Severely funny meditation on matters of chance and circumstance, celebration of conflict or full on live action cartoon? 'Adrenaline Drive', one of the most down-to-earth and massively funny films I've seen in a long time, fits all three of these descriptions. At heart, it's a base film about lovers on the lam with money in tow, ducking the mob at every turn and graciously embracing each other's company. But in it's own right, 'Adrenaline Drive' may be the most ecstatic and tirelessly alive film I've seen all year. From it's opening sequence where Ishida goes the wrong way, wusses out in front of his boss and then accidentally taps the bumper of a Yakuza gangster (setting off a wildly comic sequence where the gangster plays traffic cop to the scared Ishida and his boss), this is a film that's set out to be a particular kind of funny; not the funny that would be accompanied by a laugh track, but rather the kind of farcical caricature of colorful characters and devilishly satisfying occurrences that made movies like 'The Big Lebowski' and 'Being John Malkovich' work so damn well. This is a romantic comedy slathered on top of a slapstick rich, quasi silent film meshed deeply with the comic timing and careful attention to reaction that Scorcese built in 'After Hours'. This is a hoot of a film. Essentially, it's only flaw is that it goes on too long, creating an ending that feels less gratifying than it's preceding genius would allow. It runs out of steam - as does the audience. Here's another call for comedies that stick to a one hundred minute maximum running time. I love almost everything about the offbeat 'Adrenaline Drive'. This is, without a doubt, the best of the Shooting Gallery Film Series.

        In most spots of our most recent cartoon-crossover-updating-megabucks-kids-scheme, the writing more than qualifies to meet the gargantuan standard set by the now defunct sixties TV cult fave. There's a bold, fully animated introduction, puns aplenty, that if presented in a blind taste test, could easily stupefy kids unfamiliar with the original. The rest of the film follows as good entertainment, picking up the reigns dropped by the far superior 'Who Framed Roger Rabbit?" twelve years ago in it's inclusion of animated characters that share the plot, the screen and the action with live-action human actors. At this point, I'd like to drop the demeanor and pass on the absolutely flamboyantest flaw of all : the inclusion of desperately untalented Perabo as an (no, really) FBI agent that enjoyed watching Rocky and Bullwinkle as a child. I may remind you, that 'Rocky and Bullwinkle' was canceled in 1964 (I know this only because the movie actually states it in the beginning). She's, like, seventeen! Why is she an FBI agent and why, oh, why would she possibly remember a show that ended nearly two decades preceding her birth. Reruns? Thin, at best, cover for an obvious necessity the screenwriters were unable or unwilling to replace or, you know, make fly. The lackluster premise only makes for an overstuffed second half that appears to be yanked directly out of family day at "screenwriting for beginners". No outline could account for the absolutely demeaning way the film closes.

        So why the forgiving rating? Yeah, it did make me chuckle more than once. I admit, as a father, it was a hoot to watch my daughter transfer her generation gap into the seat next to me and suck in those lush, corny images. And yeah, "dad jokes" (terminate with extreme lameness) make me feel an odd sense of belonging in a world that's still not really ready to accept maturity in this young-looking shell I cart around inside my clothes. Maybe it was the calm, gentle motion of the old-fashioned excitement at watching A-list actors have fun with minimal hamming. Maybe it was the idea that the film closed itself off at the start for a private "entertainment" existence instead of being simply a collection of lowbrow jokes trying to appear "smart" or "sharp". And, to be fair, I only came up with the first paragraph after much deliberation. Last night I was ready to give it three-and-a-half stars, then three...

        ....wits return! Huzzah!

About a month ago I saw Martin Scorcese’s ‘The Last Waltz’, perhaps the best concert film of all time. And while it thrashed about, rockers doing their thing with such beauty and posture – like watching ballet dancers or sculptors create something wondrous from nothing at all – it also brought forth a burning question, that is: How does a band come to look so in tune with the passion of their moment and what is it about rock n’ roll that incites the camaraderie and coolness they radiate? My own experience wasn’t of much help. The film was echoing into a cavern as I’d been to maybe four or five rock shows in my short life and wasn’t really a receptive host as to what the electric makeup that fuses music and stardom could possibly be. And then came an answer.

Full of cinematic rarities and booming with loud music, ‘Almost Famous’ clears the question of fame and rock n’ roll right up. The beaming conclusion to my pondering is that it’s the backstage fits of anguish – the fighting, the overload of sex and drugs, the raucous ego battles – that fuel the need to reach a therapeutic coitus with the music. And it shows us all of these things in thrillingly authentic spotlight-cast images as up-and-coming ace reporter William (Patrick Fugit) follows the fictional band Stillwater (made up of pieces of Billy Crudup, Jason Lee, Noah Taylor) on a tour that will make or break them. All the while consorting with one of a plethora of idols William has, Lester Bangs (enacted marvelously by the talented mr. Phillip Seymour Hoffman), who gives him advice on the finer points of retaining artistic integrity as if he were dolling out Buddhist dogma. And the band-aids (a term substituted for groupie with a wonderful explanation) that keep everything together, the lady fans who travel with the band – proved performers Anna Paquin and Fairuza Balk in the background and the focal point, Penny Lane (played with a first time verve of astute experience by Kate Hudson).

Where ensemble pieces like ‘Boogie Nights’ or ‘Dazed and Confused’, also set in the 1970’s, rely on music and elaborate set-pieces to brim over into an observational montage of sorts; ‘Almost Famous’ finds its note in compiling itself, in an extemely likeable manner, out of page markers – which clearly distinguishes it as a memoir from frame one. As in his past films (‘Say Anything’, ‘Singles’ and ‘Jerry Maguire’), Cameron Crowe lets the music drip over the sides of these defining moments he clearly feels closest to (for instance the magical moment after the band recoups from disquieting arguments and wearily sing along to ‘Tiny Dancer’. This is a scene that brings down the house – and tears to my eyes. Crowe excels at this).

A master at romantic comedies, the toughest thing to nail well onscreen Crowe climbs a more difficult hurdle here: He makes a personal memoir into a comedy of the universal brand. He manages to (so I’ve read) do justice to a time in his life that clearly shaped him – and still create fanciful entertainment with a mammoth scope and a broad reach. This is a film that will be beloved, I’m certain, by a good majority of its viewers. And the unlikely chance of finding such a magnificent young actor to play oneself just compounds the rarity of such a motion picture. Crowe’s young reflection, Patrick Fugit, is outstanding. Finally, a character who champions the uncool while researching the cool and an actor who can play dim enough to pull off that introverted sense of awakening while also balancing the necessity to keep himself a secret and his emotions masked – because as a rock writer among the band, he is “the enemy”. And while his bonding with Russell (indelibly realized by the brilliant Billy Crudup) may seem a breach of his integrity – its wonderful how he manages to turn that around and create, just like the rock stars on-stage, something new out of it: honesty (the kind we barter with in the real world, not the word thrown around in churches and schools). Just like Crowe the filmmaker, William (AKA Crowe) the rock journalist fully understands his surroundings and what makes them cool. Delineating and dissecting them comes naturally – but it’s creating something new that makes them what they are.

‘Almost Famous’ comes at a wonderful time for me and for film. This, seemingly the driest year for quality onscreen in a long while, has spawned only four movies I’d call truly worthy (with a couple lagging respectfully behind). Each of them are personal and memorable stories of characters who walk the road of life as ordinary men – but have fashioned extraordinary attitudes and ways of observing life from their passions (in ‘Wonder Boys’ it is writing; in ‘High Fidelity’ it is pop music; in ‘The Virgin Suicides’ it is girls; and here, in ‘Almost Famous’, it is fame, music, writing and girls). Looking at enough movies forged in deep-seated mediocrity, I wonder if every year I find favor among the four films listed above – or if it’s all a big coincidental-looking conspiracy. ‘Almost Famous’ is an engaging, lose-yourself-from-frame-one, funny, moving pop masterpiece. It’s a diamond ring among the glass ones in 2000 – and it’s easily one of the best films of the year. And I’m curious, since watching a film this good makes me examine whether I am too subjective a critic, is that a bad thing or a good thing? ‘Almost Famous’ answers a question – and produces one; shuts one door and opens another; takes nothing and creates something.

Let’s examine the title, shall we? For a film called ‘American Psycho’, the opening near-animated droplets of blood falling past the frame let us know - along with the peppy, almost whimsical musical piece playing - that we are not watching a film that ffollows it’s title. Neither a poor departure or a brilliant adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’s astounding novel - ‘American Psycho’, from first frame too last, works almost exclusively as a comedy. In terms of utter clarification - the film only seems to work when it’s a comedy. It’s easily evident in the few scenes that try to capture the claustrophobic feeling of being stuck in protagonist Patrick Bateman’s head that there’s simply no room for both tones. As a thriller or commentary on the children of the eighties, it seems hopelessly futile in making us believe in anything but laughing.

What’s really astounding about the film, though, is the way it handles itself almost entirely in it’s delivery. The lines are flat but all of the actors seem to know how to bend them to neatly encircle the shallow and pseudo-emotional vibes coming off of their characters. The real accomplishment, plainly visible throughout, has got to be Christian Bale’s entirely dazzling performance. All goofball charm and self-assured smiles - he plays up the contrast necessary to pit the “boy-next-door” (as he’s constantly called) charm against the atrocities he commits to fuel his blood lust.  It’s the kind of acting that screams to be labeled an adaptation of a character - a risky but successful one - which earns an actor an innumerable amount of respect. So wonderful to watch.

It realizes the immensity of the book in a very intimate way. It’s easily a nice, compact story that’s being told onscreen. Some simple examples to illustrate : the 10-15 page monologues that Patrick will use as his praise outlet for such musical talents as Huey Lewis, Genesis and Whitney Houston have been shortened and placed over scenes - as opposed to being just bookends, stuck hither and thither. Also used to frame the story almost completely around the disappearance of a rather important executive that Bateman kills, Paul Allen (Leto); Detective Kimball’s part is seemingly enlarged (to three appearances) and, in fact, Willem DeFoe (who plays Kimball) is given second billing. All sorts of re-arrangements are done - but nothing has been added. The scenes in the film, sometimes beautifully detailed, are all lifted from the text. The unfortunate thing is the way the film collapses on itself.

Little things like leaving too much air into scenes that are meant to be taut and using amateur-ish exposition to explain things that weigh on understanding a scene that’s missing it’s counterpart (from the novel) - these things hurt the film. But it’s biggest loss is in the way the film begins to lose sight of it’s main character. As Patrick proceeds into a descent, the film begins to contradict itself by making his panic attacks seem all too much like attacks of conscience - which, judging by the whole spectrum of the film - are not what they are meant to be. There should not be a definite feeling of finality in his ridiculous voice-overs - they should be ambiguous and trail offf. They seem to - but they don’t. Since there is only voice-over dialogue in the beginning and the end of the film (which is odd for this film, which is told in the first person and craves either all or none in the voice over category), we get the sense that we’re missing the chatter that’s going on in his head. It’s as if we’ve been given a taste of it in the opening - and are expected to fill it in as we go along. I would’ve enjoyed the film more, had the voice-over been utterly rampant - like director’s commentary on a DVD - rather than the flimsy use here. Director’s are so scared to use the technique these days for fear of being criticized. In this case - for a film that needs to be told from the inside out- we feel like we’re missing something big.

But beyond it’s difficulties in being such an elementary adaptation - the film is very, very funny. Bale’s delivery never gets old and in so many scenes - it’s just downright funny to hear him talk, no matter what he’s saying. That’s not only a difficult feat, but a rewarding one for the audience. And all in all, what’s most pleasant about watching ‘American Psycho’ is the journey back into that world I enjoyed being a part when reading the book.

Never an utterly brilliant film - ‘American Psycho’ is apt and a very nice kind of sophomoric slump for Mary Harron, whose awesome ‘I Shot Andy Warhol’ demonstrated her as the kind of director that’s good at telling stories of odd people with violence in their lives. The violence in ‘American Psycho’ is cartoonish and the film is funny. Had it been 97 minutes of pure, unadulterated comedy with not a single reference to the chilling, self-depreciating nature of the book - it would have been a perfect film. As it is, ‘American Psycho’ has realized both it’s triumphs and it’s flaws - both beautifully.

As clearly as prison movies show us a world we are not directly familiar with, they also tend to run together content wise. The specifics reoccur. There's always a guy who can get you stuff, has special privileges through relationships with guards and carries an important reputation. There's always an uneasy, almost physically visible tension in the air after a murder, moments that divide the colony of inmates down the center. There are always guards that would rather associate with inmates than other guards because, like them, they know the work-a-day system exists on both sides of the law and on both sides, the effect is dampening. There are always the young bucks, the new recruits and wet behind the ears psuedo-criminals who either make or break their fragile state based on how they adapt to hardened prison life. And evidently, there is always the chance for escape that, for some, only hits them on the head after many years of watching everyday life get more and more routine until it wears a rut in their very soul.

In 'Animal Factory', most of this near cliché collection of prison movie traits applies. Earl (Willem Dafoe) is the older, more experienced prisoner who seems to have the entire staff in his pocket and roams freely about the penitentiary as if it were a closed off society, free in its own right. (I define this character with the oxymoron "free prisoner".) He takes young Ron (Edward Furlong), serving time for a drug charge, under his wing almost immediately upon meeting him. As Earl uses his seniority to protect and nurture Ron, the relationship begins to effect both of them: Earl now has a ray of hope which triggers a spark of desire to breathe free air; Ron, a chance to keep from being tortured and raped. As friendship transcends into a sort of parental order, each character begins to give freely to the other. Eventually, their relationship boils over into an escape plan.

Edward Bunker's (who peeps his head into the frame a few times) yarn is full of insider type observations - but this seems to be more intensely developed in the supporting characters and the setting rather than in constructing the main characters. The sketches of prison life include racial tension, the system's failure to comprehend the goings-on on the inside, the father-son relationship that develops out of need and the seemingly concentrated power play that goes on when humans are caged and crowded like animals. Though nearly all of 'Animal Factory's material is less than fresh in this era of motion pictures, Bunker's skill at fictionalizing Earl and Ron makes the film entirely compelling. These are characters that certainly seem to exist in a world apart from the harsh, cold realities of prison life making the idealism poured into the story through them a surprisingly welcome hallucination.

It helps that Dafoe and Furlong are so convincing together. They have a natural chemistry that speaks of father and son on the outside, but as equally misunderstood-yet-kindred hearts on the inside. The assorted cast of colorful prison inhabitants come in handy as a base for these characters to build from in their plight to stay alive, stay strong and seek a way out. Their escape comes in a beautifully realized fashion only after each has proved there is no simple way to get out through the system. So many prison films show unjustly imprisoned men (a far-fetched scheme to begin with) or a set-up that obviously caters only to staging a thrilling escape. In 'Animal Factory', like in 'Grid'lockd', we get a sense that the characters are through placing their faith in the courts, the parole hearings, the appeal trials, the lawyers and even their friends on the outside. Their need for escape is based on a realization they've come to that anything outside of their solid, fathomable prison lives has expressed no use for them - and will not be coming to pull them out eventually. This sets up an immediate irony in why they would want to escape in the first place; these two particular characters seem contented and even successful in prison. ("Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven", Earl remarks at one point.). The film vibrantly excuses this line of thinking as it challenges them with a steady flow of random, gory acts of violence that play like thunder in a storm - each Ka-boom! seems to strike closer and closer to Earl and Ron. One day down the road, probably sooner than later, death will come to them. Why should it be on the inside, where they have their pride to think about? Why should escape simply be to a new opportunity - when it could be, dare I say, a promotion to a bigger pond where even more ground exists for them to rule.

Buscemi is a good director. His film is never somber. He understands that prison is an institution that challenges all of its convicts differently. The bright, often flamboyantly alive cast (Mickey Rourke as a drag queen in particular fits this definition) shows up Philadelphia's Eastern State Penitentiary, a desolate, crumbling stone fortress that often appears to be caving in on it's own populace. Like he did in 'Trees Lounge' (his first feature), Buscemi displays great talent at understanding and portraying people whose lives often disappoint them but nevertheless, are theirs and theirs alone. To the outside world, the prisoners are seen as the derogatory "inmates", but on the inside, they are seen as "convicts". They may be locked-up, but they are still prideful; they may be herded animals, but among the masses, they are still individuals.

'Animal Factory' may have no trouble existing in widely treaded territory but at it's core, I think it is less a prison movie than a faction of cinema choosing to explore a relationship which grows out of circumstance. (Earl's reasoning for taking Ron under his wing is never really explained nor implied, it comes off as random and satisfyingly good-natured). Edward Bunker would probably disagree and argue that his story, certainly peppered with intimate touches, is something deeper and more telling than most prison movies. Buscemi knows better than this. He gives Earl's and Ron's relationship his full attention, making the film both compelling and deeply fulfilling in it's own way. It is almost fatally ironic that 'Animal Factory' is set in place most of us know little about except through the movies. Prison on celluloid has begun to feel so familiar, I often wonder if perhaps I've become somehow cinematically desensitized to prison life. In some strange way, all recent prison movies I've seen (this one included) seem to send me a message that jail ain't that bad. 'Animal Factory' just about turns this obviously wrongheaded notion around to make it work for it.

Just as maybe I suspected (and it's just disheartening to be right) 'Autumn in New York' is unsurprising, outrageous and old-fashioned - but in a bad way. Gere plays his usuall womanizing self to Ryder's mismatched "now-i'm-naive-now-i'm not" dying young girl who has become entangled in his web of - of God knows what, love, I suppose the movie wants us to swallow. It makes it very clear (after a brief opening stint with a nice, low-key autumnish texture) that it's sole purpose is to jerk tears and, uh, break the age taboos. Unfortunately everything it sets out to do is rendered nil by the remarkably bad and inappropriately off-key tone. It's as if everything were transferred from some distant, mellow place that we can't possibly imagine being affiliated with this film - and created onscreen, unfolding as we discover, "Hey! Wait a minute! This film feels more like television than actual celluloid!". The transfer doesn't take and we begin to have to think really hard : "Is this
purposefully this fucking detached or is there something I'm missing?". In the end - where familiar plotlines and characters can't drive you out of your mind - the film's expert laziness will strike you down. Little else annoys me more than hoping to be surprised and getting just what I expected : One of the worst films of the year : A cookie-cutter love story sans a pulse. Seriously, I think it's actually worse than 'Return to Me', if that's humanly possible.

The monsoon, the envoirnmental protests and the tabloids did not stick around to consummate their firm, destructive grip on ‘The Beach’. They left before their wanton devastation could break the spirits of this production. And the damn film got made. It will end up stuck in the DTS theater(s) of every multiplex and will be there for weeks. And I will have to hear the groans of everyone around me when I call this film “utterly superfluous”. Oh, here goes Ben again - he doesn’t like anything that isn’t “artsy” and “accepted”. Back off, okay. Just back off.

From the opening sequence where the philosophy-heavy narration (after the fact or continuous?) booms from the cerebrum of Richard (Leonardo DiCaprio), an American traveler in Thailand looking for something “dangerous”, I knew this was going to be laughable. How can I take seriously a film in which everything every occurence surrounding the central character is so hastily thrown together? The filmmakers want me to bite into the moral of this story by making this experience as real as possible - yet I have to suspend my disbelief with a crane. (As in : yeah - you go drink that snake’s blood - as a development of your character’s “You only live once” attitude, of course. But, of course.)

As we mosey on down to the island paradise our hero is to discover (after he picks up a pair of French travelers - Etienne, a giggly stork, spouting gallons of sterotypical French movie character dialogue and - Francoise, the female half, the counterbalance for males who aren’t into looking at DiCaprio’s pecs, played coquettishly - yeah, that’s the word, by Virginie Ledoyen), the film becomes inherantly Anti-American. The constant barrage of naive and selfish things Richard does is almost too much to bear (the least of which is create a copy of a map - then explain his reasoning, which probably didn’t even make sense to the writer - except as a plot device to shove the action along later on in the story. And yes, it’s that obvious and that blatant). This turn in the “film” seems a
blatant jab at the conduct unbecoming of Americans who travel. Since the character of Richard is written in the novel as a Brit (original idea : Ewan MacGregor, nixed for our heartthrob), making him American is technique meant to make the character more “universal” (at least that’s what Boyle told Premiere Magazine). So, I suppose universally, Americans are seen as the poster children for stupidity. I guess we deserve it.

It’s also interesting if you take a step back, from a critical standpoint, to see how much easier it is to forgive DiCaprio for being a fool - and being implausible - than nearly any other actor. Get my drift - degrading the audience by hurling such a fragile script into our focal points becomes significantly easier to get away with. Either way Boyle and Hodge intended for the final product on celluloid - they’re right. Casting Leonardo DiCaprio - I’m cliched to say - means the film will never become bold or reach fever pitch, but rather, a tameness will cast it’s spell as we know nothing bad could ever befall our anti-hero. Also, in this case, the character seems more reflexive of Leo’s persona - meaning, he’s boyish and irritating - like we all perceive Leanordo to be. It doesn’t have to be that way. DiCaprio is an apt actor (see : ‘What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?’, ‘This Boy’s Life’).

The Scottish director of great films like ‘Shallow Grave’ and ‘Trainspotting’ manages to make a film that’s even worse than ‘A Life Less Ordinary’, his gun-toting angels saga that steals from just about everybody (especially Bergman). Now that’s a feat!

Of the million things in this film that I didn’t buy or find the least bit interesting - I guess the most irritating would have to be that the film scurries so haphazardly to be both independent and intellectually inspiring at the same time and by doing so, it falls so hard into the Hollywood familiarity machine, that I can’t even enjoy the scenery without the steady interruption of “the movie” banging away at the serenity of fake palm trees and “Listerine blue” water. And beyond that, I have to wonder who’s dumb idea it was to quite shamelessly advertise iMac, Excite.com and Gameboy in a film about people who are shuffling off the coils of modern society. Finally, I’m just a little bit appalled that Richard, who is supposed to undergo this great transformation and learn so much
about himself, is so one-dimensional and spouts lines that are so souring, we can’t even salvage anything around him. He’s like that monsoon, destroying everything in it’s path until nothing is pretty anymore - except itself. ‘The Beach’ is a walking contradiction (and a reclining snore), flamboyantly exhibiting it’s abominable faults as if to say - “Whatever we do, we’ll make at our money back thanks to compulsive young teenage girls and their fat pocketbooks. We don’t even have to try.”

[original post-script, which ran in the Temple Column:

And I tried, dear readers, not to rapidly descend into a pitfall of anti-Leo sentiment - but this movie brought out the worst in me. I kept reassuring myself that this was a critical review and that it was well-written and that nobody would think I was simply some monogomous Independent film viewer who is anti-Leo, anti-’Titanic’ and anti-anything connected with Hollywood wiseass.  And I remembered that you are all judging me no matter what I do. And I remembered that I hate Kevin Smith. And I relaxed.]

Strange how the art house mentality of Christopher Guest went like lightning to his head creating some sort of creative block responsible for how tireless 'Best in Show' retreads the territory - and the jokes - he immortalized in 'Waiting for Guffmaan'. The old adage "funny is funny" firmly in place, the latest offering from Spinal Tap himself seems somewhat inappropriately bland in spots. Certainly enough exceptions exist to make 'Best in Show' heartily worthwhile - especially for Guest virgins. Eugene Levy has written an exceptional part for himself, though his wife (played marvelously by Catherine O'Hara), a former slut, is written as a repetitious joke that grows stale from its first utterance. Guest himself plays a backwoods bait shop owner on his way to the Mayflower Philadelphia dog show - ventriloquist act in tow - to show his slobbering mutt that commentator Fred Willard remarks not once but twice, as craving only the Sherlock Holmes hat and pipe to complete its cutesy dog ensemble. Parker Posey and Michael Hitchcock have a dog that is as spoiled as they, unable to perform without a stuffed toy and seemingly disturbed by its owners' snootiness and experimental sex acts (the dog is seeing a psychiatrist after a brush with Posey in the "Congress of the Cow" position). There's the awkward lesbians (Coolidge, Cummings) who have the dog who has won more than once - a poodle that looks as you'd expect the most horrifyingly ornate poodle to
look - expecting to bestow another "best in show" prize on its owners. Finally, there's Michael McKean is the straight man (no pun intended) to the inventive Jan Michael Huggins, who constantly upstages his shiatzu in the flamboyance category.

I'm not altogether sure what prompted the need for modern comedies - even one as artistically frozen as this one - to come with their own hook, their own originality and their own sense of self style. I reflected for a moment after this viewing on just how strange it was that I was disaffected by a film like this, one that I'd have gone mad over years ago. Not to short change Guest's 1997 film, but I think 'Waiting for Guffman' and 'Best in Show' are interchangeable. I'm glad the former came first because it's a more desperately arcane, yet hilariously universal comedy; but it's a sad thing when a film like this can only be called a companion piece and can only be judged by its release date. Had this come first, perhaps it would have been read as the cult sensation 'Guffman' enjoyed.
As it is, 'Best in Show' comes in at a definite second.

This began a lightning-quick dismissal : “this film is about communication, it’s a  little below average and I resent the use of that Baz Luhrmann creation about the sunscreen over the ending shots and titles”. It evolved into reflection : “remember in ‘In  the Company of Men’ how Howard was the most important character and maybe Phil  (DeVito) is the most important character. Maybe his brooding adds up to something more than just referee to the Larry (Spacey) vs. Bob (Facinelli) throat squeezing match. Maybe Phil, I thought, (aping the Grinch) means a little bit more”. And it came out a beautiful soliloquy when I realized, as my mother’s eyes were tearing over my imminent marriage, that Phil had an inside - and it was more than what we could see in even the most blatant
of his hint-dropping. And Larry’s tell was his anger, giving way to the chasm of weakness that he could only hide by being a walking contradiction, not to mention an intimidating blowhard. And dammit, Bob was the bad guy. Not because Bob liked God and couldn’t get the scriptures off of his lips and go at it productively - but because he was lying to himself. And we hate characters like that in the movies - because as an audience, we can
bloody well see right through them, can’t we?”

And truth be told, the film is a tad too talky for it’s own good. And sure, ‘The Big Kahuna’ can be a cinematic submarine, going below the surface to hear the “salesman-as-a-metaphor-for-life” pitch and promptly resurfacing to hit us with the “salesman-are-blunt-so-the-cards-are-suddenly-on-the-table” pitch; essentially alternating it’s tone to make sure it covers all it’s bases (sorta insulting - but forgivable). But what’s really wrong with it is that it’s doesn’t see how easy it’s job is : it’s there to show us characters that are deceptive. And the ace up it’s sleeve is that it’s got good characters to perform such a deed. It’s got the quiet religious do-gooder, happily married and wet behind the ears. It’s got the raging motormouth who knows every story, every line and every angle like it were a set of verbal weapons he’d memorized in order to protect his insecurities. And finally, it’s got the (maybe terminally) exhausted salesman, who just wants to spin a peaceful note if he can and wonders why won’t everyone just let him go his own way - but secretly wonders why they aren’t more worried.

Why complicate such a perfect combination with cheap devices and literary fixations? Why not just present it as it is and let it unfold over ninety minutes?

And what a cast to kick this tongue-beater into high gear. They’re all good, but as is the norm with Spacey, he easily steals the show - without chewing the scenery (see ‘Hurlyburly’, ‘Swimming with Sharks’ and even ‘American Beauty’). What a marvel. And it’s just that way he wraps his mouth around the stagey words and phrases that makes him propel that might so beautifully. DeVito is good at looking like the sad puppy dog and dispensing wisdom, while Facinelli is good at looking overzealous and listening to pearls of wisdom.

Two weeks ago, I remember overhearing these two TV critics talking to each other while I was waiting for a movie to start at the Ritz. I had no idea what film they were discussing, but the guy was going to recommend it only if you were a fan of “acting” and the girl was changing “the end is powerful” to “the end is moving”.

And now it dawns on me that they could only be talking about ‘The Big Kahuna’. The end is bittersweet and the sunscreen song isn’t that out-of-place, it sets the mood nicely for that mystifying walk to the car when your sorting through the themes you just digested. It’s not moving. The acting is great, but it’s also a really well-written screenplay based on, I’m sure, a fantastic play. It’s not all the genius of pseudo-Mamet material - but
it goes deeper than that. It’s a bungled attempt at tackling the faded male ego. It’s not comparable to ‘Death of a Salesman’. Not by a long shot. But it’s noble.

Big Momma's House
Starring: Starring : Martin Lawrence, Paul Giamatti and Nia Long.
grade: D-

Martin Lawrence, essentially re-making ‘Blue Streak’ - a film I’d describe with the word  brain dead - doesn’t earn such a lofty compliment with the entirely uninspired ‘Big Momma’s House’. Both films follow the exploits of tiny, unfunny Martin Lawrence in cognito, with the most banal of set-ups, attempting to squeeze jokes out of every corner - and failing miserably.

What makes 'Big Momma's House' particularly pungent (besides Giamatti's streak of appearing in good films - which he breaks here), is the thirty minute first act that builds invisible ploy upon translucent plot point in order to complete its objective : Get Lawrence in the foam rubber Momma suit. Once he gets in there, the movie only seems more funny. The unfortunate thing is that the real Big Momma is kinda interesting - but she leaves in an early scene and ddoesn't return until the end of the movie. Point made, right? If Martin Lawrence's Big Momma can't be more funny than the actual Big Momma - who isn't all that funny, but occasionally does something witty - do we even have a movie? No, we don't. We have an egotist who needs to go back to stand-up - or the crack he
crawled out of.

What makes ‘Nutty Professor II : The Klumps’, a film which features skinny, dwindling comic Eddie Murphy inside a series of large, fat person (several of which are female) suits, somewhat inspired, is that the jokes are, for the most part, on. Nevermind that the sequel to the very, very funny (often not at the expense of itself) ‘The Nutty Professor’ is a lot less funny and a lot more retread than anything else; it still beats ‘Big Momma’s
House’ in any laugh-a-thon you could enter it in, with its hands tied behind its back. Seeing Murphy as the Klumps, the way he wraps his voices around their mumbly, grumpy, always hungry personas is - at the very least - a cheap laugh. Lawrence doesn’t even afford us that. His Big Momma rarely does anything remotely funny. It took so much set-up to get Lawrence, an undercover FBI agent, into the fat suit - once he’s there, the dynamite is
wet - everything seems muted. Not that the script was well-built to begin with - the jokes could appear in three or four minutes of any film and have the same level of comedic power. Lawrence, as always, is content to elongate a short, sketch-worthy gag into just under ninety minutes. He would’ve worked well on Saturday Night Live.

'Nutty Professor II : The Klumps' has its problems, too. Most of the film isn't really all that entertaining, the characters doing the same thing over and over and over. Great scenes often include Murphy as the oldest Klump, the grandmother - being overtly bawdy and unnecessarily sexual. Even this gets rather old after awhile.

What I like about the film, in particular, is that there still remains a well-directed, exceedingly fascinating scene where Murphy plays all of his relatives at a dinner table - and manages to hit high notes with each one. He interacts so well with himself, proving he has these characters down, that I figured a film whose subtitle was 'The Klumps' would have more scenes of the whole family duking it out - and just plain razzing each other. The film is dry - and Sherman has become far too sympathetic in this installment which, itself is a little light on story continuity and plausibility (and certainly too labored in a sequence lampooning 'Star Wars', '2001 : A Space Odyssey' and 'Armageddon' that is a miserable failure). 'The Nutty Professor II : The Klumps' turns out to be some strange concoction of Howard Hawks formula of "three great scenes and no bad scenes" that turns out to be one really good scene that's an extended version of one from the first film - and a ton of flat, really off-key "story" scenes. This is a film that could've benefited wonderfully from indulgence. That's rare. And kinda scary.

On the other hand - how many movies can you see comedian Larry Miller get raped by a hamster only to say : "Look Mommy, there's the hamster's bitch!".

Q: Ben, what would happen if someone melded the two predominant stylistic genres England seems preoccupied with selling to us Yanks in the film market; that is, the "mad-till-you're-red-in-the-face" films (borrowed from Ireland) and the "britcoms" (the result of 'The Full Monty's popularity)?

A: See above title of film.

.....because without stabilizing it's main character amidst a setting of a 1980's Thatcheresque coal strike, we never even have the notion to feel for Billy's (Bell) newfound search and destroy mission for an identity. Seems every character in the movie that's not Billy Elliot is entertaining, ranging from his instructor (Walters), her daughter, his overbearing father, his Union obsessed brother, his gay friend, the guy who runs the boxing club, some of the extras in the bottom left hand of the frame - it goes on and on. Some inspired moments which embody the phrase "parts greater than the whole" include an opening shot of Billy jumping in and out of the frame to T-Rex and an extremely gratifying (but not deserved) closing act in which his father (Lewis) and brother acknowledge his gift, cry and gush all over the place. On second thought, replace "gratifying" with "outwardly manipulative". And
to a certain reviewer who called Jamie Bell's performance "electric" - shame on you - he dances and then stammers, saying "I dunno" in a monotone that made my ears pop and my tongue droop back into my throat.

If only Great Britain could produce a film it doesn't intend to hoodwink us into baring our emotions.

'Black and White’ has one scene in particular, among others, that makes it’s purpose worth putting on a pedestal. Mike Tyson (yes, that’s right) is staring out of the window, having "a moment" and Robert Downey, Jr. approaches him and begins flirting with him. After repeatedly trying to get Downey, Jr. to leave him alone, Tyson snaps into a rage. Then, as a condolence prize, Downey Jr.’s wife-for-show (a documentary filmmaker played by Brooke Shields), steps up and attempts to cool Tyson down by - doing exactly what Downey, Jr. was doiing - flirting with him. And Tyson - who stood his ground and repelled her earlier (as he cites his rape charge - seemingly fearful of women) - accepts her flirtation with the willingness and excitement of real attraction. It’s a
pivotal scene - and Tyson really is a pivotal character in ‘Black and White’. Sure, he just wanted to be alone and contemplate himself, but get him fired up - and he’ll turn on a dime. As human nature goes, Tyson only is what he is - all he can do is mask his exterior. As the film progresses, we see Tyson the romantic, Tyson the philosopher and Tyson the rage-filled little boy. All personas come out to play. And yet, we all see Tyson simply as the guy who did two years in prison for rape and the guy who bit off the ear of another fighter.

And it’s this very misconception that is played up to full volume in Toback’s film which, though admittably flawed,  observes and satirizes a culture swap that’s been begging to be exploited for years - namely : white disdain for white herittage and Caucasian thrill with black culture.

James Toback, who made the dreadful ‘Two Girls and a Guy’ two years ago, redeems himself in his writing. The direction, though it pulls some really nice themes and images from it’s characters, is unrestrained. The film can either be a hypnotic parody or a melodrama charged with excess. Frequently it is both. Since I know Toback’s style and method - which seem to cull constant go-nowhere yammering - I was less turned off by his process and it’s results. What I found somewhat irritating was the way he excises all realism and tirelessly tries to hide it behind the satire. Rather than take the up-front route, where the film is clearly a piece of entertainment - and a sly dig at the nuances of youth and it’s obsession with cross-culture identity - Toback slaps too much depth and
importance on a story involving Ben Stiller as a weasel of a cop using Dean (Allan Houston), a basketball player, as a scapegoat for Stiller’s own crimes (and making himself out to be Saul from the bible - ha!).

My interest (and the film’s asset) involves some very familiar white kids (Elijah Wood, Bijou Phillips, Gaby Hoffman, Kim Matulova and Scott Caan) being trailed by Shields, wielding her camera, as she desperately tries to infiltrate them in order to get underneath their culture. Turns out it’s a rebellious phase for most of them - and that as dangerous as it was - it boiled down to a bunch of white kids proud to be called the  homies of some gangsters.

The film opens with a shot of three young kids stumbling upon a mixed race threesome in progress in Central Park. The scenes where the white kids (listed above) are walking through New York City, explaining the mesh of their lifestyle to Shields - though not as literal as the opening menage-a-trois - are just as candid and intriguing. I can see exactly what Toback is doing with the rest of the film’s space - and I understand it’s relevance - but the focal point needs to rest on one of the protagonists, one of the plot’s strands. When it doesn’t - though I was enjoying the loose flowing narrative and the nice tone to each of the observations and explanations - the film ends up being little more than unfocused and incomplete.

There’s some great jump-cut editing at work here - and all the scenes that use parallel action benefit highly from it. Sometimes scenes feel choreographed, sometimes they seem improvised - sometimes there are pretentious crane shots - other times some nifty hand-held work or crafty framing (like the scene where Stiller first approaches Houston to ask him to shave points - he looks about a body shorter). The film has a whole lot of elements at work, but most of all it’s a jumping off point.

There’s so much material here - to wade through it all and draw conclusions seems impossible. There are some nice themes at work involving intimidation, cultural inspiration and the beautifully tailored presence of Mike Tyson as a symbol for the strange part role models play in our society. On other end - all the characters end up in a fairly straightforward confrontation with their consciences and become involved in that "moral decision making time" montage as the film descends into a gangster’s melodrama right quick.

The film might have made a better series on PBS - a set of docu-dramas exploring all the nooks and crannies of hip hop culture and it’s connection to black culture (and the very arrogance of white culture). All the film radiates is one slithery grub in the absolutely necessary and interesting can of worms it has opened.

All the teensters telling me they saw this and "It wasn't half bad" and it's "Independent". They're coming up to me in droves. People on whose opinion I can rarely rest more than a feather upon. Folks with nothing much at stake when they embrace their own perceptions. People who think it's time to budge and just find some fucking underdog to champion.

        No.

'Boiler Room', despite it's excessive big-ball dangling (and it's got a pair, believe me), can't seem to make it's half-baked excess of morality plays, gambling parallels and class warfare ascend into the air. No wonder - - it's got those huge balls to contend with. For a film that starts out promising,  it bites deeply into that irritating old standard of "Start-the-movie-here-BACKTRACK-continue-and-finish-uneventfully". I remember it being done in
'Fight Club' with zazz, ping and flying colors. In 'Boiler Room', it seems such an obvious attempt to strangle we, the audience, with another narrative ploy cooked up by a director whose ambition was well-intentioned, but whose staging was frequently flat. This is a film that, though it's entertaing and well-acted (even Affleck handles his 'Glengarry Glen Ross'" speeches with some verve), can't seem to put away the imminent mess of a conclusion and just dangle for awhile. The pendulum is always swinging over our heads (a little too close when it mixes signals and juggles romance, fatherly disappointment, loyalty, interior moral warfare and looking cool, all at the same time - and drops the balls).

Now that I've said my peace, there are some moments in 'Boiler Room' that work well enough to earn the film my ear. Ribisi point blank holds the movie. Those who said he was the actor to watch were right, he's a capable and likeable protagonist. Nicky Katt, too; especially his explanation of how the market works (before he becomes embittered and jealous and, fearful of audience rejection, Younger buries the character) Katt echoes Michael Douglas's Gordon Gecko (of 'Wall Street', which the characters watch and speak the lines from at one point) better than any of his co-actors, all good: Vin Diesel ('The Iron Giant' voice) booms his wealth smoothly, Nia Long
protrudes her silky balance and Thomas Everett Scott tackles the brokerage as if Hitler, atop a stage in Nuremburg. It's really the acting and occasionally interesting script that saves the film from being utterly bone dry.

Those I've decided not to name, but have seen the film and wear it's praises high on their lips had it wrong. The film isn't an independent film or some sort of cutting edge innovation. 'Boiler Room' is what it is.

Believe me, that C is as close as a film like this one is likely to get to an A. As much as a contrived, hopelessly convenient and wishy washy film like this can, it is sorta charming. And maybe in the wake of too dark ('Here on Earth') and too dumb ('Down to You'); its refreshing to see a conservative, almost entirely talky teen beat flick. Sure, all they're talking about isn't fresh or interesting, but its the structural design - the idea that, not only is this a film about attractive people being friends instead of screwing their brains out, but its not all that concerned with covering its bases. Often very, very slow, 'Boys and Girls' is the kind of teenage movie (yeah, I keep saying that, it takes place in college) that teenagers deserve: maybe not smart, but just nearly rooted in the fantasy these movies should take a long, hard swig of. Claire Forlani and Freddie Prinze, Jr. (who, for once, embarrasses himself less) have some chemistry and, well, even Jason Biggs, who is a completely unnecessary character, eventually comes around to be somewhat interesting. I'll go on and on and eventually get to my disdain that 'Boys and Girls' is set at Berkeley, exactly where 'The Graduate' immortalized itself; but my final point is perhaps the one you should take with you: if you must watch a teenie bopper flick, watch this one - being uneventful and less syrupy is its biggest asset.

John Waters in the nineties (or oughts in this case). Lighter, less raunchy than the Waters of the seventies and eighties.  His films have become little more than the proper injection of kitsch into an otherwise drained market. Does Waters view this exercise in camp as his duty? Certainly. Falling short in an obvious and ironic way, 'Cecil B. Demented' (a former Waters nickname, in fact), follows the title character, played by Stephen Dorff,  on a vicious tirade against bad cinema (like 'Patch Adams : The Director's Cut') - by making a renegade film, complete with a kidnapped leading actress (Griffith, perfect in a movie this silly). The rub is that if such a character were to exist, he would most certainly be howling for John Waters' blood. Not because 'Cecil B. Demented' is "bad
cinema" according to Cecil, but because Waters is so damn tame compared to his former self. Cecil would probably decapitate Waters' entire fan club on the grounds that they'd sold out. Put em' out of their misery.

Yeah, the film has some laughs and sure, the first couple of times Cecil & his gang of ruffians (a colorful bunch of stereotypes bearing tattoos coinciding with their tasks on Cecil's set) attack unsuspecting filmgoers committing cinema crimes, it is satisfying - but 'Cecil B. Demented' quickly devolves into a solid joke fired upon the audience until tolerance numbness ensues.

It's hard even to think of the film as a shame. Waters pours none of the pop goofiness into 'Cecil B. Demented' that made 'Serial Mom' and 'Pecker' watchable. Instead, he drowns the audience's projected fun in toxic levels of the mean spirited and sometimes blurry message he's trying to purport. When I think of Waters thin mustache and his intelligent, comic banter - especially his past riffs on some of America's worst fears - I gotta wonder why he'd pick now to geet, uh, bitter. How sad.

Here is a real, self-contained world, helplessly drained of vitality; filling in place of  interest is a gallery of used-up character sketches and half-cooked narrative undertones. A nice epiphany hinted towards late in the film could easily have done justice to the ripples child abuse transposes into waves of pure nihilism, but is brushed away in favor of some strange repeating scenario of sadistic euthanasia. Lopez, Vaughn and especially D'Onfrio (can we get this guy a different role, please?) are all lost in the vast psychotropic visuals Tarsem Singh has no doubt labored hours to make properly symbolic. The sad fact is that they are often a host for his cynical inclusion of unpleasantness for unpleasantness’ sake.

As was my hurriedly disappointed opinion on the leaking balloon that was 'A Bug's Life' in the shadow of it's predecessor 'Toy Story'; so follows 'Chicken Run', a film of varied competence, if occasionally dull and ordinary in the shadow of it's own old man, namely, 'Wallace and Gromit'. (Admittably both metaphors are apples to oranges, especially this most recent comparison. It's hard to imagine any film living up to the creative/innovative first in the dabblement of a brave new art form....even if claymation isn't really new at all).

What really shows in 'Chicken Run' is the painstaking effort to cover the seams in translating British humor into a ridged American script without losing it's appeal (hence, the accents remain and the plot revolves around the "outsider" aka "the American"). And, for the most part, the sweat of talent and genius shimmers all around those little clay-pot figurines. Their voices and jokes are all sweet. The characters they stand for are likable. The villains are nasty and spell a wicked and obtrusively beaming message out in big letters across the screen : "Animals have feelings, too" (I like how you can still get a Burger King Kid's Club Meal with chicken nuggets and a 'Chicken Run' toy. The half-assed attempt to cover-up an obvious contradiction? The nuggets are shaped like the
airplane the chickens build in the film.)

Maybe the toughest hurdle 'Chicken Run' rockets over is being workable and complete as a feature in the hands of a short-film maker. Imagining 'Wallace and Gromit', who are truly wondrous characters, stretched thin as taffy into feature length characters, is beyond comprehension. The funny thing was, in those shorts, I could feel more development and push than in all of 'Chicken Run''s ninety minutes. This isn't a constant "one-is-better-than-the-other", but it serves my point that 'Chicken Run' feels slightly labored as a feature - - and could easily have roused brilliance as a short. On the other hand, it tries so hard and so nearly succeeds that I almost want to forgive and forget and drool for the next Park/Lord feature - - in hopes that it will have improved upon it's weak points.

To wit : 'Chicken Run' is a commercial film. I like the idea that it's strives for artsiness and still has a merchandising campaign. It was like 'Toy Story 2'.

Kudos to all voice talents as well - - who, whether deliberate or not, lent their screen personas each, to a dangerously cool twist on modern cartoon characters. Particularly Mel Gibson, the all-American, all rich and powerful Catholic father voices a swingin' playboy circus chicken (against type) who inspires his fellow hens to their (echoing 'Braveheart') "freedom" by exuding his Gibson charm in this scalawag of a character.

It's really very sad how the overtly - often unconscionably - ambitious 'The Contender' says in suchh a flat and unfinished manner everything it has say (which amounts to, "Sexism is wrong. Leaders shouldn't throw mud. Politics is about the people, not the press. Blah, blah, blah"). It's like 'Any Given Sunday' if it were shorter and about politics, instead of football. The main point to be made in 'The Contender' is that "basic fairness" should be both universal and, in fact, more widely appreciated among our Washington area leaders (not that its naming any names with countless references - both stated and unstated - about Clinton). That the film is willing to compulsively ignore (and fumble a gold mine ending - stay with me to the spoiler alert) a more controlled, focused
method to its madness is all the more limiting. It's got the unstable documentary feel of 'West Wing' lurching into the grandstanding manipulation of 'Braveheart'. It's a quiet film ominously lurking inside of a loud, boisterous finger pointing epic.

It's hard for writer-director Rod Lurie to imagine a smooth, quieted presidential arena. In his first film, 'Deterrence', released earlier this year, he pitted the President (trapped inside of a snowed-in diner) against a nuclear arms crisis. In 'The Contender', his president Jackson Evans (Bridges) has chosen female Senator Laine Hanson (Allen) to fill in for his deceased VP. Her opposition in attaining such a rank is moral majority leader Sheldon Runyon (executive producer Oldman), whose support of Senator Hathaway (Petersen) has him playing dirty pool in order to strike down Mrs. Hanson's character: he plays on the tabloid mentality of America by dredging up a
drunken orgy she was allegedly the center of in her college days. Meanwhile, she refuses to acknowledge the accusations because "...its not okay for them to be made". And somewhere in there, Christian Slater is fumbling about - sharing shark steak sandwiches with the president and comparing definitions of "objectivity" with Runyon - all the while being coddled by both sides because, well, they remind him of what they were like at his age. In essence, Lurie has no trouble brewing controversy out in left field with the opponents playing a chess game with a whole menagerie of implausibly welded elements (a dead VP, a deeply specific drunken orgy, a female VP, etc.); but he would like to believe that people in power in Washington, D.C. would take someone under their
wing so fondly, just because they are the mirror image of sed leaders in their youth? What a contradictory delusion!

To it's credit, all but one of the actors are astonishing. Joan Allen is consistently one of the best actresses in the business today and gives a performance worthy of any of her former work (particularly that of Pat Nixon in 'Nixon', a very different end of the spectrum as far as characters go). Especially nice to see Gary Oldman at it again, adding another naturalistic baddie to his already overstuffed gallery of malevolent swine. The thrill of watching him play these characters never fades and 'The Contender' proves no exception. Sam Elliot, Christian Slater and Saul Rubinek are all as good as they usually are, also going with the flow of Allen and Oldman and providing, more or less, riffs on their usual turns. As President Evans, though, Bridges is thoroughly disappointing. It's still shocking to me how he continually plays roles where he should have at least half a pulse and walks through them as if stoned. Q: It worked in 'The Big Lebowski, though, right? A: Yup. Because he
was stoned.

And on to the famous spoiler alert (stop reading if you care to preserve the element of, uh, surprise). Why in the name of all that is holy does Lurie force us to sit through that final chat between President Evans and Senator Hanson where she tells all and all turns out to be nothing. By making the incident in question something that never really happened, sure, Lurie gives birth to a line of thinking that says "If it's an accusation thrown into the press, it doesn't matter if it's real" (and to show how one should react, he gives Hanson the stickler's position that doesn't move based on preservation of privacy). Fine. Then why in the hell give the movie a happy ending?! As in 'Deterrence', which had a really snappy, disturbing "happy" ending - Lurie seems to want to give us a
taste of pessimism, but instead, he gives President Evans a chance in a corn ball, 'Mr. Smith Goes to Washinton'-esque speech to single out Oldman (and his co-conspirators) as those responsible;
concluding things on a patriotic note and forever vindicating himself and Mrs. Hanson. Isn't that tying the strings up a little too ideologically? Are we really meant to believe that this speech alone, since it's powered by "greatness" (a word tossed about a little too haphazardly), will change everything from its mixed-up confusion "Senator Hanson was involved in an orgy" to "Senator Hanson is a woman with hard-core beliefs and should be made VP - and we'll prove against all odds that it's not because she's a woman!" It all sounds like Jeff Bridges' lame brain performance: a little half baked.

I think a booming answer to a not-so-age-old question lies in the dilapidated ruins of a failed  attempt at feather exploitation (an oxymoron, you'd assume) called 'Coyote Ugly' (a dumbass title with an even more dumbass explanation, you'd assume). Yeah, on one level, I was embarrassed to be watching a sequence where John Goodman stumbles into a bar and sees his daughter dancing the risque, vertical mambo with a pitcher of water down her shirt upon sed bar (Paul Schrader's 'Hardcore', it ain't). This isn't even softcore. Before I venture into ethical battleground, let me ponder on why the producers would throw away a rather obvious chance to show off young women in the buff and collect the greenbacks by the millions. As the story of a budding songwriter who moves to the most cliche-ridden bad neighborhood in all of New York, we see the echoes of Christina
Aguilera and Brittany Spears in this character's plight to make money, stay true to herself and, you know, dance half-naked where people are supposed to be consuming beverages. (Then it hits you - those pop stars I've named have only just turned 18! They couldn've have been doing such things! They were in grade school! Or were they?)'Coyote Ugly' is a tease-a-minute example of just how low the bar has fallen in the fledgling remains of where sexuality and pop music have begun erasing the dividing line betwixt themselves. And nicely, it lowers the bar in the cinema world as well; instead of examining the reverance of youth, innocence and their bodies, the screenwriters have sold their souls to Bruckheimer & Co., who jack up the tunes in this, their most hollowed out and viscerally  bad money-making scheme yet. Playing the lead is Piper Perabo - the worst new actress since
Natasha Gregson Wagner. The insecurity and wifty line readings (the dialogue itself is claws on a damn chalkboard) of Miss Perabo (don't miss her equally flat performance in 'The Adventures of Rocky & Bullwinkle', itself a head-scratcher) stand among a series of dopey, uninteresting events that lead to her big conflict: Stage fright. Oh, the irony! Somebody get me a bucket! While it tackles the lofty themes of accepting the impossible on your own terms ('M : I - 2' covered that for me, thank you very much) it slowly morphs into that mid-80's love story mixed with triumph mixed with goopy girl bonding mixed with God knows what (a scene where turnpike worker Goodman asks his  fellow turnpike greasers to light up the station for his little girl could easily be gut wrenching if it were to take place on the WB - in this film, though it pretty much goes with the flow, it is wholly gut churning).

Two friends of mine, smitten with the idea that a bar brings the love together and warms the loins, told me of their just-hatched plan to open a bar upon completion of financial wealth and, well, whatever else they needed to do before they committed that bar. I could see right away what had happened. Filling in gaping chasm the movie had left in their souls, they wished to account for those two hours of their lives by giving something back to the world. When I graciously told them I  had understood and that I wish I could've given back something myself, as I felt robbed myself, they just shot puzzled glances towards my headstrong countenance. When I finally realized they had actually liked this clunking, sunken log of a film, it was hours later and they had both gone; probably
each realizing that my catatonic state could never be explained and longing to see the film again, they should return for another viewing. I was glad they had gone. "Open your bar", I said to no one. "I'm not drinking there".

Imagine the concept of an "Audience Award". Essentially, it seems to be the summation of how well received a film is, how much of a crowd pleaser it turns out to be. Merit pending, this award is reserved for the entertaining ones - the films you take with you because you had a good time, not necessarily because of intellectual prowess. (The strange irony is that most recepients of this award tend to be quite intelligent as well, which is further proof that a real "entertainment" needs a brain as well as a hook). 'Couching Tiger, Hidden Dragon', which won the aformentioned award at the Toronto Film Festival this year, embodies the high essence of this prestigious prize. Like 'Princess Mononoke' last year, I expect to see titles like  'Star Wars' and 'Raiders of the Lost Ark' being
mentioned in spades as the reviews pour in. This is the kind of film that engages every inch of your being, thrusting you into another world and allowing you to stagger back into reality later as if you were in an amnesia-induced trance. This is is the kind of film that heightens the jolt of slowness real life can present once we've turned off our cinematic lobes. This is the kind of film we watch with a smile, having a wonderfully child-like thrill at the hands of master filmmakers who too remember a time when skilled films of that sort were more prevalent.

Taking place hundreds of years ago, thousands - it is never clear - 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon' concerns the plight of two love-starved warriors. Li Mu Bai (Chow Yun Fat), the saddened, interior warrior who turns in his sword after meditating himself into a quiet place among the regrets of his years of training at the Wudan school of martial arts. There is also Yu Shu Lien (Michelle Yeoh), a master fighter who also seems to share the lovelorn sense of isolation among the remains of her lifelong dedication and defiance of cultural traditions such as marriage and children. As they long for each other, a disciple (Ziyi) of the dreaded Jade Fox (of whom Lien and Bai owe a debt of vengeance from former murders) returns to the Governor's compound, stealing a sacred
sword and barely escaping through the fingers of Yu Shu Lien. The quest begins as your standard saber retrieval/villain demolition, but gives rise to plot strands left and right as the story blossoms like a tree, branches outstretched to reveal many, many characterizations.

All brilliant fight scenes aside, the film is most alive because of how free it feels while telling a story. The film seems to have great fun handing us new characters and new plotlines to interweave into the main theme. The Asian storytelling method jolts us awake with a blend of ancient legend and here-and-now superhero jive. Characters fly, soar, bounce and fight with incredible ease and heart-stopping speed. Everyone in the film looks to be having a grand old time playing likeable, vibrant heroes - (especially Michelle Yeoh and Chow Yun Fat, whose performances deserve recognition on general principle).

The balletic nature of the hand-to-hand combat which ensues constantly in the film is something of a charm. The first time these characters start shooting their fists of fury and feet of fire at each other, top speed in tow, I sat upright with awe. The wonderful way the story keeps throwing curveballs, short cuts and roundabout narrative edges synthesizes with the careful concentration choreographer Yeun Wo Ping pays to making the action look dazzlingly new and exciting. The result is a film that appears never to have anything beyond entertainment on its mind until we catch out breath and see just how literary and universal the many roles and narrative offshoots have become.

The film looks magnificent. Peter Pau's cinematography flawlessly captures some of the hidden places of the earth: a barren desert (echoing the Westerns of John Ford), swaying trees of a dreamy watercolor green, the bustle of Peking and finally, the creme de la creme, a magnificent palace with a thousand steps leading up to a mile-wide overlook sampling both clouds and waterfalls in it's gaze. The music (by Tan Dun), which complements 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon' nicely (here's where a lesser film would've digressed into the traditional sub-par elements of a martial arts film), is rapid drums and sweeping Cello solos performed by Yo-Yo Ma. The look and sound of  the film careens into our consciousness with the power of a piercing blow and the serenity of a silent mist. It's what Takeshi Kitano films ('Sonatine', 'Fireworks', 'Kikujiro') would be if they had subtlety and transition.

And a final note about its popularity. This film is being marketed to the action crowd as well as the art-house crowd. Beyond these simple, ridged parameters, this is a film that deserves to hit the mark and be seen by more than just those who have the map to the remote avante garde theaters. This is a film for populus rex, ye who stop at the movie palaces we call multiplexes every weekend with distraction on your minds. But it will take work. Everyone will have to participate in destroying the American mindset that dictates an anti-subtitle sentiment (as director Ang Lee said, "Doing a martial-arts movie in English would be like John Wayne speaking Chinese in a Western".)