father he loves him and that he has been contemplating being a filmmaker, Roman Coppola takes the easy way out and just makes a movie, which (hopefully, so at least something comes out of this swill) accomplishes its task... awww, how cute... a fun sidenote: a buddy of mine actually was along the ride from the early days of the "film," in which, but two years ago (three?) the film was finished in its "first draft" (much like when you doodle on your notebook paper: just think of it as $4m notebook paper) and informed me, "Yeah, CQ wasn't great, but you should've seen the first version. I'm proud of Roman for improving his work, at least"... yikes
4) My Big Fat Greek Wedding: would've been fan-fucking-TASTIC had it not had NSYNC member Joey Fatone in it... oh, and it was also poorly acted, poorly written, poorly made, boring, sappy, silly, and hopelessly pathetic in its cinderella simplicity (fat girl decides to be pretty, takes off her glasses and loses weight, buys much much new clothes, and is now pretty and serendiptously finds Mr. Right the next day... ain't life grand, with an occassional twist?)... I wouldn't be too enraged about this thing if it wasn't getting all these accolaides for being this big, new independent film... this film was as bold as it was independent (you figure it out)
5) Looking through Lillian: you didn't see it, and you shouldn't
6) Wasabi: Luc Besson was one of my favorites; I mean, Leon, Le Femme Nakita, The Big Blue, The Fifth Element (hey, it was fun), but then he just decided to fall off... Messenger: Joan of Arc started the decline until, PLAP: Wasabi... Jean Reno's funny in it, I guess, and it started off as quite a vibrant parody of Dirty Harry flicks (until you, and the rest of the audience, much like with Baby Boy realize, "Oh, this isn't SUPPOSED to be a parody. He's serious") Oh, well
7) Jackass: The Movie: I love movies that you can't criticize because they were made explicitly to be criticized, but not this one
8) About a Boy: I'm going to say it right here, because apparently everyone else missed it: Wasn't this movie god-awful? I don't get it... when I made the mistake of watching this thing a few months ago (stranded at a motel, and those pay-per view deals in most lodgings either have porn or Disney flicks), I finished only out of boredom in leu for anything else to do in the middle of nowhere, I was sure that others would feel the same way I did... I didn't think there was question, and in fact had forgotten about it... until the Golden Globe noms, when suddenly it's everywhere!! What the hell? I thought American Beauty was sugary and one-dimensional, but Jesus! Don't see this movie! Don't say it was good! Cuz, it wasn't! What, are you retarded? Damn it! Bad!
9) Signs: Yawwwwnnnnn... the only sign here is "STOP"... if only Night would eat his spinach and get a bit of confidence, he would make another movie like Six Sense and stop worrying about making us laugh every five seconds like your scared buddy who never talks, unless it's to make a fart joke... and, I mean, c'mon, folks: any movie where the ending is complete with a five minute long montage of EVERY SINGLE THING THAT HAS HAPPENED THUS FAR makes one wonder, "Huh. So, I didn't need to see those last two hours? Thanks for wasting my mothafuckin' time, mothafucka!"
10) 8 Mile: the hip-hop Crossroads... you only liked it because you're some rich, old coot with balding white hair, glasses, and a cashmere sweater who thinks that black people are interesting, or because you are such a hapless Eminem fan that your mind was blocked to the fact that he didn't even write any of his "raps" in the film (and the soundtrack was sparse enough, where one wondered, "Where did all those songs from the soundtrack album come from?"), or because you're paralyzed and enjoy watching the pretty greens and blues of ultra-gritty Detroit
Unspecial Mention: Igby Goes Down (see Tadpole instead), Adaptation (maybe I’m bias because I read the original screenplay way-back-when), About Schmidt (was about nothin’), The Ring (although, in all fairness, it did scare me for some reason later in the night, which is the first time that’s happened since I think I was five years old with all the Freddy Krueger flicks)
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