A girl missing a parent. A farmer in debt. An evil racetrack owner. A crazy old man. A determined - but different - horse (different in that he's a zebra). A barnyard full of talking animals. Two wisecracking flies. A lazy porch dog. A mafia goose. The former training pony who gives it one more go. The voice of reason (it's Whoopi Goatberg.) A Fast and the Furious parody. Lines like "I can't believe you disobeyed me", "Care to make it interesting" and so forth.

It's all here.

Probably a better bet to take a look at viewing #2; Though I was in awe of the layers of the first part, I half-dozed through the second part and much later realized I was supposed to be linking the two.

I can barely remember what I loved about this film (the refreshed feeling, almost like a film-as-a-narcotic entry) is that is had the same ebb and flow as Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter...and Spring; It lacks, unfortunately, that film's coherence which, by the end, is almost an asset to 3-Iron. Mostly, though, it's the happy-with-the-universe feeling I'm rewarding with that B+.

A film being released in 2005 that still relies on Robin Williams to deliver his seemingly endless gallery of rambling parodies whose comedic jazz is outdated by at least a decade (by which I mean he's not really all that funny any more). Same straight-to-video simple plotline as in Wedge's Ice Age (perhaps even more dimwitted this outing), but visualized with a similar fantasy-infused realism, perhaps the best thing about his films; The opening sequence, probably because it has nothing to do with film, really, and could have been its own short (a much better plan) is pure genius, as brilliant as anything Pixar has come up with. These guys need to hire better screenwriters.

I've been dreading writing this revew, worried that I'll not do this film justice. I salivate each time I think of the eye-popping visuals and the eyeball-scratchin'-grit; This is probably Rodriguez's best film to date, having strayed to source material other than SPY Kids sequels or Stock Mexican Western #2, he does nothing but craft, giving his film the control of animation with the eye-popping 3-D elements of  comic book physicality. I can't wait to see it again.

Battle scenes rhythmic to a fault (shoot in slow motion, play it back at normal speed, throw dirt at screen, lather, rinse repeat), a wrongfoot leading man (perhaps the very opposite of Russell Crowe on the presence meter) and the annoying speechifying that all of Ridley Scott's characters usually do, mix in this overlong, historically muddled Crusades' epic. Liam Neeson and Jeremy Irons keep their dignity (although, ironically, all characters pale next to Baldwin IV, who wears a mask throughout the whole affair), leaving the film to fall down all around Orlando Bloom, one of the most bafflingly atrocious actors working at present.

I was so overwhelmed in the momentous opening sequence, I forgot to be sad that it was the last new Star Wars movie ever; Conversely, unlike Attack of the Clones, I was never confused by what was going on and found this film to exceed my expectations almost immediately and without a single regret (I remember really choosing to go on faith in my feelings about Attack of the Clones, genuinely fearing that it would occur to me much later that I was wrong; Turns out I was, and after four viewings, I finally decided to face up to it). Revenge of the Sith is all terrific execution, with Lucas opting not to let absence make the heart grown fonder (there's no long-winded, high drama to suffer through as you wait for the climactic combustion): The whole damn movie is crammed tight with set pieces, leaving only a small window of doubt (I find the choreography of the light saber battles much less interesting than the environments they take place in - sue me). The story is strong, but it turns out to be so inseparable from the original films, you're never sure if you're simply gleaning whatever nostalgic kicks you can from these new-fangled space operas or if you honestly revere their cunning. To be sure - it's wholly satisfying.

For a refresh effort, it bore a strikingly familiar resemblance to its better (Burton's 1989 effort, that is), complete with untouchable villains unveiling a plot to poison Gotham City while street level criminals tremble at the name of a new crime fighter. Individual performances were slam-bang awesome (particularly Tom Wilkinson, Cillian Murphy and Gary Oldman, who all appeared to be having a grand ol time), but the film felt as if it were trying to pull a fast one on me by unveiling a story I already knew and merely splitting the focus more evenly among the birth of a tortured hero and his dirty work. The mark of Christopher Nolan, in his insistence on telling the story with flashbacks - which I liked - and his impeccably formal widescreen composition, doesn't seem enough to change the fact that Batman Begins is physically darker (i.e. - there's less light), but not nearly as horrific or pervasive as Burton's twin shots at the franchise (and we all know Begins aims to be, so I'll spare the caveat that we shouldn't be comparing the two). Notwithstanding all the guilty pleasures [the dual quip machines Caine and Freeman (both of whom I liked), as well as the Spider-Man-vibe "lift" ending ("Wow 'em in the end, and they'll love you forever"), which I also liked] - Batman Begins is terrific Summer entertainment, nothing more, nothing less. (Oh, and that Bale fellow: He's the man.)

In the end, the money sequences - that is, those that take place in 2007 - are too vaguely defined within context (Are they in his head? No, else where is the untold info. coming from. Is one merely a glimpse of an isolated character's experience in the afterlife? Wouldn't that be kind of, you know, random?), while the story itself, told from 1992, endures merely to serve the film's high point, namely the love story between Persian Gulf Syndrome sufferer Brody and brooding nymph Knightley. I was thoroughly entertained by Maybury's oft-driven montage work (although his direction of actors is either sloppy (Knightley is far too over-the-top) or just non-existant (somewhat possible, given the level most of the performers - including Jennifer Jason Leigh, Kris Kristoffersen, Daniel Craig and, especially, Adrien Brody), a technique that, in other hands, might be distracting). Flash-CGI imagery starts to get old from its inception, but it usually leads to interesting things, so it becomes simple to tolerate. All in all, an easy thriller to log and forget.

Delivers just what you'd envision it to; Namely, apocalyptic spectacle followed by suspenseful getaways bookended with more apocalyptic spectacle, giving way to more suspenseful getaways which, inevitably lead to massive apocalyptic spectacle that reaches across a rather suspenseful getaway towards, yes, another dose of that wondrous, apocalyptic spectacle. Almost a non-issue by default, Cruise's performance would have been much more interesting if he and his children didn't seem as alien to each other as man to the dino-looking invaders (who are unwisely shown for some reason by a director who really oughta know better). I was genuinely enthralled, at times, as great portions of it achieve a wonderment and terror tantamount to both Jaws and Jurassic Park. But - much like his recent films (even Catch Me If You Can, which I quite liked) - War of the Worlds isn't quite puut together right, as if Spielberg the businessman enterted Spielberg the filmmaker's editing room and demanded that he disjoint the momentum of the film, occasionally, with long stretches of mucky sentimentalism (You know, for the kids). Instead of walking out of War of the Worlds looking at the skies, we're distracted at how dumbstruck we are, thinking to ourselves how pussy Spielberg has become. (Me on my soapbox: 'plete control of the whole stinkin' film and tryin' to please everybody, 'parently, by not offin' junior.)

Morosely, Tim Burton dares us to like his films, dressing up mediocrity as glossy camp (see: Planet of the Apes, Big Fish and this film). And its not that Charlie and the Chocolate Factory is bad, really, but that it's not bizarre (and it should be, because it's about a boy who idolizes a grown-up boy so fixated on his youthful enthusiasm for candy that he invites children to his lair - I mean, factory - and watches as their faults are punished in ironic ways while colorfully dressed dwarfs sing energy-laced pop fables). Instead, it's an artistic joy to behold - and a consistently funny film (Depp's reviled take on the Wonkster made me chuckle a few times) - but a straight-faced one for some reason. While Mel Stuart's 1971 film based on the same book had the benefit of psychadelica (and was a much colder, crueler visit to "The Moral Is..." land), Tim Burton has the benefit of digital effects, which prove (as they usually do), that their employ strangles any remaining creative urgency, making everything too literal and flat.

The graven image of Eric Rohmer, if one ever existed. Funny Ha Ha is all conversation. What's nice, though, is that Bujalski's cast is proficient enough to make you believe the studdering and normalcy that unfolds amidst this conversation isn't accidental; There's a deliberate statement being made, a snapshot if you will, exposing the state of modern body language and the great conversational negotiation of romantic interest. That an act structure is never established (no resolution, either) makes Bujalski my own personal hero.

Proves very nicely the 1:3 ratio I've been touting in my spare time; Namely, the first act can show promise because its all setup and setup is compelling because it promises more. Around the top of act two - when the film becomes about twin sisters (one in hell, one who's a been-there-done-that cop) and an independent crime fighter trying to keep his soul out of the devil's hands (Keanu, in tiresome, muted Keanu mode) - things start to get silly. But Constantine remains somewhat visually enticing, using its digital effects to show evil (a vision of a hot, sticky urban hell is pretty amazing) and cartoon (lots of wierd, cool-looking demons), faltering, finally, for the last time, in the third act, where all of the action takes place in three very long, very boring conversations between characters who should be much more interesting than they are (particulary the two conversations Keanu has between himself and the devil - played by Peter Stormare - and, later, between himself and Tilda Swinton's Gabriel). A great deal of the first part cuts through the treadle, bursting into sequences with most of the dialogue either relegated to background noise or, ignorable. By close, all we can do is listen as the movie talks itself out of being cool.

[Also: Big points for the opening sequence: A Mexican dude gettin' hit by a car and surviving? Way cool.]

I had some mixed feelings about it (Ostensibly, I found much of the film hard to connect with - oh, no, the jerky rich people are in trouble! - but found myself utterly floored by Kevin Costner, in a role stripped of vanity, upstaging a performance I'm sure Joan Allen stayed up conjuring until the wee hours the night before. The twist at the end was goofy - not because it too perfectly summed up the film's general theme (being consumed by anger is not progressive, no matter much better it makes you feel in the short term) - but because it reminded me how little we actually knew about a character who set nearly all the motions of the narrative in place. (Can't people be subpoenaed when they jump ship to Sweden with their secretaries? Or at least have papers served?) When Shep's head exploded, however, I nearly fell off the couch.

When it apes Looney Tunes-gone-Kung Fu, it's free and alive; Some of the dialogue is out and out hilarious; The story of a kid who idolizes a cruel gang and becomes more powerful through his own violent powers seems generic; The world Kung Fu Hustle is set in: A poverty-stricken tenement surrounded by hat-doffing business owners straight out of a fifties' musical is placed squarely in the center of the Wild, Wild West of Chow's cartoon-obsessed imagination. By the end, it gets monotonous to watch Chow, who blew his speakers out much earlier on, continue to play at full volume. However, there are much worse ways to spend your time.

Dialogue snaps, crackles, pops and dazzles in Caan's alternately mind-blowing and mundane Growing Up picture. Some scenes are staged so beautifully and so unconventionally, you can't believe the same movie contains a Jewish gambler who talks like a rat and seems poised to single-handedly bring the movie down (his voice is currently being used to torture prisoners somewhere, I'm sure). The best example of Dallas 362's two-faced nature is the Big Robbery Sequence. Simulataneously awesome (because its crosscut with images and music from Midnight Express) and dimwitted (Mexican standoff anyone?) My favorite surprise is  that Scott Caan directed it. And it's awfully mature. Scott Caan. Seriously. Scott. Friggin'. Caan.

Though impressed by Ganz's Hitler (in performance reportedly culled from a secret recording made by a Swedish operative, which proved Der Fuhrer's quiet side off the soapbox), I was originally kind of put off by how simplistic Downfall seems to make this history lesson (Now we see Adolf getting upset over this. Now that. Now we're framing the thing around his secretary. For no apparent reason.) What really counts is the chilling spectrum of pro-party politics, still fiery and en vogue, as the world collapses around the remaining Nazi brass. Stubbon, confidant and loyal to the end as they off themselves one by one, the men and women who support a quiet, Parkinson's-ravaged Hitler seem almost...human. As the cold, symmetrical layout of their bunker begins to empty out, it occurs to us very slowly: No one is going to learn their lesson here. Downfall stays with you; It haunted me pretty much all day after I viewed it.

[I'm just reprinting my notes; I don't have time to deconstruct this con on The Great American Paying Moviegoer]

Funny they mention foundation because the one in this film is cliched to the core; I understand that on planet earth, beautiful people can tire of each other's perfectness, but in Mr. and Mrs. Smith - which is set in some alternate universe - every character is absurdly attractive; Initially, I thought that this was one of those movies where the surprise secret should have been left out of the marketing campaign and given as a gift to the viewer. Every scene before the veil is lifted is hollow because we already know. It would have worked much better if we were in the dark, as the beginning seems to presuppose us to be (Although kudos for a revelation at forty-six minutes rather than one hundred minutes: It's much less embarrasing that way); Even on its own two legs, the misdirection of boredom in marriage is grating from the outset; Ugly curtains and a excitement over a low APR = forced mundanity if I've ever seen them; Bottom line: Contrast between domesticity and action hero bravado is insulting to the point of being painful; Double entendres bounce off the walls like flubber; In fact, the context of them being assassins with double lives makes their cartoonish marriage "spats" less interesting (because we're not surprised by what they're capable of - the movie never develops these characters past the immediate, let alone sets any sort of limits on them); What if, out of the blue, a tasteless exaggeration of twofold domestic abuse (a la The War of the Roses)  were to arrive, making a controversial, but valid point? What if this were a straight-faced message movie where a husband and wife just pounded the shit out of each other for two hours and it was Jonathan Rosenbaum's favorite exercise in Neo-Marxist subtextery?; This movie was funded by liquor companies, I swear it; I'm not kidding, at one point, she wipes a tear all over her lips. Seriously: "Look at my lips. They're so big. So full. So sexy." Dear Lord; The hositility is supposed to be cute, but comes off as awkward. It's like being trapped in a car with a couple who is fighting; Is this "Violence as Marriage Therapy" or, are we watching the dailies for celebrity dating? Reality television dressed up as a Summer shoot-em'-up? Which is more offensive? Neither. It's the Magnet/Gemma Hayes cover of Bob Dylan's "Lay Lady Lay", I assure you; It ends, predictably, in a hail of videogame gunfire.

[Is that the same basement from War of the Worlds?]

I don't even have to look and I can tell you that everyone involved got their chops in television (Horatio Hornblower, Dark Angel, The Shield and Chris Evans, who did bit parts on Boston Public and the short lived The Fugitive: I was right). Fantastic Four eshews cinematic flavor at every turn, fashioning something appropriately family-rich, but clearly confused, and obviously postured with thought for sequels (at least half of the movie is character setup, with a demonstration of good versus evil relegated to the last thirty minutes). It's quip-heavy, too, relying mostly on one-liners to tell the story. (As much as I know this is of somewhat comic book origins, in Fantastic Four, there are a whole slew of wince moments, too embarassing not to shake off. And while it seems comfortable playing it silly for relatively small stakes, Story's film is lean enough and realistic not to overstep its bounds.

Pefectly honest: I was so taken with the mechanics of how Jack and Rose lived, that I was willing to overlook a great deal (and by a great deal, I mean the whole idea that Day-Lewis asks Catherine Keener and her two kooky sons to come live with them, thereby stirring up the hornet's nest and forcing all of the film's big epiphanies in one swift motion); Very much interested in Rose's primitive existence and reactions, despite some of the things Miller cooks up to play off of them (the whole Adam & Eve directive should have been scrapped prior to draft two's inception, methinks). Really, though, it's kind of a blessing to watch Daniel Day-Lewis act again (despite the obvious reason for his participation). As I said in my one-off: How can I turn down something this simple?