I actually think I like the peppy 'Singles' more than I like 'Say Anything' at this point (as much as I could say I like 'Jerry Maguire' more than both of them, and 'Almost Famous' the best of all). The rotating, almost term paper logistics of this film which purports to disassemble and dissect dating, and eventually - though not half as admirably as in 'Jerry Maguire' - the fateful 'L' word. The actors themselves present a good case: Matt Dillon and Bridget Fonda click almost as wonderfully as Campbell Scott and Kyra Sedgewick do. Romantic comedy, exploration of the dating circuit or valentine to Seattle - Cameron Crowe's film is astoundingly entertaining and accessible (I saw it for the first time at 13, simply because Alice in Chains appear in a few scenes and quickly forgot they were even in it until their first appearance). The whole idea that a hot button city (in 1992) could double as a hometown for a great director, eager to exploit it as his hometown is an exciting one. It turns out to be Crowe's screenplay and, this time, his staging that pushes 'Singles' into a delightful and almost addictive realm where no matter how much we're offended by how similar his characters are to us - we're glued to the screen because these characters, in a humble and non-sappy manner, are us.

With four films under his belt, the mythical Cameron Crowe was oh so charming in 1988, but oh so amateurish. Gliding almost entirely on John Cusack's performance and the beautifully realized screenplay (also by Crowe), the admittedly awkward 80's presentation, in 2000, comes off a little dated for my taste. As much as Crowe is a student of the notion that his trade should be plied in a manner reflecting our connection to our own memories - which is effective - he is also a master at dousing a film with music without making it seem like a crutch to heighten weak scenes. Peter Gabriel's song "In Your Eyes", the cornerstone of this witty and intelligent film, never sounds quite the same when heard on the radio, outside the context of Crowe's enticing diagesis which presents us with two entirely ravishing protagonists/lovebirds: Lloyd Dobbler and Diane Cort. A love story for teenagers before teenagers were treated to a state of absolute zero at the movies.

(International Cinema Limited : Cuban Post Revolutionary, Part 2)

Again, before the live action feature starring one James "Truman Kaufman" Carrey crashes into a multiplex mucking up the memories, I beg you to watch the single accurate representation of Dr. Suess's work (although I hold that 'The Nightmare Before Christmas' is awfully reminiscent of his work without actually being his work). The booming deep voice of Boris Karloff gives perfect evil - and eventual kind sensitivity to the felty-green grinch. As far as the whos down in, belive it or not, whoville - at this late date in my childhood (with it almost behind me), I have to confess that their incessant joy and happiness tore me up inside. Why even create such a deeply biblical feeling story that's so sugary sweet, you can't help but feel sad for the loss of the whos material possessions? (Sure, they're eventually spared by the all singing, all dancing, all roast beast carving Grinch - but what a harrowing couple of moments straight out of the Book of Job before those Ten Grinches plus two steriods kick in, you know?) Would I have asked myself such a pointed question brought on by such a strong emotion had I been spared the convincing argument for object obsession made by one Rob Gordon in 'High Fidelity'? Is this really the time and place to draw this parallel? Quick- top five reasons the Grinch hated the whos?

Best three (tight shoes, mis-screwed head, puny heart) out of five (they lack feet and ritalin)?

(International Cinema Limited : Cuban Post Revolutionary, Part 3)

Far beyond the range of genius, this is a film that is one absolutely riveting sequence after the other - often not simply due to the Pixar rendering squad, but because it works from a screenplay that isn't simply miraculous because of it brings a cinematic edge to a cartoon but because its a masterwork of thematic fantasy all on its own. You get the sense (and I'm not alone on this, I assure you) that 'Toy Story 2'  is the kind of screenplay that, if set in a real world with real people, its camaraderie and unique existential journeys embarked upon by one Buzz Lightyear and one Sheriff Woody would come out just the same as they do through the glinty marvel of computer animation. And on DVD, may I say, the ideal picture (taken from its original digital source) is exceeded even my high expectations. This is a film that's consistently entertaining, even more than its magnificent predecessor, never shortchanging us as it reveals surprise after surprise. Every viewing has a new feel, a new meaning and a new hidden piece lying in wait on the screen. The cuddly characters, the cleverly crafted story and even the sole song (which gets less and less goopy and hokey every time I hear it) are handled with the kind of care that Disney used to possess in their early days, which they only reveal randomly of late. As a brave new world comes crashing in, (hint: 'Cyberworld 3-D' has some gigantic premonitions of future glory) its easily understood by the writers and filmmakers of Pixar that it takes a brain to supplant a jaw dropping spectacle. Bravo.
the original review

The main focus of my viewing this time around (my second since the theater, though I confess I've watched the "against traffic in the tunnel" car chase half a dozen times) was the absolute stony faced stoicism Frankenheimer maintains throughout the entire duration of this blurry and often meandering action thriller. Its the same kind of excitement as in films like 'Pulp Fiction' and 'Boogie Nights', where the dialogue itself engages us in some sort of trance like appreciation of the English language and how little we hear it spoken the way it is spoken in the film. Natascha McElone, a wonderfully strong female presence, collects hard faced 007 rejects to steal a briefcase that they meticulously prepare for, chart making and grilling over old-fashioned spy jargon while chain smoking cigarettes and guzzling coffee from what look like sterile tin hospital mugs. This array of criminals is assembled under no coincidence, though; Jonathan Pryce, Sean Bean, Jean Reno, Stellan Skarsgard and Robert DeNiro have a delicious time wrapping each others' sly, wretched grins around each other as they plot, deceive and scheme their twisty narrative back ends to kingdom come and back. This film is a relic because it is a modern spy thirller and it is a joy to watch (only the 'Mission: Impossible' films achieve this). Its over baked, but it weren't - if it didn't come so vague and non-partisan in its presentation, it wouldn't work as a culmination of what's left of the modern spy thriller in post Cold War times. The car chase may be the most exciting moment of 'Ronin', but its the dialogue and the gallery of mug shots that we take with us after it ends. Sandwiched between 'The Island of Dr. Moreau' and 'Reindeer Games', 'Ronin' is a reminder of how we view Frankenheimer these days: as the guy who made 'The Manchurian Candidate' and 'Seconds' - in another life.

(International Cinema Limited : Argentinian Revolutionary Films, Part 1)

Okay, first a preamble: If you've read the book, just about don't bother with the film. I don't think I made that clear the first time around - even to myself. A second viewing revealed seven instances of voice-over, hardly the profound and encompassing substance or amount necessary to suggest the film is owned by Patrick Bateman (even though, with this euphoric inducing performance, Christian Bale - the actor - does own the film). Detailing first that he's "simply not there" and then quickly filing away four more instances, waxing poetic about his condition in the simplest of ways, giving more to introduction and commentary on scenes - and finally - his benediction about "...inside, yes inside..." which is meant to be gut wrenching and disturbing (as John Cale's elegant score suggests but does not outwardly create) - merely captures a line like "There is no catharsis" in the frame the whole movie exists in: petty, oversimplified critique. As a period piece, you need to be told that it is set in the 1980's and that he can get away with killing people because no one knows anyone for real. It is a startlingly shot film - the camerawork suggests that the film may be even deeper than it appears, but doesn't really sell us on any of it. As much as the book is steeped in purposeful overkill and graphic decay, my personal confession is that I'd rather think of this story as a true exaggeration, one in which it isn't so heavily hinted that it could be a fantasy and one in which the murders themselves are very, very real. 'American Psycho', the film, is watered down and empty in the face of a book that is pure and fulfilled.
the original review

If nothing else, I wish I had seen this film before I saw nearly every independent movie ever made - from the vampire fable 'Habit' to Hal Hartley's disconnected guise of spy plots called 'Amateur' and all the way back again. In retrospect, if I hadn't known that nearly every independent movie set in New York (and some not) would have the same ultra-pretenscious tone - and nearly the same look - I'd have missed how visually arresting 'Nadja' is, despite the entirely annoying dips into Pixel-vision every so often (whomever tells you its an innovative breakthrough will no doubt be interested in selling you some land in Florida as well) . The actors - save the useful character actor (and Hartley regular) Martin Donovan and Elena Lowensohn - are all pretty god-awful. Peter Fonda and Jared Harris chew the scenery like they haven't been fed in weeks and Suzy Amis and Galaxy Craze (I didn't name her, don't look at me), meant to be zombies, more than suffice even before we know they're supposed to be acting, well, dead. There are some points of light to this meant-to-be-comedic-but-just-plain-silly Vampire tale. David Lynch's cameo is kinda striking. The band Portishead lends a nice mood to a few scenes. See also the incredibly misfired film by Almereyda, 'Hamlet' (2000) - which neatly fits into a genre I'll call "Sub-Indie".

Now I extend the proverbial foot towards my own ass and kick repeatedly. Why, oh why did I decide to do "other things" so often that I couldn't go see 'Cradle Will Rock' in its proper theaterical place of public display? An entirely entertaining mosaic of the theater world in New York, circa the1920's. A stunning cast performs an Anti-McCarthyesque play even though forbidden to do so. It's a blunt movie - mostly about confronting your own biases - that turns out to be so utterly entertaining and edited for the short attention span crowd (a plus in this context, I assure you). Let's come round full circle and use the old-fashioned critics' word "stellar" to describe the cast (there are holes - John Cusack as Nelson Rockafeller and Paul Giamatti as Carlo simply do not work). Most notable are a fiery John Turturro, a burnt out Bill Murray, the entirely indispensible Emily Watson, Angus MacFayden (who, as Orson Welles, gives Vincent D'Onfrio a run for his money) and last, but not least - and I'm leaving some out, I'm positive - the very talented Ruben Blades as Diego Rivera, the Spanish artist. As a historical setpiece, I'm sure accuracy went straight to hell - but as an ensemble celebration of the modern theater and its roots, 'Cradle Will Rock'  is so vibrantly realized, it practically re-invents Tim Robbins as our most envelope-pushing political filmmaker.

(International Cinema Limited : Argentinian Revolutionary Films, Part 2)

Viewing #3: Chris Cooper extends to son Wes Bentley a fatherly compassion by attempting to beat the paranoia-driven homosexual tendencies out of him. As an actor, there is no other with a face quite like Cooper's; he looks both battle-weary and warmly rugged. Entirely powerful performance I must've somehow overlooked when first faced with a film this fresh and exciting. It may not have the naturalistic suburban pinache as films like 'The Ice Storm' do, but 'American Beauty' as a caricature - these characters are not realistic in the least, they are meant to be archetypical - works splendidly. This gives me a chance, as well, to realize why Kevin Spacey was awarded the Oscar this past year. He is given a part that has dozens of absolutely clever, biting zingers and he nails each and every one of them like a pro. Its great watching his career blossom (I have yet to see 'Pay it Forward'); but for acting chops - I'm sure this one means much, much more to him than the award for 'The Usual Suspects' (which I, usually, suspect was an award for the character rather than the actor). Finally, Mena Suvari does not go without recognition. Around the time this came out, she appeared (or would appear) in a number of teeny bopper flicks (the loathesome 'American Pie'), straight-to-video capitalizations ('American Virgin') and 'Loser'. The performance she gives in 'American Beauty' is appropriately deceptive and devilishly innocent. And despite my limitations (I've only seen 'Pie' of the three), my feeling is that she can only do better for herself by appearing in films like this: with adults. And finally, now that I've begun to study the use of dramatic action on the stage - and how it differs from that on the screen - pat on the back due to Alan Ball. He raises the bar on snazzy dialogue and acerbic wit - not to mention emotional circumnavigating. For those that called it merely mediocre in the wake of its Oscar madness - return to look closer.

(International Cinema Limited : Argentinian Revolutionary Films, Part 3)

Agent: Tell me about this new film you've finished.
RG: As a writer with "the block" one afternoon, I decided to write an article about a girl who has bailed on three weddings (don't worry - we'll get to why in the last ten minutes) - without a single source, fact checker or shred of actual evidence. In fact, my story came from this guy in a bar. Now I've been fired by my editor - who happens to be my ex-wife - and who happens to be sleeping with the only photographer that seems to work for USA Today; but he likes me and he's setting me up with a job for Vanity Fair where I explore the validity of the bride that, uh, runs (you see, that's why they call her a runaway bride!). When I get to this town - which can only be described as the most stereotypical bumpkinsville of all time, I fall hopelessly in love with her - and even though her hostility masks a certain curiosity and good will she shows towards me (or that any woman shows towards me in any movie, for that matter) - she ends up leaving her fiance to shack up with my fine grey-haired ass. (Oh, and I almost forgot, there's this grandma that talks about bawdy stuff - and it's sooooo funny because she's an old lady and she should be offended, but instead, she's talking about sex like she was a porn goddess - what a gas!) Finally, in the end, she leaves me and when it looks like everything will fall apart, she breaks into my apartment and tells me her true feelings about eggs - and we live happily ever after. (If that's too abrupt for you, I'm sorry, but we had a bet with the script guy that he could write as scant and speedy an ending as he could a beginning. Just for good measure he made the whole middle area of this "epic" absolutely unwatchable. He's a great guy and he's gonna go far.)
Agent: Sounds smashing! (pauses) Oh yeah, I almost forgot, there's these two other scripts, 'Dr. T & the Women' and 'Autumn in New York' - which would you rather do first?
RG: Hmmmmm, dunno if I should even do the first one (it has kind of a wierd title!). Let's follow
this fluff with pure crap and then, if we have time, we'll do the film (picks up script) by Robert Altman. Robert Altman! What could he possibly want with me, Richard Gere?!

Oh good God. This absolute digression of a film manages a few moments of shere terror - mostly because it cranks up the intensity level. Films like 'The Texas Chainsaw Massacre' and, dare I say, 'Rolling Thunder', have no trouble creating atmospheres where people yell in the background and everything is muddled by an almost physical sense of dread. 'The Last House on the Left' sacrifices an obvious play for such a film by giving way to spoof. Every character and action is so overstated and underdeveloped (the escaped convicts smoke big gangster cigars and aren't threatening in the least), it becomes almost impossible to take the film seriously and therefore, get scared of it. It doesn't help that Craven has comprised the soundtrack of a mix between the scores of 'Picnic at Hanging Rock' and 'The Dukes of Hazzard'. Everytime anything happens and you're not quite sure, the songs are there to point out - quite hokily as well as literally - what's going down. I still managed to enjoy the aspect of the film that gives way to coincidence - more in the way 'Rambo' would instead of Paul Thomas Anderson - and satisfaction. The parents of a raped and murdered girl seek revenge on the convicts at fault with a vengeance that almost seems justified. Of course no amount of violence could match the loss of their daughter - of whose memory they replace with vicious urges to settle the score. If Craven had been really smart - he'd have lifted the film out of its low-budget shackles and made something bold and scary. 'The Last House on the Left' is alternately goofy and gory - which adds up to little more profundity than any of the three 'Scream' movies. Pity, though.

Conservative effort using limited special effects capability and maximum melodrama to nestle itself right there where it should belong: as a film whose title piques your interest, whose summary intrigues you and whose content merely passes the time. True, the old coot who leaves his house - and his precious books - was a great one handed piano player. True, his hand appears to have leapt from the crypt to strangle ne'er do wells plotting to undermine his will. And there's always a love story. And there's Peter Lorre desperately trying to get his hands on those precious books, eager to study the stars and learn the secret to predicting the future. It all comes off requiring a great deal of disbelief suspension; but if you can buy into it - its a nifty little piece of horror fluff. As per his contract, Peter Lorre is required to upstage every single actor in the film - which he does to, as usual, fabulous results.