Wondering if the abstractly slight and only partial infastructure of literary decor even registered as something excessively unique or remarkable when I saw this a few years back. Suspect I lumped it simply into a bursting annex of independent films obsessed with the crime genre - yet unable to bring anything new and (or) exciting to the table. That would have been an unfair conclusion to jump to. As fate would have it, Anderson's subsequent works have absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with robbery (and) or forming a crew. Unfortunately, Bottle Rocket has far too much to do with both actions of the larceny subgenre and, only hums of sincerity when Luke Wilson is wooing Lumi Cavazos. Trouble is, the lazy-days blossom of a romantic dork wooing the mysterious, foreign beauty is so compelling and so intelligent, that the unruly, goofy bits where an ambiguously disturbed, (certainly) self-proclaimed criminal mastermind (who is actually in great need of both common sense and tact), feel strangely isolated. Here, it's as if both sides of the elusive Wes Anderson are polarized. In Rushmore the comfortably off-the-wall material is just beginning to meld with the assured - almost hubristic - air of intelligence and social standing. By the time they reach The Royal Tenenbaums, though, there is an insouciance to the way Anderson (and co-writer Owen C. Wilson) dispense quirky situational  humor, allowing it a model amount of sly one liners and mechanized, offbeat delivery (with a welcome flood of patient, everyday ephiphanizing). Anderson reminds me of a student filmmaker who's assured of his style, but still makes it a point to emphasize that he's experimenting, tinkering if you will, with his almighty voice.

Byrne’s off-the-wall direct address about anything and everything in (the fictional) town of Virgil, Texas is the best reason to watch True Stories, (since it’s not exactly a Talking Heads movie and, anyway, the soundtrack is certainly uneven – to extremes sometimes). The assorted oddball characters are hit or miss, mostly the former; didn’t exactly care for the long, dragging section in the middle, but the madcap humanity of the whole thing pretty much smoothes over any of the bumpy spots. In addition to what’s written here, I feel like I can only offer a particularly subjective view of things as I watched the film ad nauseum when I was but eight or nine. The things that stuck radiate
like a good memory. The things that didn’t stick don’t always make the cut.

Rififi is both high end classical film noir and a sadistic, exciting off-shoot of that genre. Moments appear to defy common conventional means in tamer fare (hunting down the gangsters who’ve kidnapped a small boy instead of giving them what they want for his safe return), but Rififi still contains set pieces, like the thirty minute, virtually silent robbery, with pieces lifted by such films as Mission: Impossible, The Score and The Grifters. Jean Servais as (Tony) the Stéphanois gives us the hard-faced, calmly smug elder as a cool headed leader, tired, decided in the matter of what the world owes him, and finally, as a martyr. The film’s closing segment, a frantic drive through the streets of Paris, borders on lyrical; the last marrow of life, gritty and seeping down his leg, Tony becomes whole again. Nobody trying to go straight. Nobody getting lucky. Nobody taking for granted the old adage about honor among thieves.

It’s one of the saddest movies I’ve seen in years – but its also quite breathtaking; the way it teeters between the staggering horrors and neglects of war and the aching childhood wonder and innocence that seems to grow despite being repeatedly trampled by a cruelly premature reality. The characters – Seita and Setsuko – a teenage boy and five year old girl, respectively, bear the kind of character development and nuance of spirit rarely reserved for animated films. That Grave of the Fireflies is told in a damp retrospect, still yearning with the glow of afterlife, only adds a startling level of quiet reflection: it feels like the penultimate God’s eye view; spying details of nature and, above all, exonerating guilt (the author of the source novel lived through a similar ordeal and carries the remorse of losing his sister to starvation). A potent thought, too, that the title refers, at once, to burying the light of the world, and celebrating its rebirth. Especially, hailing as it does, from the same animation studio that brought us My Neighbor Totoro and Kiki’s Delivery Service.

Watch it on a rainy Sunday afternoon against your will. And remember what I said about fantasy romances back in March. Brief Encounter is the sarcastic comeback for a movie like Before Sunrise. If you can't beat em', join em, I says. (Also, a picture perfect, absolute downer of a proper English romance that's actually about dashing your splendidly framed wholesomeness with stormy love affairs you continually say no to while falling into a hunk like Trevor Howard's arms. Seriously. It'll break your damn heart as fervently as Before Sunrise lit up said organ. Take that....self.)

[Oh, fine, here's your friggin' link.]

If Serendipity seemed obsessed with its own sense of self-fate, Kate & Leopold is slight and trim about its own destiny strand, almost leaving it as an afterthought until its grand finale; Rarely has a movie been so successful at stringing together sedated conclusions, never actually building to an unthinkable climax, instead, opting to keep us interested with a pleasant stream of satisfying personal victories for a series of seemingly underdeveloped characters (actually, though one-dimensional, they're almost so obviously the "best of" movie form characters, you'll forget you know so little about them as you watch); Having scoffed quite vocally at its premise (and the man executing it, he who helmed Girl, Interrupted, Mr. James Mangold), I found myself thoroughly struggling to remember that it once sounded, to me, a great deal like Back to the Future shone through a Miramax leashed Merchant Ivory - or let's say, Jane Austen - kaleidoscope; Cast is oddly right on the money: Jackman as charming and likable as ever, Seasoned Escapist Romance Ryan (or SERR, for short - boyish, like her haircut, you see) a much better scientific match than go-getter Judd (as in Someone Like You), Scott getting further and further from my memories of him in American Pie with each role and Schrieber, his usually effortless, bumbling self, would have easily stolen the movie from all three of the principles, but is wisely kept at bay with an admittedly obvious plot device (Bradley Whitford does not survive, his ambiguously intentioned character seemingly left on the cutting room floor). All in all, the kind of surprise I usually end up discovering: a movie I couldn't have cared less about during the vanguard season, but probably should have seen in between disappointments like Vanilla Sky and The Fellowship of the Ring (you know, as a reminder that while we pretend we're not making up our minds before setting foot inside the theater - more often than not, that's, sadly, the case).

In addition to the fact that - and this has nothing to do with the film's scenario - the film ends with an airplane crashing into a building (ruining forever its chances of an American release), Pulse, quite often, as eerie thrillers go, is an absolutely terrifying film. Of course, watching a film about people haunted by ghosts on the internet probably should best be seen somewhere other than my dark basement on a computer - but, heightening the effect isn't sommething I eschew (I am reminded of my wife's experience seeing The Abyss at the Fox Coventry in a sub-zero air conditioned theater). The larger picture, indeed, is that of confronting one's fear of loneliness (the internet ghosts are just a plot device, really), but you can't discount how brilliant the moments of realization are, particuarly the one where a female apparition shimmies closer and closer to a terrified computer enthusiast, stopping only to jiggle in an indescribably unsettling way. The kind of obtuse ghost story that, in fact, makes the genre seem regainable again.

A near fine motion picture; equal parts "finding yourself touchy feely" cornball drama and "stand up and give em' hell" high drama, we follow Jim Carrey through a first: he's a serious guy through an almost serious perspective (if you'll remember Truman Burbank had that everyman wit while Andy Kaufman was obviously not serious - about anything), the sort of character we root for because we like him, not so much what he does (which works here because most of what Carrey does isn't all that remarkable - even though some of it really ought to be). The melodrama of the fifties is captured in everyone's sharp contrasts between silence and loudness, anger and happiness (especially in the stylistically golden age flick dialogue, which is somewhere fluctuating between being a huge success and a tragic failure). It's still way too long (not that we feel its length, but there's maybe too much bitten off for the film to chew as it seems to take its time in really odd places and speed through probable plots of interest - most notably Carrey's feelings about himself as he takes a journey through mixedidentityville). Was willing to overlook the amount of scenes I found myself actively making fun of in the face of the generally warm and fuzzy vibe and tone the film retains (it requires such for the viewer to give himself selflessly to the ending). Supporting cast is unnervingly similar to the one in The Green Mile and a great deal less likable. Big, wholesome bonus points for casting Cliff Curtis and Bruce Campbell as villain and hero, respectively, in "The Sand Pirates of the Sahara" - the fictional first film Carrey wrote. The Majestic is a gentle - not too shocking - step down from the towering (and largely successful) prison epics preceeding it.