The earth scenes have a perfection in their romantic chemistry to such a degree that you almost forget that the scenes in space lack a vividness, and feel half formed and presupposed. There seems to have been a great deal of emphasis on this being Clooney's movie, but really - it's Soderbergh's (which is his best trait, I think; he's aware of that his personal stamp is one of value and curiosity - and he hasn't yet decided to homogenize or abandon it). Often, Solaris feels almost allegorical (all those shots of the planet tend to be faded from frames of characters' tortured heads or faces, eagerly belying the unknown subconscious of our brain waves; being in deep space is an obvious nod to the disorientation associated with being detached); It also has a canned feeling to it, as if we already know exactly how events are going to play out - but that someone, somewhere has decided that that sort of pre-determination will be good for us. The idea that Solaris never exceeded my expectations, I think, is related to the fact that it never manages to sneak up on us; Often, though, the surprises seem ride the relative, often fascinating one-eighty the short cast is churning out: Clooney is terrifically subdued, Davies seems to be channeling a bong, Viola Davis is a far cry from her memorable turn in Far From Heaven as the housekeeper, and Natascha McElone seems on the edge of madness to such an extent that her performance might have been an interesting fourth insertion within The Hours (the suicidal horrors of a normal life IN SPACE!). But ignore my pessimism: It's still a great triumph to see a mainstream movie with this much dead air, white noise, and need to prove itself even makeit to theaters - - - Everybody say thank you to Mr. Cameron ("Thank-you Mr.-Cameron!").

[The greater triumph, though, is that I didn't compare it to Tarkovsky's version - not once - throughout this entire noticee.]

I've always hated it when critics use thematic metaphors which the film itself states (and by saying such, I expect to be exonerated as I know follow suit): This one is all about the little guy - - and also how satisfying it is to watch him punch mean folks in the face.Charlie Hunnam, of course, does most of the punching - which is ironic since he, himself, is the cast's sole black eye; Nicholas Nickelby is an otherwise over-the-top but harmlessly entertaining romp that's best attribute is how simply it communicates the often complex world of good and bad extremes Dickens tended to stretch to their ungodly limits.

There's a pleasant familiarity to this film that makes it go down as smoothly as it does. And everyone who has (to date) said so is right: Tobey McGuire is the lifeblood of this film; He's more fun that any hackneyed box office smash could ever dream of deserving.

Gritty and twisty, yes; But what's really remarkable about Narc is how well and how sincerely it's made. Staging a horrific and real-feeling urban wasteland (doubling as Detroit), Carnahan is clearly a natural born director (who obviously knows his cops, too; Everyone here seems contractually ambiguous and extremely flawed - - i.e., there's no wading through the always sappy argument that starts: "So, was he a good cop at heart or, uh, just on the outside?"). Patric and Liotta, both, slam the thing down, giving strong, unwavering performances as former undercover cops tracking the murder of a colleague. (Luckily, the film makes this logline seem like an afterthought - - It's mostly about the central relationship and how it is forged in various levels of red tape and procedural hokum, and it is beautifully observant when it comes to pointing out cop habits and criminal instincts.) Sadly, it ensnares itself with the Liotta character, who has such a tricky, unsubstantially arcane past, that the final moments (though taut) gave me a dreadful "That's it!" feeling. Double-times the air with grey zones, though and I think that's important. (Remember, nothing moral can be painted in black and white).

Thing is, don't stand too far away trying to observe it from a distance; it's all on the exterior and it all melts in your mouth.

Pound for pound, one of the funniest films I've seen in ages. Retains almost all of the lively wit and biting style of Kicking and Screaming but, at 80 minutes, its not preoccupied with any of the substance or developed commentary on class or social awkwardness. Plus, I like movies that are just a bunch of actors who obviously work well together (from past successes) who are merely riffing on film stock and sparking fumes left over from said success. Okay, I can only think of one (Blue in the Face) - - unless, does Stranger Than Paradise count? Can we get a ruling on that? Anyone?

Second viewing reveals that the film isn't that transcendent; it's all great and such, certainly wide arms better than most love stories - most films for that matter - but, if not for being cluttered with "moments", we would scarcely be able to swim in it (depthwise). This is not to say that if you were to peak out of your window, you wouldn't see me already standing in line for Green's next film, Undertow (or the one after that, A Confederacy of Dunces).

James Le Gros says, sorta to the group, "Lawyers don't surf."
To which Patrick Swayze adds (quite cleverly, to be sure): "This one does."

Flows, building on itself, out of a kind of magical survival. That anyone in this film's world can cope with themselves, or their situation is a trick - that most of them have found the beauty and majesty of life (and that Green and cinematographer Tim Orr are able to communicate it with the lucidity of a flashback) is just about unreal. It's a fantasy - and I think that's why its so successful. I think my new favorite scene is when George lets Rico Rice direct traffic. Actually, I think Rico could have a movie all of his own (He does, Ben! It's called All the Real Girls. Dude, wake up.)