I'd like to admit that the first time I saw this I was partially stoned, which may have informed my opinion more than necessary, but I just can't. Most recent viewing, unfortunately, reveals that The Core, though it makes no attempt to take itself seriously, is still pretty fucking ridiculous.

What struck me this time around was how the second half - which I probably wrote off in my younger days - enhances the first half. The real mental patient is Lindsay Crouse, whose unique talent for forgiving herself allows her to pull off the ultimate con. The mark? Her conscience. (Spartan makes reference to House of Games in re-using "One Riot, One Ranger". Another catch.)

I kept thinking back to that scene in The Aviator when Howard Hughes asks someone if they liked Scarface and they tell him, "Yeah, but it was so violent". It seemed relevant because at the time I heard that line of dialogue, I dismissed it as a character note (Hughes is giddy about the success and could care less about how excessive the violence was), but upon actually seeing Scarface in action (cute choice of words, Ben), I was struck by how violent Hawks' film seems (even today). It's all constant murder (albeit, often offscreen) with very little apology (save for the silly, "Petition Your Government!" vibe expressed in the pre-titles and one absurd scene), making it seem fresher and more honest that nearly any other gangster movie in its class (by which I mean: of it's time). There are great splurts of comedy (Muni's attempt to explain the subtleties of taking a phone message to his new secretary could have been a Marx Bros. routine) tossed into the grim rise of bootleggin' muscle Muni, but the performance drives nearly everything. Muni's smart-alecky, utterly immoral spirit, laced with a half-informed jargon that sounds like street Shakespeare Italiano makes his character, often times, borderline frightening. The connections between this film and its 1983 remake are broad, but there; "The World is Yours" blimp used to far more interesting results in the latter.

This one could be perfect DePalma - European locale, setpieces take precedence to a too-dense narrative, emotional connections feel alien and false - except for Cruise's performance, which seems so self-serving, you can picture him on opening weekend drooling over his many, noxious close-ups. It's the thing that sets DePalma apart from his idol: Hitchcock, though he had no use for them, was a great director of actors. DePalma simply has no use for them. (That said, the break-in to Langley is probably my favorite thing in a DePalma film to date.)

While I've seen it praised for clever budgeting (the sea battles cross cut between old silent film footage and tre obvious soundstage setups), Captain Blood is wishy-washy, coating itself in the ideals of its main character (Errol Flynn in dashing/annoying mode), a doctor stolen as a slave while on a goodwill mission and "forced" into piracy; He's so full of entitlement, his puffy shirt is practically bursting. Since Flynn can't pull of a character arc, the love story seems miles outside the realm of plausibility; Curtiz saves the film quite a few times (Blood's office and a courtroom scene flirt with Expressionist Sets, sword fights are staged with definite care and pinache), but Captain Blood is weighted down, hardcore, by its obvious profit-mongering. (My bias, too, is that I love the idea of a great pirate film and seldom see one untainted by its own agenda; See also: Pirates of the Caribbean).

In which I finally see the Millenium Falcon.

I think I object, mostly, to the snap-perfect setup, followed by a hard swallow, chased by the single most absurd moment in film history ("the pinch", and then when they simply dress as EMT and slip past casino security); Roberts ultimate forgiveness of Clooney based upon another oddly flat-falling setup (the scene where he gets Andy Garcia to admit that he'd take money over the girl) fails miserably, leaving the better part of Ocean's Eleven betrayed by its dénouement. Obviously, I've gone overboard in my analysis. Didja expect more from the sequel's ultimate champion?

In which I get the Pulp Fiction pangs. My god this thing is cool.

It's a fascinating process, watching a film whose drama is created by zooms into photographs. (Of course, then there's Ken Burns, who does all but the same exact thing.) Browning's film may have been unusually good; The twist ending is far-fetched, but the film is plenty atmospheric, with a great Lon Chaney vampire and some big, decayed sets to gawk at. Disqualified from any sort of grading because, a) it's not the actual film; b) it works less like a silent film than a documentary recounting the step-by-step storyline; c) tension and mood are generated in completely different ways than Browning would have busted out (in all likelihood). I'm also planning to re-read the script as I'm completely unclear on a plot point of rather high importance.

It was fun to adopt the culture of this film (quoting it non-stop, I mean) for a while. I still think it's a phenomenol vision of naivete and nerdiness: Laugh-out loud funny and surprisingly moving.

I think I have to take back at least 50% of the Requiem for a Dream comparison I made last time I watched this. The contextual communication of addict behavior, despite its inexplicably perfect mixture with a very specific, very attractive mileau of drug music and culture (a fairly open and blunt contradiction in terms whose very presence seems to say more than the film proper), is pretty disturbing in its own right: It portrays an impossibly stupid life without constantly retreating to easy grimness or sermon mongering. We now find ourselves excited that a lifelong heroin addict has bilked other addicts (of various sorts) out of a large sum of money and talks of going straight in the same rehearsed mantraspeak he, earlier, spoke of his life of addiction. So: He goes straight, but in A Clockwork Orange style, the movie argues sobriety is as rancid a state as dependency or, he stays on smack, allowing us to leave the theater believing you can accomplish such things as a junkie as long as you're charming and cool. (And for some reason, I'm carrying on like I'm criticizing the movie for all of this; The truth is, I think its willingness to portray drug culture with its highs and lows makes for a far less monotonous watch than the aforementioned Aronofsky flick. Less preachy, too.)