Movie Maven

Oh, we're movin' on up (movin' on up) to the East Side....

2009-01-09T17:43:00.008Z

Firstly, I'm sorry, America, for abandoning you. No posts in over a month. I'm ashamed. I have a sort-of excuse though! I have recently been in talks with way-cool awesome web publication Blast Magazine, with a mind to transfer myself over to their auspices.

That's right my friends! Movie Maven is moving! (Say that three times fast.)

I am conflicted. On the one hand, I enjoy exhibiting total control over my blog: changing the font at whim, making up my own libel laws, cursing like a seabound skipper with a hangnail. Such gallavanting and tomfoolery! On the other hand, I am a college senior who needs a quasi-legitimate publication to ally herself with in order to gain employment and hence not starve to death by the side of the road. So there were many things to consider, and I didn't want to make a move (i.e., write anything) before it was all settled.

I'd like to thank the cool nerds at Blogger, as well as Prof. Carlene Hempel at Northeastern University for helping me get this thing started over two years ago. Thank you to my readers as well- all five of you.

So from now on, check Blast for all your Movie Maven needs. You'll see my name is now Emma Johnson, with a whole last name and everything! RSS Feed that baby!!

JEFF GOLDBLUM HAS TAUGHT THEM NOTHING

2008-11-25T20:50:00.007Z

Brave new world, people! According to an article in today's Slate, there are scientists working on mapping the genome of the woolly mammoth in the hopes of someday resurrecting the pre-historic animal using elephant DNA.

My God, have none of these people seen "Jurassic Park"? It's nothing if not a cautionary tale about what happens when scientific hubris is matched against the chaotic forces of evolution (Hint: when Samuel L. Jackson is devoured, it means hubris is losing.) As the great Dr. Ian Malcolm, as played with schlimiel bravado by Jeff Goldblum, says, "The lack of humility before nature that's being displayed here, uh... staggers me." Turn back, fair scientists, before your children are forced to flee vicious velociraptors, with nothing but Sam Neill to protect them!

The story goes on to say that the next logical step would be to resurrect the neanderthals, to, um, learn about them. (?) Of, course this is met with trepidation from both the religious community, and the more squeamish members of the science community. Where will it end? Will we test on neanderthals and use them in experiments? Do we consider them humans? These are all important ethical and philosophical questions. But my fears about this great leap into unknown territories of generative science have less to do with moral quandaries and more to do with my worry that these guys all just got stoned and watched "Encino Man" too many times.

No one, no matter how well-intentioned, should ever take cues from Pauly Shore. It is tempting the fates, my friends.

I'm all man (or at least 70 percent)

2008-11-24T22:57:00.004Z

The Gender Analyzer is 70% sure that I am a man.

Quoteth the A.I. program (that I like to think looks like Haley Joel Osment):

We think http://www.emoviemaven.blogspot.com is written by a man (70%).

In the words of Joe Biden, let me say that again:

I, your Movie Maven, with the blog outlined in pink, who has a photo of Jean Seberg as her handle, who's name is Movie Maven, is apparently a man.

What. The. Fuck.

Perhaps this gross miscalculation in the program's brain just means that the tone of my writing is strong and self-assured. Bad-ass. Perhaps it thinks I'm a man because of my penchant for filthy language, love of Quentin Tarantino movies and discussions of the best films that have shit blowing up for no reason.

Obviously, the A.I. is a filthy sexist.

I demand attention be paid to this grossly discriminatory internet meme! I call for the banning of all interweb robots that think I'm a dude just because I don't like Julia Roberts!

For shame, obviously flawed text classifier- for shame!

HISTORY! VICTORY! RACIAL TRANSCENDENCE! THIS CLUSTERFUCK IS OVER!!!

2008-11-05T16:35:00.005Z

I do not like to sully the sanctity of this blog with political discourse. For one thing, it's not the specialty I've assigned it; for another, I didn't want a bunch of crazies posting misspelled caps-lock eloquence about that 'BAMA HAlF BREED MUSLIN!!!1!!

But in celebration, I will bend this rule today only to say this. When my grandchildren ask me about the night a black man first became president, I will have this touching story to tell them:

"Well, kids, grandma was getting snackered on Magner's and vodka tonics, while screaming at Keith Olbermann and refreshing fivethirtyeight.com every ten seconds. Then, after they announced that he won, I joined my friends outside to stumble down Huntington Ave., high-fiving strangers in cars and shouting 'WOOOO!!' every time it got too quiet."

Yes, indeed, it was a dignified moment in America.

Nothing can sour my mood today, not even the sobering news that gay marriage was banned in California. Today is a day for America. Obama is not the messiah, but he is a grand message to the world:

We are not as hideously stupid as you think.

Bad-ass Soundtrack of the Week

2008-10-09T21:22:00.017+01:00

I've reached the point of exhaustion, peaches. On average, there are seven film openings per week this fall, and, frankly, only about 1/4 of those are actually watchable. When I saw a preview of Saw V directly after watching Made of Honor on HBO, where it will play continuously for the next six months, I just about gave up on life altogether. I'm going to see Rachel Getting Married this weekend, and hopefully Jonathan Demme's supposed return to form will help me out of my cinematic slump.

But, for today, I'm not going to talk about movies. I'm going to talk about music in movies. (Yes, I know, I'm a renaissance woman.) Some of my favorite albums are actually soundtracks, cohesive artistic endeavors in their own right. I've decided that to open up my world beyond the classic film review (and in a desperate attempt to blog regularly) I am instituting a weekly column about notable soundtracks, and why you should listen to them.

Here are the rules I shall obey by: No musicals. No biopics about musicians. No concert films. Yes, this means I will be skipping some terrific music. But the point is that I will be highlighting soundtracks that are not the main focus of their respective film, yet become inextricably linked with them all the same. Also, I'll try not to highlight soundtracks that everyone and their mother already knows. This means no long speeches over the brilliance of John Williams' Jaws theme. It is brilliant, but you've heard it before.

I'm going to begin this week with Quentin Tarantino, perhaps the Zen master of the compiled soundtrack. Can any film buff listen to Chuck Berry's "You Never Can Tell" and not think of the twist contest scene from Pulp Fiction? Or hear Stealers Wheel's "Stuck in the Middle" without remembering Michael Madsen cutting off a cop's ear in Reservoir Dogs? Tarantino's soundtracks are key ingredients in his film making, and an ideal method of conveying the retro-hip pastiche he does so well.

Perhaps Tarantino's most unsung project is Death Proof, his stunning homage to the fast-car exploitation films of the 1970s, and one-half of the highly underrated Grindhouse program.The film is nothing less than the heterosexual male id in cinematic form: a purposefully grainy montage of squealing wheels, flaming rubber, blood, sex, and plenty of T&A. Yet Death Proof is most charming for the way it seems to gain retribution the (hundreds?) of actresses during the 70s who reached their untimely cinematic end lying in a bloody pool along Highway 1. I'm not giving anything away when I say that you haven't really lived until you've seen Kurt Russell roundhouse kicked in the face by a girl.

Like the film, the Death Proof soundtrack is a compilation of possibly the best road music in the world. Rhythmic guitar and horns pump through all the tracks, starting with Jack Nitzsche's title score "The Last Race". "Race" pulsates ever so slightly, the beat matching the fetching twitch of DJ Jungle Julia's ass (seen in close-up in the first scene, of course). Smith's "Baby, It's You" and T. Rex's hilarious and bewildering "Jeepster" exemplify the rhythm and blues tones of the soundtracks first half, before delving into the more rock-oriented second half, with Willy Deville's "It's So Easy," and "Hold Tight," by the fascinating Dave Dee, Dozy, Beaky, Mich and Tich. The feisty final track "Chick Habit" rounds out the line-up.

But perhaps my very favorite track is the Coasters' "Down in Mexico," played during the too-sexy-for-theaters lap dance scene. "Down in Mexico" is an ode to slumming, in which lead vocalist Carl Gardner's silken voice wraps around your hips and refuses to let go. True to the R&B stylings of the 1950s, the song is pure as the driven snow- except, it isn't. The sex is all between the lines- there's something about the lyrics describing a Mexican chick dancing with three fishnets tied around her waist that makes you feel vaguely dirty. Even if your not watching Vanessa Ferlito grind into Russell while you're listening to it.

So now it's your turn chickens- let me know what soundtracks I should feature here and why.

Hot Blogger Alert

2008-10-08T00:46:00.002+01:00

Hello, all, miss me? My life is consumed with the profession that actually pays me for a living so I haven't been able to post. No excuse, I know, but it's hard work keeping myself in the lifestyle to which I'm accustomed.

Anywho, I'm just checking in to alert you to an excellent blog, written by a good friend of mine and contemporary in the art of entertainment reporting. The title, Entertainment Writers are Journalists Too is a rallying cry for all the cultured intellectuals, who, yes, like to talk about Miley Cyrus.

Smiley Face

2008-08-08T20:55:00.006+01:00

Directed by: Gregg Araki
Written by: Dylan Haggerty
Starring: Anna Faris, Danny Masterson, Adam Brody, Roscoe Lee Browne

I'll be seeing "Pineapple Express" this weekend, though mixed reviews fill me with trepidation about relinquishing my precious $10. But I'm too intrigued to see a stoner/action flick to not take the risk.

I am a connoisseur of the stoner flick, ever since I was a freshman in college, spending evenings in my buddy's apartment "chillaxing" in her inflatable chair and watching "Half Baked." After deciding to see "Express" this weekend, I was inspired to watch "Smiley Face," a movie that was completely ignored when it came out, but which I had heard about from several people as the best stoner movie action around.

A homage of true pot cinema, it is the story of Jane F., who gets really baked off of her roommates cupcakes, and then must travel to a hemp festival to convince her dealer not to take her furniture cause she hasn't paid for her drugs, because she spent all her money on this really awesome sleep number bed, which is the one thing she really doesn't want her dealer to take, and she also has to pay the power bill, and buy enough pot to remake the pot cupcakes that her roommate made so he doesn't know she ate them.

So, basically, the story is a story your buddy would tell you if she was high and you were chillaxing on her inflatable chair, Supertramp playing gently in the background.

The film is a glorious meandering through Los Angeles, a place that in itself looks like a bad trip. Faris is wonderful precisely because she doesn't at all seem concerned with seeming either pretty or likeable. Her hair looks like it hasn't been washed in a few days; her eyes are perpetually bloodshot and her movements are slow and deliberate without ever seeming graceful. Her inner monologue is a masterpiece of stoner logic; in one delightful scene she decides that owning a picture of President Garfield to display her love of lasagna would be "totally meta."

When you actually think through what happens in "Smiley Face" you don't come up with much. But that's actually a good thing. Weed is special in that it makes every movement of your body seem like a momentous, arduous task, so it makes sense that taking a bus across town to Venice Beach could be construed as an epic rivaling "The Odyssey."

Faris leads, or rather is followed by, a sparkling supporting cast, including ur-straight man John Krasinski, post-"OC" Adam Brody as a pot dealer with hilarious rasta dreds, and Roscoe Lee Brown as both the narrator and existential muser within Jane's toked-out soul.

The most fascinating part of "Smiley Face" is really the paradox of portraying marijuana in film. It's hardly a social commentary on drug use: pot is demonstrated as a funny, and primarily harmless drug that just makes people stupid for a little while. When Jane asks if not paying back her dealer Steve will get her killed, Steve scoffs. "Oh, come on Jane, I deal weed. I'm not gonna break your kneecaps. At the most I'll, I dunno, take your furniture or something."

But there is something to be said for how pot also can make you extremely unlikeable once you've had too much. No one likes the lazy, self-involved idiot who borrows your money and doesn't pay the power bill cause she spent it all on weed. So we don't mind when Jane gets her comeuppance for her escapades at the end of that sun-drenched day in Los Angeles. Though we do hope that maybe she'll replace her furniture with inflatable chairs.

Black Snake Moan

2008-08-08T14:40:00.001+01:00

Written and Directed by: Craig Brewer
Starring: Christina Ricci, Samuel L. Jackson, Justin Timberlake

If I had to describe "Black Snake Moan" in one word, the only one that seems remotely fitting is "writhing." The Southern Gothic fable about a wild girl and the God-fearing bluesman who tries to cure her of her wicked ways is a tale that, for the first half at least, moves forward like the titular snake, slithering and undulating in ways you didn't know could appear in nature.

When we first see Rae (Ricci), she's making love to her boyfriend (Timberlake) for the last time before he joins the army. It's a lovely intimate moment, but the second he drives away, she falls to the ground, clawing and moaning like an alley cat in heat. The cicadas in the background swell in time with her wailing, and oh, she just can't help herself, she needs it, she's gotta have it now. She goes on to a party where she takes all manner of hillbilly meds, fucks a guy on a football field and ends up beaten on the side of the road in just her confederate t-shirt and dirty white panties within the first 20 minutes of the film.

Watching Rae self-destruct is both terrifying and fabulously fun to watch. Ricci and Craig Brewer, who wrote and directed the film, understand the special paradox of melodrama: it's so serious it becomes absurd, and its absurdity becomes an somewhat accurate portrayal of truth. Rae embodies sin and inequity, but in actuality she's a victim, and the message is beautifully buried underneath all the dirt and sweat. What follows is a deliciously surreal turn when Jackson's Lazarus finds Rae, takes her home and chains her to a radiator in order to "heal" her. The most remarkable thing about this turn of events is that Brewer miraculously manages to avoid the obvious icky racial issues surrounding the image of a large black man keeping a white girl chained up in his house. The only shame is that about halfway through the film, the reason for Rae's affliction is neatly "explained." After this, the film begins to take itself too seriously, which is a little disappointing.

But, oh, this cast. Samuel L. Jackson is fabulous as Lazarus. Jackson does his own singing and guitar-picking, and his voice is a striking mix of longing, hate and sheer sexual virility. I have a theory that if you simply put Samuel L. Jackson into the frame, the mise en scene immediately becomes 45 percent more bad-ass, and this film goes a long way to prove it.

I think Justin Timberlake is a little overrated as an actor (people seem to fall over themselves when they realize he can actually deliver a line) but there is a delicacy to his performance here as Rae's cuckolded boyfriend Ronnie which I wasn't expecting. He surrounds his character with the thinnest veneer of machismo, which, when stripped away, reveals a hot ball of pain and insecurity. It could have been a throwaway character, but Timberlake manages to hold his own nicely with Ricci and Jackson.

The last good part of "Black Snake Moan," is set in a honky-tonk, with Jackson singing a raging version of Stack-o-Lee and Ricci whirling in a trance-like (and entirely sober) state. Yes, Jackson's singing her pain, he's singing the wickedness out of her, and in that moment you can practically wipe the Louisiana humidity off your foreheads and smell the warm spilled beer cooking on the bar. Jackson's role may be to lead Rae back to God, but Brewer never lets us forget that this is a movie about humanity.

Photo courtesy of Collider.

The Dark Knight

2008-08-04T04:52:00.000+01:00

Directed by: Christopher Nolan
Written by: Jonathan Nolan, Christopher Nolan and David S. Goyer

Starring: Christian Bale, Heath Ledger, Maggie Gyllenhaal

My God, it's such a mess. The plot is packed to the gills. There are nameless characters that flow in and out, spouting pertinent dialogue, and then dissolving away with no explanation. It has the look of a film that was obviously carved up from a much longer movie like a Thanksgiving turkey. It jerks in fits and starts, allows the audience no way to stop and catch their breath. There are plot and continuity holes that you could drive a truck through. And the themes (Duality! Moral ambiguity! Patriot Act! Patriot Act!) are dropped sometimes with an audible thud.

Here's what I think happened. Nolan had the same problem Peter Jackson did with "King Kong." He was given all the money, all the people, and all the time in the universe to work with. The world was his oyster. He could do no wrong. He was denied nothing. Everything was brilliant, was stunning, was perfect.

And it went to his head. He lost control, created a monster. He became drunk with power, and every little idea that popped into his head was given to him (i.e.: 'Hey, I know! Let's do illegal wiretapping! With sonar!'). He was a mad scientist, not remembering from his "Memento" days that sparing is usually better, that if you want a film to brood on the moral ambivalence of human kind, it needs to whisper sometimes, not bellow.

Oh but ladies and gentlemen, what could I do? I loved it. I kept thinking about it on the way home, the next day when I was swimming in Walden Pond, and the day after that, as I was doing my laundry. I don't know why it kept coming back to me, with its weak dialogue and bizarre plot twists. It is a beautiful film, with it's gorgeous sweeping camera strokes and real stunts (Nolan hates working with CGI). The moment when an 18-wheeler is flipped end over end is executed both gracefully and casually, like a whale jumping out of the water. And even though the shot of Christian Bale as Batman standing atop a tower in the dead of night is expected and obligatory, it is still arresting.

Primarily though, the film is salvaged, and even wrestled into something vaguely coherent, by its spectacular cast. Christian Bale is an even better Batman than his last go-round, and a thousand times better as Bruce Wayne. In the first film he had a tendency to stiffen his dialogue, thinking that a haunted nature could be expressed by simply excising one's personality. He learned his lesson, and in "Knight" Bale says forty different things simply with a turn of his head, or the merest clench of his (admittedly yummy) jaw. Katie Holmes has been forbidden from spreading her crazy within 500 yards of a Batman set, and as such has been replaced by the luminous Maggie Gyllenhaal as Rachel Dawes. Gyllenhaal manages to imbue her damsel in distress a brain and a soul. Nolan never quite gives her her due in this blue-toned boys club, but at least she manages to hold her own.

But why do I prattle on about Bale and Gyllenhaal. We know who you really want to talk about.

It would have given me that surge of malicious glee only critics can feel to say that Heath Ledger's performance was over-hyped. There's something about the populist love of a person that makes the elitist in me want to run over that love like road kill. And it's impossible to ignore the fact that perhaps his performance would not be considered as Oscar-worthy had he not died an awful, pointless death.

But the stunning, improbable truth is that I didn't remember Ledger the man at all as I was watching him on screen. Such was the power, the absolute engrossment of his performance. His Joker is like something out of a Coen brothers film: there's a move involving a pencil that is both horrifying and outrageously funny in much the same way as Steve Buscemi's wood chipper scene in "Fargo." His movements are lurching and twitchy; he hunches his shoulders and leans slightly to one side, his tongue slithers out of his head, and yet it never feels overdone. His characterization is so wonderful you want him on the screen every moment; when he leaves you can't wait for him to appear again. And though the plot might be convoluted and even absurd, you couldn't care less as long as he's there in his frosting makeup and carved grin. You don't even remember it's Ledger until the movie's over, and you realize that this particular Joker is no more. There will be no sequels for Heath Ledger's Joker. And I don't envy the man who might replace him.

There is lots of tongue-wagging about "The Dark Knight," and the records it will break, the cinematic value it will have in the future, the filmic culture it will inspire. I'm not sure it'll ever beat "Gone with the Wind" or "Titanic" either in terms of box office numbers or place within the film canon. But, flawed as it is, it has filled me with hope. The mainstream film industry has been lagging, putting out an absurd amount of schlocky films every week and filtering them in and out of theaters like water. Cheap Wal-Mart pieces that you forget about five minutes after seeing it. The idea of movie-going as a true communal experience, something that you share again and again has really been lost within the last few years. Perhaps "Dark Knight" won't make as much money as "Titanic." But if it's allowed people to regain just a little bit of the wonder we used to feel going to the movies, then it has truly accomplished something great.

Photo found on Lee Side Story

A Brief Interlude

2008-07-30T22:52:00.002+01:00

An excellent quote from intrepid reporter Sara K. Smith of Wonkette fame:

Reporters are a lot like common housecats: they laze around until they see some shiny thing, which they toy with for two minutes before going back to vomiting and sleeping on your clean laundry. (Bloggers are a lot like common bums, who cut straight to the vomiting and laundry-soiling.)

All the World's a Stage, and Men and Women, Merely Character Actors

2008-07-29T22:47:00.007+01:00

Just saw a delightful version of "As You Like It" last weekend. It was the play chosen this summer for free Shakespeare on the Common, which was recently saved from certain doom by popular demand, after sponsor Citibank had considered making drastic cuts to the play's run. A tragic move it would have been on their part, as this was some of the best Shakespeare I've ever seen, free or otherwise, and a true jewel of the Boston arts and culture scene.

The Boston Globe review of "As You Like It" is here, and for the most part I concur with all statements therein. It was a sprightly show, with a balletic Larry Coen as Touchstone the clown, an excellent recitation of the "All the world's a stage" speech by Fred Sullivan, Jr. as Jacques, and Marin Ireland as Rosalind, who managed to be adorable without making me want to hurl into my pic-a-nic basket.

But the true delightful surprise was in the young Buck who played Orlando, a gentleman named Frederick Weller. I kept thinking as I watched him that he looked terribly familiar. Then I realized he reminded me of Mary McCormack's partner Marshall in the new USA show "In Plain Sight." The same gangly, yet muscular features, the same languid voice. It was uncanny.

Well, actually, it wasn't uncanny. It was the same guy.

If you haven't seen "In Plain Sight" you should give it a shot. The dialogue's not terrific, but both McCormack and Weller more than make up for it with tight, intelligent performances (they ain't so bad to look at either). It's also nice to see a show where the female protagonist isn't constantly talking about shoes.

And, if you're in the Boston area this weekend, definitely make a trip to Boston Common to see Weller, et. al. cavort in one of the Bard's most playful plays.

Perhaps it was my glorious missive on German expressionism way back when...

2008-06-11T17:48:00.007+01:00

I finally stopped being a dumb-ass and put a site-meter on the blog.

It is my new obsession.

Turns out there are a few people I don't know who actually look at the thing. Not many, but, you know, it's still better than my previous assumption that the only people who read my blog were my parents. I've only been doing a count since establishing the site meter (two years of page views lost, oh, the horror!) but there are more people finding me than I had thought.

Makes a girl feel good, is all I'm sayin'.

Also, apparently 2.5 percent of my readers speak German. Which is probably one dude in Berlin who googled "Philip Seymour Hoffman" and clicked on me accidentally. But just in case:

Tagfreund! Wilkommen zum Film-kenner!

Oh, Brave New World!

2008-06-09T21:56:00.000+01:00

This post was supposed to be about my experience watching Tarsem's (of "The Cell") new film "The Fall," which is supposed to be a flawed, if visually stunning feature. But I became grievously ill last Saturday and, alas, was unable to go. Hopefully I can see it this week before it leaves theaters, and will be able to comment this weekend.

So, instead, for those of you who may be in the New York City area, there's a documentary about camp visionary Derek Jarman playing, starting today at the Museum of Modern Art (you may know Jarman from the quote under the title of this blog.) "Derek" features highlights of Jarman's work mingled with reflections by one of his former actresses, the luminous Tilda Swinton. Jarman was an indie film revolutionary until his death from AIDS in 1994. I grew to know and love him after watching his gay camp version of "The Tempest," which features dancing sailors and Elisabeth Welch singing "Stormy Weather" at Miranda's wedding. It is spectacular, to say the least, and a beautiful reverie on the discovery of new worlds. Stephen Holden most astutely described the experience of watching a Jarman film in his review in the New York Times.

As excerpts from Mr. Jarman’s films whiz by, a common element is a sense of the actors playing games of dress-up after rummaging through a trunk in the attic.

Also of note: as soon as the blasted Netflix has deemed it appropriate to send me my effing DVD, I will be commenting on Season One of "The X-Files" in preparation for the film coming out next month. Hurrah for post-Cold War paranoia! Hurrah for young adorable David Duchovny!

Iron Man

2008-06-09T21:55:00.000+01:00

Directed by: Jon Favreau

Written by: Mark Fergus, Hawk Ostby, Art Marcum and Matt Holloway
Starring: Robert Downey Jr., Gwyneth Paltrow, Terrence Howard, Jeff Bridges

Whilst I was away at the OH Bureau I did manage to get my monthly prescription of Bad-ass from "Iron Man," not once, but twice within about two weeks. The film about Marvel Comics' weapons monger-turned-superhero is hardly perfect, but it's got panache and a devoted sense of death-metal infused spectacle that feels less like a movie and more like you've just sped down Highway 1 in a muscle car. In other words, it's an awesome dude movie.

Tony Stark (Robert Downey Jr.) is a heartless businessman who surrounds himself with babes, toys and everything else that an endless amount of money can buy. But then he gets captured by a vague Arab-based terrorist organization, meets a nice doctor who teaches him what's really important in life, and escapes by building the first Iron Man suit out of metal scraps that he finds in a cave. He then becomes a crusader, destroying the weapons he made that have fallen into the wrong hands. He's flanked by his dedicated assistant, Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow) and military man Lt. Rhodes (Terrence Howard), and must grapple with his former partner with the kick-ass villain name of Obadiah Stane (Jeff Bridges).

This is a film that doesn't really hold up to repeat viewings. The first time I saw it, I was blown away by the spectacular action sequences, the excellent soundtrack, and Downey's intense, frenetic performance. It's the giddy sense of being blown down that highway with an engine humming under your body. But with a second viewing the seams start to show. I was continually irked by the film's vaguely sexist tone (at one point, Stark's being asked important questions by a Vanity Fair reporter; the next scene is of her fucking him) and it's weird romantic affection for capitalist excess. The plot began to feel lurching and cumbersome after a while; I found myself checking my watch. And there was the overwhelming sense that despite the vague themes of wealth and power and a man's place in the world, the film ultimately rings hollow. There's not much in "Iron Man" beneath the slick veneer of cool gadgetry and awesome stunts.

To it's credit, though, the movie did manage to capture something about America's ambiguous role as crusader for justice. At one point, Stark's suit is able to pick out civilians from terrorists in a besieged village. His guns shoot all the terrorists, leaving the civilians standing looking stunned in the carnage. Both times I saw this, a smattering of applause broke out in the theater. It was the one moment where something like a soul emerged from the movie. It was a recognition that our deepest wish as a nation is that we could have the ability to pick out friend from foe.

There is also some sharp writing in the script, made all the more vibrant and witty with Downey at the helm. Downey's madcap, interrupting delivery is perfect for the role. His Tony Stark is not a brooding, melancholy soul a la "Batman"; he's in many ways a riotous teenager, with more money than sense and a subconscious that's all id. One of my favorite extraneous moments is when he consults with Pepper on whether to buy a Jackson Pollock.

Tony: Is it a good example of his Spring collection?
Pepper: Actually 'Springs' is the neighborhood
in East Hampton where he worked, not 'Spring' the season-
it's a fair example. I think it's overpriced.
Tony: I need it. Buy it and store it.

Comparatively, when Stark decides to become a hero, he takes a different tack than any other super hero I've seen on screen. He gradually grows to understand that his business has been corrupted, that the weapons he made to protect his nation's soldiers have been used against them, and that his beloved business partner has been plotting against him. During these scenes of illumination, the look on his face is not righteous indignation, or stoic resolve, as it would be for any other budding super hero. It's far more elemental than that; again, more id.

Tony Stark is simply pissed off.

Photo courtesy of gizmodo.com

The Strangers

2008-06-09T13:05:00.000+01:00

Directed by: Bryan Bertino

Written by: Bryan Bertino

Starring: Liv Tyler, Scott Speedman

It's been a long time since I've screamed in a theater. I've always found that the recent glut of torture porn films never really frightened me so much as simply grossed me out. I thought "Saw" was a brilliant concept that was poorly executed, and that "The Hills Have Eyes" was simply silly. I felt the same way about those inbred hicks as I feel about the prospect of putting my hands on raw meat. It's a little icky, but hardly something to get worked up over.

In terms of contemporary horror I'm more a disciple of the Japanese school of thought; that is, that there is nothing as terrifying as the moment before you see the monster. It's the calm before the storm, not the storm itself, that sends chills up your spine.

"The Strangers" could perhaps then be described as an amalgam of the American and Japanese philosophy of terror. Writer/Director Bryan Bertino took a very American plot line- the home invasion/middle class fear of rural America/slasher motif- and manipulated it, so that instead of feeling shocked, one feels a relentless sense of dread. Bertino understands the importance of silence, of anticipation. He knows that there is nothing he could put up on the screen that can compete with our own deep-seated fears. Instead of attacking the audience with gore and noise, he simply gives us a visual, and lets our natural fears do the work for us.

Let me give you an example, based on the audience I was with. When one of the masked intruders that terrorizes Kristen McKay and James Hoyt (Liv Tyler and Scott Speedman) first appears in the frame, there is no music. There is no clang of arrival. We, the audience, see Kristen looking out the window, and the masked man appears behind her. We don't even notice him at first, so intent are we on our Liv's lovely features. Then, unanimously, we the audience spot him, our stomachs sink, and we all emit a soft scream. He says nothing, and disappears into the shadows a moment later, but the horror of his presence lingers in the ensuing silence.

The three faceless people who torment our young lovers are most menacing in the fact that they appear to have no motive for their crimes. Their tempers are calm and unflappable. They are not madmen wielding chainsaws. And the only one we hear speak, known in the credits as "Dollface" (Gemma Ward), has a soft, girlish voice that still kind of creeps me out when I think about it.

There's only one major disappointment in the film, which is the last five minutes or so. It involves two Christian boys on bikes and an end shocker that looks like it was tacked on after the producers held a focus group. Note to everyone making a horror film: focus group-approved endings are lame. Always. There's really no other way to say it. For those who haven't seen it yet, just trust me: walk out of the theater when the pick up truck drives away. You'll feel far more satisfied.

Photo courtesy of firstshowing.net

Housekeeping

2008-06-06T18:17:00.000+01:00

Well I've returned from the Ohio Bureau of Maven, Inc., fairly intact and well-rested for the daily slog of work. Boston seems to have celebrated my return by dropping its temperatures to the 50s and raining all day.

Oh- and go Celtics.

Anywho, I've decided to keep the new bad-ass layout and will continue to tinker about with the HTML as necessary. Also, I've been weeding the blogroll, removing dead sites and such, and I've added a few for your perusal. The first is The Comics Curmudgeon, where a wonderful man named Josh comments on the daily comics. Never have I more appreciated "Apartment 3G" and the infamous Margot "Finger Quotin'" Magee. Also, my good IRL friend Hillary has recently joined the blogosphere with The Vanguard and I, a missive on life, love, libation and trying to get her Ph.D. in the U.K. She's on my blogroll- won't she be on yours?

Bros before Hos

2008-05-20T16:26:00.002+01:00

It's a week of brothers apparently. I am off to the Toledo, OH bureau of Maven, Inc. today, as my little brother (not so little anymore- he's taller than I am, and his sense of sarcasm is twice the size of mine) is graduating from high school. I've alerted him that this milestone of adulthood is highly inconvenient for me, as there are several delicious events coming up, including Cake at Boston's Earthfest, and John Williams directing the Boston Pops. But family duties trump all, and so I will be reporting from the mid-west for the next two weeks.

Perhaps most unfortunately, I will be missing the Brattle Theater's celebration of film makers the Coen brothers, called "A Gathering of Coens." It started May 16, and continues until Wednesday, with "Raising Arizona," "The Big Lebowski," "Barton Fink," and "Miller's Crossing." I know everyone and their mother loves "Lebowski," but see if you can stretch out a bit and watch Miller's Crossing if you haven't already. It's stupendous.

Les Chansons d'Amour (Love Songs)

2008-05-19T15:08:00.004+01:00

Directed by: Christophe Honore

Written by: Christophe Honore

Starring: Louis Garrel, Ludivine Sagnier, Clotilde Hesme

The Boston Gay and Lesbian Film Festival was a couple weeks ago, and unfortunately I had to work through most of it (stupid rent). I cannot accurately describe the depths of my despair at having to miss Turkish/Italian director Ferzan Ozpetek's latest feature "Saturno Contro (Saturn in Opposition)." If you have no idea who I'm talking about, go rent "La Finestra di Fronte (The Window in Front)" right now.

I was, however, able to make the screening of "Love Songs," a quirky little French musical about a struggling young couple who decide to engage in a threesome. It's a film that has a lot of charm, but unfortunately not much in the way of coherence or narrative organization. The plot is a bit clumsy, moving forward in fits and starts instead of smoothly transitioning. The music may have a big part to play in this; the tunes are generic French pop-fueled compositions, and they seem to appear out of nowhere, jolting the viewer out of the narrative. And, though this is not the film's fault, there is nothing more awkward than having to translate a musical number into subtitles. A genuinely touching line in French becomes something like "Let it (your saliva) trickle like sweet venom down my throat." Such lyrical faux pas does nothing for the rhythm of a piece, as it simply makes the viewer stop and desperately try to register the absurdity of the phrase.

The jaunty, frothy first third of the film is tripped up by a senseless death that causes the parties in the threesome to reevaluate themselves in an absurdist reality that can be both cold and filled with congeniality. The boyfriend, Ismael, begins being stalked by both his girlfriend's sister Jeanne, and a local Breton boy. Alice, the "trois" in this menage a trois, is shunted to the side in the aftermath and must become the ruler of her own happiness. Despite the loose threads of the narrative, or perhaps even because of them, this second portion of the film is moving and delicate, and this frailness becomes almost charming.

This is a film that in the end is saved by moments of quirkiness and charm, though the work as a whole is such a muddle. In one moment, Jeanne enters Ismael's apartment to find him in bed with another woman, whom she assumes in Alice. When she discovers it isn't, she does not respond, but simply lights up another cigarette, sucks it down and stares bleakly into space. It's a throwaway moment, but it's witty and indelibly French.

Photo courtesy of Indiewire.com, via Takepart.com.

Wristcutters: A Love Story

2008-05-14T17:04:00.015+01:00

Director: Doran Dukic
Writer: Doran Dukic, based on the short story "Kneller's Happy Campers," by Etgar Keret
Starring: Patrick Fugit, Shannyn Sossamon, Tom Waits, Leslie Bibb

Normally, films that deal with teenage depression and death are laden with well-intentioned "messages," generally directed to parents rather than to the teens themselves. The story is usually told with de-saturated color and a grimness of purpose that, well, just depresses you. Most think this is an appropriate reaction, but I have long held the theory that within drama there are sad films and then there are depressing films. The first is genuine encapsulation of human emotion. The second is merely manipulation of the viewer.

What a delicious surprise, then, that "Wristcutters," about a boy who commits suicide after breaking up with his girlfriend, is at heart a gently funny road movie. The boy, Zia (Patrick Fugit) commits suicide by the title's method at the beginning of the film, and enters an otherworldly way station for people who have "offed" themselves. He establishes that the universe he's inhabiting isn't terrible or hellish, just kind of depressing. "It's fitting that this place is exactly like life," he says in a voice over, "only a little bit worse." Zia has a job at a pizza place, and hangs out in a dingy bar after work, trying to guess how the other patrons killed themselves. But when he learns that his girlfriend (Leslie Bibb) also committed suicide a month after he did, he goes to find her at the edges of the world beyond the city where he lives.

Along for the ride is his Eastern European rocker friend Eugene (Shea Whigham) who electrocuted himself with his own guitar. They take Eugene's car, which has a black hole underneath the front seat they keep dropping things into, and listen to Eugene's music as they travel "East-ish" into a barren wasteland that has the curious look of a Dali painting set in the Nevada desert. They pick up a hitchhiker (Shannyn Sossamon) who says she was put there by mistake and is looking for the people in charge of this humid purgatory to send her home.

Perhaps the strangest thing about "Wristcutters" is that you tend to forget it's about suicide. In spite of the title, the film doesn't dwell on the violence of Zia's beginning act, but rather on his determination that his life can still have meaning, even after it's ostensibly over. It is a sad movie, but it never depresses. Eugene's entire family killed themselves, in various ways and for various reasons. But the horror of their deaths is nonexistent; they all live together in this world and love and support each other, just as they did in life. The point, of course, is that the worst thing that can happen to you is not death, but loneliness.

The three travelers end up in a community run by a man named Kneller (the inimitable Tom Waits,) a place where lost souls somehow end up, and maybe perform some miracles in the process. These scenes where the characters rest and recharge for the road ahead are the most lovingly rendered in the film, and Waits steals the movie as a weary, battle-scarred hippie assisting people with their salvation.

The film is hardly perfect. The ending especially looked a bit sloppily done, the rhythm was sped up too abruptly and the climax was improperly explained (though it did feature a cameo by Will Arnett, and who can say no to that?) The last 20 minutes were filled with action and rushed exposition; it almost looked like it came from a different film from the lovely, delicate nature of the previous hour. And without giving too much away, I felt like the denouement was a bit of cop-out in terms of resolution. But a less than perfect ending is a small price to pay for Ducik's overall vision, which is moving and sad- but not depressing.

(Photo courtesy of Autonymous Films, via The New York Times)

The Swan Song of Dissent

2008-05-14T14:58:00.008+01:00

This reporter is much dismayed after recently reading about Warner Bros.' decision to give the ol' heave-ho to both Warner Independent Pictures and Picturehouse, two semi-independent speciality arms of the corporation. Anne Thompson of Variety delivered the bad news May 8:

"The Draconian studio is shutting down not one specialty arm but two, both Warner Independent Pictures and Picturehouse, with the notion that New Line Cinema can handle whatever specialty needs the studio has. New Line chief Toby Emmerich will be given something to do going forward."

Warner Bros. recently absorbed New Line Cinema after "The Golden Compass" became a financial disaster and left the studio unable to remain independent. The vague idea is that New Line can take over where Warner Independent and Picturehouse left off. I've always had fond feelings for New Line (they did produce and distribute the live-action versions of "Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles," which basically defined my childhood) but judging their production line-up on imdb.com, they don't exactly have the adventurous spirit that defined the two now-defunct companies. For example, Picturehouse has an illustrious recent past, with "Pan's Labyrinth," "La Vie En Rose," "A Prairie Home Companion," and "Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story." Warner Independent has "Good Night, and Good Luck," "Everything is Illuminated," and "We Don't Live Here Anymore" under its belt. It's true that New Line has a few sort-of indie hits with "Be Kind, Rewind," and "Love in the Time of Cholera." Recently, though, it's been working with dreck like "Semi-Pro," "Mr. Woodcock," "Rush Hour 3," and, God help us, "The Butterfly Effect 2."

The studios will be able to finish work on several films slated for release this year, including Picturehouse' "Mongol" and Warner Independent's "Towelhead." According to Variety, the executives are meeting over the next few weeks to discuss the status of other projects at various stages of production and distribution.

Warner Bros. is staying mum about where exactly they want to take New Line and claims this does not mean they are stepping back from working with riskier, independent films, according to President and COO Alan Horn in Variety:

"After much painstaking analysis, this was a difficult decision to make, but it reflects the reality of a changing marketplace and our need to prudently run our businesses with increased efficiencies. We’re confident that the spirit of independent film making and the opportunity to find and give a voice to new talent will continue to have a presence at Warner Bros.”

Oh Alan, my friend, how I would like to believe you. But, alas, my innate elitism says that New Line, now that it's completely under your thrall, will become a cabal of corporate whores with no sense of artistry. Warner Independent and Picturehouse at least had a small voice of vision and imagination within the robotic drone of the "tentpole" films and focus group-approved family fare. Think about a world with no "Pan's Labyrinth." Now think about a world without "Mr. Woodcock." Which world would you like to live in?

Indiana Jones and the Awesomeness of the Melting Nazi

2008-05-12T16:09:00.007+01:00

My beloved Lance Mannion posted yesterday on watching the three "Indiana Jones" movies in preparation for the stupidly-titled latest film coming out this summer. He specifically mentioned that the melting Nazis in "Raiders of the Lost Ark" were a bad decision, taking away from the spirit and life of the series. Thus quoteth Lance of the Mannion:

"Great movie with such a disappointing and ill-conceived ending, so far removed from the tone and spirit of all that had gone before, that I'm sure the original audiences would have walked out of the cineplexes befuddled and depressed if John Williams' rousing march hadn't come back on over the end credits and carried us all back to the moment when the whip snaps the gun away from the treacherous guide and Harrison Ford's scarred and scowling face looms out of the shadows and the adventure started all over again in our imaginations."

I respectfully disagree.

I also recently watched "Raiders of the Lost Ark" on the teevee yesterday. And I love the melting Nazis! The melting Nazis are one of the main things people remember. When you meet someone who doesn't know the films that well and you say "I saw 'Raiders of the Lost Ark' last night," they always reply with "Is that the one with the melting Nazis?" When I was a kid, and my mother brought "Raiders of the Lost Ark" home from the library where she worked, do you know what I was waiting for? The melting freakin' Nazis!

I do agree with Lance that the ridiculous inclusion of the quasi-mystical elements of the film are somewhat randomly included, and pretty darn cheesy. I think it's best when it's a little cheesy. It's best with a little bit of randomness. And however stupid you think the magical Ark is, you have to admit, the sheer visual impact of the melting Nazis is bonafied bad-ass. Not to mention the righteous triumph that Spielberg must have felt in defeating Nazis with a lost artifact that signifies God's covenant with the Israelites. The defeat of the cartoon villain had to occur in a way that was gruesome, ironic and particularly cartoonish. The Ark was an obvious choice.

Also, I agree with Mannion that convincing Karen Allen to come back as Marion Ravenwood was the best decision Lucas and Spielberg ever made. Marion is everything a heroine should be: for God's sake, the first time we see her, she's drinking a Nepalese sherpa under the table. After her, "Temple of Doom's" Willie Scott might as well have been played by Paris Hilton.

Me Likey the Neon

2008-05-08T15:46:00.002+01:00

I was bored today, so I decided to dabble a bit in the art of Blogger template. I went a little mad, as you can see. I wanted to keep the dark background, which I think works for this milieu, and I used the neon pink and white to demonstrate some sort of art-deco, old-timey movie house, city at night, feeling... thingy.

Ok. I know nothing about design. But I rather like it. Any of you web design moguls out there have any thoughts? Any tips for further renovations? Do you like it? Does it give you seizures? Let me know!

In other culture news

2008-05-05T20:19:00.003+01:00

Your Movie Maven is happy girl this week. I do not have school for eight months, since come July I will be swallowed into the maw of a full-time six-month internship at the arts section of a certain newspaper. I plan to take on a personality akin to Jennifer Jason Leigh in "The Hudsucker Proxy;" so from now I'm "a fast-talkin' career gal that thinks she's one of the boys." Now if only I could find a guy named Smitty...

In other news, the fact that I don't have classes means one thing for me: I get to read for fun. So I went to the library in Copley Square last weekend- America's first large municipal library, doncha know. I came out smelling a little worse for wear, but I had a re-usable tote bag full of delightful goodies to attend to my imagination whilst I'm at my current, soul-sucking telemarketing job.

My first recommendation: Henry James' "The Portrait of a Lady." Specifically, the Oxford World's Classics edition. It's tidily enclosed in a small blue cover, perfect for train travel. And it has a nifty introduction by John Updike. I've read it before several times, but I swoon over James' perfect phrases like "dusky pestiferous tracts," and observations like "'If all good people were hidden away in convents, how would the world get on?'" Poor, wonderful, foolish Isabel Archer is my ultimate female character, whom James most exquisitely (and unfairly) dooms, even after it appears that she's won. The ending will frustrate you, but in a way that miraculously still seems complete.

And for those who will ask, yes, I am still reviewing movies. What is the Movie Maven without her cinematic delights? Expect my review of "Iron Man" (God help me) this weekend.

Play It Again, Sam

2008-05-05T14:54:00.008+01:00

The New York Times has an excellent article compiling five filmmakers' favorite summer films. Especially of note is director Larry Charles' hilarious piece about choosing John Waters' "Female Trouble" for a first date, and director Tamara Jenkins' discussion of the first time she saw "Last Tango in Paris."

Even those who aren't movie buffs know the wonderful experience of seeing a good movie in the dog-days of summer. One's life can be changed, sitting in the unnatural cool of a darkened theater, goose bumps raising the hairs on your bare arms. Afterward you burst out into the night, the hot air hitting your body like a wave, your mind spinning. It's the weekend, and you don't have work the next day- there's nothing to distract you. You aren't thinking of chores or your job or homework. You feel elemental, like something inside of you has been re-arranged. And you always, always remember the ending.

My favorite summer movie I saw not in the theater, but in a barn about an hour outside of Sacramento, California. I was 14 and I had gone to California for six weeks to spend time with my relatives who live throughout the state. It was a momentous trip for many reasons- my first plane ride, the longest stretch of time I'd ever spent without my parents, the first time I ever saw the ocean. I lived for most of the time in a cabin that stood outside a renovated barn owned by my Aunt Carolyn and Uncle Cameron. The barn sat on Carolyn's in-laws' farm, populated by cows, horses, an organic garden and a peach orchard. They didn't have cable- didn't even have a television inside the house- but out in the old stable that functioned as a garage they had an itchy old couch and a TV with a VCR.

It was there I watched "Casablanca" for the first time.

Carolyn and I put her kids to bed, and then sneaked out to the garage. We covered ourselves in a blanket, and scarfed popcorn as the emaciated barn cat curled up next to us. We were far from civilization on that unusually chilly night, and there was nothing to distract us from the Rick and Ilsa and their beautiful, sad, soft-focus love. I was 14 and completely entranced; it was a film of action, of suspense, of surprising humor and grim determination for justice. I trembled when Rick's customers drowned out the Nazis' vulgar singing with a rendition of "La Marseillaise." I almost cheered when Louis Renault threw the empty bottle of Vichy wine into the trash. And I was old enough to perceive the rumbling undercurrent of pure sex that flows through the film like a natural spring beneath the earth. No talks about it, but you know it's there, a hidden pool of energy waiting to burst through the surface.

It was the perfect time for me to discover "Casablanca" that gorgeous night, during the summer when I really first began to discover myself. There are so many movies that I don't remember with any clarity, so many I've forgotten I've even seen. But that experience of sitting with my wonderful aunt on a smelly couch in a dark barn, basking in the glow of the Cinemascope, is as sharp as if it happened yesterday. And that ending, that final shot, is etched into my brain: Rick and Louis, not walking off into the sunset, but simply being enveloped by the mist at the Casablanca airport. They're uncertain of their fate, but confident in their resolve. Not a bad ending for an uncertain 14-year-old girl to see.

A Thought to Ponder While Watching "Lost"

2008-05-02T03:17:00.002+01:00

I have finished with questioning the writers on "Lost." They're either madmen, geniuses, frauds or some fascinating combination of the three. They will take us where they take us, and I'm willing to let them take the reigns.

But I have one last question for them, completely unrelated to the psychology, metaphysics, philosophy or the stupid polar bears of the show:

Why, oh why, oh WHY do they think that we care at all about the future of Jack and Kate? Because we don't care. We really, really don't.

Funny Girls

2008-04-30T18:52:00.009+01:00

In addition to endless comic book reenactments and stoner comedies, this summer also brings about the release of "Sex and the City: The Movie," a film much anticipated among the Y-chromosome-challenged and sassy gay boyfriend set.

I've always had a very troubled relationship with "Sex and the City": The HBO Television show. Every so often the show would discuss in the most beautiful, and wickedly funny terms, the issues about being a single woman. One of my favorite discussion was centered around SSB (Secret Single Behavior). I almost gasped in recognition when Charlotte- the innocent brunette with the wide set fish eyes- discussed how she loves to inspect her pores for half an hour before bed, and bemoaned the fact that she couldn't do it now that she's married. And when Samantha- the slutty one- got breast cancer, I was actually quite touched by her steely, yet vulnerable performance. "I just don't want to lose my tits," she declares. "Because they're fabulous." Never had the complex relationship between a woman and her anatomy been so perfectly illustrated in one line.

Most of the time, though, I wanted to kill everyone on the show except Miranda (the snappy redheaded one). As a single girl who lives in a major city (albeit younger than the Fab Four, and a student) I can tell you that we spend a lot less time sipping martinis at noon and chatting on the phone in our Ferragamo shoes and a lot more time...umm...working. Usually two jobs, to pay the rent and grocery bills living as a single girl in said city. I get to sip a martini usually once a month... and it's usually been mixed not by a hot male bartender armed with Grey Goose, but rather by my good friend Zohar. In my apartment. With leftover Smirnoff I found stuffed in the back of my freezer behind a box of chicken nuggets.

Also I know this has been said before, but it deserves mentioning again: I can understand how Miranda, a lawyer, can afford her lifestyle. And Samantha, who's an advertising exec. And even fish-eyed, useless Charlotte appears to own some sort of art gallery. But Carrie can afford $500 shoes and an apartment on the Upper East Side? As a columnist? For a newspaper??? She doesn't even write for the Times- it's some sort of New York Post clone she works for. In Real Life, Carrie would have been downsized long ago to keep up with the rising cost of newsprint.

Besides this fundamental issue of verisimilitude, I was also just annoyed with Carrie's endless monologues, meant to be her column. I hated her terrible puns and obvious double entendres, and the show's pretension that this is really witty stuff that you should feel privileged to be hearing. They were lame, she's a terrible writer, and the paper should downsize her, if only to spare us her idiotic ramblings about "Poor me, I can't find a man, but I've got wildly overpriced shoes, so it's ok."

But Movie Maven, you ask, what on earth should we look to for an accurate account of the single woman in the city?

For that, my friends, simply look to "30 Rock."

The show about a show, based on one woman's experiences working on a show, is quickly becoming my favorite show on television. It's got some of the sharpest writing around, and though Alec Baldwin gets most of the props, I would argue that the flawless cast gels in perfect harmony to highlight each other's attributes. But the main reason I watch is for Tina Fey's character Liz Lemon, a 30-something single girl.

Liz Lemon is the woman Candace Bushnell forgot.

Fey's Lemon could be pretty much any single girl, in any major city. She has an apartment that's nice, but not glamorous. She has a job that she enjoys, but it's hard and takes up a lot of her time.
She eats candy for breakfast, partially because she doesn't have time, but partially because she secretly enjoys it. She eats dinner standing in the kitchen while watching reality shows on her portable TV. She dresses like a normal woman going to work every day. She's a good person, a liberal and a feminist, but she can be shallow, spineless and manipulative to get what she wants. Last episode, upon being offered Baldwin's Jack Donneghy's lucrative position, she slaps him across the face, then promptly strides into the writer's room and announces "Suck it monkeys, I'm going corporate!"

Basically she's every woman I know. Including myself.

Lemon also has an oafish ex-boyfriend who affectionately calls her "Dummy," and whom she's in constant danger of going back to. One of her co-workers, played by Jane Krakowski, likens the schlub to the cheese doodles Lemon's eating: "You know they're bad for you, but you eat them because it's easier than cooking." This is truer than any other "lesson" on relationships that Sex and the City ever tried to demonstrate.

The true story of single women is that sometimes we are tempted to settle for the cheese doodle, because it's easier than working for something better.

Now is the summer of our discontent

2008-04-28T15:37:00.012+01:00

It is pretty obvious to those that follow film that the seasons of the year in America formulate the pattern of films that arise throughout the year. Let's take a look at the four seasons (gauged from mid-Atlantic/ Mid-West weather patterns that I am generally most used to):

Fall

The season:

-beginning of the U.S. academic calendar

- a period of change and melancholy decline

The films:

- beginning of the "academic" or Oscar film calendar, i.e. flawlessly produced films with big stars and an un-nuanced attempt at social consciousness

- a period of social change documentaries and melancholy ruminations on the postmodern American landscape.

Winter

The season:

- Brings The Holidays (basically Christmas), joy, goodwill, sparkling candles, and sleek, art deco Christmas gifts from Pottery Barn...

- Which are followed by three months of cold wet slush that depresses everyone and gives us all the flu.

The films:

- The sense of joy pervades early early on as a melange of Indiewoods and better major studio films pervade late November and December. This occurs all the way up until the Oscar nominations are decided and announced. Then it devolves into a malignant stew of substandard rom-coms and spoofs made by Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer.

Spring

The season:

- A time of renewal, fresh faced optimism, baby animals

The films:

- Fresher comedies, with more off-beat casts and plot lines, that sometimes don't make me want to take a nosedive off the Tobin Bridge.

But of course, these seasons are just vague playthings to studios, when compared with:

Summer

The season:

-Extreme weather: tornadoes, hurricanes, summer electrical storms, generally followed by days of endless, mind-crushing waves of heat.

The films:

- EXTREME, usually about superheros, or shit blowing up, or snakes on planes.

- Studios generally put more money than sense into these films, as they know that more people are willing to pay upwards of $10 to sit in an air conditioned theater for two hours.

And so now we are approaching the summer season- the studios are working their magic, coming up with the perfect panel-tested, focus-group approved convergence of romance, action, comic book inspiration, and blowed up shit to make this summer ROCK. Below are ten of what I in my limited education believe will probably be the biggest films this summer, as well as my thoughts after viewing the trailers.

The Big-Ass Films of Summer (in chronological order of release date)

1. Iron Man (May 2)

First thoughts: I love Robert Downy, Jr. And Gwyneth Paltrow. I just don't understand what either of them are doing in this movie. Why is Downey trying to be that guy?

2. Speed Racer (May 9)

First thoughts: Based on the work of legendary anime creator Tatsuo Yoshida. I'm really more excited about this movie than anyone ever should be, but I don't care. The Wachowski brothers wrote and directed it, and it stars Emile Hirsch and Christina Ricci. It's going to be badass.

3. The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian (May 16)

First thoughts: Prince Caspian looks pretty hot. And the haunting shot of the magical train pulling up at the Strand Tube station looks vividly realized. But I fear the film as a whole may be as disappointing as the first one was.

4. Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (May 22)

First thoughts: Harrison Ford has not aged well, and his costume appears to not quite fit as it used to. Did they forget to re-measure for his added girth, or are they making a statement by having Indiana look like a man drowning in a mid-life crisis? Then again, they've got Shia LeBeouf as his son/assistant/whatever and Cate Blanchett as the evil Nazi/Communist/whatever. So I'll be happy.

5. The Happening (June 13)

First thoughts: I have always felt that M. Night Shymalan was one of the most critically maligned directors of the past 15 years or so. I thought The Village was beautifully filmed, and Lady in the Water, while exceedingly flawed, had wonderful, gentle performances and contained some images I still think about in odd moments. The fact that I have a wild girly-crush on him is incidental. His new film is about an environmental catastrophe- a subset of the horror/thriller genre that might have some legs on it. The last generations had Communists and Terrorists. We have Global Warming.

6. The Incredible Hulk (June 13)

First thoughts: Why, Edward Norton, WHY???!?? Oh, God, don't do it- you think it'll be good for your career, but look at that poor bastard Eric Bana- don't do it Edward!!!

7. The Dark Knight (July 18)

First thoughts: I have been looking forward to this movie since the first viral trailer appeared on the Web almost eight months ago. Everyone else is all worried about the fact that it's Heath Ledger's last performance, but I think that Christopher Nolan's melancholy tone will remind us of the tragic loss without losing track of the film.

8. Step Brothers (July 25)

First thoughts: I hope it's better than Walk Hard. I really, really hope it's better than that stupid basketball movie Will Farrell was in.

9. The X-Files: I Want to Believe (July 25)

First thoughts: "I want to believe" that this film will actually happen, but they've teased us before. But now they have legitimate release date, so I'm hopeful. Starring David Duchovny, Gillian Anderson, and... Xhibit? Um...whatever.

10. Pineapple Express (August 8)

First thoughts: Judd Apatow is flirting with action/comedy territory. Movie Maven is intrigued but wary of any filmmaker who believes his own hype, as she believes Apatow probably does. But it's Seth Rogan and James Franco, so what's a girl to do?

No Spring Break in Austin For Me

2008-03-07T18:50:00.006Z

As an aspiring film critic (and aspiring expense account holder) it has been a dream of mine to be able to make all the film festival rounds: Cannes, Toronto, Park City, Utah. And what I think is perhaps the friendliest (though one of the most under reported) gathering of film and culture minds: the South by Southwest Film and Music Festival in Austin, Tex., which runs from today through March 16.

Festival officials will also be holding SXSW's 2nd "Interactive Festival," celebrating new media technology; I'm pretty sure they added that just to make it more painful for me to be in Boston.

Alas, I am yet only a student who writes film reviews and news out of the goodness of my heart and the sheer size of my ego, and am not able to go. If you'd like to follow the show, Salon's Andrew O'Hehir definitely gives a good rendition of the happenings.

Photo via Flickr...this is the hilarity that ensues when I google "child and sad"

The Other Boleyn Girl

2008-03-04T20:01:00.008Z

Politics, court intrigue and brocade. There is little more a film needs to either be a juicily good medieval, political and psycho-sexual exploration ("Richard III," "The Lion in Winter,") or a hysterically bad costume drama ("Elizabeth: The Golden Age," "Marie Antoinette,") Mining material from King Henry VIII's reign and personal life similarly almost never steers you wrong, and once you include Philippa Gregory, the mistress of vaguely erotic historical fiction, what you should have is the atomic bomb of either guilty pleasures or legitimate cinema.

Which is precisely why "The Other Boleyn Girl" is so terribly disappointing. It's not nearly good enough to be considered a legitimate film in its own right, nor is it bad enough to become a cult classic or even immediate guilty pleasure. It's sense of self-importance is not charming or silly, but simply off-putting, and forgettable.

The story follows a fictionalized account of Henry VIII's (Eric Bana) prolonged affair with Mary Boleyn (Scarlett Johansson), sister to future queen Anne Boleyn (Natalie Portman). It had a promising trailer, with hilarious nuggets of dialogue such as "We're sisters- and therefore born to be rivals," and "He came out besotted!" It was adapted from Gregory's novel of the same name by Peter Morgan. Morgan boasts a good resume, with "The Last King of Scotland," "The Queen" and HBO's "Longford" under his belt, but I got the feeling that he didn't quite know what to do with "Boleyn Girl." The dialogue is too meandering, and generally relegated to advancing the plot rather than reflecting on what's happening. Henry switches from Mary to Anne and back several times; the audience is supposed to feel the drama every time, but the triangle becomes monotonous after a while.

Gregory, while perhaps not a purveyor of great literature, has a firm grasp of the genre she writes in. The text has an excellent balance of fact and creative extrapolation, and the tone has a sense of what issues within the book should be taken seriously and what should not. The movie was for some reason unable to take the same approach- it seemed too queasy for a good exploration of the serious bits, and too egotistical to poke any fun at the genre. The supposed incest between Anne and her brother George (Jim Sturgess), for example, was handled very badly. It comes out of nowhere, is resolved too quickly and has a weird mix of delicacy and grotesqueness that does nothing but demonstrate that the producers were not happy with having an incest theme in a high-budget commercial film.

Portman, Johansson, and Bana all acquitted themselves nicely with the material they were given, though none of them stood out as especially grand. The only actor with any meat to her performance was Kristen Scott Thomas as the Boleyn girls' long-suffering mother. Thomas manages to lasso a performance that could have easily been swept away in all the tulle and commands the screen whenever she appears. When she is there, she is the only one you look at. David Morrissey is also splendid as the scheming Duke of Norfolk who pimps out the Boleyn girls.

Bana was fine as Henry. But I wonder if it would not be braver to cast, say, Vincent D'Onofrio as Henry, or James Gandolfini. Or Philip Seymour Hoffman. A larger man, with a sense of girth and majesty would make far more sense than (admittedly smoking hot) Eric Bana. Casting Bana opposite Portman and Johansson also shies away from the fact that the Boleyn girls were 14 and 15 when they were sent to the king, who was approaching his late 30s. Director Justin Chadwick seems to want to show all the soft-focus sexiness of Henry's personal life, but none of the yuckiness.

To create a believable sense of noble life during King Henry's reign it is imperative to first lose any sense of modern culture. The one thing that continually irritated me while reading Gregory's book, and while watching the film was how indignant the Boleyn girls were about their situation. There's a constant stream of feminist critique within the dialogue, and unforgivable lines like "The world's not changed that much yet. Men still rule." It ignores the fact that women were not indignant about their situation in life. They did not complain, nor rebel against their male oppressors. The ones that did, first of all, were burned or hanged as witches. But for most, they were raised to believe that this was their lot in life- this was the proper way things were done. Being pimped out to the king after your married was a great idea. The idea that this was wrong or exploitative would not have occurred to most of them. Wouldn't it be more horrific to simply show how women were basically owned by their fathers until they were sold to be owned by their husbands, rather than telling everyone in toothless, contrived dialogue? Would that not make it even more remarkable that it was not the longed-for male heir that succeeded Henry after his death, but Anne's daughter, Elizabeth? Chadwick seems content to simply have the Boleyn girls make furious shouts to the wind about the indignity of their place in society- something I doubt the real Anne Boleyn would ever have done.

Photo courtesy of Shakefire.com.

Do you hear the static...

2008-02-18T04:40:00.002Z

on this blog? Many apologies for the lack of programming of late. As usual, I have simply gathered too much on to my plate, and now am busily engaged in choking it all down, bit by gristly bit, until I either finish it all or vomit the myriad responsibilities into the nearest trash can (how do you like that for a bit of nifty metaphorical footwork. And such visuals!)

Anywho, after this week I'll be back at it. Lorda mercy I can't wait until the semester's over.

"Take That, Simon Cowell!"

2008-02-01T18:20:00.000Z

Josh Levin is officially my hero of the week, for his stunning rip on the woe-begotten state of parodic film, as exemplified by the atrocious-looking "Meet the Spartans."

This was the worst movie I've ever seen, so bad that I hesitate to label it a "movie" and thus reflect shame upon the entire medium of film. Friedberg and Seltzer do not practice the same craft as P.T. Anderson, David Cronenberg, Michael Bay, Kevin Costner, the Zucker Brothers, the Wayans Brothers, Uwe Boll, any dad who takes shaky home movies on a camping trip, or a bear who turns on a video camera by accident while trying to eat it.

Atonement

2008-01-23T17:49:00.000Z

In this day and age, one becomes a connoisseur of adapted screenplays. The good. The bad. The updated Shakespeare teen comedy. The Harry Potters. They are money in the bank for the production companies, and delicious fodder for book lovers, who wail against the cheapening of great literature, rending their clothes and gnashing their teeth.

Out of this distracted melee comes "Atonement", the adaptation of the Ian McEwan novel of the same name. It would be criminal to discuss the plot in any detail in you haven't read the book. Set in the mid-1930s, the first half of the film takes place during one fateful day, when fanciful young writer Briony (Saorise Ronan) witnesses an altercation between her sister Cecilia (Keira Knightley) and their gardener Robbie (James McAvoy). She terribly mistakes the situation, and her mistake becomes an event that shapes all their lives. The second half of the film finds them all in very different circumstances, during the British retreat from France. It's a truly brilliant book, and director Joe Wright, who helmed the recent adaptation of "Pride and Prejudice", shows again his agility for capturing not just the plot and characters of a novel, but also it's essence.

Wright does magical things with natural light, turning a precocious 12-year-old into something out of "A Midsummer Night's Dream", and generally transforming the English countryside into something simultaneously idyllic and unsettling. As the ethereal Briony skips through the sparkling woods around her house, and her sister basks in a bathing suit in the dappled sunlight, you know it won't be long before something truly awful happens. The music is nothing less than perfect; the pounding keys of a typewriter mingle with the conventional violins and piano, and the beat that results is steady and maddening in a way. It's the audio embodiment of these characters marching blindly into disaster.

Parts of the second half of the film are problematic. The depiction of the hellish conditions at the Bray Dunes in Dunkirk is spectacular in the conventional way, but one does feel a strange sense of disappointment looking back on it. It misses the slightly otherworldly quality of the first half of the film, though this can still be observed in other scenes, particularly in the hospital where the older Briony works. In many ways it looks like every other mass scene of carnage, with digitized soldiers and little actual substance. Some of the most harrowing pieces of McEwan's novel are his descriptions of the Bray Dunes, and though Wright has the noise and chaos of the physical place, it lacks McEwan's subtle examinations of the soldiers' inner chaos.

Where Wright and his performers succeed most is in the restraint of the performances. Knightley is exceptional, playing a wealthy young woman with all the education in the world, but, as her social status dictates, with absolutely nothing to do. McAvoy, while not as mature an actor, is still able to command the screen (and he doesn't look so bad either). But perhaps most risky of all, Wright doesn't make you look at them all the time. Briony, both as a child and in her older manifestation, is what you look at. Her character is the most provocative; she can lead your sympathies one minute, and draw ire the next. Ronan has been nominated for an Oscar for her performance as 12-year-old Briony, and indeed she seems to exude an intensity and depth far beyond her years.

The film is not as "good" as the novel, perhaps. But this of course makes the assumption that a story can work the same way, effectively, in every medium available. It is appropriate that an adaptation is sometimes referred to as a "translation." There are always things that are lost in translation. Wright, I think, understands this concept. It is the mood, the tone, and the heart of a story that is important. Bring these things to the film, and the plot will follow.

(File Photo Courtesy of the New York Post)

Couple-a News Flashes

2008-01-23T01:12:00.000Z

Well, unfortunately, my dears, the work that I have left to do has surpassed me by a considerable amount, so I've not a lot of time this week for brilliant strokes of criticism genius. Later on in the week, I'll be expertly reporting on Atonement, which I finally got to see last weekend, but for now, I'll leave you with just a few tidbits:

1. Check out the Oscar Noms

Oh, yes, they're out, and the nominees look as boring as ever. Pretty much everything that's to be expected- though Ratatouille up for best original screenplay is an interesting little diamond of originality.

2. Heath Ledger

I've gotten three text messages, two phone calls, and several emails about the untimely and unbelievable death of one of the most promising actors of my generation. No doubt E! will be spewing all the awful unnecessary details: the autopsy reports, the tearful interviews with people who barely knew him, the "what went wrong" scenarios. I will simply say that he was a beautiful and talented man. He was a wonderful artist who had a great career ahead of him. My thoughts and sympathies go out to his family and friends.

PBS Likes to Cash In as Much as the Next Guy

2008-01-14T23:34:00.000Z

Jane Austen.

Sigh.

I love Jane Austen. I loved her before she was cool, too. I loved her best when I was a bookish teenager, whose heart fluttered at the notes of passionate longing and stolen glances scattered in Austen's novels. I loved her characters- those magnificent women, clever and witty and sometimes plain, who peopled the upper-middle class lodgings of her genteel English settings. And the men. Gentlemen, cads, fiends, scholars, attractive but conniving cousins- these were my kind of heartthrobs. Forget J.T.T and Brad Pitt. I was a Darcy kind of chick.

The recent rash of Austen adaptations, pseudo-adaptations and references have had me simultaneously enthralled and a little perturbed. Though I will always be a Colin Firth woman, the Keira Knightly adaptation of Pride and Prejudice was a gorgeous revelation of a movie. It was lavish and brilliantly cast, and had a cinematic color palette like a nineteenth century oil painting. And I'm sorry, but I stand by Clueless, a vague interpretation of Emma. I thought it was funny when I was eleven, and I think it's funny now. I was, unfortunately, vastly disappointed with Becoming Jane last year, which seemed to have the notion that only way Austen could have written about love was to have experienced it herself. There is absolutely no factual evidence of any love of Austen's life, save for a few mentions in her diary of a flirtation or two. But since then everyone and their mother has been leaping on the Austen bandwagon- buying their I Heart Mr. Darcy t-shirts and their "An Elizabeth in a Darcy-less world" book bags.

Philistines.

There is a lot of speculation as to why Austen has been graced with so many adaptations of her novels and her life (the only one who appears to have had more is good old Bill Shakespeare.) But PBS, doesn't seem to mind, as long as it rakes in the donation dollars from Viewers Like You. Last Sunday, PBS will air six adaptations of Austen's novels, as well as a biopic Jane Austen Regrets about all these proposals she was supposed to have turned down.

Yesterday was the airing of a 90-minute adaptation of Persuasion.

It wasn't that great.

There's only so many scenes we can have with Sally Hawkins as Anne Elliott, writing in her diary and then looking up at the camera pensively. How much pining can one audience endure? The film unfortunately falls into the genre of the interminable Masterpiece Theater drawing-room drama, with little substance (or provocative dialogue) to back up the gorgeous shots of the English countryside.

I have greater hopes for some of the other films, many of which have been written and/or directed by British adaptation guru Andrew Davies, who directed both the quintessential Pride and Prejudice with Colin Firth, as well as a version of Charles Dickens' Bleak House that haunts me to this very day. They'll be airing every Sunday from January 20 to April 6, with a two-week break for the beloved PBS telethon.

Juno: Tess of the d'Urbervilles She Ain't

2008-01-14T01:32:00.001Z

Yes, the search for Thenextlittlemisssunshine is officially over, and the winner is Juno.

It would have been really cool if I could have played the caustic film critic, and denounced Juno in all of its mousy brown glory, said it's trite, it's too precious for its own good, it's annoying, etc.

But, dammit all, I can't. It's adorable. And not in an annoying way, either. It's genuinely sweet, and funny, and well-executed and honest. It has a marvelous cast, and a bittersweet ending and a fragility that makes you think if you blow on it too hard it will burst into little dandelion spores and float away on the breeze.

But again, NOT in an annoying way.

How Jason Reitman managed to achieve this, I'll never know. At the beginning I fretted, for it seemed like Reitman was going to make it the Quippy Show with Ellen Page. "I'm going to be so quippy and wise-cracking it's going to BLOW YOUR MIND!" But it seemed like about a quarter of the way through, Reitman and his cast loosened up, stretched their legs, and created something genuine. Something that sounded like how real people talk and associate with each other.

You all know the plot: after a halting, awkward bout of lovemaking, precocious 16-year-old Juno (Page) becomes pregnant by her best friend Paulie (Michael Cera, every nerdy girl's crush.) She decides to give up the child for adoption to cool Mark and frigid Vanessa (Jason Bateman and Jennifer Garner), a wealthy couple who might not be what they first appeared to be.

It's hard to get around the fact that the film does romanticize teen pregnancy in a few ways. As a girl who saw more than one round belly waddle down the aisle at her high school graduation, the choices that people make in these situations are far more fraught, and far more emotional than the movie would have you believe. What it does do a good job on is the stigma attached to teen-aged girls who get pregnant, the looks and sense of shame hailed down on girls who made a bad decision. There is a sort of devastation in the way the school receptionist witheringly eyes Juno's swollen belly as she signs off on a doctor's slip. But in the end, Juno triumphs. The divine forces of retribution (also know as the Lifetime channel) do not wreck their havoc upon her life. Juno is no "fallen woman."

The ending is a bit problematic from the audience's standpoint, at least in my personal experience. Without giving too much away, I thought it ended quite happily, or as happily as the circumstances would have allowed. A few of the friends I saw it with, however, said that it depressed them, though they weren't too sure why. It may have to do with the views each of us takes regarding teenage pregnancy and adoption, as well as child-rearing in general. But rest assured that this film is, as a whole, a comedy, and a lighter approach to a very serious matter. The philosophy of the film may be summed up with Juno's comment to Vanessa upon meeting her at the mall:

"The kids at school are constantly grabbing my stomach- they call me the cautionary whale."

New York Times Columnist Wants to Poison Your Childrens' Minds

2008-01-11T16:43:00.000Z

Last Friday featured an intriguing thought from the mind of A.O. Scott:

Over the last few years, in the course of many parent conferences and
elementary-school curriculum nights, I’ve become familiar with the concept of the “just-right book.” This, my children’s teachers patiently explain, is a book that is perfectly suited to a child’s reading ability: neither too easy, in which case he or she will grow bored, nor too difficult, which risks frustration and confusion.

I defer to the pedagogical expertise of the professionals, but something in me nonetheless rebels against the idea that the books children choose should always be safely within their developmental comfort zone. There is pleasure to be found in bewilderment, in the struggle to make sense of what is just above your head, and there is wisdom as well.

Scott then goes on to point out the value in finding the unusual film for your children. Not just basing what your kids can see on the rating a film receives (which anyone with any kind of film industry knowledge knows is inherently biased) but rather based on the child's maturity level and engagement. This unbelievable few paragraphs of unrestrained sense and rationality most likely got its own special kind of hate mail, but I for one applaud Scott for getting up and saying that film is not an enemy, nor a bastion of demonic threat. It is a medium, some of which is appropriate for children, some of which is not.

I was raised in a film-friendly household. My siblings and I were introduced to films by my parents the same way were introduced to things like solid food and bike-riding. My parents made a judgement about what was appropriate and what was not for me and my brother, and made rules accordingly. I was introduced to Tim Burton with Edward Scissorhands (PG-13) when I was far younger than 13. Was I traumatized by the vague sexual references and moderate violence and the fact that there was no Disney ending for Burton's tragic hero? If I was, I don't remember. All I remember is that I was fascinated with the fantasy suburbia Burton created, with his pastel homes and kindly Dianne Weist as the Avon lady. All I remember is the sadness I felt for Edward in his loneliness. It was the kind of loneliness that I could identify with, being a skinny dorky child with bad teeth who read too many books.

And I was shown the original John Waters' Hairspray when I was probably too young to register the irony of the fact Devine was playing Edna Turnblad. Did the sight of a transvestite corrupt my young mind beyond the brink of insanity? Nope. I was just charmed by a lovely tale of outcasts triumphing over adversity. And the sight of a guy in a dress became something "normal"- something that deserved tolerance and respect. Plus I was always a sucker for coordinated dance numbers.

Of course there are films that are not meant for children. It's not like I'm advocating the little tykes all take a nice school trip to a showing of sex, lies and videotape. I just think that there shouldn't be a lot of unnecessary guilt attached to showing a film that may challenge your child, or frustrate them- or, God forbid, get them to ask you questions. You know, about life, or whatever. If we truly believe that film can be a medium for artistry, a medium that can engage people, why not young people?

In fact, whenever I decide to fulfill my biological imperative and spawn my own little mavens, I think the only films I'll steer my kids away from are those that feature tired plot lines and stereotyped characters.

Or anything made by Brett Ratner. That's just cruel.

Guess What Everybody?!!

2007-12-31T00:22:00.000Z

I'm still alive!!!!

Yeppers, I'm still kickin, just blew in from Europe, changed my life, etc. pretentious, etc. I am revitalized and ready for a blogging bumper crop for 2008. Eat my dust, Kos.

Whilst you're getting over your shock that I still reside upon this plane of existence, please look at the full preview for The Dark Knight. Pay special attention to my love, my man, my mister, Heath Ledger as the Joker, who could give king-of-leering Jack Nicholson a run for his money. And there's a welcome shot of lovely Maggie Gyllenhaal, who usurped Katie Holmes' dead-fish performance as Rachel Dawes. That's the way to start the New Year off right.

'Once' Upon a Time

2007-10-01T16:45:00.000+01:00

Greetings, lovers, from Northern Ireland! I haven't sent postcards yet, I'm sorry, they're in the mail. I'm currently on Study Abroad, for those who don't know, and spending the semester in lovely Belfast. This gives me a rare opportunity to view Irish film in its native habitat, something which I will share with you as the season of "serious, Oscar-worthy" films progresses.

For my first selection, I give what is probably my favorite film this year, Once. I actually saw this in the States at a tiny art theater in Toledo. And when I left it, throwing myself into the heady Ohio summer night, I felt like I had been changed in some irrevocable way. I've been processing it ever since, listening obsessively to the soundtrack and telling everyone within earshot to watch it immediately.

It's a deceptively simple film; shot on a shoestring in the streets of Dublin, the story features Guy (Glen Hansard of The Frames and the future father of my children) who busks on Grafton St. He meets Girl (Marketa Irglova) a Czech immigrant and a piano player. In an intense period of a few days they feverishly write, record a demo, and fall in love. It's a musical of sorts, but quieter, more reflective, and ending in a way that these stories really do in life, despite what mainstream Hollywood would have us believe.

In Hollywood the story would be about the meeting of two lovers. They would be played by Matthew McConaughey and Sandra Bullock. There would be scene at the airport where she runs after him as he's leaving, and they kiss, and the people around them clap and they live happily ever after.

That's the not the case here. Here, the story is primarily about the meeting of two artists, a far rarer and much more significant relationship. They are played by two unprofessional actors who are nonetheless luminous and true in their performances. There is no tearful scene at the airport. And though the ending is happy and hopeful, it is not neatly wrapped up with a bow.

Also significant is the setting: the grey, dirty Dublin streets, gorgeous and mysterious and sad... indeed, very much like the music that is played in the film. Every detail in the film is meant to portray the beauty, mystery and sadness of very ordinary life.

And even better, it seems to have been made by people who actually know what ordinary life is like.

2007-08-21T17:50:00.000+01:00

It's your beloved Movie Maven's birthday. She is 21 today, and though she is at work right now, is jonesing terrifically to wander over to the local imbibement establishment to purchase herself some gin.

In the meantime, however, I will simply daydream at the Day Job and remember the last excellent DVD I saw, the British Kinky Boots, starring one of my favoritest character actors, Chiwetel Ejiofor. The film itself isn't really all that fabulous (poorly edited and clunky, and the plot navigation is badly manned.) But Ejiofor's performance (a drag queen named Lola who helps a struggling shoe factory find a new niche market for transvestites who keep breaking their heels) is simply wonderful. He creates Lola as saucy indeed, and a free spirit, but she is not just the faggy stereotype we're so used to seeing in mainstream films. Lola is a flesh and blood character, and Ejiofor plays her with the perfect balance of strength, joy and intense vulnerability. The best scene I've witnessed in a long time is when the conservative shoemaker devises a burgundy boot with a low heel, and Lola grimaces and disdainfully whispers, "Burgundy. Please God, tell me I have not inspired something burgundy."

Frankly I could watch Ejiofor read from the phone book and be entertained; I consider him on par with Philip Seymour Hoffman, Vincent Donofrio and Jeffrey Wright in terms of versatility and brainy, beautiful performances.

Hairspray

2007-07-23T19:11:00.000+01:00

I remember the first time I saw John Waters' Hairspray: I was 11 or 12 years old. Mother Maven brought home the VHS, handed it to me and said, "You need to see a John Waters film, but you're too young for Pink Flamingos. So you're going to watch this instead." It was not a request.

I have not seen the musical version, and general consensus is that the new film version of the musical is actually a fusion and re-imagining of John Waters' creation and the theater that erupted from it. Predictably, what's resulted is a lavish, hysterical and vibrant event, if a little uneven.

As much as I hate the term "pleasantly plump" this is what hero Tracy Turnblad (Nikki Blonsky) is; a short round bon vivant from grungy Baltimore who wants nothing more than to dance on the "Corny Collins Show" and capture the love of crooner Link Larkin (an unnervingly hot Zac Ephron from the Disney Channel and its schlock). Blonsky, who was discovered while slaving away at a Coldstone Creamery in New York, manages to walk the fine line of charming and annoying in her performance. The rest of the characters were magnificently cast: Michelle Pheiffer, Christopher Walken, Amanda Bynes, James Marsden, Brittany Snow, Queen Latifah, and Allison Janney all seem to be simultaneously chewing on the pastel scenery until all that's left is the gnawed remnant of a 1960s sound stage. But one of the main stand-outs is enormously talented Elijah Kelley, who dances off with the film in his back pocket.

And then there's Travolta. Travolta is no Divine, as anyone can tell you. Divine's Edna Turnblad was a sympathetic grotesque, a woman who looked like a train wreck, but through sheer force of will managed to make herself beautiful. There was no fat suit necessary for Divine, no face prosthetics like the ones that Travolta seems to be drowning in. But as the movie went on I began to see that Travolta was having the time of his life. He recreated Edna as a curvaceous dynamo in a dumpy housewife's body, and his ultimately tender performance earned my respect and admiration.

There's an unfortunate section about half-way through the film where the energy level goes crashing down. That of course is the "message section" where Latifah leads an integration march to the song "I Know Where I've Been." What was missing here was Waters' irreverence. The march in the original Hairspray was more like a parade than a vigil, the inevitable climax of a building momentum. In this film, it was simply the predictable montage of a group of somber people with signs and candles that just made me check my watch. The film does pick up again from there, but it's a scene that really should have been dropped or re-edited.

But my very favorite moment is during the scene where Tracy goes to a local sock-hop in the hopes of getting noticed by Corny Collins. Linc is singing the vaguely sexual "Ladies Choice." As Tracy starts to dance there is a shot of Link watching her, a slow sly smile coming to his lips at the sight of her ample posterior. And as the music crescendos, he lets out a howl of pure teenage lust that out-and-out demolishes High School Musical and its poppy sentiment. He is no longer the boy next door with the plastic Disney smile. And the whole meaning behind Hairspray, whether you're talking about the Waters' film, the musical, or this rendition, is in that howl. This is a film about hope; about joy. It's a film about America in the early 60s before the bummer of Vietnam and the Kennedy and King assassinations. That howl was America lusting for something on a Saturday night.

Party Like You're Evil

2007-07-23T15:55:00.002+01:00

Finding a bathroom in Harvard Square is proving more difficult than usual. The restaurants are closed to anyone not willing to buy alcohol and the coffee shops are full of wizards.

It's 10:30 on Friday July 20, 2007. There's an hour and a half to go until what is considered D-Day by many: the release of the final Harry Potter book, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

I have been here since 7:30 p.m. Harvard Square has been turned into "Hogwarts Square" for the night. In the early evening Harry Potter-themed bands played in Harvard Yard (Draco and the Malfoys, for example, who periodically scream things like 'party like you're evil.') I sat and devoured Qdoba with a few cohorts on the steps of the Harvard library, viewing the melee of devoted fans, pointing out exceptionally well-done costumes (my favorite being a high-school aged girl dressed as a giant golden snitch.) It was a beautiful day with blue skies and a gentle breeze, not humid as is customary for Boston in July. At the foot of the steps small children in capes pretended to curse each other with sticks. A couple below us made out, the girl wearing a witch's hat.

The stores are open late to accept the throngs of costumed people milling around. A candy shop off Mass. Ave. has been turned into "Honeydukes," the magical sweet shop Harry and his friends frequent. While people were wandering in the Harvard Coop earlier, getting wrist-bands and meandering through the shelves, the place is now locked tight, and a security sentinel guards the door like one of Hogwarts' suits of armor.

People are lined up around the block at 10:30, the smart ones bringing lawn chairs and coolers full of snacks to keep themselves sated. My copy will be arriving tomorrow, courtesy of Mother Maven who pre-ordered it for me. So I am free to walk about. I peruse the line and drop in on conversations. A group of college guys my age are dressed to the nines as a quidditch team. One of them has a cricket back emblazoned with the word "Ravenclaw". They're discussing at length the million-dollar question: Will Harry Potter survive? The guy carrying the cricket bat thinks not, but one of his friends believes that J.K Rowling could not be so cruel as to kill off their hero. "I mean, come on, it's a kid's book," he says.

Speaking of costumes, one of the most intriguing things about these gatherings is how people like to dress for the occasion. There are the people who simply wear a wizard's hat, or a cloak, or perhaps carry a kitchen broom. Then there are the people who go all-out, with the robes, and the wigs and the hats and the wands, and the trademark lightening-shaped scar etched in eye-liner on their foreheads. There's a small contingency of Goths, the girls with their dark hair in their pasty faces, looking very much like Severus Snape in drag. I'm still not sure if they were there for Harry Potter, or if that's just how they dress. And finally, my dubious favorite, a cacophony of teenage and young-adult girls who decided that the best way to dress for Harry Potter was to dress like a slutty boarding school wench. There are more tiny plaid skirts and knee-high socks here than at a themed frat-party at BU.

By 10:30 the place is packed, and lines stretch around the block. The Curious George shop apparently has rented red spotlights that sway over the store. The roads around the square have been closed down, to allow the throngs to spill into the street. There's singing and laughing and fervent discussions of characters and plot-twists and complicated spells. It's something like a block party that has erupted here. Except instead of neighbors, Mass Ave. is covered with people from all over the city (and probably the suburbs,) brought together by the shared love of a fantasy series. A series originally made popular in the most organic way: by the excited whisperings of school children. I'm suddenly struck by the fact that a book made known by simple word-of-mouth could become the PR powerhouse that it is today.

Suddenly I hear an amplified voice. Two guys running along the Harry Potter lines are shouting through a bull horn, spouting supposed Potter secrets that were revealed online. I can't hear what they're saying, however, as the crowd erupts in boos and shouts of rage. Suddenly a sweet, round-faced girl breaks out of line and goes chasing after the two guys, to general cheering. I waver between amusement and consternation that there are people who are so willing to spoil every one's fun.

With the two boys chased off, and the clock nearing 12, the tension seems to grow. There are the usual suspects in Harvard Square: the guy who plays Goo Goo Dolls covers, the bearded man with no shoes who uses giant puppets to tout the benefits of legalizing marijuana. The card sharp who asks if anyone can find the Queen. But though they are a normal part of Harvard Square's funky vibe, it seems like they too are a part of the carnival. Because that's what it's like: a carnival, simultaneously a PR stunt and a natural community gathering; genuine love and the shilling of a publishing company.

So there we are in this carnival, and as the clock strikes 12, and the sentinels throw open the doors, there arises a hue and cry, a cheering that goes on for minutes. A cry that is probably similar to the cries of people who waited upon the docks more than a hundred years ago, waiting for the next installment of Dickens' The Old Curiosity Shop and famously shouting to the sailors, "Is Little Nell dead?!"

I have since finished Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in a weekend reading spree that remained almost completely unbroken, save for sleep, food and bathroom breaks. I usually only review films on this site, but I think I can make an exception for the boy wizard who has been a part of my life for almost ten years (I liked the books before they were cool). So my review will follow over the next few days, completely awash with spoilers. But I have a feeling that when I look back on my experiences as witness to the making of a classic I will not only remember the plot points and character developments. I will remember the spirit, the soul of the Harry Potter phenomenon. The sheer energy and will that made adults leap out of bed, don their wizard's caps and rock out to "wizard rock" in the middle of venerable Harvard Yard.

"I Look and I See the Earth in Flames"

2007-07-18T19:39:00.000+01:00

You may have heard this awhile back, but director/writer Joss Whedon (my love, my soulmate) has snapped. In the wake of the horrific (and caught on tape) "honor-killing" of 17-year-old Dua Khalil Aswad, Whedon went on the venerable fan site Whedonesque to discuss what he sees, from the dusty streets of Iraq, to the tragic wasteland of modern horror "torture" films. About his viewing of the grainy cell phone video, in which Aswad's battered face was "nothing but red," and his shock at seeing the same sadistic bent in the recent horror flick Captivity . It was possibly the most compassionate and fiery speech about violence against women I have ever heard, a voice calling out for our global culture to look at itself and ask why there is still the agreement that there is something inherently "wrong" with the female sex.

It’s no longer enough to shake our heads and make concerned grimaces at the news. True enlightened activism is the only thing that can save humanity from itself. I’ve always had a bent towards apocalyptic fiction, and I’m beginning to understand why. I look and I see the earth in flames. Her face was nothing but red.

I count Whedon as one of the precious few male filmmakers (besides, perhaps, Quentin Tarantino) who shows women not as sex objects or victims, but whole beings, simultaneously human and goddess-like. And his call for true action seems to have been heard. A handful of activists have begun an arts anthology, who's profits will benefit Equality Now. The blog, and how you can help is here.

Hollywood Masala

2007-07-03T15:05:00.000+01:00

To the chagrin and consternation of my boyfriend, I am enraptured by period pieces. Specifically anything British. I may just have spent two hours in ecstasy at a Live Free or Die Hard screening, but a good bodice-ripping adaptation of Austen or Bronte also has the ability to put a sparkle in my eye and spring in my step. Due to the fact that Hollywood has pretty much given up on any original screenplays, there's a new slew of period adaptations, biopics, remakes, etc. etc. Perhaps the granddaddy of them all is Jane Austen's masterpiece Pride and Prejudice. There's the quintessential BBC version, starring that hunka hunka burnin love Colin Firth, the uneven but satisfying Keira Knightly version, the modernized (and adapted) Bridget Jones' Diary, a new fictionalized biopic of Austen's life Becoming Jane, set to open this year, and an adaptation of The Jane Austen Book Club.

And then there's the one I just saw: the Bollywood version, called Bride and Prejudice. When I rented it I imagined a whirl of colors and high-pitched singing, of romance and dancing. I expected a true Indian musical, surreal, fascinating and incomprehensible.

Here's the problem: they made it too white.

First of all, all the dialogue and most of the songs were in English, not Hindi as is customary. The "Darcy" of the piece was actually an American. The songs were tempered, not just by the language, but the style as well. The Western elements were too obvious, completely overshadowing the Indian film making elements. One also seemed to forget that Pride and Prejudice is at its heart a comedy, and the preaching focus on neo-imperialism, corporations and Western intolerance (though completely true) was simply annoying. In the end, there was a lack of spectacle. A lack of heart and joy. Even performances by the resplendent Aishwarya Rai (the queen of Bollywood) and the uber-yummy Naveen Andrews of Lost fame couldn't salvage the film from the overgrowth of Caucasian sensibility. Pride and Prejudice would have transferred beautifully to the Bollywood style, if the producers hadn't been so keen on making it "accessible" to an American audience.

You Also Look Like I Need a Drink

2007-06-11T21:32:00.001+01:00

There's nothing more cringe-inducing than watching a group of talented animators beat on a dead horse.

Shrek 3, aside from one hilarious scene at a medieval high school (Worcestershire High) is pretty much just that. Lots of adult-themed jokes, lots of sweet-natured lessons about loving thyself, blah blah blah. This was wonderful and revolutionary... the first time. Since the dawning of the Age of Shrek, we have seen nothing but computer-animated pictures with adult-themed jokes and sweet-natured moral tales. The ani-clusterfuck had begun to grate on me about three penguin movies ago, and like Paris Hilton, there's no end in sight. So, Shrek, you also look like I need a drink. Before you were adorable and life-affirming. Now I don't even want to rent you on DVD.

You Look Like I Need a Drink

2007-06-11T20:31:00.000+01:00

This is the statement that occurred to me last week, when I turned on CNN to see this:

"You look like I need a drink" is an Against Me! song, and the phrase has always tickled me. And when I saw Paris Hilton, paraded in all her entitled, stupid glory through the streets back to prison, as she wailed and gnashed her teeth and rent her garments, I couldn't help but think, "Man, Paris, you look like I need a drink."

The moment Paris was released from prison for being too whiny, my detached annoyance at her presence was morphed into a profound, fiery hatred that turn my eyes red and caused an unholy wind that blew down anyone in my presence. She was the result, nay the symbol, of the easy corruption and favoritism practiced in our justice system. As Mother Maven said so astutely, "If her name was LaQwanda and she lived in South Central LA, we wouldn't even be having this conversation right now."

But, unfortunately her name is Paris and she most definitely does not live in South Central LA. But in the end, apparently the judge had the same facing-God's-wrath reaction I did, because he cheerfully sent her back. There were tears of joy, and dancing in the streets at her less-than-dignified departure, and all manner of schadenfreude marked the weekend admirably. But after my vengeful wrath had been sated by Baby Paris' tears, a dawning crept over me. Oh dear God. We will never be rid of her.

Because then there will be the prison exposes and the appeals, and the release, and the aftermath, and the Diane Sawyer interview, and it will never end.

And that is why I need a drink. Not just for poor Baby Paris, who's facing 23 days of uncomfortable mattresses and the prospect of being someone's Veronica to their Betty. But for all of us, condemned to look at her stupid lazy-eye until she inevitably drops dead from a cocaine overdose in P.Diddy's bathroom.

You Will Respect My Authority!!

2007-06-04T19:10:00.001+01:00

The US Color-Coded security thingamajig will turn a violent shade of red this September with the national debut of Girl Authority on the CBS Early Sho w.

For those who do not know the newest terror threat to the nation here's a quick run-down, according to the people on the internets:

-They are a Manson-like cult of nine sprightly blondes, ranging in ages from 10-15 years.

-They were formed in the ravaged backwoods Sudbury, MA by Executive Producer/Cult Leader Samantha Hammel (also known as Islam Hussein-Moon Star). The band began when Hammel/Moon Star used contemporary brainwashing techniques on one of the terrorists' fathers- who in turn conditioned the other eight comely street urchins to join the crowd.

-To become this elite squad of terrorist assassins, they had to give up all of their possessions and pretend they were members of the Brady Bunch. They also had to relinquish their given names and take on meaningless titles designed to destroy their sense of individuality (examples include Country Girl, Fashion Girl and Boho Girl).

-They are currently traveling the country, doing lame renditions of classic rock and spreading their message of hate and world domination.

While President Bush has so far retained a diplomatic silence on Girl Authority and its growing number of followers, we here at Movie Maven will not stand idly by and watch our sacred 'tweens fall under the thrall of the blue-eyed army and its propaganda machine. Please, parents, teach your thin, musically-inclined daughters the difference between true Depeche Mode and the hideous, soulless version produced by The Authority. Keep your eyes and ears peeled for the signs of brainwashing, including references to the "Authority Sorority" and screeching banshee-music emanating from your daughters' bedroom.

There is one positive outcome of the rise of The Authority. Agents at Guantanamo Bay have reported that incidents of water-boarding have vastly decreased since the introduction of Girl Authority music to the interrogation procedure, due to increased productivity.

In mourning....

2007-06-04T14:39:00.000+01:00

For Steve Gilliard, one of the dynamos of the blogging scene and a fearless journalist. We in Blogland will dearly miss him.

Movie Maven is Ashamed....

2007-05-27T23:55:00.000+01:00

Of her lack of posts as of late. Sorry to my five fans who lurk this blog, hoping in vain for a new, hopelessly genius deconstruction of the cinematic art. I could make excuses: I work 60 hours a week, I don't get paid for this, I've got writer's block, I've got the ebola virus and am currently sweating blood.... Ok the last one might be a lie. But the truth is there is no satisfactory excuse for the shirking of my responsibilites to my adoring fans/parents and friends.

So. Let us carry on.

Your Own Joanie Stubbs

2007-05-02T17:07:00.000+01:00

Neddie Jingo is possessed periodically with the spirit of Al Swearengen... would that I had such a haunting....

Crimea River

2007-04-02T01:05:00.000+01:00

Do you know why I'm doing a post on the Errol Flynn version of Charge of the Light Brigade?

Because I just saw it in my History Through Film class.

And I just could not pass up that snappy title.

The Errol Flynn version of Charge of the Light Brigade is NOT about the Charge of the Light Brigade, a vastly mis-managed British military maneuver in which 600 cavalrymen rode at full speed into Russian cannon fire in some valley in Turkey during the Crimean War.

Into cannon fire.

You never, ever gallop horses headlong into cannon fire. I don't know anything about the military but I know that.

But none of this really matters, because the Errol Flynn version is not really about the charge of the light brigade (then again, neither really is the Alfred Lord Tennyson poem of the same name, but that's a different discussion). It's actually about imperialism and British superiority, made by a conflicted Hollywood. Most Americans in Hollywood felt about British imperialism the way most Americans in the rest of the country felt- that it was stupid and wrong (from a personal level) and that it was getting in the way of our manifest destiny (from an economic level.) The limeys were interrupting our trade routes and it was really starting to piss us off. But there was also a large minority of British producers, directors and actors hanging around at this time who felt differently and had quite a bit of sway. Remember also that this was 1930s America. As irritated as we might have been with the British for constantly mucking up other countries, deep in our social darwinist hearts we believed that people in, say, India needed looking after. They are, after all, so very unintelligent, so innocent and childlike, so thoroughly... ethnic. And British rule, we believed, was better than the third world running itself. Combine that with the natural fear of chaos and political panic of the Great Depression, and you've got the perfect makings for the development of the British Raj film. Where manly Brits like Errol Flynn's Geoffrey Vickers, Cary Grant's Archibald Cutter, and Gary Cooper's Alan McGregor battle demonic and brutal South Asian hordes and (surprise, surprise, Russians) to save the innocent natives and their own brethren.

Of course the Crimean War had absolutely nothing to do with India- it was actually Turkey where most of the fighting took place. But the producers probably figured, what the hell, they're all wearing turbans and talking gibberish so what's the difference? So Errol Flynn rides around India for most of the film, waging war against the evil Surat Khan, and seeking bloody vengeance upon him in Turkey after he slaughters a couple hundred women and children in some village. All of his men die in the aforementioned charge, but he gets to stab Khan so its a happy ending.

Very different from a stupid military maneuver, no?

I mention this film not just as an excuse to show my cleverness from blog titles, but also to demonstrate the importance of historical film in context. I love costume dramas, no matter how inaccurate- maybe even because of their inaccuracies. One can learn through these films not just about the time period being portrayed, but the time period in which the film itself was made. They're priceless artifacts of the 20th century- they're part of the reason we know so much about the collective American psyche of the 20th century.

A swashbuckling hero? Or symbol of conflicted feelings of colonial oppression? You decide.

Talk to the Hand

2007-03-13T01:39:00.000Z

To all of those in the blogosphere getting their flannel pyjamas in a wad over whether 300 is a film for or against the Bush administration, I have only this to say:

Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.

It's a modern take on the sword-and-sandals epic, starring lots of digitized, bare-chested men killing each other in bloody and profane ways. That's all. It's about a different take on filmmaking, perhaps a vehicle for discussion about the new wave of computer-generated films are increasingly looking like video games (and vice versa.)

Was Snakes on a Plane about social fears of airport security in a post-9/11 world? Was Reno 911: Miami a statement about the impending marshal law that threatens us under the Patriot Act?

No. No, they were not.

300 is adapted from a graphic novel written in 1998- before the Bush administration. Furthermore its based on the Battle of Thermopylae... and something tells me the Spartans did not have any cultural statements regarding George W. Bush. In any case, most of the people commenting on this flick haven't even seen the damn thing yet. This, of course, is only to be expected among the Right, who'll ban anything under the sun before viewing it if they think it'll upset their delicate Rush Limbaugh-lined stomachs. But I'm a little chagrined that those on the Left are denigrating something based on the preview. And has it occurred to no one that the fact you can't figure out if Bush is the hero or the villain maybe points to the idea that he's not involved at all? Has everyone gone completely batshit insane?!

I'm going to see 300, because I loved Sin City with a fiery passion, and have a newly developed enthusiasm for graphic novels. Plus I just have a hankering for some good old-fashioned bloodletting. If I feel there's a political bent, I'll let you know, but I don't think it matters one way or the other. I get the strangest feeling that 15-year-old boys wired on Mountain Dew and nachos really aren't going to know the difference.

No Commercials- No Mercy!!!!!

2007-03-13T00:59:00.000Z

The beloved, darling, fabulous, fascinating, titillating and stimulating Ira Glass has put This American Life on Showtime.

Finally, something good on Showtime.

I've been a long time whore of This American Life, the weekly radio program on NPR, which has individual stories and essays on a given topic each week. David Sedaris and Sarah Vowell have been long-time contributers, among others, and I have it automatically downloaded to my Itunes every week.

I listen to it at work while I'm sorting mail.

I think people are beginning to wonder why sorting mail has the capacity to make me laugh hysterically or weep gently into the daily tearsheets.

Anyway, now it's been transformed into a television show. This is no easy feat, as Mr. Glass will tell you in this interview with Terry Gross, possibly the greatest living interviewer on the planet.

Here's the trailor for the show. It looks mysterious and hauntingly beautiful. The distinctive music, a long-time TAL trademark, has been happily incorporated to absolutely stunning effect. It premiers March 22 at 10:30 p.m. (Eastern.)

Here's the website. There's a picture of Ira Glass there, as well as above. Isn't he just the most adorable thing ever? I could put him in my pocket and walk around with him.

Here's the website for the radio show if you're unfamiliar with it.

If you're lucky enough to get Showtime, watch it. It looks different. And new. Let's call it the thinking man's Engaged and Underaged. That can only be a good thing.

2007-02-27T03:18:00.000Z

Gah!!! Midterms! Deadlines! My laptop monitor's broken and I have three papers to write!! GAHHHHHHH!!!

Sorry folks, no Oscar coverage for a few days, until I can put my life back together. Read Salon and Newcritics (handily situated on the side blogroll for you.) Their coverage is better anyway.

Now if you'll excuse me I have to go bang my head against a wall until the major ideals of late-nineteenth century Republicanism pop out. I know they're in there somewhere....

The Doobies

2007-02-24T20:12:00.000Z

Movie Maven is exhausted.

Between the fucked-up crazy blonde-athon that's really starting to disgust me, the start of the Yuletide FAFSA and tax time, college midterms and Michelle Malkin's comedy, I am in desperate need of a vacation. Preferably somewhere without a computer, or TV or.... people. But no matter. I have blogs to write.

In honor of it being Oscar weekend here at Movie Maven, I have decided to, *sigh* make my predictions for the Academy Awards. The only problem is.... I haven't seen a lot of these films. Yes, I know, I need to be more on the ball, but come on. Does anyone really want to see The Queen? Like, pay ten dollars for it and everything? I know I will eventually, but apparently I'm content right now spending my hard-earned cash on Catch and Release, God help me.

So instead of making my predictions of who will win the Oscars this year, I'm going to make a list of the films I have seen at least 10 minutes of, which shouldn't win anything. I mean, EVER. The worst, flattest, most boring, mind-numbing, disgusting and nauseating films and performances of the year. You'll notice that many of the actors and actresses seen here are actually very good performers. they're just misguided. Don't be too hard on them.

So, my darlings, let me present you with the first annual Dubious Honor Awards- the DOOBIES!!

I'm sorry, the joke was right there.

Best Supporting Actor:
Woody Allen: Scoop
Why can't he just DIE already?! Return to form, my ass.

Jeff Bridges: Stick It
Oh, Jeff, Jeff, Jeff. I am so sorry.

Timothy Olyphant: Catch and Release
Apparently after Deadwood got canceled, he lost his mind and decided to stalk Jennifer Garner.

Eugene Levy: American Pie 5: The Naked Mile
I don't know what Eugene Levy did in a past life to deserve these films, but the cosmic universe of karma is a cruel mistress.

Best Supporting Actress:
Jennifer Coolidge: For Your Consideration
I had to sneak For Your Consideration in somewhere, it was just too awful. Jennifer Coolidge just plucked the short straw.

Jacinda Barret: The Last Kiss
I had no idea that a woman screaming at her cheating man could be so boring.

Vanessa Lengies: Stick It
She made me want to pirouette to the door... and bang my head against it repeatedly.

Angelica Huston: Material Girls
Oh Angelica, Angelica, Angelica. I am so sorry.

Best Lead Actor:
Channing Tatum (aka The Chan-Man): Step Up
There aren't a lot of brains in that pretty little head of his. I'd still sleep with him, though.

Martin Lawrence: Big Momma's House 2
Stop it, Martin. Just, stop it. I mean it Martin. Knock it off, it's not funny! Mom, Martin Lawrence won't stop dressing up like fat black woman and he's bothering me!

Adam Campbell: Date Movie
I don't really remember which one Adam Campbell is. I just saw Date Movie on TV last night and hurled into my mozzarella sticks.

James Franco: Annapolis
Or Tristan +Isolde, it doesn't really matter which.

Best Lead Actress:
Allyson Hannigan: Date Movie
She was the fat one that got "pimped"- you know, like Pimp My Ride? There was a midget there. I have nothing else to say.

Scarlett Johannson: Scoop
She tried to do Woody Allen neurotic and just came off looking disarmingly slutty.

Sara Paxton: Aquamarine
I know, it's a kid's movie, I should lighten up. Then again, her blonde hair and perkiness almost blinded me. It was like looking at the sun for two hours with the Teletubbies going on in the background.

Hilary Duff: Material Girls
That brainwashing teenybopper got Angelica Huston to participate in this film. Show her no mercy.

Worst Film of the Year:
Date Movie
ugh
Step-Up
double ugh
Stick It
ughity-ugh ugh ugh
American Pie 5: The Naked Mile
Straight to video. No "ughs" can describe it.

Heather Havrileski asks the question we all need answered...

2007-02-18T18:15:00.000Z

"Why do we listen to Oscar when he has such crappy taste?"

Nevertheless, I'll be live-blogging the Oscars next week. There's nothing better than slogging back G and T's and making snide remarks about the endless blinding trail of Skeletors in Balenciaga gowns.

I'll see you there.

Gentlemen Prefer Dead Blondes

2007-02-10T23:01:00.000Z

I’m intrigued by the media clusterfuck that’s surrounded Anna Nicole’s death.

Friends of mine have expressed derision of the media coverage surrounding her death. “People are dying in Iraq,” they say (or Haiti, or Darfur or any other number of hideous places strewn with bodies.) “And this is what people care about. It’s sickening. And indeed it is. It is a truly Western journalistic ideal to care more for the sexy death of a former porn star and meth freak more than, say, the UN’s fight to stop the spread of street gangs in Haiti. But one thing I’ve noticed about the media coverage is how full of contempt it is for Anna Nicole. The words “famous for being famous” crop up a lot, laughable at least for the irony that they’re denigrating the fame of a woman that they themselves helped to establish and hold in place.

Larry King’s interviewed her friends for God’s sake.

I myself could not help from making a bet with my boyfriend- that by next season, Law and Order will no doubt bear a “ripped from the headlines” about Anna Nicole.

I’m totally going to win, by the way. But I feel a bit guilty about poor Ms. Smith. The girl was so obviously miserable. Everyone who compared her to Marilyn Monroe was most correct, in that Monroe was also a mess of a person. And I always remember something Mother Maven usually says when someone of Anna Nicole’s caliber dies.

“Oh look at her.” she says. “She was just a baby once.”

Indeed she was. Her name was Vicki Lynn Hogan. She was born in Texas. She was undoubtedly a gorgeous little girl. I know next to nothing about her past, but I wouldn’t be surprised if her childhood was miserable. Would not be surprised if she lost her innocence in some irreparable way- a way that put her on the road to being a Playboy Bunny, a model, a porn star, and a reckless drug addict. But, at some point in her life, Vicki Lynn was a baby. A child. Someone who needed and deserved love. So perhaps that’s how I’ll remember her. She was a human being, not chum for the sharks. And if nothing else can be said about her, then man, she was a beautiful dame.

Samuel L. Jackson Can Swing the Blues Like Any Muthafucka Out There

2007-01-28T02:48:00.001Z

A quick post today, as I am all hopped-up on uppers and Mountain Dew and will be spending the night catching up on reading about anti-Whig politics in The Scarlet Letter. Any adult who dares tell me again about the days of wine and roses that is higher education can kiss my strung-out, sleep-deprived, painfully-indebted ass.

On a happier note, Sundance ended today with a bang, and several intriguing little indie morsels should be coming our way very soon (read coverage here and here, from people who are lucky enough to bask in the shameless self-absorption and absurd wind chill factor of Park City, UT). The film that has my canine-like ears pricked up is Black Snake Moan, with my beloved Samuel L., Christina Ricci and Justin Timberlake. Ricci plays a nymphomaniac who is chained to a radiator by Samuel L., who wants to save her soul.

It's southern, just go with it.

Anywho, Samuel L. sings the blues in it, and the few bits I've heard are raw and haunting to listen to, filled with Southern Gothic humidity and growling, wrenching sorrow. A little download provided for your listening pleasure is below.

Samuel L. Jackson- Stackolee

Enjoy!

Because I Feel Obligated...

2007-01-05T18:00:00.000Z

Here is my list of the Top Ten Movies of 2006. Let it be known that I am only doing this because all the cool kids are doing it, and I want to be cool too. After this I'm going to go start smoking and doing whippets.

Let it also be known that I have not seen many of the films that have universally been considered to be the best this year including The Queen, Children of Men, Pan's Labyrinth, Shortbus, and Half Nelson. This is because that, unlike the other cool kids, I am not paid to do this. I do this because I have a big ego.

So here's the list. Those I have reviewed, I'll link to that review, and those I've been too lazy to review, I'll give a brief mention as to why I love them.

Now then.

The Top Ten Best Movies of 2006 (among those I have seen):

1. Little Miss Sunshine
2. Borat
I kept meaning to write a review of this little number, which is probably the funniest, most subversive movie of the year. But I got lazy, and then I got busy, and then I was otherwise occupied stuffing my face over Christmas. But, to keep things moving, let's just say it was filthy, offensive, exploiting and unbelievably hilarious. I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks and my stomach hurt from the workout. I also exited deeply ashamed at the preponderance of the greedy, hate-filled, racist, sexist, bastard Americans that are highlighted in the film (and who are now all suing for being portrayed as the loathsome creatures they are.)
3. Thank You for Smoking
4. Brick
5. The Science of Sleep
6. V for Vendetta
7. When the Levees Broke
While everyone else will mention one of the Iraq docs, and, of course, An Inconvenient Truth, as the best docs of the year, for me it was Spike Lees requiem for New Orleans that had the most value as a documentary. It's alternately captivating, enraging and reflective- an undulating serpent on the spectrum of human emotion. Rent the DVD immediately.
8. An Inconvenient Truth
9. The Notorious Bettie Page
10. Snakes on a Plane
Let me explain. While the film is, technically bad, it's also the most bloody entertaining movie of the year. It gives credence to the philosophy that sometimes a movie doesn't need to have a moral, or anything important to say. Sometimes you just want to see snakes devour people. And that's enough.

Sen. McCain is a Giant Buzzkill

2006-12-19T22:12:00.000Z

I do wish I had a legitimate reason for not blogging these past few weeks, but the truth is I've just been ghastly lazy. I just found this story though, which is an important one for my fellow bloggers to keep up with, and just sticks ever so annoyingly in my craw:

John McCain is a buzzkill.

McCain, always known as "the cool Republican" became significantly less awesome when he proposed a new bill in the Senate stating that blogs are legally and financially responsible for whatever bit of offensive twaddle lands on their site or in their comments box. They're also required to report any users who are registered sex offenders. How a blogger is supposed to know if a commenter is a sex offender I don't know- perhaps our blogger sense tingles when we sense dangerous politicians... ahem... pedophiles hanging around our sites.

This, of course, has nothing to do with film, the chosen topic of my little internet oasis, but it's an important issue that all who work within the web need to be aware of. I'll keep you posted as other interesting legislative tidbits tread before my hawk-like eyes.

2006-11-20T14:59:00.000Z

Movie Maven will be off for a week to celebrate the holidays. But I'll be back very soon to finish the, uh, four posts I have mouldering in the blogger queue. Ah well.

This lovely time of year, where we celebrate our American superority by stuffing our arteries with turkey and pie with Cool Whip, always reminds me of a touching line from the comedic quaretet Firesign Theater. I'll leave you with these words immortalizing the true meaning of Thanksgiving:

My fellow settlers! We stand here at the edge of civilization, on the banks of the Mississippi river. Lookin west, at our Destiny! What may appear to the faint-hearted as a limitless expanse of God forsaken wilderness, is in reality a golden opportunity for humble, God fearin' people like ourselves and our families and our children and the generations a-comin' to carve a new life - out of the American Indian!

What's Sufi for "Mind-Fuck?"

2006-11-14T15:55:00.000Z

Baraka
Starring: Stern looking tribal people, the Himalayas, Western destruction
Treatment written and directed by: Ron Fricke

I was recommended Baraka by a friend, who when discussing the film said it would be better viewed if my mind was, ahem, somewhat altered by inhaled illegal substances. In the end, though, the film was trippy and mind-expanding enough on its own. I have a feeling that if I'd been hitting the Mary Jane while watching this, a fuse could very well have blown.

Baraka is a Sufi word meaning "breath of life," and the maxim was a muse of sorts for Ron Fricke's legendary, dialogue-less documentary. With cinematography befitting a National Geographic magazine, Fricke captures scenes of spirituality, naturalism and destruction with luscious grandeur. There are no statements made, no interviews, no real description of where, exactly, Fricke takes us. But in the end all of these things are unnecessary. It's a film entirely about the visual, about what we as an audience feel when we view the images.

There is the auditory as well, including haunting music composed by Michael Stearns as well as strictly non-verbal sounds of the world Fricke displays. They're carefully orchestrated together, whirling into a symphony between the diegetic and non-diegetic until it's almost impossible to tell which is which. I'm still ruminating over the uber-trippy scene in which a nameless tribe chants and dances before giant stone idols somewhere in the depths of a rain forest. Through their dance they merge as if into one being, an undulating creature in complete prostration before the god they're worshipping. I've never seen anything quite like it.

There's also a heavy component of environmentalism in Baraka; breathtaking scenes of mountains and happy furry woodland creatures are interspersed with acts of human destruction: rain forests are cut down, fires rage, and, in one famous scene, harmless male chicks are thrown down a bottomless funnel (only female chicks are needed for the industrial production of eggs.) You wouldn't be entirely wrong is saying it's a little heavy-handed, but it's effective nonetheless.

In the end, the film is about our connections, both to those around us, to the world at large, and to our god, whomever or whatever that may be. One affecting shot shows a city at rush hour, time-lapsed so both people and cars race along at super-human speeds. They look like ants, it occurred to me. Then I corrected myself. We looks like ants. We are not all that significant, in the end, and while we go about our busy, falsely important lives we often lose the big picture.

You don't need to be toking to get that.

A PSA of Desperation

2006-11-06T15:16:00.000Z

And now, a quick message from Movie Maven:

Tomorrow are the mid-term elections, which may direct the course of our country for the next two years.

Vote, dumb-ass!

This is has been a message from Movie Maven. Now back to our regularly scheduled programming.

You're Just Too Good to Be True, Can't Take My Eyes Off of You...

2006-10-26T16:48:00.000+01:00

Quick programming note:
Ok, so I'm a liar. I promised you posts last Wednesday, and was so far unable to deliver. I am a bad Movie Maven, and you should feel free to verbally spank me in the comments box. However, I seem to have gotten a burst of blogging mojo and will do what I can to make it up to you. I'm on a TV kick lately, so don't be surprised if I begin to wax poetic about tasty little morsels like Battlestar Galactica or The Office over the next few weeks. Below is some huffy, whiny commentary about Studio 60. Enjoy!

I am so tired of reading blog posts about Studio 60 and the Sunset Strip.

Seriously I am so bored with everything to do with this show. I was an avid fan of The West Wing, and Aaron Sorkin's beautiful, shroom-induced hallucination of the executive branch. I admit it I was this close to writing in Sheen's Jed Bartlett on my 2004 election ballot, before I sobered up and remembered I vote in the swing state to end all swing states. I wept when, on the show, Bartlett announced his re-election campaign as "Brothers in Arms" played victoriously in the background. So obviously I looked forward to Studio 60, loving Sorkin, Bradley Whitford and Matthew Perry, and the idea that the same wit, intelligence and social commentary could be translated to a fake sketch comedy show.

Unfortunately it looks like Sorkin was just on a bad trip. I was pretty disappointed with the couple of episodes I've seen, and honestly didn't really know what to make of it. It is funny and smart and the pacing is excellent. But the primary problem is that Sorkin's high-minded morality (some would say pretentiousness) that worked so well for government just doesn't sit as well in the world of television. Yes there is room to discuss censorship, the medium's ability to facilitate public discourse, blah blah blah, but in the end it's television and a sketch comedy show really doesn't hold that much political sway (Jon Stewart notwithstanding.) What could pass for moral authority inside a fictional Beltway just looks silly and self-righteous inside a fictional L.A.

So the show can be funny and smart, but in the end it's not that effective and hasn't really caught my eye. And I'm well aware that many online critics, from blogger Lance Mannion to Salon's Heather Havrilesky agree with me to a greater or lesser extent. They all don't really know what to make of this show, and the reviews have been decidedly mixed. So here's what I don't understand.

Why is Blogland so abuzz about it? Mannion's been live-blogging the show several times now, and every time he gives reasons why he doesn't really like it all that much. But he keeps live-blogging it, or ruminating on it between episodes. Wolcott's discussed it, as has Slate, Salon, and Shakespeare's Sister (my divine three S's.) Mind you, I'm not criticizing any of these people- God knows I have many passions close to my Movie Maven heart, and I understand very well the nature of television obsessions. But most of my obsessions are things that I enjoy watching, not things I feel ambivalent about. It would be different if it were some sort of love/hate relationship, but I don't think that's what's going on. It's like they so want to believe that Sorkin can create good TV (which he can) that they're ignoring their own instincts. My sister Shakespeare's Sister put it very well when she guest live-blogged on Mannion:

Why do I like this show? I ask the same question every week, because every week I gripe to Mr. Shakes about all the things I think are too much or too little, and everything seems to be one or the other. It's the characters I like. They're stuck inside this giant pendulum that's swinging way too wide, back and forth. But it's in rhythm...and I think its arc will narrow, and then everything will fit.

I do hope that in the end everything fits for Sorkin's show. I love him and his elitist, yet optimistic view of our so dreary state of America. But I'm not counting Studio 60's eggs before they hatch. My TV time is grossly limited, and I'm not going to waste it on a hope and a prayer.

Close Encounters of the Blog Kind

2006-10-17T15:19:00.000+01:00

As I have done so many times before, I wish to apologize for the absence of new posts. I'm sorry to say I've been cheating on you with a new blog- a small internship at boston.com I inexplicably snagged. You can check it out along the side (it's under the heading of More Shameless Self-Promotion,) and see both myself and two other fabulous mavens getting their blog on. It's basically a site devoted to under-paid, under-appreciated college interns, or would-be interns looking to gain advice and generally kvetch about their jobs. Subtle wit, wisdom and self-deprecation is guaranteed, or your money back.

I also promise (no lies!) that I will post a review by the end of the day today. We have many things still to accomplish, and just because I'm carrying on a torrid love affair to boost my resume, doesn't mean I still can't have a deep meaningful relationship with you.

The Last Kiss

2006-09-28T14:16:00.000+01:00

The Last Kiss
Starring: Zach Braff, Jacinda Barrett, Rachel Bilson, Casey Affleck
Written by: Paul Haggis
Directed by: Tony Goldwyn
Official Website

Photo courtesy of Yahoo

Why is it always the man who has commitment issues?

Why does the woman always become an emotional shrew in the face of any perceived infidelity?

And why, God why, is stalker-logic (like breaking down the doors of your ex-girlfriends house, or sitting on her porch for three nights straight) considered heart-breakingly romantic?

These are just a few of the questions that plagued me throughout The Last Kiss, starring Zach Braff. Braff has been considered especially brave to play an adorable cad who loves his pregnant girlfriend (Jacinda Barrett,) but is "scared" and assuages his fears by having it off with a slutty yet naive co-ed (The OC's Rachel Bilson.) And as much as I do love Braff and his puppy-eyed vulnerability, I could not get myself into this movie. It's a cliched film in an "edgy" film's clothing; 30-year-old men are already having their mid-life crises, their eyes going all wide and fearful at the mention of marriage or buying a house. The wise old married man offers the sage advice of "Never give up hope"... even when you reasonably should. People wail and bemoan their love lives and failing marriages while Death Cab for Cutie plays gently in the background. Braff, as well as writer Paul Haggis (of Crash and Million Dollar Baby fame) and director Tony Goldwyn have been dutifully flogging their movie as "real," and "honest." But if cliches weren't true to life, they wouldn't be cliches. Their hast to be a middle ground where something "real" can be blended with something original... something like Garden State, maybe.

But the most tragic bit in this turn of events is Braff's seemingly unstoppable descent into Woody Allen-like self-absorption. It's suddenly all about Zach Braff and his music and his adorable nose. His major quandary in Last Kiss is "Hmmm, should I marry my hot girlfriend or leave her for the hot college student?" And his character is so stale and generic it becomes unclear why either woman would really want him. An adorable nose only gets you so far in life, and while Woody Allen had inexorable talent to back up his ego (at least in his heyday,) Braff's range is far more limited. And that's coming from a fan.

The film is however backed up by a decent supporting cast, including the deft Blythe Danner and Tom Wilkinson as Barrett's parents going through marital troubles. Casey Affleck is also striking as the buddy who's marriage is falling apart in the face of new parenthood, in a performance that's that's both subtle and memorable. But the biggest surprise is Bilson. I despised her on The OC and never thought much of her acting ability or emotional depth. But Bilson takes her slutty college girl beyond the stereotypes and really fleshes out a character that could have faded into the background. But even a good set of supporting roles can't save the film's inherent lack of originality. The movie plods along, helped admittedly by a fantastic soundtrack (I think Braff probably just attached his Ipod to the sound editing machine and let it roll.) And Braff and Barrett become so mind-numbingly dull after a while you don't even care if they get back together or not. I never thought a pregnant woman screaming hysterically at her cheating man could be boring, but there you go.

One of the most telling moments in Last Kiss is Danner's conversation about the nature of marriage. She tells her daughter "You think you know what goes into a 30-year marriage, but you don't have a clue. You don't have a clue." Besides being an astonishingly genuine moment of truth, it also says outright what The Last Kiss has demonstrated. The nature of relationships are mysterious, hard to quantify and nearly impossible to render artistically without seeming generic and 2-dimensional. This attempt to do it here was a valiant one. But, for the most part, Hollywood just doesn't have a clue.

The Science of Sleep

2006-09-22T18:38:00.000+01:00

The Science of Sleep (La Science des reves)
Starring: Gael Garcia Bernal, Charlotte Gainsbourg, Alain Chabat
Written and directed by: Michel Gondry
Official Website

I have no idea what happened in The Science of Sleep.

I've been staring at my computer screen for 20 minutes now, trying to come up with a coherent statement about this film, and drawing a complete and utter blank. My review, I think, can't be coherent because the movie itself isn't coherent at all. Departing from the usual narrative and plotlines, Gondry decided to rock it French New Wave style, with strange and fragmented events, a distorted sense of time and complex webs of dialogue. It's a frustrating movie to watch, indeed- one after which you leave the theater quietly, your mind positively buzzing as it tries to understand what it just saw.

It's also a fascinating, colorful work of art, one which stays with you long after you brain has abandoned its struggle for basic comprehension.

It tells the story of Stephane (Bernal,) a creative young man who was raised in Mexico but has agreed to come to France after his father's death to reconnect with his mother. He obtains a soul-killing job at a calendar design office and becomes infatuated with his next-door neighbor Stephanie (Gainsbourg.) Unfortunately Stephane's highly artistic mind also has trouble deciphering dreams from reality- sometimes he's dreaming when he thinks he's awake, and sometimes he's awake when he thinks he's dreaming. He becomes more and more confused as to what is truth and what is fantasy, risking his job and his relationships as time goes on. Bernal, a rising star for the past few years since his provocative role in Y Tu Mama Tambien, is astounding to watch. He shares both the restful, calm state of dreaming as well as the frenetic pace and sudden sense of panic of a nightmare. He also is able to exude a painful vulnerability, without losing the fact that as wonderful as Stephane may be, he can also be kind of a jerk. His addled mind hurts not just himself but those around him, and neither Bernal nor Gondry shy away from that.

We are, in a sense, meant to be just as confused as Stephane, and everything in the film serves to disorient. The dialogue shifts between English, French and Spanish, causing confusion and mixed messages. It's filled with glorious dream sequences of stop-motion animation, with cellophane clouds that float in the sky, and whole cities made from clay, cardboard and papier-mache. Stephane's dreams, which start out as fantastic, grandiose illusions, begin to look more and more like his waking life. And since we are watching through Stephane's eyes, all of the people in his life, from his love Stephanie to his mother to his horny co-worker Guy become skewed and fractured, until even we don't know what is reality and what is simply Stephane's reality. It's an astute exercise in subjectivity and although the banal meaning of "what happened" in the film becomes lost, the larger meaning of how our perception dictates our experience becomes much clearer.

It's also simply a love story, lovingly rendered and melancholy. I don't know what girl broke Michel Gondry's heart, but he understands unsure, tumultuous love better than anyone I know. It has an ambiguous ending, and an unsatisfying one in many ways, but one that's true to our reality. In our world, Gondry seems to say, nothing is certain. Only in dreams is the happy ending guaranteed.

The Descent

2006-09-13T00:36:00.000+01:00

The Descent
Starring: Shauna McDonald, Natalie Mendoza, Alex Reid
Written and Directed by: Neil Marshall
Official Website

I expected stupid, drunken, and mostly likely, half-naked teenagers.

This would be the likely cast of a bloody horror film about cave creatures. Stupid, drunken, half-naked teenagers venture into dangerous cave for a stupid, drunken, half-naked good time and are promptly ripped apart by Bat Boy from the Weekly World News. This is how most would have written it. So I went to The Descent after a colleague told me it "had a few good jumps," hoping to be scared, but not expecting to be surprised.

Turns out I was both.

Because the characters in Descent are not stupid, drunken teenagers. They instead are a bunch of British women- amateur spelunkers, friends and comrades. They gather in the woods of Appalachians to bond and help one of the group through her grief over the deaths of her husband and young daughter the year before. A surprising amount of the film is taken up with character development, and all of the women become more and more nuanced and complex- a rare thing in a genre that normally reverts all of its characters to "types."

But it's when they get lost that their real characters begin to show themselves. Some of them become heroes and Ripley-like superwomen. Some of them become cowards or reckless. And when the fearsome Bat Boys make their appearance (I'm sorry, but that's just what they look like) then you really see who they are as people.

It's a gruesome movie, but the repetitive attack scenes often make the movie lose its edge and originality (yes, spewing gore, yeah, he's eating her stomach, oh look, there's another throat being ripped out, blah blah blah.) And while the Bat Boys are terrifying as they unexpectedly pounce on the women, there's only so many times you can use that move as a scare tactic before it simply becomes cliched.

There is a pretty bad-ass scene involving a pool filled with blood though.

In the end, it is just another horror flick, but it's worth a viewing simply for the fact that it used living, breathing characters with a story. It wasn't just about blood and guts, it was also about the complexities of humanity. A little bit. Mostly blood and guts, though. Let's not get carried away.

Little Miss Sunshine

2006-09-01T00:08:00.000+01:00

Little Miss Sunshine
Starring: Greg Kinnear, Steve Carell, Toni Collette
Written by: Michael Arndt
Directed by: Jonathon Dayton and Valerie Faris
Official Website

Photo courtesy of cinema.com

I love this movie.

In fact, I heart it.

There's just no other way to say it.

Saying that you "heart" something is far more powerful than just saying you like it. In an obnoxious, adolescent way it's how one expresses deep abiding love and affection. You can feel it deep down in your chest, an intense relatablility and intimacy. Imagine your first crush, and writing over and over on a piece of paper I (heart) so-and-so. That giggly schoolyard infatuation.

That's the kind of love I feel for Little Miss Sunshine.

A favorite of the Sundance Film Festival, it tells the story of a highly dysfunctional family determined to get Olive, their young daughter, into the finals of the Little Miss Sunshine pageant in California. Included are father Richard (Greg Kinnear) a struggling motivational speaker, his long-suffering wife Sheryl (Toni Collette) their Nietzsche-obsessed teenaged son Dwayne (Paul Dano,) Sheryl's gay, suicidal brother Frank (Steve Carell) and Richard's heroin-addicted father (a sublime Alan Arkin.)

It's funny and strange, charming and absorbing, and sweet without being saccharine. Every moment, every shot of the film is captured perfectly. The cast is phenomenal, every last one of them. They play off of each other with impeccable timing, no one actor overshadowing the others. Indeed from Carell's inspired portrayal of Frank, the gay, suicidal Proust scholar, to twelve-year-old Abigail Breslin's wonderfully natural presence as Olive, everyone seems to be operating at their very best. It's the kind of smooth, unpretentious acting that's rarely seen anymore.

The acting and superb direction is matched by a wonderful script, with both fantastic one-liners and enchanting banter between the family members. But it's also refreshingly honest. Olive asks Frank if he likes boys and not girls. When Frank says yes, she simply says, "That's silly." No illuminating insights, no "wise beyond her years." She thinks the idea is silly and she says so.

Like a real kid would.

I wish I could speak more about the "dark humor" but I don't want to risk giving anything away. Needless to say, you'll be shocked and delighted and all that. But the interesting bit is that it's tinged with real sadness. Darkly funny things don't just happen in Little Miss Sunshine just to be shocking or edgy or whatever. They want us to feel that sadness. But they want us to laugh too.

The plot may be twisted and darkly humorous, but at the end of the day it's really a little film about the bonds of family. A group of people who've found refuge from the world with each other. The most iconic image, of course, are the members of the family pushing their yellow VW bus, which has broken down and will only run after getting a head start, and then jumping into the van after it gets going. It's hilarious, of course, watching them run after the ludicrous vehicle, especially Carell, who does the best funny sprint since Tom Cruise in, well, in every movie Tom Cruise has had to run in. But the inherent sweetness of it also comes through- they are a bunch of misfits, pushing their slightly shoddy lives up the road together, and then jumping in as a group to whatever end befalls them.

I am a girl with broad tastes in film, and there are many films, in many different genres and levels of talent that I can honestly say I liked. What can I say? I'm a flirt.

But there are very few that I heart. And I heart this movie. I'm infatuated. So go see it. I can guarantee you'll be crushing too.

Oh Come On, You Know You Want to See It...

2006-08-25T15:15:00.000+01:00

Snakes on a Plane
Starring: Samuel L. Jackson, muthafucka!
Written by: John Heffernan and Sebastian Gutierrez
Directed by: David R. Ellis
Official Website
MySpace Page

*Caution: Many spoilers, primarily about what body parts are eaten and/or bitten by snakes. Also, just so you know, there is a happy ending. Try to act surprised.

It was a Friday night, a tad chilly for August, when five friends and I gathered to see it. After a hearty, pseudo-French spread of Au Bon Pain sandwiches and Diet Pepsi, we made our trek across the spooky wasteland of the Boston Fens, dodging broken glass, goose excrement, and stoned Northeastern co-eds. Fenway was aglow that night with the fated Red Sox/Yankees double-header, and as we passed onto Yawkey Way we were greeted with drunken, heraldic cries of "Go Sox!" and "Yankees Suck!"

But we were not here to deride the Yankees with venomous, Guinness-soaked tongues. No, our pilgrimage led us instead to the AMC Fenway theater, the air infused with popcorn butter and throbbing anticipation. Ticket stubs in hand, we walked to our screen.

We could hear them before we entered. The din of a determined mob, fueled by adrenaline and vodka hidden in Dasani bottles. They hooted, they threw popcorn, they laughed and cheered and hissed and shouted vile obscenities. But over it all, we could hear the slow, but powerful chant, a raging plea for what we had all come here to witness:

Snakes! Snakes! Snakes! Snakes!

So began my experience with Snakes on a Plane, the most anticipated movie of the summer, the darling of film bloggers and MySpace users everywhere, and the most entertaining bit of trash I've seen in a very, very long time.

So here's the "plot," as it is: Surfer Dude catches evil Asian Mobster (you can tell he's evil by the flashy white suit coat) killing a prosecutor in Hawaii. Asian Mobster puts out a hit on Surfer Dude, who is narrowly rescued from a Death Squad by Samuel L. Jackson. Samuel L. puts Surfer Dude on a plane to L.A. so Surfer Dude can testify against Asian Mobster and put Asian Mobster away for good. What Samuel L. doesn't know is that Asian Mobster has put a whole bunch of poisonous snakes on Surfer Dude's plane and has sprayed the Aloha leis with this pheromone that will make the snakes extra super-horny and go crazy and kill everyone. Plane takes off, snakes are released by an explosive, snakes... get extra super-horny and go crazy and kill everyone.

And there ya go.

But did you really want to know the plot of Snakes on a Plane? Of course not! All you want to know is how much blood, oozing pus, raunchy plane sex and hilarious one-liners David Ellis could fit into a two-hour movie. The answer is, um, a lot. Jesus, a lot. I mean the first two people killed are a couple smoking pot and joining the mile-high club in the bathroom. The snake bites the girl's naked breast. There's blood spurting everywhere. Later, another snake castrates a man. And another eats the Snobby British Passenger's head. And the audience roars in appreciation.

Because, of course, they had to die.

Samuel L., obviously, is the best thing in it. He becomes almost a parody of himself, a hard-assed, seasoned FBI agent. No non-sense around Samuel L., or he'll tear you a new one. Two new ones if you really piss him off. He's joined by ER-alum Julianna Margulies as Spunky Stewardess (the other flight attendant I've code named Slutty Stewardess), David Koechner as Horndog Pilot, and the inimitable Kenan Thompson as Fat Passenger with Courage. All are wonderfully bad, and I'm pretty sure they all meant to be. It's a return to those golden days of B-Movie Hollywood, a time of large, radioactive ants and UFOs made out of pie plates. Lines are delivered with complete dead-pan- one of my favorite moments has Horndog Pilot talking about keeping the plane from "going down faster than a Thai hooker." And Samuel L.'s inspirational speeches, as well as Surfer Dude and Fat Passenger's emergence as heroes are hysterically earnest, with all tongues placed squarely in cheek.

In the end, though, this film must be watched with an audience. Preferably a drunken audience, with lots of frat boys and people who aren't above hissing at pivotal moments, and hollering "Muthafucka!" every time Samuel L. appears on the screen. Because Snakes on a Plane isn't a movie; it's an event. It reminds us that in the end, movies are a communal experience- they're about having a good time with friends and strangers alike.

In fact, the worse the movie got, the louder we chanted. And the better we liked it.

So, darlings, hold your breath, pay that wretched $10 the box offices are gouging you out of nowadays, and see Snakes on a Plane. On a weekend. At night. With a large audience, in a multiplex, with the good stadium seating and those handy cupholders. And when the time comes, scatter your inhibitions to the wind, and chant along with the others for the one thing that in your primitive lizard brain you know you want to see:

Snakes, snakes, snakes.....

A Slight Delay

2006-08-17T15:24:00.000+01:00

Apologies again for abandoning you all with such callous disregard. Movie Maven has a busy weekend ahead of her (birthday celebrations, plus moving in the wee hours of the morning this Saturday, ugh ugh ugh) and will return to her regularly scheduled programming Tuesday, August 22nd. I promise. Really, I do.

Superman

2006-07-30T23:31:00.000+01:00

Superman Returns
Starring: Brandon Routh, Kevin Spacey, Kate Bosworth
Written by: Michael Dougherty and Dan Harris
Directed by: Bryan Singer
Official Website

I've always been more of a Batman girl. Superman was a little too clean-cut for me, too All-American boy, too morally unambiguous. But when I heard that Bryan Singer, the genius behind X-Men 1 and 2 was directing the new Superman, and that divine scenery-chewer Kevin Spacey was playing nemesis Lex Luthor, I knew this was something I had to see.

Superman Returns seems to pick up where the second Superman left off, with Clark Kent (Brandon Routh) going off in search of his home world. He returns much as he originally arrived- crashing in a meteor on his parents' farm in Iowa. He re-connects with his aging mother (a wonderful and under-used Eva Marie-Saint) before heading back to Metropolis in search of his old job and unrequited love, Lois Lane. But alas, Lois now has a son and a juicy live-in boyfriend, is still oblivious to Clark's identity and consistently out of reach. Plus Lex Luthor's planning to take over most of the United States by growing krypton-infused ice, so Superman's got a lot on his plate.

So what to make of it? Well, first off, I have a theory that newcomer Brandon Routh is actually a CGI. This is not a statement on his performance (which was nuanced and indeed very human) but due to the fact that in two and a half hours of watching him I could not detect a single flaw on his entire body. He is so perfect he looks inhuman, he looks... well, alien. He's also a dead ringer for the dearly departed Christopher Reeve, a fact I'm sure was not lost on the casting director. His performance likewise is based on Reeve's, and he is never more charming than as Clark Kent, fooling the world with glasses and stooped shoulders, and pining after his love who in turn has eyes only for his alter-ego.

The pining actually takes up quite a bit of the film (Singer actually called it his first romance film) and yet somehow it didn't annoy me. Perhaps it was Kate Bosworth as Lois Lane, thoroughly undetestable (unusual for Kate Bosworth,) balancing Lane's femininity and toughness with the skill of a tight-rope walker. Or perhaps it was James Marston as her live-in boyfriend, who they managed to not turn into a bad guy to make the love triangle easier. Or perhaps it's because that's what Superman is partly about, what has helped spur his legendary status and love by fan-boys everywhere. It's about a guy that desperately wants to fit in and can't. A being that has such love for humanity but can't find his own place within the spectrum. Besides the obvious Messiah reference, on a much simpler level it's just about plain old loneliness.
But enough of this deep philosophy- Kevin Spacey wants to take over vast amounts of real estate!! Real estate, you ask? Isn't that a little, well, lame? Yes, unfortunately it is a little lame, but Spacey does the best he can, which is pretty damn good, and infuses his performance as the Q-balled nemesis with a sly humor and grace. Add Parker Posey as his ditzy girlfriend Kitty Kowalski and suddenly the plot isn't nearly as important as watching these two glide over their scenes together.

Unlike Batman Begins, or even X-Men, Superman Returns is not a re-imagining or re-inventing of the Superman mythos, but a glorious act of homage to both the comic books and the first two films. Old footage of Marlon Brando as Superman's father Jor-El is used in one scene (Brando, still fantastic, even from the grave.) One gorgeous shot of Superman gently setting down a car that had spun out of control is a mimic of the original comic book's first cover. And John Williams' original score is played against a thoroughly retro opening credits scene. Done with less skilled hands than Singer's this would have come off as cheesy. As it was, it sent shivers down my spine.

I'm still more of a Batman girl, but Superman Returns helped me better understand the appeal of a home grown Iowa boy who found he could fly. He's the grand-daddy of iconic images, the 20th century version of the pantheon of Greek gods. Singer, his writers, and even Routh understood this concept, which above all is what made the movie successful. It's a tribute to a symbol. An ode to the man in red and blue.

*A few minor content changes since first posting- oh the magic of the edit button!

Just So you Know I'm Still Alive...

2006-07-26T14:12:00.000+01:00

I am a bad Movie Maven. Recent pleasant distractions have kept me from you, my faithful public, and my keyboard has since grown rusty from abandonment. I swear to you, I have four summer flicks in the post queue and a whole rolodex of witty and insightful remarks to share and will do so very soon. Whilst I get my blogging ducks in a row, feel free to peruse my blogroll and take in the heartfelt prose of far more talented people than me. Enjoy!

Save Your Soul for $6.95

2006-07-09T22:51:00.000+01:00

A supreme oddity found courtesy of our good friends over at Wonkette:

Apparently a downloading website Movie Ministry (their tagline is "See the Truth," making it sound either like a thrilling John Grisham adaptation or something involving Al Gore) has produced a series of films dedicated to using modern pop culture to teach about Jesus. The latest? A film based around the new Pirates of the Caribbean:

"DOWNLOAD NOW! Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest may look like a mindless popcorn flick, but sprinkled throughout this summer blockbuster are nagging questions about the value of the human soul and demonstrations of the many ways in which those souls become imperiled. The movie represents a great opportunity to ask about the state of people's souls."

It's called Who Owns Yer Soul, Matey?

Who Owns Yer Soul.

Matey.

I'm sorry, but there's just an inherent ridiculousness to using Depp's effeminate, Keith Richards-inspired Jack Sparrow to talk about God. There's also a sense of desperation in having to use what is a mindless popcorn flick as a platform for spiritual awakening. Things of this nature should be left to Bible study, open dialogue with religious leaders and animated talking vegetables. Leave the pirates out of it.

And for God's sake, never say matey again. I'm not joking.

An Inconvenient Truth

2006-06-25T18:00:00.000+01:00

An Inconvenient Truth
Starring: Al Gore
Written by: Al Gore
Directed by: Davis Guggenheim
Official Website

Photo courtesy of Film Threat

I needed to assuage my liberal guilt.

The best way to do this of course is not by, you know, actually doing anything, but watching other people doing something and agreeing with them heartily. That's what I do. I don't do things. I watch other people do things, and then write about what I watched them doing. This is usually about as active as I can get.

With this philosophy in mind I went to see An Inconvenient Truth last weekend. Both hailed by critics and booed by the right-wingers, I was pretty sure I would enjoy it. Plus I admired its brilliant marketing campaign, which touted the film as a disaster movie a la The Day After Tomorrow or Armageddon, and was called "the most terrifying movie you will ever see."

But while there were some truly unsettling and even frightening moments in An Inconvenient Truth, I didn't exactly run from the theatre screaming. I think there were probably too many graphs involved for that. What An Inconvenient Truth is, is a highly informative and captivating lesson in environmental science, courtesy of Al Gore. Basically a taped session of his "slide show," as Gore endearingly calls it, the movie puts forward the evidence surrounding global warming, discounts the theory's critics and provides a practical, unhysterical view of what will happen to our planet if we continue to slowly poison it.

Gore is at his most genial (dare I say charismatic?) using Matt Groening cartoons and badly done CGI polar bears to illustrate some of his points. But he is also deadly serious, weaving this story of the not-so-distant future with a sense of urgency that hasn't been expressed before. He showed what New York City would look like if the polar ice caps melted and the ocean's level rose (the World Trade Center Memorial site would be completely submerged, a truly disturbing symbol Gore doesn't shy away from.) He flipped through one photo after another of mountain ranges and glaciers slowly melting from the late 1970s until they are practically nothing. "By 2050," he says bluntly, "there will be no more snows of Kilimanjaro."

I wouldn't call Inconvenient Truth a documentary, necessarily- in many ways it reminds me distantly of the movies I was shown in high school science class. People have argued that it's skewed, but that's entirely missing the point. Gore's argument is that his slide show- and likewise this film- can't be skewed because all scientific evidence (not some or most but all) points to global warming as a human-induced process that is rapidly changing our climate and world. Graph after graph of the distinct rise in temperature, emissions, and climate events like hurricanes can't lie. Gore isn't skewing the truth, because for him (as well as the vast majority of scientists) the truth can't be skewed.

Go see An Inconvenient Truth. The critics are right that it is an important film and actually a lot more entertaining and captivating than a lot of people would believe. But most importantly, see it because in the end it's not a movie that terrifies. At least not by the end. Because Gore, at the end, has hope for the future. His main point is that this is a fixable problem, that every single person can help to slow. By making global warming our fault, he is also showing that what we began we can cease. We can all do something, not just watch others doing it and agree with them. We have power over our world.

Tell HBO To Ready for Blood

2006-06-22T13:31:00.000+01:00

I've been disappointed in TV lately.

This is of course usual for summer, a period that becomes an endless circulation of pointless reality shows and sit-coms half-heartedly begun and then abandoned around mid-July. And there are few things actually worth watching on network TV anymore, in general. It was a fairly good season in '05-06, with The Office flourishing and Battlestar Galactica somehow managing to thrive in the wasteland of the Friday night lineup. The Daily Show is always a keeper, and The Colbert Report on afterwards has become a fantastic platform for Stephen Colbert's limitless talent. Law and Order: CI seems to have taken up the cop show slack that the original L&O has dropped in the last season after the still-painful death of Jerry Orbach/Lenny Briscoe. And though The Sopranos ended on a irritatingly boring note, it's still a revelation of the modern televised drama.

But most of these shows have left for summer vacation, forcing TV execs to fill the void. Summer programming for the most part has always seemed awkward, a little cheap, and thrown together. I'm not a reality show kind of girl (Project Runway being the exception- oh, how I loves the Santino) and if I have to sit through one more cop/sexy lawyer show I am most definitely going to hurl. Yes, it is a long, hot, barren summer in TV land.

Except for Deadwood.

An oasis in the desert of summer programming, Deadwood (Sundays, 9 p.m. HBO) has quenched my thirst for entertaining and thought-provoking television. Masterfully crafted for the past three years by creator and writer David Milch, the show about the infamous South Dakota town set during the Gold Rush takes the traditions and cliches of the western for a ride. The best factor by far is the dialogue, which is a mingling of undulating Shakespearean-inspired prose and unadulterated profanity. It's a sweeping epic of a show, with a massive, talented cast and fascinating historical sub-plots. Deadwood was created to show the development, and so-called civilization, of America in a microcosm.

For those unfamiliar with the history of Deadwood, it was mining camp in the South Dakota territory, a filthy, lawless place run by a handful of power brokers. The most powerful of these was Al Swearengen (Ian McShane) owner and proprietor of The Gem saloon and whorehouse. The entire cast of characters (which over the years has included Wild Bill Hickock, Calamity Jane, and Seth Bullock,) are wonderful, rich and intriguing, but it is McShane as Swearengen that captures the show and makes it what it is. He's one of the most well-defined, and complex characters I've ever seen, capable both of grotesque brutality and unbelievable mercy. He is funny and terrifying, intelligent but capable of making very serious mistakes in his business dealings. But most interestingly of all, Swearengen becomes integral to the evolution of the camp into a real town and its subsequent annexation to the United States. He does this determinedly, even though he knows it means the end of his reign as the leader of the camp. He is willing, even glad, to relinquish his authority to help make Deadwood what it could be. His affection for the camp, and his hopes for its future parallel those of the founding fathers, albeit he accomplishes his goals by slitting a lot of throats.

This season sees a threat to his plan, when historical mining mogul George Hearst comes to town with a thought to bend Deadwood and its leaders to his will. The first episode "Tell Your God to Ready for Blood" banged onto the screen, featuring a shoot-out in The Gem, Bullock beating the slimy E.B. Farnum to a bloody pulp and a shaky conspiracy between Bullock and Swearengen against Hearst. I've never seen an episode I haven't enjoyed, but this season is shaping up to be one of the most interesting and captivating I've ever seen.

And probably with good reason. Because HBO hasn't renewed it.

Deadwood is not a show to view idly. You cannot fold laundry or do your homework while you watch it. You have to sit and take it in, like a fine meal, focusing on each line, partly because of its innate beauty, and partly because it can sometimes be heinously confusing. So it is either abandoned for lighter, more accessible fare, or (in my case) it becomes an obsession, viewed several times throughout the week, scanned and analyzed and discussed with other true believers. Symbols and mundane details are picked apart with the intensity others reserve for Scripture or poetry. Characters are mourned in their deaths. Swearengen is worshipped as a demi-god. These are Deadwood people. Unfortunately, there just aren't enough of them.

Milch asked for four seasons in which to tell his story. He had a very specific plan, and an image of the time-frame he wanted for his show. But falling viewership combined with more money spent on another sweeping epic, Rome, has caused HBO to re-prioritize. The execs have given the go-ahead for an two two-hour film "episodes" completing the series, but it's just not the same. So while the tedium of Entourage and the truly ghastly Lucky Louie continue unabated, smart programming has once again been trumped for ratings. This is less common on the network, since it's based on subscriptions, but they still need viewers, and the large base audience just isn't there.

Of course since this was announced, Blogland and near-neighbor MessageBoardistan became riotous with protesters rising up against The Man to save the show. To no avail, probably, but if you'd like to join the resistance against the George Hearsts of HBO, visit savedeadwood.net or The Huffington Post, which are rallying supporters.

Deadwood will soon pass away to television heaven, though I have a sneaking suspicion that DVD sales might cause the tyrants at HBO to re-think their original decision. But until then, we can all have shot of whiskey every Sunday, as we watch a show about America in the making, toasting to Al Swearengen with a grand "Huzzah."

Photo courtesy of: St Petersburg Times

Artistry at It's Finest

2006-06-18T21:50:00.000+01:00

The Mighty Peking Man (Xing Xing Wang) (1977)
Starring: Danny Lee, Evelyne Kraft
Written by: Kuang Ni
Directed by: Meng-Hwa Ho

Photo from shaolinchamber.com

I have been overwhelmed cinema-wise lately: Netflix has been bombarding me, as has Blockbuster Online, which I have joined free for one month, and tends to send its movies en masse. Friends have been lending me western, sci fi and drama staples, that I "just have to see" and Deadwood, the best show on television has returned for its final season (a post on that coming as soon as I can get my act together.) Not to mention the blockbuster season is upon us, with all sorts of fun, interesting and stupid things to see in theatres.

Unfortunately, this boon of information has coincided with a writer's block the size of the Berlin Wall. I sit in front of my laptop (or desktop in the case of when I'm at the Real Job) and tap my fingers across the keyboards, hoping against hope that perhaps the clacking sound will jog my sluggish imagination. I don't like using writer's block as an excuse for not doing work, but I don't know what else could be the cause.

But apparently humidity has done the trick. It's a wretched 90-something degrees in Boston right now, with a humidity factor of one hundred million percent. So after a weekend of dirty Boston beaches and laying on my bed in boxers and a tank top trying to move as little as possible, my brain has clicked somewhat back into place, and my fingers are typing merrily away.

While in the heat-induced trance in my un-airconditioned apartment, I needed something that didn't require the workings of too many brain cells. The Roommate and I flipped about the cable until landing on IFC, and the hysterically bad Mighty Peking Man, a frightfully dubbed rip-off of King Kong.

So here's the deal: this giant ape-man, right, he's, like totally freaking out all the villagers around the Himalayas, he's all "Oooohh, I'm Peking Man, I'm so mighty, I'm gonna eat you and stomp on your house!" So all the humans around him are like, well screw this, let's get some bad-ass kids to come show Peking Man what for. So they get this anthropologist named Johnny (Danny Lee) who's all messed up because his girl cheated on him with his brother, and needs to get away. So he agrees to go to the Himalayas and capture Peking Man with a group of trappers. It's all awesome, because they run into some rampaging elephants (which are really just meandering elephants they sped up on the film to look all... rampageous) and climbing the Himalayas is really really hard, and Johnny runs away because he's fragile or something. He gets lost, and they all give him up for dead, when he finds this jungle chick in a skimpy animal hide bra (Evelyne Kraft) who has been there since her parent's plane crashed when she was a little girl. She calls herself Ah Wei, but Johnny keeps calling her Samantha for some reason (probably just the crappy dubbing.) Anywho, Ah Wei/Samantha has a repore with Peking Man, saves Johnny's ass and they fall in wild jungle love. But Johnny, he wants to, like, civilize her and stuff, but she, like, can't be tamed, you know? So Peking Man takes them back to the city, but other people who want to put him on display capture him, and Johnny doesn't care because he's got his hot jungle wench. I stopped paying attention for a while after that, but basically the ape-man is put on display, he sees the evil promoter attempting to rape Ah Wei/Samantha, freaks out and starts trashing the city. He does get up on a tall building and is shot at by planes, but I think he actually dies in a fire. Ah Wei/Samantha almost dies too but Johnny saves her. The End.

It's not so much the derivative aspect of this movie that makes it so lovable- it's the fact that it has absolutely no sense of humor about itself. This was made in a time and place before spoofs and ironic remakes, a time of supreme cinematic innocence. We are not expected to laugh at the immovable, emotionless face of the guy in the ape-man costume, we are supposed to feel heartfelt sympathy. Passionate sadness for the tragic creature. When Peking Man picks up Ah Wei/Samantha (as she strikes one of several provocative poses in the beast's claws. like she's vogueing for Cosmo) we are only supposed to see their primitive friendship and doomed love. It's sweet.

So as summer hits with its derivative films and remakes, its monsters and hot chicks in slut-tastic jungle wear, be sure not to forget the monsters and slutty jungle chicks of summers past. When we lived in a kinder, gentler time of animal-hide underwear and multitudes of fleeing Asian extras. Long live Mighty Peking Man.

The Omen

2006-06-09T15:11:00.000+01:00

The Omen
Starring: Julia Stiles, Liev Schreiber, Seamus Davey-Fitzpatrick, Mia Farrow
Written by: David Seltzer
Directed by: John Moore
Official Website

Photo by: 20th Century Fox

I'll start by saying that I was pretty sure this movie was going to suck. All the reviews were indicative, and the director was the guy who did Flight of the Phoenix. But I went to see it (not on 6/6/06, unfortunately it was sold out) hoping that it would be scary. Really scary. I can handle a bad horror movie if it frightens me. I hadn't been sufficiently scared by a contemporary film in a long time, and I was jonesing for that sense of unease, for the feel of my heartbeat fueled with adrenaline, a good gasp and jump. I wanted to sleep badly that night. I saw the original Omen when I was 10 or 11 and I still remember it fondly as one of the most frightening films I'd ever seen. I am a fear junkie and I was hoping for a fix.

Too bad it just kind of sucked.

This movie was not scary. I couldn't believe it. It was like it wasn't even trying. There were a couple moderately good jumps- choppily edited visuals of Damien in a scary mask, holding a rope, predictable but still effective. But the rest is hideously dull and flat. Damien's father and a reporter (David Thewlis) go to a cemetary populated with upside-down crosses and a giant black dog attacks them. Oooohh, subtle. Julia Stiles, besides looking far too young for the role as Damien's mother, is wooden and stilted, a far cry from Lee Remick's nuanced and brittle portrayal in the original. Even Schreiber, who's usually consistently good is beaten down with bad dialogue. The movie klunks along with predictability, like a badly oiled machine. It seemed like Moore had maybe seen the original Omen a few years ago on HBO and had a vague sense of how it was supposed to go. It had all the plot, to be sure, but none of the atmosphere, or sense of unease of the first.

The worst part, of course, is the actor who plays Damien. Child actors are difficult in the best of situations. Apparently the director chose not to tell Davey-Fitzpatrick that he was supposed to be playing the son of the devil- I'm not being glib either, they really didn't tell him. They apparently didn't want to "freak him out" (a perfectly legitimate thing when dealing with a six-year-old) but how is the poor kid supposed to play somebody evil when he doesn't know that he's supposed to be evil? Suddenly it's very clear why Damien never really looked "evil-" he just looked kind of sullen and frustrated. Less antichrist and more "a bully stole my tricycle."

The two who actually manage to pull their weight are Thewlis as reporter Keith Jennings and Mia Farrow, playing the satanist nanny Mrs. Baylock. They both liven up the joint and bring a surprising amount if nuance to their limited roles (and both of them bite the dust in fabulously nasty ways.) But they are the exception, not the rule.

The Ring Two. The Haunting. The Grudge. All sucked. All were re-makes or adaptations. But they were all scary, primarily because they managed to catch the subtle facets of horror. They had timing and a profound sense of what images truly keep us up at night. The Omen had none of this- only a trudging sense of obligation to re-make a perfectly fine film. Not to expand upon the ideas within it, or tell the story with a different perspective, but to make money and capitalize on a fortuitous date.

There are only so many ways Damien can frown.

Patrick Dempsey Says: Don't Be Frontin'

2006-06-05T19:05:00.000+01:00

I have a friend who, if it's even possible, is a bigger TV and film addict than I am. So one rainy day last weekend, I meandered over to said friend's house for a day of being completely useless and sedentary. As we flipped through the cable, which is normally rather trashy of a Saturday afternoon, we landed on the ABC Family channel and Love Don't Cost a Thing, starring Nick Cannon and Christina Milian.

Can you think of a bigger waste of time? We were overjoyed and made merciless fun of the dialogue, filming (which had a weird shaky-cam effect that is really more appropriate for an intense documentary than a beach dance scene) and Steve Harvey, the poor bastard, who played Cannon's father. Basically the plot is Cannon is a geek who pays Milian $1,500 to be his friend for a few weeks so he'll become cool. There are coordinated dance numbers, which makes it worth a viewing for me, and we watched happily until this line:

Cannon: "I'm with her now."
Milian: "Her? (Snorts derisively) She's given more rides than Greyhound."
Cannon: "Yeah, but at least I didn't have to pay $1500 for a ticket."

At this point my addict friend sits up and screams "Oh my God! I know this movie! Have you ever seen Can't Buy Me Love?" I admitted shamefully that I had never even heard of it. We popped it in immediately (well, right after a hysterical viewing of Real World/Road Rules Challenge,) and I hadn't realized how incomplete my life had been before this movie. Patrick Dempsey as skinny lawn boy with floppy hair pays cheerleader Amanda Peterso n to be his girlfriend for two weeks to make him popular. Cheerleader plays it tough, but she's got a sensitive side too, and in the midst falls in love with nerdy Dempsey. But Dempsey's had a taste of popularity, and (oh shame!) loses both his friends and the girl. But all will be well, for the floppy-headed Dempsey learns his lesson, gets his old friends, frightens the school bully and gets the girl.

In effect, it is the same movie.

There are montage sequences and 80's power chords and (huzzah!) coordinated dance numbers. But the whole reason for the movie's existence is Dempsey's truly fabulous performance as Ronald Miller, 80's lawn-boy geek extraordinaire. He becomes popular purely by accident, and never really stops being a geek. Cannon, by contrast, is simply a playa-in-waiting, one who exhibits two extremes of personality, and simply chooses the good one.

But let's not get technical. After all, we are talking about a movie with Nick Cannon and Christina Milian.

All the best lines in Love Don't Cost a Thing are simply stolen from Can't Buy Me Love. Besides the Greyhound lines (which are indeed identical Amanda Peterson's dialogue) there's an entire poem recited word-for-word from the original script and a couple of other exchanges that are hauntingly familiar.

It's kind of like they took the script, and added in a "dawg," "playa," or "shorty" every time there was a gap in the dialogue. Classy.

We are in an age of perpetual remakes, adaptations and general lazy screenwriting. From the painstaking rip-offs of Japanese horror to the remake of Superman, due out soon, it's hard to find a movie that hasn't been recycled from something else. Some are good and some are bad, but this example takes the cake. So here's your homework assignment: watch Can't Buy Me Love and then Love Don't Cost a Thing, and view the degeneration of filmmaking at work. Or, if you disagree, let me know.

Patrick Dempsey says don't be frontin'. Someone should have told Nick Cannon.

X-Men: The Last Stand

2006-06-04T23:24:00.000+01:00

X-Men: The Last Stand
Starring: Hugh Jackman, Patrick Stewart, Famke Janssen, Ian McKellan
Written by: Simon Kinberg and Zak Penn
Directed by: Brett Ratner
Official Website

Photo courtesy of: Slide 2

In the hectic atmosphere that is Movie Maven's existence, I didn't get a chance to wish you a Happy Summer Movie Season!! All semblance of budgeting my money and time at the theaters has gone out the window with the prospect of air conditioning and watching some seriously cool shit blow up. While I suppose my unofficial entre into Summer '06 came with The Da Vinci Code, I decided to celebrate the vacation from school and Oscar films with X-Men 3.

The first two installments of the series have been my favorite comic book movies to date. Bryan Singer, who directed X-Men 1 and 2 really tapped into the universal themes established in the comics, and the link to issues today: racism and government control, the ambiguousness of evil, etc. It was less about the plot and more about introducing whole, real people into a fictional crisis on the world stage. Singer had a poetry and rhythm in his work, a beauty and darkness that stayed with you long after you saw the movie. The special effects were impressive not just because of their noise and flash, but also their ingenuity (one part I always have in my mind is when Magneto (Ian McKellan,) who can manipulate metals, sucked all the iron out of a guard's bloodstream and used the iron as a method of escape from his prison in X-Men 2.) The X-Men flicks were always big, loud movies, but there was a method to it. I always had a sense that Singer and his crew handled the story and characters with care and affection.

I didn't get that sense with the third, this one directed by Brett Ratner. The story centers around a "cure" to mutant power that's been developed and is now available to the anyone who wishes it. Some think it's awesome, some think it's an attempt at mutant genocide. And then the fun begins. If in adept hands, this would be a terrific jumping-off point for serious discussion, but Ratner apparently is no Singer. Ratner doesn't handle the story so much as inflate it, stuffing it full of sub-plots, exploding cars and tons of extraneous mutants until it heaves and begs for Pepto Bismol. He doesn't love and develop his characters so much as introduce them and then leave them hanging off the proverbial cliff. There's just too much stuff. For example, he introduces Angel (the delectable Ben Foster,) a boy with wings. One of the truly memorable scenes in the film is in the beginning where a 10-year-old Angel is in bathroom of his home, desperately cutting off his own wings with a saw, a look of pure terror in his eyes. After this one would think Angel would be featured. Perhaps have some sort of extended dialogue with other characters. Some development of who he is as a man. But no, the poor lad is relegated to jumping out of a building, his CGI wings flapping behind him, and, in one scene, saving his mutant-phobic father from death as his lab is destroyed. That's all she wrote. So a truly impressive beginning dwindles and melts away in the face of blowing up some seriously cool shit.

Now if this was just benign summer fun, I would not gripe so much. But as an X-Men fan, Ratner and screenwriters Kinberg and Penn did something completely unforgivable in my eyes.

They made Phoenix into a sub-plot.

Phoenix, for those who are not as dorky as I am, is a pure, undiluted manifestation of the powers of the telekinetic Jean Grey (Famke Janssen.) She's not evil, per se, but is pure emotional and supernatural energy, rendering her unstable and incapable of reason. For many comic book aficionados, this plot-line borders on scripture- it's the grand-daddy of X-Men literature.

The problem with it in this movie is not that they oversimplified it (though they did) or completely changed the way in which she operated (though they did that too) but that they didn't consider it worthy for a main plot. She comes back, she looks evil and kills a lot of people, including several main characters. The end. Her coming is wrapped up in the war between mutant and "homo-sapiens" (as Magneto derisively calls them,) and in the end the movie is about the war and not Phoenix. While I admire the directorial bravery in having her kill off the people she did, there was simply not enough of her story to make any kind of coherent sense. Plus it's just disrespectful.

I would still call X-Men worth a viewing, though I think a rental from Blockbuster would suffice in lieu of spending your ten dollars on Surround Sound and cup-holders. It was a disappointing end to a rather wonderful series, but Hugh Jackman is still bad-ass, Patrick Stewart is still dignified and smart, and Ian McKellan still has gravitas to spare. The director may have sucked the life out of the plot, but these three still manage to emerge from the bloated film intact.

Plus some really cool shit blows up.

No One Can Resist the Golden Lasso of Truth!!

2006-05-31T03:21:00.000+01:00

In the absence of "having seen any good movies lately" I am relegated to the task of digging up some coherent movie news. I would have given various vital body parts to be able to report on Cannes, but unfortunately I was forced to forgo the French paradise for the dizzying natural beauty and star-power of, er, Toledo, Ohio.

While about my rounds of merciless celebrity gossip and box office numbers, I stopped by Neddie Jingo's, a blogger of whom I am quite fond. Neddie Jingo, as you will see by clicking on the link, has a habit of referring to Mrs. Jingo affectionately as Wonder Woman. This sparked in my memory a reference I had heard to a possible Wonder Woman movie coming out. I hastened to IMDb for confirmation, and lo, there it be in all its glory!! In pre-production, and helmed by none other than my darling Joss Whedon himself! From reports derived from various comic book geek websites, Whedon is currently writing the script for the movie and is set to direct. The question on everyone's mind, of course, is who will play the Amazon princess-warrior, and the forums are abuzz with names, both plausible and ludicrous. A favorite of mine, of course, is Lucy Lawless, but I think she might be a little old for the gig. People have mentioned the usual lolli-pop headed trolls, Mischa Barton, Rachel Bilson, as well as Lindsay Lohan as other possibles. I heard a very funny story in which Kate Beckinsale was asked if she was set to play WW- she laughed hysterically and said, "I think Wonder Woman's supposed to be quite tall."

But the name that keeps popping into my head hasn't really been mentioned: Gina Torres.

Torres is actually a Joss whedon favorite- she premiered on his brilliant-but-cancelled show Firefly as co-captain Zoe, and later played the role in his film version of the series, Serenity. She's also appeared on Angel as a malevolent demi-god. Can you imagine anyone better?

I know what you're thinking- wah?? A black Wonder Woman? Well, why not? Last I checked the Amazonians were a race all their own- they didn't hold with the preconceptions of race within the world of Man. So they'd have no problem with an African-American woman being their divine princess who wields a golden lasso.

According to Whedon, whoever gets the gig will be playing it OSWW- Old School Wonder Woman. "I can tell you that the film will be about introducing you to Wonder Woman," he said to Empire Online last March. "She'll be wearing the outfit and there will be the bracelets, the golden lasso and Greek gods." While comic book purists will be happy with that, what I really want Whedon to keep is the sense of fun and irony that Lynda Carter instilled in her portrayal of the Amazon. There was a whimsical sense of humor that emanated from the 70's era TV show and if Whedon can keep that going, I think it'll be a fabulous addition to the summer movie line-up of 2007 or 2008.

Cate Blanchett to Play Bob Dylan in Biopic....

2006-05-30T17:01:00.000+01:00

...yes, you read that correctly.

Seven different actors, in fact, will play the folk icon in a biopic entitled I'm Not There, according to Yahoo News. Each actor will take on different facets of his life and personality. Others who have reportedly signed on include Heath Ledger, Christian Bale and Richard Gere (Blanchett is to play Dylan during his 'androgynous' stage, natch.)

The movie will be directed by Todd Haynes, formerly of Velvet Goldmine, a biopic of David Bowie.

So how fabulous is this entire concept? Mainly I find it fabulous because of the risk involved- this is one of those projects that will either work splendidly and make gobs and gobs of money, or will flop horribly and messily like a fish on a line. I haven't seen Velvet Goldmine, but I have seen another Haynes flick Far From Heaven with Julianne Moore and Dennis Quaid, which was beautifully done and haunted me for days afterward. So I'm hopeful that the Dylan impersonators will be in good hands. I'm a little surprised Dylan even consented to a film about his life, judging from his hermit-like personality. Most writers call him an "enigma," which is how they refer to any public figure who doesn't constantly shill for them. Even in his recent forays into public life- his radio show on satellite radio, his documentary with Martin Scorcese, his autobiography Chronicles: Volume 1, as well as rare TV interviews- still leave him very much a mystery. Dylan has a truly spectacular knack for allowing the musician to be in the spotlight, while the man himself stays in the shadows. What this will mean for the content of the movie remains to be seen, but you can bet I'll be first in line on opening day.

The Notorious Bettie Page

2006-05-29T16:28:00.000+01:00

The Notorious Bettie Page
Starring: Gretchen Mol, Chris Bauer, Lily Taylor, Sarah Paulson
Written by: Mary Harron and Guinevere Taylor
Directed by: Mary Harron
Official Website

When I went to see The Notorious Bettie Page, I began to think about light. It is not something one normally thinks about for long lengths of time, unless one is a Director of Photography, but this lovely, simple film was drenched in it.

It moves back and forth between black and white and a luscious technicolor, all the while putting Mol in a halo light- very similar to what they did for actresses in films during Page's reign as the pin-up queen (primarily the 1950s.) The whole atmosphere becomes like the flipping of an old photo album. This is synchronized with the plot, which does not show any of Bettie Page's experiences in-depth, but flips through them too, to see a beautiful overview of a highly singular life. There's a refreshing unpretentiousness to Harron's film, something pure and tame (ironic, considering the material.)

For those who don't know, Bettie Page was a model, of the swimsuit category, the nude category, and, most notorious of all, the bondage variety. The film chronicles her life from her childhood in Kentucky, to her move to New York City and beginnings in the modeling world. Mol as Page is simply fantastic. Page was a plucky girl, taking everything that happened to her in stride. It's obvious that her past played a role in her modeling and entrance into pornography. She was molested by her father as a child, and was gang-raped when she was a young woman- both events are apparent, but not shown, exhibiting a restraint that's uncommon in today's filmmakers. Her relationships and her career were all affected by this, but they are not dwelled upon, as it's apparent that Page herself didn't dwell on them. She moves to New York City, and finds the Klaw siblings (touchingly portrayed by Chris Bauer and Lily Taylor) who introduce her to the wonders of bondage modeling.

The modeling scenes are both hilarious and even kind of sweet. It didn't seem to register with Page what bondage really is. At one point a director asks her what she thinks God thinks of her work. "Everybody has a talent," she says. "Mine is posing. If what I do makes people happy and doesn't hurt anyone, isn't that what God wants?" Indeed, early bondage films and photos were tame compared to what can be uploaded today (it usually involved riding crops and girls in giant black corsets with high heels- one can see worse on cable TV any day of the week.) But this primitive form of modern bondage attracted the ire of several men in the Senate, including then senator Estes Kefauver (played by David Strathairn, fresh from his glorious turn in Good Night, And Good Luck.) In the end, Page is made to wait for hours at the Capital Building to testify at a pornography hearing, only to find, as usual, that the men in the room will make the decisions about what is decent, with no input from her.

America has always had a rather twisted view of sexuality, alternately being titillated by it, and trying desperately to pretend it isn't there. Bettie Page was a symbol for that paradox- everyone said they despised it, but the truth is somebody out there was buying. Page was the cheerful, unknowing contradiction of all the 50s stood for, something that comes across perfectly in the movie without Mol (or Harron) having to beat you over the head about it. It's a glorious little film, one well worth having a look at.

The Da Vinci Code

2006-05-24T20:14:00.000+01:00

The Da Vinci Code
Starring: Tom Hanks, Audrey Tautou, Ian McKellan
Written by: Akiva Goldsman
Directed by: Ron Howard
Official Website

Photo by cinematical.com

WARNING: I have scattered spoilers throughout this post with reckless disregard for people's feelings. If you have not read the book or seen the movie and still give a damn, skip this post.

A thousand apologies for my regrettable absence. I've been struggling with two movies I saw last weekend- Da Vinci, and The Notorious Bettie Page (review on that delightful little muffin to come soon.) An unfortunate case of writer's block had me in its stubborn grasp, and I have just now been able to break free.

But I digress...

No doubt all of you have read the harrowing reviews of the film- or at least heard about them. It's boring, it's ludicrous, it's pompous, it's flat. The reviews have been written with a certain manic glee- they're not just panning the movie, they're beating it over the head with a two-by-four, throwing it against a wall and kicking it until it lies cold and limp on the floor.

But it's what the reviewers are not saying that's really interesting. They're completely ignoring the real problem with the movie. The camera-work is not extraordinary, but up to par. The music is fine, the plot developments are coherent enough. The settings are often very beautiful. And the performances are actually quite good. Ian McKellan is especially wonderful, very funny and gets the movie going at a good clip. Alfred Molina does a fine stint as a creepy Cardinal And Paul Bettany can play a murderous, self-flagellating, Albino monk like nobody's business.

Do you see the problem yet?

I'll say that again: "murderous, self-flagellating, Albino monk." That's the problem. The content, the plot, the entire book upon which the movie is based on, is STUPID! I don't know how else to put it- it's stupid! S-T-O-O-P-I-D! Make an anagram out of that, bitches!

And the monk's just the beginning. The symbologist (if that's an actual word) meets up with the cryptologist at the Louvre where the cryptologist's grandfather has just been murdered. They go on a wild, mad-cap chase, involving the "murderous, self-flagellating, Albino monk," go to an extremely weird Swiss bank with blue lights and conveyer belts with boxes with clues inside to find the Holy Grail. Which is not actually a cup, by the way. It's a person. Or a secret. Or a sarcophagus. Or something. One of the main characters ends up being the direct descendant of Jesus Christ, and there's a shoot-out and the corrupt policeman sees the error of his ways and there's this really cool thing buried under the pyramid in front of the Louvre.

See my point? The movie is slow, because the plot is so convoluted it needed to be explained ad nauseum to make any sort of sense at all. And when you think it's about to end, it's not, because Dan Brown, and likewise Ron Howard, can't let anything be a mystery in this story. Nothing can be left to our imagination. Every last damn gritty detail must be laid before our feet. And explained. Preferably twice.

In many ways I actually prefer the movie to the book, much in the same way I prefer the Lord of the Rings movies to the actual literature. In a movie, all of Dan Brown's ravings and endless, badly-worded descriptions can be bypassed. Do I need and 20-page account of what the Mona Lisa's smile looks like? Nope, cause I got the real thing right in front of me. Do I require a sermon about the Church's supposed cover-up of the truth about Christ. Nuh-uh, cause Ian McKellan can say the same damn thing is about two minutes. All adaptations must be compressed for time. Most of the time, this means that something important gets lost in the transference. This time, all it means is that Brown's stilted, wearying literary fat has been trimmed away, for leaner, sexier storytelling.

But there's only so much trimming one can do without becoming unintelligible, and I still stumbled out of the movie feeling like I'd been watching Tom Hanks' greasy hair for about nine hours. It's very unfortunate. I like the themes that both the book and the movie address. The question of faith, the corruption of a legitimate religious institution by fanatics, the fight over who or what Christ was and what that has to do with the message he tried to give us. And, in the end, the subjectivity of history. All of these are wonderful things to write a book about. And make a movie about.

I only wish it had been written by someone else.

A Continuation of Wrath

2006-05-20T05:08:00.000+01:00

I'm really trying not to hate The Da Vinci Code yet. I'm really, really trying. I'm seeing it tonight, and I'm really trying to keep an open mind.

Yet I can't help but feel a little savage glee at the recent reviews of the film at the Cannes Film Festival. Among other things, it's called "talky," and "boring," and The Hot Blog cited a "clusterfuck of attention seekers wanting to be proclaimed The First to Pan Da Vinci!" It's almost startling the voracity at which the reviewers turned on their media darling, like wolves on a weak member of the pack.

I did hear one positive review. Half asleep at a friends house, I watched a very surreal episode of Entertainment Tonight with botoxed, speed-freak Mary Hart at the Cannes. After taking about an hour to talk about what dress she was wearing and how much her necklace is worth, she went to the movie and said afterward (quote) "I have just one word for it- WOW!"

I really am trying to keep an open mind. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the word I'm going to think of after the movie won't be "wow." Just a hunch.

The Pleasures of Guilt

2006-05-16T20:22:00.000+01:00

People don't understand the concept of a guilty pleasure. Most label chocolate, or grande mochas from Starbucks as their guilty pleasure. Some say television or Lindsay Lohan. I had one guy tell me his guilty pleasure was Harry Potter.

But these are not true guilty pleasures. First of all, they are all extremely popular things, which many people love and adore. A true guilty pleasure should be relatively unpopular, or at least unpopular in the sense that people don't like to talk about it. It must be specific: television, for example is too broad. There are loads of fabulous and reasonable things to watch on TV. Well, maybe not loads, but at least two or three. And the guilty pleasure must be something indulged in rarely. If you're scarfing down Hershey kisses every day of your life, it's not a guilty pleasure, it's your diet.

Plus the whole point of a guilty pleasure is the guilt. If you're telling everyone you meet that you really like grande mochas from Starbucks, how guilty do you truly feel about it? You're paying lip service to the guilt: I'm on a diet, I know this is bad for me, but it's so good, oh I'm being so bad, etc. etc. But true, deep guilt is not voiced aloud, or at least not voiced regularly. No- a true guilty pleasure has to be genuinely embarrassing.

So, after that long and particularly patronizing introduction, I find I have a confession to make. I know this will probably come back to haunt me, but what the hell, I don't know most of you in real life anyway.

I have a guilty pleasure. It's name is Passions

Passions. You know you know it- the soap opera on NBC, modeled a little off the earlier soap Dark Shadows. Every day at 2 pm for the past six years or so it's been on. It involves the natives of a small New England town called Harmony (one's not quite sure what state it's in, kind of like The Simpsons.) Besides traditional soap opera fare (murders, amnesia, forbidden love, children who go away to boarding school and come back one month later as adults) it also has a bizarre spiritual/mystical component, which weaves in and out of the plotline as necessary. There's a witch, for example, named Tabitha, played by veteran British actress Juliet Mills, looking like she's having the time of her life. When the show first began, Tabitha had a living doll named Timmy, who became a real boy, but then was killed, and then she got pregnant by Julian Crane of the Crane empire and had Andora who's a witch, but she has a conscience and is a hopeless romantic and just wants her half-brother Fox to be happy with Kay, but Kay still loves Miguel, who right now is having a thing with a mermaid, and....

um, never mind.

The plot is relentlessly complex, and yet one can leave it for months to go to school, come back to it in the summer and know within ten minutes what's going on. They basically tell the entire back story in their dialogue. Like, "I can't believe Whitney's in Rome! We need to find her before she gets hurt or runs into Chad, her half-brother who she had a relationship with before she knew they were related and fostered an illegitimate child with him. Now she's gone crazy and thinks that monk is God, and is doing his nefarious bidding."

The best plotlines on Passions always have to do with the Cranes- the family that runs Harmony and has amassed a huge amount of wealth and influence from what appears to be a fish cannery. One of the best lines I ever heard on Passions was from Sheridan, talking about her father Alistair Crane, the evil patriarch of the Crane Empire. "You don't understand," she says. "He's so powerful. He could bring down governments with a single phone call."

That's right. A fish monger can bring down governments with a single phone call. He doesn't even need a second call to confirm it.

He knows it's done.

I don't know how this show has survived. Perhaps it's mainly due to people like myself who know its absolute crap and yet cannot look away. It's like a freak show- we are repulsed and yet amazed. We know we're wasting one hour of our lives we could be spending doing meaningful work. We could be working on a painting. Helping the poor. Teaching inner city children how to read. Finish that book about global warming we've been meaning to get to. But we don't care. We sit. And watch.

We watch with friends and loved ones and giggle like schoolgirls at how bad we are. We make fun of the show, of the acting, the writing, the production values. And yet there's something in its complete vanity and emptiness that we find comforting. We indulge in its cheerful, airheaded nature for an hour, before having to wander back to the painstaking muck of everyday life.

Now that, my friends, is a guilty pleasure.

(Photo courtesy of Passions website- see above)

The Inexplicable Allure of the Da Vinci Code

2006-05-12T03:37:00.003+01:00

The ads are everywhere. On the TV promos, pounding instrumentals accompany shots of the Louvre glowing ominously in the distance, Tom Hanks with bad hair and Paul Bettany skulking in the shadows of some sort of crypt. I hear mentions of it on the lips of passers-by. It is referenced at gatherings and dinner parties that I attend. I read newspaper articles devoted to the subject, watch as network news shows are forced to shill for the thing by their parent company.

It's everywhere.

It's a conspiracy.

I read The Da Vinci Code after a recommendation by several people who had similar literary tastes as myself. I read. And I read. And I read. Through pages upon pages of description of the Louvre, to the lurid details of self-mutilation, through the preposterous conspiracy theory and irritatingly condescending tone of author Dan Brown. I read and I read. I read through being offended as a Catholic... Well, not really. I'm not a very good Catholic, and I was offended mainly because if someone's going to knock my faith they better have the decency to do it with talent. But still! I finally got through the whole thing, after putting it down on several occasions in favor of more entertaining fare. It boggled my mind how such a convoluted and ridiculous novel managed to garner so much attention and love. All I could hear was the whiny high-pitched voice that I imagine Dan Brown having. "Ooh, look at me!" Brown says. "I'm Dan Brown. I'm the smartest little boy in the whole world! I know sooo much about cryptology! Eat it up, you sheep!"

I hated the book with a fiery passion that is unmatched by any other I have known.

And yet I want to see the movie.

I know what this is. It's the peer pressure of adulthood- a marketing war being waged on so many fronts you can't hide from it. I'm blasted with promos in surround sound at my local theatre. I see them at home. Articles, pseudo-news stories, word-of-mouth, interviews with talk-show hosts... It cannot be escaped. Especially not by me, a self-professed media whore who gobbles up every morsel of marketing like subliminal creme brulee. If drug dealers had this kind of PR I'd be snorting, injecting and smoking everything I could lay my hands on. I admit it. I am a sheep. It's the only explanation for why I have a burning desire to see a film adapted from a novel I hated. With a lead actor I don't like all that much. With a director I don't like all that much.

So what to do? I could give in to my unholy, media-created desires, see the movie, take it for what it is. Many adaptations are completely different from the book they're adapting, and it would be interesting how the script diverts from the original text. I can sometimes enjoy Tom Hanks' company and I'm quite a big Paul Bettany and Audrey Tautau fan, not to mention Ian McKellan and Alfred Molina, all of whom are in the film. At the very least it would make excellent fodder for a post. But I also want to resist the temptation, to stand up and say no, I will not go to a movie just because the whole world is telling me to. I can think for myself, thank you very much, and I have limited funds which I can spend on better things. Food. New clothes. Diamond-studded collars for my dog. I could see a different movie, a better one. Hell, even M:I:3 has Philip Seymour Hoffman in it! And I could go to bed knowing that I'd resisted the marketing, I'd refused to sit through two hours of Dan Brown's ego-tastic extravaganza.

Oh, who am I kidding? Baaaaahhhh.

The Sad Part is I Would Actually Watch This

2006-05-09T05:22:00.000+01:00

Thanks to Whedonesque and SMRT-TV.com for this hilarious "Modest Proposal" about a Law and Order set in space. Plus the oh-so-dreamy Adam Baldwin is on the graphic. What more do you need?

And Just Once More...

2006-05-07T04:25:00.000+01:00

One of my final projects for Online Journalism class (from whence this blog was spawned) was to create a multimedia package using photos and audio. I did mine on the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge, MA, which you may remember from earlier postings. Here's the link to the finished product, in case you're interested. I do apologize for my voice in the introduction- I believe I recording the narration in my apartment bathroom at 2 o'clock in the morning the night before audio was due, while The Roommates slept soundly in the room beyond. Anyway, creative director Ned Hinkle is far more pleasant to listen to. Here again is the link.

I also apologize for my absence for the past few days. Mother Maven and my dear Auntie Mame picked me up from Beantown on Tuesday for a few days of gallivanting in the city. I am now returned safely to the bosom of my family and friends for a little holiday and will continue to blog regularly from the Toledo Bureau of Movie Maven. Alas, The Heartland of America offers far less interesting films, but I shall do my very best.

Austin Powers in Goldmember

2006-04-29T17:29:00.000+01:00

Austin Powers in Goldmember
Starring: Mike Myers, Beyonce Knowles, Seth Green, Verne Troyer
Written by: Mike Myers
Directed by: Jay Roach
Official Website

(Photo courtesy of Projections-Movies.com)

Your beloved Movie Maven has been despondent lately. I, along with Roommate #1, are moving out and into a new apartment, while Roommate #2 will be departing our company for greener pastures (and far better housing) across campus. Roommate #2 was packing up this past weekend, taking down posters, throwing things in plastic bags- always a bittersweet endeavor. To lift our spirits, we decided to see what crappy Friday night movie was playing on the little Toshiba. To our surprise and delight we found the perfect antidote to pre-moving melancholy: Austin Powers in Goldmember.

What a fabulously ridiculous mess Myers created when he wrote this movie. Though not nearly as funny or well-executed as his first two Bond-spoofs, it has its own derivative charm. It's the same old gag, of course. Austin (Myers) is the international man of mystery, Dr. Evil (also Myers) is his nemesis, along with Evil's clone, Mini Me (Troyer.) The girl in this case in Foxxy Cleopatra (Beyonce Knowles,) a play on Pam Grier and the blaxploitation films of the 1970s. There's a host of other characters, some new and some from the previous films. It's a comforting film by not throwing you for any loops- you laugh because you laughed at the same jokes in the previous movies.

Myers one failing was actually the title character: Goldmember, a Dutch 70s playboy, who eats his own flaking skin and is named because of an unfortunate, ahem, smelting accident. "I like goooooolllld," he yells at odd moments. Like Fat Bastard before him, Goldmember is disgusting without being remotely funny- and yes, gross-out humor is funny when applied correctly (see the infamous Van Wilder eclair scene for confirmation.) For some reason when Myers is in Goldmember's character, his impeccable timing goes completely off. It's almost as if Myers himself knows how bad a creation this character was, and has basically just given up.

Though Goldmember may be a complete loss, the other characters are surprisingly funny. One of my favorites has always been Scott Evil, Dr. Evil's son (played by sharp and adorable Seth Green.) Green doesn't even really have to do or say anything: one glance of pure hatred at Mini Me, or look of disbelief at his father's idiocy has me completely in stitches. Similarly wonderful is Michael Caine as Nigel Powers, Austin's absent father. Caine, of course, is completely overqualified for the job, but seems to be having the time of his life. He settles into character easily, dignity and charm oozing from every pore.

Though every fiber of my being is telling me that this movie is a complete waste of time, I can't help but love Myers and his silliness. Though he takes many disguises in Goldmember, he's simply the best when he's Austin Powers, the horny spy with a sensitive side. When he's on the screen, all reason goes out the window, and all you want to do is laugh.

I Guess I'm in a List Mood Today

2006-04-24T19:34:00.000+01:00

I love science fiction.

Sometimes.

I have very strict parameters when dealing with science fiction. The genre is too finicky, too varying in taste and quality, and I need to protect myself. There's nothing worse than having to sit through two hours of bad sci-fi.

Here are some of my rules:

1. Have something to say. For me, good sci-fi is not about spaceships, lasers and pointy ears, but is a tool for talking about something more universal and timeless. Futuristic films, for example, stress the present fears of technology, big government and the devastation of war. How many books have you read or movies have you seen about a futuristic dystopia or post-war anarchy? The Matrix tapped into Millennial fears of rapidly expanding technology, the loss of humanity and identity. They are also often about searches or journeys, both literal and metaphorical: Buffy was often about isolation and the journey for redemption. Firefly (and later Serenity) was about the search for home and family in a hostile environment.

A lot of sci-fi claims to have something to say, but it says it in a way that's too blatant or cliched. Or the maker mucks the message up by putting too much other crap in it. Star Wars is a good example. Sure, anyone could talk about the battle of good versus evil, the Greek tragedy flawed protagonist with Anakin, blah blah blah. But any quality message is devoured by Jabba the Hut, and to take away any meaning also means you have to swallow hours of unnecessary puppets and prosthetics. Which leads me to my next rule:

2. All prosthetics, make-up and fancy-looking gadgets must be integral to the plot to be included. For example, my very favorite sci-fi TV shows to date are Firefly and the new Battlestar Galactica. Want to know what's cool about both these shows? No prosthetics. Killer robots, yes. Bumpy foreheads, a big resounding no. The extraneous material, while sometimes amusing and/or integral to the plot, often gets in the way of the story. The props and the make-up become what you see, sacrificing the dialogue or the performance. Part of the joy of Battlestar Galactica is how rudimentary their technology is, how they have to get along with the bar minimum because the cylons could infiltrate anything technologically beyond it (long story- rent the DVD.) The people of Battlestar Galactica run the show- not the technology.

3. Love stories should be kept to a minimum. I want to see space battles, complicated political machinations, and men in brightly colored tights- not sappy love scenes. This was part of my issue with the new Spider-Man. I don't care about Peter Parker and Mary Jane. Especially when Mary Jane is played the thoroughly uninteresting Kirsten Dunst. Every minute of screen time spent on the love story in Spider-Man II was a minute taken away from the fabulous Alfred Molina and his animatronic tentacles. In other words: completely wasted. If I want to laugh derisively at a love story, I'll rent You've Got Mail.

4. Just kidding. I would never rent You've Got Mail.

5. Nine times out of ten, if the word "star" is in the title, I'm probably not going to like it. The only exception I can think of for this rule is, obviously, Battlestar Galactica. Star Wars, Star Trek, and the interminable Stargate series- I hate them all. I know right now sci-fi geeks across America are clutching their chests in horror- how can I honestly call myself a sci-fi fan if I don't like Star Trek or Star Wars? They just don't interest me. I think with Trek there was a point in one's childhood where one makes the choice to be a Trekkie, and the opportunity just passed me by. As for Star Wars, I simultaneously despise it and am fascinated by it. I hate it because it's boring and unnecessarily long and pointless and badly written with no character development, and is purely a vehicle to push massive amounts of merchandise. And I am fascinated by it because of George Lucas's great gift for taking truly talented actors and killing that talent slowly and mercilessly. This caused me small bouts of amusement when he was just screwing with Harrison Ford. But then he grasped the divine Liam Neeson in his clutches, shredding his acting prowess and dignity like a fat, bearded hawk. This, I cannot forgive.

And as for Stargate... forget it, I'm not wasting any more time on Stargate than has already been wasted by Sci-Fi channel making me watch promos for it. Let's just say it's kind of like Sliders, meets Dawson's Creek, meets a lot of really bad one-liners. Plus one of the characters has both a bumpy forehead and this little gold doo-hickey on top of the bumps. I have no patience for this.

Well, there you have it. I am a picky eater when it comes to sci-fi, but when I can find something good, I devour it obsessively. Below is a list of my five favorite science fiction films/shows, the five worst (in my opinion,) and my five sci-fi guilty pleasures. Disagree with me? Let me know!

My Top Five Favorite Science Fiction:

1. Battlestar Galactica (the new one)
2. Firefly
3. Twilight Zone
4. The X-Files
5. Blade Runner

Top Five Most Hated:

1. Stargate
2. Star Wars
3. Star Trek
4. Farscape
5. Quantum Leap

Top Five Sci-Fi Guilty Pleasures:

1. Sliders (oh how I loves the Jerry O'Connell)
2. The Fifth Element
3. Plan 9 From Outer Space
4. Invasion of the Body Snatchers
5. Alien

Brick

2006-04-20T18:34:00.000+01:00

A note: Hello kids, did you miss me? The rampaging King Kong of exams has finally been shot down and I can get back to the business at hand. This review is coming a little late (I actually saw it about a week ago) but its memory still lingers pleasantly in my drained, post-finals mind. So enjoy!

Brick (2005)
Starring: Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Nora Zehetner, Lukas Haas
Written and Directed by: Rian Johnson
Official Website

(Photo: Jospeh Gordon-Levitt, courtesy of Cinema St. Louis)

There are people who hate this movie.

As opposed to the waves of mediocrity (and similarly mediocre reviews) that most recent films tend to bring, Brick has inspired a venom that reviewers usually reserve for Dr. Suess adaptations and post-Bodyguard Kevin Costner flicks. At the New York critics' screening, according to Andrew O'Hehir of Salon, several walked out of the theater, one griping that "life is too short." But despite this, it nabbed the Sundance Special Jury's Prize for Originality of Vision, and has garnered itself decidedly mixed reviews ever since.

And so that is how I went to see Brick on a warm spring Saturday evening- looking for something to either despise or love with equal passion.

And I loved it.

Most summaries you Google will tell you that it's a re-imagining of Dashiell Hammett's detective noir of the '30s and '40s, a la The Maltese Falcon and Red Harvest, set in a Southern California high school. A Bogart thriller if Bogart was a cast member of The OC. But it is so much more than that. Newcomer Rian Johnson's film exists in a world all its own, a world he built using not only Hammett, but everyone from David Lynch to Quentin Tarantino to the Coen brothers. Brendan (played by wonderful Gordon-Levitt, whom I've loved since that ghastly Third Rock from the Sun sitcom,) goes on a search to find out what happened to his ex-girlfriend Emily (Lost's Emilie De Ravin.) Eventually Brendan finds his way into the inner circle of The Pin (Lukas Haas,) a 26-year-old dope-dealer. He crawls deeper and deeper into the underbelly of his idyllic suburb, looking for answers, and, finally, revenge.

There are maybe three adults in the entire film, and the teenagers themselves talk in hard-boiled crime novel-speak, using terms like "hooked," "yegs," and "dames." There is nary a "dude" or "awesome" to be heard. And the entire tone of the movie switches and twists, keeping the audience on its toes. Sometimes its a black comedy. Sometimes its a noir thriller. Sometimes its a teen movie. This jumping around doesn't seem to sit well with many, but for me it simply means that Johnson defies clear description. He is paying homage to the kinds of films he loves. But simultaneously he is breaking them down, mixing the parts together and building it back up, like some sort of genre Frankenstein. And the most fabulous bit is that it works. Like Brendan, we never know whats around the corner.

The filming is beautiful, a classic view of the sparse southern California landsape with no real center. And it's a view of a teenager's world: a universe of school parking lots and classrooms, of underpasses and pothead hang-outs, of warm maternal kitchens and smelly basements. The plot is a fantasy, the stakes much higher that most high schoolers are used to. But the world will be eerily familiar to anyone who can remember. Ironically, it's a more realistic vision of the high school experience than anything dreamed up by the purveyors of She's All That and 10 Things I Hate About You.

His actors are better, too. Levitt is every bit the outcast, hunched up in an oversized jacket. He spits Hammett-esque lines with the driest wit and his performance melds amoeba-like between campiness and serious noir. But the stand-out is Haas as The Pin, who's terrifying even as he's being very very funny. He strolls humorlessly around the screen in a goth wizard's cape, carrying a cane with a duck's head on it. He waxes poetic about Tolkein "the hobbit guy," vaguely reminiscent of Travolta's soliloquy on the Royale with cheese. He is, in many ways, the embodiment of Brick: funny and serious, goofy and terrifying, derevitive and highly original.

Whether you love or hate Brick, there is no denying that Johnson is a director to watch. Divisiveness is the name of the game- it creates fodder for that elusive pixie "buzz," which can keep a director's career running long enough to make another movie. And there's no doubt in my mind that Johnson has a few more tricks up his sleeve.

A note: Apologies to Dashiell Hammett, who's name I spelled wrong in a prior version of this posting. (Were he alive, I'm sure he would be terribly offended.)

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, etc., etc.

2006-04-16T19:38:00.000+01:00

Well darlings, it's been fun. But the end of the semester fast approaches and I have been instructed to write a tearful farewell to Blogland.

But wait, you cry! I can't possibly be finished yet. I still have to post on noir art house favorite, Brick, which I saw last weekend. And I have to tell the tale of my experience with the Godzilla/King Kong marathon. Plus I'm very much looking forward to a little British naughtiness called Kinky Boots, about a drag queen that saves a shoe retailer. Oh there's so much more to see and do!

Don't worry my little cinephiles. I'll be taking a few days off to do icky exams, but near the end of this week I will return to my little blog to quench your thirst for completely uneducated commentary on all things film. I'd like to thank Prof. Matson for the opportunity to begin this little experiment, and say that it's been one of the most wonderful, and beneficial assignments in my college career (cough, I want an A, cough, cough.) But seriously, I had a fabulous time and learned a lot. Thanks again Professor!

And as for the rest of you (all two or three of you) I'll see you all at the end of the week. Ta!

Hey, I Think I Know That Guy

2006-04-14T17:19:00.000+01:00

It's that guy.

You know, that guy. The guy you see all time in film and on TV, but never really know his name. You know you saw him somewhere... oh yeah! He was in that one episode of Criminal Intent- he played the rich sociopath who killed his wife by infecting her with a rare tropical disease. And I think he might have been one of Elaine's boyfriends on Seinfeld. And wasn't he the guy who gets killed first in that movie about the giant snake? Yeah, that guy!

They are a celebrity unto themselves, those guys. They exist in the film and television spectrum of the Law and Order empire and bit character roles in romantic comedies. They are third billed in the opening credits. They are the ones eaten first in horror flicks. They are henchmen and firefighters and reporters and ex-boyfriends and goofy best friends. They are that guy.

One of my favorite of those guys is a man named Evan Handler. Handler's got the true "that guy" resume, especially where television is concerned. There's the obligatory guest starring on Law and Order and Miami Vice. A couple of failed sitcoms, a few big blockbusters, including Natural Born Killers and Ransom. He played Charlotte's husband for awhile on Sex and the City. Just recently he was on Lost as a figment of one the principles' imagination. And he was brilliant! He usually is. I'm always ecstatic when I catch Handler on the screen- his performances are nuanced, memorable and always well-rounded. And I love to watch him. There's something deeply intelligent about his eyes, which makes him very attractive- short, barrel-chested and bald though he may be.

Another one of those guys is actually a girl. Ever heard of Clea DuVall? Maybe, maybe not, but there's no doubt you've seen her. There's something about DuVall's look that makes her perfect for The Rebellious Teenager roles- edgy and sometimes disturbed. She's been in everything from Girl, Interrupted, to The Faculty, to 21 Grams. She was also the designated girly screamer in films like The Grudge and Helter Skelter. But her best performance was as Sophie, the waifish psychic in HBO's Carnivale. Carnivale, which centered around a traveling circus in Depression-era America was one of HBO's shows that was never able to gain Sopranos-style popularity, but was probably one of the most intriguing shows on the network- which is saying a lot. And DuVall was wonderful was the haunted clairvoyant. Plus she had one of the hottest sex scenes I've ever seen with Nick Stahl (always a plus.)

There's a whole world of these guys (and girls) who actually make up most of Hollywood's working actors. And as long as Dick Wolf and Wes Craven have a breath in their body, there will be work for these talented sort-of-knowns.

p.s.: There's an excellent article on my beloved Salon, written by one of "Those Guys." Read it! Come on, you know you wanna!

The Actor and the Entrepreneur

2006-04-14T03:34:00.000+01:00

This is a little continuation of my previous post on the beleaguered Brattle theatre. I thought I'd talk a little about the theatre's founders. Alas, the 4-minute limitation of my multimedia presentation for which I began research in the first place prevents me from delving too deep into their history, so I thought perhaps I'd elaborate here.

Bryant Haliday and Cy Harvey, Jr. were the two young men who turned the scrappy stage theatre into a cinema. First of all, how AWESOME are those names? Like something out of The Magnificent Seven, though admittedly about a century too late. Nevertheless, I imagine them mustachioed and wearing bowler hats. I fantasize that Cy carried a cane and had a genteel flower in his lapel. Bryant was the violent upstart, with a 12-gauge in his hand and revenge in his mind

In reality they were Harvard grads, living in relatively civilized Cambridge, MA.

Bryant was an aspiring actor, who, as creative director Ned Hinkle put so well "starred in a couple of horrible B-movies I've never seen." You can IMDB him here. He had also acted in some of the stage productions at the Brattle, and I can imagine he probably cared deeply for the space.

Cy Harvey was another character altogether. He was the entrepreneur of the outfit, according to Hinkle, constantly shifting focus. He and Haliday started a lot of different businesses in the shape-shifting rooms of Brattle Hall. They opened two private clubs, the Casablanca and the Blue Parrot Café, both of which survived to become restaurants. They rented out a dance studio. And they had a intriguing little gift shop called Trouke, which sold imported goods and was "kind of a head shop for a while," according to Hinkle. Trouke will come into play later on in this little tale. Anyway, Harvey had been a Fulbright scholar studying in Paris during the French New Wave. He was in the thick of it- Jean-Luc Godard, Francois Truffaut, the Cahiers du Cinema, and the Cinemateque Frances. It was here, says Hinkle, Harvey was inspired to bring foreign and art cinema to the states. Together their passions led them to the Brattle in 1953, and began the tradition of new, different, and outright bizarre films being shown there.

This love and passion also eventually led them to begin Janus Films in the 1950s, which was one of the few production companies that brought the most important foreign film into the states: Godard, Truffaut, as well as Ingmar Bergman, Frederico Fellini, and Akira Kurasawa, among others. In other words, half my Introduction to Film Analysis syllabus. Janus, interestingly enough became the Criterion Collection of DVDs, one of the most reputable distributers of classic masterpieces.

So here they are. Two men who effectively changed the shape and face of independent cinema. And it seems like they had a pretty swell time of it too.

A note about Cy Harvey: Among many other things, Trouke sold some fancy imported soaps that Harvey was apparently crazy about. In the early 1970's he decided to pursue the soap business, set-up a shop in Cambridge and did pretty well for himself.

He founded Crabtree and Evelyn.

Entrepreneur indeed.

Glorious Stop-Motion

2006-04-11T04:08:00.000+01:00

After the lumbering encroachment of final exams have been annihilated, I can look forward to a different set of dreaded monsters: the King Kong and Godzilla triple feature at the Coolidge Corner Theatre!! Three movies, showing back to back on April 26: the original King Kong, the original Godzilla, and the classic King Kong vs. Godzilla! What more does a girl need to shoo away the dizzy stresses of college life? They'll be shown in new 35 mm prints beginning at 7 p.m., and all three movies are just $10.

So if you're in town and can tear yourself away from the grim realities of existence for a few hours, come to the Coolidge and indulge in some old-school escapism: in the forms of a gorgeous screaming blonde, fleeing Japanese and a glorious stop-motion fight-to-the-death.

Coolidge Corner Theatre:
290 Harvard St.
Brookline, MA 02446
(617) 734-2501

Photo courtesy of The Coolidge Corner Theatre

Thank You For Smoking

2006-04-08T20:10:00.000+01:00

Thank You for Smoking (2006)
Starring: Aaron Eckhart, J.K. Simmons, Maria Bello, David Koechner, Rob Lowe
Written and Directed by: Jason Reitman
Official Website

(Photo: Bello, Koechner, Eckhart; courtesy of salon.com)

One of my favorite things to do is rip into a movie that everyone else loves. From Gone With the Wind, to Titanic, there are few greater pleasures than pointing out the glaring idiocy of some of the best-loved films of all time. I went to see Thank You for Smoking this weekend with mixed feelings: I knew that it would either live up to the hype or completely bomb. I hadn't seen a crap movie that everyone else loved in a long time, and part of me wanted it to bomb so I could destroy it with diabolical relish. Its ego, or a bizarre film-related sadism, but I find it hilarious.

So in a twisted sort of way, I was disappointed. Because Thank You for Smoking does live up to the hype, and more. While I hate the term "laugh-out-loud funny," it was precisely that. A mixture of absurdist and extremely subtle humor, blended with fantastic casting, brilliant writing, and wonderful camera direction. A well-tended strawberry daiqueri of a film, if you will.

Meet Nick Naylor (Aaron Eckhart,) divorced, father, and super-lobbyist currently flacking for the tobacco industry. He can talk his way out of anything, and has been named the Sultan of Spin. There isn't really a plot so much as a series of subplots outlining Naylor's life. He goes on a talk show and successfully argues against three anti-smoking advocates and a 15-year-old "Cancer Boy." He visits with the "Captain" of the tobacco industry (Robert Duvall.) He goes to L.A. to bargain with an Asian culture-obsessed executive (Rob Lowe) to include more smoking in films. He lunches with the lobbyists for alcohol (Maria Bello) and firearms (David Koechner,) who affectionately refer to themselves as the M.O.D. Squad (Merchants of Death.) He sleeps with a reporter (Katie Holmes) and is promptly burned by her in an article. And he argues against a hippy anti-smoking Vermont senator (William H. Macy.)

If the content of the past five or six parentheses are any indication, this is an inspired cast, all hilarious in their own right. Eckhart was never a favorite of mine, but he's slips into Naylor's consciousness seamlessly. He's sleazy, true, but not repulsive. His charm is infectious, and his colorful spin eventually begins to dupe you too. "Cholesterol is the leading cause of death in the United States," he says at a Senate hearing. "And here's Vermont clogging the nation's arteries with it's Vermont cheddar cheese!" Ridiculous? Of course. But you're so charmed you don't care. It suddenly becomes feasible that his ludicrous tactics would work with the public. Macy is his usual talented self. He makes his Senator Finnistirre both right in ideals, and just as sleazy as Naylor, at one point yelling at an aide for not finding a pathetic-enough Cancer Boy. Lowe, along with Adam Brody as his enthusiastic lackey, Jack, both have perfect timing- and it's Brody of all people who says probably the funniest line in the movie. Even the latter member of the unholy "TomKat" alliance holds her own.

It's interesting to note that everything in the film looks tainted by tobacco. It was filmed in a yellowish hue that looks like tar has settled on the walls, in the air, on the characters. And it occurred to me later that despite the prevalence of smoking (it is the premise of the film after all,) no one is actually shown smoking. Or not that I can recall. At one point, Nick sits with his sleeping son and crushes an empty pack, but that's about it. Strange, and I'm still pondering what it could mean. They certainly don't shy away from the effects of smoking- there is one sobering scene where Nick bribes the original Marlboro Man, who's been ravaged by smoking-related illnesses.

So don't feel bad for me. I can comfort myself by shamelessly mocking Titanic or some other over-hyped movie. And go see Thank You for Smoking and spread some spin of your own.

(Note: A few grammatical dribs and drabs were corrected from an earlier version of this post.)

A Depressing Case of Disillusionment

2006-04-04T18:15:00.000+01:00

Moulin Rouge (1952)
Starring: Jose Ferrer, Zsa Zsa Gabor, Suzanne Flon, Colette Marchand
Written and directed by: John Huston

(Photo courtesy of shutterfly.com)

On the surface it looked perfect: the original Moulin Rouge (the inspiration for Baz Luhrmann's vibrant adaptation,) fantastic character actor Jose Ferrer, the divine Zsa Zsa, and directed by none other than John Huston, previously of The Maltese Falcon and The African Queen, both essentials of classic cinema. It's the perfect combination, no?

NO.

This... this thing betrayed me! The first scene in the famed Paris nightclub lures one into a false sense of security. The place is dirty and the capering girls are loose and obnoxious with bad teeth. Ah, I thought to myself, this is Paris in the nineteenth century: brash, luridly glamorous, petticoats a-flying and legs akimbo. The painter Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec (Ferrer) sits at a table in the club, downing a bottle of cognac and drawing sketches of the dancing girls right on the tablecloth. He throws out zingers and one-liners, one after the other, like finely tuned right hooks; he is bitter and drunk. He is fabulous.

Then Zsa Zsa comes out and starts singing and the whole thing goes down the tubes.

Perhaps it was my fault. Perhaps I was spoiled from enjoying this experience by Luhrman, Nicole Kidman and her fiery rendition of "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend," and a far jollier version of Toulouse by John Leguizamo. But when Gabor came out in a bizarre plumed hat (see above) singing about "Flowers in April," as the so-called star of the Moulin Rouge, I got a slow sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

The movie just gets wierder from here. We are offered a lengthy flashback which recounts the reason for Toulouse's bitterness: he was injured in childhood when he fell down a flight of stairs. Or, as the movie would have you believe, launching himself down the stairs in a sad attempt to make it look like an accident. Whatever happened, the bones in his legs didn't knit, stunting his growth. His girlfriend leaves him because he's a cripple, his father laughs derisively at his childhood sketches, blah blah blah. Fast-forward to the present, and Toulouse enters into two tumultuous relationships- one with a street girl, Marie (Colette Marchand,) and another with a mature woman named Mryianne (Suzanne Flon.) He struggles to balance his art, his relationships, his family name, and his increasing descent into alcohol.

Ferrer becomes increasingly irritating through all of this, and his snappy delivery becomes more and more monotonous. Ok, we get it, you're angry and bitter at life! I would comment on Marchand's performance, except I couldn't understand a word she was saying. The editing was laughable, the music was grating, the plot becomes more and more useless and almost bored with itself... I could go on and on.

While I was doing a little research here and there, I found a most disturbing tidbit of information: this movie was nominated for an Academy Award- several in fact. And it won for Best Costumes and Best Art Direction. It was also nominated for Best Picture and and Marchand got a nod for Best Supporting Actress. One of the worst movies I had seen in a long time, and it got nominated for Best Picture. There is no justice in the world.

It might have been all right if the movie was amusingly bad (see prior post on Snakes on a Plane) but it's just dull, dry, and uninspiring. Perhaps it's not entirely the movie's fault- it would be hard to impress someone who's seen Luhrmann's adaptation, and even harder to beat Leguizamo's lovely performance. But whoever's fault it is, there's no excuse for that kind of betrayal.

I'm So Excited I Can Only Write in Simple Sentences

2006-04-03T23:40:00.000+01:00

There's a new movie coming out this summer.

It's about a guy who wants to kill this person who's going to testify against him.

So he releases a whole crate of poisonous snakes on the plane the witness is on to kill him.

You know what it's called?

Snakes on a Plane.

No, I'm not kidding.

Click the link above- you'll find the IMDB listing for it. Heck, have it's official website link too.

Interesting. The official website doesn't have much except a link to a fan site, and New Line Cinema's logo.

Not even a synopsis of the movie.

But then you don't really need one, do you?

It's a movie about snakes on a plane.

'Nuff said.

Gets straight to the point- I like that.

Anyway, Samuel L. Jackson's in it.

The IMDB listing says that Jackson took the part purely for the title. He was adamant it not be changed when they began marketing the movie.

I like Jackson's moxie. Only he could star in a movie entitled Snakes on a Plane and still maintain a shred of dignity.

Here's one of his lines:

"Enough is enough. I've had it with the snakes."

Is that not the best line ever uttered in film? So decisive, so take-charge!

So, I guess the conclusion to this silly little interlude is obvious:

I can't wait to see Snakes on a Plane. I'm purchasing tickets as soon as they're available.

And Samuel L. Jackson is the coolest man alive.

That is all.

(Photo courtesy of About.com)

She's the Man is a New Way of Filmmaking... Ummm Ok

2006-03-31T17:28:00.000+01:00

I'll preface this post by saying that I have not seen the new Amanda Bynes movie She's the Man, a modernization of Twelfth Night. So I have no reason to talk. But when I read New York Press film critic Armond White's fawning review of the film, something just didn't sit right with me. Let's have a little blockquote for context, shall we? (Bold type added by me.)

She’s the Man operates at a less literal level than such ’80s drag comedies as Soul Man and Just One of the Boys, and it’s not a sophisticated comedy-of-drag manners like Clare Peploe’s dazzling 2002 film of Marivaux’s The Triumph of Love. Instead, director Andy Fickman and a trio of screenwriters simplify Shakespeare’s plot to offer an innocuous, but buoyant, moral lesson. Avoiding the gender pathology of Boys Don’t Cry, they’ve done what most purveyors of pop culture don’t think to do: borrow from the past for edification. She’s the Man’s modest and, yes, corny use of Shakespeare offers contemporary filmgoers what Max Ophuls called The Memory of Justice.

Most purveyers of pop culture don't think to use the past for edification in film? Is he kidding me? The past ten to fifteen years of popular mainstream film have been nothing but homages to classic literature and theatre. Clueless was based on Jane Austen's Emma. She's All That was based on My Fair Lady, which was based on the Greek play Pygmalion. 10 Things I Hate About You was based on The Taming of the Shrew (which was also the inspiration for Kiss Me Kate.) And in the name of all that is holy, what was Baz Luhrmann's Romeo + Juliet, if not a pop culture opus edifying Shakespeare's love story? What was Moulin Rouge, if not a mingling of the past and present to create a portrait of universal themes that everyone, including Shakespeare, have dwelled on? For crying out lout, what was freaking Shakespeare in Love?

And those are just the ones I could think of in the past five minutes.

She's the Man may be a fine ol' time (preliminary reports indicate that it actually isn't horrible- see here and here for other reviews) but it certainly isn't the first of it's kind, or even the most striking. If anything, the old "borrowing from the past for edification" game is getting a little tired.

Because the World Needs Midnight Viewings of Hudson Hawk

2006-03-28T18:57:00.000+01:00

The Brattle Theatre is not a movie palace. Unlike the other art house theatres along the muddy Charles River- Coolidge Corner, Kendall Cinemas, the Somerville Theatre- the Brattle is like an old sweater, threadbare and strangely comforting. Creative director Ned Hinkle says it "has character," which is a pretty accurate description. Old spotlights hang from the ceiling, a remembrance when the theatre was a venue for live theatre. The carpeting is old and musty, a huge neon clock proclaims the time for the audience sitting in the dark. Creaky stairs lead to the balcony, directly above the extra seats which are set up to accommodate any stragglers into the 250-seat theatre.

But it's not the aesthetics of the place that brings people to the Brattle, or instills such a profound attachment for the venue. It's the programming. Ever since it's inception as a cinema, the Brattle's proprietors have had a mission to bring films that you can't find anywhere else. One of their greatest coups was finding a print of Eisenstein's Ivan the Terrible Part II, which was thought to be destroyed by Stalin during the Cold War. They were among the first theatres in the country to show important cinema that failed financially but survived the tests of time: Welles, the French New Wave filmmakers, and foreign cinema that wasn't state funded. It was a gathering place for the artistic, the avante garde and the curious.

In short, it's one of a dying breed.

The Brattle got another shot at life, however, when its owners announced last year that without a massive fund-raising campaign the tiny theatre could be shut down forever. It was a call to arms for the Boston/Cambridge community, who poured in the moolah, winning the Brattle owners a year's extension on their lease. But they still have to raise $250,000 by the end of this year, so if anyone in the area has a spare farthing or two, toss it in the Brattle's poor bucket. It'll be a donation not just for the Brattle, but for the scores of interesting, independent, foreign and just plain weird movies the Brattle makes it's mission to show.

Oh yes, a quick explanation of the title before I move on...

Hudson Hawk, for those who are not fortunate enough to know, was one of Bruce Willis's vanity projects, very bad, and very entertaining. It includes just about everything and the kitchen sink, but here's a couple running themes:

1. A kidnapping
2.The works of Leonardo Da Vinci (without having to wade through pages and pages of Dan Brown's overblown ego! Huzzah!)
3. Mystical (or at least very shiny) crystals hidden in the works of Da Vinci.
4. Musical action sequences.
5. It's complicated. And the plot doesn't really matter anyway.

In any case, the Brattle had two midnight showings of Hudson Hawk last weekend (their April Fool's Guilty Pleasure feature!) It's just a little break from their fancy-schmancy intellectual-type movies. Art theatres have a sense of humor too, despite popular belief.

So, I say again, drop a tuppance in the Brattle's coffers. Do it for art. Do it for Eisenstein. Do it for Hudson Hawk.