Too simple a rendering of such a complex subject, Ed Harris's labor of love reflects well the period and attitudes of the art community and plies a magnificent camera trance (from out of nowhere, it seems) to boot. Part of the film's nagging flaw - though Pollock is still a fascinating biopic - is that Harris creates his own canvas (the film) in too bland a manner, showing us Jackson Pollock through a much more photographic element than that of the painting-infused spectrum that most likely would have nailed the painter's alcohol-driven, manic depressed genius. The most rewarding - and baffling - thing is how much Harris resembles the painter and how hypnotic his alternately sensitive and brutish performance reverberates in our frontal lobes. Unable to show us much of what's going on inside the man (fault of screenplay alert, methinks), Harris seems to revel in the degradation, the genius, the booze, the "love on my own damn terms" sensation Pollock lived up to (sometimes only to defy). Complementing him as a mystifying piece of driftwood is Marcia Gay Harden (in a stunning display), seeking to play coach and lover: their marriage is a blown-up on screen to suggest her sticking around was a direct result of her love for the art world and the drive to keep Pollock painting. A sort of shameful honor, the always terrific actress captures just this flavor in a unique muse-manager relationship. Other faces include Kilmer as DeKooning, Pollock's rival; Harris's wife Amy Madigan as Peggy Guggenheim; a standout Bud Cort as Howard Putzel; John Heard as poet Tony Smith; Jeffrey Tambor as critic Clement Greenberg; and Jennifer Connelly as Ruth Kligman, perhaps the last person to share love with Pollock before he departed this world, tragically, in a drunken car wreck. And as the sparse, pinhole-ordinary visuals of Pollock close, 'World Keeps Turning', a new song by Tom Waits, plays over the end credits. Fitting that this film, like Jackson Pollock himself, would only find the perfect note for itself in its conclusion. Not too subtle, but a valiant effort and an interesting watch.

The big guff with 'Bounce', a film that only pretends to handle concepts previously bungled in a dozen films (among them, notorious entries like 'Random Hearts', 'Return to Me' and even Roos' own, 'The Opposite of Sex'), is that both of the leads would obviously be perfect for the roles of a former drunk advertising exec and a widowed, neurotic mother of two - - - in a parallel universe. As it is, I have trouble believing Paltrow got through any amount of trauma looking as single mother appealing as she does (much less the question of which of the boxes in the living room she hides the fat from her body in. Two kids my ass).  Affleck, one of our worst actors, has no trouble walking through the role, missing the boat from moment one. Together, though, I almost felt like they'd work - because they were both so clueless (perhhaps they'd drop by the "lost in bad romantic tragicomedy" booth at the overworked, overrated actors convention). No such luck. Roos has no trouble, in his scripts, composing a plethora of really nice human moments for both the actors and the film's world to indulge in. Unfortunately, try as he may, try as he might - - - he can't get the bleakness washed out off an already less-than-half baked premise before its time to rejoice and watch love, uh, blossom. Too much of 'Bounce' feels too forced to be anything of coincidence and chance, but then, most of it just feels like something you'd be forced to watch if hooked up to "the Luduvico treatment".

By failing to explain the whole concept of "The Highlander" (as I've never seen the original), 'Highlander : Endgame' makes no sense until about half way through when, by context alone, I harnessed my intellect and figured out just what in the hell was going on. By then, I was still overwhelmed with anger at how dismal and derivative the special effects, storyline, acting, execution, cinematography and dialogue were. Bonus points taken away when Bruce Payne hits the screen as a guy who rivals Mike Soscia (when he contracted radiation poisoning) on 'The Simpsons' for slowest speaking voice of all time. The grating exacted on my nerves was unbearable and with no redeeming qualities, the only thing even slowing 'Highlander : Endgame' from being the worst film of the year was that it didn't make me feel genuinely bad like watching 'The Next Best Thing' did. Watching 'Highlander : Endgame' didn't make me feel much of anything - - - except pity for all involved.>

        "I'm Jack Carter and you don't want to know me".

You're right, I certainly don't, pal. I thought perhaps Stallone's robot acting might come in handy as a character who is pretty much a purist killing machine on a mission (a plot device I'm so sick of, I've considered choosing a new profession). Re-making Mike Hodges 1970's saga of revenge, murder and sex (which I've not seen) may have seemed like a good idea but, to make a long story short - - - - It wasn't. This movie never climbs over a low whisper and even when you're sure you're wrong about who had Jack Carter's brother Richie killed - you're not. It's as plain as day. (Tip : Rent 'Payback' again, instead.)

Rarely do I have to sit up and pay attention because a surprise knocks me so hard in the teeth, but 'Bring It On', one of the most single-minded and forcefully paced films I've seen in the past year cranked my shell into a frenzy. Kirsten Dunst truly has, since her appearances in 'Interview with the Vampire' and 'Small Soldiers',  become a pretty darn good actress (remember her in my #1 of the year, 'The Virgin Suicides'? Watch it again if you're foggy!). While it's probably no stretch of the imagination for a ton of actresses to act bubble-headed and giddy, goofy and vally girl-ish, we can see Dunst actually setting this role in motion. Brought to mind Alicia Silverstone in 'Clueless' (which I had to practically be dragged to). What starts out as a film about determination on the part of one person becomes a riotous anthem of personality bursts and colorful passions compiled into a montage of a film that spans a short enough time period and boasts a vividly concise script to screen transition (I bet there were massive cuts, but it was well worth it). It doesn't feel like a teeny bopper movie or a sports movie or a romance or a comedy - - - it feels like a odd-ball hybrid of alll four elements; a film churning forth without brakes, full of life and joyousness - - - and, admittedly, some flat-out embarrassingly bad moments - - wildly encapsulating a feminist sports hymn with a youthful verve that is both positive and enjoyable. In fact, all the descriptors in the last two sentences can be chucked out the window. With exception, 'Bring it On' feels like no films I've seen in years. Genreless.

See, I know I'm supposed to fervently hate this schlock served up smorgasbord as social commentary, companion piece and horror film - - - but the truth is, behind the disastrous way it chooses to plot and speak for itself (there's a measure of repetition that develops a dragging rhythm, even if it is a means to a particularly appropriate end; as for the dialogue, the film feels like it was written in part by Gregg Arakki, whose poopy-mouthed 'The Doom Generation' could have starred most of my brother's middle school buddies). The characters are particularly wan, but they're just puppets anyway in the seemingly well-meaning bizarro retread of the popular (but widely hated, how is that?) 'The Blair Witch Project'. What works here is the driving force of the first film, which masterfully created a world we couldn't look away from and demonstrated the idea that video (as opposed to film) never lies in a horrifying and beautifully constructed fashion. The idea of "where will it end" (as in "...copycat crimes, where will they end - and when will the media stop pinning violence on pop culture?") and the truth of video (as opposed to perspective, which can lie) is dabbled in, but never really given free reign over what feels like eons of speculation on the part of executives who, in the end, decided to hold to their commitment of delivering a sequel that was nothing like the original film. It scores extra points for allowing video sequences to roll for an uncomfortably long time - and for ending the film abruptly. For its abhorrent casting choices and the basic idea that it decided to cater to an audience so widely guilty of misinterpreting the genius behind the original, I'm thinking that proceeding to ramble about the power of honesty in video is kinda pointless. I guess I'll leave it at that.

Obviously using all the power in his little finger, James Gray attempts to craft a story of a former jailbird trying to fly straight and instead, plodding headlong into danger. Here, we can see that Gray wants desperately to tell the story with a new spin, a new angle - something we haven't seen before in this nearly all treaded cinema stomping ground. He plays a few hands: conspiracy among working class subway contractors (haven't seen that before), gangland arrangement without the luxury of mafia involvement (rare in our 'Sopranos' age) and a hint at what society would certainly view as a subversive longing between cousins (left field anyone?). In the end, the whole thing pretty much rests on Mark Whalberg's shoulders and he all but makes an already dimwitted character into a flat-out dumbass; someone unable to function as written in the script. From the plastic, uninvolving moments of utter molasses (why are these characters moving so slow, you'll wonder, infuriated) like the one where Whalberg goes to shoot a hospitalized police officer (who just hapens to be in a coma)... to the idiocy Gray expects we will overlook when a seemingly sincere Whalberg goes to the "yards" (of the subway repair area) and gets himself into some big, obvious trouble we see headed his way from several miles away. Detached from any kind of interest in these boring characters, we are even uninterested to watch an innocent man prosecuted (a theme we as an audience hunger, devour and desire in American films). Whalberg surely contributes to this lack of spark, but before he even begins to bungle, the fact is that Gray has misdirected the film from frame one. In his Little Odessa, he was able to create a slow, brooding, powerfully felt tone out of a series of characters who required little if any dependence on each other. In The Yards, he stylizes the film with a normal tone and populates it with a group of characters who cannot exist without each other and who j-u-s-t  m-o-v-e  s-l-o-w - - - instead of at the human, rhythmic pace Gray has set. If only everything were as lyrical and heavy as in Little Odessa, Gray could have made another unconventional film out of conventional material. I admire him for not trying to copy verbatim a formula which was successful in his last film (although, as a style, he could have made at least two or three intriguing films utilizing such a ambiance before an audience became bored). Never mind, though; what he has done here clearly does not work. Even watching the magnificent performances of James Caan, Joaquin Phoenix and Ellen Burstyn doesn't add a single grain of pep to this low hum of a motion picture. Leave it exactly where the title suggests.

Reminds me of that moment when the popularity of the "I Didn't Do It" Boy (aka Bart Simpson) runs out and, desperately, he emits the phrase "Wuzza Wuzzel". Little Nicky is prime "Wuzza Wuzzel". As the audience watching and creating the failure of the "I Didn't Do It" Boy said, "That's what passes for entertainment these days? Wuzza Wuzzel?". I'm afraid so. On the box, it says that Little Nicky earned over $40 million. In my heart, though, I know will earn a helluva a lot more - realistically - than that alarmingly unappalling Sandler Films Inc. gross in the theater (that is, when it hits video on April 24th). These films, which have almost no half-life yet seem to last forever and a day, don't annoy me as much as the specific draws which pull us in. Consider that people see the film because Adam Sandler plays the devil's son. Then consider the actual enactment (which is one of the most annoying film characters I've seen to date), a performance of such lazy, repetitive tootling, I expect even Sandler himself chucked the premise and kept the paycheck after dreaming it up. (Like Deuce Bigalow: Male Gigolo, Little Nicky is an idea for a five minute sketch, painfully stretched into a 84 minute film at YOUR expense). Then consider the paycheck. Consider while you're at it, the premise: Devil's son must capture his two older, much larger, much meaner brothers in a magic flask before his father deteriorates in hell (you see, by leaving hell in the first place, the brothers have frozen some eternally burning wall causing this leper-like condition in old scratch). The problem is that he is too nice a guy and that, all he really wants to do, is save his father. This is a film about paternal protection that is using the old "magic flask" routine. You can't fool me! I know the old "magic flask" routine! (Now return with me to reality) Though the intermittent funny line uttered by the random Saturday Night Live cast member may cause a chuckle, Little Nicky is perhaps Sandler's worst gimmick yet. Keep giving him your money and keep watching this filth. I'll be over here not considered a loser by the paramount of normal people in this world.

As if participating in some cruel Hollywood wager, Basinger, Sewell and Ricci all seem to be vying for the spotlight in order to give the absolute worst performance of their career. If only I knew why they needed this paycheck so desperately. A satan cult tries to kidnap a little girl with magical powers. Basinger/Baldwin divorce explained in full.

If you thought perhaps that Keanu Reeves playing a serial killer would certainly be bad so there would be no reason to see this film, but there could be an off-chance that you'd underrate him just enough that when you did see it, he was actually quite surprising and valiantly off-set the boring, brooding Spader and the half-written Tomei - - - think again.

The editor and composer of The Usual Suspects has never been to film school. And apparently, he's not only sold his soul, but, as an editor, he seems to have forgotten the idea of rhythm in a film. I've never seen a more repetitive, predictable, utterly banal contemporary teen horror flick.

See, I think that this film really hits the button Spike Lee seems to be aiming for in most of his films: blind, almost flailing controversy. And it works. The script he taps out as well as the casting are something of flawless political satire, the kind that recalls films like Network in both subject matter and quality. And for God's sake, if Spike would just make all his films this clear, yet pointed and fascinating, he'd probably have a few more critics on his side. The problem of racially segregated television, portrayal of African Americans in all media and blame cast on both white and black alike for selling their souls for cash - - - all three are tackled with skill, veerve and intensity (and, for once, Spike actually does not seem to have a white bashing agenda somewhere on his cerebral backburner). In fact, the film is so forceful in its jolt, it almost distracts you from how clumbsily and poorly it is staged. Most of the acting, thanks to the magical popularity of mini DV (which nearly all of the film is shot in), becomes an amateur home video hour, the kind of viewing experience one would turn off were it not powered by an intelligent script. Centering around a black executive who pitches a blatantly racist show to his blatantly racist producer (hoping to make a flamboyant point about their business hierarchy and the content of television today), I can see why mini DV might be chosen, but it looks too grainy, blurry and underlit (something that works for some stories, certainly not for all, certainly not for this one). Bamboozled is a marvelous point being made, one worth making in modern society. Lee, however, thinking the innovative thing to do would be to place it in the all-reality video format, misfires the set-up and lets his actors down, cheating their performances. When the movie eventually takes such flight that we become enamored and moved by the world of these characters, we have to keep telling ourselves that everything looks, feels and sounds professional - - - even when it plays like a really, really sharp home movie.

While it is clever to exploit a low brow but ever creative idea about cloning while billing it with the muscleman's schtick (the tagline could have read: In the not too distant future, explosions and meticulously choreographed gunplay still plague the life of wrongfully cloned family men), there is no step outside the formula that will perhaps outlast the man himself. The thin and overblown helicopter stunt that plays about fifteen minutes after the movie should have ended dilutes the otherwise pleasantly forgettable and entertaining romp through the popcorn hut. What I'd love to have seen done was a conscious effort to work Schwarzenegger's wooden acting into the film, and using it to further the authentic distracted feel of a clone. Because there are two of them - and because the producers do nothing likke what I've described - all we really get the sense of is how massively ugly Ah-nuld is (there's two of him, not more to love, I assure you). My favorite part of The Sixth Day is the way Robert Duvall's character (the doctor who perfected cloning to preserve his cancer ravaged wife) continually falls into scenes that play like a devious Batman villian: sensitive and diabolical, all the while spewing intelligent quips instead of moralizing. Case in point, the greenhouse sequence that actually looks like something out of a Batman film with its high ceilings, vines and stray light gunning through large plate glass. Having a seasoned professional actor on board more than bridges the gap, in this instance, between the ingenious futuristic gadgetry the first act is willing to display and the faded, almost boring action sequences that populate the (seemingly) endless third act.

Finally achieving a creamy middle - between his quality turn in Gods and Monsters and throwaway goofballs like George of the Jungle and Blast From the Past - Brendan Fraser has focused his energies in a worthwhile and almost pleasing direction. In Harold Ramis' remake of Bedazzled, Fraser looks totally entertained in his many fantasies, blinding us to the convenience lurking in the transformation from zero to hero. All of the wish scenes, though, actually have a spicy tinge to them that makes them less than frightfully dull. Hurley seems to have wormed her way into a good role (unless anyone on earth besides myself and the other three in the theater saw Permanent Midnight in 1998). I'm still slightly stupefied that other directors missed how good she is at displaying the evil eye in between shocking sexual intelligence, all the while transcending the sex kitten act and radiating a gentle verve of substance. In Bedazzled, a completely indulgent and off-the-wall comedy, both she and Fraser feel so completely at home, the audience begins to relax and accept this candy-coated entertainment as what it is: a highbrow re-make in the body of a summer amnesia comedy. Bonus points for the casting of the ever hot Frances O'Connor (of Mansfield Park and Kiss or Kill fame) as the attractive dream girl. More bonus points available for other directors who hire her. Get em' while they're hot. Limited time only.

Great because it isn't Mission to Mars.

Father : Son, promise me one thing -
Son : Sir?
Father : Don't ever end up like me.

(Father gives Son coveted, hand-made radio. The minute we see it, we know that later it will get smashed on the floor in a racial dispute, which, by the way, is a factor that seems to be handled with so much finger pointing that the thirty minutes I watched of Bamboozled seemed less pushy and white guilt ridden than this. And that was a Spike Lee Joint.)

If I were Carl Brashear, the gentleman on whose life this film is the basis, I'd be so embarrassed and disappointed by this sappy, sentimental, goopy, gloppy, painfully cinematic rendering of my accomplisments. Only DeNiro (surprise, surprise) emerges unscathed by carving his performance out of the stubborn wood on which his character seems to feed as a Southern hardass. The interworkings of the diving program between 1943 and 1966 were more interesting to me than Brashear's life. Of course, there were all of ten minutes on the subject. Between Gooding, Jr's grandstanding, I'm-so-happy-to-be-in-this-movie performance and a script that looks like it was masturbated on by several Harloquan Romance novelists during its revising status, Men of Honor manages to include every single race card, every single cliche, every single melodramatic catch-all quip and nearly every character that filmmakers can include without need of a character arc. Preceding the deleted scenes (which I opted to skip, except for the alternate ending), director Tillman, Jr. tells us that the film as originally 190 minutes long (instead of this undending 130 minute running time) - - - thank God for studio executives. (Oh, and by the way, look for the unbelievably fake looking special effects shots, the interior locations which all look more like sets than settings and the ugly (forgive the phrase) hack job the make-up guy did on Gooding, Jr.'s leg when it gets severed two-thirds of the way through the film. I thought we were supposed to be making progress, here).

This film looks - and I'm talking mainly about the script, special effects, acting, staging, camerawork, casting, editing and music - like it was thrown together in just under a month. A superb collection of akward pacing and scene envisionment, extremely - almost painfully - familiar sequences (that lift from every recent space movie, even some that are too bad to mention) and the ever capping "old guy" jokes which come at a speed man has yet to reach in the fastest of fast vessels, let alone in his motion pictures. This makes Absolute Power look like a friggin' art-house Cannes Film Festival winning Academy Award dark horse with cult status AND box office potential.