'Proof' has a similar world of ordinary rules we don't ordinarily acknowledge, giving it the feel of a layman's Atom Egoyan film. Moorhouse's nicely engaging film keeps its gimmick - a blind photographer needy for accurate descriptions of his snapshots - on the back burner, instead resting the twin canons of image authorship and blind faith in the scheming hands of its three players. Martin, the photographer, is played by the great, smug actor Hugo Weaving, who dons the bitter poise of boyhood trauma as the only way to dictate survival in a world of darkness. He knows his housekeeper (a venomously low-key Genevieve Picot) is in love with him and because she has lacks objectivity, he chastises her out of mistrust. The audience is genuinely invited to step into Martin's shoes as he chooses the wayward flake Andy (played by a young, sporting Russell Crowe) as a bankable decoder of his pictures. Moorhouse seems, at times, to get ahead of herself in telling the story. The flashbacks to Martin's youth are somewhat jarring: they feel more like allusions to a past life than pieces of the puzzle. For the most part, 'Proof' strings fascinating human moments together to complete a perspective that draws a psychologically apt parallel between human behavior and the difference between image and perception. I'm not sure I admire the rare inferences of "who is really blind - the blind man or (s)he who takes advantage of and lies to the blind man?" However, since Moorhouse has more than enough satisfying twists to get the premise off its feet, I'll stand back and accept the bigger picture.

Kind of like taking drugs because there's really very little order to it, but the point isn't in its coherence, but rather the effect of sitting yourself in front of it and allowing your mind to slurp and sponge the images, dialogue and music. Taken from Dante's first eight cantos, this is a shortened version of the long, tedious brand of filmmaking Greenaway exhibited in The Falls. Here, everything seems more pertinent, more prestigious and appears to have more on its mind than befuddling the audience. When it was over, I felt as if I was locked into another pair of eyes' vision. That is good filmmaking. The metaphors, metonymy and literary references, however, are not for he without weeks of time and a plethora of reference material. The late John Gielgud, further proving he was a great - but hip - actor, appears as the guide through hell, Virgil.

Completely full of authorship cues and visual nonsense, Performance eventually gets around to a scene where James Fox hallucinates Mick Jagger singing to a roomful of Fox's naked adversaries. Surrounding this scene (which finally grounds the somewhat aimless visual kicks Roeg and Cammell are having at our expense) is so telling as one of many great turning moments defining the cinema 1970's (and partitioning it from that of the 1960's). I scarcely believed I was watching the same movie after I saw it. The idea that a narrative - loose as it may be - could uproot itself and continue to be aimless, but, in a way, make more sense, just about sums up the great movements of the 1970's (which included Roeg and a number of other great filmmakers, many of whom didn't make it out of the decade literally and (or) creatively). Occasionally vicious, often beautiful, sometimes interesting and unintelligible at the same time, Performance isn't really about performing at all - - - but if you think that, the film probably isn't really for you anyway. Not to be snide or anything.

Violence in and out, almost of a cartoonish quality (which is pure redundancy). Most exquisite is how the film is watchable because it is really nothing more than an exciting, magnetic Russell Crowe performance with an outlandish story constructed around it. A great title, but really, all the film does is romp around and stomp its credibility with its ambition. Even more points lost for the blatant image and scene robbery of Kubrick's A Clockwork Orange (in the opening railroad station sequence, the home invasion sequence and that shot of the skinheads driving down the road, headlights casting a plastic luminary on the surrounding trees and road).

An absolutely riveting, disturbing motion picture. (Course, don't all critics describe this film that way?) Karl Boehm makes the film creepy in the same way Peter Lorre did for M twenty-nine years prior: with an appearance that is equal parts suspicious and boy next door. Having recently seen Shadow of the Vampire, I guess I can kind of see where that film would find its inspiration in this film, particularly in its arc and its muscle tightening climax (Haven't seen a single critic note that). Perhaps the way Boehm loves his art, or the way he is disturbed by his father (which comes out slow and creepy, like a Hitchcock film) - - - or maybe just the idea that in 1960, subjects like snuff films and scopofelia would arise and seem as terrifying now as they would have back then. Is it then, that since Peeping Tom is awfully timeless, which makes it truly great? Perhaps that, and the trickling progression where we realize that, as an audience, we are just as guilty as Boehm - if not guiltier, in some ways. That, and the other wicked notion that he who has nothing to lose is free to do as he pleases. In Peeping Tom, without us ever knowing it, the camera is turned on us. We don't know it. And that's the problem. A brilliant film.

Probably a gas when it was released, but after a decade's worth of twisty road movies with wisecracking buddy teams of high profile, even likable actors, Midnight Run seems about as stale and dated as they get. A great cast, including Robert DeNiro, Charles Grodin, Yaphet Kotto, Dennis Farina and Joe Pantaliano shows off a variety of mugs - some who would get typecast in the ninneties, some who wouldn't. Laughed a few times, found most of the dialogue between Grodin and DeNiro to feel done utterly to death (even if I had seen it prior to the nineties). Some of the action seems a tad excessive, but then most of this farce seems rather excessive. Big points for entertainment, nostalgia and the ongoing proof that DeNiro can make anything he's in seem to be of high quality. Brest would have done better making his ideas less single-minded. As it is, the film is such a straight and narrow three act affair (even with all the changeovers), it never really seems to be having any fun and occasionally, that rubs off on us. A terrific diversion otherwise.

Not only does a second viewing reveal all the inter-constructionary details (watch her hide those pens), it has that ring-a-ding quality wherein you know the filmmakers shoot forth lines that would have a different meaning the second time around (a similar quality exists to 'The Usual Suspects'). But mostly, it is a wonderful trip that allows (and this is the highest compliment I can pay ANY film) for just as enriching a cinematic mind experience as the first viewing. Everything makes just as little sense to you (even you you've seen it) and you're still constantly thinking, forming theories, exercising them as you watch, forcing moments to play a certain way in your head so you can choose whether or not your interpretation holds weight - - - it's kind of like when you look at a situation from many points-of-view (something else I missed the first time, and thanks for pointing out the sympathy note for Natalie). Teddy, Natalie, Jimmy, Dodd, Sammy, Sammy's Wife, Burt and especially Leanord have a different drive that affects what you believe is the right combination to create sense in the movie. Here, there is no REAL right answer (except at the end when you realize the instinctual nature of Leanord's condition, but I wasn't really talking about that) to any character's place in the film's surreal world - - - and thank God for that. Will be pretty well impossible to top 'Memento' this year.

So, as a great visionary film, do I crave a pseudo intellectual film critic dissecting it and making reference to the roomful of hundreds who helped to pick it apart in Boulder, Co. when he hosted the film frame by frame? I guess I do. Most of what Ebert says is great because of the wealth of films he can call comparison to; his knowledge of great film theories and movements (and his application ain't half bad, either) and, for no other reason than the fact that I like to hear the man prattle on. Good at examples when he's making a point, though not so good at stopping the lengthy, boring tangent he launches into regarding special effects films being made only for the special effects. Like his TV show, only with more big words and less tension. If that's your cup of tea - and it's mine - climb aboard. The film still shimmers and shines with a wondrous originality and sense of itself (plus, the futuristic film noir angle doesn't hurt at all - am I right?)

The film version of Sherman Alexie's terrific short story "What it means to say Phoenix, Arizona" is clumsy and familiar and then clumsy again. The characters are either too flamboyantly distracting (Thomas, who looks more Amish than Native American) or too internally obtuse (nearly nothing of the textual Victor survives the translation) to work on film. There is little subtlety. Those things that make the story refreshing and funny are altered and out of context and sink on the screen. Tin eared dialogue ("We kept each other's secrets") and embarrassing voice-over narration (the epilogue at the end is an apology for impoverishing the story with this shot of mediocrity) add up to a movie that is full of questions: For instance, why does Native American Sherman Alexie volunteer to write the screenplay and then pen it as if it were from the point-of-view of someone who is not Native American? Yeah, it is a double edged sword to want to share the trials and tribulations of your people with the populous and NOT sell-out; but Alexie unfortunately leans towards the sell-out side with self-depricating characters that we don't care enough about to grant the ever constant ironies that would make the content humorous or even therapeutic. Don't want to leave director Eyre out of the loop either as he exercises bad filmmaking techniques like gratuitous slow-motion, overbearing inclusion of songs and an aerial shot (meant to be the point-of-view of the dead father) that, instead of evoking poignancy, merely looks out of place and irreverent. Most of Smoke Signals gnaws at you like a festering wound.

I have spent so much time talking up this terrific commentary, I scarcely feel there's ought remaining to be disclosed. Nevertheless, both Soderbergh and Frank come up with scores of tidbits, replete with interest both about the making of the film and about the way they practice their respective crafts. Secret favorite moments: Shot of Jennifer Lopez retrieving the shotgun from her trunk. She bends over. Scott Frank calls it "the best shot in the film" as Soderbergh shyly nags, "You're going to get in trouble"; Soderbergh self-consciously referencing both Schizopolis and King of the Hill and sarcastically adding, "[which] I'm sure all of you have seen"; and finally, the greatest fact divulged in the jibber-jabber: the mansion at the end of the film owned by Albert Brooks was only an exterior when shot. The interior had yet to be designed. The owners of sed unfinished (as it were) mansion decided to design several of the rooms to match the way the set designers envisioned them for the film.

Pulp Fiction is such a win-win situation for all audiences, but Jackie Brown is smooth, refined; a reward to cineastes for sticking around, for not succombing to the all-powerful "underrate" cue (for Tarantino), a motion picture of a more narrow focus to replace the thick coating of vanity and sweet, sweet gloss that practically oozes off of Fiction. I hate to be repetitious, but this entertaining, painstakingly re-created blaxploitation-era film is mature, grown up - - - this is the kind of work buried in TTarantino's experience. If Pulp Fiction was an ecstatic outburst, Jackie Brown is a calm, well-spoken statement. And that Pam Grier/Robert Forster romance ranks among the best of the nineties; it has the voyeuristic beauty we crave and the realism we hope is ingrained. This is a brilliant film.

This film - excuse me, TV Movie - starts out with a radio playing. Next thing we know, three girls are hitchhiking with a character played by Levon Helm, drummer for The Band. The girls arrive home and more music plays. I thought to myself: Joyce Chopra has read this story. She's adding music in and out and keeping the whole thing authentic. Hell, even the house Connie's family inhabits looks real. Laura Dern, way too old, but nevertheless white trash enough. Then it murmurs with those eighties synthesizer and I start listening to the music. Bad James Taylor (that is, no one is boarding a jet plane or seeing fire or rain) plays constantly. The father is a dreadful actor. All the sudden the seams start showing and that gravity Smooth Talk was angling for gives out, sending the film tumbling to the ground. There's some apt staging. The first time the girl's sit at the counter at Frank's, the tension is insurmountable because of the way the camera is positioned (it just looks ripe for awkward energy). But later - and, you know, it's time to get there, Treat Williams (at home in TV movies, the overactor) does not look, sound or feel like Arnold Friend should. The scene isn't creepy enough (in fact, it drags on for what feels like an eternity). Minus the menace, A. Friend isn't much more than a thug - - - his mythical symbolism is lost entirely (and transplanting him into another time period doesn't assist, if you're thinking that it does). There's very little ambiguity. Tacked to where the text leaves off is an anti-tragic ending that re-unites Connie's family like they were all long-lost siblings, returning from war. The absolute shine on this reunion (and the way the movie seems to need a happy ending) is enough to garner a good retching. On the plus side, though, I rarely like Laura Dern in anything she flits her air head around in. I liked her in Smooth Talk.

The president in this film, played by Edmund O'Brien, is clearly modeled after Kennedy. The neat thing about that is how I know it. I'm no history nut and I'm certainly not someone who has seen countless amounts of footage showcasing Kennedy in the classic folded arm decision pose, but this is how Kennedy has been immortalized in films like JFK and Thirteen Days. Immediately recognizable here. The Kennedy of the movies follows suit in O'Brien's magnificent performance as he thinks for himself, savors each move and calculates against horrible odds. Burt Lancaster as Kirk Douglas's mentor and Ava Gardner as the woman who brings the human side to each of their surfaces - - -  look terrific together. I wish the film had been a tad less obvious in spots - particularly in many of Lancaster's scenes which have him somewhere between the philosophical general and the wicked megalomaniac we all expect his character to be. The opening sequence, where the picketers start a riot outside The White House gates is a classic. The unfortunate thing for this slightly warped and stretched out potboiler (it gets damn close to being described as "taut", damn close) is that the opening scene feels like it is the climactic high point of the film even if you're seeing it for the first time. It isn't all downhill from there, but it never stops to re-establish or even review that momentum. Instead, it seems to come up with its own energies, some of them more effective than others.

"Our lives consist of how we choose to distort [them]".

I didn't entirely enjoy Ron Mann's Grass. It is almost as skillfully one-sided as 'Paradise Lost: The Child Murders at Robin Hood Hills' is objective. I had to wrestle with my critic self and where the film would fall with the marijauna audience. As it plays like propoganda - and propoganda shouldn't really be posing as a "document" (I defy any one of you to prove that Grass isn't masquerading as a legitimate documentary and legitimate is not synonymous with objective, by the way) - I have to take issue. It sure is entertaining, but it is also cheaply made and once more, cheaply made by a PR Rep who knows the value of leaving out that which is negative (even though he understands the convention dictating that the negative will eventually trickle into the public's consciousness no matter what he or she does).

The surreal elements of it kind of acted as the little moments did in L'Atalante - - - they become the ornamental glimmer on an already refreshed take on a familiar subject (of course, in the thirties, neither the strife of marriage or rebelling against authority were as popular subjects as they appear after seventy some odd years of films). The bearded midget that runs the school; that haunting slow-motion procession of the boys, the naked dude and all those feathers (a procession, in fact, that I'm thinking would have given Fellini a hard-on); and that shot of the boys on the roof that is so well composed, I almost fell to my knees in praise. Zero for Conduct is a moody piece of filmmaking.

What a clever, remarkably absurd, laugh-out loud funny, wonderfully sparse, minimally sentimental joy.