Though I was disappointed not to be quite blown away as I was when I first viewed Traffic, the more intellectual but less entertaining of the two social issue exposes Soderbergh made in 2000, what struck me this time around was how ambitious and sophisticated the film appears to be, but how, underneath, most of what happens is really rather pedesterian. What makes everything work above par, I think, is that Traffic so clearly states the fact that everyone in the film is working against themselves, delusions of grandeur spinning in their heads and concepts of success being perverted almost as fast as they can be conceived. The characters are larger than life (even if their actions are sometimes muddled by cross-intention and overstatement) and the actors chosen to play them are an extremely well-casted pool of thespians. It is Benicio Del Toro who steals the show, but also in the "wow" category are Erika Christensen (as Michael Douglas's crack-addicted daughter), Don Cheadle (as a beyond-flying-off-the-handle undercover cop), Dennis Quaid (in a low-key turn that adds a flavor I had missed the first time around) and, though I wasn't sure I meant it before, Topher Grace, a wonderful actor who embodies preppy pretention about as good as I can remember anyone doing it. The film has its air pockets, but it also has a great deal of information it is comfortable in bombarding us with. Perhaps, in the barrage of hype, we miss the fact that we are watching a bolder-than-bold message movie that never, for a second, feels like a message movie. In Soderbergh's sunray soaked compositions that teem with tinted, vivid colors (and hum along with Cliff Martinez's bassy, tense score), we see a world that is a brilliant alter-reality. It doesn't create situations too convenient and too well timed to be credible, but it doesn't bore us to death with anti-entertainment docudrama techniques. He sets a tone just south of the one he mined in Erin Brockovich: a pall over the whole film, as if it was existing in a permanent funeral procession.

the original review

I think, even more than before, it bothered the bejeezus out of me that the film is so arbitrary and every scene has the same shock level as the last ("Oh no, Schrek's creepy!". "Oh dear, he chills me so!". "Oh heavens, by the way he's acting, I think he might be a vampire!". "Dear Lord! Is he looking at me funny? Does he want to eat me?" and so on and so forth). Wierder still, I stand in bewilderment at how quickly the quailty of the screenplay is depleted through usually potent, skillful techniques: every period detail is rendered with an unproductively sincere note of self-gratifying impeccability; the characters are so authentic and traditional that they become dry and predictable; and the world the film creates, though interesting and eerie, moves too slowly to be any real fun. (And fun is, having seen it again, the film's final goal). I laughed more than I remember laughing when I saw the film in the theater. Often I'd ask myself if I were laughing at an actor's choice (mostly Izzard, who disappears mysteriously halfway through) or at the film itself. Was this supposed to be a riff on itself, a self-mocking fantasy on how utterly ridiculous it is to make a film about making a film? A homage-heavy enough production, I am satisfied enough with Willem DeFoe's performance and its seemingly endless call to carry a terrific premise which never gets off the ground. As Max Schrek, DeFoe seems to realize he's the most exciting and powerful presence on the screen, (even next to John Malkovich, who plays maniacal director F.W. Murnau with a wild self-importance, issuing demands and making threats, but never leaving auto-Malkovich-mode). As an audience, we're treated to predictability that seems somehow justified by the laurels of DeFoe's turn, but we're still wondering as the credits roll - - - did we just see a movie, or an expensive looking background surrounding a hyper sketchy re-creation. Think RKO 281, plugged in.

the original review

The kind of period piece that reminds us why they're still made. Transforms boring ol' Edith Wharton into a complex, intensely rewarding dissection that, while I debated once, actually has a retiscent, bold social relevance today. Well acted, especially by Anderson and Stoltz, who play parts so unlike their usual forte, you may be able to drift through the film merely on admiration of these modern actors doing some serious work. An absolutely magnificent film.

the original review

A violent futuristic sport. A corporate world takeover which leaves the world in the hands of greedy executives. A sports star in contemplation and defiance. Jewison's film explores about a fraction of its own implications (choosing instead to keep the focus on Caan's excessive, rambling confusion made all the more ambiguous by the truly heroic amount of brooding he crams into the two hours he remains on-screen). As for the sport itself, most of the sequences are borderline electrifying (I say borderline because they're arranged in that conservative seventies' ultra sluggish editing loop). The best part of the film is how naturalistic Jewison makes a fictional sport feel through the insertion of rules and consequences in an almost step-by-step manner. Finally, the subtlety of an oppressed future is to be noted (as Jewison did mean this to be a foreboding prediction of events he expected) as it is slight. Never measures up to the exponentially disturbing force of 1984 or the imagination driven visual thrill ride of THX-1138 (the two films it seems to mirror most), but Rollerball works on the most important of levels: its an action movie with social consciousness peaking through. That's a feat.

For the time, the special effects are really the reason to see the film. The constant asides where Greek Gods communicate with the mere mortals make the hokey elements (and they abound) of the film seem all the more ridiculous, but what really excites, even today, is a semi-competent retelling of myth fused with the kind of smoke and mirrors which look elegant for their day in our day. One more asset to technology: the original looks fantastic not because it is fantastic, but because suspending disbelief on such dated tricks is sometimes even more fun than believing something because it look authentic.

I felt a little bit let down watching this so-called classic of its genre (and not for the obvious reason, in point of fact - - - I like the song that plays repeattedly over Gary Cooper's obsessive bout with a baddie called Frank Miller). Genre: Western. Problem: Unlike the really interesting things that came out of offbeat westerns, such as Once Upon a Time in the West, The Wild Bunch and Unforgiven, or even the early classics like The Searchers or Stagecoach (which had their own problems, but fewer of them), High Noon squanders the immense genius of things like real time, method acting and even the ultra-rare idea of a ultra-moral hero booed down by the rest of a town who would prefer to bury their moral six feet under the ground.  It squanders them in simple ways. A subplot about Cooper's past that is ambiguous to the point of being incoherent. The real time is loose, and in a strange sort of way, doesn't do what I'd expected it to. (But then again, real time has never worked right. Rope cheats by using cut aways, although it is the closest thing to what the experience should be. Anybody see a film called Nick of Time? Didn't think so.) The movie never really gets interesting and when it does, the ending falls into place so uneventfully, so predictably and so idyllically, you almost want something tragic to happen in order to shake it up. High Noon may be a yarn spun, and therefore passes the time in an orderly manner, but I can't figure out why it is so revered. If anything, its a small notch above mass-produced westerns.

I drop all the lights in the room. My wife falls asleep. The player hums, DVD spinning into eternity. But my eyes are fixed on the screen. The images, really, are the key to how this film still manages to pull off scary without a hitch. There's a premise, sure, and a good one (a somnambulist sends his trance-like slave to kill townspeople, but he's really the head of a mental institution), but the film is such a remarkable incidence of expression, a really pure version of itself. The kind of text here, one that reads foreboding while you're looking and reality when your glance shifts, slices right down to the core. For a film made pre-code, it is still remarkably gore-less. Further proof that good horror films are the ones that irk the imagination and provoke the senses rather than show you what you should be scared of.

I'm scared of this film.

A miracle it turns out to be as charming as it is. Dreyfuss is the sole bearer  of the film's winning streak (God knows the female lead, writer Neil Simon's flame at the time, Marsha Mason, doesn't bring much to the film). After about thirty minutes, the great ideas the film opens with - an outlandish set-up that brings forth an odd couple cum romance - become a repetitive barrage of one-liners (we expect little else from Simon), a comic back and forth that rarely moves quick enough to keep our attention beyond the punchline chuckle. What I like about the film, despite its shallowness, is how it still comes back to what we hope will come out of it, namely, a sparkling romance. Below par or not, the film is existing to serve the audience, which is satisfying.

As I begun the film for the third time, I  wondered, more often than not, how the film was ever fit for the stage. I think, seeing it again, the oblivious undercurrent of anti-everything painted in mid-century America takes (forgive the pun) a backseat to what is essentially the story of unlikely friends. Obviously, most people probably enjoy how ultimately refreshing and pleasant the film is to watch because of the painstaking, nearly flawless arc these characters arrive through. Seeing it before, as an entertainment, I think I was severely left out of its real meaning: companionship supercedes assumption (in the barest of terms). Jessica Tandy and Morgan Freeman are each giving one of the better performances of their respective careers.

God, if only the subject matter were more interesting than the melodrama, Ray's film, (which introduces us to James Dean as a shy guy, far too badass for this planet let alone his high school), could have been one of the best motion pictures ever made (as some swear it is). But what we watch is so utterly compelling because Dean, as an actor, is more creative, more dead-on, more undeniably cool than anything we see in modern cinema or that of yesteryear. The film, on the other hand, never really conquers the subject of juvenile delinquency with any actual passion (it all seems to have the tone and feeling of an anti-gang film made to show in classrooms to dissuade bad behavior). Dean rules the film. Natalie Wood, Sal Mineo and a young Dennis Hopper file in neatly behind him as we tuck its spell under our hat and feel our hearts sink at the fact that Dean left only three films behind. Isn't that always the way of it.

I'm sorry, are you telling me you don't get Comedy Central? Is that why you're making that face?
I happen to find this film even more enjoyable than the first. The difference is probably Charles S. Dutton's small part.

Aimless like Dazed and Confused, but also overkill. Not that Lucas is one for subtlety, but are we really supposed to believe that Toad's car could disappear and then reappear, just like that. I mean, I'm all for plot convenience, but this is ridiculous. (Love Harrison Ford's use of the term "piss yellow", though).

Merchant Ivory without the dust. Forgotten, as you always read, how utterly entertaining the film is based upon dialogue almost exclusively. Period detail and semi-complex (if formulaic, even for Austen) story highlighting oppression of women and diversity of men play a nice role, but, as usual, Lee directs the film as if it were something people would want to watch, instead of something they'd be forced to sit through.

After the first half-hour, where every pro-America symbol and attitude are thrust full force into our faces, the film becomes a scratched record, repeating the same tired slogans about war (no winners, only losers) ad nauseum. In fact, due in large part to Tom Cruise's performance (which leads the film into a much more interesting waters than Stone's self-gratifying interpretation of Ron Kovic'c memoir), Born on the Fourth of July becomes a better expose about living with a physical/mental handicap than about coming to terms with your patriotism. Only watchable when it steps outside itself and stops shouting about Vietnam. (Which is kinda redundant, don't'cha think?)

There are two extended scenes in Autumn Sonata that are rather brutal. In them, Liv Ullman practically murders Ingrid Bergman (in her last film) with her words. She disconnects their relationship as daughter/mother and tries to reboot it, seemingly frustrated to the n-th degree. What surrounds these scenes plays very rarely beyond setting up the big confrontations. I have to admit that I cared less about the characters than I think Bergman would have required for me to be knocked out by the big scenes, which, just the same, are pretty powerful for what they are in theory. The look of the film, an Autumn palette signifying what must be the month where everything finally dies. In the film, no one dies. The relationship seems to recuperate, but will never fully heal. Bergman seems to be celebrating the inherant friction of maternal relationships. Is the Autumn symbolizing the mourning of such friction? If so, that's not so cool. Solid drama that leaves the kind of questions regarding intention that give me more than a mere fleeting pause.

So its told as flashbacks, opening on a highbrow note and descending into utter opulence? So the wigs distract the viewer from pretty much all else that transpires? So Tom Hulce's laugh pierces the eyes, ears and throat? The music is, still, the reason to see the film. That, and its damned entertaining.

I don't know that there's necessarily a problem with Giant. Maybe that was an overstatement. As a soap opera, it has more than its share of weak subplots. As a precaution, Stevens made the film nearly four hours long. A film like this, that spans three decades in a couple of lives, at nearly four hours, feels strangely mis-pitched. Yes, a long movie should go with a long amount of screen time. Yes, the actors should age in their acting and their personas as well as their hair and skin. What's really powerful about the film is that it has such a bracing stop-start motion to it. You really pay attention when Dean is in misery towards the end of the film. Even the stark, out-of-place anti-racist sentiments in the film seem to reward the viewer in that guilty, melodramatic fashion. Giant isn't exactly what we watch movies for. That deep down feeling of having been part of something and feeling as if that something were interesting enough to pass the time is muffled by the film's multi-tasking narrative which seems to beg the running time, which, let's out with it, is just kinda overbearing. Dean is the best part of the film, unless you're into Elizabeth Taylor with gray hair.

Will watch it a hundred times no matter how bad it is. Sue me. It's tradition.

So, you're saying Travolta is Cage and that, Cage, incidentally, is Travolta. Sounds about right.

I still think that this is my favorite of Scott's films (outside of Alien, maybe). Though the sets weren't as vivid as I remember them, the film's main skill is in how good it makes the dirty, dirty time period look. Its an epic that's probably too glamorous for what it is, too detailed for the broadness of the audience and too generic too be of historical value. Though we can see its intentions falling through the cracks, negated by other, less interesting aspects of it, the film still has the kind of charm that Gladiator full on lacked. It caters directly to the most vicious version of that schoolbook Columbus legend. Instead of being all high-minded and artsy as it could have been (or just plain ridiculous and self-parodying like the other version, Christopher Columbus: The Discovery), what 1492 accomplishes is far more impressive. Its a more accessible big, dumb epic with imagery we'd be content replacing our own grade school Columbus visions with.

I believe they'd put him on the moon already. The (Courtney) love story is another matter altogether.

Tough to watch a film that limits itself to two prime settings, but feels just that confined. Never really taking too many risks, the film goes for broke with a late second act car chase, a really lame Japanese tour joke and a ring-a-ding ending that, while the half-clever bell goes off in your head, later reflection reveals Grade A hokiness. Too much generic, not enough twist on what could have been a taut, exciting thriller about hostages held in a stolen subway car. The very thought that we'd revere the film because Tarantino "borrowed" the names (Mr. Blue, Mr. Brown, Mr. Grey, etc.) used in Pelham for Reservoir Dogs is preposterous. If anything, we should cherish it as another terrific Robert Shaw performance, a surprisingly slick turn by Martin Balsam and a lackluster, jolly well boring showing from Matthau. Jerry Stiller has a small part. We expect him to yell "Serentity Now" any moment.

With a loosely told editing style, the most amazing thing about The War Room is how much it advertises good politics. Suggesting that the people behind the scenes are the ones who make the candidate (who could be a cardboard cut-out, as long as he can be sold), most of what takes place in this film is exciting merely because its rather unknown to us. Watching Stephanopoulos write and edit speeches, peeking at Carville wheeling and dealing and even Clinton, whose behind-the-scenes stuff is few and far between, these are electrifying moments. Would not have expected running a campaign to blow me away in quite this fashion. See also Startup.com from the same team.

"Repetition works, David. REPETITION WORKS, DAVID!"
                                                                                   - Robert Downey, Jr. Natural Born Kiillers