Sensibilities uncannily err on the side of modern (read: familiar, formulaic, disappointing) horror films rather than: a) a re-imagining of already successful material; b) a social critique first, a horror film second; c) an entertaining film. Even without the inevitable comparisons it will warrant to its source material, Dawn of the Dead is a pretty uninspired entry in the unusually long list of remakes being shat onto the screen this year. Key flaw is how it chooses to attack the template its been given; The original film wouldn't have been all that interesting or worthwhile if it hadn't been a scathing commentary on consumerist culture. Snyder’s remake sidesteps this idea – which, taken as a director's choice, is not a problem (I’ll return to what is the problem) – but casually inserts key lines from the original, referencing it specifically at every corner (great example: a cameo finds the actor who played Peter in the original film speaking the same line he spouted in the first one), as if connecting the two (which confuses the viewer). To be fair, the direction a filmmaker takes must be his own (especially when he's got to live up to a contemporary "classic"). However, if you abandon the value of the concept – namely, the underlying subtext that greed is innate and that chaos, instead of giving us pause to reexamine our compulsions, appears to underline and even, for a time, strengthen our impulses (before completely turning on us) – all you’re left with is an action film about people holed up in a mall (where, conveniently, resources are plentiful) who must decide whether or not to stay put and wait for help or confront the destructive power (in this case zombies) outside the mall as they seek asylum and peace. While the latter story may have held up sans its politics in the genuinely quirky, reasonably talented hands of George Romero, in the hands of Zach Snyder – and his Universal coattails – it turns into an opportunity to be gratuitous at every turn, about every detail. And what’s worse, it reduces my review to scattershot observations of minor sequences that have promise and work independent of the film itself, despite their dependence on its context:

• Even though it was aired in the trailer (and on USA Network, apparently), the opening sequence has a terrific power - that creepy girl in the background, the long pauses between attacks, a sudden realization that her block is now a war zone - a power the rest of the film can’t seem to match in vitality, even though the zombies are now on six pounds of speed (it seems) as opposed to their traditional hulking.
• To bookend, the closing sequence – perhaps the most telling end credits footage since Wild Things – is an unexpected deviation from the film’s otherwise obvious collection of dimwitted horror clichés; The information divulged not only provides a conclusion, but retains the film's terminally pessimistic edge.
• The image of aluminum siding and barbed wire encrusted shuttles plowing through a sea of zombies. It looks like paddywagons breaking up a brawl of the un-dead. (That is to say, badass).
• To contradict my previous comment w/r/t gratuity: Sarah Polley in the shower was, in fact, a high point. (Though she and Ving Rhames pretty much escape unscathed, it’s pretty obvious that both have been chosen for much broader reasons than their genuine talent; Rhames is a large, intimidating black man, Polley is a spunky, intelligent blonde with large breasts.)
• Opening montage of news footage set to Johnny Cash’s ‘When the Man Comes Around’. You have to be a pretty hardcore cynic to frown upon something that simple. It’s a wonder I liked it.

While initially I thought the key flaw in Control Room was it's tendency towards advertising Al-Jazeera as something more fair and balanced than, say, the Fox News Network, I'd sort of abandoned that critique by the time the film openly acknowledges that the two are pretty much occupying the opposing ends of the spectrum in the realm of sensationalist, side-taking news. What it really probes deeply - and well - is the struggle for foreign corresponddents of every kind to have an opinion and report the news without showing their hand (many seem to actively fail and could care less). At one point, one of the Al-Jazeerites waxes poetic about the possibility that objectivity is merely a mirage - perhaps the truest statement of all (and, for some reason, the one no one seems to confront in their quest to hold TV news to a standard like impartiality).

It's most offensive flaw isn't that it builds a framework with one set of characters and then expects us to believe their transformation (when they, for all intensive purposes, have become new characters altogether), nor is it the Robin Wright Penn character who seems to exist only to throw the definitive question of Ferrell's sexuality repearedly into the ring (apparently, his "that was back when we were kids" answer to former lover Jonathan's proposition wasn't enough to establish this) and to give this crazy, unconventional brood a baby to take care of (Actual tagline: "Family can be what you want it to be"). No, the most horribly wrong thing A Home at the End of the World manages to do is reduce Colin Ferrell to a strange, reverse-effect pawn in his own character's evolution, a mere shadow of his 9 year old self  (played by Andrew Chalmers) as well as his 16 year old self (the indelible Erik Smith). It isn't just that the movie takes Ferrell's Bobby away from him by dramatically reducing the bursting Hippie spirit he spreads around as a youth, it's that it fails to show us WHY he's suddenly so shy and so awkward when it flashes forward 8 years in the span of one dissolve. First time director Michael Mayer seems so hell bent on keeping the film tight and open-minded that clarity keeps riding shotgun to blunt, expository outbursts; It doesn't help that Michael Cunningham is the source writer and the screenwriter, shrinking his tale of unusually passionate people getting sucked into providing comfort and therapy for those less fortunate into pie-baking metaphors and clumsy, muted trauma. And my wife, my poor wife, denied her precious money shot. So sad...

Left wing propoganda, to be sure - - but also, black and white factual proof that The Fox News Channel is, obviously, a GOP tool that may have swayed the election. It's one of those docs that stands a small height (77 minutes) but gets bloated by the constant pausing (to register shock or, if you're watching it with a large group of people, share your displeasing stories and data). Greenawald populates Outfoxed with far too many talking heads, nearly all of which are too far left to make a valid, objective point. A single contributor finally puts his best foot forward (making the summation point to end all summation points): What they are doing wouldn't be so wrong if they didn't sell it as "fair and balanced". Obviously slapped together but certainly nearly as valuable as Control Room. (Although I'm not sure exactly who in this country believes Bill O'Reilly is anything but a cocksucker-motherfucker.)

After much deliberation - and even some combative practices such as quoting and reflecting - I've come to the conclusion that The Ladykillers proves, once and for all, that the successful formula to the Coen Bros. oeuvre is much deeper than the unique stylings of environment and character. They were able to fuse these things to a sympathetic (and often deeply funny) world view in previous collaborations; Their latest vision full-on lacks this. Part of the difficulty is forgivable: The source material was, at heart, fatally flawed; The first two thirds of Alexander Mackendrick's 1955 film of the same name struck me as an anticlimactic build-up to a very brief, somewhat insubstantial robbery, followed by a much more interesting cover-up. The cover-up is, in both films, at best, an entertaining tête a tête between public equals who happen to be moral opposites (the well spoken dandy and the old lady being on a level playing field, socially, in my book for some reason), but, predominantly, at its worst, the whole concept becomes almost too cartoonish to bother carrying over from the more successful first slice of the film. What the Coen Bros. clearly excel at, here, is drawing credible - even natural - extensions of their actors previous non-Coen persona: Hanks' smart talking Southern academic, Irma P. Hall's churchgoing busybody, Marlon Wayans' foul-mouthed miscreant, J.K. Simmons' uncharacteristically polite (and socially inept) demolition expert, etc. What they clearly don't excel at is veiling - or even lifting - this story out of its fairly one-dimensional shackles, leaving a sea of hit (The Bob Jones University references) -or-miss ("Mountain Girl"'s very presence) gags and one-liners in its wake. After 10 features - none of which earned less than a B, many earning higher than a B+ - delivering a film that sinks or swims based upon which jokes work and which do not is just not a step forward. Luckily, Irma P. Hall's performance complements the embarrassing inclusion of wall-to-wall gospel music - a technique serving two very clear purposes: 1) to remind the audience, repeatedly, that an already pious character is a faithful churchgoer and, 2) to duplicate the soundtrack sales of the roots revivial/Homer's Odyssey splash that is O, Brother Where Art Thou?.

[Also - when I popped off a temporary post a few days prior, I stated that Ms. Hall was dead. Apparently, I was wrong: She's still alive and kicking. My bad.]

While I'm simultaneously applauding Pixar for yet another terrific entry in their seemingly unwavering list of modern classics, I'm also at a loss to do much more than build on my past opinions. Really. All of their films seem to follow the same formula, one that seems - miraculously - undiscovered, and yet tthey refuse to falter. So to, really, contradict all that, I submit that The Incredibles is arguably their best work since the Toy Story films, but I stress the term arguably: I don't think there's one particular film of theirs that I'd be inclined to badmouth. As per usual, their grasp of mise-en-scene and its uses, their use of pop culture as a reference point (rather than an explicit framework a la Shark Tale), their absolute and complete GRIP over the audience, the "spring loaded, never-ending charm", the "out-and-out inventiveness", the use of "one absolutely riveting sequence after another" - all of these things I'm now pulling frrom past Pixar reviews: They're all true. Emasculating it's hero - as they did with Woody, Flik, Scully and Marlin - into a less showy existence, Bird combines his past successes (as an executive consultant on the family values parody that is The Simpsons and a writer director of the war machine turned child's plaything sleeper, The Iron Giant) into one lump sum, the story of husband and wife super hero team (with super hero kids) who face a feeble sidekick with more hang-ups than one could possibly count in a reasonable amount of time. It's worthwhile, though, because the metaphoric working class drones Bird reduces his super heros to (Mr. Incredible gets sued and is forced into retirement) is a point made about how everyday people (especially parents) are just different kinds of super heroes, a point that will probably affect not only its target audience (kids, who will glean the literal) but the countless ambitious folks who barely scrape by. It's a really sly, almost appallingly obvious hook - and they make it work with such Pixar panache, such a superlative sense of confidence that animated films about human beings are worthwhile, that it's almost overwhelming.

While the driving complaint of most notices seems to be the lack of music played in whole, song length form, I'd argue just the opposite: The movie works as a bangin' intro to both bands, one whose music is a sappy pop pretending to be indie and one who is pretty much the rebirth of a druggier (is this possible?) Rolling Stones. Courtney, our humble narrator - who belongs to the Dandy Warhols, popuular in Europe because a cell phone company attached a song of theirs to it's commercial - spends most of the movie in doublespeak, brandishing an obsession with The Brian Jonestown Massacre (the cool band) while simultaneously critiquing (not always outwardly) their trouble prone front man Anton Newcombe. What's incredibly successful about Dig! is the way it seems to interpret Courtney's sincere narration as a self parody, (as if his silly self praising and testimonials about responsibility in a rock band could be taken any other way). Watching The Brian Jonestown Massacre's sporadically insane antics lets us follow a grand tradition of penultimate self-destruction as a means to great art. It's also - in a kind of guilty pleasure sort of way - great fun; Rockers behaving badly have always been an exciting thing to watch on screen, but Dig! seems to multiply that fun almost exponentially by pitting The Brian Jonestown Massacre against The Dandy Warhols, riding another grand tradition - it's better to be unappreciated and cool than to sell out and suck ass - all the way to a similar bank. Seeing all of this happening in the recent past (within the last 5 years) helps to erase the slummy, general sense that Corporate Rock has rendered the game all backwards and what not. Even when The Brian Jonestown Massacre get signed, they seem to make it an inevitable goal to completely and utterly muck it up. It's not that the film enters them-against-us territory, it's that it seems to underline the key difference between these the naturally opposing entities (corporate rock versus indie rock): Those who take themselves seriously and those who are too talented to bother.

I have the same exact complaint I had with Archangel, Careful, Twilight of the Ice Nymphs and Dracula: Pages from a Virgin's Diary. Maddin should either shit (make silent films) or get off the pot (make sound films). Not only could he be the only one making silent films, but he's also a good filmmaker (i.e. - you can tell, each time you groan at his dubbed, staccato dialogue that, without it, he would still be a major talent). The actors - his first recognizable ones to date (aside from Shelly Duvall in Twilight) - tackle his weird brand of 20th Century flavor and construction with little difficulty. Isabella Rossellini, Mark McKinney and Maria de Medeiros fall square into Maddin's old school mold, McKinney proving without question that there's life after Kids in the Hall (but, really, I miss it). Solid, entertaining work. Frustrating repeat offender.

Always seemed to me to be the kinder, gentler second cousin to Ren & Stimpy; TSSM needlessly proves for umpteenmillioneth time why expanding concepts which
work gangbusters over 5-7 minutes into 90 minute films is, generally, impossible (transposing the sensibility of a universe that exists in short, nothing-at-stake form into a more complicated, multifacted narrative should not be mixed with marketing execs, either, by the way). There are some extremely inspired bits (the pirates all going to the movies in the beginning counts, I think, because it's so audacious), most of them working on a level that hardly begs a feature film (i.e. - the cheese-on-the-burger dream sequence) and, occasionally, are lessened or undermined by said feature film's stretch marks. The "I'm a Goofy Goober Nut" song will stay with you like a bad hoagie; Luckily, there's songs by Wilco and The Flaming Lips to take you out of the theater.

Possibly because the music (a rhythm of onscreen objects, some straightforward, others not so much) accompanying the film - and it's samurai fight scenes (deliverring Takeshi Kitano as the badass per his contractual agreement with audiences everywhere) - are not enough to forgive what feels like three false endings (the real ending, by the way, is as wacky and random as the movie attempts to be at times). There's a bunch of promises it can't keep (For instance: Could this have been all-out musical theater?), but its major flaw is how quickly it seems to blow its load. I've spent more time trying to get a grip on what staggered in front of the screen first, obstructing my view: The chicken (my typecast view of Kitano as a cold, calculating anti-Yakuza of Sonatine or Fireworks) or the egg (the relatively instinctual sense I get that Zatoichi is simply an unfocused menagerie of gutteral samurai delights and base narrative rehash). My general feeling, though I enjoyed watching the film, is that Kitano is simply out of his league here (though I think I need some backup, perhaps in the form of Kikujiro or Kids Return, supposedly lighter "Beat" fare).

[Am I within my rights to be personally offended by digi-blood and digi-sword movements? Is there something in the original, 24-part (give or take) series that vindicates the use of digi-blood and digi-sword movements? Can anyone explain to Kitano (not me, I don't want to get beaten half to death) - a filmmaker I'd call a veritable genius at shock cinema (until the mess that was Brother in 2001, that is) - why blood that looks like "flowers blossoming on the screen" would soften the blow for an audience seeing a samurai movie? Will anyone really be surprised by visceral, gut-churning violence in a movie advertised with the subtitle "The Blind Swordsman"? I can't get past this.]

As in films within films, an overarching sentimentality - not the usual, subtle brand Spielberg has made his fame with - seems to rule over everything from scene to scene mechanics (there is no actual sense of time) all the way up to the big, somewhat capricious secret of the Planters peanut can. The Terminal is not a film within a film, though, and trying to separate the serious tone from its screwball rhythm is at once maddening and exhausting. The good things that could grow from its silly heart never seem more than variations on a formula: The love struck janitor, the bleeding heart second-in-command, the faceless mass rooting for the hero at all costs. At first, I was hoping Tucci would prove the kind of oddball lightweight that's only in charge by default, but instead, he seems a pawn to either, a) ape the laugh-at-our-troubles riff on La Vie a Bella (i.e. - confront a serious moral crisis - lackadaisical airport security - with the instincts of physical comedy) or, to disappear into a statement about the frivolous nature of bureaucracy, sort of like the one that trapped Tupac Shakur and Tim Roth in the rehabilitation maze of Gridlock'd. What Tucci amounts to, sadly, is the warden in a strange prison movie that (thankfully), is lofty enough to treat its fish-out-of-water antics as a strange daydream of science fiction, a place meant to seem so alien - yet so familiar - as to exist only as a cartoonish last resort in the land of genre invention. And even this doesn't last. Spielberg ends up setting this one in his own, personal happy place (i.e. - the Hollywood of unnecessary crane shots and even more unnecessary phone call exposition) and finds himself blind sided by a disastrous vein that features Catherine Zeta-Jones martyring her romance for Tom Hanks to get him out of the holding cell. That Hanks, wearing his accent competently (if "successfully" aping Benigni by way of Chaplin), goes to John McTiernan's English-in-minutes seminar at one point (comparing a Foder's guide in English to that of his native, made-up country), confirms The Terminal's unabashedly ironic title: From the first moment, it is too heavy to remain airborne, begging so much of our imagination in suspending our disbelief, that it never really transcends its own sense of value.

In which, realism = downers and incongruities; Again, thanks for the welcome mat, but Payne's comfortable buddy atmosphere never seems to mingle just right with his acerbic relationship humor. Of course, after almost six months, I re-watched About Schmidt and was able to glean only the juices from the Nicholson performance, thereby going against the grain of my above characterization theory. I don't see myself watching this again on the strength of Paul Giamatti's performance (though it is quite good), mostly because the rest of the movie feels like such overused and disgustingly metaphor-ridden territory (On sale soon, a spin-off book: "101 reasons love is like a good bottle of vino"). The lingo of wine tasters on everyone's tongue, in addition to some genuinely funny dialogue (the straight man/funny man routine, though, gets old after about two reels) saves Sideways, a comedy where much less is at stake than Payne might have us believe.

I'm still wrestling with this in my head. For sure, it's Rohmer with sex. Unfortunately, until the hairpin turns start their demonlover-lite-meets-Eyes Wide Shut verve, it plays too much like French skin-o-max. I can see, though, why some might swear by it. (Especially if they've indulged a second viewing.)

8:32 p.m.: Maddeningly indecipherable, but encoded - quite cleverly - with the sense that iit cannot be written off too easily, cannot be ignored and, as I said, cannot be read. I took a look at the director's statement. I understand quite clearly the idea that static shots put the burden on the audience (and yes, I feel thoroughly overburdened, before you ask). I'm aware of the chemistry set dynamic in a sudden burst of violence late in the film. I'm just not sure any of it - Dumont's philosophical noodling-as-filmmaking, the general statement of it all and, certainly, the disposable content - really adds up to anything. At all. In fact, I'm angry more than I'm shocked and feel more swindled than enlightened. It's almost as if Dumont was presenting the meditative ideal of his own statement and decided to throw the whole thing into a tailspin with an ending guaranteed to keep people locked in discussion ("Perhaps forever!" I picture him saying). It's the kind of film I feel like theorizing about, thinking about and, really, just writing the fuck off... (grade: C-)

...however (8:57 p.m.), when you pause to contemplate that it's not really about its characters - though it leads you to the conclusion, early on, that their deaths will be more interesting than their lives, a sign that at least Dumont acknowledges that they are characters - you must also put into play the effectt, as the slow rhythm of it (though it prohibits subsequent viewings, in my opinion), is uncommonly valuable in and of itself. I'm thinking of the Grey Gardens buzz: Turn it off and watch it work on you; As soon as it ends, the drug kicks in... (grade: B)

...(12:34 a.m.) The lengthy acts one and two seem to believe they are meditative filmmaking with every step, while the third act is largely unsuccessful (though a narcotic transference takes place). It confirms that Dumont has his own devices working, devices visualize in uncomfortable close-up the very line between love and hate, removing dignity from its characters with the same indifference he grants it to them with (i.e. - Dumont = God). It certainly has an overwhelming - if anticlimactic - bent. We know from frame one that Dumont will likely pull the rug out from the characters some way or another, but he seems to be protecting his hand as long as possible to pop the audience's breakers rather than have the audience appreciate the disturbing hangover the movie leaves us with simply through our experiencing the film. Because he's so hell-bent on making sure we grasp his cynical world view, he flubs the slow, gnawing brilliance of the couple's very complicated descent by shortening their fuse. Considerably. By suddenly abandoning the abstraction of the film (i.e. - it's strength), he seems arrogant. The meditative filmmaking isn't as important as his message. How can you tell? He seems to be answering more questions than he's posing, clearly illustrating things that should be suggested (the final frame, especially, is a huge mistake, if you ask me), and - worst of all - he makes "finite" a word in Twentynine Palms' vocabulary. (C+)

When I complained that Doug Liman's The Bourne Identity had a "standard subplot" in the CIA making Bourne - played, with less boyishness this time around, by Matt Damon - it was because that which was interesting about the film (the transformation from amnesia to enlightened in seven hostile confrontations) seemed less important to the filmmakers than the hooey of Government intrigue. Perhaps a difference of opinion? In installment two - its title, The Bourne Surpemacy, already leaning away from its main character - the "standard subplot" (as I so cheerfully continue to dub it) now stands full center as a convoluted plot to unravel the connection between a Russian oil baron and the CIA, complete with career savvy Joan Allen taking charge with exactly one dimension, Brian Cox chewing the scenery to juicy shreds, button cute former secretary Julia Stiles repeatedly saying the right thing at the right time and lots and lots of really familiar "but we thought no one would ever find out" hokum. It abandons what ought to be a character study (just as in Identity, where his crisis was driving, but not exactly paying attention to the road) by shifting focus to badass Eastern European assassin stylings and, subsequently, the whole thing unravels almost immediately despite the unprecedented franchise style offing of a main character in an early sequence. In fact, the best thing about Supremacy is that it works in scenes - and not just the crunchy, bravura car chase, but the random moments of actual humanity that seem completely and utterly disconnected from the film proper (particularly the brilliant moment, about five minutes before close, when Bourne apologizes to the daughter of a husband and wife he murdered as an agent). There's disheartening pall cast over these films; Excitement consistently being drained by the sense that Ludlum's series has inevitably begin its run as shakily as the Bond series currently feels. As films are no longer meant to be entertaining or even interesting, just to be seen on opening weekend and, subsequently (and repeatedly) forgotten on cable, it's probably not even worth pointing out that both Bournes suffer greatly in a demographic that barely remembers the cold war (let alone the byproduct of befuddling, quasi-propoganda cinema that painted both Communism and - inexplicably - the CIA as freedom hating villains). TThere's a fine film lurking somewhere inside both of these entries. I imagine.

Glides beautifully on the spunk of its lead actress. It's certainly on the problematic side if you're watching the shells too closely: While Maria seems to perservere despite any hardship (preganancy, drug smuggler's stress, constant and unrepentant lying), the message is loud, clear and generic: People in poor countries have to make more difficult choices than we do. Not that it's a point that's not worth making, but the El Norte stylings of the journey - interesting as they may be (here's how you swallow, here's how you don't get caught, here's how you deficate) - don't benefit from the length and weariness of strife as they did in that film. Encapsulating all the stubbornness and danger of Maria's predicament into it's bombastic first hour, it ends up whiling in immigrant squabbles by the end of the film, leading to tre obvious closing frame and the second guessing sense that what came before wasn't nearly as riveting as you once thought it to be. Luckily, Catalina Sandino Moreno is spot-on, carrying the movie better than any performer I've seen this year.

Made with all the blunt, ineffective-by-its-very-existence force of a PSA against, (roll eyes) adultery. There's pangs of greatness: The performances, for instance (particularly Ruffalo and Krause, each offering a variation on the doomed male ego); the playful edit-to-the-music the film practically abandons after the first two reels; the lived-in worlds of married couples offer instant comfort to be disrupted (despite obvious discrepancies like both couples having the most well behaved  kids on the planet, the gigantic houses they both inhabit despite the fact that the wives don't work and the husbands are teachers and, oh yeah, ANYONE in their right mind marrying a character as haggard and cunty as Laura Dern, despite the goofy-go-happy flashbacks). Which brings me to wild adventures in miscasting #45: Laura Dern's soapbox posturing, looking quite hilarious against the seamless naturalism of the rest of the doomed cast; They've inhabited their personas,  reducing speeches to natural clicks and stops while she's angling for an Academy Award with every gesture and breath. And to say I was not fond of the constant, obvious symbols (clearly proving Todd Field as a great director for not going that route in In the Bedroom) would be an understatement of tragic proportions (I can't imagine look as awkward on Dubus' page; Seriously, if Ruffalo  looked, introspectively, at that bridge one more time, I was going to turn the thing off). Even the big turnaround at the end of the second act (that sparks the incredibly dopey third act) feels forced; I've got better things to do than watch movie characters, safely sheltered by the Studio Indie Sector (in this case, Warner Independent), flit around in unmistakable fits of silly, wife swapping melodrama. Lesson learned. Not going to cop out and say maybe these movies work better for single or unhappy people; We Don't Live Here Anymore too self-important to work for anyone.
 

Proyas wasn't a terrible choice, here, except he blows so much more of his movie than need be in developing Spoon's befuddled paranoia (complete with the Dredged Up Secret and multiple Red Herrings). He's not all that gifted with actors, either (as evinced in the visionary but silly The Crow and the visionary but forgiveable Dark City); Here, he leaves Will Smith, an actor purposefully either left to his own devices or instructed to simplify the character for no discernable reason. Riding a note of aggressive, single-minded stubbornness as if it were some sort of substitute for any kind of genuine madness or (gulp) anti-heroics, he makes it rather clear from the get-go that we're on our own as far as guides go. By the time the movie finally gets good (the overzealous trailer promised all sorts of spectacle and, I'll admit, the good stuff seems hopelessly stranded - - and far away, to boot.) Eventually, it really does gets a little better than good, which is all the more surprising and all the more short-lived as the encroaching, twenty minute downer of a coda gives Will Smith a couple of zinger emotions he flat-out cannot make work without a viable character. The action is inventive and, often, pretty exciting (especially in a movie I had tuned out of nearly two reels before it developed this pulse): Ro-bits 'tackin' other ro-bits'n shit blow'in up with good old fashioned super-animated CGI whirring in the middleground (in other words, silly, but visionary). Dumbstruck to find something not unlike fun buried in a crass collection of otherwise watery, faux-Frankenstein moral crises, I was pretty pissed when that rock-em-sock-em climax flops over and rejoins the pasty happenings of the first two acts. The sour taste of sub-par bores into the buds as you leave the theater. ("I imagine", says he who watched the thing on his couch.)

What I like here is how Soderbergh is so cheerfully celebrating the movie as a movie: Crackling, almost distractingly entertaining film dialogue, stylish mise-en-scene, music and titles reminiscent of a 70s movie junkie, a camaraderie that, in acknowledging the cameraderie behind-the-scenes, the camaraderie in the film seems that much more believeable. I actually think I like this one - with more effort towards avante garde than its predecessor - better: Practically twitching with charm, Ocean's Twelve feels like it was invested with the kind of unspoken (and otherwise) dialogue you have as an audience member with a director who is totally on your wavelength.

[I'm tempted to enstate a Feild alert everytime Mr. Feild disagrees so vehemently with me, but that would just be idiotic.]

Almost distractingly operatic, it's a little bit simpler and more single-narrative driven than Hero (although, like that movie, it delights in befuddling the audience); While I found myself nauseated beyond words to be calling to mind Yimou's The Road Home, the colors, the sound and the staged ballet of violence washed over it like the best trance ever.

The disjoined nature of it (tone shifts are tantamount to someone jumping out at you from behind a corner), along with Bridges' mid life crisis a la Lebowski, gives us a wonderfully subdued eccentricity. The movie works overtime to be unique, but occasionally you remember that John Irving wrote the source novel. Which, in this case, isn't a great idea.

Of all the great pleasures of the deliriously detail-obsessed Napoleon Dynamite - one of the few worthwhile films to come out of the Wes Anderson rip-off school of filmmaking - is that Hess has a terrific set of characters to make fun of and, instead, he bestows upon them complete and utter empathy. Reminded me a bit of Hell House in that way: I was all set to make fun of them along with the director and found myself eerily rooting for them instead.

A political thriller that's meant to be timely but doesn't feel timely in the least; Demme nails the tone almost exactly in every scene, but fails to add the whole thing up to any real snuff, casually dismissing substance for - I guess - the concept that simply by our not finding any of this disturbing (I'd challenge you to, by the way) is, in itself, disturbing. Communicated through Liev Schreiber, Denzel Washington, Jeffrey Wright and Meryl Streep, at least The Manchurian Candidate isn't horribly miscast (see The Truth About Charlie for details). I'm not exactly sure how this film could serve any useful purpose (the sad, inescapable fact about remakes, I'm afraid), other that to indoctrinate new viewers. It's not topical. It's not great filmmaking. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's a huge mistake*: It polarizes any audience member who hasn't seen and (or) enjoyed the far superior 1962 adaptation of the same novel.

[* - Unless, of course, you're a rabid Jonathan Demme fan.]

Though the Hell's Angels bit is excellent, it's the extent of the steam in Logan's easy-does-it script, which presents so many challenges to Scorsese, it's a wonder the film is watchable at all. (It is, though, mostly for Leonardo DiCaprio, whose performance as Howard Hughes - the eccentric to end all eccentrics - is a whole lot more interesting than anything else happening in front or behind the camera.) Because much of what happens either feels too padded by fiction or too cumbersome to be entertaining, its insistence on Scorsese's obsessive detail blind sides it:  The Aviator is a sensational recreation of a past era where all that is exciting is rendered tiresome by about ten too many hands in the soup. Scorsese isn't allowed to properly display his chops, leaving DiCaprio to pick up the slack, but by the end of countless random tangents and oversimplified pointer scenes, even he seems to get caught up in the decadent, look-at-this-nut spirit of this decisively repetitive film. Busily making the point that Hughes is an obsessive compulsive over and over again, they barely stretch his quirks to any sort of building transcendence, ostensibly leaving the character not only underdeveloped but - by dumb luck - strategically stubborn and true to himself. (It's clearly not intentional, but it works just the same.) The Aviator isn't a terrible film - it's par to say the least; The most disillusioning thing, for me, is that it seems to be engineered to be conservative, precious little of it bearing the stamp of Scorsese in any state. Kudos for the downbeat ending, boyos.