It's rather compelling and, for a while, incredibly clever; but Jimmy Neutron, for me, faltered so mindlessly in its third act, I can scarcely recall a single joke from the first two. I know I laughed when everyone in Jimmy's class borrowed the colorful animal themed rides from a new amusement park (the single greatest amusement park ever, by the way) to fly through space to an unnamed world, but by the time they get there and have to do battle with a species evolved beyond the need for a body (but, incidentally, still kidnapping people from other planets), I had tuned out almost to the point where I'd begun wishing for a power outage in order for this promising film to go out on a high note. Nevertheless, the way Jimmy Neutron harnesses the wacky fifties' approach to technology is deeply funny (and who really cares that the film seems to have almost no actual tone in addition to taking place in the same vacuous, ambiguously nondescript era as That 70's Show: one that feels more like the exact opposite of the time period its actually supposed to be occurring in). And, for my money, jokes by, for and at the expense of a genius still make for a more intellectual film by default. As far as the animation goes, the movie looks like it was made in a bubble, everything gleaming like it showed up wet and didn't bother to ask for a towel. This isn't necessarily ugly, but it isn't necessarily all that pretty either and when the narrative grows hopelessly terminal, it would be nice to fall back on some fetching eye candy. Perhaps, then, the biggest problem with Jimmy Neutron is that when it runs out of plan A (an interesting story), there doesn't appear to be a back up plan, (or plan B, as its sometimes known).

(1/2)

Phenomenal. Michael Mann, uninterested in the familiarity of political, racial, religious and personal struggle, replaces these common values with a contagious, absolutely absorbing atmosphere. The life of Muhammed Ali was an interesting choice for a film, but a more interesting one is this, the carefully highlighted universality of the champ's context in history, his approach to life as the definition of self-interest and the flawed reasoning of events in a changing world. Every vibrant motion of mood change, every dizzying shaky-cam, every subtlety, every blinking bluntness, every vision, every sound and every lick of this film speaks and speaks worlds louder than the script, which feels like moot starting point, a blueprint from which to work - but never to duplicate. (Many have mistaken this approach for what the literal, simple perspective may appear to be: that the by-the-numbers cookie cutter of a script plays like a carefully selected greatest hits album for Ali as seen through a choppy vision). Using distinct, unmatched authenticity in the setting, the mannerism, the mood and the performances, Mann gives us another of his potent, cinematic epics of life. His supporting actors, from a clever character a la Jeffrey Wright to the unrecognizable Howard Kossel of Jon Voight to a never-better Van Peebles as Malcolm X, gives the film a reserved, centered perfection, a confirmation that every precaution has been taken to render this world acceptable and realistic. But the crown surely belongs to Will Smith, who undergoes the kind of transformation we give awards for, but more importantly, the kind that gives us the character we need for the film to work and gives it to us almost instantly. Never a moment passes when Smith doesn't feel like Ali, which adds to the assuredness of Mann's world, giving him free reign to tinker and tinker beautifully. Mann's cinematographer has an eye for the oblong spirit of life, a kind of titlted squint that adjusts an audience's consciousness as if it were unable to take in the awe of the world through eyes wide open. And Mann is always complemented by the grand Lisa Gerrard and Pieter Bourke, who score the film amidst era tunes (that aren't stock and never sound foreign to the moment) and a soundscape of bumps and softness, of tirelessly silky rhythm. I could watch hundreds of films through Michael Mann's perception. He has an uncanny ability to consistently transport an audience into the world of a film like no filmmaker living today. I want to see Ali again.

(1/3)

The sad thing about Ron Howard's films - which mix romantic hooey and scary realism as if they were sugar and spice - is that you, being the savvy moviegoer you almost certainly are, must consciously allow yourself to be manipulated. He remains one of the few filmmakers in this category that leaves me comfortably guiltless about plunking my emotions onto the mercy of his cinematic court, and allowing him to turn up the heroics, the strings (or, if you will, piano keys) and the sense of connection I feel to humanity. He chooses great stories and he is so accessible, its almost uncanny.. As a result, A Beautiful Mind, Howard's best work since Apollo 13, is the kind of film people are going to have to remind me that I liked in five years time. On the other hand, I doubt anyone is going to have to remind me how much I enjoyed Russell Crowe in this film - or in any other film for that matter. He's become the kind of bankable actor, the performer I would watch in anything to relish his transformation. His consistent genius tends to outweigh my eye rolling at the promise level of the films he chooses to involve himself in. Crowe has terrific chemistry with Jennifer Connelly, who plays his student, then his wife and, later, his guardian. Though their love story is inconsistent (the courting stages are thoroughly underdeveloped while the marriage as a living hell stands shakily on this cracked foundation), she gives us a great sense of what it is like to deal with a schizophrenic. In fact, the film itself gives a great deal of attention to the actuality of the disorder, what it feels like for one who has it and the strain in places on the world of his or her loved ones. As the disorder develops and burrows into their lives (and they, like everyone in the film, age so flamboyantly, their appearances become nearly comical), Howard takes a much less literal approach than we'd expect from the disorder's first appearance, which, in fact, isn't even revealed until after the first couple of reels. We find out as Nash does, which is, in a sense, a skillful first person technique (except that Howard stages this as far too many modern cinema directors do, by fooling the audience with things that are later revealed to be something else entirely). Howard gives us the ravishingly lived-in, dry, dusty academia of Princeton circa 1953, which gradually melds into the paranoid, technology driven 1960's. Is this to show us authenticity or to give Nash a fading, brown, neutral looking world to live in? His place in this world is justified by the integrity both Howard and Crowe are able to give him: this is a hero story - but the pain is unimaginable and the delusions make Nash seem more real than many of the characters in Howard's other films. This is a more consciously sympathetic, more traditionally cinematic, certainly less simplistic vision than, say, Rain Man. What makes this movie worthwhile is the passion we can see burning just behind Howard's lens, as if this were the most important project he's ever done. Reflected off an actor like Russell Crowe, there's little room for dispute: if you are not moved (superficially or otherwise) by this film, you are relatively immovable.

(1/10)

Gosford Park is surprisingly ordinary for Altman. The tone is the usually glib, rather broad passivity wherein everyone talks at once and we get a sense of the company we're in from the bits and pieces we can extract. But what starts out a transplant of this auteur's style into clear Merchant Ivory territory quickly devolves into a rather standard premise with an awfully stock motive that rarely amuses us beyond the simple entertainment of its dialogue and quirky set-ups. As a whole, what the film sorely needs is a good, meaty central character (oh, and a clear focus, but never mind all that). Fellowes and Altman, believing they can duplicate the majesty of other Altman films where main characters are unheard of, seem to have pared down any of the front runners for such a position (most notably, Kelly McDonald or Emily Watson) in hopes of accentuating the battle of the classes. The financial gap is clear, even interesting, and it certainly makes for a number of cunning, droll moments. Unfortunately, thats just what the film turns out to be; a series of incidences, of casual encounters that never seem to have the weight to make vital the precious master/servant argument that presses urgently just below. I could sound off for a week in depth about all the characters but, since Altman drains the intimacy, making them mere acquaintances, I think I'll pass (though Richard E. Grant and Charles Dance were smug standouts for me). At the very least, it was better than Kansas City.

(1/14)

A tirelessly inconsistent work. Every time it would leap off the screen and define itself beyond the Larry Clark trademark (conveniently confusing shock value for art and vice versa), the filmmaking itself is at fault (particularly that dizzying - excuse me, bravura - shot where the camera circles a group of teens on a driveway for nearly five minutes). Clark excels in the inclusion of teenage mischief in the form of excess and, in Bully, most of it is a hell of a lot more relevant and essential than in, say, Kids. Alas, there is an air of incoherence about the first act that offended me slightly: it was as if Clark were desperate to get to climactic centerpiece of the film - even at the expense of a proper set up. Characters refer to things we never see - but figure we probably should have (most notably when Lisa talks about the many times she's been raped by the target, Bobby). The seemingly inconclusive nature of Bobby and Marty's relationship, whether or not it is actually improving or becoming worse is left properly indistinguishable; Bobby at once calling Marty his best friend while also chiding him into performing at a sleazy all male club, then subsequently hitting him in the eye while Marty tries to drive a car (trust me, these things are given an oddly disturbing weight). The actual murder is bloody, quieting, steeped in the anticipation of the best part of the film, which is the desperate state of conscience all the teens find themselves in. These scenes, the ones which follow the actual murder, when absolutely none of the main characters can figure out how to handle it, these appear to be the most important moments. Everyone loses his or her cool, disappearing into a disturbed haze that is chillingly naturalistic. Clark has some problems defining his message. Whereas a film like Dead Man Walking presents both sides of an issue with clarity, allowing the viewer to come to his or her own conclusion, I can't tell if Clark is too lazy or if he's honestly unconcerned with presenting a double-edged sword. The film appears to ponder both sides: "was this kid too unbearable and deserving of death?" seems to ring in the background of a number of scenes, while most of the film's logistical plotting concerning the murder as well as the epilogue seem to argue vehemently against the killing. I'm almost positive a film like this should be arguing against murder; but I'm equally positive that a controversy loving filmmaker like Larry Clark would probably throw in a shadow of a doubt with no real reasoning behind it. Instead of praising the fact that he shows in full the rationalization behind the murder, I felt more compelled to question his motive for giving us a hint of justifiable vengeance. The film works best as a character study, echoing both of Clark's other films as well as a host of other teen-related, borderline Movie-of-the-week entries; the characters here, with more than a shred of destination to their feebleness, feel even more real then the ones in Kids. They speak the same kind of casually offensive lingo that defines them: a generation with nothing to say. Some of the characterization seems a touch extreme (with Lisa, the scruple-less lady Macbeth character whose overnight resignation to murder Bobby would make the Catherine Zeta-Jones character in Traffic blush).  In essence, the immoderate notion that these characters could even exist (and that "based on a true story" stamp does come in handy in the alarming department) complements the other characters, who are equally indecisive and cloudy minded, finding the miraculous power to both question and support their decisions all at the same time. Renfro and Stahl in particular, playing what I would call against type give the film a completely plausible edge. Stahl plays the superior being and Renfro, a headline hoodlum in real life, nails the suppressed role. Neither actor has ever given a performance with this much life and passion to date and each stand in an entirely crisp, admirable light as performers. The bottom line is that I admire this film very much, apart from my gripes, which rarely detract from its overall power, leaving it a piece of art I confidently champion. It's an example, like Stanley Kubrick's The Shining, where the film feels made to hurt the audience. Being hurt is an emotional reaction and I praise Larry Clark for eliciting it, but he needs to grow within his craft soon, or he'll be horribly obsolete. Bully, minus a handful of blunders, would have easily been one of the best films of the past year. I couldn't get Bully out of  mind for days and was ultimately annoyed to realize that it was, like Fight Club, too flawed to register as the kind of art I would even allow to haunt me for days.

(1/20)

Ridley Scott, as usual, proves himself, perhaps one of the great showmen of the cinema, but a mediocre director (he stages, rather than directs, I think). The film itself doesn't so much need a director as it needs a guide, someone to untangle the maze of overlapping battle charges, retreats and tactical mix-ups. What makes the film inimitable (its drawn out fireworks display of violence separates it from the bursts of Saving Private Ryan) is the way Scott seems to drop us, unprepared, into the firestorm, which, in this case, a terrifyingly botched prisoner extraction in Mogadishu, Somalia. Surrounding an audience with danger isn't an easy thing to do; I've never seen it done so skillfully as in this film. We believe, very easily, that around every corner, in every window ledge, on every roof and behind every burned out car lurks a Somalian rebel, automatic weapon and itchy trigger finger in tow. Inside this brilliant sequence (which, in essence, soaks up an entire hundred minutes of  film), there are problems: the Somalians aren't given a proper face no matter how you cut it, emerging with stereotypical baddies and walls of video game like villains whose motives need to be clarified significantly. Are they all Warlord Mohamed Farrah Aidid's henchmen? Are they denizens of Mogadishu who are merely defending their city? Do they have a specific disdain for American soldiers? The questions pop up as we watch. None of the characters are especially rounded either, which wouldn't have made all that much difference in another film. It hardly matters here (it's not really the point), except that such a strong push is made to define at least the archetypal nature of these men in the opening forty minutes, we almost wish we did know at least something more about them. The soldiers are portrayed by a collection of male character actors whose I-know-that-guy familiarity rivals Gosford Park's greatest hits collection of British players. Among them are a few names; Josh Hartnett, Sam Shepard, Tom Sizemore and Ewan MacGregor turn in performances ranging for good to indistinguishable (MacGregor's character as written is particularly embarrassing, while I kept wishing Shepard had more screen time). The best (and incidentally, the most comprehensive) performance belongs to Eric Bana, of Chopper and the upcoming The Hulk, whose persistent grace and dedication are cranked up to full volume. He seems the only character in the picture who penetrates any sort of broad character traits. Bana finds a note in his small part that sidesteps generalization: he has a more honest, believable caring beneath an exterior of hard as nails muscle and distorted wisdom. If only the other characters had something like that beneath their skin. In the vivid, intense - and worthwhile - Black Hawk Down, the soldiers speak standard Bruckheimer dialogue while Ridley Scott plunges us into a masterfully rendered, perilously chaotic world with no safe zones. The only tragedy that outweighs the one depicted in the film is that someone didn't step in and clean up the numerous orthodox characteristics of these highly marketable characters. When they're not being showered with bullets and reduced to inaudible machines, the film sags near unwatchable. Black Hawk Down is a film where a general picks up a stack of scrubs and helps to wipe up blood in an ER (if you like your symbolism jarringly direct, have at it). In this film, the idea of heroism is nailed time and time again through actions and motives, but there still has to be a ridiculously incompatible speech about valor. This is one of too many films that I've seen this past year wherein I felt compelled to completely forgive everything bad about it in favor of all the exceptional stuff. I abide temptation in this case.

(1/23)

One of the strangest things that happens in Rat Race is that the opening credits are comprised of the actors' heads, digitally placed on what appear to be South Park-esque stick figures who prance around to a video game-esque title song which is simultaneously irritating and catchy. It's the kind of introduction to a movie that warrants the kind of sigh I find myself giving when someone begins a joke and then has to backtrack to include that crucial information they left out when putting the gag to me. And after I watched the movie - and sank listlessly into my chair - I thought to myself: "What if the whoole movie had been these actors' faces on those digital stick figures?". That would have been a movie. Rat Race, on the other hand,  is less a film than a string of sketches (I'm not decyring it for being a road movie - I am in therapy for overusing that accusation, thank you very much). From Jerry Zucker (minus the Abrahams/Zucker of yesteryear), the film seems like even more of a letdown to those of us who perked up at a possible comeback (you know, his name used to signal that of comic genius: he did make Airplane! and The Naked Gun movies). Excepting casino owner Cleese and nazi-impersonating family man Lovitz, the array of mediocre comedic actors assembled here are completely wasted on complex sight gags (like a helicopter chopping up a swimming pool or a car climbing a satellite tower) and rather unfunny typical character fare (Cuba Gooding, Jr. in particular is as irritating as ever, with Amy Smart coming up seconds as the blond helicopter operator). And while laughing here and there, feeling guilty for it occasionally, I mostly awaited the ending where I could turn the whole thing off. This isn't a diversion. It's a nuisance. Then the ending comes, and it features all the characters from the film on stage with none other than Smash Mouth (who you use when you can't afford the rights to quality songs), singing and dancing to none other than the previously saturated "All Star" (from both Mystery Men and Shrek). It's not confusing. The tone to Rat Race is unique trash; uninspired lowbrow comedy disguised as a big budget remake. Mostly, it's like television - the comedy is so light and forgettable, it barely desires to be laughed at.

(1/25)

Makes you feel like you were in a train wreck, and that you caused the train wreck, and that the train which wrecked was your life's work. Not even really a single motion, a certain scene or any thought the film evoked in particular; this is a film that takes redemption and goodness and doesn't find it in the most unlikely of places as we'd expect, but rather, shows us a soul who doesn't seem to be in control of his change as it affects him. Every minute detail of the worn, saddened Georgia life being halfway lived by these characters feels appropriately dull; the movie feels rightfully scarred and blunt, unable to express any glamour of any kind; each and every second ticking away as a reminder that there's just that much more worthless life to lead before death swallows you up. And doesn't that sound like a downer. And it is. Even moments which come close don't exactly give themselves away; though the movie does, in fact, achieve a season of satisfying closure, a bittersweet middle ground, if we were paying attention, we'd notice that even the massive uprooting that takes place in both Thornton and Berry's lives can't be ignored. These are people ripe for punishment. The emphasis on feeling almost makes emotion a stand-in, a kind of backup plan. Emotion, in Monsters Ball, is as earth shattering as it possibly could be. This is a rare, absolutely jarring motion picture.

(2/9)

Quite accidentally, I feel, Iris is two great love stories. It aims to be a memoir of a quick-witted author of British novels. Instead, it is two messy biographical notes on affliction: Kate Winslet's is her "secret world" (if you can figure it out, Hugh Bonneville -who plays her lover-to-be - would suree like to know) and Judi Dench's is Alzheimer's. Each story seems to aim to sketch out the figure, but neither of them come close to even speculating on the notion of what writer Iris Murdoch must have been like. To make matters worse, the separate stories are haphazardly edited together as if the director was just arbitrarily interlocking them - some scenes seem to connect the young Iris and her older self through common themes; other appear to have little in common apart from being in the same movie together. Somehow, miraculously, Eyre manages to sculpt two of the year's best love stories (although, admittedly, it was the year lacking not the film standing head and shoulders above its few contenders). Between the unpredictability of Winslet and the assured twittering and stammering of Bonneville, there is a spark of flirtation that grows into a flame, namely, Broadbent and Dench, him waddling and her strutting, each of them giddily adorable in their golden years, leaving us to relish each and every tickling, bad joke and puckerface. The movie wants to represent a realistic Alzheimer's situation and the budding womanhood of an egotistical, solitary female mind which finds itself lonely for others but unable to do anything about it. What arises instead, through the wonderful (but, I wouldn't go so far as to say Oscar worthy) performances by Dench, Winslet, Bonneville and Broadbent, is a buried affection and a whimsy that everyone's too busy being serious to pay attention to.

(2/18)