Based on George Dawes Green's 1994 Edgar Award winning novel of the same name, 'The Caveman's Valentine' is anything but the electrifying side of compelling entertainment a lauded piece of literature would require - - - or at least suggest. As if tryingg to evoke some deeply classical state of being, all the names in the film are long, threaded descriptors (without actually describing anything). Samuel L. Jackson plays Romulus Ledbetter, Feore plays David Leppenraub, MacNeil plays a character called Cork, Ellis a girl called Lulu; even Ledbetter himself has a fictionalized arch-enemy that seems to inhabit only his mind as he worries day in, day out that a Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant plots to control the world from the top of NYC's Chrysler Building. Everyone feels the need to use these names half a dozen times a minute, especially Jackson whose main goal, besides a curious mixture of befuddled self-preservation and creative detective work, seems to be to shout the word "Stuyvesant" at the top of his lungs. In the opening sequence of the film, he rants and raves on a bench near his home, a structure that, inside and out, appears to be a cave in a Manhattan park. Someone in the crowd which has gathered says to him: "Happy Valentine's day, caveman" (as if to immediately drop the obtuse title's hopes and dreams to a casual inference that we are expected to add meaning to over the course of the film). The direction headed is not a good one. Early on, though the imagery is connected and well etched, we buckle for a series of conventions.
        After finding a frozen corpse atop a tree outside his cave, Romulus becomes obsessed with the idea that fab photographer David Leppenraub is responsible for the death. Leppenraub (another grimy slither from the great Canadian actor Colm Feore) takes photographs which depict angelic young men experiencing pain among still life props (Isn't that the international signal that someone is guilty of murder?). To get properly suited up (literally), Romulus enlists the help of Bob, a businessman he passes on the street. Played by Anthony Michael Hall with the same kind of arrogant nerdiness stuck forever in his persona from his John Hughes days, this character never really registers as a fitting piece of the film's world. Romulus, who has been to Julliard (but evidently didn't
quite follow through, as they say), displays a rare knowledge for a Russian composer, which results in his admittance to Bob's penthouse apartment. Once there, it is only a matter of time before the heavily milked trend of audience satisfying (and nausea inducing) irony appears and saturates us with its insincerity. On the bench of Bob's piano (an instrument he recognizes by year and brand name), Romulus makes sweet love to the black and white keys as he transcends the genius locked in his half crazed, dreadlock-clad helmet. Moments later, his hair is cut, his face shaved and a new suit has been applied to his body. Now he's ready to stick his nose where it doesn't belong.
        Kasi Lemmons is a wonderful filmmaker. Her movies (she's made one other, 1997's 'Eve's Bayou') tend to have a dreaminess to their storytelling, weaving settings and optical effects into a fast paced editing scheme. Here, her seemingly new, almost fresh faced style is wasted on a story that is equal parts cliche-ridden and predictably open-and-shut. My assumption (though I've not read Green's novel) is that the book was interested, for the most part, in Romulus's ability to keep straight a world of facts, organizing them (as in music, which is mathematical) and still carrying on his occupation as a mentally damaged, hallucinating lunatic. It comes through in the film, but less as a struggle to maintain elements than as a byproduct of how strong Jackson is as a performer. Giving a
performance that is streaked with upstaging the rest of the cast and loud, scenery chewing dialogue reading is the norm for Jackson. From his first appearance in Spike Lee's 'Jungle Fever' through his Oscar nominated turn in 'Pulp Fiction' up to and including last year's seemingly obligatory re-make abomination, 'Shaft', Jackson is no stranger to obliterating the viewer with his lively face and commanding vocal tone. In 'The Caveman's Valentine', he wreaks the same havoc, but leaves only himself in the memory as the somewhat forgettable film drags on. Instead of indexing the facets of the narrative, we earmark the levels of his character, the loud pitches and quiet moments, the visually alluring man contrasting with the dirty, unkempt vagabond. While this may seem like an interesting watch, all we really take away from the film, besides the volume of Jackson's Romulus, is the
quivering Lemmons, desperately trying to breath life into this tired story.
        What made 'Eve's Bayou' so enchanting - and what is missing from 'The Caveman's Valentine' - is the way Lemmons understands how a setting can envelope characters and define their actions and moods almost to the point where it is out of their reach. The deep south enriched the young woman in 'Eve's Bayou', but its devastating effect on her father became entwined so in her experience that the film must begin with her wrongful notion that she has "killed her father" (meant figuratively and literally). We can see Lemmons attempting such a feat here, setting the film in the harsh New York bustle that makes Jackson a loon to the masses and a genius to select members. It defines his madness while isolating his talent. Adding another setting, Leppenraub's creepy
farmhouse in upstate New York, only makes Lemmons' job more fateful. Here we are supposed to find Jackson challenged by space and its relation to his perception of paranoia: did Leppenraub murder the insubordinate young man who refused to pose for a picture? Is the question defined by how Jackson's world collapses on him daily? Is Stuyvesant really trying to take over the world? The fact that not a single one of these questions seems to linger or even stay interrogative as Jackson's detective work resonates without interest makes 'The Caveman's Valentine' an encapsulated tedium with a violent, unnecessary struggle within left sitting in the cold like the corpse in Manhattan park. Lemmons does her best to flavor the film with pizzazz but she never finds the true
nature of what Green and Jackson seem to have in mind. This is a story about balancing contradictory mental elements that comes off as an obsessive inner-citywhodunit without a single interesting twist.

    Hating a film based upon public over-exposure and disliking a film on the grounds that you saw it and weren't able to enjoy it are two very different brands of critique. I have certainly been guilty of the former, tend to think myself more capable of the latter and often find myself in the throes of a bit of both. Nevertheless, I ponder on how a wide array of folk could hate films that make oodles of cash. (Last projected figure on the mediocre reviewed, word-of-mouth sunken Hannibal : $142.8 million in 4 weeks of release).
        Scribes Mamet and Zaillain have replaced the flat-toned crime drama aped in Silence of the Lambs (almost directly from Michael Mann's vivid tone in Manhunter) with a booming, full-bodied operatic hue, something colorful and provocative to rise to the spectacle people love to criticize and belittle. Instead of conservative gray days and messy houses concealing subversive dungeons, we have sunny, well lit days and magical, starry nights where torches burn in Italy and the Capitol building in Washington, D.C. looks like a sparkling sphere. Ridley Scott commands a budding energy, unlike Jonathan Demme, who made Silence of the Lambs very textual and engaging. Here, characters are in less of a cat-and-mouse maze than a 'Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego?'
continent hop where having a map won't do you any good, but tracing everything on high tech gadgetry will get you within inches of the highbrow killer Hannibal Lecter (once again brought to an boil by Anthony Hopkins, who, I don't even need to mention, steals and devours every scene he's in). Essentially, Hannibal is a twisted, almost borderline taboo jolt of pure guilty pleasure. We take supreme pleasure in the bloody, grisly guilt of the film's world.
        The actors are playing up a different brand of candor with Hannibal being given the chance to fantasize and live out his legend beyond our imagination. This would have failed had the writers, the source material (by Thomas Harris) and the filmmakers not given Hannibal some interesting moves of his own to sharpen. Skeptics who dismiss Julianne Moore as simply not being Jodie Foster, miss the skill in how she appropriates a thoroughly disliked Clarice Sterling who isn't afraid of evil because she finds it to be a turn-on. Sexy, but equally discreet when brandishing emotion, Moore immediately distances us from the gender less dark side Foster won an Oscar for. So, too, does the film distance us from the world of The Silence of the Lambs that supporting characters - like an Italian detective (Giannini) and a faceless, wealthy child molester (Oldman, in yet another cruel, stunning
performance) - start to take on a much less disturbing life of their own, opting instead for a direct confrontation of motives that doesn't require quite as much detective work that was a large part of the fun in Silence of the Lambs. This is by no means a flaw. We love watching Oldman's antics and enjoy the predicament of Giannini, who is given a role of naiveté so staggering, we are invited to thumb our noses down at him along with Clarice. The thoroughly wicked FBI higher-up dripping from actor Ray Liotta doesn't hurt, either. Hannibal gives us a ton of supporting characters who are dangerous and simply not very bright. Strategically placing them in Hannibal's and Clarice's paths gives the two leads a sense of intelligence, a fine-tuned superiority that is immensely satisfying.
        And following in the surprising order, whereas most films find their second half lagging in comparison to the first half, Hannibal saves its best sequences for the last hour. (Of course, a stationery shot of Hopkins' head could have outweighed the ridiculous drug bust which takes place in the opening moments, a plot device so obvious and blinding, you almost need a pair of sunglasses to filter it out). I won't ruin the better scenes. They involve the Italian cop and Hannibal's notoriously appealing trait. This is a film that, if you get annoyed at how shaky it starts probably won't do much for you even as it pulls out all the stops. Part of the problem is pacing, a flaw Ridley Scott is no stranger to (anybody see Gladiator, a film that all but dies about half way through, only to be resurrected in its closing twenty minutes). I urge you to see it, bear with the first thirty or forty minutes - which aren't entirely bad, but lack the chilling giggles of the closing hour and change.
       In Hannibal, instead of asking the audience to suspend disbelief, Ridley Scott using a technique most popular in Scooby Doo cartoons. Instead of capturing the bad guy in the elaborate trap which Fred, Dafne and Velma plan, Scooby inadvertently bungles the set-up but captures the bad guy through an improvised means. So, too, does this film show us what we want to see, changing the moment by using techniques both appropriated from the Hannibal character and invented for this film. (For example, the closing scene is surreal and gory - but it has a certain context that we believe.) 'Hannibal' isn't an unconventional machine so much as it adds style to what we expect, defying the gigantic hopes and dreams of an audience of people who, for some reason, are programmed to hate what is popular. Why is that, I wonder?

        'In The Mood For Love', fraught with the sort of cinema rich techniques which excel in blurry, indistinct concepts and situations (but in a good way), unearths a gold mine in exploiting time and undefined space in undefined relationships. Playing shy, polite personalities whose spouses have strayed - with each other - the luminous actors Tony Leung and Maggie Cheung huddle in each other's personal space, just barely impacting the other amidst the strife they're quietly enveloped in. There's an ancient, towering glimmer as he explains to a friend that when you need to unload a secret, sometimes simply whispering it into the abscess of an gigantic rock does the trick - - - a glimmer which the straight-on, almost unmoving eyes of Tony Leung make into an almost religiously intense epiphany; the kind of telling statement you could almost sketch his character from memory for having heard. Equivocally, Maggie Cheung bears the beautiful, brooding swagger of a goddess compacted into reflective immensity, slyly bending the rules of a rule less relationship with her careful, conscious honor ability that's there - - - and is not. The bold Won Kar-Wai, without script or structure (so I've heard), fired hundreds of hours of question marks at his actors only to find their very disheveled collisions making up answers to put piece of puzzle to interlocking piece - before shape has come to the complementary outer edges of these shards of beauty. Moments when the wailing cello score mimics George Frederic Handel (calling to mind the climactic strings of Kubrick's 'Barry Lyndon') - and consequently, as these sequences are arranged, bring a passion to a hum (though on an interior level, the moments would hum anyway) and find, in the most forgotten of seconds, more pow even, than is garnered in the rare, exciting scenes of curiously ambiguous flirtation. This reversal of passions is wildly successful and reminded me of just how wonderful Kar-Wai (Chungking Express, Fallen Angels, Happy Together, Ashes of Time) is at tying down a couple of actors and jerking a pause in time, throwing their whole rumba off. 'In The Mood For Love' realizes this interrupted rumba in a more concise, rewarding manner - without anything off the wall - than I've seen Kar-Wai manage to datee. As a romance, 'In The Mood For Love' seems like a pending friendship; as a story of comparison, it reads "possibility" hanging in the air - more real than unreal. Like a sweet fog, rapturous waves of intertwined and malleable "possibility" flow into these characters' unsure hearts - and guide them towards each other - as they step in opposite directions manifesting undecided, twofold emotions like it were second nature.

    Strange how unstirring and, in fact, noticeably slight Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts cast their popular personas into each other's pools. The story, without beating around the bush, is flat and both seem to be working desperately to singularize their respective performances in order not to upset the balance attempted through keeping them apart all but fifteen minutes of the film's screen time (at the starting gate and the finish line). They feel wrong when they finally collide at the film's lackluster, almost tired slump of a conclusion (really, it doesn't even pop off a death rattle, it just dies). The whole film, seemingly, is about the blind acceptance of love in the face of (some extremely irritating) relationship analysis, but when Pitt and Roberts find themselves confronted by that all impending realization moment, you can't help but see the lack of radiant fireworks in their sincerity.  On their own, Pitt and Roberts have no trouble embodying likable neurotics - he the haphazard tragicomic type, her a more peppy, mature brand. In fact, as completely sequestered characters, these two fit into writer J.H. Wyman's rather dry wasteland of a story quite well, almost transcending something else, something better, something of their own.  Pitt is never better than when he's getting tossed around by fate. As complex a character as
Verbinski has to offer, Pitt rouses the kind of force that movie stars (as opposed to actors) rarely have to offer: reserved instinct. Pitt, without over exerting himself, can bang out pleasantness on a good day. In The Mexican, Pitt seems to be the only cast member allowed to comprehend the admittedly half realized world of the film. In fact, his character is so entertaining and so stimulating, I can almost picture him reading the script and fashioning a character all his own to save this twisted, burning wreck of mediocrity. And he almost succeeds. Sans Meet Joe Black, he may be the only movie star/actor who lacks the capacity to be a robot. Roberts is given the greater, more difficult task of bringing life to the tired irony of a hit man musing about love and relationships with his kidnapping victim. She gets to volley words with James Gandolfini, which is intriguing, but none of it ever really takes flight. For the majority of the time they're together on screen, we're feeling either sympathy for the banal character Gandolfini has to play (he's proven his talent beyond being a stock heavy, let it be known) or simple deja vu as the gangster with a heart of gold begins his long sermon on the value of romance and true love (as he
brandishes a weapon and ices thugs). Less funny and more irritating than this is the fact that Julia Roberts, cute and wacky all at the same time, spits out dialogue that sounds suspiciously like that of countless other characters she has played. Verbinski, maker of the promising but equally worthless Mousehunt, does a ton to stifle The
Mexican even on top of the obvious script catastrophe. For one thing, his movie, a small affair, feels like a epic: it is overshot and overlong. In addition to how poorly he stages the film's impending reunion, he never manages to grasp the intimate note Wyman's script requires in order for the texture to appear in sync with the film. As is, we watch The Mexican unfold like a sprawling giant of a film which dwarfs the rare human moments. As the film operates from a level of convenience that, sadly, does not allow for more than moment-to-moment, intermittent laughs, often the bigger picture dilutes the twists and turns that, while contrived, at least keep us interested. But never mind all that. Verbinski isn't exactly the idealist he pretends. He's more of a sitcom writer. He's confused the
differences in presenting a satisfying, original conclusion to a two hour film with the level of convention and willing suspension of disbelief that we only address in a thirty minute time track (on the small screen). I suppose he examined the script, realized it to be a ridiculous cross-country, one-last-big-score, philosophizing contract killer amidst feuding lovers while trend bashing all the way yarn to spin - - - why worry about minor elements like pacing and appeal? This film sort of reminds me of the arrogance of director Neil LaBute in assuming that Nurse Betty was a good script and then directing it as if the content needed no tinkering or emphasis (and we all remember how fond I was of that film). With The Mexican, Verbinski is still hunting mice. Only now, he's armed
with a budget and two of the biggest earners in Hollywood.

        "I made a promise. I intend to keep it", spurts Jerry Black (Nicholson) as a last plea for the
attention of his former superior, played by Sam Shepard.

        Nice dialogue, pal. Yes, I understand, its the simplicity of it. An old-fashioned saying in new
fashioned quarters. And then, with the audacity of a child striking his father, Jerry turns to Sam
Shepard and says, "Come on, you're old enough to remember when that meant something". No he's
not. Mythically, a promise is a storytelling technique to set up conflict. A promise is made to be
broken. A promise has always been made to be broken.
        Of course, not in this case. The promise refers to is a bond Jerry made with Patricia Clarkson,
mother of young murder victim, telling her he'd find the killer. The whole film is based upon this
promise, one he initially turns down, but then swears to in an elaborately religious manner (one would
expect as a matter of police duty to get on with the case). The obsession he follows it with can only
be described as arbitrary. It is not as if he had a bad police career and wanted to make up for it. It is
not as if he could trade the fear of retirement (which occurs simultaneously with the murder) for this
obsession, because that would be just plain laughable (not to mention overused). And finally, its not
as if he has any real connection to the case, he doesn't have any children - he never had any children
- and he didn't make the pledge as the result of any careful thought or deep meditation. It seems as if
he made the promise only to serve as content for this film.
        Furthermore, the promise also seems to serve a second, even more derivative purpose: to
serve the film's ending. I won't ruin it, but it occurred to me that we only watch the first two hours so
that the ending will play out as unconventional. Unfortunately, I think most audiences will just feel like
the film shrinks itself until you can no longer hear it whining; it will appear to just peter out and end,
rather than conclude with an ample amount of closure. And most audiences will be right. It is as if
we're trying to locate someone by the sound of their voice and just when we think we're close, their
voice gets fainter and fainter until we can't hear it anymore.
        I have to take pause to scratch my head over why 'The Pledge' is so over directed. In Sean
Penn's previous film, 'The Crossing Guard' (also starring Nicholson), the excessive nature of the main
character, a father hell-bent on revenge after his daughter is killed by a drunk driver, seems to
warrant a certain amount of over-the-top direction and vivid sentimentalism. In 'The Pledge', all the
extra gusto and screeching intensity only serves to overheat the already stupefying fire in the film's
belly. Nicholson is good - or appears good - because he can give one of those loud, unpredictably
wild performances without skipping a beat. And he's a lot of fun to watch when he's harnessing that
energy, even if the film he's banging around in is, for the most part, complete and utter tripe.
        Pieces of the film are interesting. The entire look of the film is impeccable - it takes place
entirely in Nevada, and utilizes landscapes of a bleak snow blindness, serene fishing grounds and
dusty roadways. The cinematography, as in Penn's 'The Crossing Guard' is photographic and unfolds
very, very slowly. Everything looks really spectacular even when what's occurring is more than a little
dim. The symbolism is desperately simple-minded, but what's onscreen at any given minute is a feast
for the eyes. Simply watching Jack Nicholson smoke a damn cancer stick is a feast for the eyes.
        It's a big, marginally good cast, too. The great Aaron Eckart as a new, blowhard cop; Sam
Shepard as the chief; Tom Noonan as a suspicious religious nut; a great cameo by Mickey Rourke
as a father whose daughter is missing and presumed dead; Robin Wright-Penn as a woman whose
daughter Nicholson uses as bait in attempt to trap the killer; and most bewildering of all, Benecio Del
Toro as a mentally handicapped Native American with a ton of priors, who is arrested in connection
with the murder. And once more, Del Toro (whom I think should win the Oscar in 2000 for
'Traffic'), doesn't work at all. It is hard to believe his character would be able to drive a car, much
less mastermind a serial rape. Watching him mouth the words and drool, stutter and mumble, slouch
over himself and look around the room - - - its just a total misfire. He's a great actor - and I'm sure
in a parallel world, it is a great performance - but in 'The Pledge', it just doesn't ignite anything.
        Finally, I wondered why the significance of birds was so prevalent. I couldn't figure it out, but I
expect it is drawn upon logically and with merit in the book of the same name, on which the film is
based (written by Friedrich Duerrenmatt). In fact, the whole story probably works better in novel
form, where the time to draw things out - in fact, the time to ponder on the many unanswered "whys"
floating around in 'The Pledge' - is plentiful, and worth experiencing.. In Sean Penn's 'The Pledge',
everything is churning away, plugging headlong towards a conclusion - creating an entire world out of
an obsession which is not grounded in anything - until it reaches an ending - - - that's not really there.
Amazing.
[Spoiler Alert: Oh, and that ending, the one where it turns out he was right all along, but the guy
died on the way to the meet - - - - I loved that. Too bad it was a cooll idea in a crappy movie.]

        Further proof that no filmmaker remains untainted by the corrupt American machine. Just when did Zhang Yimou decide to dispense with the drudgeries of being a genius? The maker of masterpieces like 'Ju Dou' and 'To Live' paints 'The Road Home' using very manipulative American-looking close-ups. And he uses enough that they become mighty suspect (that is, it would be easier to count the shots in the film that ARE NOT close-ups). Though he's used music to splendid results before (both 'Red Sorghum' and especially 'To Live' have scores permeating images in an eerie, almost too-complementary way), in 'The Road Home', a Chinese James Horner score almost washes the images over with a syrupy sweet exterior, leaving a truly pretentious residue that is
tough to shake. Certainly no fault of the lovely Zhang Ziyi (who you know from 'Crouching Tiger, Hidden
something or other'), who looks about two or three years younger than she is, but manages to sidestep the obvious preoccupation (or, let's say, obsession) Yimou has with pimping her into an emotional gold mine. Her co-star, Sun Honglei, is unattractive and enthusiastic (do they mix?), lending something of a coincidental distraction to 'The Road Home's deafening false ring. Concerning a man confronted with his mother's stubborn wishes for his recently deceased father's funeral procession (and the flashback to his parents' courtship which helps him to deal with it), 'The Road Home' is so uninvolving that it almost appears to have the scent of an American film: that "bland story as motive to accentuate display of visual tinkering" attitude is present all over. Not really a trait of the great Yimou, 'The Road Home's most painful effect is how disappointed I was to see
the quality of this masterful Chinese cinema poet plummet. The black mark on a career. 'Spose they all have them. 'The Road Home' leads only away from anything remotely associated with the definition in its title. It's a long road, though. Often, it seems unending. In Zhang Yimou's previous outings, that was a good thing. Not here.

        So, if it has not been screamed in the streets or otherwise made known to you, Guy Ritchie simply re-made his last film, 'Lock, Stock & Two Smoking Barrels' with a few more characters, a little less in the way of character development and a whole lot more speed-addicted camera movement and called it 'Snatch'. I only really have to take offense to this because I guess with all that darn improvement and progression rammed into my head since birth, I pretty much expect filmmakers to at least demonstrate some sort of enrichment, some sort of a cultivation of their former successes and failures. A filmmaker raisin' all this ruckus for a film that is essentially a microcosm of his last success, which was pretty much hollow in itself - is a feat. 'Snatch' is fun, too, but its not the same brand - or level - of fun. 'Snatch' is amusing. It's a diversion. 'Snatch' does just as its title suggests (with your attention). Later, you can't even remember the circumstances surrounding your transportation to the multiplex, you're missing a chunk of change from your wallet, you've gum on your pants and you're throat hurts from inhaling what is the equivalent of dead air. Guy Ritchie has made a film that could easily pass for prime time television. It has been engineered to erase itself from your association with it. Linger, it does not.
    Just three years ago, when I reviewed 'LS&TSB', I was brave enough to rekindle the story line to the best of my ability (which I remember taking far more time that I'd have cared to spend in the first place). Backing down in the "brave" category this time around the maypole, you're going to have to piece a synopsis together yourselves. The characters include jewel thieves, two-bit hoodlums, boxing promoters, big bad British bad guys with big bad British teeth, hit men with creative names, Orthodox Jews, jewel thieves dressed as Orthodox Jews, Irish travellers, crazy Russian hit men - - - the list could pretty much go on and on. (Lest I forget the dog, a pivotal role in a film with this many characters - go figure).
    What I like about Ritchie's films is that he separates himself from from his colleagues in the crime drama genre by creating a light, almost fluffy comic delight inside his over plotted, over directed, way over shot free-for-alls. Both 'Snatch' and 'LS&2SB' have at least this in common - and much more (the style and story are similar, the structure is almost identical - - - even the characters seem to be the same, but with different names). Still, its nice to see neo-noir in an otherwise dry season made with a willingness to be coy, to be farcical, to be happy-go-lucky, to be wisecracking: to be all the things that hard edged films designed of violence and foul language (of which 'Snatch' has in spades, more of it mean spirited than in 'LS&2SB') never manage to muster. And I doubt from these two cinematic efforts that Ritchie's out to make anything of true and concrete value to the intellectual film going crowd. He's clearly emulating the films of the seventies and, (separate thought), marketing
them to people who like to forget themselves briefly and not remember what they were doing when they were in the shutdown mode.
    Some nice performances in the mix. Brad Pitt, as usual, is especially good at tapping a wacked-out side of himself to bring in a bare knuckle boxer who just can't seem to go down in the fourth round. Vinnie Jones, pretty much all but reprising his former role in 'LS&2SB', just continues to interest me in athletes-turned-actors. All that charisma. That brute strength. That self-confident wit. Are there any American athletes who turned to the screen that project likability even a wee bit? Top of my head can't find a name.
    Another pitfall in fusing the same overall sequence of events with the same down-and-out hoods becomes a competition scrap: 'Snatch's head boss (Alan Ford, who grinds his victims up and feeds them to pigs) isn't quite as menacing as Hatchet Harry in 'LS&2SB'; the leads in 'Snatch'  aren't nearly as interesting as the four blokes who carry 'LS&2SB'; and the race-against-the-clock method met with a violent car accident that just turns out to be a coincidental blessing in disguise (I swear this exact structure appears in both films) is more elaborately staged and gory in 'Snatch' - - - but not half as much fun as in 'LS&2SB'.
    But enough comparison. For all the ridicule I impart on Ritchie (the most should be for how loud he turns up Madonna's "Lucky Star" in a key scene), his film is at least entertaining. Following a fruitless year full of mostly sub par hack jobs, the bright light is still enough to draw my eyes near to its projection - - - even if it is only an amusing sub par hack job.

        An invigorating and pleasing film from the previously interesting but uneven filmmaker Robert Rodriguez, SPY Kids takes flight in a realm of cinematic wonder that gives everything a sensational gravity and stamps it a kind hearted kid pic. At center, it is a terrific movie (beyond its affiliation with the rugrat consumers), a film to be placed alongside the likes of The Goonies or Labyrinth (pint-sized heroes riding high adventure for audience pleasure) rather than the recent wave of so called kid pics, films which seem aimed suspiciously at my generation and higher (like Antz, Chicken Run, Toy Story 2, etc.). Though it opens with the standard kids-saving-mom-and-dad, it takes little time to leap into a plotline involving the devious plot of children's program host Floop (Cumming) to create hundreds of little robot kids to spy on people (hence, the....you know), not to mention the Floopies, his experimental mutations which look like squashed teletubbies. I thought to myself as I watched: this is a clear cut example of how adolescence and creativity can be properly balanced to create the ever elusive "entertainment".
        Rodriguez's previous outings all felt like he was using one hand, and therefore they were all, in some way, slightly spoiled: Desperado was merely a more expensive, more stylish remake of El Mariachi and both films seemed to straddle greatness without ever achieving it; From Dusk Til Dawn demonstrates that a horror film is still a dull old horror film even if envisioned by Rodriguez through the eyes of Quentin Tarantino (via his script); and his most recent before SPY Kids, The Faculty is a near entire misfire of elements wherein it loses credibility (not to mention the audience) as a science fiction film and becomes weighed down on all sides by unnecessary subplots. SPY Kids is a whimsical delight and without ever complicating itself. With both hands, Rodriguez gets it.....well, he gets it right.
        What SPY Kids boasts that current kiddie fare clearly does not is the sense that being a kid, though a bummer at times, is a time of fantasy. Here, things look like fantasy. Conceived with Macy's Day Parade proportions, everything in SPY Kids is big, colorful and round. The Super Guppy (a boat and submarine in one) is enormous and yellow and spherical. Floop's castle, his Floopies, his furniture, his world - - - all seem vibrant, vast and decidedly round. He even possesses a virtual reality room that encompasses himself and visitors in graphics, visuals and sound, creating a sensation of overwhelmed wholeness, a feeling certainly not uncommon to children.
       The special effects (done via videoconference/internet hook-up with the Montreal based effects house Hybride - - - from Rodriguez's garage, no less) all appear purposefully exaggerated  in order to appear cartoonish rather than seamless and realistic. (In other words, the colorful world looks as if it fell from the imagination of a child rather than the hallucinogenic experiences of its designers). In flowing with the playful, slapstick nature of SPY Kids, I'd say meshing overblown edges of visual action with the breakneck pacing of a quality thriller pays off big time.
        In tow, there are more than enough wacky characters to settle into the bizarre universe of SPY Kids. Banderas and Gugino as successful superspies turned "consultants" are very attractive as they hum along, gliding with gadgetry and dodging clichés at every turn. Both Daryl Sabara and Alexa Vega command the screen (rather than look like kids trying to show a small splash of emotion) as the title characters...AKA Junie and Carmen, respectively. Supporting turns from Robert Patrick as the sleaze who commissions the kid robots; Teri Hatcher and Cheech Marin as OSS (the spy organization which once employed Banderas and Gugino) operatives; Alan Cumming as the goofy Floop and Tony Shaloub as his second, who would, of course, wear over-the-top nerd glasses. And they all feel like they're both in on how the film is meant to play and on how Rodriguez sees the
whole kid POV issues.
        The film runs an appropriate and pitch perfect ninety-three minutes. It accomplishes two thing in addition to entertaining the hardened film viewer: It kept my daughter riveted without a moment for distraction and it made her "feel cool" (her words). Easily Rodriguez's best work to date (and a sequel is in the works), SPY Kids quenches the cinematic sweet tooth as a highbrow, kid oriented film that actually considers youth both in its voice and its target audience.

        Opening with a tortured fishing vessel in the throes of a storm which recalls Joseph Conrad novels, the action is incited as two stragglers who have been lost in the Newfoundland fog board the ship and return to the island of St. Pierre with the crew. These brief moments set the mood for the film definitively: the wide screen images of a tossing ship dodging murky sea spray amidst cold crashing waves, men tying big, tough rope to faded, wet wood and all running about aboard the ship like chickens with their heads cut off. When the ship docks on the tiny island, everyone aboard busies themselves making a beeline for the nearest pub in order to fuddle themselves something wicked. One of the men, Neel Auguste,  tagging along after losing his way on the ocean commits a drunken murder and is quickly sentenced to the guillotine (called "the widow" in this time period), which does not yet exist in the town of St. Pierre. He is remanded to the custody of a clever, warm
jailer simply called the Captain (Auteuil), whose wife Madame La (Oscar nominee Binoche, here speaking her original language and acting) immediately takes a shine to him and makes it her mission - life and marriage be damned - to set him free.
        The symbolism the film sets in motion deals with a new attitude in France during the nineteenth century, directly after the birth of the second republic. While an extended arm far from the mother land, St. Pierre represents the power of a sovereign as the thrust is cast and the struggle to secure an implement to behead the criminal is undertaken. It seems that the paradox of the death penalty (modernized almost to laughable means here), when carried over into small town life, becomes an empowerment issue for the elected officials. Main characters The Captain and Madame La are lost in the swirling issue which elevates as the search for an executioner becomes dire. Neel appears all over town, doing work without escaping, like a civilized person paying for his crimes. The hierarchy of St. Pierre, however, want him to die (as an example derived from orders originating in France). The predicament becomes more and more outrageous as the film proceeds, page markers in place
and the whole affair beginning to play like a beach novel. The Widow St. Pierre floats in message movie territory when it belongs on period narrative ground as it is a true story and the characterizations are particularly interesting.
        Playing Neel is director Emir Kusturica (Black Cat, White Cat), who looks as unkempt as possible, radiating his heart of sorrow and humane repentance between the dirty hairs and ragged clothing he sports. He's the kind of actor a director usually makes: very naturalistic and willing to disappear behind more showy, outward performances. Binoche (whom I've seen in her native tongue only once before, in Kieslowski's Trois Coloures : Bleu) is entirely commanding. As the thoughtful and entirely giving Madame La, she demonstrates what made her such a standout: her ability to ration her appearance. It is something Meryl Streep does with every role. Binoche has no qualms about blending a homely exterior with an engaging agenda and quickly, sometimes in the next
sequence, becoming absolutely breathtaking in her beauty and delivery. Her chemistry with Auteil is superior and, in part, due to how well Auteil plays on Leconte's interest in the why of relationships (in last year's The Girl on the Bridge, Leconte envisioned Auteil and actress Vanessa Paradis as a knife thrower and his target, deeply in love - and obsessed with the amount of compromise the act placed on both of them required). Here, Auteil is given a role that is at once entirely likable (he stands by his woman) and embodies the authoritative rush of a police officer. He is a man in charge of his own world who says and does what he believes and possesses a fiery passion for the woman he loves. Only the second film I've seen Auteil in, I am mesmerized by how slick and winning he is. (I'm guessing it would be ineffective to say I think he is extremely good looking, for obvious
reasons).
        While The Widow of St. Pierre comes dangerously close to being one of those picturesque failures (pretty to look at but a mouthful too much to swallow). It certainly runs the gamut of emotions. As Leconte has given us films like Monsieur Hire, Ridicule and the aforementioned The Girl on the Bridge, falling short on delivering a theme that isn't entirely too heavy-handed or, in some moments, outright preposterous, doesn't necessarily stifle his body of work. I still find him to be one of the better directors (along with Michael Mann, P.T. Anderson and Lars Von Trier) utilizing the entire canvas the frame. By creating the mannered, suggestive beauty of a rectangle that is a Patrice Leconte film, a visual interest is almost enough to demand our respect even when narrative undertones become too lofty to complement the eye candy. Similar problem in The Girl on the Bridge, which possessed more beauty than content, but sufficed in how offbeat and whimsical it was. Though I don't find The Widow of St. Pierre to be much more than expertly stylized melodrama with several pleasant performances, it still works marvelously as entertainment.