Brian Orndorf
- BRIAN'S BIO
- COMMENT ON BRIAN'S REVIEWS
- READ OTHER COMMENTS

Love Actually
(November 6, 2003)

It’s only five weeks until Christmas in London, and love is in the air for a large variety of citizens. There’s a married couple (Emma Thompson and national treasure Alan Rickman) facing relationship woes. An emotionally-burdened office worker (Laura Linney), who secretly desires a co-worker. A widower (Liam Neeson) who is trying to piece his life back together while helping his stepchild (Thomas Sangster) land a girlfriend. Two adult film lighting stand-ins (Joanna Page and Martin Freeman) who connect while at work. A lonely young man (Andrew Lincoln) who secretly desires his best friend’s wife (Kira Knightley). An aging rocker (Bill Nighy) who is taking his manager for granted. A romantically undesirable man (Kris Marshall) who feels he must travel to America to find love. A writer (Colin Firth) who is pining for his maid (Lucia Moniz). And the Prime Minister (Hugh Grant), who can’t keep his assistant (Martine McCutcheon) out of his head. All these people collide during the holiday weeks as they try to find love in the face of overwhelming odds.

“Love Actually” is the latest crushingly happy affair from Working Title Films, the producers of “Four Weddings and a Funeral, “Notting Hill,” and “Bridget Jones’s Diary.” The company has elected to give screenwriter Richard Curtis his first big shot at directing, having already scripted the aforementioned smashes, along with his extensive work on the “Mr. Bean” franchise. For his big debut behind the camera, Curtis has made the excellent decision and decided to call in every possible favor from the top tier of British acting talent. He has also added a pinch of American intelligence (Linney) and eye-candy (Shannon Elizabeth, Denise Richards, Elisha Cuthbert, and January Jones appear briefly), and has chosen the greatest cinematic holiday from which to work from: Christmas. “Love Actually” is smug, childish, clichéd, unrelentingly and sickeningly upbeat, and when Hugh Grant decides to shake his ass to the Pointer Sisters’ “Jump (For My Love),” the picture becomes embarrassingly silly. But, inner-preciousness detectors be damned, I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. “Love” isn’t the most romantic featured I’ve come into contact with, but it’s the one film that stands out in brilliant colors for being so defiantly in love with the idea of love. Bombastic audience-hooting moments aside, Curtis has written his best film yet, and found time to direct the hell out of it as well. And it’s even gloriously R-rated!

Assembling a cast of about 20 main characters (the above synopsis leaves a lot of people out) to follow in the continually intertwining story, “Love Actually” often resembles a Robert Altman film if it were on Prozac and maybe a touch of Viagra. It zigzags through two handfuls of stories about all kinds of love found in the world, whether it’s platonic, romantic, fraternal, reliable, detestable, forgettable, desirable, taken for granted, or so heartfelt it crushes all in its path. Curtis opens the film up in an airport, having Hugh Grant explain to the audience that no matter how impossible the world can be, there is always a capacity for love in humanity, seen everyday in the arrivals area of the average airport. This sets the tone expertly since, as saccharine as the plot and the characters appear to be, Curtis maintains a level of realism not often seen in a picture this fanciful and filled with holiday cheer. Yes, there are the romantic comedy staples such as a last minute dash to find the one true woman that dreams are made of, oodles of meet cutes, and there is a teetering on the brink of truly nauseating romantic comedy dialog that Curtis has been known to dish out time and again in his earlier scripts. But the malarkey stops right at the point of no return. There isn’t a silver lining to some of the characters’ futures, and Curtis doesn’t pretend that he knows all the answers. Like another gem from 2003, “Lost In Translation,” there is a palatable sense of regret strung, much like the tinsel, throughout “Love,” with heartbreaking characters unable to get what they want, or unable to voice their desires clearly. It’s in these delicious glimpses of frustrated yearning that Curtis develops a real bond with his characters and the audience, balancing out the more improbable takes on romance with little eggnog sips of aching reality.

To wax rhapsodic about the cast would take days, so suffice it to say that this is one amazing ensemble. Extra credit is certainly due for Emma Thompson’s return to the screen, after a long hiatus, as a fidelity-questioning wife, Liam Neeson showing signs of likeability again as the widowed father of a love-struck child, and Andrew Lincoln doing his best unspoken desire routine as he pines for a woman he cannot have, taking with him the film’s finest, Bob Dylanesque moment. And Hugh Grant makes for a very fashionable Prime Minister, with a performance that is reliable in all the good ways Grant is known for. All this is trumped by Bill Nighy, who commits grand theft movie in the role of aging rocker Billy Mack, who wants nothing more than one last hurrah on the holiday charts, using unflappable honesty and public desperation as his way there. He’s an absolute scream. In actuality, the whole cast is aces, making Curtis look like a better director than he might very well be.

It’s easy to be blinded by the show stopping, rollicking sequences that close “Love Actually,” but attention must be paid to what Curtis doesn’t show the audience. For every celebratory shot of a love connection, Curtis gives us a relationship that is on the brink of crumbling, or never even getting a chance to begin. The film closes with a moment of reassurance, but under the buttery crust lies the truth about relationships, and “Love Actually” deserves major credit for steering clear of becoming a complete game of Candyland. Still, I’d advise viewers to bring floss, because the sight of a 12 year-old chasing the girl of his dreams through Heathrow is sweet enough to cause major moviegoing cavities.

I would hazard to guess that the only depressing aspect of “Love Actually” is that Curtis has been giving his scripts away to other directors all these years when he should’ve been doing the job himself. “Love Actually” isn’t nearly as cringe inducing as it looks (or that I was expecting in all honesty), and if you’re any kind of romantic, it’s a marvelous choice for both the holiday season and a reminder to appreciate the loved ones that surround you.

Pieces of April
(November 6, 2003)

April Burns (Katie Holmes, “The Gift”) is a New York bohemian living with her struggling boyfriend (Derek Luke, “Antwone Fisher”), and spending the day preparing a Thanksgiving feast for her estranged family. Not having much luck with her oven, April frantically searches for another apartment to cook her meal in, leading to unexpected results. Her family, including mother Joy (Patricia Clarkson) and father Jim (Oliver Platt), are packed in a car on their way to the big city, stopping every so often to deal with Joy’s cancer treatment exhaustion, along with the family’s general apprehension in seeing April again.

“Pieces Of April” embodies the tiresome side of independent filmmaking. Through its digital video camera lens we see a collection of cartoonish characters, a boring New York location, and a sitcomish screenplay that doesn’t have a focal point. “April” is a blessedly short (80 minutes) and simple character piece exploring the degenerative aftermath of a dysfunctional family trying to keep straight faces as they gather for the holiday season. The entire film is split between April’s odyssey to get her turkey cooked, and her family’s long ordeal driving up to April’s New York City apartment.

April’s side of the plot is where most of the success is found in the movie. While writer/director Peter Hedges teeters on that oh so precious “only in New York” vibe to the apartment complex microcosm, he does manage a loving portrayal of the many denizens of the building, and how some refuse April, and others are willing to help her. Comedy is provided by April’s lousy attempts to cook the dinner, working from box-top recipes and her own foggy memory of how a meal like this is prepared. Interspersed between the chunky mashed potatoes and canned cranberries are glimpses of the emotional damage that has been inflicted on April, swelling the film’s anticipation of what’s going to happen when the two sides meet.

The other half of the film is trapped in a car with the Burns clan, and it’s a pretty awkward journey. If a car ride with a dysfunctional family seems familiar to you, that’s because “April” comes uncomfortably close to Greg Mottola’s “The Daytrippers,” which was essentially the same concept – without the turkey and the stuffing. Whereas “Daytrippers” was a funny and a moving experience, “April” is a misfire, playing around with wildly diverging dramatic tones that never come together. There’s nothing wrong with trying to merge pathos with comedy, but Hedges can never find an equal weight in either side, resulting in an clumsy treatment of Joy’s attitude about her cancer, and a deeply tedious, sitcom-like appearance to the Burns’s travels.

The film’s main theme is the sense of obligation on both parties’ behalf when it comes to this dinner. Hedges doesn’t suitably pay this off, choosing subtle imagery over a true closure to the film. The ending is the very definition of the phrase, “a picture is worth a thousand words.” I would’ve liked those thousand words placed back into the film.

In The Cut
(November 6, 2003)

A wallflower high school teacher, Frannie (Meg Ryan, dull and soulless) has become rather used to her lonely life, resigned to caring for her lowlife, sexually obsessed sister (Jennifer Jason Leigh, typically sleepy). When Malloy (Mark Ruffalo, hilariously profane), a local detective, comes looking for information on a possible serial killer who struck nearby, Frannie is taken by Malloy’s frank demeanor and sexual forthrightness. The two begin a kinky affair, which beings to burrow into Frannie’s psyche, conjuring up old memories and uncertainties. When the killer continues to strike, Frannie grows fearful of Malloy and his lurid games, even going so far as to suspect he’s the man behind the crimes.

Sexual dominance and fascination seem to play a large role in every film by acclaimed director Jane Campion. Through “The Piano” and “The Portrait Of A Lady,” to her last film, the underrated battle of the sexes comedy, “Holy Smoke!,” Campion has never backed down when offered the chance to explore human sexuality, and how it can often corrode the spirit. “In The Cut,” adapted from the best selling thriller novel by Susanna Moore (who also co-scripted), takes the themes of erotica and untapped desires, and sets them in the serial killer genre. The story - as told through Campion - concerns the sexual awakening of a dour, repressed woman on the verge of giving up on relationships, only to find a man who can take her on a voyage of yearning and sexual aggression. And every so often a traditional thriller plot point stands at attention to remind all of the principal narrative. Moore’s story gets in the way of Campion’s exploration of Frannie’s sexual landscape. The filmmaker is much more assured fetishizing details like Frannie’s handwriting, poems written on the subway, and stroking, searching hands than to be bothered with telling a routine thriller story.

Since heightened sexual situations and the breakdown of masculinity is her specialty, Campion does a proficient job arranging the lustful scenes in a way in which the audience can easily access Frannie’s head. Using barely focused, handheld cinematography, Campion weaves a smoky haze of kinky sex and bloody beheadings, attempting to build a rather humid yet uncomfortable atmosphere. Campion succeeds. “In The Cut” is glacially paced, oddly acted, and isn’t easy to sit through, and I’m irritated to think that’s Campion’s suggestion of the ideal moviegoing experience. By taking Meg Ryan, America’s sweetheart, and tossing her in a genre she has little experience in, the filmmakers seems obsessed with trying to develop something different than what is traditionally found in sex thrillers. I’ll give the film credit, it certainly weaves a vivid pastiche of erotically charged images and confrontational desires together thoroughly. But the film remains an icky affair, possibly crossing into misogynistic territory, made even worse by the sheer number of females involved with the making of the film.

It’s in Campion’s inability to keep this tale moving in the right directions that “In the Cut” becomes a real drag. While never a snappily paced picture to begin with, Campion and Moore’s endless parade of transparent red-herrings, ice skating flashbacks, and extended takes that go on for decades forces the audience to truly confront the inadequacies of the film. The climax of the picture is pure “NYPD Blue,” and that’s a crying shame. Had Campion put as much effort into her film’s structure as she did in convincing Ryan to take off her clothes, “In The Cut” might have had a fighting chance to be something more than a future Saturday night Cinemax staple.

The Human Stain
(November 6, 2003)

The year is 1998, and the Bill Clinton/Monica Lewinsky scandal is lighting up the airwaves. In a small New England town, a classics professor, Coleman Silk (Anthony Hopkins), has just had his career come to an abrupt end after allegedly uttering a racial epithet during class one day. Also reeling from the death of his wife, Silk finds comfort in the arms of Faunia (Nicole Kidman), a much younger woman who has seen her fair share of hell in her lifetime. As the two try to figure out a relationship with each other, Silk’s friend, Nathan Zuckerman (Gary Sinise) decides to research Silk’s past, and finds out that the professor denounced his African-American heritage long ago (seen in flashback to the 1950s), and has spent decades trying to overcome his web of lies and self-denial.

Based on the intricate novel by Philip Roth, “The Human Stain” examines the life that has been invented due to shame and fear. The film starts off with one huge whopper: that Anthony Hopkins is playing a light-skinned African-American. There’s no escaping the odd choice for the role by director Robert Benton (“Nobody’s Fool,” “Kramer Vs. Kramer”), but the film doesn’t make too big a deal out of it, letting actor Wentworth Miller (playing the younger Silk) bear the brunt of that subplot. Still, Hopkins is as controlled and defeated as he’s ever been, giving a fine performance up against the usual acting roadblock of miscasting.

“Stain” has lots to say about political correctness, and the very idea of integrity. The story uses the Monica Lewinsky scandal as a backdrop to Coleman Silk’s ordeal, drawing parallels on the vampire nature of P.C. thinking. “Stain” is really two movies in one (Coleman’s past and the present), with Benton attempting to connect the tales seamlessly, but often failing to do so. “Stain” is compelling, thoughtful drama, adapted with depth and ease by Nicholas Meyer (“Star Trek II”), but it does fall into melodramatic traps now and again.

A palatable sense of intimacy is what a veteran like Benton brings to “Stain.” The filmmaker takes time and measured effort in trying to bring Coleman and Faunia together. I will be the first to admit that this pairing is an unusual one. It bends the limits of disbelief even further with a rare unkind performance from Nicole Kidman that doesn’t quite make the grade in terms of believability. Cinematographer Jean-Yves Escoffer (who recently passed away) bathes the cast in gorgeous golden hues, and Benton instructs the lovers to speak in hushed tones, creating a dreamlike atmosphere for the story’s integral post-coital revelations of secrets and longing. “Human Stain” is an emotionally charged film, allowing each character to have a theatrical outburst or two, but the best moments are the ones when the pace is slowed down, the clothes are removed, and the inner fire of lost souls begins to burn. That’s when the audience learns just what “The Human Stain” is all about.

Brother Bear
(November 6, 2003)

Frustrated by his efforts to become a person of worth in his tribe, Kenai (exquisitely voiced by Joaquin Phoenix) attempts to prove himself after a bear kills his brother while defending itself. When Kenai unexpectedly succeeds in getting revenge, the spirits of the land decide to replace the soul of the dead bear with Kenai’s; forcing him to confront life as the very enemy he swore to destroy. Given the chance to redeem himself, Kenai finds a pal in cub Koda (Jeremy Suarez, “The Bernie Mac Show”), an orphan who takes to Kenai instantly. As the two roam the land to Kenai’s possible redemption, the bears learns first hand the dangers of living in a world populated by man.

2003 finds Disney animation in quite a bind. Losing audiences to computer animated projects, and seeing independent producer Pixar steal the box office crown away from the Mouse’s own in-house product, “Brother Bear” comes to theaters as one of the last traditionally animated films to shoot down the once well-lubed pipeline for some time. What a shame, since “Bear” is a rare gem from Disney that, while lacking maybe in the essential cinematic desire to test new boundaries, is at least one of their more passionate and heartfelt animated pictures since the heyday of “Aladdin” and “The Lion King.”

The success of “Bear” comes at a distinct price, and that is, just how much can you tolerate watching Disney try to call their shot? “Brother Bear” is an elaborate amalgamation of almost every recent production that Disney has had to offer. There’s the animal kingdom playset from “The Lion King,” the environmental message as heard through wise Native Americans from “Pocahontas,” and the magical transformations from “The Little Mermaid.” Throw in some pronounced, tonally correct songs from “Tarzan’s” Phil Collins, and “Bear” ends up resembling a greatest hits version of a Disney animated “classic.” It will take some work to not be slightly disgusted by the reaching the production does to grab the good vibrations that glowed from the earlier pictures, but it all washes away when “Bear” starts to eventually cook under its own inviting heat.

Comparisons to the crackerjack look of “Finding Nemo” are unfair, but “Bear” offers its own impressive animation without much assistance from CGI. Bathed in forest greens and browns, and accented by autumnal pastels, “Bear” is an outright stunning visual feast. It’s Disney’s best looking film in a long time. Of course the story is no slouch either, providing rich teachings on understanding nature’s beasts and the importance of brotherhood. Uncharacteristically, none of the lessons are pounded too heavily on the audience. The morals are simply byproducts of the deeper emotional content provided by Kenai’s little discoveries of how his actions have affected the world around him.

Since there has to be a comedic sidekick, “Brother Bear” provides some in the form of two Canadian Moose named Rutt and Tuke, who sound suspiciously like the beer-swilling brothers Bob and Doug McKenzie, former stars of “SCTV” and their own film “Strange Brew,” and played by Rick Moranis and Dave Thomas. Kids aren’t going to have as much fun as adults will with the return of the McKenzie Brothers, but rest assured, it’s wonderful to hear the boys together again. Rutt and Tuke get the lion’s share of the laughs in “Bear,” and their routines might even be opening up a new generation to the ways of Bob and Doug, with kids I overheard leaving the theater saying, “beauty, eh?” Yes it is.

“Brother Bear” isn’t a marvel in terms of screenwriting urgency, but it proves the theory that if formula is handled with care and enthusiasm, it can still work delightfully.

Alien - Director's Cut
(November 6, 2003)

Awakened from hypersleep as they return to Earth after a successful mining operation, the crew of the spaceship “Nostromo” (including Tom Skerritt, Yaphet Kotto, Ian Holm, Veronica Cartwright, and Harry Dean Stanton) have learned that a S.O.S. signal is coming from a nearby planet. Touching down on the volatile surface, crewmember Kane (John Hurt) returns to the ship with a unknown life form attached to his face. After several days, the alien dies and Kane returns to normal. But soon enough, a horrible monster is unleashed on the crew, killing them one by one, leaving idealistic Ripley (Sigourney Weaver) to battle the beast on her own.

Released to promote the upcoming 9-disc “Alien Quadrilogy” DVD set coming soon from Fox Home Entertainment, “Alien” is being placed back into select theaters to see what kind of business it could drum in these days of overkill and whiplash pacing. Taking a cue from the highly successful re-release of “The Exorcist,“ “Alien” returns to theaters in a “director cut” form, with Ridley Scott removing some footage, and adding a couple of new scenes to the mix, including the infamous “Dallas trapped in a cocoon” sequence. Not having seen the film for a couple of years, forgive me if I don’t have a rundown of the exact changes, but there is something entirely surprising: Scott hasn’t gone all “Lucas” on his film and touched up some of the more undesirable effects shots. Yes, the Alien still looks like a guy in a rubber suit at times, and yes, that one ugly cut from a prosthetic Ian Holm to the real deal in all his milky android glory still remains.

But how will today’s audiences embrace this undisputed classic of science-fiction horror? The pace in “Alien” is slow and methodical, building suspense without ever really paying it off in ways the crowds expect this day and age. Scott takes his sweet time photographing the Nostromo ship, and creating the aura of mystery as the crew slowly learns just what is stalking them. I, for one, find the glacial pace to the picture intoxicating, because it allows the ability to drink all the details in. Scott is nothing but a master at making sure the littlest feature of the production is seen on screen, and his absence of malice when it comes to pulverizing the picture with edits and noise is such a welcomed relief from the “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” remake and other films of the ilk that assault the senses these days.

This new release of “Alien” also benefits from hindsight. Followed over a long period of time by three sequels: two of which are misunderstood gems (1992‘s “Alien 3“ and 1997‘s “Alien: Resurrection“), and a direct follow-up (1986’s “Aliens”) that is a science fiction/horror masterwork in its own right, “Alien” shows itself off best as a launching pad to the wild journey this franchise would later take. Each of these films is a unique riff on a central idea, with Scott’s movie serving as the prototype adventure, and utilizing his creature in the best way.

Will the trucker-hat-worn-askew crowd dig this almost 25 year-old haunted house tale? I doubt it. Those weaned on editing blizzards and ear-splitting soundtracks might not have the relaxed attitude to take in such a layered filmmaking odyssey. “Alien” is a masterpiece, and I implore all interested or already inducted into the facehugger world to spend a little more time participating in this rare opportunity to see a landmark film on the big screen again.

Sylvia
(November 6, 2003)

As an idealistic American poet living in England during her college years, Sylvia Plath (Gwyneth Paltrow) enjoyed her freedom and adventure, but was disheartened by the cruel reactions to her work. It was there that Sylvia met fellow poet Ted Hughes (Daniel Craig, “Road To Perdition”), and the two began a tender courtship, which eventually evolved into marriage and parenthood. But Sylvia’s mental framework was fractured, and her increasing paranoia about Ted’s infidelities, as well as her own creative block, festered to such a boiling point that suicide seemed like the only way out.

For starters, the film is titled “Sylvia,” not “Sylvia Plath,” forgoing any notion that this will be a thorough expose on the famous poet and her relationship with love, sanity, and words. Director Christine Jeffs (“Rain”) angles the bio-pic on Sylvia Plath’s domestic life, not her written accomplishments, which is bound to disappoint Plath fans everywhere. During the course of the picture, we do see Plath as she creates; forming a love of poetry that compensates for some of her romantic and emotional troubles. But her other endeavors, most famously her novel “The Bell Jar,” are pushed to the backburner in favor of attempting to fictionalize the neuroses and seething jealousy that consumed Plath till the day she decided to end it all.

While the lack of a literary perspective is sorely missed, Plath’s life more than lends itself to absorbing drama. Gwyneth Paltrow takes on the difficult role of Plath, and she does a terrific job maintaining the nagging insecurities that afflicted the poet, along with the jubilation she felt when her words connected to herself as well as the outside world. It’s an typically mesmerizing performance from Paltrow, overcoming the often tiring recurrence of Plath’s jealousy of her husband, Ted Hughes, as well as her deepening depression. There is no shortage of scenes depicting Plath’s weakening mental state, hammered down hard by Jeffs over and over again. But Paltrow shines when the film occasionally turns either redundant or melodramatic.

I left “Sylvia” with a nagging feeling that there were pieces missing. Without the crucial literary aspects of Plath’s life, “Sylvia” is more soap opera than true biographical filmmaking. And while this is a convincing drama and a flawlessly acted picture, it doesn’t come together as urgently as Plath’s own life.

Scary Movie 3
(November 6, 2003)

After discovering crop circles pointing towards a massive alien invasion, farmer Tom Logan (Charlie Sheen) must defend humanity from the approaching invaders, enlisting his wannabe rap star brother George (Simon Rex) for help. On the other side of town, newscaster Cindy Campbell (Anna Faris, “Lost In Translation”) is struggling to find the source of a strange videotape that kills those who view it within 7 days, trying to save her friend Brenda (Regina Hall) and her nephew from certain doom. With the help of the president (Leslie Nielsen), hip-hop stars (including Redman, Macy Gray, and Master P), and an “Oracle” named Shaniqua (Queen Latifah), the group prepares for battle as the aliens touch down, and strange little girls start coming out of television sets.

For the new “Scary Movie 3,” the principals both in front of and behind the camera have changed radically. Long gone are the Wayans Brothers who, after the surprise 2000 smash “Scary Movie,’ and their quickie 2001 sequel “Scary Movie 2,” have been asked to step aside to make room for some veterans in the parody genre: director David Zucker and co-writer Pat Proft (survivors of the “Airplane!” and “Naked Gun” franchises). The changes to the “Movie” series are evident right away; watering down “Movie 3” to attract a PG-13 rating, and leaving out all of the pot and sex material that the Wayans loved dearly. What Zucker is more interested in is physical humor, staging more pratfalls than one movie should contain. But he also manages to keep the energy up and the parodies a little more succinct, unlike Team Wayans, who preferred a scattershot approach to their jokes. There are plenty of similarities to the material captured by the Wayans clan and Zucker, but I err on the side of the “Airplane!” filmmaker, as his “Scary Movie” moves quickly and doesn’t get bogged down by parodies that have little meaning or comedic value (watch “Scary Movie 2” for that).

The two biggest targets this time around are “Signs” and “The Ring,” which provide the film’s deepest laugh with an inventive spoof of the creepy videotape footage that is the cause of so much harm. “Signs” gets a workout with crop circle jokes, and a none-too-subtle jab at the invading aliens very first appearance on national television. “8 Mile,” “The Matrix Reloaded,” and, “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre” (wow, that’s fast) also get the once over from Zucker and the gang. There’s even a bizarre running gag about “Pootie Tang” thrown in for good measure. “Movie 3” has a ton of laughs, which one should expect from this style of disposable comedy. But every 20 minutes or so, Zucker amps up the slapstick a little too much, resulting in headaches where belly laughs could‘ve easily been harvested. Zucker also had a tendency to mimic the Wayans’ desire for potty gags at every corner, which can get very tedious.

Also be aware that many of the gags found in the “Scary Movie 3” marketing materials are not in the finished picture. The film runs a scant, but tight, 75 minutes, yet you can feel the absence of a really great “Matrix” joke, and maybe one too many “8 Mile” ones.

With the departure of actors Shawn and Marlon Wayans, Zucker has filled the gaps with a cast of seamless pros of the genre including Charlie Sheen, George Carlin, and Leslie Nielsen. But this series really belongs to actresses Anna Faris and Regina Hall. The two veterans of the “Scary Movie” franchise return to show everybody how it’s done. Unfortunately, Hall is written out of the movie a little too soon, but Faris picks up the slack and turns in another reliable sillyhearted turn as Cindy Campbell.

It’s funny how this series has changed since the first installment. What was once a “Scream” parody has become a free-for-all-on-whatever-popular-movies-are-being-made fiesta. “Scary Movie 3” has all the weight of marshmallow fluff, but it does offer laughs and a crackling pace; the Wayans Brothers couldn’t always lay claim to that.

Radio
(November 6, 2003)

In an intense, football-obsessed South Carolina town in 1976, Coach Harold Jones (Ed Harris) is attempting to mount another winning season for his high school team. Crashing practice one day is James “Radio” Kennedy (Cuba Gooding Jr.), a mentally challenged man who is curious about the team. After witnessing his players harass Radio, Coach Jones starts taking a liking to the man, and invites him into his world of classrooms and life lessons. Forming a strong, long-lasting friendship, Coach Jones begins to integrate Radio into the town, finding resistance and trepidation at every turn.

It’s tough to not be a cynical bastard in dealing with a film such as “Radio.” This is a terribly warm story, overflowing with welcoming messages of tolerance and acceptance. Who doesn’t want that? But this “Radio” isn’t a film based in subtle notions. The picture is a gigantic crowd pleaser, using every trick in the cinematic book to get the audience on its side, often stooping pretty low to do so. Is it successful? Sure. There will be a good percentage of the audience who will leave the theater with a newfound feeling of optimism. But it’s a battle fought dirty, and “Radio” is not a film that deserves such accolades.

There is rather dry, poor cinematography, rendering South Carolina as some kind of barren, chilly autumn wasteland. It features a surprisingly weak, bored performance from Ed Harris, and important conversations about Radio’s brother, whom we never meet. The score is as manipulative as music can get, incessantly underlining each emotional beat with extreme prejudice…but it all boils down to Radio. A character based on a real man, Gooding’s Radio is an easy-to-swallow representation of the mentally challenged. There is no downside to Radio. He is always around, constantly cheering people up and spreading his message of joy to all the townsfolk – a message he has no clue about, mind you. He’s the prototypical simpleton character, and “Radio” is shameless in parading him around. I can only imagine the real Radio is a sweet, generous character, but anchored in very real-world concerns. The silver screen Radio is a more magical creation, void of any real problems that would normally accompany his mental challenge. I blame the shameless screenplay more than Gooding, who does a fine job recreating the exterior of Radio, who we see in the film’s closing credits.

The rest of the picture is a checklist of clichés, most notably the evil white southerner (played by Chris Mulkey) who doesn’t want Radio anywhere near his beloved local sports teams. I’m impressed that filmmakers didn’t trot out the racial epithets, but they do just about everything but that. “Radio” isn’t made with nuance in mind, and that was expected. I had hoped for a greater understanding between these two characters in place of speeches and moral nuggets so self-righteously passed out to the masses. “Radio” means well, and that’s very important, but it lacks in character development. By the time you get to the infamous line, “We weren’t teachin’ Radio, Radio was teachin’ us.” It becomes clear that the film was never interested in educating after all.

Beyond Borders
(November 6, 2003)

As a rich American marrying into a lavish English lifestyle, Sarah (Angelina Jolie) is about to embark on a life of ease and expectation. Her life is changed when Nick (Clive Owen, “The Bourne Identity”) drops violently into her world. A radical and defeated relief aid worker, Nick inspires Sarah to join the cause, traveling to Africa to witness the horrors of starvation and political malfeasance first hand. At first, Sarah’s inexperience tests Nick’s patience, but he soon develops feelings for her. Over the course of the next ten years, traveling to Cambodia and the former Soviet Union in the process, the two will continue to intertwine in each others lives, while trying to save the lives of others who are less fortunate.

“Beyond Borders” has an idealism that fits in perfectly with today’s increasingly distressed world, yet a story as moldy as week-old bread. 40 years ago, “Borders” would’ve starred Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton, featured a running time of 4 hours, and effectively blown minds on the humanitarian crisis found in every populated continent on earth. But here, in technologically advanced 2003, the world is a much smaller place. The cinematic techniques used in “Beyond Borders” to creep inside the sympathetic minds of the audience are antiquated, resulting in a film without much of a pulse, though its bleeding heart pumps tirelessly. There are striking similarities between “Borders,” and another proficient refugee film from this past spring, “Tears of the Sun.” Both pictures were earnestly committed to bringing the plight of third-world nations to the big screen, using good old fashioned star power (“Tears” had Bruce Willis) to do all the work. I find it wonderful that the two productions are shedding light on a very important cause, even going so far to hand out tiny little factoid lectures on the shape the refugee nations are currently in. But the nobility in both films is far more than any type of dramatic framework can bear.

“Borders” isn’t content to be a simple lecture on how the audience can help the cause, it’s also a 60 million dollar production, spanning continents and one decade, so it buckles under pressure to become a giant soap opera as well. The film isn’t a love story so much as an adventure and a world-events tale, but the production is too big not to attempt a safer route of appeal. Director Martin Campbell has always been a solid, if terribly uninspired director (“Goldeneye,” “The Mask Of Zorro“), and “Beyond Borders” suffers from his leaden touch. Torn between making a film detailing the relief aid reality and a love story between Sarah and Nick, Campbell fails to spark any kind of fire even though the story is set in a tinder box of emotions and political fireworks. What ends up in the movie is merely serviceable on both sides of the coin, and oddly passionless as it plays out on the screen.

While this is obviously a labor of love from star Angelina Jolie, whose own child is of Cambodian descent, the actress fails to break out of the doldrums the picture keeps her in. Jolie summons oceans of tears and makes passionate faces of thought at the camera, but it’s an unusually inhibited performance from the deeply talented performer. Fairing better in his first big starring role is Clive Owen, who’s natural steeliness benefits his character. Owen is given some hefty speeches as part of his dialog, but he manages to balance out the sanctity of the language with the defeat in his eyes. It’s a tremendous performance.

In a last ditch effort to draw out at least something poignant from the audience, the film kicks into tragedy gear without much provocation. Whatever noble intentions “Borders” had at this point are effectively erased by the careless way it ends. Much like the worlds painted in primary colors by the film, the passions and nobility to “Beyond Borders” seem a million miles away.

Battle of Shaker Heights
(November 6, 2003)

As a WWII recreationist, teenager Kelly Ernswiler (Shia LaBeouf, “Holes”) lives a life of anger and solitude. With his recovering-junkie father (William Sadler) spending more time with his fellow addicts than with him, and school bullies giving him a hard time, Kelly has no outlets to vent his frustrations. When a fellow teenage recreationist named Bart (Elden Henson, “The Mighty”) falls into his life, the two quickly become friends. The resulting relationship offers Kelly a chance to seek revenge on his enemies, and make a play at Bart’s older sister, Tabby (Amy Smart, “Rat Race”).

“Shaker Heights” is the second film to come from the indispensable behind-the-scenes HBO reality series, “Project Greenlight.” The most in depth show ever to tackle the frustration, mismanagement, and idiocy of making movies, “Project Greenlight” is consistently winning and hilarious. Sadly, the series is now even more notorious for producing two films, which fall below any type of normal quality standard.

The studio funding both “Shaker Heights” and “Project Greenlight” is Miramax, and living up to their reputation, they’ve cut their little film to shreds. The last “Greenlight” feature was Pete Jones’s “Stolen Summer,” and it failed because it was misdirected and poorly made all around. “Shaker Heights” is actually a well-made film, topped off with a stellar lead performance from star Shia LaBeouf – a tremendous teen actor who remains the only reason to catch this film. Directors Efram Potelle and Kyle Rankin do a commendable job with their obscenely low budget. The film itself looks good and shows admirable polish.

Story-wise the film is a nightmare of unfinished business. There’s little doubt that the original script by Erica Beeney was a fine piece of work, surveying the damage done to a character who has been let down by life and refuses to trust anymore. Too bad the studio hands got to it in the end, and turned the nuanced “Shaker Heights” into a grotesque comedy that only occasionally addresses the concerns brought up by the plot, and also sees fit to edit out any trace of character substance. Had this been an outright disaster like “Stolen Summer,” it wouldn’t seem so painful. But the groundwork laid by the filmmakers is still present in “Shaker Heights,” making the edits and story reconstruction render the film a Frankenstein’s monster of a finished project.

The future of “Project Greenlight” is currently in limbo, and deservedly so. For as good at the series has been allowing that all-too-rare peek behind the velvet curtain of filmmaking, the pictures born from the show have been mangled disasters.

Garage Days
(November 6, 2003)

Freddy (Kick Gurry) wants nothing more from life than to be a rock star. With his bandmates, Tanya (Pia Miranda), Lucy (Chris Sadrinna), and Joe (Brett Stiller), Freddy is quite ambitious in chasing his dreams, ending up on the doorstep of powerful manager Shad Kern (Marton Csokas, “XXX”). Hoping to impress Kern with his band’s abilities, the group tries hard to overcome their differences and money troubles to scrounge up a demo. But life has other plans for Freddy, which becomes clear when he falls for Joe’s girlfriend Kate (Maya Stange, “XX/XY”), causing a rift in the band and threatening Freddy’s dreams.

“Garage Days” is director Alex Proyas’s ode to the free-wheeling world of Aussie rock and roll. A world where only ambition is the limit to your dreams. After sleeping during the afternoons making the everlastingly nocturnal pictures “The Crow” and “Dark City,” “Garage Days” is a potent reminder that Proyas can make films that are set during the day. I’m sure the picture is a sorbet of sorts for Proyas, who tackles this project with a limited budget and a no-name cast. But punk rock this film is certainly not. This tale of the rise and fall of a garage band isn’t particularly original, nor is it compelling enough to sustain the running time. So Proyas, having dazzled the masses with his stylistic razzmatazz in his earlier films, brings his industrious visual sense to “Days.” Too bad the film doesn’t need it. Since the story is following a pretty familiar set list of scenes to cover (drug abuse, evil managers, romantic entanglements), Proyas decides to light a fire under his own film with a barrage of extravagant, often nonsensical camera tricks and GC tweaks. Oh, it’s cute for about 20 minutes, then the story starts to sink in, and it becomes apparent that Proyas is tap dancing just a bit too hard to keep to momentum up. Honestly, do we need a slow motion shot of laundry detergent flowing out of a box? Overall, “Garage Days” is an indulgent film, but without the benefit of passion in the storytelling, the visuals are just empty calories.

The tone of “Garage Days” has its problems too. As the film opens, and the audience is introduced to the swirling mix of characters and their habits, the picture seems a cross between “Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas” and “Velvet Goldmine.” Proyas is mindful of playing out the script like the driving music that underscores the film, and like Todd Haynes’s shimmering “Goldmine,” he tries to match the texture of the film to the rock music that inspires it. However, in an effort to ensure that the audience embraces these characters, there is a romantic subplot foisted on to the enterprise, breaking its backbone in the process. When making a film about bands and music, there’s no need to devote half of the film to love and betrayal. By force-feeding heart into the mix, Proyas takes away vital time from the star of the film: the music. What starts as a pile-driving mix of sex, drugs, and dreams, melts down in its final moments like reheated Nora Ephron leftovers, complete with a “go get her!” comedic car chase and a sickeningly gooey ending. “Garage Days” ends up two movies stuck in one projector, canceling each other out. I don’t mind romance, especially with somebody as good as actress Maya Stange in one of those roles, but not in a film that opens with an AC/DC song, and ends up bordering on an Air Supply tune. For a director who pulled off impossibly alluring gloom in “The Crow,” this brighter attempt at complacency is disappointing.

Cinematic celebrations of rock music and the lifestyle are tough to pull off, and you can count “Garage Days” as another failed attempt. It is energetic and terminally happy, but the amplifiers just aren’t loud enough for this film to blow any minds.

House of the Dead
(November 6, 2003)

Over the last few months leading up the release of “The House of the Dead,” I’ve been reading reviews, monitoring gossip, and laughing over interviews that detailed just how misguided and bizarrely conceived this latest video game adaptation was. The rumors were true.

The knee-jerk reaction to “Dead” would be to write it off as a cheapie production, clueless to the ways of filmmaking. “Dead” is certainly all that and then some. I’ll go even further and say that “Dead” is the most hilarious crapfest I have sat through in a very long time. The film is just so good at being so bad. The plot is inconsequential, but it does feature some obviously 30 year-old “teens” who commandeer a boat – owned by a “Captain Kirk,” cue worthless “Star Trek” jokes – and set off to a mysterious island where the rave of the century is taking place. Upon arrival, these “adolescents” discover the island is infested with zombies, forcing the “kids” to fight their way off the island. This leads to expected horror/action movie trademarks like gigantic fireballs, chaotic gunfights, and loads of other surprises director Uwe Boll has in store for his audience.

“Dead” is Boll’s first stab at big action, and oh boy does it ever show. The first signs of trouble are found right away in the casting. The “names” of “Dead” are Jurgen Prochnow and Clint Howard. One is a respected German actor with lead roles in such classics as “Das Boot” and the other is Clint Howard. These are the stars, folks. That’s the best the production could do. The zombies themselves are another source of comedy. They don’t look like the Satan-spawned, hell-beasts from beyond like they should, but dressed more in pathetic, “only 364 more days till Halloween” drug store costumes. In fact, in one shot, you can see an actor’s nose under their zombie mask!

And the zombies can move in miraculous ways! They run like Carl Lewis, jump off hidden trampolines to catch their prey, and swim like there’s no tomorrow. No very zombie like, if you ask me. Boll attempts to explain the zombie outbreak with a sepia-toned flashback sequence, but all he succeeds in is adding more laughs to the film by suggesting a historical perspective in a video game movie. A Spanish rogue chasing immortality…whatever, Mr. Boll. Just get to the next action sequence already.

It should be noted that, at this point, Boll has made a wholly outlandish aesthetic choice in splicing actual video game footage into the film. As if the audience needed reminders of where this material was born. You’d think someone of power would’ve killed this idea in the discussion phase.

To make the audience is even more aware of the video game surroundings, Boll, in trying to blow minds for his mid-movie zombie armageddon spectacle where man goes head-to-head with the undead; he employs the finest in special effects…if the year were 1999. Yes, my friends, our old pal “Bullet-Time” has returned. Boll uses the effects liberally throughout the film to add theatricality to the carnage. Sure it looks silly, yet Boll doesn’t seem to mind. He even uses the effect to give two of the actors “video game deaths,” by circling around the characters 360 degrees, then slowly fading to a blood red screen. It’s as bizarre as it reads. Heavens, there are so many awful details in “Dead,” that I feel I’m cheating the reader by leaving out the rest. There is the lead character (played by Jonathan Cherry), who, mid-fight, suddenly feels the need to recall the entire movie’s events in a quickly edited montage – leaving out the fact that he wasn’t around for half of these events. “Dead” employs some hilariously bargain-basement “rap” songs from unsigned artists to underscore the action scenes. And there’s Uwe Boll. Oh, he has his fun name checking George Romero and playing his little tribute to “Jaws.” But this guy shouldn’t be allowed to say the word “movie,” much less continue to make them.

“The House of the Dead” is as bad as earlier reported, with even the distributor, Artisan Entertainment, removing their name from any mention in the credits. “Dead” is so artistically and creatively bankrupt that it boggles the mind just how a miserable little picture like this could sneak into theaters and enjoy a theatrical run.

Runaway Jury
(November 6, 2003)

When a promising businessman (Dylan McDermott) is murdered during an office rampage, his widow hires Louisiana lawyer Wendell Rohr (Dustin Hoffman, with little to do) to take on the gun manufacturer who supplied the weapon in the first place. Looking to buy their way out of a huge settlement, the gun corporation hires a shady character named Rakin Fitch (Gene Hackman) to sway the verdict their way by manipulating the jury. When Nicholas Easter (John Cusack) is selected to serve on the jury, Fitch and Rohr soon learn that Easter is engaged in his own jury tampering, with the help of a mysterious outside source (Rachel Weisz).

“Runaway Jury” makes it feel like the 1990s all over again! Taking us back into John Grisham territory, “Jury” hits up all of the familiar touches we expect from the best-selling author: the cartoony villains, the easily swayed hand of justice, chases, intrigue, and the nicest, most honest lawyers that seem to only exist in print or in the movies. Thankfully, “Jury” has more in common with engaging, light on their toes Grisham adaptations like “The Rainmaker” and “The Pelican Brief,” than heavy-handed clunkers like “The Firm” or “The Chamber.” The Grisham films are nothing short of preposterous, but they connect because they are oddly compelling pot-boilers. “Runaway Jury” doesn’t offer much in the way of a convincing argument for a theatrical release, especially when you can get this type of material on television pretty easily. But the film arms itself with a terrific cast and a willingness to keep the momentum going and continually reminding itself that, in fact, this is all very silly material.

In adapting this book for the screen, the biggest change is the reason for the trial. In Grisham’s book, it was a suit against big tobacco. The film uses the gun control issue as its spine, taking on a very topical subject that provides urgency where tobacco couldn’t. Of course, no matter who is chosen as the defendant, it is all going to be pretty much the same mixture of mustache-twirling evil and scenery chewing acting. Who better to provide that than Gene Hackman? This bulldog of an actor dives right into the role of puppet-master Rakin Fitch with all the enthusiasm of a starving man who’s just been given a free ticket to a buffet. Hackman eats each frame of film he’s on, often making sure there’s little seconds for the other actors. His performance is brazenly over the top, yet its volume and bravado keeps “Jury” from falling apart. Out of all the actors, Hackman seems to be the only one fully aware of his Grisham surroundings.

The principal criticism I can make about “Jury” is its sudden sanctimonious turn in the film’s closing moments. You can tell it’s coming, but that doesn’t numb the disinterest that kicks in when this popcorn picture becomes message minded. Need a lecture about guns? Rent Michael Moore’s grand “Bowling For Columbine,” which already covered the slippery ground “Jury” is trying to mimic. It’s noble in a way to actually be a film about “something,” when you have a huge budget and a studio watching your back. But this is a softball subject, and “Jury” doesn’t have any intentions to push the envelope. Like all the other Grisham adaptations, the film works wonders as a simple thriller. It should’ve remained that way.

Texas Chainsaw Massacre
(November 6, 2003)

“Who will survive and what will be left of them?” - tagline of the 1974 “Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” In a hot 1973 summer, 5 young adults (including “Seventh Heaven” star Jessica Biel) are traveling across Texas to make their way to a rock concert. During their travels they meet a hitchhiker who promptly kills herself in front of the gang. Looking for help, the group makes their way to a house in the middle of nowhere, which is home to a homicidal family, lead by a chainsaw-wielding man named Leatherface (Andrew Bryniarski, “Hudson Hawk”).

I don’t have any venom against remakes. They are lazy, and the ugly end product of hit-starved studios, but I can respect the idea of trying to recreate, yet shape an original artistic accomplishment into something new. Hell, to this day I still stand behind Gus Van Sant’s intoxicating redo of “Psycho.” But “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre” is pretty much the granddaddy of modern horror films. Its gut-wrenching, nail-biting tension has yet to be rivaled in the almost 30 years since its release. Music video director Marcus Nispel and producer Michael Bay have teamed up, not to recreate the original film so much as to try their hands at what creeped out audiences then, and still does to this day.

Right away things are different. Replacing the dirty, grainy footage of the 1974 installment is the slick, camera-tricky, glossy, hyper-edited sheen that always trail Bay’s every move. The production even retained previous cinematographer Daniel Pearl to shoot the remake, which is noble in idea only. Pearl has forgotten just what made the original such a classic: the stillness of the horror. In the new “Chainsaw,“ the darkness is impeccably lit, the Texas farmlands look like leftover sets from Ridley Scott’s “Legend,” and the young adults are hip, clean, hot young WB stars on their way to a Lynard Skynard concert - testing the already preposterous idea that this is all set in 1973. Clearly Nispel isn’t too interest in establishing danger or unrelenting tension. Director Tobe Hooper’s “Chainsaw” kept audiences in their seats because it was shot like a snuff film, with a cast that looked real enough for the picture to almost resemble a documentary. Nispel is more attracted to slick images, and with a high gloss production comes very little scares. This new “Chainsaw” doesn’t have much up its sleeve in terms of ideas for jolts and innovative imagery, resulting in, if you can believe it, a slightly boring sit.

What the original “Chainsaw” had in 1974, and a big reason why the sequels never quite worked, was mystery. Leatherface and his clan were kept at arm’s length by Tobe Hooper, drawing out the dread in their confrontations with the victims, and keeping a majority of their menace in the minds of the audience. 2003’s “Chainsaw” does exactly the opposite. The new film opens up the story by forcing characterization into the matter. We spend copious amounts of time with the young victims, at the expense of the film‘s pace. These moments do not help the overall gloom of the piece, since they are directed like a deranged episode of “Dawson’s Creek.” The screenplay even attempts to shine a little light into Leatherface’s background, revealing him to be a butcher and a victim of a skin disease that is rotting away his face (hence the need for flesh masks). What are we supposed to do with that? It’s like learning Jason’s been hacking away through his ten films because he wants to research his upcoming novel on unsupervised teenage behavior. If Nispel and screenwriter Scott Kosar wanted to get a little sympathy on the side of pure evil, it doesn’t work. 74’s Leatherface was a pure-blooded wacko, bent on taking down trespassers as messily as possible. The new Leatherface is a monster you kind of want to hug and help fix his problems. Now how scary is that?

There is an absence of overflowing gore in the remake, which is a little surprising. That’s not to say there aren’t meat hook impalements, brain matter, and severed limbs, but the gore itself has been sacrificed for more showoffy Nispel visuals (which included one doozy that should spell out the remake’s intentions very quickly). The original wasn’t all that bloody either. Nispel spends more time trying to conjure shadow and eeriness, most notably though his use of freakshow-style casting for the Leatherface clan. There are some pretty big Texas, “inbred Jed” caricatures on display, most notably a turn by R. Lee Ermey as a deranged sheriff. Again, none of these visuals have much of an effect, especially when Nispel puts giant buckteeth on one young character - the kind you’d find in a gag shop at the local mall. The movie calls them raging, bloodthirsty rednecks? I call them hilarious.

And my friends, as much hell as Nispel puts her through, as well as the workout her lungs receive from all the screaming, Jessica Biel is still no Marilyn Burns.

My suggestion would be to save your nickels and put them towards a rental of the first film. That’s a movie that will terrorize and disturb. The new “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” is running with a dull blade, and is about a threatening as a Nine Inch Nails music video.

The Station Agent
(November 6, 2003)

Fin (Peter Dinklage “Human Nature”) is a locomotive enthusiast who finds he has inherited a train station in rural New Jersey. Choosing a life of solitude due to his dwarfism, Fin eagerly takes the opportunity to head out to the middle of nowhere and set up a home for himself. On the property is a hot dog vendor named Joe (Bobby Cannavale, “The Guru”) who desires human contact at all times, much to the chagrin of Fin. Also intertwining into Fin’s life is Olivia (Patricia Clarkson, “Far From Heaven”), a grieving mother who is in the middle of a separation and takes a shine to Fin and Joe in her time of need. “The Station Agent” recalls the films that came with the American independent movement in the mid-to-late 1990s. It is an extraordinarily simple, obscenely low-budgeted feature, featuring a cast of actors who appear only because they desire a change of pace. Because of the low-tech nature of the film, it takes on subjects that wouldn’t normally be covered, such as the central character of Fin, who is a dwarf. Writer/Director Thomas McCarthy does a good job in the opening sections of the film setting up the lonely, quiet world in which Fin lives, allocating moments to showcase the daily hecklings Fin receives that has made him such an anti-social person. McCarthy doesn’t lay on the drama too thick, in fact choosing a muted comedy feel to lead the way for “Agent,” creating a very easygoing atmosphere that matches the modest texture of the cinematography and production values.

When the expected dramatic pull begins to form in the film’s second half, “Agent” goes from a film lighter than air to 2,000 tons in your lap in the blink of an eye. Suddenly the script wants Fin to start unraveling, and doesn’t give him much reason to. Fin also addresses his dwarfism to a crowd of drunks at a bar in a scene that is both unearned and unfortunate in execution. McCarthy makes stronger points by having the dwarfism addressed through the peripheral characters. “Agent” eventually erupts into suicide attempts and other nonsense, leading me to wonder what happened to the delightful, insightful film that was in front of my eyes earlier in the hour. McCarthy’s screenplay structure is far too suffocating, and he kills the themes of “Agent” before they even have a chance to develop.

Whatever dramatic weights there are in “Agent,” they don’t muck up the fine performances. Clarkson and Cannavale are great in their roles: both have polar opposite temperaments, but they are able to connect through their shared friendship with Fin. Clarkson seems to have a monopoly recently on the haggard middle-aged woman role, yet she never repeats herself. The star is Dinklage, and the actor reveals a side to his talent that doesn’t get a chance to come out often. While his small cameo was the only thing worth watching in Eric Schaeffer’s 2002 stinker “Never Again,” Dinklage is front and center in “Agent,” and a perfect choice for the role. The only false notes in his performance are the ones McCarthy has written for him.

The conclusion to “The Station Agent” comes very abruptly. So much so, that I was settling in for a calm, 20-minute denouement, only to see end credits where a typical cooling off period usually comes in indie dramas. Maybe this is for the best, as McCarthy has dunked his film in way over its head, and the only way to stop the damage is to duck out as fast as possible. A noble gesture for an admirable, but flawed film.

Veronica Guerin
(November 6, 2003)

In 1994, Irish journalist Veronica Guerin (Cate Blanchett) found herself making headway in the fight to reveal the drug epidemic that plagued her homeland. Over the course of two years, Guerin fought her way into the laps of the drug barons with the help of her informant (Ciaran Hinds, “The Sum Of All Fears“), sacrificing her family and social obligations in an attempt to expose these criminals. Beloved by her readers, yet loathed by the drug dealers who didn’t care for the publicity, Guerin was gunned down in her automobile in 1996, making her a national martyr, and forcing immediate drug policy change in Ireland.

With the exception of his bloated 2002 action comedy, “Bad Company,” director Joel Schumacher has been attempting to pare down his normal overstuffed films with spare experiments such as “Flawless,” “Tigerland,” and this past spring’s impressive thriller, “Phone Booth.” “Veronica Guerin” is Schumacher’s attempt at a historical bio-pic, and I can say with great relief that he’s done a magnificent job bringing this difficult story to the screen. “Guerin” is a tale that could easily be turned into a cheerleader for a specific cause. The trick of the movie is that it plays out exactly like that, turning Guerin into a figure of such incredibly noble intentions and genuine results. But Schumacher and the screenplay also keep the danger in Guerin’s life alive and authentic, as she was the victim of many attempts on her life, and was the recipient of more threats than one could count. Schumacher maintains a balance between Guerin the crusader and Guerin the reckless journalist, who’s desire for the scoop and overall progress overshadowed her ability to clearly perceive the danger she was in. This is a tale told with rock-steady commitment, which is something Schumacher isn’t known for. I would even go as far as to say that it’s the best picture to ever come out of the uneven director.

However, Schumacher is only as strong as his female lead, and there’s a mighty power in Cate Blanchett. Having forged a career incapable of playing a false note, Blanchett is perfection as Guerin. No other actress could find the line Guerin rode between manipulation and power; a line that was ridden to the very day of her death. It’s apparent in the looks that Blanchett gives to the drug dealers, salivating as she awaits her chance to take them down. Or the flash of hope in the artificial smile that she tosses to her family, trying to placate them while she skips down the road of fate. It’s a tour de force performance from Blanchett in a role that would be a shadow without her unceasing talents to make it layered and genuine.

Much like Guerin’s real life, the true power of the story takes place after her assassination. Schumacher completely nails the last reel of the film, telling a silent story of how Guerin’s death affected those close to her. Scored to a simple Irish song, the power of the montage is almost too much to bear, lifting “Veronica Guerin” to operatic heights of sorrow. Tales of positive change and outcry in the face of death are always dicey propositions in film, but Joel Schumacher treats the story with reverence and creates haunting drama.

Out of Time
(October 15, 2003)

When he learns the news that his mistress (Sanaa Lathan, “Love & Basketball”) has been given a cancer death sentence, suburban Miami police chief Matt Whitlock (Denzel Washington) has to make tough decisions on how to save her life. Stealing money from a recent drug bust to help pay for experimental medical treatments for his beloved, Whitlock soon finds himself at the very middle of an elaborate maze of bad ideas and misfortunes. With his future ex-wife (Eva Mendes, “2 Fast 2 Furious”) leading an investigation that leads to Whitlock’s corrupt scheme, and the DEA looking for their money, Whitlock tries to stay one step ahead of the cops so he can work out his troubles and save his life.

“Out Of Time” reteams Denzel Washington with his “Devil In A Blue Dress” director, Carl Franklin. This time, in place of steamy, blue note noir, we have a Floridian thriller with a pulse that would make Buddy Rich sweat. “Time” isn’t challenging, fresh, nor all that competent. But it moves like toddler on his first big wheel and is very concerned with the maximum amount of tension for almost every scene. Franklin is a rock solid director, tastefully moving from genre to genre within his career (“One False Move,“ “One True Thing,” “High Crimes”), yet the filmmaker seems at home with this thrill ride, keeping up the anxiety of the movie at a terrific level, and encouraging Washington to play down his beyond tired “noble man” act for the first time in a long time. As mainstream and unflinchingly tepid as the story is, Franklin gives it all the right bells and whistles. He employs a wonderful score by Graeme Revell to disarm the mood, and keeps Washington sweaty and breathless. Instead of trying to outwit the twists and turns of the plot, the Whitlock character is a victim of them. Franklin keeps Whitlock ill at ease for most of the film, making his situations much more enjoyable.

Denzel Washington works very well with Franklin, actually attempting to portray a character who doesn’t always do right by the law, nor ends up a Shakespearean portrait of injustice. Dare I say Washington’s Whitlock is a bit slimy? The change is good for the actor, as it allows him freedom to shape a persona very different than he’s used to playing. The trademark “Denzel dead eyes” concentration is still there, but Washington’s check-cashing turn here (resulting in a career-high payday) isn’t the zombie walk it could have been. I might even suggest that “Out Of Time” is his best work in ages, placing him at the mercy of a plot that turns the dramatic tides, and not bombastic speeches.

While co-stars Saana Lathan and Eve Mendes are equally good in their roles, the characters seem to have been given to the wrong actresses. As Whitlock’s soon-to-be ex-wife, Mendes looks more like his daughter (20 years separates these two), and often acts like one. It ends up being a small distraction in a film full of big thriller set pieces, but a distraction nonetheless. Lathan would’ve been better cast in the spouse role, but she’s stuck doing the femme fatale routine, which doesn’t fit her accurately. Mendes has the curves and the attitude to knock this role out of the park. Again, both actresses give fine performances. They are just very noticeably miscast.

In the film’s final act, all the lose ends are attempted to be sown together. This has to happen, if only from a simple story standpoint. The closure needs to occur so the audience can go home with a sense of satisfaction. In the case of “Out Of Time,“ the climax is more labored, over thought, and simplistic than anything else in the film. It leaves the crowd cold, and wanting for something that can match the kicks presented in the previous 90 minutes. Franklin is in a tough position, as 80% of thrillers aren’t quite able to maintain their flow all the way to the home stretch. Because the script is terribly concerned with leaving on a twisty note, along with Franklin just trying to find an ending to all this madness, “Out Of Time” doesn’t leave the senses with a slap like it should. This is a relatively tight thriller, only slackening in the end, and that’s a pretty impressive accomplishment.

Casa de Los Babys
(October 12, 2003)

In an unnamed South American country, six women (Daryl Hannah, Mary Steenburgen, a delightfully despicable Marcia Gay Harden, Maggie Gyllenhaal, Lili Taylor, and Susan Lynch) have formed a community as they wait in a hotel for word on their potential adoptions. Discovering deep secrets about each other, learning the history of their surroundings, and dealing with the local rules and regulations, the women are actually just a small part of a bigger picture in the adoption process.

Watching a John Sayles film is like taking a flight to another land. This is the first review I’ve been able to write about a Sayles picture, after having been an admirer of his work and being thoroughly blown away by his 1996 southern justice tale, “Lone Star.” Whether it’s returning to the disgraced 1919 Chicago White Sox in “Eight Men Out,” staging an Alaskan thriller in “Limbo,” or delving into the degenerative effects of corporate Florida tourism in last year’s “Sunshine State,” Sayles can be counted on for enlightening stories reaching the far corners of the globe, about people much like ourselves.

“Casa de Los Babys” is a prototypical Sayles picture: it deals with multiple characters in a situation they know precious little about. There is very little actual plot to “Babys.” The picture acts more as a snapshot of a place where powerful and affluent European and American citizens go to take the needy away, possibly encroaching on a nation’s heritage, while saving it at the same time. The film isn’t overtly political, but more of a Saylesian lyrical piece in which the audience gets to see all sides of the coin without ever getting caught up in judgmental screenwriting. We meet the American and European mothers who stomp around, barely knowing the language, spreading their trepidation and self-worth to whomever will listen. We see the haggard hotel manager (a commanding Rita Moreno), who is tired of the persistent Americans whining about the facilities, yet cannot turn away the precious “yanqui” money. Sayles shows us a teenager who has been impregnated by the town lothario, and now is caught up in the whirlwind of the national baby factory. And we witness the local children, all too old for the adoption process, losing their innocence on the streets, begging for money, with nowhere to sleep at night, and huffing spray paint to make the pain disappear. And just when the film starts to lose focus on the ideas presented in the story, Sayles breaks the movie up midway through for a simple montage of the babies in the title; snapping the audience back into the awareness of why this process occurs daily in South America.

At a criminal 96 minutes, “Casa de Los Babys” isn’t Sayles’s most cohesive film; there is an inevitable feeling of a short stop when the end credits roll, as most of the characters’ fates remain unknown. Yet in being so abrupt and quickly paced, Sayles manages to keep his ideas fairly undemanding and efficient. “Babys” is a film that would connect instantly with any person who has ever tried to conceive a child, but its portrait of the greater scheme of things is something that should be viewed by all.

Intolerable Cruelty
(October 12, 2003)

Miles Massey (George Clooney) is Los Angeles’s sharpest divorce lawyer, helping hundreds of the very guilty get away with all their money intact. Hired by the flagrantly culpable Rex Rexroth (Edward Herrmann, “Gilmore Girls”) to help judiciously screw his gold-digging wife, Marylin (recent Oscar-winner, Catherine Zeta-Jones) out of millions, Miles finds himself oddly drawn into Marylin’s beauty and mystery. Once he realizes that he’s head over heels in love with Marylin, Miles goes to extremes to win her affection, leaving himself wide open to her unscrupulous agenda, and not minding a bit.

The last time Joel and Ethan Coen got a bag full of money and lost control, the result was the 1994 financial disaster, “The Hudsucker Proxy.” Retreating back into their creative cave, the Coen Brothers subsequently turned out tremendous films like “Fargo,” “O Brother Where Art Thou?,” and arguably their best concoction, “The Big Lebowski.” These films were forged with a kind of integrity that’s generally lacking when big bucks are involved. “Intolerable Cruelty” is the Coens’ return to the theater of gigantic advertising campaigns, huge awareness, and gleaming stars that outshine the sun. A throwback to the witty screwball comedies of Preston Sturges, “Cruelty” plays lightning fast, with the filmmakers rarely stopping to catch a breath. While “Cruelty” has the dexterity of a classic romantic comedy, it’s punctuated with the characteristically oddball Coen moments that the crowds have come to expect. It’s big, impeccably light, and scored with pinpoint precision by regular Carter Burwell. But why didn’t I laugh more than once?

The trouble when the Coens attempt to turn a fairly standard vehicle into a weapon of their own design is that the two can rarely coexist in peace. I’m all for the Coen kook, seen in most of their productions delivering big laughs and memorable moments. There is one to add here, involving a bumbling hit man who mistakes his gun for his asthma medicine. Yet “Cruelty,” for all the bells and whistles the Coens place on it, never truly comes alive the way it could. The Coen touches, such as Miles’s decrepit senior partner who can barely breathe, or Billy Bob Thornton’s extended cameo as a flamboyant Texas oil baron, would work better in a “Coen Brothers Film.” In “Cruelty,” all the little asides stick out like sore thumbs, not even providing the laughs they are so desperate to get. A Coen Brothers failure is still ten time better than most Hollywood successes, but it’s tough to get around the fact that, for as busy as the film gets, nothing very notable occurs, and none of it manages to strangle the funny bone.

Heading back into Coen territory (after “O Brother”) is George Clooney, proving once again that if he bounces between working with Steven Soderbergh and the Coens for the rest of his career, he will reach unattainable heights as an actor. Filled with spunk, and with what can only be described as an unlimited-tokens-at-Chuck-E-Cheese glint in his eye, Clooney owns “Cruelty” from his very first frame. A crack comic actor, why is it that the Coens are the only filmmakers to utilize Clooney’s gifts? Clooney delivers palpable sexual heat with co-star Zeta-Jones, but it’s in the scenes where the actor slinks around the frame or goes bug-eyed that truly give the audience a taste of the picture’s possibilities. Clooney is perfect, and the film should have taken his lead.

I’ve never been a huge groupie of the Coen Brothers, but one can plainly see what pictures on their filmography have truly inspired them, and what pictures they have tried to save with their style and wit. “Intolerable Cruelty” is very sadly in the latter category.

Wonderland
(October 12, 2003)

During a long summer week in Hollywood, circa 1981, famed porn star John Homes was involved to an uncertain extent with a mass murder on Wonderland Ave. “Wonderland” details this event, with Holmes (Val Kilmer) and his girlfriend Dawn Schiller (Kate Bosworth, “Blue Crush”), weaving their way around the seedy underbelly of the city, looking to score drugs from friends (including Dylan McDermott, Josh Lucas, Tim Blake Nelson, Christina Applegate, and Janeane Garofalo), planning to rob a Los Angeles nightclub kingpin named Eddie Nash (Eric Bogosian), and, when the robbery goes awry, seeking out Holmes’s wife Sharon (Lisa Kudrow) for help.

The general frustration with “Wonderland” is that the case was never solved. Several individuals were involved with the murders, but there wasn’t anybody trustworthy enough to answer questions about what actually happened that hot July night in 1981. Compensating for the lack of focus inherent in the story, director James Cox (of the putrid straight-to-video road movie, “Highway”) has selected a “Rashomon” style of narrative to tell this tale. The framework serves the story well, as without anybody fessing up for the crime, who really knows what happened? Multiple viewpoints go further paining a portrait of the confusion and horror of the incident. Unfortunately, this approach undermines the drama of “Wonderland,” introducing too many characters and subplots the film doesn’t know what to do with. Couple the narrative schizophrenia with Cox’s annoying predictability in portraying the era - the film should be titled “Cigarettes, Blow, and F-Words” - and “Wonderland” ends up being a nice attempt to capture a small part of Hollywood Babylon, but nothing catches fire.

Armed with a map of drug and disco movies to lightly steal from, Cox attempts to weave together the hedonistic world John Holmes made famous, along with the after-effects of his fame, in which he fell into obscurity and substance abuse. Cox can’t have it both ways: either the film is a document trying to uncover the mystery behind the murders, or it’s a poem to Holmes’s rancid charms, and how he was able to convince anyone near him of his infallibility. In mixing the two, Cox doesn’t find focus in the story, leaving both ends high and dry.

Working with a huge cast, Cox is able to create the circular feeling of being stuck with liars and junkies. There are a handful of great performances in the film (Kate Bosworth, Lisa Kudrow, Ted Levine), but most of the actors are just lazily going through “drug acting,” which is a free ticket to scream, curse incessantly, and look awful. I’m all for a little crazed coke fiend acting, but ultimately Cox doesn’t offer anything more about these people than that.

Trying to fill some pretty impressive pants is Val Kilmer. I was hoping Kilmer would find a way to get lost in this role, to give the screen a better portrait of the complicated life Holmes lived, which has been used only as pie crust in Paul Thomas Anderson’s sparkling “Boogie Nights.” Because Kilmer isn’t allowed the screen time needed to understand why people would follow him so blindly, aside from his famous genitalia, the patches of character development outside of the murder plot feel like too little, too late. Cox and the screenwriters don’t arrange enough time for Kilmer to have his Holmes grow into the iconic figure he’s become today. And for a man who was central to the mystery of the murders, there just isn’t enough about Holmes in the movie to feel satisfied the film is accomplishing something or answering questions (cable specials have gone further in detailing this crime). And for a film featuring John Holmes, the words “just isn’t enough” seems like sacrilege.

Kill Bill: Volume 1
(October 12, 2003)

It’s been 6 years since Quentin Tarantino last shot up the big screen with his blacksploitation homage and career masterwork, “Jackie Brown.” I can think of a long list of directors I would love to see take lengthy sabbaticals, and Tarantino isn’t one them. Back to remind critics and audiences alike just what it means to go to the movies comes his latest fruit cocktail of movie tributes, “Kill Bill.” The story is fairly straightforward: Having just awoken from a 4-year coma, The Bride (Uma Thurman, note-perfect throughout the film) sets out to exact revenge on the five individuals (former co-workers, to be exact, from an elite team known as “The Deadly Viper Assassination Squad”) who tried to kill her on her wedding day. “Volume 1” consists of The Bride meeting up with Vernita Green (Vivica A. Fox) in her suburban home for a knife fight. The Bride also travels to Japan to request the finest Japanese steel from famed sword maker Hattori Hanzo (martial arts legend Sonny Chiba), and tries to remove the deadly and well-guarded O-Ren Ishi (Lucy Liu) from the face of the earth. Writing out her “Death List Five,” The Bride is slowly making her way to the team leader, Bill (David Carradine, though not actually seen in “Volume 1“), who is looking forward to his second chance to kill The Bride.

Tarantino’s “Kill Bill” opens with the proclamation that the film is presented in “Shaw Scope,” before cutting to a long forgotten grind-house “Feature Presentation” reel. Right away the filmmaker is giving major clues to the ride the audience will soon be taken on. Tarantino’s other films, “Reservoir Dogs” and “Pulp Fiction,” were scattered altars of worship to the cinematic jalopies of his youth. “Kill Bill” is a direct descendant. Tarantino has compiled a wish list of genres and filmmaking idolatry to work out in “Bill,” constructing a picture that is a whirlwind of love for the cinema, and big reminders of all the genres long gone from today’s too-cool-for-school movie landscape. Say what you will about Tarantino's rampant cinematic theft, but he’s one of the few filmmakers who can make tributes seem like his own ideas.

“Volume 1” manages to jump from pulpy 1970s revenge exploitation thriller to Italian giallo to spaghetti western in only a matter of scenes, augmented by the splendid, schizophrenic score by The RZA. There’s even an extended, ultra-violent Anime sequence within the film, detailing the history of O-Ren Ishi in a way traditional, live-action filmmaking would not permit. Tarantino saves the best for last, as his homage to the Hong Kong action cinema is relegated to the last third of the film. Tarantino is a master when it comes to recreating his fanboy wet dreams, and “Kill Bill” is his Mona Lisa. It’s a significant achievement in both his career as a writer/director, and a much needed memento of what pure cinema feels like. “Kill Bill” may not be for all tastes, but it does deliver plenty of bang for the buck.

Tarantino’s decision to make “Kill Bill” a tribute to grind-house cinema is a curious one since the film is breathtakingly shot by Robert Richardson (“Casino”), and will be running in ultra-slick multiplexes across the globe. Quite a long way from the decrepit, rat-infested theaters which this film should rightly belong in. Regardless of those inconsistencies, Tarantino does get one thing right: the bloodshed. Those who gagged at the ear cutting scene in “Reservoir Dogs” might be well advised to skip the blood feast on display in “Volume 1.” While flesh is sliced and bullets fly throughout the film, it all culminates into a showdown between The Bride and O-Ren Ishi at The House Of Blue Leaves nightclub in Japan. Protected by a team of henchmen known as the “Crazy 88,” Ishi orders the Kato-masked men to attack The Bride all at once.

What occurs next is a cornucopia of chopped body parts and, quite literally, geysers of spurting blood, forming an orgy of ultra-violence that forces Tarantino to actually switch to B&W film for a short time to contain the extreme nature of the visuals. Like the rest of the film, the audacity of the violence is energizing, and is shot with style and a needed visceral punch. While all of Tarantino’s other pictures relied on their dialog to keep the flow moving, “Kill Bill” is a film of visuals, often gloriously berserk ones at that. He has a tremendous eye, maximizing the bang of every shot. Tarantino is also one of the few in his age group to keep his edit count down; actually taking several opportunities to cover the action in long, unbroken takes.

Of course, this isn’t the end of the tale. “Kill Bill: Volume 2” hits theaters next February. At first, I was irritated by the recent decision to break up the film into two parts. But once the level of carnage and cinematic fanboy texture has been revealed in “Volume 1,” it starts to make sense to divide the tale into two segments, as sensory overload would most assuredly take place if the film remained a 3-hour affair. Like “The Matrix Reloaded” and “The Two Towers,” “Volume 1”ends on a wicked tease for future events. There are three left on the “Death List Five,” and Tarantino is now halfway to creating another classic on his short list of outstanding accomplishments. It’s splendid to see him back in action.

Dorm Daze
(September 27, 2003)

Set during a day's holiday at Billingsley University, “Dorm Daze” spins the tale of a student community (including such young “talent” as Tatyanna Ali from “Fresh Prince Of Bel Air,” Danielle Fishel from “Boy Meets World,” and Patrick Renna, from “The Sandlot”) which is turned upside down when a bag full of money, a hooker (Boti Bliss, whose “no nudity” clause provides the film's only chuckle, albeit unintentionally), and a criminal visit the dorms. Bottom-feeding wackiness ensues.

Piggybacking on the success of the “American Pie” series comes the new sex comedy, “Dorm Daze.” It's a cheap, lazy, ceaselessly unfunny quickie made with a cast unaware their efforts are in vain, and, behind the camera, a team that doesn't quite seem to understand how movies work. The film is being released under the “National Lampoon” banner, but honestly, isn't that just another way of saying the film will be terrible? So, I guess in the tradition of “Senior Trip,” “Class Reunion,” and “Favorite Deadly Sins,” comes “Dorm Daze,” a comedy that asks the question, how did this perfect-for-basic-cable film find its way into theaters?

“Dorm Daze” is a pretty simplistic screwball comedy that is constantly interrupted by trendy sex jokes and worn-out gross-out gags. Written by Patrick Casey and “Worm” Miller (yeah, you wouldn't use your real name either if you wrote this), the picture is lazy with every single joke it places up onscreen. Examples: the Asian character is named “Wang,” which I hope is enough to describe the lengths of that joke. One character is trying to get the other students to try his “sausage,” which he bought as a gift for a potential girlfriend. The cast routinely break the 4th wall to wink at the audience. The homosexual character is seen initially searching for his copy of “Steel Magnolias.” The entire film is centered around such sitcomish, bizarre coincidences and double-entendres, that it would make Jack, Chrissy, and Mr. Roper very proud. And finally, there is this endless, rampant belief by the production that all of this is gut-bustingly hilarious, which is the greatest sin of all.

Directors Scott and David Hillenbrand don't have the slightest idea on how to jazz up the script, so they encourage the cast to overact wildly. The directing team even throws in some cartoon noises and “Benny Hill” style undercranking to keep the audience engaged. “Dorm Daze” truly is one of those pathetic comedies that is inoffensive enough on the small screen, but oh so insulting when it demands big screen attention. Hopefully it will return quickly to the fringes of forgettable, shamelessly knockoff cinema where it belongs.

Duplex
(September 27, 2003)

Alex (Ben Stiller) and Nancy (Drew Barrymore) are a young couple looking for their very first house. The two find a dream duplex in a relatively affordable section of Brooklyn, and eagerly buy the dwelling. The catch is an elderly Irish woman named Mrs. Connelly (Eileen Essel, “Ali G Indahouse”) who lives on the rent-controlled second floor of the duplex, and can't be kicked out. While the couple try to maintain their jobs, Mrs. Connelly's daily demands, quirks, and chores soon drive the two to thoughts of playful removal, and eventually to homicide in an effort to get the old bag out of their once beloved housing acquisition.

A black comedy with a dash of nasty, “Duplex” is perfectly suited to director Danny DeVito's aesthetic choices. He's cornered the market on stories of good people pushed into doing very bad things (“Throw Momma From The Train,” “The War Of The Roses”), and “Duplex” certainly doesn't challenge DeVito's creative muscles too strenuously. He's been down this road before, and it shows, but that doesn't necessarily translate into a bad film. “Duplex” is often very funny, delivering big laughs when it feels the desire to. It's also DeVito's most composed film of his career. A filmmaker who loves his camera tricks, DeVito keeps “Duplex” on a pretty tight leash, breaking out even something as innocent as a Dutch angle only once. That's like an alcoholic saying he's only had one wine spritzer all day. This newfound restraint helps the picture's digestibility because the audience isn't put in the position of trying to soak up all the visuals while missing the comedic strokes. DeVito's last film, the broad misfire “Death To Smoochy,” suffered from DeVito trying way too hard to make the film weird and funny. “Duplex” is quieter, but often just as weird and funny as a film like this is capable of becoming, and what a PG-13 will allow.

The interplay between Stiller, Barrymore, and the elderly Essel is what makes “Duplex” hum perfectly at times. While the script gives the cast some incredible situations to deal with - including a barf scene which is admittedly crude, but entirely effective and hilarious - it's the cast that sells the triangle of comedy skillfully. Eileen Essel is the real star of the film, putting in a hearty performance surrounded by two noted comedians. She's very game to be thrown around and bear the brunt of the assorted silliness that DeVito delights putting her in. She comes out in the end as the perfect mix of vile old woman, yet harmless senior citizen. And how can you not love her Irish accent?

I'm less enthused by the film's final section, which feels like a roaring automobile with tires that have gone flat. DeVito has a difficult time finding the right note to end the film on, so “Duplex” ends up evaporating instead of snapping to a close. There's a twist to the tale that also has a hard time coming together. Regardless of the way it finishes, “Duplex” is an often funny movie, maybe even going so far as to become a cautionary tale for young couples looking to buy their first homes.

School of Rock
(September 27, 2003)

Dewey Finn (Jack Black, “Shallow Hal”) is a thirty-something metal guitarist who has just been kicked out of his band. Facing the wrath of his roommate, Ned (Mike White, “The Good Girl”), and his girlfriend (Sarah Silverman, sadly wasted here) for past due rent, Dewey happens upon a phone call meant for Ned offering a substitute teacher position at an elegant prep school. Assuming Ned's identity, Dewey takes over a class of 5th graders and soon recognizes that he could start a rock band with the kids, exacting revenge on those that discouraged his talents before. Taking the kids through Classic Rock 101, Dewey molds the class into true metal musicians, ultimately gunning for a “Battle of the Bands” competition.

Sure, I could discuss the fine direction, writing (by co-star Mike White), and overall giddiness of “School Of Rock,” but to start there would be ludicrous. The main attraction of the film is Jack Black, plain and simple. While his previous leading role in the Farrelly Brothers' “Shallow Hal” was a terrific upgrade from Black's normal sidekick routine, “School” is the first film to somehow cram that sidekick energy into a lead performance. Black is a tornado of sweat, hair, and potentially meth-enhanced exuberance as Dewey. Director Richard Linklater has chosen to step away from trying to control Black, and just allowed him to work his comedy magic, amplified here by its interaction with children. Since 2000's “High Fidelity,” Black has become one of the funniest actors around, helping unappealing films like “Orange County” and “Saving Silverman” get laughs they would most certainly not have without his input. “School” doesn't push Black's dramatic skills in the least bit, instead allowing the actor to basically go full volume on his wild brand of comedy. Miraculously, he never irritates once.

Mixed in with the story are opportunities for Black to stretch out his musical talents as well. One half of the near-genius rock duo Tenacious D, Black comes to “Rock” with an already masterful take on the heavy metal genre. Linklater exploits this skillfully, giving generous amounts of screen time to Black's convulsive “rocking out” movements, which always leads to pure belly laughs. Black is an animated comedian, at times looking and sounding like the love child of John Belushi and Chris Farley. But I never grew tired of Black's whirlwind performance in “Rock, “ in fact I applaud his vivacity and his commitment for laughs. It is a very rare trait in comic actors these days.

Richard Linklater is coming off the one-two punch of his 2001 indie films, the tense one-act play “Tape,” and the tedious animated philosophical journey, “Waking Life.” Taking those films' overall integrity into consideration, “Rock” seems like an atypical project for the director to accept. The film marks Linklater's big studio comeback after bombing with the misguided “Newton Boys” five years ago, and he has a perfect feel for what “Rock” needs to be successful. The director tones down the message of the film, and the third act melodrama that normally accompanies it. While “Rock” succumbs to a loss of energy in the final moments, it isn't stopped dead by it, unlike other productions cut from the same cloth. Linklater also hires a cast of kids who are mostly non-professionals, but in a terrific, refreshingly natural way. Their interaction with the manic Black is often priceless. Linklater also enhances the production with his love for the rock music Dewey in trying to push on the kids (including Rush, AC/DC, The Who, and Led Zeppelin). Showing the kids learning the ways of old school metal, from the exact placement of the finger drumstick twirl to the “metal face” one needs to play lead guitar, are some of the highlights of the picture. There is obvious affection for the music of the genre, and Linklater is not afraid to let his metal horns fly.

With “The School Of Rock,“ Linklater manages to fall ass-backwards into one of the best family films of the year (don't let the PG-13 rating fool you, this is a pretty clean movie), showing that a picture centered on kids doesn't need flatulence humor to get by. Other music-based productions this year, such as “Garage Days” or “Camp,” only allege to be about music in its purest form. “The School Of Rock” is the picture that gets the valentine to rock music precisely the way it deserves.

The Rundown
(September 27, 2003)

A bookie enforcer working toward his dream of owning a restaurant, Beck (Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson) is as tough as they come. His latest assignment is to head down to a small South American gold mining town called El Dorado to retrieve a kid named Travis (Seann William Scott), who is on the brink of discovering a priceless ancient statue. Also inquiring about the treasure is Hatcher (Christopher Walken), the town slave driver, and Mariana (Rosario Dawson, “25th Hour“), a local rebel leader who can see the monetary value of the artifact helping her enslaved people. Travis doesn't want to leave, and as Beck tries to forcibly remove him, the duo get further and further into trouble in the vastness of the deep jungle. “The Rundown” attempts to pick up the baton dropped by such action film luminaries as Arnold Schwarzenegger, Steven Seagal, and Jean-Claude Van Damme. Assuming the audience is hungry for these types of thrills again, “Rundown” is packed tight with fisticuffs, shootouts, wire-assisted tackles, and exploding trucks. It's meant to introduce Johnson to the world of action, after his uneventful starring debut in the rancid “The Scorpion King.” I just don't recall anyone asking for a revival of this genre. With straight-to-video titles arriving weekly, there hasn't been a lull in action spectacles in decades, and “Rundown” hardly has the imagination to reinvent the wheel.

Peter Berg, the former actor who was last seen directing the cinematic bowel movement, “Very Bad Things”, helms “The Rundown”. Berg has a professional wrestler as his star, and he directs his film to match the intensity and fraudulent spectacle of the wrestling circuit. Berg pummels the screen with numbing, rapidly edited visuals, which get increasingly ridiculous as the film unspools. He also never meets a sound effect he doesn't like, testing the dexterity of an average theater sound system with thudding noises for even the slightest twitch in the action. “Rundown” is meant to be cartoon, albeit a violent, often laugh-free one - if you ever wanted to see a monkey hump The Rock, here's your chance. But Berg doesn't recognize when to pull back. The film becomes a messy dinner plate of visuals and information after a short time, destroying the fantastic jungle vistas and attempts at silly comedy, which is always welcomed. Berg just isn't that interesting a director, and his testosterone-amped filmmaking skills smother the material.

I would even go so far as to revoke Berg's DGA card, as his opening action sequence is set inside a dance club, with the overuse of a strobe light to help mask his special effects. A strobe. You might as well place a sign on the bottom of the frame that reads, “Please do not look at the screen.”

What Johnson has over his action forefathers is charisma, and an ability to enunciate clearly. A charming, commanding screen presence, Johnson takes full advantage of the film's potential to launch him into movie stardom. I like Johnson, even when he's working below his talents. He often single-handedly keeps the “Rundown” interesting, and his efforts are only crippled by Berg's incessant editing and the script's lame bravado. While Seann William Scott plays his umpteenth variation on his “American Pie” Stiffler character, and Rosario Dawson tries on a weak South American accent, Johnson keeps the film appealing with his confidence and natural ability. Not even Peter Berg can erase that. But heavens he tries.

Christopher Walken shows up as the villain of the piece, and his performance is much like his recent check-cashing turns in “The Country Bears” and “Gigli.” Walken hams it up mercilessly, trying to have fun in a film that is diametrically opposed to it. After “Catch Me If You Can,” challenged Walken to act again (with near brilliance, mind you), his classic kooky routine just isn't as fun to watch anymore.

I would hate to place Johnson in the ranks of the Van Dammes of the industry, but if he continues to make disposable action dreck like “The Rundown,” he'll do all the work toward obsolescence himself.

Under the Tuscan Sun
(September 18, 2003)

Based on the autobiographical best seller by Frances Mayes, “Under The Tuscan Sun” revolves around Frances (Diane Lane), a newly divorced woman who's is having a hard time adjusting to her single life. On the insistence of her lesbian friends (including Sandra Oh, “Last Night”), Frances is sent on a vacation to Tuscany to clear her head. Once there, she impulsively buys an ancient villa. Looking to revolutionize her life, Frances integrates herself into the local surroundings while she fixes up her home, finding friendship and romance in a foreign land as she tries to figure out just what she wants out of her once dreary life. A movie like “Under The Tuscan Sun” comes second when you have a star like Diane Lane to contend with. Sure, you have gorgeous Italian vistas and deliriously appealing culture to swim around in, but Lane's performance is the real reason “Tuscan Sun” is such an achingly successful picture. Since her Oscar nominated turn in last year's “Unfaithful,” Lane has finally come into her own. “Tuscan Sun” seals the promise made by “Unfaithful, “ giving Lane another chance to inhabit a true female character. Lane's Frances is a complex assortment of thoughts, feelings, and passions, with Lane landing each character moment precisely right. She can bounce from sensual to self-conscious is a matter of seconds, and makes each motion authentic. I couldn't name another actress who could play the role of Frances with such skill; it's as if Lane was born to play the part. Even after slaving away in the industry for over 20 years, Lane has never been better in her career than the last year. “Tuscan Sun” is an intense reminder just how powerful an actress Lane is, for without her, this film would not have the luxury of working so well.

Of course, as much of a knockout as Lane is, she is assisted by the Italian countryside for goodness sake. “Tuscan Sun” is directed by Audrey Wells (“Guinevere”), and she is skilled enough to let the camera soak up a little Italian splendor. “Tuscan Sun” works as a dramatic piece as much as a travelogue, with its languid gazing on the water-color sunsets and rolling hills. As a backdrop to Frances's journey, the natural beauty is a crucial reminder to the audience just why the characters are acting they way they do. But the vistas can be taken on their own when the drama occasionally sputters. It's a stunning movie to behold.

What makes Wells such a crafty director is that she uses the locations as a way to lull the audience into false hope. Wells takes liberal screen time to hypnotize the audience with the Italian magic, soothing the soul with shots of olive-colored flesh, bountiful food, and luscious accents, only to pull away every so often to introduce a reminder of the cruel realities of life. Wells's trickery allows the audience into Frances's head perfectly, because as magical a place as Italy is, it is reality, and that is often very disagreeable. Wells handles the transitions expertly, seldom letting the pace of the film slacken in the process. She is working from a book, which can be the cause of many transitional headaches. “Tuscan Sun” only has one: a fading Englishwoman (Lindsay Duncan) who lives the Fellini life in the local town and gives Frances pep talks on how to break free from her timidity. Wells can never quite finds a comfortable enough angle on this character, making her asides a distraction from the central plot thread.

“Under The Tuscan Sun” could've have been this grotesque, “You go girl!” take on single womanhood and sexual reinforcement. But due the power of the filmmaking, and the magnificent work from Diane Lane, “Tuscan Sun” transcends all expectations and becomes something truly magical and sincere.

Anything Else
(September 18, 2003)

As a struggling comedy writer living in New York City, Jerry (Jason Biggs, “American Pie”) is trying to sort out his love life. His relationship with his girlfriend Amanda (Christina Ricci, in way over her capabilities) is falling apart, mostly due to her almost pathological infidelity, but also because of Jerry’s own neuroses. Listening to daily advice from a fellow comedy writer (Woody Allen), Jerry struggles to figure out his love life, while also having to deal with his lousy manager (Danny DeVito), whom Jerry needs to fire in order to achieve success.

Though it may appear that way at first, “Anything Else” isn’t a chance for Woody Allen to reinvent himself with a cast of youngsters. Allen’s new picture is a vessel for nostalgia, using his hip cast (which also includes Jimmy Fallon, Erica Leerhsen, and an appearance by Diana Krall) to replicate themes and mis en scene that he’s been repeating for nearly 40 years. Under Allen‘s guidance: the comedy, obnoxious New York intellectualism, and glorious photography can go either right or wrong. “Anything Else” falls into the latter category. While it isn’t anything destructive to the master filmmaker’s career, it does feature some curious casting and screenwriting choices that might have fans scratching their heads.

I’ve come to think of “Anything Else” as a “Bugsy Malone” take on “Annie Hall.” It has all the Allen ingredients that are expected, but he’s placed the drama in the hands of two very young actors, Jason Biggs and Christina Ricci. Biggs and Ricci are acquired tastes as talents, and have yet to be challenged too greatly in their careers thus far. “Else” purports that these two characters deal with analysis, careers, and domesticity on a daily basis, but it hardly rings true. Allen is writing for his voice, and coming out of Biggs, the meaning is blurred. John Cusack was a much better match, in terms of an Allen substitute in “Bullets Over Broadway.” Biggs just doesn’t have the weight as an actor yet to convincingly spit out the philosophical references and endless stammering it requires for Jerry to be consistent. The poor imitation is made worse when Biggs shares screen time with Allen, with whom the words clearly match up with. I’m thrilled that Biggs is getting away from the “American Pie” series and trying to mix up the acting choices a little bit, but this experiment failed.

Because the audience is stuck with actors that don’t have the mastery needed for Allen’s prose, the screenplay’s cyclical nature of questioning relationships and romantic entanglements becomes exceptionally tiring. Allen can’t score any jokes or heart out of Jerry and Amanda, so the dramatic and comedic value of the script greatly decreases as the film plays out. To be blunt, the film gets pretty annoying. There is hardly a moment in the film where a breath of air occurs, making for the most vocally claustrophobic film Allen has made in a long time. v Outside of some breathtaking New York cinematography by Darius Khondji (“Panic Room”), “Anything Else” has very little to recommend about it. After last year’s disappointing “Hollywood Ending,” Woody Allen appears to be back in a creative slump and the attempt to bring some youth into his mix doesn’t pan out for director as hoped. He should leave his idiosyncratic world view and impeccable comedic tastes to an actor best suited for the job: himself.

Buffalo Soldiers
(September 18, 2003)

The setting is the late 1980s, right before the fall of the Berlin Wall. At a lone American army outpost in Germany, drugs, women, and material possessions are rampant among the troops, who are at loose ends due to the lack of combat. Ray Elwood (Joaquin Phoenix) is an army specialist under the command of Col. Wallace Berman (Ed Harris, in a refreshingly silly performance), but Elwood runs the show behind the scenes. Retrieving and cooking the drugs sold to his fellow officers, along with other black market dealings, Elwood is flush with cash and time, a deadly combo for a trained soldier. When a new officer, Sgt. Robert Lee (Scott Glenn), arrives on base, he makes it his personal mission to take away all the amenities that Elwood enjoys. This sets off a war between the two that threatens the corrupt framework of the base, and the heart of Lee’s own daughter (Anna Paquin), for whom Elwood has feelings for.

“Buffalo Soldiers” has had an incredible time getting to theaters. Purchased at the 2001 Toronto Film Festival by Miramax Films, the film was quickly shelved when the 9/11 terrorist attacks occurred in New York. Fearful of director Gregor Jordan’s rather timely view of trained soldiers with no enemies left to fight but themselves, the picture was left to gather dust for a year. Set for release in 2002, the movie was then pulled again when tensions heated up in the Middle East. Now, almost three years after the picture was completed, it is finally seeing the light of day. This is a good thing for once, as delayed films are usually held for a good reason. “Buffalo” bucks that trend with its roaring comedy and precise satire of the state of dormant military personal.

I could see audiences less inclined to go with Gregor Jordan’s rather satiric vision becoming wholly upset with the film. While it never takes on the guise of a sinister mockumentary of Army politics, Jordan does tap dance on the line between going for laughs and pointing an accusatory finger at the fragmentary behavior of American armed forces. I err on the side of comedy, simply because “Buffalo” has moments as outlandish as anything you’ve seen in “Sgt. Bilko” or “Stripes.” Jordan has crafted a sly comedy that contains belly laughs along with its political dissections. Some of Jordan’s better comedic highlights feature a tank commanded by drug addicts who get lost from their battalion and roam the German countryside destroying everything in their path. Or Harris’s dim Col. Berman, who tries to impress his superiors with tales of an ancestral Civil War hero who was actually anything but.

Eventually the darker elements of the story creep into the fold. As Elwood and his friends uncover abandoned military trucks containing scores of untraceable weapons, he decides to sell them on the black market, thus taking his scams to a whole new level. Jordan tries to place a thriller/mystery spin on this subplot, along with the increasing entanglements found in the war between Elwood and Lee. While Jordan gets away with the change of tone, mostly due to his stylish direction and the terrific performances from Phoenix and Glenn, “Buffalo Soldiers” loses its unique satiric identity in the mix. This is smart comedy that isn’t well served with lethargic dramatics. Jordan regains his footing for the comical final scene, but some of the bite has been taken out of his bark by then.

It will take a lazy viewer to interpret “Buffalo Soldiers” as a direct attack on American soldiers. Most astute viewers will be able to get past this questionable thinking and enjoy the film on its own merits. The picture deserves this kind of respect.

Cold Creek Manor
(September 18, 2003)

Sick of the big city life in New York, Cooper (Dennis Quaid) and Leah Tilson (Sharon Stone) have decided to move to the country with their children and leave their complicated urban ways behind. Finding the gigantic Cold Creek Manor for sale, the Tilsons move in and begin to enjoy the quiet rural life. Trouble arrives with the appearance of Dale Massie (Stephen Dorff), the former owner of the Manor who lost the estate while serving time in prison. Dale is not happy with the new owners, and while Cooper investigates the history of Cold Creek Manor, Dale is busy making plans to take the property back.

Seeing director Mike Figgis’s name listed in the “Cold Creek Manor” credits raises some very big questions. After all, he is a filmmaker who has had no trouble leading with his own creative vision (“Time Code“), even when working on big studio projects (“One Night Stand”). “Manor” is a customary thriller, using bark pulled from the same tree that spawned other residence paranoia films like “Pacific Heights” and “Burnt Offerings.” So what does Figgis want with this script? That’s a good question, with “Manor” not resembling the standard thriller it most certainly is for its first two acts. His placement at the helm of the picture is an interesting move by the producers, as Figgis has lived up to his reputation and steers “Manor” away from the more clichéd reaches of the script and pumping the dry script film full of sexual tension (a Figgis specialty). And when the picture has to deal directly with formula, Figgis has a way of keeping it fun, mocking the line that separates drama from camp. His work in “Manor” is the most focused Figgis has been in a long time, but the film is not his most artistically taxing.

“Manor” isn’t quite the horror film the marketing would suggest, but more of a thriller. It features little bloodshed, but plenty of tight suspense sequences. Figgis stages these moments with aplomb, forming a suspenseful drama out of less than original parts. The highlight of the film is a mid-movie snake attack on the Tilson household. Figgis shows remarkable competence in his ability to piece together something as silly as, well, a snake attack. “Manor” doesn’t beg for believability; it’s a light thrill ride of chills and drama that isn’t made much anymore. If the film feels empty in the end, it’s only because Hollywood usually fills these pictures up with action and blitzkrieg style. Figgis keeps the movie low to the ground, and “Manor” is successful and agreeable because of it.

It is in the climax of the picture where Figgis succumbs to studio or potentially test-screening pressure. Figgis gives in completely to clichés and plays out the finale of the film in a cataclysmic rainstorm (is there any other kind?), and writes off the mounting tension with a weak one-liner. It breaks the heart to see this spunky thriller end with such a resounding whimper; made even worse with fleeting images in my head of Figgis’s hands tied behind his back while the moneymen made the changes without his consent. Waiting to see how Figgis would end this tricky tale was part of the initial appeal of the film. I find it sad to report that it seems he might not have had a say in the matter at all.

Secondhand Lions
(September 18, 2003)

Walter (Haley Joel Osmet) is a 12-year-old boy who has just been dumped by his neglectful mother (Kyra Sedgwick) into the care of his great-uncles, Garth (Michael Caine) and Hub (Robert Duvall). There’s a dark mystery surrounding the decidedly unfriendly uncles, which includes stories of bank robberies, middle-eastern princesses, the purchase of a used lion for h