I'm not sure who it was traded It's a Wonderful Life for National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation as the obligatory holiday film, but I feel like they got ripped off. I mean, who trades a feel good film for lowbrow sight gags? Anyway, I'm the one watching it every year. I guess I shouldn't be blaming that hypothetical guy I referred to earlier as "trading" these films. I mean, what was I thinking?

You mean there's only one beer left in the house and I have to watch this really, really bad testosterone fest sober?! (Note to self: if a movie sucks and you see it alone in the theater and your wife lays the "fine, but you have to watch it with me on DVD when it comes out" guilt trip on you, you were probably better off not seeing it in the first place).

God, thy name be Mamet.

Omigod! Now its April and I can't remember a single thing that happened in either Lord of the Rings films!

Virtually the first movie to have a decent crack at popularity that I didn't spend all my free time underrating because it wasn't my own private little refuge any more.

Donlevy becomes too gruff - which works in the end, but it renders his romance scenes implausible (it doesn't help that the actress playing his wife is overacting - and doesn't really click with him in the first place). Capra by way of Sturges: the Hobo who became the governor doesn't get his happy ending; he ends up in a Steve's look alike from Casablanca, tending bar (which, judging by how comfortable he looks, was probably closer to his calling than political office). The humor is dead-on but the moralizing feels pat, it feels like a vehicle for the humor that never fully pays off

Dick Powell is so wonderful in this film, mostly because he has a character to play who is equal parts schlep and little kid; when he finally does get a run of luck, its almost assumed it won't last - even when we, the audience, know it won't. The realism at the end completes a really terrific, subtle character arc in which he mature both professionally and personally The premise itself seems so outlandish and so half-baked, but Sturges knows how to milk it: every scene you could imagine fitting with a lowly drone worker thinking he's won a lottery, being promoted and then spending all the money he hasn't got before barely being given a chance to prove himself in his new position is included. And we get the sense that Sturges' original play may have felt a bit two dimensional.The film is quotable and very, very funny - and it is also a magical story about the false start money can promote, the kinks in a personal philosophy which includes worship of the dollar: Sturges gives the importance of things which are not material in a much more subtle way than Capra ever could.

The Palm Beach Story is probably praised up the wazoo because it is so aimless. The way the narrative seems to wind almost arbitrarily excites a great number of critics.  The love story starts out unconventional and, that it can keep that stance until late in the film, even though we know what's coming - and remain compelling - this is what makes the film noteworthyy. The subplot regarding a millionaire who woos Colbert goes on way too long and Rudy Vallee, who plays John D. Hackensacker III (the millionaire), is so stiff, he almost falls over in a few scenes. Essentially, I derived less pleasure from the film than from the dialogue and from Colbert and Joel McRea, whose terrific chemistry is only utilized for about a third of the running time. Pity. Reminds me of Serendipity.

[I know, I can't believe I've never seen this either]

The multimedia visualization as artsy justification of a rather extreme fetish story (which works, mind you), seems a touch self-conscious for Peter Greenaway. After all, he used to just set up the camera a la Kubrick, fire off a master shot, tons of crap in the foreground, and go to town with perverse doings the likes of which we love to be both entertained and shocked by Here, Greenaway invites us into a more straightforward version of his taxonomy laden festivals of debauchery, mixing classic cultural tradition and literary double entendres graciously; while continually bombarding us with a visual adrenaline jolt: superbly framed visions of bodies covered in text, frames within frames of recollection and prediction and the crème de la crème, story of vengeance buried so deeply, it almost plays out like a surprise ending. Almost. We still have to wade through the strangely familiar story of a woman collecting life experiences to satisfy her father's talent for writing - one she would give anything to possess. Truth be told, the film does run a tad too long. Vivian Wu's fiery feminist grapples with a small palette of emotions, but as a mere catalyst to Greenaway's vision (as all his pawn-like actors, McGregor included, are), she rarely threatens the places the film takes us, rather making herself a wooden means to a strangely moving end.

The Great Moment is interesting in so much as films cut by studios are interesting. The director always hemming and hawing that their vision was ruined. That sort of thing. Here, Preston Sturges film looks remarkably skewed, oddly compelling and frequently off-the-wall. My question would be directed not at Sturges, but at the studio heads who re-cut the film, yet kept the time arrangement flashing forward and back almost arbitrarily intact, did not quarrel with the ultramodern use of titles and, allowed for our consumption a rather explicit depiction of Morton's experimentation on his patients. With ether. And Nitrous Oxide. In fact, for all the whining, this is a radically different film than Sturges had made prior or that was common in the system at that time. It has its melodrama and Lord knows it shows moments of sheer conformity ("If she lives, I'll never experiment on another human being as long as I live"), but for the few notions of familiarity there is a great deal to set this film apart, to make it a rather unique piece of art. Joel McRea, wearing his fancy boy fur, wanders through the role with very little range as far as his determination goes, but he is back by a number of great supporting performances, particularly Sturges regular William Demarest, who plays Eben Frost, the first man to be given the anesthesia by Morton. Also stars Harey Carey, Julius Tannen, Louis John Heydt and Betty Field as Morton's wife.

I'm not sure this movie can even be called a "powerful portrait of the horrors of addiction" anymore. Since I saw Requiem for a Dream, I'm not sure any movie should even bother attacking such a subject. All in all, this is probably the fifth or sixth time I've seen Trainspotting. It's a comedy of sorts - and not much else (and, gasp, I think I noticed some minor, irky flaws). Still a blast, though.

Let's pretend now, like Mulholland Drive, that this was a failed TV series pilot, edited competently into a distilled, one hundred thirteen minute vision.

Talk, talk, talk. (Oh, and interesting compiled philosophies on marriage, fetishistic character interaction, bold ethics and astoundingly profound romantic ephiphanies, too.)

The first time I saw it, I wasn't even all that moved - it was funny, yes, but no funnier than anything else that made me laugh (what an unusual comment). Last night, I don't know if the mood had struck me or if the film itself really needs a second, more confidant viewing (much like 'Dazed and Confused') to actually reveal the fact that it is ART. I doubt I've seen a film in recent - or not so recent - years that has made me so thankful that I've inhaled pop culture to the point of overdose. The specificity of the jokes in the film - and the fact that, alternately, they're rather universal - feel like the ultimate payoff for someone who spends almost as much time watching films as he does questioning whether or not he should be "squandering his time in this manner at all".

I've never had to pee so bad in my life as the first time I saw this film in the theater. (Oh, and it may be one of the few pure entertainments that can also be called virtually flawless without the slightest fear of hyperbole. I think people are under the impression that more of these sorts of films exist than actually do.)

If not for the twenty some odd minute scene where the characters look at postcard after postcard, I might not have spend the last two months secretly just fucking hating this film. (As an aimless exploitation of the ironies of war, it's status quo at best).

Broadcast News, even for James L. Brooks, is an achievement. The dialogue exchanges are realistic, the characters beautifully developed and the setting, a Washington area News organization, makes for a worthy pressure cooker in which to hatch all these elements properly. The film is funny, but serious. It has a cold reality to it, but it is sentimental. The characters hurt each other deeply, then carry on the kind of ambiguous apologies that take place in real life, but rarely take place in the movies. Holly Hunter plays a control obsessed, socially flatlining producer; William Hurt is an undereducated baby face with little ethical concern; Albert Brooks is the nervous, cynical, hyper intelligent anchor who can't seem to float in a world that values looks and reprehensibility above all. All three are marvelous (despite a shaky start for Hurt, who, after years of playing a guy who has it all together, but doesn't quite look it, gives a performance of surprisingly converse proficiency). Brooks has fashioned his tale as he does all of his tales, a fairytale of realism, complete with an exaggeration that feels stridently natural. Terrific performances by Jack Nicholson as the tenured anchor, (the underused) Robert Prosky as Holly Hunter's boss, Peter Hackes as the smug, Mr. Burns-esque president of the network and Joan Cusack as a bubbly assistant. The film itself comes off so seamlessly and with such a fresh velocity. Easily one of the most entertaining films of the 1980's.

Not really a momentous statement, but Cherry Falls is probably the best modern teen horror film I've seen. Most of the reason it works so well is that it refuses to downplay its improbable, yet wily premise (teens spooked by a killer who only targets virgins) even after the premise serves the film's plot. Indeed, the kids do start taking matters into their own hands; each more eager than the next to take themselves off the market by popping their cherries. The film appears, also, to have the usual sense of teen horror rhythm to it, but instead of banging us over the head with a twist ending, there is a certain amount of calculated - if indeterminable and far-fetched - risk to its ending that pays off. Characters we thought were good guys not because they acted like good guys, but because their archetypes would dictate such, are revealed to be wicked late enough in the game that it feels less like a horror film than a dramatic realization of a crime drama. My own personal feelings do tend to betray me. I find nearly all the teen horror films I've seen to be laughable at best. I'd hate to grant Cherry Falls more than its worth. It seems to be on the level, but it does have its problems. Jay Mohr, as usual, plays a character with much more of interest than he's able to bring to life. Michael Biehn, who strangely works, seems to do so by stiffening so much so that he nearly falls over (like I said, he works; I just thought I'd call attention to how bad an actor he really is). The indispensable and, gulp, soon to be overused Brittany Murphy would do well in pretty much any genre, I think. Far from perfect, yet, on its own, better than any teenie bopper scare flick I've seen in at least a decade, I lift the veil to call Cherry Falls, by default - an achievement?

Seriously, even though you know The Shop Around the Corner was the source material for You've Got Mail, you'd never know it merely by watching the original take. So Lubitschian (does that work?) in tone and structure is this film, it almost feels like ol' Ernest knew how good it was, suspected a remake some fifty-nine years on the horizon and created it in such a way that it could retain its uniqueness without the new screenwriter's vision even coming within a mile of exposing the nuances beneath one of the most hilariously astute screwball (yes, screwball) comedies ever made.

It is uncommon to see a film juggle more than one type of comedy. What's magnificent about The War of the Roses is how choice its use of lowbrow, highbrow, slapstick and situational humor are - and how well it maintains all four while also maintaining its own tone. Of course I object to Kathleen Turner, yet again, being miscast as a sexpot. Finding something sexy is truly a subjective decision. She didn't work (for me) as the primed sex object in Body Heat. She doesn't work as a temptress here. But it's not important. The sexuality, even the femininity of her role is dulled. She is one half of a marriage and her job is to stand her ground, to fight for the larger half and to, essentially, take the law into her own hands. On the other hand, Michael Douglas is at his driest as a Harvard educated
law partner facing perhaps the most violent of settlements, namely, his own divorce. The film pretends to be a fable. It has all the output of a fairytale from archetypal characters to exaggerated storybook sets. The story itself could easily have found its way in from one of those retro adult, part graphic novel, part novelty (which happens to be graphic) children's books we might find in the unmarked section of our local bookstore. The second half of the film is, for the most part, an episode of Tom & Jerry with the aforementioned married couple as the cat and mouse foes: enemies by nature. The problem with DeVito's film is that, despite holdings its own with a sardonic, almost vicious tone, it still feels a mite tinkered with, toyed with in order to live up to studio marketability. It feels almost too tight. At two hours, it would be impossible to watch the film and not be entertained from start to finish - but it feels like all the nuts and bolts have been left out. Devito seems a director with a consistent vision and, for the most part, his vision here is quite clear. A few faltering moments make what is an unerring straight line of acidic laughs and absolutely relentless satire turn jaded. The cut away to the Roses' dog to confirm that he is still alive. The startlingly ambiguous moments on the chandelier that end right - but don't get to that conclusive place logically. The DeVito character's seemingly brief association with the Roses (as in, "How would he know absolutely everything about what went down, and why would he feel the need to tell his client any of it?"). DeVito's films are always to the point, always on their own wavelength and rarely deviating. But nevermind all that. The War of the Roses works because it is very, very funny. And it bites. And smarts. And all that. Surprisingly unconvential, like all of DeVito's movies turn out to be.

"Oh Newland (Day-Lewis), please hire someone to trim that lengthy, boring bit of about thirty minutes that concludes act two and sets up act three. And also, appear in more movies."

One problem would be solved if only Bruce Dern didn't utter every single solitary line of dialogue as if he were a soap opera hippie, trying to save the (last couple) rainforests in space. Which brings me to the second problem...