Julian Schnabel's wonderfully surreal nightmare of a biopic, based upon the memoir of Cuban writer Reinaldo Arenas, is a kind of alternating slide show of montage and hero worship, a much more accomplished one that Schnabel attempted in 1996 with Basquiat, another unconventional filmed biography. As it should be known, Schnabel has stumbled upon a great craft to hone - and a wonderful arena to tell life stories within. A painter, Schnabel finds his palette a place where scenes find tone and note first, text second - all within the tidy confines of oppressive literary blossoming. Javier Bardem, an amazing actor (Jamon, Jamon, Live Flesh), brings such a willful beauty and illumination to the persecuted homosexual side of Reinaldo, that we almost have to jilt our perception to see the depth and passion he brings to his portrayal of a natural, driven writer. This is clearly one of the best performances of the year. For all its surge of originality and image driven hypnotism, too many scenes in the first act of Before Night Falls are too straightforward. The joy of a biopic, for myself (and I'd assume, any paying audience), is the possibility that a life can be thrilling in how it reacts to the confines (or in this case, lack thereof) of narrative arrangement. Often - in fact, for the king's majority - Beefore Night Falls has no trouble being hallucinogenic, so that the conventions of imprisoned talent and eventual form to journey melt happily away. One of the greatish moments - and there are many - of Before Night Falls involves an ascending hot air balloon pointing towards a freedom from Cuba's chains. The inspiration, Tarkovsky's Andrei Rublev, seems hopelessly put out of mind to make room for this wild, new image that teems with metaphoric fire - and corrodes into poetic justice and tranquility. This is the dark, artistically charged genius of Schnabel's Before Night Falls: it is both a metaphoric bird of cinema and the bullet of indefinition that blows it out of the air. What remains is empty, beautiful sky - poetry and freedom.

Sickly sweet, yes - but in a good way. A supporting cast that almost rises to the top of the Britcom set like so much cream. The principles, namely Binoche - a truly likable main character in most any film - have the unleavened sense of ease and comfortable "it'll all be all right in the end" notion that makes this admittedly predictable romp through the food-metaphors-for-love garden worth viewing.

From the man I pretty much believe cannot be touched - or understood - in his genius, comes a....comedy? And aptness written politely all over this scathing little commentary shows up Mamet's humor skills as well as his usual masterful manipulation of prose and deft understanding of the nuance and rape of American language. Top drawer performances all around - especially from the non-Mamet thespians, specifically, Sarah Jessica Parker, Julia Stiles and Clark Gregg - all of whom wrap the dry, acerbic nature of Mamet's to-the-point dialogue around their tongues with an ease that is all too celebrated in light of my deeply pessimistic expectations. So nice to see, at its center, the tenderness of accidental, strong romance; but between Phillip Seymour Hoffman and Rebecca Pidgeon, even more of a feat. Mamet, excusing himself from the usual heavy logistics of play writing, metaphorical alchemy raised to an art, writes 'State and Main' as a hyperbole, an exaggerated horror show that comes off the very picture of a feather light, quintessential "How Hollywood Ruined America" statement. And as a statement, no better than this troupe of actors to bask in the glow of  lying directors (Macy), controlling producers (Paymer), pederast actors (Baldwin), indecisive prudish actresses (Parker, lampooning herself it seems), Hollywood-political connectors (Durning, Gregg) and the townies - my God, the townies! (Pidgeon, Stiles, JJay, et al) Excessive Mayberry pedastaling aside, this is an hilarious, wonderfully deceptive romp. Certainly a more complete and satisfying film than The Spanish Prisoner and a wonderful return to the human consciousness that intertwines with his style (a beautiful deviation with last year's The Winslow Boy, though) - - - this is clearly one of the year's beest surprises and most wonderful films.

A mesmerizing, cathartic epic. Examining the contradictory "war" on drugs is one thing. Examining it with the cubist thumb of a filmmaker who, last year, released a borderline-experimental time-shifting revenge fantasy called The Limey and, who, earlier this year, released a smart, tonal, feel-good detective story called Erin Brockovich - - - this is another thing entirely. Combinning the elements of both pictures (and a performance by Benecio Del Toro that is, quite simply, miraculous), Soderbergh is in full control of his craft.

As a thriller, as a step-by-step deconstruction of kidnapping and ransom negotiations, as the survival story of a hostage, as a forbidden love story between knight in shining armor Crowe and mousy wife of the hostage Ryan - - - Hackford's film seems so uneventful and so dull. None of the action sequences are remotely exciting, the love affair takes up roughly two minutes of screen time (a smoldering kiss and a little bit of brooding), the kidnapping and ransom behind-the-scenes tour is sketchy and fast, leaving the survival story of a hostage - - - the only remotely interesting thing in the film - - - to foot the bill. Clever casting doesn't save the sinking ship either (like in this year's Return to Me, you can see the principles have a chemistry, but the screenwriter is unable to write anything interesting for them to do) . Morse is as a blowhard hostage, Ryan as the wife and Crowe as the professional trying to rescue the husband are all good (and especially little David Caruso, as a rival-turned-teammate hostage negotiator who livens up the sleepy pacing Hackford can't seem to get away from). Hackford only improves upon The Devil's Advocate (which I dubbed the worst film of 1997) in his dialogue which steadies with a weak pulse at best - - - still a vast improvement on Keanu and Pacino's flat lined dialogue in that film. Proof of Life needs vitality in order to qualify to be able to demand proof of it. Hackford simply denies it that, and continues the parade as if there was something there worth watching.

Extravagant and certainly noteworthy - but not because it answers any of the questions of life or even presents hints at what they might mean to its main character Chuck Noland; no, Cast Away is a monumental achievement because it has the courage to commit sixty minutes of celluloid in an American movie theater without use of music, dialogue or voice-over. But that's not all. Both the first and third acts (one which features bar none the most fearsome and terrifying plane crash in American films in recent memory, the other of which was thoroughly spoiled by a paranoid ad campaign) are feverishly unusual, too. Each quiet, almost draining in way that is so pleasing in modern American cinema. Tom Hanks gives another of his earth shattering performances (oddly enough, the megastar can give a predictably like able, near perfect performance and still have it register as beautiful acting and not conservative choosing) as a man obsessed with time until give a full four years of it - - - trapped on a desert island with nothing to do but survive. The film only hints at how the objective of departure (once one is trapped and alone) may not be the only option and though it should blow up this Job like idea to at least acknowledge it visually, as it does with all of its other nuances, there is still a strange alienating air to Hanks return that is original and well etched. Quieting and ultimately satisfying, Cast Away is wonderfully one-of-a-kind. Luckily, as a gamble and a risk in multiplexes, it shines through and pays off as both intellectual filmmaking and thoroughly lavish entertainment.

What I liked most about this highly debated (already!) Coen-ized epic poem of Southern pandering and moping is how characters become beautiful Coen staples - - - and how deft these filmmakers are at providing (from Homer's The Odyssey) them with interesting, funny and entertaining spaces to frolic in. George Clooney is Everett McGill, a hair enthusiast who is on a mission to find a treasure or retrieve his wife or something - - - getting there is pretty much all the fun. The prose chosen for his character is as involved as the Marquis De Sade's in Quills, a sort of mixture between a vocabulary inspired only by books, an old-timey appreciation for the being well-spoken (even with ain't and other double negatives protruding into the thick Southern drawl) and just plain old made up semantics. As usual, his performance derives that star power obsession we all label him with. Time to grow up, methinks; as rare as it is, he left a television show and turned out some good work in some good films. Coen regulars Turturro, Goodman and Holly Hunter are all marvelous - - - particularly Turturro, who has this straange variety of personas that he has no trouble tapping to look and feel like a guy who is "dumber than a bag of hammers" - - - a term also applied to the other member of this trio, Tim Blake Nelson, the Steve Buscemi role from The Big Lebowski, blown up to a rather nice idiot niche. And while the acting and the episodic nature that dictates the situational genius of the Coens (here, more than ever, this is felt) thrives in yet another wonderful landscape that creates its characters, I couldn't help feeling that the film peters out just a wee too much at the end. Indulgent moments of glee like the one where Homer Stokes, a klansman running for mayor, is carried off by some guys that come out of nowhere is extremely Coen-esque (reminded me of the scene where the cops come in after Gabriel Byrne regains consciousness in Miller's Crossing). The musical sequence that surrounds this scene goes on a bit too long (though I love the song "A Man of Constant Sorrow" to death), leaving not only air but a ticking reminder that their script is just a tad clouded. Admittedly, their twists are necessary - - - and worthwhile - - - but its tough for me to buy Everett''s longing for his wife with any intensity. And it's tough for me to buy his character's transformation. This is a problem, you know? Okay, it's a farce, and yeah, I need to see it three or four times (their films have that "acquired taste" neediness that the best of filmmakers tend to be associated with); but its perhaps the only flawed film that I saw this year that I have no trouble accepting as brilliant - - - and as easily one of the best times I've had at the movies this year.

The thing with Shadow of the Vampire, a creepy and passionate account of the unconventional measures envisioned to have taken place while F.W. Murnau was filming Nosferatu, is that it works splendidly - - - but often isn't much more than a wretched bore. Funny how its not really a horror film or a comedy, but instead (mirroring most closely and comparably 'Irma Vep'), it chronicles a faked reality behind art imitating life and vice versa. Essentially a fictionalized making-of film so to speak, it grounds itself in an extremely predictable, almost tirelessly obvious agenda. All the actors are magnificent, particularly the principles Malkovich and DeFoe (who is great fun to watch and nearly unrecognizable). The script, though, as stated, shocks itself into a sanguine psychosis, rings the obvious worship of Shreck, Murnau and 1922's Nosferatu quite nicely. Almost wanted to score it extra points for kind, knowledgeable homage - - - if it didn't appear to strike such a moral blow on Murnau's methods through all the other characters. Still Malkovich brings to Murnau a proper madness, a vindication and the script even allows for a charming poetry of both filmmaker and the process. Never the dark, breaded lump of joy we'd expect from this looming premise, Shadow of the Vampire is still heartlessly thumping with a gripping, cinematic aura that just about makes it a steady, great - if slow - watch.

Yeah, even if it were longer and more developed, I think All the Pretty Horses would have some deep rooted, almost irreparable structure problems. Paced almost identically to (gulp!) Mission to Mars, it moves with a swift, scant exposition in sequences while slowing to a snail's gallop other times, nearly standing still as the material oozes with overexposure. The script (by Silence of the Lambs scribe Ted Tally) isn't really about anything that happens in the movie - it feels more like a string of episodic occurrences lodged together in an order that is continuity friendly. Thornton's direction is well felt, those "say what you mean and keep your chin up" stares seem to cast a sort of darkness to the characters I remember really enjoying in Sling Blade. That beautiful brooding has little place in a film this obtuse or familiar (and with a redundant remarkability, All the Pretty Horses is both). Admittedly, the elements are in place that you'd expect to work : the acting is top drawer (especially from Damon, who consistently improves with every challenging role he sinks those perfect teeth into), the cinematography as well as the scenery is imagination driven, sweeping - often breathtaking; and the characters, though lost in the gaping depths of implausibly fused relationships (the friendship between Henry Thomas and Damon isn't really all that full figured, while the romance between the full figured Penelope Cruz and Damon - another couple with wasted chemistry - hardly even seems to exist at all) are forthright and properly archetypal (score another couple of points for Ruben Blades as the rich heavy who pulls the strings that shuffle Damon and Thomas into a nightmarish Mexican prison). As much as there were the few and far between points that made the film tolerable, the experience of watching All the Pretty Horses was one of those that echoes from mid first act (loudly): "I could not sit through this again". About friendship, about love, about cowboy legends, about postwar attitudes - - - the best part of the film is the horses. Not a good sign.

Exactly what a history lesson would look like played out with the skillful, exhaustive fact dropping of Oliver Stone's twin opii (JFK and Nixon) and the fiery, stress filled mouth-to-bullet effect of Howard Hawks. And beyond that, a nearly airtight crucible of singular, straight-shooting absorption (with only a few sentimental moments to remind you that you are watching a "movie"), Thirteen Days is totally alive and kicking - - - you in the ass the whole way from the starting gun to the finish line. Often, it is a grand pro diplomacy showing - with a ridged patriotism seeping in through the vents - and occasionally, the film balances the peace-at-any-cost ramblings of the Kennedys with the ballsy attitude of power obsessed Washington higher-ups - - - and comes beautifully to the conclusion that, while the Kennedys may seem silly to avoid even the lowliest death (U2 pilots are given a mite too much consideration in the grand scheme of things and actually, it looks like our fateful screenwriter wanted to give Kennedy a bit too much credit as a humanist as well), it is their broad appreciation of how preservation of small scale deaths can become communicatory barter to preserve the American civility and avoid the ultimate taboo word, spoken with loud, guttural anguish by everyone in this film: War. Not since Elizabeth did I get that sharp, heart attack racing of my innards as a film closed. That wonderful sigh of inner relief mixed with adrenaline gush is earned forcefully and softens the blow of just how dark the culture of power can make things seem (in other words, Thirteen Days isn't depressing, exactly). As someone born in 1979, having missed the Cuban Missile Crisis, the film worked as both a hard edged dramatic exercise in recreation and evocation of the time period and as a dedicated purveyor of cinema as informative jargon. As a filmgoer, this raging potboiler worked as perhaps the only really worthwhile thriller released in 2000. This from the director of lame-to-bad to awfully bad genre films, such as Cocktail, White Sands, The Getaway (remake) and Species? Flabbergasting. And of course, lest I forget to mention the performances - - - Costner is perfect, surprisingly filtered and spotlight drained to boot as Kenneth O'Donnell, President Kennedy's personal advisor; Steven Culp is a masterful Bobby Kennedy, completely nailing the youthful baby fat in his quasi rebellious tick; and the best performance in the film, as you've no doubt heard, is from Bruce Greenwood, at the center of this three ring circus, directing the lions as they close in on him with a swift, assured genius that brings full circle to the personal nature of O'Donnell's loyalty (they were buddies from way back and politics seemed a natural arena to display the trusting, decisive nature of Jack Kennedy), Bobby's upward gaze (as the big brother, Greenwood trades the personal disgust look and the "Now that is a good idea" look, each in seamless swing) and the honest, tired vigor of his own personal battle with being a natural politician, leader and human being.

I guess there's no call for me to get stringent - as Van Sant has put out nothing but mainnstream chewables since success went to his damn head (I'm talking about Good Will Hunting, the remake of Psycho and particularly this easy-going gurgle of syrup). The big irk here is that it feels like Van Sant is returning to already well-treaded territory, but he's not utilizing the importance. He challenges Jamal - but fails most of the other characters. Connery is a great writing recluse (not nearly as interesting or rewarding a relationship or set of characters as Curtis Hanson's Wonder Boys), but Van Sant uses him like most mainstream movies use a meaty role: in boring ways. It becomes a battle - and finally a trap - between Forrester and the F. Murray Abraham character (a very uninteresting, one-note villain of an English teacher). With that ring-a-ding ending copped straight from Scent of a Woman (and then some other films I won't list as to preserve the dignity of the writer's "conclusion"), Finding Forrester finds a whole lot of goddamn mediocrity - and little else - in its way too long 1440 minute wing span. Only Paquin escapes completely unscathed, radiating cuteness and sexuality in a way that should be listed with the DEA as a controlled substance. Another incident of everyone blowing their talent at once. Economical. Not very productive, but economical, wouldn't you say?

Just far too simplistic to be any real fun, this; appropriating Spade's persona and casting him as an emperor-turned-llama, complete with voice-over, narrative commentary and excessive sarcastic dwindling. Admittedly, I laughed out loud quite a few times - but it seems so embarrassingly derivative to see Disney grab the morality play of selfishness, turn it upside down mid second act and gradually build towards a confetti strewn happy ending. Yeah, I was amused that they made David Putty from Seinfeld into a cartoon character and yeah, John Goodman, whether he is becoming a white noise with such constant, almost Gerard Depardieu-like exposure - is still solid character in nearly any ffilm he appears in; perhaps it was the feeling that just like every other kids cartoon movie, I was sitting there amazed that lessons come so cheap in the fantasy world and that we, er, kids rather, are expected to transpose such lessons into their real life and, whether they are conscious of it or not, their growth. At some point, there should probably be a push for just a tad more complexity and realistic understanding of villainy and resourcefulness in the way Disney chooses to structure its messages. Solid all dancing, all laughing, all forgettable windy kids effort. Consistent with the backwards corporate noodling Disney enjoys peddling year after year, I fail to enjoy the irony anymore of the world's colorful smile factory churning out second-rate entertainment and raking in first rate megabucks.

I was rejoicing that it made such a short go of its obviously oft used premise that I didn't see the basic awfulness of its breadth coming. Reeves doesn't completely weigh the film down with his stone surfer dude as a football player (he can pretty much make any character seem as if they had a lifelong weed habit) and neither does Hackman, who plays the football coach - who unwisely gets all the most dehabilitating lines in the film (the ones that really cripple this Major League retread) - doesn't always disappoint: a likable role for Hackman is like a blue moon (although he ought to take his agent out to a dark alley and slice his knee caps open). The predictably motley crew that makes up the supporting cast of replacement players (the real players are on strike) is just that - - and awfully boring to boot. A sumo wrestler, a hard-boiled cop, a soulful African American, a prison exchange entree, a scuzzy Welshman and twin Bouncers. Sounds like the purposeful ploy of diversity employed by our President-elect in his cabinet. Some laughs don't really give this film the punch it would need to be totally entertaining. It isn't offensively bad, either. Actually, I've drawn the parallel that this film stands for the year in movies: the real thing was off somewhere, hiding; this year's films are the replacement movies.

You know, I'm all for resurgence of genre films - even those from the seventies (for a commpetent example, see Tarantino's Jackie Brown) - but this is just ridiculous. In its readiness to embrace the coolness, the blackness, the badass-ness of private dick John Shaft, Hollywood has cast him as a one-dimensional thug, a character we disconnect from in the opening moments of the film and can never seem to get back to. He's not interesting. He's not entertaining. As a relic of the blaxploitation era, its not necessary for the film to be entertaining - but its lead character must be somewhat of a colorful - if only half fleshed out - hoot of a cat. Jackson plays him with all the cool dignified top blowing he knows how, but it remains in vain. The whole premise of the film, whereas in those films, actual premise would take a hefty back seat;  in Shaft, it becomes the main focus, a shift in interest to modern times when plot and script are considered, well, awfully important. Since the script written for filming here is a piece of garbage, not the least of which is its confusion in tones (are we watching another Singleton comment on the street or are we absorbing a crime drama?), I find it hard to get on board for enjoyment when Shaft spouts clever one-liners like: "It's my duty to please that booty". All in all, the surprise that kept me from completely freaking and turning this yawn of a flick off was another great Christian Bale performance. This one, in truly pure ironic form, comes following American Psycho, a flawed film with a wonderfully funny character interpretation by Bale in the mix. Here, I think Bale nails the spoiled rich kid-cum-violence driven psychopath I pictured while reading Bret Easton Ellis's novel American Psycho. No one was more surprised than I; a greatish performance by someone other than the seemingly natch casting of Jackson.

All right - this is not the film I expected it to be. For two reasons. Scary Movie nails horror clichés with parody much like I would: by applying the first thing, the most obvious thing you'd imagine to the moment, and not going any further with it. The other reason is that Scary Movie pushes the envelope in a way that made me happily recall the days of In Living Color's battle with the censors. Some of the raucous sexual jokes and sketches within are truly inspired (particularly the first time Faris and Abrahams have sex). Could've done without the played marijuana jokes. Some of the direct address involving regret over the cancellation of The Wayans Bros. was interesting; the rather odd sequence at the film's end - and the other film it nods to - was a little mind boggling. All of this adds up to a little more than a bit of uneven plodding and on-again-off-again joke effectiveness. All in all, as a diversion - it works. As a sight gag/in joke fest - Airplane!, it's not.

As adventurous and entertaining as animated pieces come. Shame it was a box-office failure in the face of the success given over to the absolutely drained Dinosaur. Marketing bucks are marketing bucks. The songs by Elton John feel desperately alienating and the film's no-pressure procession gets interrupted, much to my dismay, by a confusion of villains that morphs into an action sequence before we know what has happened. I guess that's better than having to stand around mourning the death of unconventional animated filmmaking, but for the first hour or so - that's exactly what The Road to El Dorado is: a satisfying adventure epic with pint-sized proportions, carefully written and sculpted to be the very picture of sly, live action fantasy trapped inside a trippy, overwhelming period piece encased in an animation cell.

Pure Convention. Take a formula and add characters. Nice to see that its a prequel, though it is so half-baked I'm almost tempted to fault it for that. Nevertheless, Mark Addy and Stephen Baldwin make a goofy Fred and Barney. Not really like the cartoon characters - more like a drunken stand-up act mocking Hanna-Barbera's most profitable creations.

So utterly forgettable that I can't even remember what I would have said about it had I bothered to review it when I saw it. The flights of fancy that take Willis back to his childhood seem to come some time after you've finished watching the movie and are driving home - - - and the kid hired to be his little shadow, Spencer Breslin, is just about the most irritating piece of pug-child I'd ever hoped to have to watch. The film's saving graces are Willis's great one-liners through the first act and Emily Mortimer's saint like tolerance of his existence. But then again, tolerance really shouldn't be poking its head into a film's quality, now should it?

First of all, expect to be gravely disappointed at how little Russell Crowe can lift (he can't hold this movie on his back!). Second, imagine Remember the Titans, minus the intensity, the allusion and the well etched characters- - - but with some actual scenes of football that were bone crunching entertainment to the last. This is Mystery, Alaska. Saved only by some ferocious and truly kick ass hockey photography, this is a film that has no bearing on itself; a god awful cinema sports hymn where all the characters are unbelievable dopes, one character dies, kids skate along the ice over the end credits and a father forgives his son. Yawn. The least of the problem is Crowe - who retains his likability even among such varied, seemingly unbeatable odds (really, the script is just on fire when the guy who betrayed his town - played by an out-of-place Hank Azaria - suddenly turns into its biggest supporter! Who saw that coming?!) Everyone else in the ensemble - even Reynolds, whose character changes into a "nice guy" as the second half of the film wanes on - bites the snowball with a mouthful of cavities. Look for cameos by Michael McKean as a coprolaliac from a big time chain of Department Stores and Mike Meyers as a fickle sports reporter (no doubt fulfilling a favor owed to Austin Powers director Roach, who misfires this film so far out of whack, by the end, the element of surprise actually exists thanks to a ton of clichés that undermine and contradict its ending. Could this be the end of the goddamn sports movies this year, please?

Shouldn't an art imitates life melodrama set in the never-been-there-before world of ballet school and acted by nearly all unknowns be, I don't know, somewhat more colorful; somewhat less dull?

This is kind of an odd little surprise: A gross out college themed comedy that doesn't really have any defining moments that raise the yick level to toilet humor proportions and manages a genuinely well organized little story about a guy trying to right a wrong by taking to the road (a welcome surprise after watching any film by the reprehensible Farrelley Bros., kings of the "bad road trip movie"). And Tom Green is a nice touch. I was truly surprised at how much this film didn't suck. It's pretty much what I expected 'American Pie' to be: half intelligent enough to embrace the filmmaking side of comedy, raw enough to dig into its content.

I'm not planning on framing this review by using its title as a prime descriptor, but....given the flamboyantly necessary suspension of disbelief on all fronts, this idyllic piece of teenage crumbcake often too openly displays its charm, causing me to beg, "Geez - - - at least leave me hanging? Show me that there might be a crushing blow, a shattering defeat, a nasty spill".....the principles are likable (with Kinnear as some sort of super villain professor, bedding Suvari without the infringing "relationship"; Suvari herself as a free spirit trying to keep her tuition money from dripping out of the grunge-holes in her wardrobe; Biggs as a too nice hick boy in the big city who can't seem stop everyone from making that obnoxious "L" symbol on their forehead when he's around). Like Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Clueless, it's purely fantasy - - - just without the kick of the other two. Loser isn't a loser, but it isn't really much of a winner, either.

Not that its any of my business, but why should a heist flick be made that packs its conclusion and all surprises in tow into the first act, be allowed to even have a second and third act? This watchable, yet relentlessly anti climatic entry into the genre showcases a fine performance by Paul Newman as a ex-bank robber down for (you know the drill) ONE LAST SCORE. The twist isn't so much that he's faking a catatonic state, but that bored nurse Fiorentino wants to spice her life up by breaking the law. The presence of the always annoying, always a schlep Mulroney as her dorky husband who just can't seem to control her (I guess he didn't see The Last Seduction) weighs the film down. Not half as much, however, as how open-and-shut it feels from the moment Newman is revealed to be putting us on as both a stroke victim - - - and an actor. Pointlessly dilly-dallying indulgence, this.

Not surprisingly, Chuck and Buck endures beyond some of the simple conventions it employs (i.e. - inclusion of Hamlet's "Mousetrap" cyncher, the digi-video photography and pacing that, to put it nicely, is feverishly languid). What blows the viewer away is how much actually happens in the film. It starts out innocently enough, a set-up in which a character's mother dies and he re-awakens a past love for another character - but, that's the tip of ol' mister iceberg. Chuck and Buck appears to be about Buck's need to grow up and the roundabout way he ends up doing it, but its also about Chuck's resurgence of conscience as the closure he expected to forego comes back to bang on his temples. And most of all, it seems to have an air of replacement on its mind, the kind that writer Mike White (who also plays Chuck) uses to push an envelope that may seem to unsuspecting female viewers to be decidedly misogynist. Not so; Chuck and Buck isn't interested in showing off the fixation of males at the expense of females, its two main femmes both help Buck out in a way you really have to appreciate. Beverly, the general manager of the theater where Buck produces "Hank and Frank" ("a homoerotic, misogynist play", according to Beverly), gives him the mothering he needs; and Chuck's wife-to-be, Carlin, gives him both the initial polite approval and later, the kind of rejection he needs to realize who he is - - - long after he begins to embrace the idea that Chuck has changed. If only Chuck and Buck weren't so singular, so interested in its many false mechanical moments. For instance, when Buck goes over to one of his young actor friends' houses and the boy burns his hand. The kid drops out of the play and later, Beverly tells him he needs to help kids out, look out for their well-being and protect them. Same tactic as the "mousetrap" play: blunt appraisal of present state - - - the film wants to show how Buck will react when faced with adult situations. For crying out loud, we know he's a kid in an adult's body - - - move on! Nevertheless, it's the performances that meld with the cheapness of it's images which lift it out of it's simplistic approach. The actors all know how to play naturalistic and it shows. This film ends with a ray of hope and I couldn't help being so disturbed, I wanted to be alone. Maybe not it's intention, but an admirable tonal absorption is an admirable tonal absorption. I'll take it. At least I don't have a stalker.

 Less metaphorical and certainly more vibrant than the Iranian films of Abbas Kiarostami, The Color of Paradise is a grand meditation on the security of its characters. Majidi has written Mohammed, a blind boy as such a cemented and beautifully youthful child - - - we brace ourselves for the expectatiion of surprise eventually emerging to rear its head. Mohammed's father, a man possessed with shame and anguish over the death of his wife, the blindness of his son and the hardship of being frozen in limbo, makes a stunningly erratic figure of moral indignity: he's the kind of man we expect to, at one moment, drown kittens in the river - - - and at another moment still, learn the value of human life. What I love about Iranian films, usually full of emotional and physical journeys (often with children in lead roles) is that way they embrace their culture and, for lack of a better word, exploit its goodness. Not that I expect Majidi's intention in writing this film was to educate foreign film markets in the beauty of Iranian simplicity (a nice contrast as the film begins in the bustling metropolis of Tehran and ends in a small village). Far from it in fact. Just the mere fact that an American audience gets the liability of buying into a vision that bleeds certain impartial citations from the decidedly differential world we grow up in adds a flavored departure from face value film viewing to the mix. A touch too sentimental at times (easy on the slow-mo, pal - - - proper speed would generally pack the same impact, I'm certain) and flirting with magic realism (an odd choice for Iranian cinema)  The Color of Paradise extends to us a numb, mesmerizing feel as it concludes. As the rest of the film contains soft colors and situations, inch deep symbolism and quirky, unique moments - - - ending on a note that more or less cloobbers the hell out of us is a stretch. Majidi has fused the characters to the narrative and to his audience in such a skillful way that the tonal shift works marvelously. And The Color of Paradise is a distinct pleasure, as well as a sobering melodrama.

Filmed almost entirely from the cockeyed glance (read: looking at the audience with disdain) of diagonal angles, Battlefield Earth is a living breathing wreck : A film so bad, it has the kind of camp value and goofy, massively entertaining composition that was never meant to be hilarious - - - and the way its taken seriously by its entire cast/crew/et cetera is part of the fun. Even in the first twenty minutes, before we meet the gigantic, dreadlock-clad John Travolta alien (look closely to see the intermittent subliminal scientology messages, they're probably there), the movie is on its way down. The human animals, people left over after the Psychlos (Travolta's alien race) have enslaved and strip mined the planet, all carry on like cave people - - - - except one (and there's always one): Barry Pepper, rebellious humanoid who wants to be remembered as having "fought!!!!". Yikes. Actual dialogue sounds like a bad dubbed martial arts movie (midway through a conversation: "We can't talk now, we have to hunt for food!"). When Travolta and his intern Kerr - played, sadly, by Forrest Whitaker - show up and the politics of "home office" (not where Letterman gets his top 10 lists) start wheeling in motion; the movie becomes a microcosm of itself, startlingly dipping below the level it previously carved out, to entertain a fiendish plot that would have been a stretch on the WB. As the special effects wizards climb aboard and the matte paintings pile up (each of which looks strangely detached and, well, FAKE, in a world where Star Wars and The Matrix have seamlessly woven digital characters and effects into reality), the film becomes a loud, obnoxious, totally uninteresting action movie. While the characters are talking, reacting and interacting - - - it's funny. When it jumps into "sci-fi pulp fiction", it almost feels like an apologetic hopefulness the filmmakers are protruding into our eyes - - - hoping we'll swallow their technical "wizardry" better than we've swallowed their textual "crap". Not only does that fail miserably, but the film comes to a close so predictably and so, I don't know, "animated kids movie" style - - - - I was glad I didn't have to sit through it again. (Though it's funny enough to be at least recommended as a bad joke).

Why do nearly satisfying technology thrillers have to have choppily edited car chases, over-directed hard-boild cops, subplots about serial killers and neat string ties for endings? Why is that? Foxx's one-liners, which are surprisingly funny, aside; Bait is consistently entertaining until its final act when the serial killer mentioned before (played with a completely mock-Malkovich drawl by Doug Hutchinson - - - and this is as distracting as you'd imagine), becomes an effortless thug, making mistake after mistake. Maybe the whole idea behind Jamie Foxx's love for race horses and need to do good get lost in the over-complicated plot twists which Fuqua seems to have made even more incomprehensible in the editing room. Nice premise. Entertaining glitz. Foot dangling from ankle with multiple bullet wounds. (At the very least, it is a far better film than Fuqua's The Replacement Killers).

Here's a riddle for you: What are these four talented actors doing in such an open-and-shut television premise, a film akin to being called a sub Companion Piece to Gunshy? Climax: Occurs on a boat, in a warehouse. Plot lines include: shooting a corpse that's already dead, replacing a woman with a stolen science class skeleton before burning down her house (and inadvertently burning to the ground the mansion of the drug dealer whose father they shot postmortem). Jokes include: old men + incontinence, Goodfellas lampooning (which is particularly offensive), mob boss irony reversals, Burt Reynolds' performance, the list goes on and on....This is a film that deserves to have its prints burned and in their place, a reconciliation that erases the minds of all four people on earth who saw this pile of dump. Especially yours truly.

[Okay, watch: I actually infer that Burt Reynolds is a talented actor.]

I'm picturing Academy Award winning cinematographer Janusz Kaminski taking this hopelessly unwatchable project to experiment with different angles, film stock and aesthetic. How a man of his stature can come to a psychosis of denial that allows him to believe that this painful film experience is art - staggers me. The film opens, like many bad films, too abruptly; we expect to see something slow that defines the characters. The filmmakers are interested in getting to the exorcism. Doesn't matter who these people are - and it never will. Then there's great dialogue like Winona Ryder's lament to a suspicious mental physician who wants to partake in sed exorcism: "You wouldn't last five minutes". So, later, when the priest performing it is nearly killed, we are left to wonder whether or not these are sound, Catholic rituals that are being performed or dime store devil-be-gone shenanigans. And is lasting five minutes really the goal, here? What is this, a satan bull that the religious folk have to ride for so long before it bucks them off? And we wonder things like this because we are bored. And we are bored because sometime during the first twenty minutes of the film, Kaminski decided to shoot using only available light (he uses this tactic up until the end). Of the decidedly un-creative school of horror film, Kaminski believes the more dark the audience has to soak up and make out, the scarier our imaginations will make it. (Usually this works when there is a certain level of originality in the content. Actually, any amount would probably have some effect. Lost Souls doesn't have an original thought - or time for an original thought - in its thankfully scant ninety-eight minnute running time.) Certainly, Kaminski finds some accidental scare moments throughout, using this midnight pitch black in a locked closet technique: there are some hallucinations and funrides through old houses that come out at least stinking of dread (I'm not sure I'd go so far as to praise their effect, as it seems just a tad inappropriate to praise a film this bad for a sorta good looking exterior). A grainy film as well, though not half as grainy as Ryder, Chaplin and the rest of the cast appear while trying to wrap their stuttering tongues around some of the half baked, cooky horror movie dialogue that serves to get us as quickly as possible to the equally abrupt ending (to match the false start of an opening) where, for some reason, an LCD clock in Chaplin's land rover is under his control. He must be the devil! Head for the hills!