Here's the malfunction in 'Small Soldiers', an extremely good idea for a movie that's very unsure about how it wants to squander such a bright invention : every time it gets within a country of mile of being as ingenious as, say, 'Toy Story' (or it's masterpiece of a sequel), it quickly cuts to lazy acting humans, which it misfires as the main characters. The toys should be the main focus! This is a film about action figures that kick the humans asses. Tacking a happy ending on? Fine. But don't make me watch nearly two hours of humans with scraps of digital effect laden soldiers in the middle. The most inspired parts of a film called 'Small Soldiers' are actually the ones in which Kirsten Dunst's Barbie Dolls come alive with military chips and attack people with girley-girl phrases, etc. This is a film that's good in small doses (I admit, Phil Hartman is utterly hilarious in every scene he's in, including the deleted scenes on the DVD), but as a whole, it's merely a collection of funny actors (David Cross, Jay Mohr and Denis Leary as well) that should be a collection of three-dimensional toys. It's as if my toys attacked me with the promise of having artificial intelligence and then waited long enough for me to cue the pyrotechnics - and blow them up. How bland. And that's exactly what happens in the film.

As this is the third time I've entered this realm hoping for a nice surprise, I'm pleased to say I've learned my lesson and I'll never actually watch 'Bram Stoker's Dracula' again. Strange that it's such a blatantly bad film - all the elements are in place for genius, or even, watchable entertainment. Alas and alack, even the ambition of Coppola (whom I think we can safely assume is dead as the dodo), a rapturous (is there another word more unfairly associated with this film? Probably not.) performance by Oldman and an obvious nod to the tongue-in-cheek style it's subsequent brothers ('Mary Shelley's Frankenstein', nailed beautifully by Kenneth Branaugh; and 'Sleepy Hollow', as near perfect as a film comes without actually attaining such an introduction) would produce into the annals of "good" and not "notorious"; one would think, even in it's wide screen, DVD composition, I could find something beyond the simple wittlings of solidarity acting within a mess sans teamwork. It still feels like two or three unrelated movies edited together, paced poorly and created as if every scene were meant to top the last - but simply cannot. Stacking scene upon scene of boredom and decay, I constantly fall asleep while I watch it. I've never actually seen it all in once sitting. Big memo : there's no such thing as a horror epic. At two hours, 'Bram Stoker's Dracula' could use a blood draining of more than a quarter of it's running time. Never again, dear readers.

Look, I don't mean to step on an a stone that's obviously meant for stepping, but Hawks style in it's pre-honed days is still an amateur take on what would become a wildly successful and unmatchable genre : the screwball comedy. 'Twentieth Century' contains all the workings of a great one (maniacal and illogical characters dropped square into circumstances that are so outlandish as to be believed as coincidence and goofiness) - but still hasn't the composure yet too be memorable. As it is, I can't tell you more than one or two things that happened in the film because it's too little about it's characters. What 'His Girl Friday' and 'Bringing Up Baby' (the heavyweight champions of the genre) did, were to make these characters that could do three or four things constantly and then add it the situations, varying the various nutty and fast paced comedic genius that came from whom they hired (in both cases, their male leads turn out to be the same person, the majestical Cary Grant - who ought to have been given the presidency for his pitch perfect participation in the creation of this genre). Back to the movie at hand. While John Barrymore and Carole Lombard (whom I continue to lust after) are absolutely perfect in this film - which doesn't really take off until these protagonists board the train mentioned in the title - they never really come alive in the three dimensional colorful way we can recall in the two films I referenced above. And it's because I keep comparing 'Twentieth Century' to 'His Girl Friday' and 'Bringing Up Baby' that you want to hang me. But let's face it : sometimes even the trailblazer can't compete with perfection. Scratch that - the trailblazer can never compare with utter flawlessness.

For the briefest of seconds, let me register my complete and utter disdain for concert films - I've always found them to be boring reproductions of boring experiences. I'm no concertgoer, really. And perhaps that's what makes 'The Last Waltz' a genuine masterpiece of a document, and of the anti concert film. Not only does Scorcese know the exact second to keep things moving in this loving tribute to the last concert The Band ever gave, but he knows the value of what he's got. He hasn't chosen on a whim and he hasn't made some contemporary passing phase of  band the eye of his focus, interviewed them to death and then showed them playing only their best songs. No, Scorcese picked a defining moment in the history of Rock n' Roll (as he did in 'Woodstock' - which he co-edited and reportedly, co-shot) - one that was worth an audience's time. The Band themselves are a hoot : Rick Danko, a fiery forever young type of bass guitarist; Robbie Robertson, who looks and dresses like Henry Hill would in Scorcese's 'Goodfellas', and is all passion and grisly rock star faces on the stage; Levon Helm, who seems to sing all their biggest hits, and drums and smiles like the two were one in the same. And while alone, the way they discern this as a "last concert" and pour on a performance of passion and reverence that matches the profundity of the event. To make things even more exciting, they are joined on-stage by the likes of Eric Clapton, Van Morrison, Neil Diamond, Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Ron Wood and Ringo Starr - particularly Dylan, who leads everyone mentioned through a nearly earth shattering moment of poignancy when they belt out 'I Shall Be Released'. Not only is this the best concert film I've ever seen, it's one of Scorcese's hidden gems. Not because he's got masterful cinematography and his style is so wonderful - no - it's because he's intelligent enough to have seen this film as a  final product before it happened - and follow the endless surprises and experiments of a band that I'd never seen (and barely knew two or three of their songs) and make that into a filmgoing experience that was endlessly rewarding and entirely satisfying. Expect to see it high on my top ten repertory list this year.

In a horrible mix-up, a script for an SNL character sketch got switched at birth with a feature length screenplay. Lacking comedy and sufficient momentum, 'Deuce' manages to squeeze the only hope it's got out of supporting actor Eddie Griffin who plays a man whore willing to show Deuce the ropes. The first half is unwatchable and in a precedent first for bad SNL films (let's be frank, huh?), the second half actually sings for the tiniest of moments - before dropping the ball on it's foot and screaming in pain instead of dancing around the room for our amusement. Avoid this film when your date suggests it, ladies - he's mister wrong and you aren't above hitchhiking home from the video store.

It earned another half a star this time around because I just couldn't take my eyes off of it. The addictively molded story (once an hour longer) of a single woman who uses her wits to defeat an abhorrent (this word just kept ringing in my head like a migraine) bad guy, namely an insurance company fronting a plant that "...poisoned people and lied about it". Around the video store, it's grabbing comparisons to 'A Civil Action' - false comparisons, I believe; as that film is a character study confusing itself with a courtroom drama and this film is, in fact, a feel good detective story disguised as a woman's triumph (not that I'm separating the woman's triumph from the film - it's certainly got streaks of a quality feminist statement throughout, made all the more necessary since it was directed by a male). Bottom line before further ado : 'Erin Brockovich' is what all movies deserve to be called : intelligent entertainment that doesn't fade out of memory the next day.
(And really, is this going to be the one that Julia Roberts gets to take the Oscar home for. Gosh I hope so. I'd hate to see her win it for something that sucked. Let's get it out of the way on a good note, Oscar voters!).
the original review

Major observation this spin around was the complete and ingenious way Anderson connects the dots within his obvious preoccupation amidst a caravan of characters, namely: coincidence. Even more effective than his use of anecdotes to precede the central story (I should say, stories), Anderson coerces a smoothness out of his imagination that makes, and this is a mile high hurdle, his crashing lives seem as if they were meant, by the very fabric of reality, to crash. With a cunning sense of human comedy, tragedy and redemption; Anderson doesn't just lift his patchwork quilt out of the range of melodrama - he makes it seem as if it were more important than our very lives. He condenses the urgency of connection we feel to soap operas and weekly TV serials into three short hours. 'Magnolia' has the powerful wallop of an emotional breakdown, the exciting realization of the fruits of life and the revitalizing whoosh of being presented with a second chance. His timing, gentle optimism, fiery spirit and belief in the power of cinema (as enacted by his wonderfully loving and inspired script, his flawless ensemble of thespians; and his aesthetic inclusions such as beautiful cinematography, competent editing and near perfect music) are all wondrously alert and kicking, even in this, my third viewing. This will be a lasting creation in the history of the movies - mind me.
the original review

An outwardly dry and unconscionably flat W.C. Fields vehicle that probably features less than ten minutes of actual Fields. The film follows the romantic adventures of Migg (Jack Oakie) and Angela (Susan Fleming) - daughter to Fields' character (president of a land of goats and nuts) - as they must make money to raise the dwindling economy of Fleming's country aptly (I guess) titled Klopstokia. Their scheme? Hire out bill collectors as an Olympic team (how that makes money, God only knows). The title's relevance? Your guess is as good as mine. Fields' Major Domo runs really fast, but he's hardly a main character. But then, nobody's really much of anything in this thankfully short (only one silly musical number - hooray!), hopelessly tiring Fields' flop.

Predictably passed over by critics as one of Polanski's indulgences, nothing could be farther from the truth. He competently hires Darius Khondji to spread his vistas on the celluloid canvas and Woljichech Kilar to add a decidedly Polanski ambiance with his marvelous score. He explores a tale that's both spellbinding and, in it's own way, original. He sets a wonderful tone by making it just on the fringes of goofiness - and yet so straight faced, it's almosst taking itself so seriously, it's about to crack up. This time around (having been among the few brave ones to fork out my dough in the theater), besides having the kinky and catchy music nearly implanted in my brain for the rest of the evening, I was taken by just how entertaining the story is. Sure, it's a gutter dog Indiana Jones' yarn for the adults - complete with book lover Dean Corso (who never met a dollar he didn't like), hot on the trail of two copies of a satanic text for Boris Balkan; but it's also Johnny Depp at his most grown up and, respectively, a scraggly Frank Langella, sucking in those eyes as if he were playing Dracula again - but after the notorious bloodsucker has decided to settle down and lead a normal life. This is a vastly entertaining film that, while it's surely a no-brainer, has those lovable "tomes" (name a critic that didn't take this opportunity to show off their thesaurus skills with this little word) that bewitch the mind and cause the characters all sorts of hardship in their name. A film about books - go freaking figure.