Detective, which is a good film - there are no moving camera shots and it falls under the Godard category labeled 'Playful collection of film tricks', but as a spoof that is semi-coherant, it almost works in how detached and enjoyably episodic it turns out to be. Doesn't hurt that every shot is near perfect and the lack of momentum is compensated for with the ramblings of a ton of characters that aren't entirely uninteresting.

Perhaps too complete a film essay, Claire's Knee still has that deceptively simple profundity present in all of Rohmer's films - - - while it remains utterly tedious. Tough to score points against him when he comes up with so many viewpoints within the themes of love, sex, relationships and, the big one here: fidelity. Contrasting the work of Eric Rohmer with the romantic "guy revelation" films of today (like the one below entitled The Tao of Steve), one sees why French films are given such an erotic stigma: they've got the market cornered and the subject broached, (you / we jealous American bastards!)

Of the "Moral Tales", this one seems to have the same moral slap at its end as my favorite of the series (La Collectioneuse) - - - but it's more playful, funnier, annd crackles at the tips with a shower of sparks. Our protagonist just nearly stands as the perfect vision of temptation and how to deal with it (nailed even better than the aforementioned Rohmer classic). The dream sequence in which he controls women through magnetic force -  is brilliant; but it is the sudden, uncontrollable moments of complete and utter awareness which win the day. Rohmer seems to have looked the subject over and awakened a refreshing style-based substance to his filmmaking in effort to streak the introspection he offers in the ideas. Still rather stale as a board in the cinematography department, but certainly more exciting visually (the colors are more vibrant, for one thing) than other Rohmer films I've seen. The only thing holding it back from being perfect is the casting of Chloe. (Until it is cleared up why Frederic obsesses over such an odd-looking creature, one whom everyone in the film seems to consider breathtaking - - - - the rating stands. Call me, Eric. I have an in-house translator for this very question.)

This time around, having seen The Widow of St. Pierre, a good piece of entertaining overkill that sometimes clouds your enjoyement with its politics, I appreciate a good piece of cinematic candy like Girl on the Bridge even more. The cinematography, the melodrama, the knives, the music - - - those discussions between characters who aren't even in the same fifty mile radius. Imagination was a strain I observed moreover this time around. Leconte seems to be telling a story even more simply than I remember; one with elements oft explored and situations which were at least similar (though transplanted in subject - - - I don't think I've ever seen a film that is about knife throwers and their targets). It's the glitz and pinache with a capital g & p that makes Girl on the Bridge such a boldly entertaining swig of intoxicant. Initially, I'd given it a downgrade of "passes the time for three stars" - - - but revitalized it upon reflection. Not too many movies exist like this one. Why the dishonor, oh mr. quick-to-dismiss first response? Huh?

Errol Flynn and Indiana Jones had something in common. In The Mummy, every single moment and atmospheric tingle is borrowed in tone from the purity of those adventure artists. The wisecracking dialogue, spectacle-heavy plot points, ultra exotic settings, kissy romance and invisible but highly regarded moral code are all set carefully, melding solid in a landscape of popcorn pleasure. The special effects are awe aspiring but look like special effects (a new trait of summer extravaganzas in the eye candy category). Brendan Fraser has a terrific time hamming around and being daring; Rachel Weisz plays a stuffy, sexy librarian / Egypt expert / girl with a lifelong dream; John Hannah is Weisz's wacky drunken brother; and the masterfully spooky Arnold Vosloo (of Hard Target fame) in the role of Imhotep, the title character (after a brief cloth-wrapping and organ removal). This is what films released in the Summer months should play like.

This atrocity - which somehow counts as an independent feature, though I distinctly remember a strict ban on "guy revelation" romance movies being decreed at this years n-dance festival - looks, sounds, feels and plays like a soft-core up at night on Cinemax film minus the nudity and with a more pretenscious plea for dignity in every frame. The lead actress (who just happens to be Miss Goodman, also responsible for writing and directing this pile of crap) is so unbelievably dreadful as to give new meaning to the dumbfounded bell ringing in your head, questioning why lead character Dexter (the somehow still charming Donal Logue) would lust after, give the time of day to or avoid running over when driving a vehicle in her general direction. More than twice, the dialogue becomes so unbearably syrupy and so desperately interested in sounding illuminating, I threatened to turn it off and scatter, sure that I knew how it would end. Then I decided to finish this short (but still about 86 minutes too long) disaster - - - and it ended exactly as I feared it would, without ever deviating or twisting from the path already worn down to the rails by hundreds of better or worse relationship talk-a-thons. Absolutely unwatchable in spots. Just missed making the year's ten worst.

Agape with an exquisite polished brown decor of moodiness bordering on vaguery and vice versa, The Wisdom of Crocodiles is a competent world in search of a story. Lest you enjoy your mysteries shrouded in cliches alternating with cliche defiance (even these are built around the achingly familiar elemental moments you can't help but shudder at) - a rather daunting and inconsistent measure; and your actors beautiful, brooding and hazily peering through the glass as the autopilot guides them through a wonderful atmosphere perfect for the scant, borderline preposterous slow-ticking of the narrative - - - - you need not apply. Though, on occasion the movie perks up, more often than not, it seems content on supplementing what little is occuring with thin metaphors in the form of long, playful stories told through the main characters. The climax comes about twenty minutes after the movie runs out of steam, therefore negating it almost completely and obliterating any satisfaction you're likely to squeeze out of it. I wanted desperately to live in the world director Po Chih Leong, his production designer Andy Harris, composers John Lunn and Orlando Gough, cinematographer Oliver Curtis and costume designer Anna Sheppard had created. Living vicariously through Paul Hoffman's quintessentially by-the-numbers script tends to dilute the experience.

Though in most films, a blind connection between audience and content is built in and often undetectable, Sunshine seems to lack the very link with which a viewer may anchor themselves, thereby creating a distance between ourselves and that which we are meant to usurp from experiencing the film. Like the title rays, Sunshine seems to move as if behind clouds; it peaks enough to let us know its intentions, but it never reaches a full blown, well-rounded conclusion. By recycling actor Ralph Fiennes as three very different characters, the film is able to skillfully portray a cursed familial identity crisis that spans nearly one hundred years. The crippling aspect is that each segment feels more like a xeroxed loop than the last; as if everything comes together three times, but fails because the audience feels beaten over the head with a generational story rather than illuminated by how this "remarkable" (can you hear it echoed through the eyes of those who rarely frequent films like this?) family weathers and falters, surpasses and learns, rises and falls, lives and dies. Everyone in the film (even William Hurt, who seems to have muffled his Hungarian accent with his trademark whisper) seems to be from another era; Sunshine seems a collection of modern actors who aren't the least bit interested in presenting a flavor of the period. Most of what occurs seems rather underwhelming and the only really involving aspect of the film - unless you dig shallow, obvious ironies - is Ralph Fiennes's magnificent, almost miraculous tri-performance; he alone keeps the film from collapsing into complete and utter mediocrity. For god sakes, the title itself is a sardonic zinger; Sunshine is one of the gloomiest, most relentless downers of the year.