We've got issues as a movegoing public when we allow incoherent stories to double as ads for fashionable decorating techniques and attractive but assertive costumes. The film starts somewhere in Judd's epiphany as she theorizes that modern dating is identical to that of the animal kingdom (specifically, cows). As the film drags on, finding her dating sleazy, indecisive Kinnear and flirting with convenient, buff roommate Jackman, we can feel Someone Like You building to a big finale. What really drops it from mediocre to just plain bad is the moment when it loses its footing by placing stock in Judd's big speech (spoiler, stop reading) lambasting her own theory and praising the love she's found. Yippee. What's worse is, that after being disappointed by the actual film, you can watch an alternate ending (on the DVD) that actually tops the existing one in overall suckiness. Judd is never mousy enough for the role and ends up looking rather ridiculous in the movie's many slapstick-ish moments. Tomei, playing the expository punching bag for Judd, whinnies and neighs like a dying horse while Kinnear, in permanent apologetic detachment, seems to be trapped beneath her falling carcass and unable to bellow for help any longer. Jackman would have been a terrific choice for the role he plays had it been developed for more than twenty seconds of screen time. Occasionally the odd moment of accidental romance perks the ears for a moment. Otherwise, we're left scratching our feet and wondering how long we've been wandering in this charmless desert of celluloid.

(9/16)

Everything about Driven is ridiculous. From Harlin's inability to put his finger on the pulse of the film's subject (duh, it's speeding cars!) to Stallone's inability to get the hell out of the frame (though, to his credit, at least half of his performance - as well as Burt "angry old geezer" Reynolds' -  remains on the cutting room floor as displayed in the DVD's deleted scenes), the movie never moves beyond being a mild distraction. Much like a four wheel drive version of Oliver Stone's equally irritating Any Given Sunday, Harlin's film is best when it places techno beats over death defying auto ballets. The best moments in the film are those when things one would never, ever witness in actual auto racing (or life, for that matter) occur. Almost on top of each other. The film is a best-of fantasy spotlighting the what-if's of the sport as if it had no regard for showing the emotive tantrums and psychological somersaults drivers experience under the pressure of their careers. It's a good thing. Driven clocks in at one hundred four minutes, twenty or thirty of which are truly exciting (all of them on the course, one in Chicago traffic). Had the idea of a screenplay crossed the minds of anyone involved, we could have had a touch more Grand Prix. What we're watching is Days of Thunder filtered through scores and scores of video games. At the very least, Stallone's soapy interludes are bad enough to elicit hearty, honest laughter. Can't fault a film for giving us thrills and laughs, even if they're both tainted by actual intention. Never mind. Driven is the best bad movie I've seen this year. (And thank God they put the trailer on the DVD - - - if I rated trailers, it would definitely rank higher than the film).

(9/17)

1/2  *    (One Half of One Star)

Let's just say that it takes ambition to be so embarrassing as to be entertaining. Head Over Heels, inexplicably, lacks even the gusto it takes to be utter trash, the kind of trash that Prinze, Jr. usually delivers to us, for us, by us, etc. Too wan to be unintentionally funny, too ridiculous to be accidentally interesting. Final word: Don't expect to be pleasantly turned off because all you're likely to be is agonizingly pissed off. And note to casting agents: Monica Potter is neither likable nor is she attractive. But that probably wouldn't have mattered here. Like spraying perfume in a manure factory. Too little, too late. In the wrong place. For no real reason whatsoever. I'm going to go now. Bye.

(9/19)

Was thoroughly surprised how right the note of realism involved in adolescent dealings felt. Not only does Stiles finally find a role that isn't too hard to reach (or too low for any human being, i.e. Down To You), but she clicks so well with Sean Patrick Thomas, I'm almost inclined to give her extra points for contributing to how satisfying the romantic arc in this film feels. True, there's grandstanding (and the film has more than its share of annoying, expository speeches about "being yourself"), and, honestly, I doubt I'd be the only supporter should a film ever be released wherein African-Americans living in poverty will be exempted from equation with crime as the sole solution to the anxiety surrounding their situation. And let's face it, a movie that starts out very shaky (a conflict set-up that's so unbelievably sappy and blatant, I almost turned the film off) and ends with hyper-predictability syndrome doesn't have a whole of flame to burn when its extended second act and early third act are all we have as an audience to be excited about. But what the film really brings to the table is in defiance of its misrepresenting trailer: It actually turns out to be entertaining to watch Stiles find the joys of hip-hop and, therein, the joys of love and talent. Never thought this film could give me something like that.

(9/20)

Boy howdy, was I enjoying this gleefully full-on camp entertainer. Heck, I'd go so far as to say the film was skillful in its consistency (the humor is odd and by odd, I mean refreshing), its quick-draw pacing and, indeed, its overwhelming adherence to clarity. Then, about one hundred and eight minutes into it (ay, there's the rub, do we need a Summer movie about knights that is well over two hours?), the weepy father-son reunion / surprise appearance by arcane first act disposable character / hero overcoming unrealistic odds elemental memory comes back to the film like an amnesia victim realizing he's not supposed to be having a good time. What follows is often unwatchable and, at the very least, depressing (it was Soooo good and now it's Soooo bad). Conclusion notwithstanding - because, in addition to the aforementtioned cinematic cold snap, all of the sudden the cool humor is traded for cheap, modern knocks at a certain character with flaming orange hair - A Knight's Tale has some interesting moves of its own. Helgeland seems to have been at the hull with the right course (and early on, the right attitude) when he found that anachronistic humor is something that needs to infuse itself in the whole of the affair, rather than sprinkled throughout. He makes his film the kind of goofy that begs for one-liners that, in another movie, would cause us to wince. His use of modern music in a medieval setting falls into that category as well and, truth be told, it turns out to be one of the energizers keeping the film's pulse alive. Controversial Seventies' tunes - a good, well thought out idea. The scene where dreamy Heath Ledger (remarkable in this film, said to be a choice that displeased everyone but himself) teaches a banquet hall of people to dance to David Bowie's 'Golden Years' is one of the better scenes in the film, mostly because it intentionally sets out to please the audience. If the final thirty or forty minutes had that on their mind, the steam would continue billowing and A Knight's Tale would be a treasure. I recommend it just the same.

(9/22)

In true mainstream original-but-not-that-original form, Heartbreakers follows the deranged exploits of a mother/daughter con artist team - one who marries, the other who tempts - and how their expert trickery comes around to trip them up. Their prey, a collection of moderately wealthy, desperately lonely men, come in all shapes and sizes and, also true to mainstream form, are much more interesting than the main characters (Weaver, Hewitt) who seduce them. Anne Bancroft shows up in three scenes as mother Weaver's mentor (sidenote on Sigourney: range waning, a sex symbol aged to the point of implausibility) . Here we see an insinuation, a waste and a bad idea all conceived at the same time: Bancroft's Mrs. Robinson has no place among these amateur seductresses. But despite countless, glaring flaws, Heartbreakers is so easy to watch and often so entertaining that it foils the mind, prevailing against our wishes. The film's characters are meant to have ambiguous intentions (though more often than not these intentions change within a scene), and it never seems to want to invest itself in mining these intentions further than merely stating them. A terminal sappiness abounds as well (seeming to follow the reprehensibly bad Hewitt like some perfumed mist), often too much to handle, resulting in the ever-popular screech from myself, an animal wounded by a terrible emotional misfire. The twists sometimes come at a predictable speed, rarely surprising (even when you think the film has fooled you, it tends to circle back to your original suspicions almost routinely).  What saves the film - besides Ray Liotta, who is the lone, very funny / interesting character (though Hackman perks our eyebrows just a touch) - is its consistently quick pace. In twists, dialogue exchanges and the number of scenes Heartbreakers shoots out at us, our interest never flags, even when we know that some of what we are watching is rather stale to say the least. It isn't a terrific film (neither was its second cousin, Drowning Mona), but is often terrific entertainment. Forget what other movie I said that about. Doesn't matter. It happens to be the least we can expect from a film and when we get it, it can sometimes forgive a great deal.

(9/30)