An incredibly misunderstood film to put it lightly; To put it another way: The kind of overheated historical epic whose mere quality of being big, big, big used to thrill the heck out of us. And at the very least, it doesn't reduce its subject - the way some of those films did - to the scraps and shreds of reality we can make out through the artistic license. (It doesn't bore us with the then-this-happened-and-so-forth rhetoric either: It's bloody, and its not afraid to indulge Colombus the scoundrel or, the more historically accurate Columbus the nincompoop).

Feeling like equal parts an indulgence and a masterful way of making a point, Reggio's first-time use of digital effects, editing and graphics make Naqoyqatsi seem similar - in it's depth and ability to move us - to the first (and easily the best) film in the trilogy (Koyaanisquatsi). The message is particularly preachy here, though; Every shred of this DV essay on the warfare in our every day lives (everything from equating empty physical space with empty emotional space to slamming the maddening parade of idols we worship) is forceful - and slightly on the bullying side. What saves the film is (here it comes - the obvious!) Philip Glass's score, a variation (peppered this go round with Yo-Yo Ma cello solos) that has become the inseparable cornerstone of the quatsis. I'll submit to you that, like its brothers, Naqoyqatsi is so vastly different than every other film in market and contains such a potent (if debatable) world view, that it almost has a built-in vanity that you pretty much can't resist losing yourself in.

The least confrontational (and most documentary-ish, or informative, to make the point clearer) of the three qatsis, Powaqqatsi could be taken as a vision of contrasted societies, but it happens to work better when its not vicitimizing people whose walk of life may be just a bit less complex than the capitalistic freefall of Corporate America. It seems to be at ease stating that both ways are fine. Unfortunately, as these engage an entirely different energy in our filmgoer selves, the visuals - compared to the bravura editing of the first film and successful melding of image-to-subject digitizing of the third film - are rather simple, rather like National Geographic: The Movie.

What I had forgotten was that Who Framed Roger Rabbit? - besides being inherently clever and consistently funny - is a pretty darn good film noir on its own. Sure, the animation looks borderline ridiculous next to the actors (after we've been brainwashed by modern CG techniques), but the personalities between the human and the drawn characters jive a hell of a lot better than 90% of films where the two media are intermingled. It's Hoskins' gruff impersonation of a human being that seems to work so well with Roger's frantic, non-chalant aversion to taking any and every little thing seriously, this is the sort of stuff that's missing in fecal matter like Scooby Doo and slightly less offensive (let's face it) garbage like Hulk.

I couldn't help being partially charmed by the completely alien world of Conan the Barbarian, set before recorded history (or, in the mind of its creator, Robert E. Howard), in a land where the #1 religion is a snake worship cult (symbolism note!) and haircuts are centuries away from being considered "in". Despite the ugly wigs, what makes the film worth seeing is how beautifully paced it is, leaping along without care of thought to any sort of morality, only considering that this ancient world is mostly fiction and predominantly cruel. Is clearly an ideal box office candidate, with fight scenes fit to thrill and a completely ridiculous amount of sex to boot. Arnold in one of his puffiest roles, two years before he would become the Ah-nuld we've come to know and find irritating in The Terminator. He doesn't have enough dialogue in Conan to be playing himself (as, I'm sure you've noticed, he's always sorta done - even as Mr. Freeze in Batman and Robiin, which is almost an impressive feat).

I know its been criticized as one of those rotating characters-connected tapestries, but Late August, Early September is more about acting than its about anything else. The cast - twenty and thirtysomethings all - turn in such a wonderful set of performances; Emotions dropped at a hat's notice, uncovered beautifully (a post-death realization is the most lucid, as a rare appearance outside an Egoyan movie finds Arsinee Khanjian, in three or four scenes, proving why she really oughta get out more). Mathieu Amalric and Virginie Ledoyen are so cuddly and form-fitting - while they're also alternately vicious aand abrupt - that a curious truth starts to permeate this obvious nod to literary junctions (François Cluzet, the author everyone rallies around, is the centerpiece (I guess) who dates - without criticism - a fifteen year old girl). It's Rohmer with that swirly, dizzying new wave camerawork everyone's so eager to bring back (Or, did it ever leave? Anyone?)