I can picture the ribald conversation Mike Hodges had with his friends several years ago : "Guys, you know what - I love the guy, but Kubrick really did far too little with the bassy voice-over in A Clockwork Orange" (can you imagine a statement so ludicrous?), "Perhaps I should lift it and use it for my own purposes. Whatever story is popular these days - we'll just apply it to that. I'd really like to see more of that badass voice-over, wouldn't you?" And believe it or not, as sickly as that type of thinking is - Croupier, besides being a surprise hit with audiences and critics, is a really sly and dark little film. Even though it's an independent feature released by a fledgling company supported by the likes of both Billy Bob Thornton and Monica Lewinsky (which should obviously have swelled it's existence quite a bit), it's still nothing more than a very small, sometimes gimmicky addition to the tally of films released this year. It's magnetic - at times contrived - constantly both surprising and disappointing at the same time. At crunch time, what it really came down to was whether or not I could handle the idea of a film about a man addicted to his job, constantly weighing the odds of everyday occurence, leading a double life and most of all, a man as cool as our main character. As things go, I could take most of it in stride. Dark, for the most part, this film is decidedly of the British self-satisfaction brand of filmmaking (reminding us curiously of Trainspotting). And for all it's pompous delivery, Croupier is extremely effective at making we, the audience, into a bunch of people betting on ourselves. In essence, as it's transforming me (like a drug - you know how much I dig this) into this cold, calculating guy; it's buying our appreciation of it. It's an apparition some of the time, but it's willingly showing us one thing and creating another. I think that it's important to note this - Croupier is a magic trick : it's full of it's own b.s. It's a paper tiger. This is a film about a gambler who swears he's not a gambler, and it's gambling with it's more familiar tactics for the greater good to show us that it's not a gambler at all, it's just willing to do what it can to showcase what it knows it has : a beautifully written character and plenty of corridors for him to stick his nose into. That's smart, in a dumb sorta way. The best reason for anyone to see Croupier is Clive Owen's chillingly assured performance as Jack, a croupier whose job seems to be his life and vice versa. As new character after new character is introduced, we yearn for more action in the casino. Jack's dealing is dead-on while nearly everyone he comes into contact with is either weak on interest or spelling in plain letters their motive. All the allusions we could deduce the filmmakers would make about Jack's career do weigh the film down a bit. I love the idea that, like Hard Eight, a film could be about someone who goes to a carefree job in a casino while lives are made and broken left and right - - - Croupier often comes down with that very potent formula on it's side. It's the times when it burns up it's own fuel doing the
calculations that seem to rob us of truly savoring the final product.

Cyberworld 3-D is a composium of digital themed vignettes, some former digital creations made three-dimensional (the dance scene from Antz and 'Homer³' from the Simpsons Halloween episode where Homer goes into the third dimension), others wild-eyed fantasy set pieces anchored with music and snap out visual shocks and pleasures. The unfortunate thing holding a visionary collection like this down is a rather stale presentation - as many of the IMAX films are guilty oof - that treats the viewers far below their intelligence level, setting the bar as if we were all open-mouthed (which we were) children, experiencing this 'cinema of attractions' for the first time.  I'm usually taken either way, whether I'm patronized because I chose to peek into a not yet stable cinematic experiment - or not. The visuals, as the producers know, are more than enough to hold an audience's undivided attention. This one is set inside a computer, making the various episodes into programs Phig, the host (voiced by Jenna Elfman) opens to our waiting eyes. More invigorating, but perhaps not as sound as Fantasia 2000, the other IMAX presentation I had the fortune to see this year, Cyberworld 3-D, as the credits point out, was culled from a variety of sources - which excited me. While I (and my daughter - take your kids, people) was digging thhe excitement of the whole ordeal, I couldn't help thinking that it felt like a compilation of so many dedicated artists of the computer age. How nice to be rewarded with the knowledge that I was right. Nice to include many consciousness' in this strange and wondrous new world. Though hardly a new stitch (just once, I'd like to admire something beyond the eye popping technique - say, the plot?) in this magnificent technology - Cyberworld 3-D takes new steps in visualizing the beauty we can tap in this celluloid reserve. It's especially telling that we are shown exactly how the IMAX system works - and then it soars right into our frontal lobes, making us forget there was even a system to begin with. If we can take that triumph deep into the world of narrative film - we can begin to register movies as potent narcotics with the DEA and open detox centers for flick junkies. Oh, how long will you make us wait, oh cinema Lord?

Not as profound as perhaps it should be, given that its thematic moodiness weighs a ton and a half, Dancer in the Dark survives and in fact, thrives brilliantly based upon director Lars Von Trier's now patent able verite, shaki-cam cinematography and subsequently top drawer improvisational direction (my personal nominee for 'Best Director of the year' at this point). Now Trier has tackled two films of deeply disturbing and outstanding circumstances where strong women overcome men - some of help, some of hinder - in their ability to hide their handicaap under a lovable mask of innocent and soaring spirit. This film is not nearly the life affirming experience Breaking the Waves is (probably because for all the hooks in this film, it would be tough to top such a visceral and vibrantly told love story). Dancer in the Dark is quite engaging and often, an honest and brilliant reflection on the healing powers of musical fantasy. The mixture of martyrdom and musical is often revoltingly exciting entertainment. Bjork is the key to a transcendent, experimental introduction of musical interludes among extremely dark and draining occurrences. It becomes electric to witness the staging of elaborate, digitally shot singing and dancing set pieces which seamlessly bridge Selma's gap between fantasy, reality and nothing at all. Though she doesn't fit the profile of Martyr to a T - she's more of a victim of circumstancee - Trier is content to at least envision (if all but create) her as one. She's got that Joan of Arc gaze, but its because she's blind, not because she hears voices. In a way, this deception is fitting for a story as melodramatic as this one. The script pours on emotional extremes that we dare don't question. Strange then, that a film this expertly crafted would make such key mistakes as prematurely - and, in fact, without transition - vissually impairing Selma. In one scene she can see enough to do this, that and the other thing and then "Slam-bang!", she's wrecking machines and following the train tracks home, feeling everything out the whole way there. Then there's the scene late in the film where Trier, for whatever reason, decides to test the audience by making Selma selfish on a key point. He's skilled enough at resetting the wounded moment and completing the film on a powerful note - but why test us at all, I wondered? Why take an obviously sympathetic and well constructed character and leave her dancing a forced darkness that has nothing to do with blindness - either literal or figurative. The perfformances are especially strong. Stormare, Morse, Deneuve, Seymour and Fallon all react appropriately to Trier's style. Morse especially, after years of being the stock bad guy, he gets to play this living, breathing demon, a character so full of self-inflicted wounds, he can't help but to hurt others. Stormare imagines a wonderfully low-key stylization - that almost broke my heart - of the pathetic lout who has fallen hopelessly in love with Selma. These characters are all so real and so alive, you'll wonder how you're going to get along without them as you leave their world (a melodramatic thought for a melodramatic film). Trier even has Selma well in mind when he starts the movie in a gently changing paint show (meant to evoke the blurring effect of going blind) and gradually weaves that image inside of Selma with the help of Bjork's ecstatically passionate showing (my personal nominee for 'Best Actress of the year' at this point). Dancer in the Dark is lacking, but it's also great entertainment (which it apes from the musicals) and a great tragic epic (which it apes from - where else? - Trier); hard to knock out of your general recall, but is almost too light to be the film you champion among your film cronies for months.

There's a double-edged sword flinging about the world of Deterrence. Writer-Director (and former film critic) Lurie wants Political-Thriller-Update-Of-Bush-VS-Hussein-and-Fail-Safe-Too mechanics. He wants it by any means necessary. This, on the good side, means he's willing to write a screenplay brimming with intelligent dialogue and direct it as if it were shades below Mamet if he were directing His Girl Friday. He's hired Kevin Pollack, who more than lives up to the challenge of carrying the film; Timothy Hutton - how long were we to wait before he played a pushy Presidential advisor, I'd like to know?; and Sheryl Lee Ralph, enacting the balanced peace loving position with the charisma and vigor of a good Angela Bassett performance. He's concocted a plot that's disturbing, fascinating and a little bit clever, too. And Lurie even plans to follow this film with The Contender, in which attorney Gary Oldman plans to unravel Senator Joan Allen's blurry sexual past (I was thinking at the end of Deterrence about just what kind of magic would occur if Lurie were to be directing proven, searingly brilliant actors - the Gods smile). The other edge of the sword, unfortunately, has an all too shallow and wretched appearance. Lurie has chose to include the kind oversimplified emotional reaction (a husband and wife who just happen to be playing chess in a diner while their son is at home in a nuclear targeted New York) that movies like Fail-Safe could elicit with their subject matter alone. He uses thin, overplayed parallels to chess. He begins complex issues (at one point Pollack is refused negotiation because he is Jewish) and just allows them to fade away without properly completing them. He also happens to have a weakness for using one character to stand for a particular demographic, most irritatingly embodied by Sean Astin's ignorant and unsightly soliloquy regarding the deaths of stereotypical people he doesn't know. It's not only cheap, but it's detrimental to what is still such a damn fine film.I like Lurie's style. His use of pacing to tell a story is impeccable and the majesty of his work is that it's not only a piece of entertainment, but it's smart enough to appeal to the voting crowd, the paranoid crowd, the CNN crowd - whatever you envision. It's got universal tinges, like the weaknesses I pointed out, as well as near masterstrokes in cinematic storytelling. Deterrence isn't just a friggin' potboiler, it's a four alarm fire.

And they were going to banish ‘Toy Story 2’ to the backlot of straight-to-video hell!?

         Disney, the last pure and simple enterprise, has finally bought into those twin  deficiencies : cookie-cutter formulas and the ‘We-can-release-whatever-dribble-we- want-we’re-beloved-by-children-everywhere’ ideal. ‘Dinosaur’ is a blast of real  lifelessness in almost every way. The film feels as if it were written with the Cliffs Notes  from about a dozen other Disney movies. It’s the usual "we’ve got a long journey ahead  of us, with at least one death and the main character will have a bunch of colorful  sidekicks and end up falling in love, defeating the bad guy and emerging triumphant"  line. Funny, when they spun that storyline in ‘Tarzan’, and gave it oomph! in about a  billion other pieces of the film, it worked beautifully. Here, amidst muddled live-action
backgrounds (which alternate with digitally created ones for a truly mystifying and  distracting effect), the extremely boring and predictably "Disney" archetypal characters sloth around as digital creations, desperately trying to find a valley to reproduce - or die in.

         Disney’s main character is a fun-loving, good-hearted ‘saur named Aladar. He’s as boring as Hercules in the 1996 Disney animated film of the same name. He and the rest of the ‘herd’, for the most part, are part of a species of dinosaurs that, frankly, look  like the head of a penis. Not one of them is visually stated enough to be recognizable to  any kid, including myself, from our past experiences paging through galleries of  Prehistoria. Either it’s really, really important that they look this obtuse (for what reason, I haven’t the foggiest), or Disney really is arrogant enough to assume that these characters are kid friendly enough to enter as colloquialisms through a generation of  movie and TV latched kids. “Look Mommy, an Aladar©!”

         Finally, there is a tad bit of good news. Early in the film there is a scene that is worth seeing if you know someone with a good bootleg. Aladar lives with some monkeys because his egg was dropped on an island across the ocean from the one he was born to (by greedy Pterodactyls - in a scene you could see on any copy of ‘Tarzan’ - both in the extended preview for ‘Dinosaur’ and in ‘Tarzan’, since it’s lifted almost exactly from
that source). The monkeys have just finished courting and are hanging out by a beautiful tree, when the evening takes on this haunting shade of pink. Aladar and the monkeys watch what looks like raining fire on the opposite island. Then appears a shot of a mushroom cloud, as if subliminally placed there - disturbing and sharp. Then the island Aladar is on is bombarded with meteors. This is interesting on the grounds that it so clearly takes the hypothesis that Dinosaurs were wiped out by giant meteorites - and runs with it. Nice to see that surrounding all the cloudy, unoriginal stuff there is still a ray of good decision-making struggling to break free over there with the boys at the big mouse factory.

         My daughter enjoyed ‘Dinosaur’ well enough. It wasn’t the active enjoyment I’ve seen displayed at the breadth of ‘Star Wars Episode 1 : The Phantom Menace’ or, say ‘Stuart Little’; but it was enough that she could sit through what felt like an eternity, but panned out to be a little over eighty minutes. As the titles came up, I realized she had been sitting there in awe of what had transpired, mostly because it had to do with dinosaurs - which she has begun to really admire. I also realized that she has a long way to go before she can be depressed at how disappointing a movie can be when you remember how much you’d have enjoyed it as a child. Thank God for that.

        Strangely enough, though conflicted on more than one instance throughout the duration, I did not walk away from 'The Grinch' (as I'll casually call it to save time) with the feeling that Theodore Geisel would be rolling in his grave, steam pouring out of his ears and a barrage of profanity emanating in rhyme from his rotted jaw. He was an intelligent man and would've certainly seen past the obvious dose of cynicism packed into the first two acts of this film (a Dr. Suess no-no, I'm afraid) to the clever way Universal executives bypassed ethical suicide by giving the characters a shuffling - shall we say, a swapping - of roles.
        At the very front of the charm lurking inside a nightmarish set full of characters that look like Hieronymous Bosch rejects practicing a vile critique of modern Christmas preparation - is the indispensable Jim Carrey, a physical comedian not quite like any in history who is constantly being compared to actors of days gone by (anyone considered in his league is always either hopelessly more dignified or much less talented). On the off chance you don't expect his Grinchy ramblings to bowl you over - and bowl you over they will - invite yourself to view another of his films before seeing this one. The makeup almost renders the comedian indistinguishable as he pitter-patters and stomps his way through the film, spewing what - oddly enough - sounds like a series of one-liners from a Grinch bit he may have once done when working as a starving comedian in Canada. But I
doubt it. Nevertheless, most of his lines and certainly all of his mannerisms seem like they benefit from the metaphorical significance of being plastered inside such an elaborate costume. Can't imagine he took much direction for this role (or any one of his other goofy, comedic stunt flicks), locked away inside green foam rubber and hairy, itchy fur - blocked from the world to create his own goofball genius. In 'The Grinch', he sounds an awful lot like Richard Nixon, moves about like an animated cartoon character (but not the one in the 1966 version of this story) and comes off as perhaps the only character in the film obnoxious and alive enough to register with young people. Which brings me to my gripe - and its transcendence.
        It is not enough that the story had to be re-envisioned (The Grinch's childhood consisted of emotional abuse from all sides by - you guessed it - the Who's), but what Seuss's re-writers have done is turn the story on its head, making the Grinch into the main sympathy grabber and turned the Who's into greedy, protocol obsessed vermin whose look ranges from cute and cuddly (Cindy Lou Who is adorable, wherever you're from) to upsetting and disturbing. What this does, throughout most of the film, is irk the audience into an alienation effect, thereby making this, a very familiar story, seem quite foreign to us. By the end, the objective, wherein the Grinch will realize the true meaning of Christmas, turns from a typical revenge play (which the original one bypassed with abstraction and by making everyone into the purest form of Seuss's characterizations) into a film where everyone
shakes hands. It turns out to be refreshing, but with much duress. The film is so unbelievably entertaining when Carrey is free styling, but tends to lose its verve whenever it focuses itself too directly on the Who's, the message or, indeed, the Christmas spirit. This is certainly not what Dr. Seuss could have envisioned.
        But, on the other hand, stinking the Hollywood stench in a good way is something most directors don't really know how to do. In 'The Grinch', Ron Howard manages an overall product that, while flawed, has a workability about it - and a synthesis of imagination and meaning - that almost makes it forgivable. The look of the film is nicely overdone. The acting, even by the underwritten Who's, is always over-the-top and gratuitous. Howard captures the tone of the anti-Hollywood dark horse favorite as a kids movie without ever coming within a mile of the magic of Seuss's vision or even his language (some of which has been added anew and sounds painfully off
key next to the original text, even in Anthony Hopkins' voice). As always, Howard's visions are clean, big eyed kids visions, calling to mind his face - which is so kid like, we almost forget that he's in his fifties and balding.
        'The Grinch' is maybe not the grand masterpiece Howard envisioned or the art drawn carriage Carrey was riding on for a couple of years there - but it certainly defies the expectation that a live action Suess is an impossibility. Seuss himself had said his stories were not made for Hollywood and Hollywood was not made for his stories - and he's right. What happens in 'The Grinch' is something entirely different, and it is promising. It is not perfect, but it is not sacrilegious either. Now, who will be carving the roast beast while I, myself, sit on this here fence?

        I'll spare you my brief and less than humble tirade against the projects Robert Altman has followed in his golden years (not necessarily bad ones but, let's face it, he made 'M*A*S*H' and 'Nashville' at one point in his life). After an incessant self-imposed torture session over how good 'Cookie's Fortune' turned out to be and how much I wished I'd made the trek to see it on the big screen, it just became assumed among me, myself and I that whatever Altman made - be it sub-'Pret A Porter' or, you know, as good as 'Short Cuts' - I'd be seeing it in the theater. And right quick. So, you'll spare me your criticizing eye when I wrinkled my brow at the realization that this written-in-stone agreement I'd made with my inner self would cause me to end up alone in a theater
full of empty seats, seeing a film starring Richard Gere (who's done enough damage this year, don't'cha think?) and a string of hot-button female actresses who encircle his existence. So thank the good Lord or whatever you prefer to believe in that it didn't burrow itself under the fence and run away towards the land of mediocrity as so many films this year have done.
        'Dr. T & the Women', visually, is less interested in what it can achieve using the Altman-esque cinematography. Yeah, the zooms and medium pans are in place, but they don't really define the picture as much as, say, 'The Gingerbread Man', a film that would have been completely lost without the boost of photographic interpretation presented by our legendary director. No, 'Dr. T & the Women's most attractive ingredient is the fabulously blunt and surprising screenplay which presents an ironic tale of seeming role reversal that essentially would require very little actual presence of the director. His skill with ensemble casts comes in handy, but this is really the writer's flick more than anything.
        As an almost entirely literary-minded work, one could easily see the film being based upon a riveting novel (it's not). As it unfolds to reveal a series of strange and cerebral breakdowns, so many of its implausible aspects begin to take shape as a vote for whimsy among a seemingly pedestrian narrative path. Would it be possible to define three separate acts? Sure, but it wouldn't be simple or clean-cut; and its hardly the point. I love films that defy proven mathamatical processes for entertainment and still end up as diverting as anything labored into the restraints of  introduction, conflict, resolution and conclusion. These elements are only present in an all-encompassing, loopy manner. They end up giving way to a wonderfully impulsive chimera - a moment that slyly asks us to "pleasee, stick with us". As much as the film craves these aspects of fantasy in its own purposefully awkward, diabolical manner; it manages to put them to work in a very detached - but again, quite
intentional - way when it comes to the film's exploration of reality. The characters are all quite alive and entertaining; bubbly and interesting; caring and complacent. They experience love and hate essentially through Dr. T - and he nearly loses his mind trying to keep that sweet, almost plastic Southern kindness.
        Amen to whomever first enjoyed pondering Richard Gere in this part - he was born to play it. As he grapples with how much he loves his image and layer after layer sheds, unbeknownest to these women (whom I took as being only slightly, but consciously decieved by Dr. T - as I envision all women to be, somewhere in the depths of their soul, decieved by their gynecoligist). Gere, from all of his experience playing betrayal experts and two-timing womanizers knows how to wring that utterly kind but sweetly flirtatious demeanor. If one only examines the events of the film and his place among all of these women, one has no trouble seeing him as a keystone - but a keystone that is aware of his place and is constantly, in tiny ways, manipulating it - for better or worse. The first person I would have thought of, having read this role on paper, would have been Richard Gere. He lives up to it in one of his very best performances.
        The women of the film's title are all appropriately flawed and loveable. Dr. T's wife, Kate (Fawcett), stricken with Hestia syndrome, or too much love (a forgiveably simple irony I'm willing to live with) reverts to a child-like mentality. In her best scene, she waltzes around a crowded mall, stripping her clothing, eventually dancing nude in a fountain. Kate Hudson and Tara Reid play the good doctor's daughters and could easily be real life sisters. Hudson, soon to be married, awaits the arrival of her maid of honor (Tyler). Reid is a tour guide at a JFK conspiracy awareness exhibit. Dr. T's drunken sister (Dern) has moved herself and three young children into his house. And in the film's best moments, Dr. T begins dating a golf pro played by the ravishing and mysterious Helen Hunt (almost immediately after his wife is sent to a mental hospital; whether it was a progressive disease is
left unsatisfyingly unclear) .
        I felt strange after viewing 'Dr. T & the Women', a very non-partisan film. It was refreshing to see a film so idealistic and yet, so unorganized and unconcerned with point-by-point arguments. As a free-flowing display of troupe acting to the tune of Altman-light, I was wholeheartedly pleased to see all the strings coming together, coming and going, and crossing each other to get tangled in their own web of the sexes. On one hand, so much of it seems to be surface-heavy contrivances hell-bent on appearing more unconventional  (for what reason, I'll never know, this has all the makings of an audience pleaser). On the other hand, its an erratic mesh of great acting and smart narrative rulebreaking for the greater good. I have reservations about saying this, but if 'Dr. T & the Women' had been completely beyond my reach - as a male filmgoer - I think it would have been even better.
I enjoyed it about as much as I think I was meant to. The end result of increased indulgence would have been something disturbing and controversial. 'Dr. T & the Women' is neither - but it isn't stolid either - it's obtuse and should really be more popular than it is with American audiences.

        "[about Al, Freddie Prinze Jr.'s character] We have a sickening amount of things in common. I like when he sits with his mouth agape like a dumbass, completely pulling off that churlish teen beat look and wondering to himself, 'Is she really fooling anybody with those belly shirts, her knowledge of art - for instance, I love it when she tellss me about how the brush technique brings out the ambiance in a painting. I don't know what in the hell it means, but it sure sounds intelligent.' And my character's name is Imogen - and my Mom got it out of a name book, isn't that creative?And boy, his dad is a TV cooking guy who used to be the Fonz and my parents, well, they're not around, but I sure am well-off and so is he and, well, we love each other to tingles and especially when we're trying to make sure we look utterly universal to everybody, even thought that's really not the point
we're clearly trying to make - since we're just about as fantasy laden as any couple you might, uh, see in the movies - because you're there to be entertained or some fucking thing and, well, since we're surrounded by young versions of ourselves that talk to our present selves, strange screen wipes and, well, some pretty corking fades to black if you ask me - I guess our relationship sure is worth putting in the movie theaters that are already littered with teenagers having sex way too young, having pregnancy tests come up negative (like that ever happens, some close calls - you know what I mean, girls?) and makiing friends with porn actors and people who dress up like Jim Morrison. Come to think of it, isn't that sorta like every other teen beat movie you see nowadays - with the two or three wacky characters operating alongside, as emotional and sympathetic punching bags to some
greedy, good-looking but utterly selfish protagonists that do a bad imitation of how vivid college romance is and never, ever study unless it's a plot convenience and do all sorts of really idiotic things that no real couple does and say things like "Morning Breath is a killer" just to appeal to kids who say - 'Hey, I woke up with morning breath once, this movie really spoke to me'. And don't you just love it when movies have meaningless, generic titles like this one and only justify them in the closing moments when the title is splashed on a book one of the main characters had the indecency to slander by painting the front cover to mimic the cover of the movie box. And Fuck! I was in 'Hamlet', for Christ Sakes - I know I wasn't any damn good in it - but, this ['Down to You'] just kills my credibility and, oh, God! There's a scene where I admit to sleeping with Jim Morrison and - Oh
No! - It's worse, I slept with Freddie Prinze, Jr. more than once during the course of a ninety minute film. I've sold my soul - and I'm not even that old, and - I've got to take my name off of it.....What do you mean it's already too late? It can't be too late and - NO! - I'm a teen idle?! Anybody got a large bottle of shampoo? [yeah, there's actually a scene in the film where a character is rushed to the emergency room after swallowing some shampoo - that's how bad - oh God!]"
 

        How to make this right - how to make this right - hmmmm? I think, first of all, I'd lose the stars - at least a couple of them : DeVito is utterly wasted in this role and Neve Campell won't be missed. I'd take what is a mediocre approach and give it a full dose of low-key narrative interruption. I might make everything slower and less flashy, I might even lose the music and make the black comedy - of which most of this movie benefits, but not nearly as much as a black comedy should - really, really dark. 'Drowning Mona' might even work, if properly tinkered with, as a nice spoof of quiet, disturbing independent films.
        Everyone has a great time standing around looking disaffected after Mona Dearly (Midler), the most hated denizen of a crummy little burg in upstate New York, plummets to her death. Everyone is a suspect and everyone has their own little connection to the murder that they, like the townies they are, bungle covering up.
        Maybe the most welcome infusion of interest in 'Drowning Mona', besides realizing that Casey Affleck walked off with the talent in that family - is the fact that it's constantly flashing back to episodes that happened in the recent past. Some of them are played for goofy comic lightness, others as plot twists - still others are almost 'Rashomon'-esque (don't tell anyone I associated that movie and this movie) in a way, as they present this ridiculous dialogue that starts out disputing who killed a dog and ends with Mona smashing up a car - or was it?. And finally, when all is said and done, there's your typical climactic confessional confrontation, a let-down of an ending in which all of the characters inhabit the frame and fire off accusations, etc. Luckily the rest of the movie is full of a great brand of mean spiritedness. All in all, Gomez brings the tightness - the script is properly structured and clever (if a little dull in spots) and the cast is nearly a hoot.

[10/4/02: though the review rarely suggests, I've come to really hate films like this one, and the grade reflects my true feelings sometimes better than the below prose]

Sometimes funny, sometimes upsetting, a clear opinion you're just not getting. ‘East is East’ is not a film I’d go see again. Glowing, review, right? I would recommend it. Glowing contradiction, right?
         It’s a film that easily shows us it’s message in the first fifteen minutes and then struggles to decide (practically every other minute) whether it wants to milk comedy or just plain shock out of it. On one hand, it’s a really low-rent “mad-till-you’re-red-in-the-face” flick, and on the other hand, it’s a really nice, clever British comedy. But it’s really neither - but it’s not really a bad film.
         But to be at all serious about it being a comedy is an impossibility. Maybe I’m not as hardcore or alligator-skinned as I once was, but a comedy isn’t supposed to show the father beating up his wife and kids unless it clearly delves into satire? The film never delves below the laughs it gets out of specific scenes - pure laughs - laughs that are intentional and not subtle in the least. And then, after you giggle, Om Puri hits Linda
Bassett in the face while saying ‘bastard’ and ‘bleedin’ over and over and over again.
         Not exactly a kind or extremely noteworthy experience, but, if you can take it upon yourself to separate the “dad’s-way-or-no-way” plot from the “goofy-mixed-kids-coming-of-age-in-the-goofy-seventies” plot - - it’s rewarding enough to actually take the time to see.
         Certainly not “hilarious” (The Wall Street Journal) or “funny and ribald” (Janet Maslin, The New York Times). More like “somewhat disturbing and nearly upsetting” and “contains some joking in it’s duration”. Putting it lightly. That’s my job. Right? (Yeah, nice review Ben. You say nothing - it’s a 291 word tangent that tells us : “Go see the movie, it’s not great, but it’s not awful”).
         You’re welcome.

         Steeped heavily in the tradition of dramatic Chinese films, Chen Kaige’s ‘The Emperor and the Assassin’ is a beautifully staged political chess game, wonderfully realized as a historical epic - made even morepowerful because it’s - not to put too fine a point on it - real. Much like Kaige’s masterpiece ‘Farewell My Concubine’ - a film about historical turmoil and sexual jealousy - ‘The Emperor and the Assassin’ has extremely strong characters and carries a self-confidence that most films (foreign or national) don’t even attempt. Of course, this can work - and it cannot. See, for example, Kaige’s  1997 film, ‘Temptress Moon’, the coming-of-age romance set on an opium ranch - so confident that it will overcome us with lush imagery and a slow, subtle love story - it fails miserably - only overcoming us with exhaustion. In essence, the door swings both ways.
         I am in love with Gong Li. And she really is a marvelous actress. From the christening when I first glimpsed her bright, shining face in 1990’s ‘Ju Dou’ to 1998’s poignant and beautiful ‘Chinese Box’, her performances have always put a spell on me. Here, as Lady Zhao, she plays sort of a human ‘weapon’ - both the king’s wife and the assassin’s sympathizer - constantly being pulled from one side to the other and weighing the results in her actions and her loyalties. And as usual, her masterfully irresistible presence just blows us away. She’s the Chinese mold of, if she’ll permit me, Greta Garbo. Utter beauty and hypnotic talent.
         The assassin, Jing Ke (Zhang Fengyi), is also, in his own way, hypnotic. The introduction of his talent (that is, to kill - quickly, thoroughly and brutally) comes with swift resonance as he lays waste to a family of swordmakers, indebted to a money lender. It is here that we learn of his great career and it is here when he takes on the role of the classic Japanese samurai (yes, I’m aware that I just jumped cultures - I’ll return, fear not) - on a quest of redemption : sad and scruffy, yet attentive to the humanity around him. And when he crosses paths with Lady Zhao, involved in a plot between she and the emperor of Pan - one that crisscrosses in a marvelous way - he is the stunning vision of a Kurosawa warrior - enacted as it were, in the history of China. It’s an interesting Japanese cinematic technique employed by a Chinese filmmaker - to paint the warrior and hero as the loner, on his path to enlightenment - like, for instance in ‘Kagemusha’.
         And finally, the king of Qin, Ying Zheng - nicely introduced on the battlefield, fighting alongside his men to capture his turf. And fight he does - as a clever and down-to-earth king, attentive to his needs, exacting, and without ultimate recoil - the vicious “at-all-costs” leader. As he yo-yo’s his strengths and weaknesses and ultimately, faces the assassin - we see the true Renaissance man - cunning and resourceful, yet greedy and without remorse. A nice evocation by Li Xue Jian- who posesses a valuable range.
         Though the film really is spectacular and calls comparison to American war epics - here is a film that also loses so muchh to an American audience, ignorant to the history of China and lost in the translation of behavior. And I’m not singling it out - most Chinese films are inherantly Asian in tone - and therefore difficult to decipher meticulously by the American eye. Why is it that in so many Chinese films the characters break into laughter in such a farcical manner? My bet is that it’s something - like the bluntness of Spanish people or the slang of Americans - that doesn’t make sense to those of us who haven’t had the privelidge to witness Chinese life - and the specifications of their cultural upbringing, behavior and diction - in the past.
         And as much as the film is made quite universal - it’s unlike, for example, the films of Zhang Yimou (‘Ju Dou’, ‘To Live’) in that it’s less a fable than a history lesson, less a human drama than a retelling of larger, more complex events using dramatic structure and narrative design. It’s merely a challenging and moving collection of great scenes, quiet decisions and heartbreaking realizations. It’s the kind of film that one can admire - but one is realistic enough to step back from and to acknowledge - much like Gibson’s ‘Braveheart’ - that we’re watching a sensationalized and abridged account of the past. And we take that for what it is - and it’s both wonderful and slightly souring

    ‘Erin Brockovich’ easily fits the mold of two types of films : a) the type of film that expects to be taken seriously as a drama and comes off as more entertaining than you had expected (examples : ‘Copland’, ‘The Negotiator’,
 etc.); b) the type of film story, whether it moves you or whether it’s true, that is somewhat of an open-and-shut case for skilled writers and the directors - who can only avoid conformity and familiarity by taking extensive artistic risks. And who better to shape a studio film than Steven Soderburgh, director of the anti-studio "studio" flick ‘Out of Sight’ - that proved you can create a cops and robbers/romance entry, in the multiplex, and still provide a really hip and satisfying experience for the audience. And casting is a big  issue as well - one that ‘Erin Brockovitch’ deftly handles, using the charms and personality already established by megastar Julia Roberts and, some expert and really, really likeable supporting turns by Albert Finney and Aaron Eckart.
     And what I really dug about this independent-citizen-against-the-big-bad-corporation” film was the way it’s populated with such interesting characters that we really enjoy watching - as they spar with each other verbally and come up with funny - and challenging results. It’s not a huuge distraction to watch the film sink  itself with this very tactic - bringing us a startling amount of repetition, until you’re sure that every scene is going to end with Julia Roberts cursing and getting what she wants because she’s so intimidating and, gee - she’s a girl (and she’s wearing skanky clothes - give her what she wants, dammit!). But the idea of a motorcycle riding neighbor who works when he has to and wants to watch three kids all day - without the reward of Julia’s affection - is, while lofty, exciting to watch on film. And the ever teetering moral attacks a law partner has as he juggles the overbearing Brockovich and a case he would rather not add to his workload are something to behold (though I doubt any actor besides Albert Finney could have made it so darn enticing) In short - flaws are flaws, but characters who keep us distracted from obvious glitches are miraculous and rare.
    And I’m cynical and I believe that extensive embellishment and padding must have worked it’s way into the somewhat “too perfect” story - but it’s back to that whole idea of entertainment.
     There’s other beautiful stretches in the film. The performances are  top-notch, especially Roberts, who fires from out of nowhere with a gutsy, passionate and just plain winning turn. There’s a nice dissolve from
 her smiling to an open desert, peaked at the 33 1/3 line of the frame by a blue sky. A very noble and appropriate parallel being drawn here - Roberts face, the crowning jewel of all of her roles, is as wide open as a landscape
 and is just as complex and crowded with expression as the majesty of textured endlessness that is a desert plain. Watching her create this role as a mother and an enthusiastic chaser of the penultimate lost cause keeps us interested  - even when we know the writers are stacking her deck with needless wisecracks, most of which are great, a few of whose inclusion seems obsessive. Less is more.
    Of course when Brockovitch is defending the victims of a small town who have been left with innumerable and unfathomable suffering in the wake of a well-poisoning cover-up by a huge corporation - they take on more of an
emotional impact than the cardboard residents of the town in ‘A Civil Action’, a very similar film. But not much more. We need more scenes of the residents existing, hurting and pondering - without Julia Roberts’ presence.
For a well-rounded film, one that would have moved me to tears (and one that would have been three hours plus, no doubt) - this would have been the route to take. More is more.
    And though Soderburgh lends so much less of his time-fragmenting, color-saturated, dialogue-jumpcuts than he has in his past films - it remains, mostly, of his mark. And sure, I could have easily done without
those obvious plot-pushing moments (like the one where Brockovich’s son offers to bring her breakfast after she explains a dying client to him). But, you know - for a scenes like the muted bluetone shot of one of the frustrated victims throwing rocks in his backyard while Thomas Newman’s haunting piano tapping glazes over us - I’d be able to deal with a few of those "usual" movie moments.
    As it is, ‘Erin Brockovitch’ doesn’t feel too long - but hasn’t entirely convinced us of anything by it’s end. And how could that be in a film about such a thorough and hard-working character? But, again, however misfired some elements are - ‘Erin Brockovitch’ is a highly watchable and decidedly well-acted piece of cinematic candy. 

        What starts out deliciously myopic turns so quickly into a suspense yarn totally immersed in itself (to the point where it becomes its own set of mirrors - reflecting an already worn image to cast an ugly, mediocre rehash). 'Eye of the Beholder' manages a repetitive nature that grates the nerves until you're sure you can't stand it anymore, then shifts gears into a dynamo plea for act breaks way too late in the game. It is essentially a two act film holding steadily to the ideals of a third act - one that's so far fetched and self-absorbed in includes a hammy, cable-TV-ish Jason Priestley drawing a hilariously obvious parallel between the life of ultra sympathetic serial killer Joanna Eris (Judd) and sharks (Duh, because they only have a ten minute memory and swim forever, thereby removing remorse and stability. Got it.). As the equal parts 'Laura' obsession side of the film crashes into the
black widow obsessed side (after over an hour of hammering into our heads the fact that Stephen (MacGregor) is smitten and Joanna is mourning her dead father by killing men and stealing their money) - 'Eye of the Beholder' takes shape and becomes exactly what it shouldn't : a Brian DePalma-esque (below the belt, I know) whodunit, complete with "did she know the whole time" and "is she really who he thinks she is" questions. The idiotic play to deepen both characters is so forcefully wasteful - and empty - we wonder if writer director Elliot has any concept whatsoever of how originality is born. While he's busy deepening a tone of forever restless and unfinished loss - one that almost works throughout the first act (if only it weren't so useless and repetitive, this could've been a great throwaway experimental piece) - his film slips into an ambiguity that is neither fun nor
artsy. In fact, its the kind of confusing you don't even bother to sort out - for fear you'll pull the slipknot and realize your suspicions : that for all the complicated stuff on the outside, there really is absolutely nothing below the three inch mark in this film. (And finally, that k.d. land performance - as the field operative secretary who cares, that should be a landmark as well: Worst performance by a lesbian singer songwriter with no distinguishable first or middle name).

(adjusted to B+ upon second viewing)

    Though it's got some really wonderful sequences - it doesn't work as a whole film for the same reason most compilation - or - films-within-a-film movies don't work : the weak links are constantly breaking the chain and you have to constantly decide - did I like the film - did I like a sequence - it's maddeningg. I will say this for it : good job hiding away - London turned out to be closer than New York.
    I love the Donald Duck/Noah's Ark sequence set to “Pomp & Circumstance”. Very moving, great imagery - wonderful. And the Al Hirschfeld-influenced (or should we say - directly responsible for) sequence with “Rhapsody in Blue” was very innovative and very striking. Both remind us that familiarmusical themes, used with new images, can still have a life of their own (i.e. : “Pomp & Circumstance” is entirely a song we associate with Graduation ceremonies and the film 'A Clockwork Orange').
    Some segments were forgettable. The green woman meant to symbolize the earth, which was borderline anime, wasn't all it was cracked up to be. The piece that features whales is introduced telling us that the song accompanying it was originally a song to go with pine trees (of all things). And though they try to justify it, the song doesn’t really go with the images on the screen in a gentle, easy manner.
    Finally, the one I held my breath for, 'The Sorcerer's Apprentice', which I saw in all it's glory when I was young and 'Fantasia' was re-released - looks awful. Blown up and not really cleaned up for the IMAX screens, it carries such a dirty look about it - it's nearly hard to enjoy. A nice word to describe it would be “splotchy”.
    And the IMAX - though an innovative and somewhat curious idea in the cinema - doesn't gel too well with these cartoons. It was neat, yeah - but it lacked a spectacular feel that most IMAX movies give you. I felt as if I were abusing the privilege of watching a film on such a large screen - and therefore I felt the subject matter (which lacked a bit in itself anyway), not fit for it’s forum. And that’s just sad.

        Allow me to correct a humming notion for everyone right away : This is, in fact, not the ride you want to take; despite Ebert's relentlessly catchy soundbite displayed all over the the box, the poster and the ads (I can't wait to read his review when I finish writing this one, I'm already chuckling). And to be clear, Yes! This is a film made by 'X-Files' hangers-on and; Yes! It resembles an episode of the television show in it's creepy, pseudo-supernatural tones. But, rest assured, tone is the only thing on 'Final Destination's mind. This is a film that makes me wish I'd saved my all-powerful "cinematic repetition" speech - but I blew that load in my 'Cecil B. Demented' review,
so it'll be short and sweet : 'Final Destination' is the same bleeding scene, altered slightly and woven into a singular and quasimodo story, six times in a row. The death scenes, save for one that's a terrific scare, clock in a pulse rate in and around that of 'The Bone Collector' (and we all remember my fondness for that dusty yawner). Excluding leads Devon Sawa and Ali Larter (who names these people, huh?), the cast consists of teen character actors plucked from their respective WB soap operas and asked to scream and curse. It's a film that lends more of it's energy into carousing youth appeal than carmelizing (to borrow a word from the film) it's otherwise episodic and stringy structure. What I was hoping for after being wowed by the looming and expert way Sawa's
premonitions are registered, cast and visualized in the opening act, was a film that haunted and mystified his character and myself. Instead, it's a movie where he whips out a map, aggressively, while trying to cheat - uh, death. It's a realistic tone in a far-fetched film and, though I can probably name on two fingers the recent films that have benefited from such a mismatch, 'Final Destination' sure as hell is not one of them. Despite 'X-Files' tendencies streaming out of it's many half-explained goodies - and an unconventional ending it simply does not earn - this is a film that lacks the gusto and the evidence to get off the ground. Remake it, please.

        What starts out too obvious and simple, even for a movie about deception, easily shifts into a really dry, really pompous, really Canadian (dare I say, really Egoyanesque) film expecting us to incorporate the five senses into Podeswa's outrageous parallel, purported and drawn with the most thinly etched momentum and basic cinematic tricks - and forced into an itty bitty living space of about ninety-six minutes. For those who complain about the length of interweaving ensemble pieces where the characters' connections to each other can be either personal or obtuse - but in the end, find the conclusion that we are all kin - like, for instance the films of Robert Altman or Paul Thomas Anderson; perhaps they will see 'The Five Senses' as a reductive, wholly scant expectation of character development without the actuality of it.
        The performances are all quite good, however. Not good enough to recommend the film, but good. Why they'd want to lend their skill to such a sinister, irritatingly surprise less piece of mediocre filmmaking, I'll never know - but here goes. There is the trite story of the gay man looking to find love after years of relationships that mean nothing to him. There is his best friend (Parker) who is at a similar crossroads, inconsequentially enough while hosting a fling she met in Italy - a man who does not speak English. There is her neighbor, a girl who is sexually frustrated and has just dropped out of school. One day, the girl loses her mother's client's daughter in the park and a massive manhunt to find the child begins (or more importantly, to learn to forgive - give me a break!). And there is the other neighbor, a man who is mourning the loss of his hearing, slowly trying to capture every last aural majesty before conceding to deafness altogether. (And as they say in the 'Magnolia' trailer,
"...this will all make sense in the end" - of course, it really doesn't make any damn sense in 'The Five Senses').
        Podeswa seems to be masking the fact that he has absolutely nothing in the "sense" category, which the film is meant to thrive upon. As he tries to leave subtle touches here or there, they end up being big, loud billboards of clues to a puzzle that really isn't much of a puzzle at all - it's more of a suspenseless ride, a character study where we understand who the characters are and the changes they need - in the first fifteen minutes. Our minds tune out everything after that. It isn't that these are necessarily boring characters - but what they are accomplishing feels almost too neorealist to make a difference. In Egoyan's films (which Podeswa seems to be aping, if he doesn't mind the blunt accusation), everything seems to come together more effectively because he is more willing to let it come apart on its own. Egoyan has faith that his characters can, in their own unspoken way,
complete the cycle and bring about their own epiphanies. Egoyan has a knack for handling voyeurism in a way that doesn't seem outward and pretentious. Podeswa makes voyeurism part of his ridiculous sense game - and then he doesn't. Podeswa tries hiss hand at incorporating it into "touch", but fails.  Most of all, Podeswa seems to be unsure of the whole thing, unable to accept that he is the God, the creator, the controller of it all and that part of that power means letting go and allowing the confidence to flow, allowing the characters to find themselves. Everything in 'The Five Senses' is way too polished and far too clear.
        Finally, while the film straddles an eerie atmosphere (most Canadian films I've seen do), it also manages some sort of light, flaky exterior - which is where the actors rescue the film from utter tragedy. Mary Louise-Parker, who gives the best performance in the film, finds such a wonderful confidence in her character - a character who is afraid of conflict and confrontation - that she almost creates a weird irony out of Podeswa's amateur direction. It turns out to be somewhat entertaining, sometimes, to hear the dialogue exchanges of actors carrying the burden of diverting the audience's gaze from how undercooked and pedestrian the storyline is. The greater irony is that in his relative bungling, Podeswa has given flight to characters which the actors make interesting - and thereby
removed his grasp as supreme dictator over the film's world and, inadvertently -  the whole thing almost works. Without him.

        Interesting to note the way 'Frequency' was received by critics and audience members: as a post 'Sixth Sense' grabber that thrives on the fact that we, the audience, are guessing every moment before it happens. Of course, anyone who did a minute amount of research would see that good ol' Gregory Hoblit has been making these types of films - one them quite popular, leading to the public recognition (not to mention an Oscar nomination) of a major star - for years. The third film I've seen byy him, 'Frequency' takes the nod from both 'Primal Fear' and 'Fallen', each of which contain nods to Hoblit's obsession with the unknown as their hooks; and each of which contain surprise endings.
       And the best thing I can say about 'Frequency' is that this type of filmmaking is never more entertaining or alive than here. Whereas 'Primal Fear' was far too long and, like 'The Sixth Sense', seemed only to be serving its ring-a-ding ending and 'Fallen' was too silly and often, not very interesting - 'Frequency' is always utilizing its hook and its characters, all of whom are very interesting and very likable. "The hook", as I called it, comes from down-on-his-luck cop Jim Caveziel, who stumbles upon his dead father's long dormant ham radio one evening while hanging out with his boyhood friend and neighbor (Emmerich). Goaded into setting it up, he reaches a
stranger from the past on the radio, through a strange combination of the elements, set up nicely (in true audience-alienating fashion) in an opening sequence that implies that these atmospheric elements contribute to making time travel possible - if only on radio frequencies. The stranger turns out to be none other than his father (played by Dennis Quaid with a silly New York accent that should've been exised), a firefighter who would be killed days after this strange encounter with future-son (as he would no doubt be called) in a terrible warehouse fire. Like in the 'Back to the Future' films, the characters disturb fate - in this instance by saving the father's life - and place other characters in different places, changing their respective paths of life. The whole thing descends into a bland murder mystery that, in a textbook example, is made interesting by how it is told (i.e., through a
science-fiction filter that allows time travel, fate shifting and suspension of disbelief).
        There was never closure to Quaid and Caveziel's relationship. Pre-emptive deaths in films often give way to extenuating circumstances. This film is smart enough to give its characters the brain power to expect their special set-up (the radio communication) to end at some time, and Hoblit knows they must do much more than a simple, one dimensional familial healing. The film gives them much more to do, though often, their mission diverts into a predictable cinema cop yarn instead of treading the interesting plot depth that is already there. The timeless quality of both worlds, the one inhabited by the Quaid character in the 1960's and the one inhabited by the Caveziel character in the year 2000 are nice parallels.
    In all of Hoblit's films, the characters are asked to hold onto something they are not sure they believe in themselves. In his previous outings, both Richard Gere and Denzel Washington were given this task - but their parts were not written well enough that we could enjoy their suppressed mindset, one they will inevitably have to explain to others and deal with the obligatory "have you gone mad, man?" look. In 'Frequency', there are scenes like this - but they are much more finely honed and mean more in the film's world. A scene where Quaid begs a cop buddy (Braugher) to watch the World Series, which Caveziel has told Quaid about in detail, is electrifying because Hoblit has properly tweaked the relationship between the characters so that they harbor the slightest bit of doubt and resentment in each other as aquaintences - before the obvious thing occurs. In 'Fallen', a scene like this is played between Washington and actress Embeth Davidtz. Washington doesn't know her and she doesn't know him (same thing between Gere and actor Edward Norton in 'Primal Fear'), so the only thing that shines through a scene this prime for dramatic tension is the hostility. In 'Frequency', hostility is kept to a minimum and the characters seem less choked, breathing easier and more freely exploring the possibility of the world they find themselves in. It is more fun for us, too.
       Once more, allow me to address "the hook", which is an element appearing more and more frequently in films. In 'Frequency', a film that practically wears this "hook" on its sleeve (along with some not-so-subtle themes copped from the game of baseball, an already overused metaphor in film), Hoblit often transcends all the fun we would likely have if this film were released in an ideal world. A seemingly meaningless scene in 2000 where Emmerich complains about losing "Yahoo!" stock is later supplemented when Caveziel speaks to the 1960's Emmerich and tells him to go write down the world "Yahoo" and memorize it. Later, to complete the circle, we come back to 2000 to see Emmerich rich and sporting the word "Yahoo" on his liscence plate.
        In fact, "the hook" is played with so nicely, we don't even notice - or don't even think about - the seams in a sequence where Caveziel drops his glass in 2000 while Quaid is avoiding the death he should have had in the 1960's. A celebration commemorating the day when Quaid has died is changed in everyone's minds (but Caveziel's) into a commonplace get together - right there, on the spot. When he asks about his dad, they tell him "Of course, your dad died of lung cancer ten years ago". Caveziel rearranged fate - but death still got to Quaid. A nice commentary on the dangers of tobacco mixes well with a mind-bending scene that could easily have acted as the film's trailer (note to executives!) How wonderful to see a sequence where the past is changing and people's memory is changing - and still have the inevitable be - only of different circumstances. Fate gets us all, right?
(Where was this brilliant execution in 'Final Destination'?)
       I liked 'Frequency' on almost every level. Caveziel makes such a grizzled cop, such a curious young man and such a passionately downtrodden introvert, he manages to carry the movie. I could've done without the constant police noodling, which often turns the film from sci-fi thriller into detective story. Its not perfect - and Hoblit still needs someone to write his dialogue for him (some of what comes out of the mouths of these characters is borderline laughable) - but 'Frequency' performs a balancing act using its "hook" wisely and intelligently. In a world full of films hoping to duplicate the success of 'The Sixth Sense', 'Frequency' is a welcome contribution still sporting the old school style of its director, who was seeing dead people long before Haley Joel Osment.

    Someday there’s going to be a word, like Kubrickian or Wellesian...or, dare I say, Scorcesian - - for Jim Jarmusch. Jarmuschian? Sounds like an instrument or a high-priced  meal. But there’s no mistaking the style and the inspiration Jarmusch gives off. The last true independent filmmaker who never sold out. Thing is, he never made a better film than his first : ‘Stranger than Paradise’, 1984. And every one he makes is discernibly his,
and, beautifully original in it’s own detached New York flavor. But they’re all so aimless. So lost in the realm of near-perfect. It’s all so sad. ‘Ghost Dog’ is no exception.
    What I love about ‘Ghost Dog’, first, is the nice mix of the comic scrutiny and Eastern adaptation. We believe that Ghost Dog lives by the rules he reads in his samurai book - and we are pleased with the humorous friction that ensues as he meshes with the rest of the world. There’s great scenes in this film. When Louie (John Tormey) first sits down with his bosses to discuss Ghost Dog, whom he’s been using as a hit man, secretly, for
years - - that’s the old Jarmusch comedy coming alive. Watching Victor Argo chase a pigeon around a room - not once, but twice - is also great fun. And the playful wayy that Jarmusch makes all of his gangsters into cartoon addicts, unable to tear themselves away from violent cartoons (for instance : both ‘Felix the Cat’ and ‘Itchy & Scratchy’ are included), as scenes begin. All of these sweet touches - only workable in a Jarmusch film
- are wondrous to behold.
    Now, the bad news. Jarmusch = tangent. And as a result, the film is constantly creating a meandering interim for itself, utterly capsizing it’s momentum. And this is my complaint with most of Jarmusch’s films (though it works beautifully in ‘Dead Man’, the slowest great film in years). It’s got a good - even great - score by RZA, pumping beats and bass over the events in the film. But even the energy of that doesn’t allow the film to elide
over the slow spots quick enough to keep a functional pace.
    And beyond this, I’m half and half on the character of Ghost Dog. So much of the character is internally structured to remain a mystery - and keeps itself well-hidden behind Whitaker’s eyes. Even the casually placed pearls of wisdom - appearing as full text on the screen - can’t seem to flesh out Ghost Dog. To make a long story short (with no pun intended), we feel like we’ve seen a lot less than we actually have. Jarmusch has all the dimensions he needs - but he keeps them hidden from us. I can see some audiences praising that technique, citing that it holds with the character’s conviction of being so stealthy and solitary. Of course, this kind of trickery is all well and good in theory - but simply falters on the screen. We’ve enjoyed spending a couple of hours with this dark, modern mythical character. And even though he carries with us, briefly, outside of the theater, it’s his actions and his methods, not his persona, which linger. He’s as fragile as the cartoon characters the gangsters are so obsessed with.
    The constant dissolves and slowly escalating cinematography - shot by the legendary Robby Muller (‘Dead Man’, ‘Breaking the Waves’) - are a nice way to pad a film that’s good for what it is, but never succeeds in creating what appears to be it’s goal  : a character study about a fictional character that we care about and want to see immortalized. With a stronger focal point - such a goal would be easily attainable.
    But if you can’t make the audience love or hate the title character - all else dries up.

        This is beauty. Luminous black and white images, both trendy and unconventional - that still knocked me over. A stunningly detached love story that somehow becomes intimate in it's own right. The story of a shifty cassanova (Auteuil) who convinces a girl (Paradis) not to jump off of a bridge by, well, accompanying her on the way down (only to pop the questions : Will you be the target in my knife throwing act?). And boy howdy, how this resurrection of the French New Wave style encircles the metaphor knife throwing affords it, constructs doom-ridden and clever characters inside of it and manages to be one of the most entertaining films of the year to boot. Leconte's pacing is dead on. He opens the film with a near fifteen minute Q & A session to flesh out Paradis's character in a literal sense. This done, he can bend the rays of light as the film proceeds, showing us a very different Paradis - and thus concocting Auteuil inside her myth. But even moreso, he manages to alleviate our need to find our own version of Auteuil - because he's got that up his sleeve, too. He's showing us double-edged swords of his characters : the hungry lover and the selfish professional. It's such a sharp piece of filmmaking, I almost wish it possessed the substance that comes with the turf (which classic films of the movement, such as 'The 400 Blows' and 'Breathless' managed to do very nicely). It's a wonderful film - even settling an Angelo Badalamenti song into the knife-throwing (is there a bleeding synonym for this?) acts that in any other film might be overkill. Nothing could possibly be overdone in 'The Girl on the Bridge'; glitz is just so nearly everything.