Witch Fuzz

Have you seen these movies?

Little Miss Sunshine
Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
The Science of Sleep
Fight Club
Memento
Running with Scissors
Everything is Illuminated
Idiocracy
The Butterfly Effect
A Walk To Remember
V for Vendetta
Shaun Of The Dead
The Lake House
The Simpsons Movie
The Day After Tomorrow
HOT FUZZ
ACROSS THE UNIVERSE
Donnie Darko
Being John Malkovich
Thank You for Smoking
Brokeback Mountain
Requiem for a Dream
Brick
Transamerica
The Machinist
Thumbsucker
Half Nelson
American Beauty
Jarhead
Garden State
The Breakfast Club
Blair Witch Project 2

what do you think about them?

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE

The family that pops Prozac together stays together, perhaps, but the family that piles into an old Volkswagen bus the color of a banana surely has more entertainment value. That at least seems true of the happily (for us) unhappy relations at the center of the bittersweet comedy of dysfunction “Little Miss Sunshine,” a tale about genuine faith and manufactured glory that unwinds in the American Southwest, but more rightly takes place at the terminus of the American dream, where families are one bad break away from bankruptcy.

Written by the newcomer Michael Arndt, and directed by the husband-and-wife team of Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris, seasoned music-video directors making an effortless feature-film debut, “Little Miss Sunshine” relates the story of the Hoovers, just around the time that the youngish, harried Sheryl (Toni Collette) takes her suicidal brother, Frank (Steve Carell), under her wing. (“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “That makes one of us,” he answers.) Straight from the hospital, Frank moves in with Sheryl’s family, including her 7-year-old daughter, Olive (Abigail Breslin); teenage son, Dwayne (Paul Dano); husband, Richard (Greg Kinnear); and father-in-law, a heroin-tooting crank simply called Grandpa (Alan Arkin).

The bandages on Frank’s wrists are as fresh as his wounds when he enters the Hoovers’ fold, a dim burrow filled with clutter and noise. Eccentric families are a mainstay of comedy, and at least in their schematized personalities (the sullen son, the desperate dad), the Hoovers are not much different from most, despite the vials of white powder tucked in Grandpa’s fanny pack. They may be more downmarket than Wes Anderson’s Tenenbaums and a lot scruffier than the average big-studio clan. (Their kitchen looks as if it hasn’t been remodeled since Alice slaved for the Bradys.) But like most American comedy families, they are also a familiar social microcosm, a group of radically individualized souls in search of one another.

The means to that end is the competition of the film’s title, a child beauty pageant called Little Miss Sunshine. Soon after Frank moves in, Olive, a dumpling of a child with oversize glasses and a seemingly endless reserve of optimism, receives unexpected word that she has been invited to compete in Little Miss Sunshine, just days away. Short of cash if not bright ideas, Richard decides to pile the fractious, reluctant brood into the family’s antique VW bus so that Olive can live out her dream and prove herself a winner. Much like Steinbeck’s Joads, the Beverly Hillbillies and millions of other westward-ho pioneers, the notably named Hoovers set a course for California, the land of sunshine, bleached teeth and eternal promise, leaving dusty Albuquerque behind.

“Little Miss Sunshine” doesn’t look particularly ambitious, in terms of either its narrative or its function-over-form visual style. But tucked in between all the hurt and the jokes, the character development and the across-the-board terrific performances is a surprisingly sharp look at contemporary America, one that sets the metaphor of the stage (and, by extension, competition) against the cherished myth of the open road. Like her father, who’s peddling a get-rich scheme, and like her brother, who yearns to fly the coop by becoming a jet pilot, Olive lives in a fantasy world that has become more real than her own life. When she watches a video of Miss America accepting her tiara, the image flickers in her eyeglasses, but it might as well be projected on her frontal lobe.

It’s on the road that the Hoovers first lose and then find themselves, both as individuals and as a family. There is engine trouble, naturally, which leads to a delightful sight gag that involves Richard tucked behind the wheel as the rest of the family pushes — then scrambles inside — the bus. An emblem of an earlier, possibly more freewheeling era, this temporary mobile home seems an unlikely vehicle for transformation, but it takes the Hoovers across state lines and through a series of emotional and psychological roadblocks. In between the fast-food joints, hot tears and hurled insults, there are wide-open spaces and a suggestion of freedom along with a sign for the “Carefree Highway,” an actual state route that here seems more like a cruel joke.

For the most part, the jokes and the sensibility are more kind than not in “Little Miss Sunshine,” which motors forward on the strength of its seamless ensemble and direction, and its touching human comedy. Mr. Arndt unleashes scads of deftly funny one-liners and situations, the best of which float along on sheer absurdity, like the collision between some pornographic rags and Marcel Proust. The jokes don’t land as lightly when they come with a message tied to the punch line, especially as the Hoovers near the Little Miss Sunshine competition, a ghastly spectacle that features underage fleshpots writhing to pounding beats while weighed down by sequins and parental vainglory. Graham Greene’s description of Shirley Temple’s appeal as “interestingly decadent” could not be more apt.

However true to life, the Little Miss Sunshine competition comes accompanied by a whiff of class snobbishness. Richard weighs in as a total middle manager, the type of man who has read one too many self-help books. But, as the nods to Proust and Nietzsche suggest — and that VW bus, with its intimation of 1960’s rebellion, underscores — the Hoovers are clearly not meant to be cut from the same tacky cloth as the rest of the pageant parents, who smother their daughters in spray-on bronzer and expectation. In a different film, one not as generous of spirit (or funny), that snobbishness might seem insufferable. Yet there’s a melancholy here that clings to this family, which however triumphant and united, may well remain stuck in the national Hooversville located at the crossroads of hope and despair.

“Little Miss Sunshine” is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). The film has some salty language, but nothing anyone sentient hasn’t heard before.

LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE

Opens today in New York and Los Angeles.

Directed by Jonathan Dayton and Valerie Faris; written by Michael Arndt; director of photography, Tim Suhrstedt; edited by Pamela Martin; music by Mychael Danna; production designer, Kalina Ivanov; produced by Marc Turtletaub, David T. Friendly, Peter Saraf, Albert Berger and Ron Yerxa; released by Fox Searchlight Pictures. Running time: 101 minutes.

WITH: Greg Kinnear (Richard), Toni Collette (Sheryl), Steve Carell (Frank), Paul Dano (Dwayne), Abigail Breslin (Olive) and Alan Arkin (Grandpa).

Correction: July 31, 2006
A film review on Wednesday about “Little Miss Sunshine” referred incorrectly to contestants in the fictional children’s beauty pageant of the title. The critic intended to compare the contestants to underage prostitutes, not to “underage fleshpots.”

ENTERNAL SUNSHINE OF THE SPOTLESS MIND

A unique romantic comedy, unfettered by the normal expectations of the genre, is a rare and wondrous thing. That's precisely what director Michel Gondry, working from a screenplay by Charlie Kaufman (Being John Malkovich, Adapatation), delivers. Without being too offbeat or esoteric, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind nevertheless manages to convey romance without forcing the mind to shift into neutral or dragging the characters through a formulaic structure where chemistry becomes the most important asset.

That's not to say that there's no non-verbal connection between stars Jim Carrey and Kate Winslet; merely that the success of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind does not rely upon it. The writing is strong enough and the approach embodies ample originality for the effectiveness of the interaction to serve as an enhancement. Plus, this isn't a romance in the traditional sense of boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets back girl. It's more of a Woody Allen kind of love affair, where the trajectory from beginning to end is bumpy and unpaved.

Joel Barish (Carrey) is a meek, unassuming man who discovers his perfect other half in uninhibited Clementine Kruczynski (Winslet). Their relationship ignites quickly, but the things that initially draw them together become hurdles and barriers. In the end, Clementine decides that Joel is too boring for her, and Joel concludes that Clementine is too needy. The break-up is abrupt and painful - so painful, in fact, that Clementine seeks the services of Dr. Howard Mierzqwiak (Tom Wilkinson), a specialist in memory erasure. For a fee, he and his associates Stan (Mark Ruffalo) and Patrick (Elijah Wood) will eliminate all of an individual's memories of another person. Once Clementine has undergone this procedure to forget Joel, he decides to follow her lead. But his memory proves to be a tricky place, because the past images of Clementine refuse to be cleanly expunged.

The story is told non-chronologically, with many of the more imaginative sequences being set deep in Joel's mind, as he invades his own memories to keep them from slipping away. (Here is where the film's inventive set design sparkles.) Somewhere along the way, he realizes that many of his recollections are too precious to give up, but, by that time, he is already committed. Meanwhile, as all of this is going on in Joel's head, we follow Clementine as she tries to adjust to her new life, and get to know the people who are working on Joel, including Howard, Stan, Patrick, and their receptionist/nurse, Mary (Kirsten Dunst).

Those who have been exposed to Kaufman's previous screenplays (especially Malkovich, Adaptation, and Human Nature, which was also directed by Gondry) recognize that he never takes the story where one expects it to go. That's precisely what happens here, as he toys with the boundaries between reality and fantasy, and makes some probing points about the malleability of memory and the importance of the past in defining the future. The film also doesn't ignore the ethical implications of what Howard is doing. His motives may be pure, but how much control does he have over what he has unleashed?

Of late, Jim Carrey has been doing an increasing number of straight, dramatic roles, and this is arguably his best work to date. Carrey manages to obfuscate so effectively his own larger-than-life personality, that, when he's on screen, we see Joel, not Jim. Kate Winslet, despite often being associated with period pieces, is at home inhabiting a contemporary character who changes the color of her hair more easily than her wardrobe. Carrey and Winslet develop the kind of strong rapport that makes us root for their characters to unite at the end. Memory loss or not, these two belong together.

The supporting cast is comprised of performers of some note. Elijah Wood, most recently known as Frodo Baggins, is the less-than-heroic Patrick, whose primary goal in wiping people's memories is to capture a girlfriend. (He uses his knowledge of Joel's successes with Clementine to insinuate himself in to her life.) Mark Ruffalo (In the Cut) is the wired geek who's carrying on an affair with Mary, the receptionist who in turn wants Howard. Kirsten Dunst takes the opportunity to loosen up between Spider Man movies, while Tom Wilkinson rounds out the cast.

With films like Memento, 50 First Dates, and the execrable Paycheck, memory loss has become an increasingly fertile ground for movies to plow. By using a slightly different approach to the subject than those films (but still staying in the Twilight Zone), Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind carves out its own niche. This is unlike any other film I have seen. And, although I value originality in motion pictures, the primary reason I'm recommending Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind with so much enthusiasm is because it's a great romance. It's willingness to flout conventions and eschew formulas is just one of many things to celebrate about this charmingly eccentric movie.

THE SCIENCE OF SLEEP

The Science of Sleep is director Michael Gondry's feature follow-up to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind and, in many ways, it feels like an inferior cannibalization of the 2004 movie. Both movies spend lengthy sequences inside the protagonist's head and toy with the line between reality and fantasy. However, there's a key difference. What Eternal Sunshine did with magic and whimsy, The Science of Sleep accomplishes with confusion and pretentiousness. The dream sequences in The Science of Sleep, which comprise an inordinately large fraction of the running time, are dull and off-putting - the work of a man who desperately wants to be acknowledged as a creative visionary. They interrupt the flow of what might otherwise be an endearing romance.

Stéphane (Gael García Bernal) often has trouble differentiating dreams from reality. To him, his nighttime exploits, in which he plays the host of a TV talk show called "Stéphane TV," are more compelling that his daily routine, which sees him engaged in drudgery at a calendar-making company. The one bright spot in Stéphane's life is his next-door neighbor, Stéphanie (Charlotte Gainsbourg), a quiet young woman who befriends him. At first, she appears to be romantically interested in Stéphane, but when he reciprocates, she backs off. His odd, juvenile behavior - wandering the apartment building hall in the nude and slipping a note under her door, sneaking in through her window, and offering a sudden marriage proposal - are cause for concern, but none of those things scares Stéphanie away, at least not completely.

What Gondry tries to do with the dream sequences and what he succeeds in doing are different things. The film is intended to be a kind of fairy tale, with Stéphane seeking a balance between the liveliness of what transpires in his slumber and the monotony of his waking life. In movies like this, a little magical realism goes a long way, and The Science of Sleep feeds it to us long after we have begun choking on it. A lot of what transpires during the course of the film feels forced. Stéphane's dreams, with their cardboard sets and intentionally cheesy special effects (including stop-motion animation), seem like the work of a director who's trying to prove how clever he can be. Films like Big Fish and Gondry's own Eternal Sunshine prove it's possible to do this kind of story in a way that captivates audiences. The Science of Sleep misses the mark by a wide margin.

Gondry believes that Stéphane's dream sequences should look like a child's playroom. All that's missing is Pee Wee Herman. While this is intentional, it looks cheap. The dream sequences often seem more like amateur movies than pieces of a larger whole. Some will argue that Gondry's approach is imaginative, but there's little here to seize the imagination. In an era when dreamscapes are often visually stunning, or at least interesting, Gondry's choice - whether or not it was imposed upon him by the budget - is lackluster.

One of my annoyances with the film is that the real-life story, which focuses on the tentative relationship between Stéphane and Stéphanie, works. Gondry doesn't rush headlong into a love-at-first-sight romance. Initially, Stéphane is more interested in Stéphanie's slutty friend, Zoe (Emma de Caunes). It's only after he embarks upon an artistic project with her that his feelings deepen. There's a lot about Stéphanie that remains unrevealed. Her "secret" is hinted at during a conversation between Stéphane and a co-worker, but Gondry never follows up on this. The ending is exasperating because there are multiple interpretations for what happens, none of which are satisfying. I left The Science of Sleep feeling cheated.

Whatever, the film's faults, it's tough to lay the blame at the feet of the leads. Gael García Bernal brings to bear all of his considerable charm and charisma, occasionally seeming to channel a young Johnny Depp. Charlotte Gainsbourg's unconventional attractiveness serves her well in this role, where a more traditionally pretty actress might not have been convincing. Her underplaying of Stéphanie is a perfect counterpoint to Bernal's overplaying of Stéphane. These are the only two genuine characters in the film; the supporting players are reduced to acting out caricatures. There's little humanity or life in anyone other than Stéphane and Stéphanie.

Gondry enjoys toying with the audience to the extent where we're never 100% certain whether a scene is real, a dream, or a combination. He does things in seemingly "real" scenes (like having a one-second time machine work) that cause us to question whether the entire movie is unspooling in Stéphane's imagination. The ending is maddening in the way it fails to provide closure or catharsis. Gondry might argue that he's leaving it up to the viewer do the interpretation, but it feels more like he's thumbing his nose at us. This is not one of those occasions when an ambiguous finale enhances the film-going experience. Like much of what transpires before, it merely leaves us unfulfilled and frustrated.

FIGHT CLUB
Who'd have guessed it? Another Bollywood film that borrows brazenly from Hollywood. This time round David Fincher's cult thriller Fight Club, is the seed of inspiration for writer/director Vikram Chopra, who enrolls a huge ensemble cast headed by Zayed Khan, as a man who begins an anarchic subculture. In no way, shape or form as engaging or psychologically cunning as the original, Fight Club - Members Only is more slapstick than brutal when it comes to dishing out the blows.

When Vicky (Zayed Khan) starts an underground fight club where fellow college students can settle scores, his pals Somil (Riteish Deshmukh), Karan (Dino More) and Diku (Aashish Chaudhary) are only too happy to help him ring in the cash. But soon their expertise is needed to win back Somil's family nightclub, which has been taken over by a gang lord (Ashmit Patel) who intends on turning it into a drugs den. Enlisting the help of local bouncer Sameer (Sohail Khan), the friends join forces against the evil crime boss. Funny how amidst fisticuffs they find time to indulge in a song and dance with their respective girlfriends, played by Amrita Arora, Dia Mirza and Neha Dhupia.

MEMENTO

Memory - it is one of the key elements that separates human beings from animals. It is one of the basic building blocks of personality. Who we are is shaped as much by our experiences as by our environment. Memory can also be unreliable, not to mention easily influenced. Ask three people to describe the same event, and none of those accounts will be the same. But, although memories are skewed by perspective, they are critical to the human experience. Memento is very much concerned with all aspects of memory, especially the manipulation of it, and this endlessly fascinating, wonderfully open-ended motion picture will be remembered by many who see it as one of the best films of the year.

When I initially saw Memento at the 2001 Sundance Film Festival, where it played in competition, I recognized this as a shoo-in for a spot on my year's end Top 10 list. There's no way this film could miss. Had it been released last year, it would have landed in the #1 or #2 position (right ahead of or behind Requiem for a Dream). This is a great motion picture, and, as an added bonus, it has a tremendous "replayability", meaning that subsequent viewings are almost as rewarding as the first. The only downside is that, with a small distributor like Newmarket Capital Group, it may be difficult to find, especially for those who don't live near major metropolitan areas.

Memento stars Austalian actor Guy Pearce (one of the crossdressers in The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert and the "straight" guy L.A. Confidential) as Leonard Shelby, a former insurance investigator and crime victim who is trying to find the man who raped and murdered his wife (Jorja Fox). His goal is simple - he wants revenge through execution. Nothing less will satisfy him. But there's a small matter that complicates Leonard's investigation. He has no short term memory. During the attack that ended his wife's life, Leonard suffered brain damage. Now, although his long-term memory is fine, he can't remember any recent events. He can meet the same person a hundred times and won't know their name or who they are. To combat his condition, Leonard relies upon a series of annotated Polaroid snapshots - not exactly the ideal tool by which to seek out a killer who even the police can't locate. Along the way, Leonard is aided (or perhaps hindered) by the ubiquitous Teddy (Joe Pantoliano), who is always on hand to offer advice, and he becomes involved with the mysterious Natalie (Carrie-Ann Moss), whose motives may not be as straightforward as they initially appear to be.

Memento doesn't stop with a great premise. In fact, what really distinguishes this film is its brilliant, innovative structure. Nolan has elected to tell the story backwards. He starts at the end and finishes near the beginning. The main narrative is presented as a series of three-to-eight minute segments, each of which ends where the previous one began. A second thread, which starts at an unspecified time in the past and moves forward to intersect with the main storyline, is used to buffer the "reverse" segments as well as to provide background information. (It also tells the important "Sammy Jankis" story, which becomes increasingly important the deeper we get into the film.) Although this approach might at first seem confusing, it doesn't take long to get used to it, and to understand how well it works with this material.

By presenting events in Memento backwards, Nolan allows us to get into the mindset of the main character. Like Leonard, we don't have a clear indication of what happened before the current segment of time. We know some things from the past, but not the recent past. Like him, we are presented with numerous cryptic clues, some of which may mean something other than what they initially appear to represent. And, although it might seem that an approach which reveals the story's conclusion in the first five minutes would lack tension, that's far from the case. Memento builds to a surprising yet completely logical finale, and there's plenty of suspense along the way to keep the viewer riveted.

Those who enjoyed the dubious pleasure of piecing together the plot of The Sixth Sense in retrospect will be delighted by Memento, which only reveals the entire landscape when the end credits start rolling. Unlike The Sixth Sense, however, Memento does not rely upon an easily-predicted twist ending to give the storyline meaning. This movie is constructed as a series of clever and logical revelations. It builds to the final scene rather than attempting to ambush us. In addition, since many aspects of Memento can be interpreted in more than one way (for example, during one critical conversation, it's up to each audience member to determine whether or not Teddy is telling the truth - Nolan does not offer a "definitive" answer), it's possible for one movie-goer to have a completely different vision of the film's backstory than the person sitting next to him/her.

In some ways, Memento can almost be described as anti-Groundhog Day. (The presence of Stephen Tobolowsky in supporting roles in both movies strengthens the connection.) Both pictures toy with timelines and memory, but, while Groundhog Day re-treads one period of time, constantly re-shaping recent history, Memento represents the past as a vacuum. Bill Murray's character in the 1993 film has multiple memories of a single time period. Here, Leonard has none. Another movie that comes to mind when discussing Memento is the Dana Carvey comedy Clean Slate. The two films have pretty much the same premise, but, while Clean Slate does little with it, Memento draws every ounce of potential from this rich well.

Lead actor Guy Pearce gives an astounding performance as a man struggling to avoid being manipulated in a world where he can easily become anyone's pawn. It's a tight, thoroughly convincing performance. Able support is provided by Carrie-Anne Moss, who is quickly moving far beyond her label as the "Matrix Babe", and character actor Joe Pantoliano (the newest addition to the cast of "The Sopranos"). But the real star here is Nolan, and the way he has edited this masterful thriller into its final format.

Every festival has a defining film. Sometimes it wins awards; sometimes it doesn't. For Sundance 2001, Memento was that movie. Despite its diversity of genres, the festival couldn't boast anything better; now, in the bleak movie-going climate of early spring, Memento is poised to breathe life back into art houses and independent theaters that have been as stung as multiplexes by mediocre fare. For those who love films and don't mind endings that don't wrap everything into a tidy package, Memento is not to be missed, even if you have to make a long trip to reach a theater showing it.

When it comes to making a Top 10 list for 2001, one title I won't forget is Memento. © 2001 James Berardinelli

RUNNING WITH SCISSORS

unning with Scissors is not a pleasant movie. The problem isn't that it's a downer, although it is, but that it's a tiresome trek into familiar territory populated by one-dimensional stereotypes. Perhaps calculating that more is better, Running with Scissors features not one but two dysfunctional families (in movies, there is no room for the so-called "normal" family). Nearly every supporting character with a speaking part is either an oddball or a freak. Had David Lynch been at the helm, the movie might have been weird enough to be entertaining, but director Ryan Murphy's approach is so stagnant that the picture has overstayed its welcome before the running length is half over.

The main character is Augusten Burroughs (Joseph Cross), a fourteen-year old surviving the disintegration of his parents' marriage in 1978. (Those who forget the year will be reminded by the use of pop songs of the era - many inappropriately placed - on the soundtrack.) Dierdre and Norman Burroughs (Annette Bening and Alec Baldwin) are in the midst of a marital meltdown that would make the real life actor's split appear amicable. Eventually, the alcoholic Norman moves out and Dierdre, whose mental health is not the best, takes some time off to "rest at a motel." Augusten ends up in residence at the house of Dierdre's psychiatrist, Dr. Finch (Brian Cox).

The Finch family is not normal. They do not believe in doing dishes - there's not a surface in the kitchen that isn't piled high with dirty flatware The long dead Christmas tree is in its second consecutive year of needle-dropping existence. Then there are the inhabitants… Dr. Finch is a narcissist who thinks of himself as Santa Claus, sleeps with his patients, has a room next to his office reserved for masturbation, and divines the future from the shape of his stool. His wife, Agnes (Jill Clayburgh), doesn't look like she ever leaves the house and admits that her favorite snack foods are dog kibbles. Son Neil (Joseph Fiennes) has moved out but still visits either for therapy or to kill his father - he sometimes has trouble figuring out which. Elder daughter Hope (Gwyneth Paltrow) talks to her cat and uses randomly chosen Biblical words to guide her life. Younger daughter Natalie (Evan Rachel Wood) is the most normal, so she and Augusten bond. Their relationship might go farther except Augusten is gay.

Family dramas featuring an array of offbeat characters can succeed by selecting one of two paths. They can offer serious drama by investing the time and energy to develop complex characters or they can opt to traverse a more comedic path, incorporating wit and humor (consider The Royal Tenenbaums). Running with Scissors does neither. With the exception of Augusten, Natalie, and arguably Dierdre, the population is paper-thin. On the other hand, the comedy is so low-key as to be absent. The few obvious attempts at jokes aren't funny, especially considering the grim tone.

The best performance belongs to Evan Rachel Wood, who brings enough spunk and energy to Natalie to relieve the tedium when she's around. Annette Bening is being touted in some circles as a potential Oscar contender for her portrayal of the unbalanced poet Dierdre. However, while there's nothing wrong with Bening's acting, it's not award-worthy. Brian Cox has his enjoyable moments, vacillating between an affable grandfather figure and a manipulative Svengali. Unfortunately, lead actor Joseph Cross is flat, making it difficult to connect emotionally with Augusten. The other actors - Jill Clayburgh, Alec Baldwin, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Joseph Fiennes - leave a minimal impression.

Running with Scissors is based on the well received memoir written by Augusten Burroughs, but something must have gotten lost in the translation. For Ryan Murphy, who is making his feature debut after creating the popular TV series Nip/Tuck, it's not a promising first big-screen outing. Visually, the movie is interesting (with the Finch house, both inside and outside, representing what happens when no one cleans up anything), but the storyline varies between being derivative (insane mother torn between ignoring her son and loving him) and artificial (a few too many unbelievable characters tossed awkwardly into the mix - isn't anyone in this movie normal?). As dysfunctional family movies go, this is one skip. It doesn't just run with the scissors, it falls on them.

© 2006 James Berardinelli

EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED

I want to give actor-turned-director Liev Schreiber credit for making his behind-the-camera debut a film that means something to him. One can easily see how Everything Is Illuminated could be a deeply personal effort. Unfortunately, the meaning a project has for a director is not always conveyed to an audience. This is one such case. This movie is sloppy and disjointed - an unsatisfying melodrama built upon a shaky foundation of contrivances, coincidences, and plot holes. Although there's an aura of sincerity that keeps the picture from teetering into the "bad" category (it stays rooted in mediocrity), it fails more often than it works, and sitting through the 110-minute running length can be a tedious experience.

Jonathan (Elijah Wood, post-Frodo Baggins) is a "collector." He obsessively catalogs items pertaining to his family, then pins them to his bedroom wall - everything from old photographs to his grandmother's false teeth. When he is given a photo taken in 1940s Ukraine of his grandfather with the mysterious woman Augusta, his curiosity is piqued. So he travels to the Ukraine and hooks up with Heritage Tours, a family-owned business that specializes in helping rich Jews locate their dead ancestors. With the aid of twenty-something Alex Jr. (Eugene Hutz) and his grandfather, Alex Sr. (Boris Leskin), Jonathan begins a road trip into his past.

For a while, Everything Is Illuminated achieves a witty tone and moves along at a decent pace. During the first half-hour, there's unforced humor as Jonathan and Alex Jr. (whose grip of English is not the greatest) struggle to communicate. Unfortunately, like most road trips, this one doesn't take long to begin meandering. The trio's final destination, and the revelations that occur there, are anti-climactic. These are supposed to bring an emotional catharsis, but I had to stifle a yawn. I never connected emotionally in any way with these characters, and such a bond is necessary if the "surprising" climax is to have meaning. Beyond that, Everything Is Illuminated doesn't know when to end. Like the Energizer Bunny, it keeps going and going and going, dragging on for at least 10 minutes longer than it needs to. And the screenplay demands that everything be spelled out for the viewer. Less exposition and a few more quiet moments might have lent a sense of tragedy to a climax that is polluted with too many words and too little emotional power.

The acting is spotty. Elijah Wood is stiff, but that's probably because he's playing someone who is closed off. Jonathan has some sort of obsessive compulsive disorder, but the movie isn't interested in exploring that subject, other than to use it as a device to get him to the Ukraine. The two non-English actors are credible, with Boris Leskin filling the grumpy old man role while Eugene Hutz is the occasionally bumbling sidekick. The best parts of the movie have nothing to do with the dramatic aspects; they occur early when Hutz does an amusing voiceover describing his character's likes and dislikes. (He's a big Michael Jackson fan, and can dance like John Travolta.)

For Everything is Illuminated to work, the viewer has to care about the characters, but there's not enough on screen for the bond to be formed. Jonathan is a hollow shell - there's nothing there except a strange guy who puts things in ziploc bags. And the two Ukranians aren't much better fleshed out. Perhaps part of the problem is the degree of cutting necessary to cram Jonathan Safran Foer's 2002 novel into less than two hours. Or perhaps the problem is that Liev Schreiber's aptitude in front of the camera doesn't translate to the other side of the production. The problem seems to be more one of execution than poor source material. Regardless of the reason, Everything Is Illuminated left me cold and in the dark.

© 2005 James Berardinelli

IDIOCRACY
Starring Luke Wilson, Maya Rudolph, Dax Shepard, Mitch Baker, Tom Beaver, Terry Crews, Ryan Christopher and Brendan Hill. Directed by Mike Judge. Written by Mike Judge and Etan Cohen. Produced by Mike Judge and Elysa Koplovitz. A Fox release. Comedy. Rated R for language and sex-related humor. Running time: 84 min.
Remember that scene in “Star Wars” when Ben Kenobi and Luke Skywalker look out over the desert at Moss Eisley space port -- that “most wretched hive of scum and villainy” -- in the distance? There’s a shot in Mike Judge’s “Idiocracy” that mimics it, but it’s even more forbidding. For instead of a lawless colony of irascible, clarinet-playing aliens, we get one gigantic Costco. It stretches into the horizon, surrounded by a sprawl of trailers and garbage. The soul cowers at the sight of it.

“Idiocracy” could be the most dystopian view of America’s future ever put to film. Its future-scape is riddled with mountains of uncollected trash, cities teetering on the brink of collapse (a couple of skyscrapers are tied to each other with rope to keep from toppling) and totally dominated by hegemonic fast-food corporations (Carls Jr. gets thoroughly spanked throughout). Worst of all, its peopled entirely by morons.

There are several moments in Judge and Etan Cohen’s script so hysterically funny, and the satire on display is so rudely on- target at times, that “Idiocracy” demands attention. While Fox is clearly giving up on the pic’s theatrical run (this is exactly the kind of bizarre, bleak material to cause a studio marketing exec to break out in a rash), it’ll likely become a cult favorite once released on DVD.

Compulsively likeable Luke Wilson plays the average Joe Bowers, an Army private, who, along with Rita (Maya Rudolph), a prostitute, takes part in an ill-fated government cryogenics experiment. When they awaken, they find themselves in the 26th century in an America overrun by IQ-challenged white-trash dimwits and inner-city gangstas. Everyone, even doctors, wear oversized, logo-splattered sports jerseys and track pants. If, per chance, you want a coffee and a hand-job, a trip to Starbucks will kill both birds.

Word of Bowers’ high IQ, (relatively speaking) prompts America’s pimped-out President Camacho (a fantastic Terry Crews)—think “Rocky’s” Apollo Creed crossed with Rick James—to hire Bowers to revitalize the nation’s barren farmlands and its shambling economy. Bowers grudgingly agrees, hoping it’ll give him and Rita a window of opportunity to escape back to their native century. If Bowers fails, the threat of a third-act death-by- monster-truck looms.

When Judge and Cohen are lampooning the hip-hopped, brain- deadened America of Fox TV and Carl’s Jr. (slogan: “F*ck you. I’m eating.”), “Idiocracy” revs on all pistons. But, finally, this one-trick pony needs a more invigorating story. We’re craving for Judge to broaden the subjects of his satire, or at least create characters suggested by more than cultural stereotypes. It seems Judge spent most of his time designing vitriolic cultural gags. And, as hilarious as these can be, it’s at the expense of freshly drawn characters -- Rudolph is woefully underused -- and whip-smart storytelling. “Idiocracy” ultimately sputters out, managing to go only so far as an engine built on buffoonery without adequate brains can handle.
- Jay Antani

THE BUTTERFLY AFFECT

It is likely that a number of reviews are going to describe The Butterfly Effect as a "science fiction" movie. Nothing could be further from the truth - little that occurs during the course of this film relates to science or technology, and to force The Butterfly Effect into the genre is a lazy and unwarranted approach. Although there is a "Twilight Zone" feel to the proceedings, it's worth noting that many episodes of Rod Serling's classic TV series gyrated along the line between fantasy and horror, and that's exactly where The Butterfly Effect belongs.

That being said, this is a compelling and intriguing movie that toys with the powers of choice and chance in a way that is not overused. Sure, there are plot holes (some of which are quite substantial), but most of them don't become apparent until long after the end credits have rolled and the film is being analyzed in a post-screening discussion. The ending is a cheat, and Ashton Kutcher is perhaps not the best choice for the lead role. Nevertheless, despite these flaws, I don't hesitate to recommend the film. In the cinematic wasteland that is January, this stands tall.

The Butterfly Effect takes its name from a premise of chaos theory: a butterfly flapping its wings in North Africa can cause a typhoon half-a-world away (see Jurassic Park for a similar explanation). In this case, we're not faced with a question of spatial causality, but of how re-arranging the time stream can result in a slip into an alternate reality. By following the KISS (keep it simple, stupid) principal, The Butterfly Effect manages to move forward without confusing or losing its audience. This isn't one of those films where a moment's inattention will result in total bewilderment, although it is a good idea not to take a trip to the snack counter.

Evan Treborn (Kutcher) is a 20-year old college student with a bigger parcel of emotional baggage than most young Americans. Since age seven, he has been experiencing blackouts at moments of high emotional stress, such as when a friend of the family molested him, or when he and some friends became involved in a prank-gone-bad. Evan learns that, by concentrating on the words in a journal he composed while growing up, he can transport himself back in time and re-live certain events. Sometimes, he can make changes; sometimes he can't. When a childhood friend, Kayleigh Miller (Amy Smart), commits suicide because of something Evan does, he becomes obsessed with reworking her life. And, when he does, he learns that he might have been better off not meddling with the complex formula of cause-and-effect.

Co-directors Eric Bress and J. Mackye Gruber (who also co-wrote the screenplay) have fashioned a movie that not only entertains in its own right, but asks us to consider the consequences of our own actions. (This is their first outing behind the camera; they collaborated on the screenplay for Final Destination 2, an act for which I am willing to forgive them.) There's a little Sliding Doors in this film, although, unlike the earlier movie, The Butterfly Effect is not a romantic comedy, nor does it show us the parallel evolution of different universes. This film follows a single incarnation of Evan as he meddles in his own time stream, changing his future from grim to grimmer, even as he remembers all of the permutations he has been through.

For Ashton Kutcher, this is obviously an attempt to shed his "Punk'd"/"'70s Show" image and prove that he can really act. However, while Kutcher doesn't embarrass himself, he is miscast. He lacks the gravitas necessary to pull off the part with complete conviction; someone like Billy Crudup or Jared Leto (whose turn in Requiem for a Dream was remarkable) might have been more convincing as Evan. Nevertheless, Kutcher isn't so bad that he torpedoes the entire project. On the acting side, he is joined by other up-and-coming (read "hot") performers like Amy Smart, William Lee Scott (as Kayleigh's brother), and Elden Henson (as Lenny, another of Evan's childhood friends). The senior member of the cast is Eric Stoltz, who is cast as the movie's sleaziest character.

The ending is weak, and may be the result of the filmmakers writing themselves into a corner and not wanting to conclude things in a burst of nihilistic excess. Yet, even though it's a cheat, it retains a degree of resonance, primarily because it doesn't seek to sabotage the dark tone. In many ways, The Butterfly Effect is about regrets, and the closing sequences emphasize this. The film is engrossing enough to minimize such misgivings, however; few who enjoy unconventional pictures and see The Butterfly Effect will regret the experience.

© 2004 James Berardinelli

A WALK TO REMEMBER

Note to readers: This review contains spoilers. Don't say I didn't warn you.

Romance, tears, and not a well-developed character in sight - what more could one expect from the director of The Wedding Planner? Once again, director Adam Shankman has foisted upon the public a production so narrowly targeted that a majority of movie-goers will ignore its existence. In the case of A Walk to Remember, the only people likely to have nice things to say about what's on the screen are girls in their pre-teen and early teenage years, and the word "discrimination" is rarely used to describe their movie-going habits.

With this feature, viewers get two narrative arcs for the price of one. What starts out as a formulaic high school love story of opposites attracting abruptly changes into a maudlin tear-jerker. Of course, in order to cram two staple stories into a single 100-minute motion picture, corners have to be cut. So characters are poorly developed, subplots are wrapped up in fast and unconvincing ways, and the entire production feels rushed. One could make an argument that teenage girls have a longer attention span than their male counterparts (after all, they sat through three-plus hours of Titanic repeatedly), but the filmmakers responsible for A Walk to Remember weren't taking any chances. There's no fat to be found on the movie's bare-bones skeleton. Unfortunately, there's no meat, either.

A Walk to Remember begins in typical good girl-meets-bad boy fashion. The former is Jamie Sullivan (Mandy Moore), a cute high school senior who sings in the church choir and looks like she's about 14. We know she's a geek because she's into astronomy. (Nit-pick alert: almost every detail concerning telescopes and the night sky is inaccurate.) The latter is Landon Carter (Shane West), who's in the top echelon of the school's in-crowd. We know he's cool because he drives a hot car. One day, Landon gets busted for an infraction that involves alcohol and trespassing, and his punishment is to participate in the school play. He has trouble learning his lines, and, rather than embarrass himself in front of the entire school, he decides to make an effort. So he goes to Jamie, the female lead, for help. Landon grovels a little, and she comes to his aid, although he still doesn't want to be seen with her in public. However, their secret friendship develops into something more, and soon Landon is defending Jamie from the barbed attacks of his "friends". They admit their love for one another, then Jamie drops the bombshell: she's terminally ill. Cue the sad music and the switch in tone from cute to painfully manipulative.

It's possible to make a good motion picture using a formulaic storyline, provided that the characters inhabiting that movie are well-developed and likable. Unfortunately, in A Walk to Remember, we are presented with types who are ineffectively and inadequately fleshed out. Instead of real human beings, we have stereotypes. Perhaps in Nicholas Sparks' novel, Landon and Jamie come alive, but an author can do a lot more in several hundred pages of text than a filmmaker can do in 100 minutes. And the limited dramatic range of the leads doesn't help, either. Shane West (the male star of the forgettable Whatever It Takes) looks and acts like just about every good-looking male performer of his age. Mandy Moore, better known for singing than acting, shows a certain charisma but is not consistently convincing. She's better than Mariah Carey and the 'Nsync boys, but that's not saying much. (Of course, she gets to sing a couple of songs.) A weary Peter Coyote plays Jamie's preacher father, and a haggard Daryl Hannah (has she ever looked so old?) is Landon's mom.

I might have been willing to call the film inconsequential-but-passable if it wasn't for the final half hour, in which the director tries relentlessly to milk tears from the audience. I was strongly reminded - and not favorably - of the Leelee Sobieski romantic melodrama Here on Earth, with the notable difference that Sobieski can act circles around Moore. Nevertheless, as is only the case in movies, Moore manages to look more beautiful as the disease progresses. (One minor point in Shankman's favor: he spares us the death scene.) Like Message in a Bottle, the other Sparks book made into a movie, A Walk to Remember aims for the tearducts. Unlike the earlier film, it scores a clean miss.

I won't claim that A Walk to Remember is unendurable, just uninspired, although it can boast one of the most inventive product placements in recent memory. I can't imagine the film having much success at the box office. Moore will attract some attention, but not enough to make a big splash. Recent movies starring singers haven't fared well (witness the reception of Glitter and On the Line), and there's no reason to believe this one will do any better. The target audience may enjoy the film, but there's little hope than anyone other than 11-15-year old girls will be willing to endure Shankman's curdled concoction. There's nothing remotely memorable about this walk.

© 2002 James Berardinelli

V FOR VENDETTA

for Vendetta represents 2006's first memorable motion picture - a visually sumptuous concoction that combines political allegory, bloody action, and a few stunning cinematic moments into a solid piece of entertainment. While it's true that the film at times overreaches and its connection to its graphic novel inspiration is tenuous, V for Vendetta mostly succeeds playing in the same sci-fi thriller arena as Aeon Flux and Ultraviolet. First-time director James McTeigue is relentless when it comes to pacing, rarely letting things flag for extended scenes of flabby explosion. And if there are times when V for Vendetta is overwrought and chaotic, those lapses are easily forgotten in the midst of the rousing nature of the experience.

It's 2020 London, and the world is in turmoil. Across the ocean, the United States has collapsed into civil war caused by plague, poverty, and civil unrest. Things are calmer in England, due to the totalitarian reign of fascist dictator Adam Sutler (John Hurt), whose bedtime reading is likely to be Mein Kampf. Terror roams the streets at night, not only in the form of the Chancellor's thuggish enforcers, but in the masked person of "V" (Hugo Weaving), a mysterious swashbuckling figure whose features are hidden behind the plastic likeness of Guy Fawkes. Previously unknown, he is about to become the most infamous individual in the city, a dark knight who inspires the people and enrages the authorities.

Evey (Natalie Portman), a TV station gopher and aspiring actress, is on her way home after curfew when Sutler's brutes corner her with the intention of rape - or worse. She is saved from her fate by V, who dispatches her attackers without effort. He then invites her to watch a "performance" he has orchestrated: the explosive destruction of the Old Bailey, complete with fireworks choreographed to the strains of Tchaikovsky's "1812 Overture." The date is November 5 ("Remember, remember the fifth of November…"), and the action is the opening salvo in V's one-man attempt to topple Sutler and his right-hand man, Creedy (Tim Pigott-Smith). He offers Evey the chance to join him, but she is frightened and seeks sanctuary with television personality and co-worker Deitrich (Stephen Fry). Meanwhile, a police investigation led by Inspector Finch (Stephen Rea) begins a search for the identity of the terrorist V.

V for Vendetta is a series of moments. From the destruction of the Old Bailey to V's introductory monologue (where nearly every other word begins with the letter "v") to the toppling of a massive number of dominoes to the final, blood-soaked battle, the movie offers plenty of chances for nape hairs to stand on end. (Must be the Tchaikovsky that did it for me…) The plot is a little dense at times, with the whodunit? elements never quite mixing with the edgier thriller aspects. And the Guy Fawkes stuff (he was a Catholic extremist who tried to blow up Parliament on November 5, 1605) seems extraneous (probably because I'm an American).

There are plenty of ideas. Some would argue that's what the screenwriters, the Wachowski Brothers, are best at - giving viewers things to think about. Although there's a fine line between smart material and over-the-top hokum, V for Vendetta mostly stays on the right side of the demarcation. The movie asks questions about the price we're willing to pay by giving up freedom to feel safe (a far cry from "Give me liberty or give me death!"), and argues that the term "terrorist" is defined by perspective. There's an eerie speech about the power inherent in the destruction of a symbolic building that will have nearly every American envisioning the shadow of Osama bin Laden looming over the World Trade Center.

From a visual standpoint, V for Vendetta bears the earmarks of a comic book-to-film adaptation: rich images, deep shadows, and strong iconography. Although not on par with Sin City, which is more like a graphic novel come to life, V for Vendetta has the power to arrest the viewer's attention. Yet, by keeping the perspective that of a naïve girl dragged into this brutal struggle, McTeigue ensures that the human element is not lost. The co-creator of the source material, Alan Moore, has distanced himself from the cinematic version, but this V for Vendetta works on its own terms.

No awards will be handed out for acting. Beneath the mask and cowl of V, Hugo Weaving isn't required to do more than appear imposing and concentrate on his vocals. It's an anonymous role that anyone could play. (In fact, Weaving replaced James Purefoy when he left after citing "creative differences" with the filmmakers.) Natalie Portman is solid, and particularly good during the torture scenes and their aftermath, but this isn't the most representative example of her range, and she is plagued by an inability to develop a consistent British accent. (The schoolgirl costume she wears during one scene will have fetishists drooling, however.) Stephen Rea is suitably low-key as the hangdog policeman. And John Hurt gets to salivate and chew on the scenery in a way that he hasn't been able to in years.

V for Vendetta plunders a variety of pop culture sources. Some of the references are from the graphic novel; others are unique to the movie. Without overthinking or digging too deep, viewers will be able to identify parallels with 1984, The Matrix, The Phantom of the Opera, Zorro, and even Star Wars. V for Vendetta can be seen as a political allegory, but it's not as blatant a comment on current events as some reviewers might claim. Still, if you want to go down that road, the associations are there to explore. For those who would prefer to simply enjoy this textured, futuristic tale of love, loss, and mayhem, V for Vendetta satisfies for the entirety of its two-plus hour run.

© 2006 James Berardinelli

SHAUN OF THE DEAD

Shaun of the Dead is a spoof, but at the same time, it's a semi-serious horror movie. It's also an homage to George Romero's Dead series (Night of the Living Dead, Dawn of the Dead, Day of the Dead) and a societal commentary. Admittedly, with so many choices on the menu, director Edgar Wright cooks some of them better than others. But the bottom line is simple: Shaun of the Dead may not be consistently scary (in fact, it's almost never scary), but it is consistently funny (if you have a slightly warped sense of humor) and never loses its audience.

Perhaps the best way to describe the film's comedy is to call it "British humor." Don't expect a gag-a-minute affair like Scary Movie, or a TV sit-com approach. Shaun of the Dead's niche is much closer to the one occupied by Evil Dead 2 (and its sequel, Army of Darkness) and Tremors. Those movies understood what makes a good horror movie, then had some fun with the premise, neither taking it too seriously nor utilizing contempt in its ridicule. In order to make a truly effective parody of a genre (or, in this case, a specific sub-genre), it is first necessary to have a heartfelt appreciation for the serious efforts that exist. Shaun of the Dead isn't camp. It's not a movie that's unintentionally laughable. This is supposed to be funny, but I wonder if much of the comedy will be lost on those who haven't spent a fair amount of time watching screen zombies.

Twenty-something Shaun (Simon Pegg) is stuck in a state of arrested development. His idea of a perfect evening is to get home from work and unwind at the local pub in the company of his girlfriend, Liz (Kate Ashfield), and his flat-mate/best friend, Ed (Nick Frost). For Shaun and Ed, this is the good life. But Liz is fed up. She wants to do something different, and when Shaun messes up a dinner reservation and suggests going instead to the pub, she has had it with their relationship. Luckily for Shaun, his chance at redemption is just around the corner with the arrival of "Z-Day" (as in "Zombie-Day").

Once the undead first appear, Shaun and Ed are so oblivious to what's going on, they don't realize anything is amiss. When a female zombie wanders into their back garden, they think she's drunk. Later, when it becomes clear that something is very wrong, they attempt to use old LPs like Frisbees to decapitate her. After this encounter, Shaun and Ed formulate a plan: collect Liz and Shaun's mother, Barbara (Penelope Wilton), then hole up in the pub until it's all over. Along the way, they collect a few other refugees: Liz's flatmates, David (Dylan Moran) and Dianne (Lucy Davis), and Barbara's husband, Philip (Bill Nighy). Philip has a nasty zombie bite, but he thinks it will be okay, because he has run it under cold water.

Dawn of the Dead used the zombies as metaphors for consumers. In Shaun of the Dead, the shuffling, slack-jawed creatures are stand-ins for those of us who have become so desensitized to life that we're existing in a vacuum of routine. In terms of character arc, Shaun of the Dead is about Shaun's freeing himself from the cycle. Of course, it takes a zombie invasion for this to happen. If the dead had stayed in their graves, he would still be playing video games with Ed and bemoaning Liz's defection to a more energetic lifestyle.

There were times when, while watching George Romero's zombie movies, I had to stifle laughter. Cheesy moments abound, although die-hards will deny this. Wright reproduces many of those instances here, but with a difference. In the Dead movies, we're laughing at the film. In Shaun, we're laughing with the director. I won't pretend that Shaun of the Dead is the be-all and end-all of horror comedies. It has plenty of problems, not the least of which is that the horror elements are largely unconvincing (although there is plenty of gore). While there are numerous opportunities to laugh, the movie doesn't always go for the easy joke. Wright wants us to like and identify with Shaun, and there are two things that facilitate this aim: a few surprisingly poignant scenes and a solid "everyman" performance by lead actor (and co-screenwriter) Simon Pegg that elevates Shaun above the level of a caricature. Shaun of the Dead is a movie that one might not expect to work at first glance, but, for those who don't mind a little laughter with their zombies (or perhaps it should be the other way around), this is an unusual source of entertainment.

© 2004 James Berardinelli

THE LAKE HOUSE

Although this may amount to oversimplification, Alejandro Agresti's The Lake House is essentially a romance between two people connected by a time-traveling mailbox. As premises go, this has the virtue of uniqueness - Hollywood doesn't churn out time-traveling mailbox movies on a regular basis. Unfortunately, trying doesn't necessarily mean succeeding and, even for those who buy into the basic ideas, there are credibility gaps that The Lake House cannot surmount. And for those who attempt to apply logic to this movie, everything will come crashing down like a poorly balanced house of cards.

The Lake House is based on the 2000 South Korean film Il Mare, which I have not seen. The final scene, however, is lifted not from the original but from the Hollywood shelf of cheap cop-outs. How many foreign films, when "translated" into English, find their endings mangled or made over in order to pander to "mainstream" sensibilities? (Ironically, the ending of Il Mare was criticized in some circles for being too upbeat, although apparently not upbeat enough for Warner Brothers, which remove all vestiges of ambiguity.)

The Lake House is about the unlikely love affair between two lonely people: Alex (Keanu Reeves) and Kate (Sandra Bullock). Both live in an extravagant, glass walled house on the shore of Lake Michigan - he in 2004 and she in 2006. They "meet" and begin exchanging correspondence via the house's mailbox. The fact that their letters are traveling through time doesn't seem to bother them. Eventually, seeking to meet his soulmate, Alex seeks out Kate's 2004 counterpart. For her part, Kate waits patiently for Alex to "catch up" to her.

In for a penny, in for a pound, they say. If you choose to see The Lake House, you have to accept it as a fairy tale, time travel paradoxes and all. Don't think too hard - you'll spoil the mood. The romance, which is delicately developed as these two people reach out across the years to each other, is effective, but there's almost too much baggage. Two things in particular bothered me about this film, and neither had to do with its preposterous premise. First, despite all their correspondence, these two never send pictures. As a veteran of a long distance relationship, I can attest that pictures are the lifeblood of such interaction. Secondly, Kate never does an Internet search for her would-be love. Such lapses by the screenplay are unforgivable.

The Lake House represents the reunion of Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock, who were last seen discussing the potential future of a relationship that starts under tense circumstances. The spark that ignited between them in Speed still burns - they make an appealing couple. Of course, since The Lake House is rated PG, their chemistry is more "cute" than "sexy." Christopher Plummer and Shoreh Aghdashloo have supporting roles (he as Alex's famous architect father; she as Kate's boss at a Chicago hospital). Really, though, their roles are peripheral. The Lake House lives and dies based on Reeves and Bullock. By keeping the human element of the film more important than the fantastical one, they ground The Lake House and allow us to overlook many of its contrivances.

I am conflicted about this film. I like the fact that it takes chances. I appreciate that it's trying to do a supernatural love story without falling into the schmaltz of Ghost. Yet I recognize that the screenplay is like Swiss cheese - riddled with holes, some of which are bigger and more distracting than others. The Lake House also has the odd distinction of raising metaphysical questions without boasting an overly intelligent storyline. Despite the conventional ending, which has a tacky, tacked-on feel, the movie is designed for those who are more adventurous when it comes to romance. It will be interesting to see if it finds an audience.

© 2006 James Berardinelli

THE SIMPSONS MOVIE

When it comes to The Simpsons, longevity is an asset few can ignore. 18 years old and counting, the TV series has carved its niche into pop culture. Most of today's high school students hadn't been born when The Simpsons debuted as filler on Tracey Ullman's variety show. It's no longer as fresh, as acerbic, and as popular as it once was, but could one expect anything else from a show that has turned out about 400 twenty-two minute episodes? It is a little odd that it has taken so long for The Simpsons to make the transition from the small screen to the big one; there has been talk about a movie since the mid-'90s. While nothing in this motion picture quite matches the television series at its early best, this is more of a throwback than a throw-away. It's wittier and more energetic than anything that has appeared on FOX in quite a few years.

The film's irreverence is at full throttle from the opening moments when Homer Simpson (voice of Dan Castellaneta) wonders aloud why anyone would be stupid enough to pay money to see something in a theater they can see for free on TV. Later, there's a none-too-subtle jab at FOX's aggressive style of self-promotion. The primary satirical targets are religion (an easy mark), environmentalists (also easy), and government stupidity (even easier). The Simpsons Movie does not go after hot button issues nor does it tie itself to a time and place by addressing current events. One senses that the filmmakers want their production to feel as fresh and timely in 2015 as in 2007.

For the most part, The Simpsons Movie is a series of rolling jokes. It's a little like Airplane in a sense - if something flops, the wait for the next gag isn't long. The film is heavy on comedy and parody and light on emotion, although there is a nice little arc in which Homer has an epiphany about the importance of family. That's about as serious as The Simpsons has ever gotten and it's certainly not going to bring tears to the eyes of many movie goers. People will flock to this picture because they want to enjoy the humor, and it delivers. I laughed aloud a number of times, and smiled and chuckled even more frequently.

There is a plot, although it's not going to be mistaken for Shakespeare. It is, however, surprisingly coherent when one considers that there are nearly a dozen credited screenwriters. When the government discovers that the levels of toxicity in Springfield's lake have reached critical levels (courtesy of a silo of "pig crap" dumped there by Homer), they quarantine the entire community. Homer and his family - wife Marge (Julie Kavner), son Bart (Nancy Cartwright), and daughters Lisa (Yeardley Smith) and Maggie - escape from Springfield and head to Alaska, where they decide to start anew. But when word reaches them that the government intends to do more than merely isolate their hometown, they take action.

Long-time fans of The Simpsons will be pleased to note that many of the series' recurring secondary characters have bit parts. They are well enough integrated that their inclusion won't bother Simpsons newbies. (Are there such people?) Harry Shearer and Hank Azaria do their usual yeoman's work as back-up vocalists. Star power comes from President Arnold Schwarzenegger (voice provided by Shearer) and Tom Hanks (voice provided by Tom Hanks). Hanks' participation is nothing new; over the years, the series has become a magnet for big-name cameos. You know you've arrived once you've appeared on The Simpsons.

Visually, not a lot has been done to "improve" the characters for the big screen. There are times when the animation is a little crisper and there is occasional evidence of CGI (such as during the Frankenstein-inspired scene with an angry mob), but no major tweaking has been accomplished. Fans of the series will feel at home; the theme song even makes an appearance or two. The producers of the TV program are the driving forces behind the motion picture and they have ascertained that nothing is done to disappoint the core audience.

If half the people who have ever enjoyed an episode of The Simpsons come to see the movie, this will be a huge hit. Fox is counting on big numbers; their marketing department is in overdrive. The film's PG-13 rating is a little misleading. With the exception of a little coarse language and a peep at Bart's underdeveloped cartoon genitals (shown as part of a hilariously over-the-top naked skateboarding sequence), there's nothing in the movie that couldn't be shown on TV. This isn't like South Park which, freed from the constraints of a more restrictive medium, pulled out all the stops. The Simpsons is interested in being a family film, although this is one of those rare animated occasions when adults are the primary audience. I, for one, couldn't be happier.

© 2007 James Berardinelli

THE DAY AFTER TOMMAROW

Roland Emmerich must dislike New York City. After all, this is the third time he has destroyed it. The Day After Tomorrow, an ode to an apocalyptic endgame of global warming, is an old-fashioned disaster film with modern-day special effects. It's cheesy and over-the-top, but the disaster sequences are well crafted and some of the formulaic action sequences generate tension. The Day After Tomorrow stands a rung above Independence Day (which self-destructed in its final third) and significantly more than that above the turgid Godzilla remake.

The film's premise - global warming leading to a radical climate shift and a new ice age - has caused scientists worldwide to flinch. Emmerich takes established facts and blows them out of proportion, and it’s the exaggeration that has caused the consternation in the scientific community. (Incidentally, the Weather Channel apparently didn't have a problem with this, since their logo is plastered all over the place.) But who expects realism from a movie like this, anyway? The central disaster is just an excuse for the impressive effects work and the paper-thin character development. If it focuses some attention upon a real problem - global warming - then how can that be bad?

Jack Hall (Dennis Quaid) is a climatologist who has come to the conclusion that the world is fast approaching a new ice age. He estimates that the event will occur in 50 to 100 years - until he hooks up with British scientist Terry Rapson (Ian Holm), whose measurements of plummeting ocean temperatures in the North Atlantic advance and accelerate the time table significantly. Vice President Becker (Kenneth Walsh) ignores Jack's warnings, leaving the country without a plan of defense when disaster happens.

The 30 minute segment of The Day After Tomorrow that depicts the planet's weather gone wild represents the film's most compelling section. Tornados rip through Los Angeles, even taking apart the "Hollywood" sign. Blizzards and hurricanes batter the Northern hemisphere. And New York City is flooded then frozen, leaving skyscrapers and the Statue of Liberty as modern ice sculptures. The tornadoes look as good (or better) than those in Twister, and the ravaging of Manhattan is believable, although it's not nearly as engaging a guilty pleasure as it would have been before 9/11/01. If you've seen the trailer, you know what to expect, but the full feature offers a lot more of the same.

Jack's son, Sam (Jake Gyllenhaal), is trapped in New York with his potential girlfriend, Laura (Emmy Rossum), and a group of refugees. They are holed up in the library, or at least that's what Sam tells Jack when he makes a last phone call. After kissing his wife, Lucy (Sela Ward), goodbye, Jack, accompanied by a couple of buddies, heads out into the unfriendly weather in search of Sam. It's a seemingly impossible trek that will involve a walk from Philadelphia to Manhattan in bitter, blinding conditions.

Some of what The Day After Tomorrow has to offer is exciting. Some is just plain stupid - like Sam's tussle with a pack of wolves (on board a ship in the middle of Manhattan), Lucy's act of self-sacrifice for a cancer patient, and the President's pep talk (that sounds like it was lifted from Independence Day). Still, a lot of the silliness is expected in this kind of motion picture, and the moments of elevated adrenaline (many of which occur during Jack's harrowing journey) and impressive visuals serve as a counterbalance. Plus, there's even a little irony thrown in for good measure when the Mexican government seals the border to keep U.S. refugees from fleeing south.

The Day After Tomorrow has the good sense not to have man attempt to overcome nature's wrath (the point of such films like Armageddon and The Core). Instead, it's a given that there's nothing we can do, so the emphasis is on survival. The knowledge that victory is impossible makes for a more compelling story, since the goal becomes intensely personal: staying alive. Of course, despite the "bad science," the pro-environment message shines through. Like Super Size Me, consider it a cautionary tale. Nevertheless, Emmerich's point with The Day After Tomorrow isn't to play politics or make speeches, but to entertain. And, in the cataclysmic way he has become known for, he does so. The Day After Tomorrow is filled with bad dialogue, stock peril situations, and sketchy character development, but it's a big enough spectacle that those things don't derail the film's capacity to be enjoyed. Pass the popcorn and the cheese.

© 2004 James Berardinelli

HOT FUZZ

been remarked by more than one critic that the action comedy can be one of the easiest movies to make poorly and one of the most difficult to make effectively. The problem is evident: comedy and action often war with one another, each trying to steal the spotlight at the expense of the other. If there's too much humor or the jokes are too fatuous, the action feels extraneous. And if the film is slanted toward action, the comedy can feel out of place and, if poorly executed, can kill the momentum. The team of Edgar Wright and Simon Pegg, the guys who combined guffaws and gore in Shaun of the Dead, have elected to follow their offbeat zombie farce with an action comedy. Considering their earlier success, it is perhaps unsurprising that they have gotten it mostly right. Hot Fuzz is a little too long and suffers from a sagging midsection when the level of exposition becomes laborious, but the spectacularly entertaining final 30 minutes compensates for a lot of flaws.

One key element that Wright and Pegg nail is to develop characters we care about and situations that, while not breathtakingly compelling, are at least interesting. While there have been plenty of exceptions throughout the years (48 Hours, True Lies, and so forth…), the generic action comedy cannot boast either quality. Often, action scenes are just flashy ways to pad out things between the jokes and the protagonists are thinly drawn caricatures. Given the backing of someone with money, it's easy enough to make those soulless, by-the-numbers comedies and we see a few every year. Attempting and succeeding at something more ambitious is the mark of an interesting filmmaker. In the end, Hot Fuzz does for the action comedy what Shaun of the Dead did for the horror comedy.

Sergeat Nicholas Angel (Pegg) is the ultimate cop. He's so good that his superiors in London have him transferred to the tiny burb of Sandford because his superlative record is making his co-workers look bad. He arrives in the village and immediately begins applying the letter of the law to every circumstance. Angel's laid-back superior, Inspector Frank Butterman (Jim Broadbent), encourages the newcomer to relax and partners him with his bumbling son, Danny (Nick Frost). Danny is enthused but naïve and bombards Angel with questions about his big-city police exploits. Has he ever fired guns in both hands? Has he ever fired a gun while leaping through the air? Has he ever fired a gun while involved in a high speed pursuit? Police work in Sandford is comprised of momentous events like chasing down a missing swan or rebuking a man illegally clipping a neighbor's hedges, but a sudden rash of deaths gives the police something new to investigate. Everyone assumes they're accidents except Angel, who believes they are murders orchestrated by the Machiavellian Simon Skinner (Timothy Dalton), who owns the local grocery store and is scheming to increase the scope of his empire.

Hot Fuzz relies so heavily on character and plot development that it takes an overlong 90 minutes before things start getting outrageous. That's not to say the setup is without merit, but the humor during these sequences is more restrained than what comes later. There are plenty of subtle jabs, visual gags, and a few high profile cameos (Cate Blanchett, Peter Jackson, Bill Nighy). The wink-wink-nudge-nudge "buddy" relationship between partners Angel and Danny is developed in such a way that it mimics the formula of a romantic liaison without ever straying beyond the platonic. This is part of the parody. These two never whisper sweet nothings or engage in anything that might disturb homophobes, but they fall asleep on the couch next to each other after watching movies on TV and Angel later buys flowers for Danny. The movie has fun toying with this dynamic.

Then, 30 minutes before the film winds down, all hell breaks loose. The filmmakers pull out the stops and satirize every imaginable cliché of the genre, throwing in visual references to dozens of contemporary cop movies. John Woo, Quentin Tarantino, and Clint Eastwood collide in a hail of gunfire as the fuzz go in, guns blazing, to reclaim the grocery store and the town from the nefarious do-badders who have taken possession of it. And just because this is a comedy doesn't mean Wright shies from gore. The impaling of one character is shown in the most graphic manner possible. There are no sacred cows, either. Priests blaspheme and an old woman gets kicked in the face.

Pegg is note-perfect as the tough cop who begins to show signs of humanity before donning the dark glasses and arming himself with more ammo than Rambo. Nick Frost couldn't be better cast as the wimpy sidekick who grows a backbone under Angel's tutelage. Jim Broadbent brings a genial, paternal quality to his role as Inspector Butterman, and there's a great scene in which he snaps into focus and takes charge. Timothy Dalton's villain will remind viewers more of his role in The Rocketeer than his short tour-of-duty as the world's most famous superspy.

Hot Fuzz is the second police satire to arrive in theaters this year and it is vastly superior to Reno 911. That earlier film is an example of what happens when a movie uses lame material to tie together an uneven string of jokes. Hot Fuzz has a higher agenda, and it shows. This movie wants to tickle the funny bone while telling a story that's worth telling. For the most part, Wright achieves this aim. A slightly trimmed down Hot Fuzz might have provided a more heady brew, but even with a little more fat than is necessary, this one offers enjoyable fare with more than one masterful course.

© 2007 James Berardinelii

ACROSS THE UNIVERSE

One could never argue that Across the Universe isn't ambitious. However, like many ambitious movies, this one fails spectacularly. Glenn Kenny of Premiere magazine called it "the perfect disaster" and, while I think that's a little harsh, I understand where he's coming from. Elements of Across the Universe are shockingly awful and the film lasts at least 30 minutes past the bearable stage. But if you like the Beatles and the idea of hearing about 20 covers of their work fills you with a perverse joy, this may be the movie for you.

The film has had a troubled production history. It was reportedly taken away from director Julie Taymor after advance preview screenings resulted in jeers and catcalls. The producers re-cut the movie and it was received with more warmth, but Taymor went public with her gripe and this stirred up controversy. Apparently, the 133-minute theatrical cut is Taymor's version. If it's not, I shudder to think how much worse a longer edition could be.

The lack of anything resembling a compelling narrative is part of the problem. It's the 1960s and Liverpool native Jude (Jim Sturgess) has traveled across the Atlantic in search of the dad he never knew. He is befriended by Princeton drop-out Max (Joe Anderson) and falls in love with his sister, Lucie (Evan Rachel Wood). Soon, these three are doing road trips, fighting against the War in Vietnam (or, in Max's case, fighting in Vietnam), and experiencing everything the era has to offer. They are joined on their odyssey by an Asian lesbian cheerleader (T.V. Carpio), a Janis Joplin clone (Dana Fuchs), and a Jimi Hendrix wannabe (Martin Luther).

Taymor has always been best known for the imaginative visual aspects of her films and stage productions (see Titus for her best screen work), and there's no shortage of tricks in her bag this time: animation, puppets, underwater sequences, psychedelic imagery, and more. Somehow, however, it all seems gratuitous - a way to distract the viewer from how pointless the story is. Like the shot of Wood's left breast (more nipple than one normally sees in a PG-13 production), it's all a bit of a tease. And none of these elements shows much in the way of technical achievement - they're the kinds of things any reasonably adept graphic designer can accomplish on a properly equipped home PC.

The songs are a bigger distraction than the visuals. With only a few exceptions, most of them are out-of-place. They are shoehorned in simply to increase the film's Beatles music content. The expected approach in a musical is for the songs to advance the story. In Across the Universe, the narrative pauses roughly every seven minutes so the characters can break into song, then resumes when they're done. This approach makes it impossible to identify with the characters or be interested in their circumstances. And, while the singing is of variable quality, most of the dance numbers are amateurish.

Jim Sturgess and Joe Anderson were obviously chosen more for their singing ability than their talent as actors. To their credit, they make a credible Lennon/McCartney pair. Evan Rachel Wood has a surprisingly strong set of pipes. The vocal stylings of the supporting performers is variable, and includes a torturous version of "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" by T.V. Carpio which may destroy your ability to ever again hear that song cleanly. Eddie Izzard, Joe Cocker, and Bono have cameos. Oddly, Cocker does not contribute "With a Little Help From My Friends," even though his recorded cover is arguably more recognizable than the original (thanks in large part to the TV series The Wonder Years).

I have heard Across the Universe being referred to as this generation's Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band, and I can't refute the argument. There are also times when the film evokes memories of Xanadu. Neither of those stinkers is the kind of company any self-respecting musical wants to keep. It's hard to argue that the idea behind Across the Universe is a bad one - after all, Baz Luhrmann did something similar with Moulin Rouge and the Beatles music is incredibly versatile. The problem, therefore, must be in the execution, and it's a big problem. With a shorter running length, it might have been possible to appreciate Across the Universe as an entertaining failed spectacle. But, at 2:15, the word "entertaining" no longer applies in any context.

© 2007 James Berardinelli

DONNIE DARKO

Donnie Darko, the debut feature from writer/director Richard Kelly, is part psychological thriller and part science fiction mystery. The title character (Jake Gyllenhaal), a teenager in his last year of high school, is suffering from all manner of delusions and hallucinations. He sees and does the bidding of a six-foot high rabbit wearing an insect mask, and, at times, appears completely dissociated form his surroundings. He is visiting a therapist and taking medication, but neither solution is working. Donnie is getting worse, but is it because he's descending deeper into a web of mental instability or because he's really seeing and experiencing these things? These are questions that the movie leaves unanswered until the end.

For much of the running length, Donnie Darko focuses more on Donnie's relationships with his sisters, parents, and girlfriend than on the science fiction aspects. This is meant to humanize a non-traditional protagonist and make him more "accessible" to viewers. It also allows the climax to have an emotional component (in addition to explaining the storyline's assorted, convoluted weirdness). Donnie Darko has a slow, methodical pace that allows the narrative to breathe; unfortunately, there are times when Kelly falls prey to the easy trap of self-indulgence. Selective edits would have made Donnie Darko tighter and more gripping, and, as a result, a better motion picture. As it is, there's a little too much redundancy in what's on screen. In addition, the highest-profile actress in the cast, Drew Barrymore, is playing a part deserving of less screen time - but, of course, since Barrymore is Donnie Darko's biggest selling point, her supporting character is featured more often than is necessarily good for the movie. Still, despite its flaws, this is a compelling motion picture, and offers the kind of "fresh" experience extended by the likes of Pi and The Sticky Fingers of Time.

One aspect of Donnie Darko's production that's definitely worth mentioning is the special effects. The movie was made on the kind of low budget typically associated with independent films, yet the visual effects are first-rate (one in particular looks like it was lifted out of James Cameron's The Abyss). With the price for this kind of CGI work in a steady decline, it is now becoming possible for all directors - not just those working with $50 million-plus budgets - to employ convincing, and occasionally eye-popping, special effects. Tools that were cutting edge a decade ago have now become commonplace. Donnie Darko proves that it's possible to do science fiction with visual effects in the independent film arena. This is just another area where the line between mainstream and indie movie-making has become increasingly blurred. Perhaps the only remaining difference is that smaller efforts like Donnie Darko use effects in service of an interesting story, while too many Hollywood productions think of the plot as a bothersome adjunct to their CGI eye candy.

© 2001 James Berardinelli

BEING JOHN MALKOVICH

hese days, critics (and non-critics, for that matter) are fond of complaining about how multiplexes are populated by cookie-cutter motion pictures that follow safe, formula-derived patterns designed to please audiences who want a different version of a story they have already seen dozens of times. And, while there's some truth to the maxim that "there's nothing new under the sun," Being John Malkovich tries hard to be the exception. Admittedly, the themes addressed by the movie - those of identity, celebrity, and manipulation - are familiar, but the manner in which director Spike Jonze and writer Charlie Kaufman address them is fresh and inventive. I'm not arrogant enough to claim that nothing like Being John Malkovich has ever previously been committed to celluloid, but, if it has been, I haven't seen it.

This is the first movie to be directed by Jonze, who cut his teeth doing TV commercials and music videos. Unless you're isolated from all aspects of pop culture, you've probably seen his work. (He also has one of the four primary roles in Three Kings.) As is the case with many of the so-called "MTV filmmakers," Jonze displays a strong sense of style. However, unlike most of his contemporaries, he does not rely on quick cuts and visual gimmicks. He has sound, mature cinematic instincts.

Kaufman's script is not constrained by viewer expectations. For about 110 minutes, he pushes the envelope, taking us in new and unexpected directions. Every time I thought I recognized where Being John Malkovich was headed, the movie surprised me. The screenplay is as funny as it is clever. Some of the jokes are of the "big laugh" variety, but few are representative of the cheap shots and dumb humor that have become commonplace in '90s offerings. Being John Malkovich revels in smart comedy instead of wallowing in the opposite. And, alongside the laughter, there's plenty of material for contemplation. Cinematically speaking, this is a well-balanced, multi-course meal.

The premise is as intriguing and offbeat as it is difficult to adequately describe in a few sentences. Craig Schwartz (John Cusack) is a master puppeteer, but, after being out of work for a while, he is becoming restless, so his wife, Lotte (Cameron Diaz), suggests that he swallow his pride and get a job - any job. Since he has nimble fingers, he decides to apply for a position as a filing clerk. The job in question is on the 7 1/2th story of a New York City office building - a floor that is four feet from carpet to ceiling ("low overhead") and can only be reached by stopping the elevator between the 7th and 8th stories and prying open the door with a crow bar. After a successful interview with the firm's sex-obsessed, carrot juice-drinking, 105 year old boss, Dr. Lester (Orson Bean), Craig gets the job and meets his co-workers, including Floris (Mary Kay Place), the hearing-impaired secretary, and Maxine (Catherine Keener), a sexy brunette who allows Craig to flirt with her even though she has no interest.

One day, while searching for a lost file behind a cabinet in his office, Craig discovers a hidden door. Venturing through it, he is sucked into a portal that lands him inside the brain of John Malkovich, where Craig can look out the actor's eyes and experience what he feels. It's the ultimate in voyeurism, but it doesn't last for long. 15 minutes after Craig enters Malkovich, the portal spits him out, dropping him from the sky and landing him alongside the New Jersey Turnpike. He returns home and tells his wife, who wants to try the portal for herself. He also reveals the secret to Maxine, and, while he ponders "the metaphysical can of worms" the portal unleashes, she sees it as an opportunity to sell tickets: $200 a pop to be John Malkovich for 15 minutes.

For those who think I have given away too much, this is only the background and basic setup presented in the film's first half-hour. Being John Malkovich ventures into much deeper and stranger territory. I haven't written anything about the chimp who goes to a psychiatrist for feelings of insecurity or the man who, like a modern day Dorian Gray, has plans to live forever. Somehow, Jonze and Kaufman blend all of these disparate elements together without missing a beat.

Unlike most comedies, which go for laughs without worrying about depth, Being John Malkovich has both. The film raises questions about the nature of identity, and how some people are only completely free when their real self is hidden behind a mask or beneath a costume. With Craig as a puppet-master and Maxine playing him like a musical instrument, issues of manipulation rise to the surface. How much of what we do in our day-to-day lives involves attempting to pull the strings of others, or having our own strings pulled? Being John Malkovich also addresses the appeal of stardom with greater impact than Woody Allen's Celebrity. Certainly, some of those willing to pay to enter the portal are interested in having a temporary personality transference, but others want the experience of being a star. In fact, taken as a whole, this could all be seen as a commentary on the crafts of acting (taking on an alternative identity) and directing (manipulating others). Beyond that, there are issues of ethics and commercialism (will we exploit anything?), as well as addiction (some customers become addicted to the experience). And, for those who like to see the dark side of things, the film offers unsettling threads about the annihilation of identity and the price of immortality. Is this too much material for one movie? Not with Jonze at the helm and a capable cast in front of the cameras.

That cast is headed by John Cusack, one of Hollywood's most underrated actors. Cusack (last seen in Pushing Tin) has astonishing versatility and is able to thoroughly inhabit the skin of any character he plays. Craig isn't the most pleasant of men - during the course of the film, he does some unconscionable things - but Cusack is so effective that we form a tenuous bond with him anyway. As Lotte, Cameron Diaz is almost unrecognizable. Like her male co-star, she disappears into the character (with the help of an atypical hair style). Catherine Keener, for years the muse of filmmaker Tom DiCillo (Living in Oblivion), continues to show why she has always deserved the greater exposure she is starting to get.

Then there's John Malkovich, who plays an exaggerated, fictionalized version of himself. Although that might initially seem like a simple role, it isn't, especially considering that Malkovich must re-invent himself as a man being possessed by others. His performance is flawless, mixing a version of the world-weary actor with an imitation of John Cusack and a touch of Steve Martin from All of Me. Jonze and Kaufman chose Malkovich as the title character because they wanted someone who is both well-known and a little elusive. Having appeared in the likes of The Killing Fields, Dangerous Liaisons, In the Line of Fire, Of Mice and Men, and The Man in the Iron Mask, Malkovich is certainly a familiar face, but his varied choice of roles has kept him just out of the realm of superstardom. And it's refreshing to see an actor participate in the process of parodying his personality and image.

The movie is surreal precisely because Jonze plays everything straight. The characters are not aware that they're in some kind of distorted reality, gazing through the looking glass darkly. Like Alice, they try to believe three impossible things each day before breakfast. This approach aids in the willing suspension of disbelief, drawing us into the story rather than distancing us and forcing us to gaze at the proceedings from the outside, looking for seams in the plot. Being John Malkovich is one of those rare cinematic experiences that works on one level or another for nearly everyone who sees it. It is a triumphant debut for Spike Jonze.

© 1999 James Berardinelli

THANK YOU FOR SMOKING

Thank You for Smoking is the feature debut of Jason (son of Ivan) Reitman, who has assembled an impressive cast. In addition to Aaron Eckhart, who has the lead, the credit list includes the following names: Katie Holmes, Cameron Bright, Sam Elliot, Rob Lowe, Maria Bello, William H. Macy, and Robert Duvall. Now, that's star power! While so much wattage doesn't guarantee a home run, a double or triple should be the minimum requirement. Yet, at best, Reitman delivers a bleeder up the middle. It is a disappointment.

There are few things less inspiring than flabby satires. And that's what Thank You for Smoking is. It chooses easy targets (What's less controversial than going after big business, cigarette manufacturers, politicians, and lobbyists?) and lobs soft bombs. There's nothing hard-hitting about any of Reitman's material. His blades are dull and most of his attacks echo those done in more edgy material. Good satire demands envelope pushing. There's nothing like that in Thank You for Smoking. It plays it safe (although Reitman would probably argue otherwise). In fact, as an attack on the practices of American corporations, it lacks half the punch delivered by the Oscar nominated Enron documentary.

Nick Naylor (Eckhart) is a spin master par excellence. As a spokesperson for the Academy of Tobacco Studies, he is viewed as a "yupppie Mephistopheles" and is often called worse. In the publicity war being waged by Big Tobacco, he's weapon #1. But the road ahead is not smooth. A dying tobacco baron (Duvall) wants him to bribe the cancer-stricken original Marlboro Man (Sam Elliot) to keep him from badmouthing the cigarette companies. He has to convince a Hollywood exec (Lowe) to make smoking sexy in movies again. He has to spin an expose being written by a reporter (Holmes) with whom he's having sex. And he has to babysit his son (Bright). All this, plus a kidnapping and a subpoena to testify in front of a Senate committe chaired by a Vermont moralizer (Macy).

Just because it isn't edgy doesn't mean it's not funny. Thank You for Smoking delivers some laughs, and there are a few instances when Reitman sinks his teeth into a worthwhile concept. For example, the trio of Nick, an alcohol lobbyist, and a firearms lobbyist, comprise a group nicknamed the "MOD Squad." "MOD" stands for "Merchants of Death." And the scene in which Nick talks Mr. Marlboro out of pursuing his grievance against the Big Tobacco is slickly written. Unfortunately, the high points don't obscure the instances when Reitman becomes sloppy or doesn't push the material hard enough.

The acting is solid. Aside from Eckhart, who is in top form, special notice should be made of Lowe and Macy, each of whom steals most of the scenes in which they appear. The only one who seems out-of-place is Katie Holmes, who lacks the brio required to pull off her backstabbing part. Or maybe the problem is that she's overexposed at the moment. Whatever the reason, she's the lone acting misfire. Yet, despite its many strengths, Thank You for Smoking hovers around mediocrity, and its lasting impression is like a puff of smoke that is dissipated by a strong gust of wind.

© 2006 James Berardinelli

BROKEBACK MOUNTAIN

Longing is such a potent element of the human experience that it has formed the fabric of numerous stirring motion pictures. Brokeback Mountain is one such movie - a tale of love and loss, of unrealized dreams, and of lives wasted by denying passion and accepting convention. The primary difference between Brokeback Mountain and say, for example, Clint Eastwood's The Bridges of Madison County, is that in Ang Lee's picture, the central relationship is between two men. And this isn't a platonic friendship. These men are as intimately involved as two lovers can be.

Jack Twist (Jake Gyllenhaal) and Ennis Del Mar (Heath Ledger) meet in the summer of 1963 when both are hired by Joe Aguirre (Randy Quaid) to be sheepherders on Wyoming's Brokeback Mountain. Their job: keep the sheep moving and make sure as many as possible make it home. Gradually, a friendship forms between the two men, although neither is a master of words. And, one chilly night, the relationship turns physical. They agree that what happens on Brokeback Mountain stays on Brokeback Mountain, and when the summer is over, they have every expectation of never seeing each other again. Ennis is off to marry Alma (Michelle Williams), and Jack meets rodeo queen Lureen (Anne Hathaway). But, deep down, neither can forget their summer together, and Jack eventually decides to break the silence and make contact.

The richness of the characters and situations in Brokeback Mountain is both its strength and, to an extent, its undoing. One problem is that many of the subplots only tangentially brushed by the movie prove to be at least as interesting as the main story, and it become frustrating to view only snapshots of some of these tales. Alma is as tragic a character as they come, and she has to live with the ghost of a memory that will haunt her, yet we only see snippets of her life. I realize this is Jack and Ennis' story, but director Ang Lee (Crouching Tiger, Hulk) causes us to be so interested in all the characters - even the secondary ones - that there are times when the singleminded focus of the primary plot can make viewers feel cheated.

Although the tale is well developed, and there is great emotional resonance in the push-and-pull between the characters and their world, Brokeback Mountain doesn't break new ground, except that this story has not previously been told (at least not in a major motion picture) with the gay spin. The sexuality of the characters is deliberately left ambiguous. Ennis would seem to be a mostly heterosexual individual who loses himself in a moment of passion with another man, who subsequently comes to dominate his thoughts. Jack, on the other hand, is at least bi-sexual, with a likely preference of men over women (despite his assertion that he's "not queer"). While it shouldn't matter that the romance occurs between two men, there are some who will feel uncomfortable about the subject matter. One would hope, however, that Brokeback Mountain won't be pigeonholed as a "gay cowboy movie." That may be essentially accurate, but it's an underrepresentation of what's going on.

One of the film's strengths is the way in which Lee causes the longing to bubble off the screen. We can feel it. It's a palpable presence. It turns our memories to roads not taken. The other post of Brokeback Mountain's foundation is the acting. Gyllenhaal - who may be battling against himself for Oscar contention (he's also good in Jarhead) - has shown in three 2005 films (the third being Proof) that he's a talent to be reckoned with. Jack may be his most challenging role of the year, and Gyllenhaal nails it. Heath Ledger is equally as good, showing a depth not yet explored (certainly not in his other late-year movie, Casanova). Ennis is a taciturn introvert, but that doesn't stop Ledger from a subtle exploration of his pain and loneliness. This character is strangled by convention, and Ledger successfully shows that in everything from Ennis' hangdog look to his slow gait.

The primary supporting actors deserve equal recognition. This is the best performance yet from Michelle Williams, who has parlayed a popular TV role into a respectable motion picture career. Anne Hathaway, bearing a breast as she throws her Disney image aside, plays Lureen with the right amount of sass and artificiality. And Randy Quaid gets a chance to play a character who isn't a buffoon, although, like many "tough" men of the '60s, he's a homophobe to the bone.

Brokeback Mountain spans a time period of nearly twenty years. We only get the highlights, but they are enough to give us a picture of the compromises both men have made to steal the occasional moment with each other, and the boundaries they are unwilling to cross. Jack wants them to give up their current, unsatisfying lives and live with each other; Ennis refuses to consider this because of how they will be viewed by society. The ending is predictably tear-jerking, but it's filmed with less melodrama than it might be. Lee's restraint during this portion of the story is welcome. Another director might have taken things too far in his quest to provoke an emotional reaction.

The film is based on a short story by Annie Proulx, and has been adapted for the screen by Diana Ossana and Lonesome Dove's Larry McMurtry. Brokeback Mountain isn't for everyone, but for those who are not bothered by the homosexual relationship, it offers a study in yearning, love, and loss. It didn't affect me as deeply as either The Bridges of Madison County or The Remains of the Day (both of which offer similar themes in different settings), but it evokes some of the same feelings. It's a brave and affecting effort from a director from whom we have come to expect worthwhile things.

© 2005 James Berardinelli

REQUIM FOR A DREAM

Every year, there seems to be one film that kicks you in the stomach and leaves your head reeling. In 1999, it was Tim Roth's profoundly disturbing, unforgettable The War Zone. This year, it's Darren Aronofsky's Requiem for a Dream, one of the most forceful anti-drug narratives ever to be committed to celluloid. To call this movie a cautionary tale would be to apply a label that is too tame -- Requiem for a Dream presents the darkest take imaginable on a story of hopes and dreams shattered by drug addiction. There's no preaching or sermonizing here, just an almost-clinical depiction of lives laid to waste. This is not a film for the weak of mind or soul. Even in the midst of the whirlwind of a film festival, when I was seeing four films a day and the tendency was for everything to blur into a continuum, this one stuck out, demanding attention and rumination. It is a force to be reckoned with.

As he proved with his art house success, Pi, Aronofsky is not afraid to take chances, and Requiem for a Dream represents a big one. Based on the novel by Hubert Selby Jr., this movie was granted the MPAA's NC-17 "kiss of death" for its uncompromising portrayal of the depths to which some people will sink to get their fix. No punches are pulled, no images "prettied up". Undaunted by the MPAA's hypocritical and senseless stance, Aronofsky appealed the rating, rightfully claiming that cutting any portion of the film would dilute, if not outright destroy, its message. The appeal was denied, but Artisan, in a move that affirms their commitment to art over commercialism (at least in this case) has decided to release the film unrated.

Every actor with a major role - Ellen Burstyn, Jennifer Connelly, Jared Leto, and Marlan Wayans - should be commended not only for their strength of performance but for the courage they exhibit in putting themselves on the line the way Aronofsky requires. They are artists in the truest sense of the word, sublimating their egos and committing themselves fully to the needs of the project. Each of them is shown in a state of physical and mental degradation. They are depicted doing the kinds of things that many higher profile celebrities would not permit. Connelly especially goes all out, appearing naked from the waist down in one shot and participating in a lesbian orgy scene. (Those looking for an erotic charge from Connelly's nudity should see one of her previous outings - Requiem for a Dream is far too disturbing to do anything for the libido.)

The movie starts slowly, introducing each of the characters and establishing their relationships. Visually, Aronofsky tries for something a little different here, employing a split-screen approach that neither enhances nor detracts from the narrative. (It isn't around long enough to become distracting.) The central figure is Harry (Jared Leto), a young man who lives hand-to-mouth because nearly every cent he saves, earns, or steals goes towards buying something he can inject into his veins. His best friend and business partner is Tyrone (Marlon Wayans, playing it straight and doing so effectively), who shares many of Harry's aspirations. His girlfriend is Marion (Connelly), who, like Harry and Tyrone, is an addict. The fourth significant player is Harry's widowed mother, Sara (Ellen Burstyn), who is as addicted to television as Harry is to drugs. When she learns that a marketing company may be able to offer her a spot in the studio audience of a live TV broadcast, she decides to lose weight. Following a visit to the doctor's, she is on her way to dropping 30 pounds and becoming hooked on the uppers and downers that comprise her diet.

For these characters, drugs gradually take the place of everything else - food, sex, aspirations, and even the day-to-day impulse to live. They become the sole sources of pain and pleasure. They form the core of relationships. Would these people have anything to do with one another if they weren't bound by the ceremony of the injection? Perhaps it's not that way in the beginning, but the life-destroying power of drugs is insidious and undeniable, and the spiral of all-consuming addiction is what Aronofsky has captured with unnerving effectiveness.

Everyone in this film has their own dreams - or at least they do before their gut-churning, animalistic need for the next fix has destroyed their capacity for reason. These aren't grandiose dreams - they're the kinds of things we all hope for during the small hours of the night when we lie awake wondering how our lives might change for the better. For Harry and Tyrone, it's to be able to make one big score and build a financial nest egg. For Marion, it's to start her own dress business and live with Harry. And for Sara, it's to appear on her favorite TV show and to be proud of her son. When the movie opens, each of these dreams can be realized. No one has progressed beyond the point of no return. However, by the time the end credits roll, they have become nebulous and unfulfillable. Requiem for a Dream is bleak, offering little in the way of respite in its depiction of the consequences of addiction (chief of which is the unwillingness of addicts to seek help). Like Trainspotting, its portrait of the effects of drugs on the mind and body is uncompromising. Unlike the British film, there is minimal grim humor for comic relief purposes.

Requiem for a Dream certainly isn't the first recent motion picture to offer an unpleasant picture of what happens when an individual becomes hooked on drugs, but its quadruple character study is unsparing. This is in large part because of the brilliant final fifteen minutes, which is a tour de force of direction and editing. Employing hundreds of cuts, Aronofsky careens back and forth between his four main players, showing their increasingly dire circumstances and allowing those to escalate to a brutal climax. This is easily the most startling and memorable extended sequence in any film this year, and, for raw power, it exceeds any scene I can recall from other films about addiction. Don't be fooled by the passively poetic title; there's nothing serene or restful about this motion picture. Requiem for a Dream gets under your skin and stays there.

© 2000 James Berardinelli

BRICK

You have preserved in your own lifetime, sir, a way of life that was dead before you were born. --Harold the butler in Elaine May's "A New Leaf" (1971)

You will forgive me for reaching back 35 years for a quotation to open this review of "Brick," since the movie itself is inspired by hard-boiled crime novels written by Dashiell Hammett between 1929 and 1934. What is unexpected, and daring, is that "Brick" transposes the attitudes and dialogue of classic detective fiction to a modern Southern California high school. These are contemporary characters who say things like, "I got all five senses and I slept last night. That puts me six up on the lot of you." Or, "Act smarter than you look, and drop it."

What is the audience for this movie? It is carrying on in its own lifetime a style of film that was dead before it was born. Are teenage moviegoers familiar with movies like "The Maltese Falcon"? Do they know who Humphrey Bogart was? Maybe it doesn't matter. They're generally familiar with b&w classics on cable, and will understand the strategy: The students inhabit personal styles from an earlier time.

This mixing of styles and ages has been done before. Alan Parker's "Bugsy Malone" (1976) was a 1930s gangster movie cast with pre-teen kids (including Jodie Foster). Once you accepted the idea, it worked, and so does "Brick." The crucial decision by writer-director Rian Johnson is to play it straight; this isn't a put-on, and the characters don't act as if they think their behavior is funny.

The movie opens in James Ellroy territory, with the hero Brendan (Joseph Gordon-Levitt) finding the dead body of his onetime girlfriend in a drainage ditch. From the mouth of a tunnel comes the sound, perhaps, of her murderer escaping. The victim is Emily (Emilie de Ravin), who called him earlier for help; from a lonely phone booth (itself a relic of pre-cellular movies) he sees her being taken past in a car, possibly a captive.

Brendan turns into a classic 1930s gumshoe, tracing her movements back through a high school drug ring and ignoring threats from a high school principal who tries to pull him off the case (this is the role police captains filled in old private eye movies). True to the genre that inspired it, the movie has tough and dippy dames, an eccentric crime kingpin, some would-be toughs who can be slapped around like Elisha Cook Jr. in "The Maltese Falcon," and an enigmatic know-it-all. This last character was, in the old days, an informer, bookie or newspaper reporter often found in the shadows of a bar; in "Brick," he apparently exists permanently while sitting against a back wall of the high school, from which vantage point he sees and knows, or guesses, everything.

Does the movie work on its own terms as a crime story? Yes, in the sense that the classic Hollywood noirs worked: The story is never clear while it unfolds, but it provides a rich source of dialogue, behavior and incidents. Then, at the end, if it doesn't all hold water, who cares as long as all of the characters think it does? "The Big Sleep" is famous for the loophole of a killer who is already dead when he commits his crime. At the Madison Film Festival last weekend, I saw "Laura" again, and was reminded it is entirely a movie about atmosphere, dialogue and acting styles, in which the very realities of murder are arbitrary. It makes no difference who committed the central killing; what's important is that everyone acts as if it does.

"Brick" is a movie reportedly made with great determination and not much money by Rian Johnson, who did the editing on his Macintosh (less impressive than it sounds, since desktop machines are now often used even on big-budget movies). What is impressive is his absolute commitment to his idea of the movie's style. He relates to the classic crime novels and movies, he notes the way their mannered dialogue and behavior elevates the characters into archetypes, and he uses the strategy to make his teenagers into hard-boiled guys and dolls. The actors enter into the spirit; we never catch them winking.

The movie has one inevitable point of vulnerability: Because we can't believe in the characters, we can't care about their fates. They have lifestyles, not lives. The same can be said of many (not all) noir films, and it is because of style that we treasure them.

This movie leaves me looking forward to the director's next film; we can say of Rian Johnson, as somebody once said about a dame named Brigid O'Shaughnessy, "You're good. You're very good."

TRANSAMERICA

As much heralded, "edgy" movies go, Transamerica fails to live up to expectations. The final 30 minutes are interesting, funny, and affecting, but that segment represents less than a third of the running time. To get to the parts of the film that work, it is necessary to endure 15 minutes of setup, then an hour of some of the most uninspired road movie tedium in recent history. Road movies often turn into vehicles for lazy screenwriters, and this is no exception. The primary purpose of this prolonged portion of Transamerica isn't to bring the characters closer or to give us insight into their personalities; it's to stretch out the running length so we're left with a motion(less) picture rather than a short.

The big "selling point" for Transamerica is Felicity Huffman, who plays Bree, a pre-operative transsexual about to give up her masculinity. Were it not for the success of Desperate Housewives, in which Huffman has a co-starring role, it's uncertain whether a distributor would have taken a chance on the movie. Huffman's performance is edgy, raw, and carefully contained. Bree is an introvert, not given to grandstanding. She's a buttoned-down conservative who is meticulous about her appearance and grammar, and avoids using curse words. Huffman deserves credit for allowing herself to appear in an unflattering light (in some scenes, she looks garish and ugly), and her awkward mix of male/female mannerisms are on-target. Huffman is very good - good enough that we accept her in the role and believe in the character, and there are times when she carries the film.

Transamerica's premise is simple. Less than two weeks away from the final operation that will complete her transition from a man to a woman, Bree learns that she has a teenage son. Toby (Kevin Zegers), a petty thief, drug user and sometimes male prostitute, is in a New York jail when he calls his father. His mother is dead and there's no one else to bail him out. Bree's first instinct is to disavow the existence of the boy, but when her therapist (Elizabeth Peña) refuses to sign a consent form for the sex-change operation until there is closure in this area, Bree is forced to fly to New York to encounter her offspring. Pretending to be a church do-gooder, she meets Toby and agrees to help him fulfill his dream of becoming a porn actor by driving him to Los Angeles. Along the way, between encounters with assorted oddballs and other lonely souls, they fitfully bond - all without his knowing that he's in the green station wagon with his father.

Things come to a head in Phoenix, when the unlikely pair ends up at the estate owned by Bree's parents. We meet her overwrought mother (Fionnula Flanagan), earthy father (Burt Young), and freespirit of a sister (Carrie Preston). It's during the Phoenix scenes that Transamerica finds its footing after drifting aimlessly for more than an hour. During this part of the film, director Duncan Tucker offers an effective blend of bittersweet comedy and modulated pathos. Ultimately, however, there's a feeling that it may be too little, too late.

One of the most disappointing things about Transamerica is that rather than showing Bree's mechanisms for coping with everyday life, it places her in the unreality of a road trip. Her relationship with Toby is developed unevenly during the course of this journey. By the time they reach Phoenix, the movie wants us to believe that they're closer than what has been shown. Then there's the elephant in the room - the manufactured drama and tension of when Bree is going to tell her son the truth.

As Toby, Kevin Zegars provides a standard "sullen teenager" performance. He's a rebel with a cause, although he rarely shows much in the way of emotion. One suspects that a more accomplished actor would have added some punch to the Bree/Toby scenes that comprise a majority of the running time. Finonnula Flanagan is unforgivably over-the-top as Elizabeth, Bree's mother. "Caricature" is almost too tame a word. Burt Young (forever known as Rocky's brother-in-law) fares better as Murray, although one can't discern any reason why he would sacrifice a lifetime to Elizabeth's company. A breath of fresh air comes from Carrie Preston, as the irrepressible Sydney. She's down-to-earth, funny, and energetic.

One wants to give credit to writer/director Tucker for making an honest movie about the tribulations of a transgendered individual, but the film is flawed dramatically, with the inert road trip segment doing too little to advance character development and interaction. Huffman's performance redeems parts of the movie but, until the final 30 minutes, Transamerica too often feels like a journey to nowhere.

© 2006 James Berardinelli

THE MACHINIST

A noir horror movie of the most un-classic kind, Brad Anderson's The Machinist takes you into the unstable mind of an insomniac with a dark secret whose life has become a bleak emotional wasteland devoted only to going through the motions of working. Blessed with an extraordinary performance by Christian Bale, this movie plays out like a nightmare, and will remind some viewers of The Fight Club, Memento, and Insomnia. Although The Machinist may at times seem to be derivative of those films, and is inferior to them, it is nevertheless a harrowing experience for those to whom this sort of story appeals.

Bale's Trevor is, as the title implies, a machinist at an assembly-line factory. He clocks in every morning, then clocks out every afternoon, keeping basically to himself. When he returns from work, he does nothing more remarkable than frequent an airport diner where he converses with the same waitress (Aitana Sanchez-Gijon) on a daily basis, or visit his "regular" prostitute, Stevie (Jennifer Jason Leigh). But something strange is happening. A mysterious man named Ivan (John Sharian) is haunting him, and he is having strange visions. The question is whether these are figments of a deranged imagination or part of a larger external conspiracy to drive him insane. How much of what is happening is transpiring within Trevor's psyche? Who, if anyone, is real? Why has the clock stopped at 1:30? Why is the refrigerator bleeding? (And why does Ivan look like Marlon Brando from Apocalypse Now?)

Style builds suspense. The scenes around the machinery are staged in a way that radiate menace. The expectation - which is fulfilled - is that something will go horribly wrong. The camerawork and claustrophobic atmosphere are designed to externally replicate Trevor's mental state. In addition, Anderson has drastically de-saturated the color, resulting in a spartan look that is only one step up from monochrome. And there's a scene with an approaching thunderstorm that is perfect in the way it is composed and presented.

Typically, the "hooker with a heart of gold" is rescued by Prince Charming, but Trevor is no Richard Gere and Stevie is no Pretty Woman. There may be something clichéd about the character of Stevie, but her circumstances are grim enough to divorce her from the stereotype. Jennifer Jason Leigh has played plenty of vulnerable, damaged characters, so this one isn't much of stretch for her. She's solid in this part, and provides a sympathetic face in a motion picture where most visages are less than friendly.

If Charlize Theron and Nicole Kidman could win Oscars for allowing physical ugliness to enhance their performances, then what about some consideration for Christian Bale? Emaciated as a result of losing about 60 pounds via a calorie-depleted diet (one can of tuna fish and one apple per day), Bale barely looks like his usual robust self. His physical appearance transforms a strong performance into a memorable one. Take away the walking skeleton, and the film would not have been as disturbing.

Even for those who are able to piece together exactly what is happening before the movie explicitly reveals everything, The Machinist is still capable of capturing the attention. The film is dark, but rewarding, and it never cheats the viewer. There are no sudden twists designed to blindside an audience. The reveals occur gradually, with Anderson allowing us the pleasure of putting the pieces together. The Machinist requires a certain kind of viewer - one who is comfortable with grimness and a certain amount of gore. Members of that group will appreciate what this picture has to offer.

© 2004 James Berardinelli

THUMBSUCKER

When it comes to tales about the hand's opposable digit, there have been Thumbelina, Tom Thumb, and now Thumbsucker. A quirky character piece that could just as easily go by the title of Ritalin Nation, Thumbsucker boasts a strong character arc, some nice performances, and an understated message about the overprescribing of drugs to American youths. But Mike Mills doesn't want this to turn into a soap box sermon, so he avoids sensationalization and melodrama. Thumbsucker may have something to say, but it doesn't need a hammer or a bullhorn to make its statement.

17-year old Justin Cobb (Lou Taylor Pucci) has an oral fixation: he never stopped sucking his thumb. It has become a secret addiction - a dirty secret he tries to hide from everyone. In school, between classes, he sneaks into the bathroom for a quick suck. At home, he does it behind closed doors. It infuriates his father, Mike (Vincent D'Onofrio), who can't understand why a teenager won't give up such a childish habit. His mother, Audrey (Tilda Swinton), is more supportive. His orthodontist, Dr. Perry Lyman (Keanu Reeves), hypnotizes him in an attempt to sort out the situation. But Justin is not "fixed" and his unwillingness to conquer his addiction causes him to lose a chance with a potential girlfriend, Rebecca (Kelli Garner), another member of the school debating team.

The answer to all of Justin's problems falls into his lap when he is diagnoses as having ADHD. His is given a prescription for Ritalin (or a Ritalin-like medication) that focuses his concentration, makes him more upbeat, and allows him to give up thumbsucking. Suddenly, he's the star of the debating team, but his teacher, Mr. Geary (Vince Vaughn), is alarmed by the radical changes to Justin's personality. The next time Justin encounters Rebecca, she has become a stoner, and he's looking to add both marijuana and sex to his list of new experiences.

Those who appreciate strong character development will like what Thumbsucker has to offer. Justin is a believable individual, not a Hollywood type, and he undergoes several credible transformations during the course of the film. Other characters touching his periphery grow as well, and not all for the better. Mike must confront the responsibilities of being a parent and acting his age. Audrey finds something more fulfilling than dreaming of winning a contest that offers a date with a TV star. Perry confronts disillusionment head-on. And Rebecca shows a side that many socially inept teenagers will be all too familiar with. During the course of Thumbsucker, Justin learns a number of lessons, and not all of them come easily.

Mills makes a subtle comment about the ease with which children are prescribed drugs like Ritalin, but he doesn't overdo it. Through Justin, he displays the pros and cons of the treatment, but it's obvious that he's not a fan. Does Justin need the drug to grow up, or does it become a crutch that delays him from finding his true self and propels him down a path that leads to unfulfilling experimentation? Mills poses the question but doesn't answer it. He's less interested in a debate on the morality of stimulants than he is in showing how Justin reacts to them.

Thumbsucker has an interesting cast. Relative newcomer Lou Taylor Pucci is a standout in his first lead role - this could be the start of a career worth watching. Kelli Garner, a late replacement for Scarlett Johansson, builds on the promise she showed during her brief exposure in The Aviator. Tilda Swinton continues to amaze with her chameleon-like ability to fill any role - is there a more accomplished female character actor working today? Vincent D'Onofrio is given a rare chance to play an everyday sort of guy, and Vince Vaughn is allowed to underplay a part. Finally, there's Keanu Reeves, who doesn't try to exceed his limited range. He's like an adult version of one of his best-loved parts, Ted Logan.

I won't go so far as to decree Thumbsucker to be an exceptional coming-of-age drama, but it's a solid contender. The film captures many of the nuances of enduring high school as an outsider without falling into the common trap of exaggerating the experience and turning the protagonist into an unlikely hero. Thumbsucker is true to its nature, and that makes Justin's eventual transformation all the more rewarding.

© 2005 James Berardinelli

HALF NELSON

In the movies, and unfortunately in life, we tend to accept the easy falsehood that someone who behaves badly in one respect must be bad in others, even if they're totally unrelated. So, if a person is a gambler, he must be a drunk. If he's a pedophile, he must be a murderer. If he's a cigarette smoker (in the movies, at least), he must be corrupt conspirator of some kind.

In a black-and-white world, human flaws are not allowed. In order to do good, a person must himself be a paragon of goodness. "Half Nelson," the miraculous movie by Ryan Fleck and Anna Boden, is about a junior high schoolteacher who smokes. Crack. And the thing is, he's a good teacher, even if (or, rather, because) he doesn't always stick to the district-approved syllabus.

Dan (Ryan Gosling) wakes up on the hardwood floor of his apartment in an open short-sleeved shirt and white jockey shorts. And then he somehow gets himself to work, dragging himself up the stairs like an escapee from a George Romero movie. He's wan and thin, and his bruised blue eyes look like they could roll back in his head at any minute. But once he gets started talking about the dialectics of power and world politics, he comes alive. Back in the teachers' lounge, or alone in his car, for lunch, he's halfway back to the realm of the undead again.

Dan does some bad things -- reckless, destructive and irresponsible things. But is he a bad guy? I don't think so. And neither do his students -- especially Drey (Shareeka Epps), the stoic and rather sullen student who finds her basketball coach half-unconscious on the floor of a school restroom after a game. She gets him a wet paper towel. He says he's sorry. Neither of them makes a big thing about it. Somehow, it brings them closer. "See you tomorrow," she says when he drops her off at home.

Dan is tossed out of a game after throwing a ball at a ref. Off court, he punches a wall. Afterward, on the ride home, Dan tries to give Drey the requisite "do as I say, not as I do" lecture, telling her that he shouldn't have lost his temper and thrown the ball at the ref. She says it must feel good, though, to just "get it out," but he reminds her there are other ways of getting it out.

"Right, like you do," she says. Her tone is almost but not quite neutral; not accusatory, but with a subtle yet affectionate rebuke. "Look, just because you know that one thing about me ...," Dan says. "One thing doesn't make a man." Pause. She frowns, looks at him. A smile breaks across her face and she quietly snickers: " 'One thing doesn't make a man?' You know I'm just talking about your hand, right?" Dan, knowing she's got him, also smiles and tries unconvincingly to recover: "Yeah, I knew that ..."

Everything that makes this movie so terrific is right there in that scene, in the interplay between these two characters -- and these two actors. The whole sequence is shot from the back seat, in separate shots, so that only part of each character's face is visible at any given moment. There's a lot going on between these two, but it's mostly through indirection.

"Ryan Gosling" may sound like the name of a teen heartthrob, but this performance, coming after "The Believer," proves he's one of the finest actors working in contemporary movies. And he's only 25 years old. Epps (no relation to Omar) is his perfect foil, as the kid for whom Dan cares the most. She doesn't say much, but she doesn't have to. Drey's got Dan's number, and may be the only person on earth who comes close to understanding who he is.

"Half Nelson" isn't one of those "inspirational teacher/mentor" movies -- at least not in any generic or conventional sense. There's no triumph, no breakthrough, no by-the-numbers victory in test scores or on the basketball court. This movie isn't about those things, but is concerned with an even greater achievement that is generally unacknowledged: how people -- flawed, miserable, frustrated people -- go to work every day and find a way to care about something beyond themselves, despite themselves.

Dan himself is confused about his relationship to Drey. He knows he can't save the world; he just wants to do right by this one girl. But there are boundaries. He's her teacher, after all, not her friend. But Drey needs both, and she's not going to let job descriptions get in her way.

Watching Dan teach -- or some of the oral reports about history and politics delivered by his students -- the proverbial line between the personal and the political becomes meaningless, because they can't help being one and the same. The slogan says: "Think globally, act locally." But thought and action begin in the same place: inside one's own, messed-up head.

AMERICAN BEAUTY

Over the years, many films have taken a dark look at the supposedly perfect ideal of a white picket fence, a little house, and a nuclear family. For many, the suburban life is the American dream. For others, however, it can turn into a twisted nightmare of unfulfilled desires, repressed needs, and shattered hopes. Because of the necessity to keep up appearances, a serene facade often conceals a breeding ground for dysfunction, anxiety, and hypocrisy. Directors like David Lynch have made this their playground. Lynch in particular delights in depicting the root causes of social decay in suburbia - and he does it by autopsy. American Beauty is not as dark as a Lynch project, since it allows for small moments of redemption, but it mines the same general territory.

If there's a rule in American cinema that all families not named Brady must be dysfunctional, then American Beauty does nothing to violate it. Most teenagers think their parents are strange, but, in the case of Jane Burnham (Thora Birch, whose largest previous big screen role was in Alaska), this is as much a state of reality as it is a state of mind. Her father, Lester (Kevin Spacey), is suffering through a mid-life crisis. At the age of 42, he has become apathetic to everything. "Both my wife and daughter think I'm this gigantic loser," he confesses at one point, "And they're right. I have lost something. I didn't always feel this sedated." Meanwhile, Jane's mother, Carolyn (Annette Bening), places such value on status that she has turned into a "bloodless, money-grubbing freak" who has no time for any form of intimacy. Her creed: "You cannot count on anyone except yourself." She and Lester continue in their dead marriage for their daughter's sake and so they'll look normal to the outside world. In a moment of clarity, Lester admits, "Our marriage is just for show - a commercial for how normal we are, when we're anything but."

American Beauty is about the ways in which these characters grow, and the catalysts that break them out of their near-catatonic existences. It's also about the emotional paralysis that comes with age and security. We take refuge in routine, and, after a number of years, the thought of change becomes terrifying. Happiness, the goal of youth, is replaced by the desire for the artificial comfort that comes through the numbing sameness of repetition. Loveless marriages like Lester and Carolyn's exist because neither partner possesses the willingness to break the cycle. And the children they think they're protecting by staying together are often the biggest victims of their sham.

Lester's awakening is prompted by two events. The first is the potential of unemployment. At first, Lester faces this possibility with dread - without money, how can he pay the mortgage and send his daughter to college? But then, as he dissects the situation in his mind, he sees how liberating it can be - freed from responsibilities, he no longer needs to be a slave to the establishment. Then there's Jane's best friend, Angela (Mena Suvari), an attractive teenager who captures his attention and arouses his sexual interest. Lester's desire to have this girl (a need that borders on obsession) reawakens his long-dead libido.

While Lester is going through a complete reconstruction of his personality and outlook on life, Carolyn's perspective is also changing. Frustrated by her relationship (or lack thereof) with her husband, she begins an affair with a fellow real estate agent who calls himself "The King" (Peter Gallagher). While her sexual liaison with The King doesn't amount to much, it lessens Carolyn's tolerance for what she views as indolence on Lester's part.

Then there's sullen Jane, who's caught between the two of them. Displeased with her physical appearance, she is saving up for breast augmentation surgery (something she clearly does not need). As the film progresses, she develops an unusual relationship with Ricky Fitts (Wes Bentley), the boy next door. He views life through a video camera, and, when he first trains his lens on Jane, she is nonplused. After a while, however, she feels flattered, and, following a particularly brutal encounter with her parents, she slowly undresses in front of a window while Ricky watches. Ricky has his own problems - his mother (Allison Janney) is virtually withdrawn from life and his father (Chris Cooper) is an ex-Marine neo-Nazi who submits his son's urine for drug testing every six months. Meanwhile, Jane also has to deal with Angela's growing fascination with the possibility of sleeping with Lester - a consideration that disgusts her.

American Beauty is the first feature film directed by Sam Mendes, who has an extensive background in theater, but displays a sureness that many veteran filmmakers are unable to match. At times evoking elements of Todd Solondz' controversial Happiness and Ang Lee's brilliant The Ice Storm, American Beauty weds compelling drama with black comedy. The movie is character-driven, but the three protagonists are so expertly developed that we are drawn to them for the entire two hour running time. Spacey, Bening, and Birch all give the kinds of top-notch performances that deserve (but do not always get) consideration at Oscar time. Spacey's Lester may be American Beauty's narrator, but, through a low-key portrayal that conveys all the angst and confusion of a particularly bad teenage experience, Birch makes Jane the film's emotional focal point.

If there's a weakness in American Beauty, it's in the way the story is structured. Spacey's voiceover narrative effectively kills a great deal of narrative tension when, during an opening scene, he reveals the film's ending. This approach is often forgivable if there's a compelling dramatic reason for it, but that isn't the case here. In fact, the use of the voiceover allows American Beauty to close with more exposition than is necessary. We don't need to be told, for example, that one of the film's points is that we should learn to savor every moment of life and to see all the hidden beauty the world has to offer.

Mendes and cinematographer Conrad L. Hall add some wonderful camera work, especially when it comes to close-ups. In most films, we rarely notice this kind of shot because it is used indiscriminately. However, in American Beauty, it serves the definite purpose of offering insight into a character's mindset. There are many close-ups in this film, and few (if any) are used for the banal purpose of varying shot selection. And Thomas Newman's dynamic, playful score compliments the picture's effective visual composition.

American Beauty doesn't trailblaze a path into hitherto untouched cinematic territory, but its presentation of vivid characters in interesting situations makes the story seem fresh. In part because it's not a complete downer and in part because it doesn't cheat the audience, American Beauty is emotionally satisfying. There's a sense of poignancy at the end, but also the feeling that we have been on an incredible trip through the lives and souls of three perfectly-realized characters. In a year that boasts few truly memorable motion pictures, Mendes can stake a claim alongside the likes of Kubrick and Egoyan as one whose cinematic vision both challenges and entertains.

© 1999 James Berardinelli

JARHEAD

Every war is different. Every war is the same." So says the voiceover narration in the closing moments of Sam Mendes' Jarhead. I might add: Every war movie is different. Every war movie is the same. This is Mendes' Gulf War answer to Apocalypse Now - he announces as much by connecting the two in an early scene showing marines whipped into a frenzy while watching the helicopter attack sequence from Francis Ford Coppola's 1979 film. Jarhead is about how the experience of being in the military fundamentally changes an individual. In this case, the focus isn't about the madness of slaughter in the jungle, but the madness of inaction in the desert.

For those who don't remember the Gulf War (or who weren't old enough to watch in unfold in real time on television), here's a brief recap. The conflict started in August 1990, when Iraqi forces invaded Kuwait, igniting worldwide protests. As diplomatic negotiations stagnated, United Nations troops (primarily from the United States) massed in Saudi Arabia. By mid-January 1991, more than 500,000 U.S. men and women were in the Middle East, and "Operation Desert Shield" became "Operation Desert Storm." More than a month of brutal pounding from the air decimated the Iraqi forces. The ground war, launched on February 23, lasted only four days (or, to be precise: four days, four hours, one minute). A ceasefire was called on February 27, and Iraq accepted terms on March 3.

Jarhead shows these events not from the perspective of a civilian, war correspondent, or diplomat, but from that of a jarhead (jargon for marine) sniper who was supposed to be on the front line of the ground conflict - except there was no front line. The air attack so devastated the Iraqi army that no one was left to wage an effective battle. So when the marines went in, they were left with mop-up duty. Many of these men, despite being trained as killing machines, left without firing a shot. (As one puts it: "Are we ever going to get to kill anyone?") Based on the memoirs of Anthony Swofford, Jarhead takes viewers into the barracks and tents of a group of marines who view the conflict as a phantom war - a tease that never offers release.

The film opens at Camp Pendleton in 1989 - a year before Kuwait became the lead story of every nightly news program. There, Anthony Swofford (Jake Gyllenhaal) is undergoing a brutal basic training regimen under the tutelage of an officer who recalls R. Lee Ermy's character from 1987's Full Metal Jacket. A year later, Swoff is enrolled in sniper training along with his spotter, Troy (Peter Sarsgaard), who would become his closest friend. Their commander, Sergeant Siek (Jamie Foxx), is the kind of hard-but-fair solider who shows up in nearly every war movie. In late 1990, Swoff's unit is sent to Iraq, where they spend months drilling and finding ways to kill time, waiting for the word to be given for the sword of American military might to fall. But the longer the finger is on the trigger without firing the weapon, the greater the stress becomes.

Mendes (American Beauty, Road to Perdition) invests a great deal of energy into developing the battleground as an alien environment. Using the sands of Mexico as a stand-in, Jarhead shows how different desert warfare is from conventional conflict. We see men training while wearing bulky anti-contamination suits in 100+ degree heat. Water must be downed in such quantities that vomiting sometimes occurs. Finding ways to blow off steam leads to risky behavior, the punishment for which can be the dreaded latrine duty. (If you thought it was bad in Platoon, wait until you see it here…) The Kuwaiti desert comes alive in this film, forming its own supporting character. There are some wonderful twilight and nighttime shots that appear almost to have taken place on a different planet. Cinematographer Roger Deakins uses handheld cameras effectively (but not to motion sickness inducing excess). And, to strengthen the connection to Apocalypse Now, Mendes has employed Walter Murch, who edited the earlier film.

It's unsurprising that Jarhead attains an impressive level of verisimilitude. Although The USMC did not officially participate in the filming, Mendes hired an army of ex-marine advisors who kept things real and avoided caricatures. This is not a strongly political or anti-war film (certainly compared to pictures like Apocalypse Now or Platoon). It's about the characters and how they react to their circumstances. They see things within the microcosm of their tents. What "it all means," whether the attack is justified, and whether the troops should have pushed all the way to Baghdad are questions for other movies with other agendas.

Given the spotlight, Jake Gyllenhaal seizes the opportunity with a performance that will generate Oscar buzz. His portrayal of Swoff is credible and complex. Nothing in his development seems jarring or poorly motivated. Peter Sarsgaard earns points for stepping out of the minor rut into which he had fallen. Jaime Foxx makes a stock character more interesting that he might ordinarily be. Chris Cooper has a small part as Lt. Col. Kazinski, and unsurprisingly steals the scene. And Dennis Haysbert shows up a couple of times as a major. His first appearance - the latrine scene - is memorable.

Like many war movies, Jarhead comes complete with a voiceover narrative. Despite my general disapproval of this as a cinematic device (it's too often used as a crutch), it succeeds for the most part. This is, after all, a memoir, and there are times when it's helpful to provide viewers with information in a short-hand manner that would be cumbersome to present in a traditional way. Apparently, Mendes worked long and hard on the voiceovers - they are not distractions and they do not pull the viewer "out of the moment."

Jarhead is compelling in the way it presents a new facet of a genre that some would argue was mined out long ago. Yet, as much as the film contains the familiar elements of war movies, the thrust is different. This is about loss, but not the loss of life. Instead, it's about the dissipation of identity. Those who entered the corps and were sent to Kuwait were disconnected from their previous life and all that went with it: wives/girlfriends, friends, jobs, families… But, instead of accomplishing what they were trained to do, they wait, and Godot is nowhere to be found. Portraying these personality transformations is where Jarhead excels, and the reason why this isn't just another of the growing number of dramas about the Gulf War.

© 2005 James Berardinelli

GARDEN STATE

Garden State is one of those movies that fails to stay with the viewer for an extended period of time. It's a forgettable film featuring a throw-away story with unmemorable characters and unremarkable performances. That's not to say it's bad, because that would be an unfair description. But it's hard to figure out why this movie caused such a stir at Sundance. It's a generic story about how a 20-something loser returns to his roots, makes peace with his inner demons, and finds himself and love at the same time. Tell me we've never seen that story before…

Writer/director/star Zach Braff doesn't feel comfortable telling this story "straight," so he incorporates a lot of quirky "comedy." This is one of the film's downfalls, because much of the humor doesn't work. It feels contrived and scripted. Garden State contains some excellent character-driven moments, but their effectiveness is counterbalanced by scenes in which the protagonists do things that only a writer's construct would attempt.

Andrew Largeman (Braff) is one of those many would-be actors who has moved to Los Angeles to become a waiter. With the exception of an appearance on a television show as a "retarded quarterback," his acting career has remained in low-gear. He lives in a one-room apartment, has no social life, and takes enough prescription drugs to remain in a semi-comatose state. One morning he gets a call from his father, Gideon (Ian Holm), from New Jersey. His mother has died and he has to return for the funeral. Once there, although he doesn't manage to break down the walls separating him from his dad, he re-connects with an old friend, Mark (Peter Sarsgaard), and meets the flaky-but-likeable Sam (Natalie Portman) in the waiting room of a neurologist.

Despite having assembled a strong cast, Braff doesn't elicit any standout performances. Ian Holm is probably the strongest, but he is aided by the script, which doesn't give his character any "cute" eccentricities and doesn't expect him to participate in any of the comedy. So he can play Gideon straight as a gruff, emotionally distant father. In the lead, Braff is lackluster. Admittedly, it can be difficult to connect with a character who is so dissociated, but Braff clearly wants us to like Andrew, and it doesn't happen. Natalie Portman's work is uneven. She is effective when Sam is toned-down, but when the character's personality quirks come to the fore, it's evident that she's acting ("forcing it" is probably the most apt descriptor). Finally, there's Peter Sarsgaard, who doesn't have much to do outside of the typical "best friend" stuff.

There's a problem with the title. Although New Jersey bears the official nickname of "The Garden State," and the film mostly transpires in New Jersey, there's no sense of place. Garden State could just as easily be taking place in the middle of Nebraska. In fact, the location is so generic that, despite having lived in New Jersey for most of my life, I couldn't confirm or deny whether any of it was actually filmed here. Love it or hate it, at least "The Sopranos" offers viewers a good sense of where it's transpiring. Not so with Garden State. Should that be a problem? Ordinarily no, which is why the title is a mistake.

The film contains its share of winning moments, many of which highlight predominantly non-verbal exchanges. One is the first meeting between Andrew and Sam, which features some gazing before there's any spoken interaction. The other is a wonderfully rendered, semi-romantic moment in front of a fireplace, where Sam does an impromptu tap dance. I also liked the scene inside the ark, although that entire sequence pushed obvious quirkiness a little too far.

There are problems with the ending. The last scene in particular appears out of place, almost as if it was tacked on at a later date to provide a better sense of closure. It's fair to assign partial blame for this to the editor, who hasn't shown great aptitude in cutting the rest of the movie. Many of the transitions are murky or jarring. Often, Garden State doesn't flow smoothly.

I will give credit to Braff, who, by writing, directing, and starring, has accomplished a Herculean task. If the film falls down in places, that's an understandable problem from a first time filmmaker who elected to wear three hats. There's enough promise in Garden State to hint at better things to come. Until then, this movie represents an uneven glimpse of possibilities. The film is pleasant, but its success at Sundance probably says more about the festival and its attendees than it does about the actual production. As long as you go into Garden State with reasonable expectations, its capacity to disappoint will be limited.

© 2004 James Berardinelli

THE BREAKFAST CLUB

The Breakfast Club" begins with an old dramatic standby. You isolate a group of people in a room, you have them talk, and eventually they exchange truths about themselves and come to new understandings. William Saroyan and Eugene O'Neill have been here before, but they used saloons and drunks. "The Breakfast Club" uses a high school library and five teenage kids.

The movie takes place on a Saturday. The five kids have all violated high school rules in one way or another, and they've qualified for a special version of detention: all day long, from 8 to 4, in the school library. They arrive at the school one at a time. There's the arrogant, swaggering tough guy (Judd Nelson). The insecure neurotic (Ally Sheedy) who hides behind her hair and clothes. The jock from the wrestling team (Emilio Estevez). The prom queen (Molly Ringwald). And the class brain (Anthony Michael Hall).

These kids have nothing in common, and they have an aggressive desire not to have anything in common. In ways peculiar to teenagers, who sometimes have a studious disinterest in anything that contradicts their self-image, these kids aren't even curious about each other. Not at first, anyway. But then the day grows longer and the library grows more oppressive, and finally the tough kid can't resist picking on the prom queen, and then there is a series of exchanges.

Nothing that happens in "The Breakfast Club" is all that surprising. The truths that are exchanged are more or less predictable, and the kids have fairly standard hang-ups. It comes as no surprise, for example, to learn that the jock's father is a perfectionist, or that the prom queen's parents give her material rewards but withhold their love. But "The Breakfast Club" doesn't need earthshaking revelations; it's about kids who grow willing to talk to one another, and it has a surprisingly good ear for the way they speak. (Ever notice the way lots of teenage girls, repeating a conversation, say "she goes ... rather than "she says..."?)

The movie was written and directed by John Hughes, who also made last year's "Sixteen Candles." Two of the stars of that movie (Ringwald and Hall) are back again, and there's another similarity: Both movies make an honest attempt to create teenagers who might seem, plausible to other teenagers. Most Hollywood teenage movies give us underage nymphos or nostalgia-drenched memories of the 1950s.

The performances are wonderful, but then this is an all-star cast, as younger actors go; in addition to Hall and Ringwald from "Sixteen Candles," there's Sheedy from "War Games" and Estevez from "Repo Man." Judd Nelson is not yet as well known, but his character creates the strong center of the film; his aggression is what breaks the silence and knocks over the walls.

The only weaknesses in Hughes' writing are in the adult characters: The teacher is one-dimensional and one-note, and the janitor is brought onstage with a potted philosophical talk that isn't really necessary. Typically, the kids don't pay much attention.

Note: The "R" rating on this film refers to language; I think a PG-I3 rating would have been more reasonable. The film is certainly appropriate for thoughtful teenagers.

BLAIR WITCH PROJECT 2

It was as ill-advised as it was inevitable: a sequel to 1999's most unexpected hit, The Blair Witch Project. These days, however, creativity rarely enters the question when huge amounts of money are involved, and The Blair Witch Project brought Artisan Entertainment such a landslide return on their investment that both a sequel and a prequel were announced before the dust had settled. Never mind that The Blair Witch Project was obviously designed as a one-off project and that subsequent installments would not only suffer in comparison with the first, but would come across as awkward, ungainly grafts onto a story that could only be hurt by a single additional frame.

For Blair Witch creators Eduardo Sanchez and Daniel Myrick, greed is clearly a stronger motivator than artistic integrity. Faced with a multi-million dollar deal from Artistan, they caved in, although their participation in Book of Shadows only went so far as turning the property over to director Joe Berlinger and allowing their names to be attached as executive producers. This way, they can claim minimal responsibility while still collecting a healthy paycheck. In a sense, one can hardly blame Sanchez and Myrick for taking advantage of fortune's unexpected boon. In their position, I might do the same thing. Sadly, the ones who pay for this are those going to see Book of Shadows hoping to see a good movie.

Some kind of letdown or disappointment was inevitable with Book of Shadows; no matter how innovative and intriguing it was, it wasn't going to live up to fans' expectations. Unfortunately, the filmmakers seem to have chosen the worst possible scenario and implemented it using the dumbest script and the least appealing group of young actors. Where The Blair Witch Project was creepy, tense, and hypnotically compelling, Book of Shadows is little more than a sub-par slasher film with the moniker "Blair Witch" attached. In other words, it's lifeless, tedious, and (even at 90 minutes) overlong. It's hard to recall a sequel that fell this short of the mark set by its immediate predecessor. Even Halloween II didn't leave this kind of ugly impression.

Book of Shadows starts out with a promising sequence illustrating how post-Blair Witch Project mania has affected the town of Burkettsville, Maryland, where the film was set. (The opening caption states: "The following is a fictional re-enactment of events that occurred after The Blair Witch Project was released.") It's a merchandising feeding frenzy, with residents making profits on everything from stick figures to rocks from their back yards. Some townsfolk resent the influx of tourists, including the local sheriff (who, in the film's lone amusing scene, can be seen yelling at people, "Get out of the woods! There is no damn Blair Witch!"). However, after about five minutes of mockumentary footage, we move into the main story, and that's where things fall apart... fast.

Jeffrey Donovan is an entrepreneur who has decided to capitalize upon the Blair Witch phenomenon by operating "The Blair Witch Hunt", a walking tour of the woods around Burkettsville. Four clients have joined him for his inaugural trek: Stephen Turner and Tristen Skylar, a couple who are writing a book about the Blair Witch; Erica Leerhsen, a wiccan who thinks the Blair Witch is a good witch; and Kim Director, a psychic goth who thought the movie was cool. Of course, once these five get into the woods, strange things happen, and, upon their return to the more civilized world, they realize they may have brought something back with them.

Without a doubt, one of the things that made The Blair Witch Project successful was its first-person, you-are-there approach to telling the tale. Using an almost "Dogma 95" approach to storytelling, Sanchez and Myrick sent their actors into the woods and let them film things themselves, employing hand-held camera shots and improvisational acting. For Book of Shadows, Berlinger, whose background is in documentaries (along with Bruce Sinofsky, he helmed Brothers Keeper and Paradise Lost), throws all this out of the window, opting instead for more traditional filmmaking methods. Hand-held video shots are kept to a minimum and Berlinger was given enough money to hire a helicopter to get some flyover shots of the woods. In addition, the eerie silence of The Blair Witch Project's soundtrack has been replaced by a succession of heavy metal songs which, at best, can be described as distracting. Many viewers claimed to have been frightened by The Blair Witch Project; Book of Shadows isn't going to scare anyone except the bean counters at Artisan who are counting on a big financial return.

Putting stylistic issues aside, there's the plot to consider - although there isn't much there. Book of Shadows doesn't really advance the Blair Witch legend, and it certainly doesn't explore the mystery behind the disappearance of three principals from the first film (of course, since they were just actors in a film, no one is really missing). The ultimate purpose of Book of Shadows is to confuse fact and fiction surrounding the Blair Witch, but that's not an original or even interesting concept. The screenplay chosen to investigate this idea is as dumb as it is boring. Nothing much happens - a group of people sit around engaging in inane dialogue until one of them goes out to buy beer or another has a vision of a dead person. Book of Shadows could have been any '80s low-budget slasher film - it's about as badly scripted and inadequately crafted. The bits and pieces of Blair Witch lore thrown in represent little more than red herrings to lure Blair Witch Project fans into theaters.

One key element that Berlinger has ignored in putting together this movie is that viewers of the first film developed a strong identification with the three protagonists. Their complete absence from Book of Shadows leaves a gaping void that the five new characters - all of whom are obvious types - are incapable of filling. A downshift in the quality of acting also has something to do with this. We liked and believed in Heather, Josh, and Mike (that's why so many people were duped into believing that the events in The Blair Witch Project were real); we couldn't care less about Jeffrey, Stephen, Kim, Erica, and Tristen. (In fact, without a cast list in front of me, I'm not sure I would have remembered all of their names.)

The Blair Witch Project was a horror film without gore, sex, or nudity (it earned its R-rating strictly on the basis of frequent profanity). Book of Shadows takes the series back into the realm of formula by employing all three. The banality of this project is a disappointment all around, and those who will feel the keenest sense of loss are those who heaped praise upon The Blair Witch Project and lined up for hours to see it a third, forth, or fortieth time. (Blair Witch Project detractors won't be any kinder to Book of Shadows, but their condemnation is expected.) For those people, Book of Shadows is almost a betrayal. For everyone else, it's just a bad movie that should be given as wide a berth as the woods around Burkettsville.

© 2000 James Berardinelli

HOPE IT HELPED!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Witch Fuzz