Hollow Man is the kind of unforgivable waste of a viable premise that makes a ripping good trailer. It's a film where the special effects seem to be the only
ploy for the paper doll characters to interact. This is a movie where nothing much surprises you - even when there's a surprising moment - because none of it has
come from any original source. A touch of Deep Blue Sea here, a dash of *insert bad Paul Verhoeven film here* - I even felt a slight borrowment from that chinsy
(but not nearly as unlikeable) Chevy Chase drama Memoirs of an Invisible Man. The only slight pressure coming from this lifeless, would-be scare flick emerges in
it's second act where it's pitch black cynicism and light inventiveness nearly meld for a wired, engrossing effect. This section collapses into a rancid collection of
uninteresting chase scenes (looking desperately familiar to Alien an one point) including one of my most hated of all clichés - the dead guy who keeps on getting up
when you're not looking (which could be ironic in a film about invisibility - but falls very flat when the disappearring guy routine is played over and over again in the
same key). As much as Verhoeven has attempted to make his films seem like they are crafted to be utterly mindless (solo triumph : the tongue-in-cheek Starship
Troopers),  let's face a simple and unnecessary fact : his films are utterly mindless. Where his cast should be sporting along, dodging the "labored lab scientists" bit for a more lived-in compatibility with each other - these actors are bouncing off each other like opposing magnetic forces. Bacon, whose character I liked, seems to be the only one enjoying the bad-natured spirit of his situation (he's undermined by the script which gives him so little to do in the course of his ordeal - which seems more like an opportunity to hear him whine than actual cabin fever). Shue is clearly there to shuffle the cleavage factor into an obviously dry visual wasteland of repeat images (the special effects, cool at first, dissipate into effete rehashes, shown to us over and over again without anything to give them meaning), while poor Josh Brolin is left holding the thankless role of "competitor" to Bacon in his research, his results and even Shue, whom they both obsesses over; one can only wonder why (besides the obvious reasons) - all she can seem to muster as far as speech goes are snappy invisibility parallels regarding her former relationship with Bacon. Why the film never wants to fully delve into the darkness of Bacon's situation - or completely explain the background of the project or it's necessity, is beyond me. Whatever larger purpose it may have wished to convey is lost in it's petty attempts to cater to recent cinematic trends of "backing off" and "watering down". William Devane (who was born to say lines like "Bad enough to wake up a few generals!"), comes in as a supporting player in all of three scenes. It's something worth noting because the film manages to completely waste a chance at giving him scenery to chew on. Instead, it makes it's intentions as plain as day - and it's achievements as invisible as the film's main character. It may want us to believe it's got a whole mess of wild-eyed ideas reproducing at an alarming speed - but it's got nothing but copies, cop-outs and kaputs. (Yikes! Am I becoming clever?)

Terence Davies' view of the world of Edith Wharton is at once complicated - and dizzyingly clear. From frame one, we easily identify the qualities becoming of
casting Gillian Anderson, previously well known as a force of logic and understatement on the television series 'The X-Files', to play the heroine independent defined:
Lily Bart. As folly after folly dots her journey through that pratfall of a tightrope that is pseudo-artistocratic New York (circa 1905), it is just the spectrum of anti
suppression that Anderson radiates which makes The House of Mirth such a pleasure. Wharton made details her weapons, supposed intentions into ringing bells and wrong steps, she rendered unable to reconcile. By comparison, Martin Scorcese was willing to bring the world of Wharton to life by putting miraculous, meticulous detail first - and crushing blows to come second and be, if you'll forgive the phrase, "padded" by the paintings, furniture and costumes in the frame. In his The Age of Innocence, the unscathed position of Archer (Day-Lewis) is questioned and his value depleted - but so much of it is interior. In The House of Mirth, the same is true, with the details gleefully ingrained, as if they had already been created in our heads prior to our viewing - and had lost importance. Very little is entirely interior and emoting - though we've learned it was a little employed trait in this time period - is very much plentiful and vibrant. Lily's transformation is a full figured, near flawless one. The film becomes less a deconstruction of high society ideals, for a time, and embodies a fish and hook scenario: Lily misses the hook by inches for a time, only to later chomp down hard upon it and find herself pulled from the pond and tossed back in - re circulated for later persecution. Davies' wisely directs his cast (and it is a beautifully directed feature film) with a mountainous percolation, almost an erratic implication; everyone in The House of Mirth demonstrates intensity with the near rhythmic occurrence of a metronome. From the economically devious nature of Tanner (Dan Ackroyd, surprising the bejeezus out of me, enacting a solid period snap) to the insecure, free flowing masked romanticism of Seldon (Eric Stoltz, perhaps the equivalent of a soul mate to Anderson, evident in any scene they share) onwards to the business savvy goodness of Rosedale (LaPaglia, ditching the "heavy" in his persona and trading it for a strangely warm turn in such a chilly film), Lily Bart has her work cut out for her, bites down hard on her tongue and chooses door number four: acceptance of the attention and flamboyance of independence rather than the ultimate doom for many turn of the century heroines: marriage. Here, of course, is where it gets tricky. What makes The House of Mirth so electrifying and literate - not to mention wrenching - is how Davies blurs the line in Lily's times of toil: Is she falling from grace with dignity or is she engineering a calculated downfall as an alternative to dashing back to the wealth mongers, tail firmly fixed between her legs? A challenging and risky question to pose, one which removes none of the serrated, foreboding edge from the source material, instead pummeling the audience with an anti parallel interpretation which leaves the period in the period and darkens our chances to find a ray of light. (In other words, no fair walking out of the theater whispering about how "things haven't changed". This doesn't appear to be within miles of the filmmakers' intentions). The view of a male centered world squeezing the pulse of personal honor and feminine celebration isn't meant to be perceived as a commentary: Departing from Wharton's finger pointing by both celebrating and damning Lily works beautifully.  A pleasure to watch, too, as The House of Mirth finds clever dialogue being wielded skillfully by an immaculate ensemble cast. The evocation of early twentieth century New York, as previously stated, is so impeccable and all encompassing it earns the high compliment of dulling its own presence. We aren't meant to be impressed by the set decoration (we are) because it has a lived-in quality that doesn't let it upstage the sharp, vivacious acting going on. Lest I forget the female performances. In addition to Gillian Anderson's deservedly lauded turn, Laura Linney is a catty and boisterous villainess; Jodhi May and Eleanor Bron as Grace and Aunt Julia, respectably, play Bart's only familial tie with the controlling helplessness aided by tear and scowl. Bron is particularly good at upending a conversation with a cold, fiendish stare.The House of Mirth is engaging to the point where both long, favoring smiles and chilled, trance like shocks climbed aboard my viewing experience as baggage only serving to enhance the grand genius of such a film. Davies is as assured in the time period as any director attempting Henry James, Jane Austen or E.M. Forster, for example. This film, unlike several of the adaptations of those authors' works - is complex and rewarding enough to fulfill my film writing duties and entertaining enough to garner a second viewing. One of 2000's true treasures.

Though scant, Into the Deep 3-D plays like a fishbowl in the middle of a chaotic day at work: If you stare at it long enough, it tends to relax your body. It's a
tease though, as this film seems made for the younger viewers more than anything - its only about forty minutes long - and even they may be put off by how
scientifically sound the film appears to be despite its root in the cinema of attractions. Perhaps this is the first thrill ride you'll take at the IMAX that feels less
invigorating than calming. Kate Nelligan's voice guides us through a kelp ridden ocean landscape brimming with sting rays, crabs, fish, sharks, octopuses and moray eels. In short, its a brief introduction to the marine life off the coast of California that is maybe the most interesting science class film reel you'll ever see. A thematic touchdown on the evolution of life, it's food chain necessity and, eventually, the synthesis of symmetry and harmony that comes from the "unchanged for epochs" sea. Its certainly not as exciting as, say, Microcosmos - but then that film wasn't on a gigantic screen, was it? Very little of the film actually moves beyond the range of microscope-like animal discussion. Occasionally, we emerge from the deep into the coastal cliffs of Big Sur to give the film proximity - not nearly enough to draw a parallel bbetween the land mammals called humans and the mysterious creatures under the sea. It certainly is miles from the point, but to not include the irony here would be a crime: Into the Deep 3-D is shallow. Its a Discovery Channel introduction piece masquerading as a IMAX thrill ride that comes off as just entertaining enough to hold us in a state of perpetual awe until the final credits close.

I remember seeing a film that Alison Maclean made once (I reviewed it on the imdb for all interested). I remember it being excessively disturbing, so much that
when showed at the tail end of class, it haunted me long into the rest of the day. It was showed me by the assistant director, Kimi Takesue (who's biggest statement
of the film involved the cookies they'd used to achieve a certain lighting effect - what a waste of a "story time" experience), who was teaching my filmmaking class
and saying the word Tungsten far too often. In one respect all this back story has nothing to do with the triumph that is Jesus' Son - because the film is so far and
away on it's own turf. On the other hand, it made me good and sure that I could connect with the film besides a passing screening. To get right down to it - I've spent
over a year waiting to envision even the minutest of details Miss Takesue had shared with us, picturing the film and it's organs, spewing precious juices. It's a film
that's been on my mind for quite some time and.....

        .....part of it's genius is that it defies any perception I may have concocted on my own. And that's always a really cool thing.

        Literally powered by the robust and exciting performance by Billy Crudup (expect no better this calendar year), Jesus' Son is the very picture of "heart" (for
lack of a better word) within the context of a junkie romance. It's much more though. It's a random film, full of back-and-forth movement within time. It's a
dangerously subtle movie at times, outward and dismal at others. It's seventies' midwest drug culture painted as the perpetual sunday afternoon : hazy, ambient and
full of the main character's resourcefulness. This is a film about junkies in love that feels more like a film about a man's search for his own meaning. Something about
that shift in particular, the transcendence of self-discovery in the face of life's little pleasures (sex and drugs) that make it an entirely fresh and open cinematic
experience. I mean, how utterly magical to see a film taking place about the same time as Another Day in Paradise and copping an attitude that makes it seem as if
no one has ever made a junkie-lovers-road-movie before. And Crudup is astonishing. He does that rare thing in cinema that I spend my days dreaming about : he transplants his character into my head, giving me that giddy thrill of a rush that, for several hours after the film ends, I am the mythic character of Fuckhead. I know everyone is dead sick of hearing about my little walks in the city following a feature, but you know - there's something worth noting about that child-like demeanor, my eyes bright and wide with the passion of life and carefree steps of someone devoid of attachments, appointments or prospects. Billy Crudup gives us the out-and-out embodiment of such an individual. It's pure joy to watch him. Lest I forget the supporting brood, there's Samantha Morton, who proves beyond any shadow of a doubt that her Academy Award nominated performance in Sweet and Lowdown was no fluke (stupid cliched word!) and that with a voice, she's still a powerful presence as Fuckhead's main squeeze. Denis Leary, ragtag and nearly unrecognizable, loads the film with a pained junkie that sees his wife sky surfing from a hot air balloon and steals copper wire from his own home to sell for scrap. There's Jack Black, who is dead-on as an energetic and drugged out hospital orderly (as Jack Black, of course). Dennis Hopper, who in one scene, evokes the memory of the late William S. Burroughs with a painful soliloquy about bullet holes and life. This is a film, like Bringing Out the Dead, that separates it's acts with characters on the fringe of oddity. If I had one complaint about the film, and I do, it would be the way it seems to lose it's steam mid third act or so, as Crudup connects with a crippled widower (Holly Hunter). Seems as Crudup emerges from rehab and begins to find semblance and order, the film becomes ordinary all of the sudden.* But, even with that slight trigger - it's worth it to hear a line Crudup utters just after a stage freeze. I'll spare you a spoiler alert and allow you to hear it for yourself. Jesus' Son is an accomplishment that, mark my words, will make ripples.

*  - [If we'll all remember, this was my major complaint the first time I saw Being John Malkovich. We'll all remember that I recanted shortly after, as well before seeing the film a total of five times. And yes, I plan to see Jesus' Son a second time ASAP.]

At one point in Joe Gould’s Secret, Alice Neel (Sarandon) says that “there are levels of  discomfort”. I could feel that every second. Not only is this an uneven film - but it leaves  the audience out in the cold, constantly. It doesn’t seem to grasp that in deifying Joe Gould, a Bohemian writer (of the infamous “Oral history of the world”) who also happens to be a bum; it’s doing exactly what main character Joe Mitchell (Tucci) is doing : trying to become part of the movement, if only long enough to write a piece about it for the New Yorker. Course, the Bohemians aren’t really that interesting when you begin to infiltrate them. As Mitchell gets closer and closer to Joe Gould and his assorted bunch of writers, misfits and other artsy geniuses (some self-proclaimed), the movie gets more and more dull - and more and more distracted by it’s own fascination by it’s subject. This is one of those odd times when there is a great subject and it could be interesting - but the film is so utterly stupified by what it’s like to be Joe Gould - at every turn, mind you - it begins practicing to be him by showcasing its own misunderstood flavor of complete and utter obscurity. In doing so, it leaves us standing somewhere in the back of the crowd, just out of view of what’s interesting. I felt like I had purchased a ticket to a night club and spent the evening waiting behind a door - peeking through the keyhole, but unable to enter. I have no idea where in the heck the second half of Joe Gould’s Secret was going. I have a good idea of where it intended to go, but as I became more and more dissatisfied with it’s methods - I became uninterested and nearly went mad trying to decipher the crappy-crap-crap (thought I’d regress a tad) that was transpiring up on the big white screen. The mortal sin occured : I got bored. In it’s favor - I admire Stanley Tucci’s performance. A nice, humble guy - played by an actor who is totally at home in 1950’s New York - that stumbles on a wild, baboon of a man, namely Gould.  Ian Holm, going totally over the top and constantly wrangling the sentiment right out from under our brow - does little more than overacting. I found myself so annoyed with his presence - I wished the title would change and suddenly the film would be about something else (It might have been - I lost track). But, by the same token, I don’t exactly wish it had been about something else - I wish it had not been told in such a dry, poorly-paced manner. I had to excercise some real restraint in not shutting my eyes and catching some ‘zzz’s or simply gathering my belongings and shuffling my angry feet out the theater door. (And regarding his secret - let’s just say he’s transparent from frame one and leave it at that - how’s that for restraint!). All of the good things in the film - and there are some (the montages are especially effective - or at least would be in another film) - are totally and completely marred by iit’s aimlessness. Whereas it has a beginning, middle and end - that’s all it has. For the painful majority of it’s duration, and anything that’s not an exact plot point anchoring the what’s left of the film’s froggy structure - it’s going it’s own way and it’s just thumbing it’s nose at us all the way. It wants as little to do with us as Joe Gould does with anyone he sees on the street. And I, in turn, want nothing to do with it.

One of the things I love about films that take place in the suburbs, anywhere, is that the director has inevitably grown up there and knows the nuances and
quirks that the rest of us are ignorant to. He's prodding us with the key to a sardine can and rolling back the cover just slowly enough for us to see the world through
his eyes - or at least the ones he grew up with. He knows the houses are just so far apart as to be safe for the neighbors - but close enough for everyone to know<
everyone else's business. He knows the trees that hang over the streets, the cars parked on those streets and most of all, he knows the unseen balance that hangs in
the wind during every moment of every day in the suburbia. In Judy Berlin, a Long Island suburb's residents are gradually re-entering a school year. The mellow offset of returning to routine has some of them wandering around saying good-bye to those in participation, has some fleeing and has some finding the old wounds they left when they shuffled off the routine three months ago. To further complicate the forced organization of the back to school jive, an eclipse shadows everything with a darkness that's as eerie as a horror movie at times. Judy Berlin is clearly crafted by a director who knows the value of the window, it's observational and aesthetic power and the overall result of cinematic alchemy.Everything encased in this film feels like the magic of seeing a moment in time through a window and being able to appreciate it for it's human qualities as well as what it means in the face of the myseteries of life. The film is constantly eliciting these gigantic smiles that we cinephiles desperately seek. It's editing is marvelously timed and concocted, it's atmosphere wonderfully offbeat and low-key at the same time and the score, which at first may sound a bit too much like Rushmore, seems to have a different flavor as the film proceeds and it begins to complement the images almost as if they were filmed to go with it (and not the other way around). Coincidentally enough that I would find a comparison in Rushmore. Judy Berlin is reminiscent of that film and either of Todd Solondz's opuses in it's sure-footed march to the vision of it's director, clearly set to create the neighborhood out of a palette of his own experience.  This is the very zen balance of the heavily stylized Indie pic and the filmed theater (read : character + actor driven) idie pic. Haunting, occasionally too meandering for any film's good - Judy Berlin is often a great film even when it's not great entertainment. The acting is extraordinary from everyone, particularly Madeline Kahn (whose last performance this is), who plays a housewife suffering from the aging process - and maybe from Alzheimer's disease. And the film's marketing tool - Edie Falco (of that TV show that nobody's heard of and never gets any Emmy nominations) - is magnificent. Her first encounter with David Gold (Harnick), an aspiring filmmaker (can an independent film exist without this character), is such a weed of hilarity in this dramatic bluster of a garden, that it's inverted itself for a few moments. It's a colorful scene in a purposefully colorless (it's in black and white - hint, hint!) film. And finally, a neck-breaking nod to director of photography Jeffrey Seckendorf, whose wonderful and lasting cinematography is the hidden charm in Judy Berlin. For all it's brilliant writing and assured filmmaking - the look of the film is maybe the most important - and beautiful- part of it. The landscapes of this sordid little burg, which include train stations, public schools - even a historical village - and especially the dazzlingly filmed eclipse sequences - are breathtaking. This is a film where all the elements come together to combine a piece of art that's worthy of it's praise and deserves a much broader audience.

Keeping the Faith is an inverted oddball of a movie. It's a corny routine that fumbles its message inside an impossibly dull love story. Strangely enough, it's too
deep when it should be light; inappropriately peppy and screwball in the face of it's rare, reverent epiphanies. It's about thirty minutes too long and, at it's worst
possible moments, it fizzles our interest. What's really obtuse about Keeping the Faith is it's heart, firmly in the right place; and it's actors, deftly in tune with its
intentions; all of them playing too hard for the occasion. It's a hoax of vanity : attractive actors hook us in with hip, funny antics, then drag us through unimaginably flat
scenes you'd only find in a movie. I really almost feel like recommending it based on what it should be and the promise it shows in it's opening scenes, showcasing a
risk rarely taken with a first directorial effort (namely, the meshing of two, count em', two religions into taboo zones and flat-out comedy, without apology).
Simultaneously, it bears those indolent first timer drives: the bland editing and photography, a narrative spun in retrospect only to catch up to itself at the halfway
point, slow motion, freeze frames and voice-over, all used haphazardly, and other transparent gestures of art house flare, misappropriating obvious cinematic
amateurism and redundancy. Granted, Norton is an amazing actor and well complemented by his terrific cast : Stiller, who would be a hoot in the silent cinema;
Elfman, who surprised the Dharma out of me; and Forman, Wallach and Bancroft, the geriatrics in our romantic comedy (yes, my bleeding pet peeve), who work
because they're restrained whilst delivering their respective speeches without resorting to goofiness or grandstanding. Keeping the Faith lost my interest, yes, and it's lackluster ending certainly didn't recapture it (stay attentive for a key scene littered with errors in continuity - always fun to snicker and gawk at), but it's a marginal jumping off point for Norton, whose decadence doesn't pay off here - but could easily come in handy beyond the complications and compromises of romantic comedies. Talk about tackling a challenge your first time out. He gets my sympathy vote, but not my recommendation.

So utterly forgettable that I can't even remember what I would have said about it had I bothered to review it when I saw it. The flights of fancy that take Willis back to his childhood seem to come some time after you've finished watching the movie and are driving home - - - and the kid hired to be his little shadow, Spencer Breslin, is just about the most irritating piece of pug-child I'd ever hoped to have to watch. The film's saving graces are Willis's great one-liners through the first act and Emily Mortimer's saint like tolerance of his existence. But then again, tolerance really shouldn't be poking its head into a film's quality, now should it?

[Still not sure exactly what I had hoped to accomplish with the inclusion of "driving home". I watched this thing in my bedroom. Then went to sleep. No car involved.]

A harmless, but not particularly enticing French film that observes three sisters (is that this year's theme, or what?) who are affected by divorce so much, it
ripples into their very lives with almost no subtlety whatever. Director Daniele Thompson ( who wrote The Dinner Game, which I openly - for whatever reason - refused to see) is known for his venemous characters and dry wit, and here he inserts a great deal of both - and a couple of wrenching monologues - but never seems to reach a pitch of reverence that lifts La Buche (English title : Seasons' Beatings) out of it's revolving door soapbox groove. Only Beart is memorable as a wife on the verge of being left by her husband. Using the former sexpot charm she employs in Roman (her husband) Polanski's films, she manages to trick us into loving her as she deploys the bombs of preparation, an effort to snake him before he snakes her. Claude Rich delivers a wonderful speech (to himself) about a Christmas in WWII Poland as he crossed the border that all but stops the movie dead in it's tracks, but as he later meets his ex-wife for drinks and proceeds to drink heavily, Thompson strips him of his kindness by giving him a devilish (but dimwitted) late-comeback to the ex-wife's incessant gloating over her former affairs : "Bitch". That sums up my feelings about most of the film : Just as it reaches it's climax, Thompson inserts the dagger and turns up the chill.

The title character of The Legend of Bagger Vance refers to a mystical caddie, one who seems to appear and disappear into thin air. In this story, a withered
golf champion named Junuh (Damon) - on whom The Great War has taken a vast toll - has sunken into a life of liquor and solitude. Propositioned by his former love
Adelle (Theron), he declines to play in a huge tournament in which he'd be representing his hometown of Savannah. It isn't until an encounter with Bagger (Smith)
that he decides to play in the tournament, which will become a journey not only to reinstate his golf career - but to rediscover his broken former self and to find a
level-headed way of life through the pleasures and concentration of the game. These are lofty themes to unfold in a film that, while serene and sincere, often plays like
nearly every other pressure cooker sports competition the screen has offered to us. In fact, what saves the film most of the time is the distinct correlation between
Junuh's manner of living/system of beliefs and the rules and strategies of golf. When the metaphoric link of life does deviate from golf, it turns it's focus on Junuh's wartime recollections and concluded romance in attempt to apply this parallel further. This only happens a few times, but it really weakens itself by piling too much baggage upon one allegory. Luckily, when existence and golf are freely flowing into one another's deepest pools, the film is a magnificent reflection on how we live our lives and indeed, the need to question our existence and how we cultivate it as we grow older. Eventually, this transformation gives way to the film's most valuable seal, the most simply put parallel with life: "You can't win this game, you can only play". (Would spoil it if I were to offer my own interpretation - feel free to inquire.) The film is passionate at heart but, like Junuh, isn't always sure how to express this emotion in order to maximize its meaning. Luckily, Redford has no trouble finding the right note for the film. The tone is marvelously sculpted, as are the characters, each the very picture of varied nobility and human beauty. Damon's reinvention and eventual redemption are cast in as dreamlike a glow as the fading "legend" that is Bagger Vance (enacted with auspicious grace by Will Smith). The magic of Damon's charm and his effect on the golf sequences produce an almost childlike joviality, a determined and concentrated elation that is at once consuming and inspiring. Damon gives one of his best performances, exhibiting a definite lift from Redford, of whose likable, boyish qualities Damon often evokes. Whomever put it to the studio that Redford and Damon could work out together made an intelligent choice. First a haunted country club drunk and later enlightened, Damon is able to competently play both the jester and the king echoing the earlier films of Redford. Despite the performers, this film only gradually realizes itself as it progresses, a good thing for a movie with such an uneven pace. Too often, the film seems to be one compelling scene straddling the dead time before another begins. Like an old man, it needs to rest between it's allocations of wisdom. It never manages to keep from sinking into repetitive (which stems from the style of the novel on which it is based) and predictable (it is still a sports movie) territory which, though unfortunate, certainly doesn't swallow up all it's merit. This is still a highly watchable, very enjoyable couple of hours in a darkened theater. I've seen plenty of films like this one: films that are just charming enough to flurry along with good-looking actors, a sweet score and plenty of interest, to nearly convince us that they are not flawed. Never the very picture of brilliance, but often dogmatic and wispy, The Legend of Bagger Vance is based upon a novel by Steven Pressfield - one you'd find in the "inspirational" section of your local bookstore. Though I've not read it, the film plays like an self-helpish novel: informal, often carefully making a point more than once as if to reinforce its importance. It is also full of examples and applications meant to keep the film relative and accessible. The attempt to fit such an approach  into a ridged narrative structure is admirable and, for the most part, successful. The film doesn't always work - but it gets the valuable messages across and, in the process, finds its own voice despite some distraction.

Reminds me of that moment when the popularity of the "I Didn't Do It" Boy (aka Bart Simpson) runs out and, desperately, he emits the phrase "Wuzza Wuzzel". Little Nicky is prime "Wuzza Wuzzel". As the audience watching and creating the failure of the "I Didn't Do It" Boy said, "That's what passes for entertainment these days? Wuzza Wuzzel?". I'm afraid so. On the box, it says that Little Nicky earned over $40 million. In my heart, though, I know will earn a helluva a lot more - realistically - than that alarmingly uunappalling Sandler Films Inc. gross in the theater (that is, when it hits video on April 24th). These films, which have almost no half-life yet seem to last forever and a day, don't annoy me as much as the specific draws which pull us in. Consider that people see the film because Adam Sandler plays the devil's son. Then consider the actual enactment (which is one of the most annoying film characters I've seen to date), a performance of such lazy, repetitive tootling, I expect even Sandler himself chucked the premise and kept the paycheck after dreaming it up. (Like Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo, Little Nicky is an idea for a five minute sketch, painfully stretched into a 84 minute film at YOUR expense). Then consider the paycheck. Consider while you're at it, the premise: Devil's son must capture his two older, much larger, much meaner brothers in a magic flask before his father deteriorates in hell (you see, by leaving hell in the first place, the brothers have frozen some eternally burning wall causing this leper-like condition in old scratch). The problem is that he is too nice a guy and that, all he really wants to do, is save his father. This is a film about paternal protection that is using the old "magic flask" routine. You can't fool me! I know the old "magic flask" routine! (Now return with me to reality) Though the intermittent funny line uttered by the random Saturday Night Live cast member may cause a chuckle, Little Nicky is perhaps Sandler's worst gimmick yet. Keep giving him your money and keep watching this filth. I'll be over here not considered a loser by the paramount of normal people in this world.

[Dude, Trout, calm down: These are only movies.]