Movie Maven

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.

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.

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 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.

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?

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
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 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

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.)

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!

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!

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.

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)
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.)

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.

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)

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.

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.

I've played this game many a time with Mother Maven and her compatriots, and recently had an exciting round with The Roommate in the noble pursuit of procrastination.

Here are the rules:

Each player names an actor or actress. The other players have to decide whether they think that actor is a "boy" or a "man" (with actresses of course it's 'woman' or 'girl.') If a player disagrees they are to, um, disagree vehemently and state their case. Then all players decide by democratic vote who is correct. Generally, whether an actor is a boy or a man depends upon the roles said actor plays, although the behavior of said actor in real life can also be debated.

Example: George Clooney is a man. Topher Grace is a boy.
Female Example: Emma Thompson is a woman. Kirsten Dunst is a girl (except in Interview with the Vampire, where, ironically she was a girl playing a girl who acted like a woman. Oh, those pesky vampires!)

Now comes the tricky part. Occasionally one will run across an actor/actress who defies simple categorization. Either their roles have been too diverse and complex, or they are pathetic man-children who haven't yet reached a mature stage in adulthood that can register in their performances. In such a case, The Roommate and I have decided that there should be a merging of said maturity levels- "Moy" and "Wirl," respectively. The naming of a Moy or Wirl must be sufficiently explained to come into play.

Example: Johnny Depp is a Moy, mainly because his chameleon-like ability to morph into whatever character is required enables him to be alternately boyish and playful or manly at will. It is a rare gift.
Female Example: Kate Winslet is a Wirl, because she is able to integrate both a girlish cute factor without being nauseating, as well as an ability to fit into complex and mature roles. Also a rare gift.

There are no winners or losers in this game, and you can play until exhausted and/or bored with the entire affair. Play it with your friends! Play it with your family! Play it with a stranger on the bus! Or you could just debate below in my fabulous comments box. Enjoy!

The Three Faces of Eve (1957)
Starring: Joanne Woodward, David Wayne, Lee J. Cobb
Written by: Hervey Cleckly, Corbett Thigpen (book,) and Nunnally Johnson
Directed by: Nunnally Johnson
IMDB listing

The first time I ever saw Joanne Woodward in a film was when my Art, Drama and Music professor showed The Fugitive Kind, a humid, glorious retelling of the Orpheus myth adapted from Tennessee Williams's play Orpheus Descending. I've watched it many times since then- at first I was understandably preoccupied with a very young, very beautiful Marlon Brando, who played the tragic hero. But after awhile, I began to notice Woodward's fabulous performance as a wild New Orleans party girl. Woodward thrashed around barefoot in an old party dress through most of the movie, loud and obnoxious and entirely captivating.

Since then I've seen her in several other films, including Empire Falls, Philadelphia, and Sybil. But never have I seen her talents employed in such brilliant quality as in The Three Faces of Eve. Woodward is Eve White, a mousy housewife unwittingly suffering from multiple personality disorder. It's interesting how almost frivolous the plot seems now. The worst thing that came of her illness was her idiotic husband (David Wayne,) and the film fast-forwards through many of Eve's breakthroughs, making the entire process of personality integration seem a lot easier than it actually is. The movie also skirts completely around the issue of sexual abuse (the typical trigger of dissociative identity disorder) and tries to convince us that Eve's illness was caused by a far more innocuous experience. It may have played in 1957, but after the main viewing public got a load of Sybil (coincidentally in which Woodward played the title character's psychiatrist,) the movie has a bit of a dated feel.

But that's not to say it isn't worth viewing; quite the opposite. Woodward is a lone star in this movie. Her three characters are the only principles. Her husband, doctor and daughter all revolve around her like planets around the sun- they become part of the scenery around which Woodward tells her story. As she shifts between each of her personalities, she closes her eyes, like a young actress preparing for an audition. Her rhythm between the beaten Eve White, the tumultuous Eve Black, and the elusive Jane is impeccable. It's pure classic Hollywood- you know the entire time that you're watching a trained actress in a performance. But the illusion of it is so well-played, it makes absolute realism or even scientific accuracy unnecessary.

You know what I have in my hand right now? Come on, guess. Come on! Give up?

It is totally a theater program with Tim Robbins' signature on it.

He wished me all the best. And he spelled my name right. I am in cinephile heaven.

Robbins (dressed intriguingly enough a little like his hippie character Ray from High Fidelity,) spoke at Northeastern yesterday on theater as civic dialogue. He said that theater is the only medium where civic issues can really be addressed and discussed. "You don't get it with television, you don't get it with movies, but you can still get it with theater."

You don't get it with the movies? I was a little miffed when he said that, until I realized he was right. A movie can have themes that cause controversy. There are subversive movies, movies that comment on our time, or our humanity, or our relationships with one another. But there's no discussion- no debate. Theater is an incredibly intimate medium that can't really be copied anywhere else- there's something about watching a person laugh, rage or weep in real life that no movie can touch. In a way that's where the discussion and dialogue lies- within the give and take of the cast and audience.

Robbins spoke as artistic director of The Actor's Gang, a theater troupe he helped found and has ran with since the 1980s. They began in New York City, he said, and their focus was not only to talk about issues and raise questions, but also to "shock" and make people distinctly uncomfortable. He talked of the "theatricality of discomfort," how emotional involvement can be brought from, say, having a cast member in the audience with a loud radio shout epithets at the cast and spectators. You become part of the show- it makes you sit up and pay attention. It's another aspect that theater has always had over the movies- it's inherent communal experience, the performance without safety nets like jump cuts, special effects, and content editing. It's actually the main reason I still shell out ten dollars to see a movie in the theater. Would V for Vendetta have been as good if I'd watched it at home instead of in a cavernous theater with punky teenaged boys right in front of me? Not as good as a live performance of the show (V for Vendetta- The Musical!) but somehow a bit closer to the action. It's just better movie-viewing when you're fighting for the cupholder with the stranger next to you. If the movie is an escapist diversion, then you escape together. If it's to raise hard questions, you raise them together. The critical entity of the actor is not there in the flesh, as in theater, but it still fosters a sense of community.

Robbins also talked politics, hitting all the liberal mainstays (War in Iraq, death penalty, etc., etc.) It seemed like the audience was fairly nudging him into it, hoping to arouse that classic liberal Hollywood fire. But Robbins' passion lies in art asking questions rather than railing against "the machine." There was fire- but it was more about giving life to complicated issues in art than the "Bush is a lying toad," genre.

There was one moment I still have fixed in my mind. Robbins was discussing The Guys, an Actor's Gang play being shown at Northeastern University April 1 (go get tickets if you're in town, by the way, it sounds fantastic.) The play revolves around the true story of a fire chief who lost eight men on September 11, and a Columbia professor who helped him write their eulogies. Robbins was remembering the first time he saw the play in a theater in Manhattan, about eight blocks from Ground Zero. He remembered watching a fireman in front of him, a "huge guy," who was shaking and crying during the play. Robbins described his movements, and then burst into shuddering, and hoarse weeping to show us what he meant.

He became that fireman right in front of me. It stopped me cold. Because that was what he meant by theatricality of discomfort. In three seconds, he had broken my heart, and drawn me into the grief most of us can only read about.

V for Vendetta
Starring: Natalie Portman, Hugo Weaving, Stephen Rea
Written by: The Wachowski Brothers
Directed by: James McTeigue
Official Website

(Hugo Weaving and Natalie Portman. Photo by David Appleby, courtesy of V for Vendetta's website)

It’s occurred to me that about 90 percent of the movies I'd viewed in the past few months always came with phrases like "critically acclaimed," "Oscar nominated," and "moving." I consider myself a discerning movie viewer, but after a while, "moving" becomes incredibly exhausting. Sometimes, I just don't want to be moved.

And darnit, sometimes I want to see something blow up.

I was not disappointed, of course, in V for Vendetta, the first really divisive movie of the year. Columnist James Wolcott thinks it's "the most subversive cinematic deed of the Bush/Blair era." Salon reviewer Stephanie Zacharek thinks it's a load of "bullocks." The film is based on the graphic novel by Alan Moore and David Lloyd. A masked man known only as V (Hugo Weaving) stages a one-man assault on totalitarian England in the not-too-distant future, which is ruled by an evil dictator, sadistic police and creepy clergymen. His mask is based on the visage of Guy Fawkes, the man convicted and hanged of attempting to blow up Parliament in the 17th century. Fawkes, along with Edmund Dante from The Count of Monte Cristo became the inspiration for V's quest, and complicates the question of whether this man is indeed a freedom fighter, or merely a terrorist.

I viewed it this weekend as these movies should always be seen: in a packed multiplex full of rowdy adolescent boys. Many things blow up. There are decapitations, poisonings, fires and fancy sword-play- all for the makings of some serious brain candy.

And yet there's something different about V for Vendetta. While some of the scenes meandered into classic kick-butt action movie, it was also a meditation on the fragility of independence, and the pervasive nature of fear. England is how it is in 2020 because of a devastating world-wide imperialistic war (which the Americans started, nudge, nudge) and the ravages of a global plague. A terrified and desperate public turned to a dictator for the semblance of security, while allowing their rights to be trampled underfoot.

This is sounding vaguely familiar...

It's a little heavy-handed perhaps, but it's asking important questions in a time where these questions are desperately needed. And it's not quite as simple as bad government against good crusader. V strikes a rather terrifying figure. He plays horrible mind games with his young protégée Evey (Natalie Portman) and uses panic-inducing tactics to bring supporters to his side. Weaving understands this, and imbues V's voice with a ambiguous aspect that can be alternately charming and very creepy. One begins to wonder what V's version of England would look like, and there is an increasing sense of dread of what might come after his glorious revolution.

The plot sometimes threatens to fall into cliche (the romance between V and Evey was not in the original graphic novel, and appears to be thrown in almost as an afterthought here,) but McTeigue and the Wachowskis still manage to keep it on track. Stephen Rea does a wonderful job as the Chief Inspector Finch assigned to catch V. Probably the best scene in the movie is when Finch mulls over his situation in a chilling soliloquy and montage. Portman more than makes up for Queen Amadala, making Evey first a willfully ignorant stooge and then a cold, calculated soldier in V's revolution.

I fear I've already given away too much, so I'll stop blathering and leave the rest to you. I tend to veer more of the side of Wolcott's opinion. It is the most subversive movie I’ve seen in a while, I think partly because it's wrapped up in an action movie package and geared to mass appeal instead of the peacnik, liberal, Sundance crowd. It's also quite a wonderful, engrossing movie, despite it's shortcomings.

Plus they blow up Parliament. And that's just freakin' cool.

Tim Robbins.

In person.

At Northeastern University.

I may freak out.

I managed to wrangle tickets (after shoving several old ladies out of the way and throwing one small child into traffic to get them before the box office closed) so this Monday shall be a festival of hero worship. Robbins will be speaking on theatre as civic dialogue (or at least that's what the fliers say.) Robbins is also artistic director of the theatre troupe The Actor's Gang, which will be putting on the plays Exonerated and The Guys at Northeastern over the next two weeks. Unfortunately the event's for NU faculty and students only (nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, I get to see Tim Robbins and you don't!) but the plays are available to the public. Check out the link above for ticket information. AS for me, I'll do my best to cover the whole thing so well, it'll be like you were there.

In the middle of the dreary, rainy March that Boston has to offer, I look gaze with longing towards the south- specifically Austin, Texas, where the annual South by Southwest festivals are in full rockin' swing. The festivals are a celebration of Indie culture in general, but the Film Conference and Festival going on this week is one of the main attractions. Salon's Andrew O'Hehir, my main man when it comes to Indie film, is reporting from the front lines of this extravaganza. SXSW has basically become the new Sundance, since what used to be the festival for unseen talent has been taken over by the nuclear blob known as Celebrity.

One of the most promising things coming out of SXSW is its opening night film A Prairie Home Companion, based on Garrison Keillor's long-running radio show on NPR. Ok, I'm going to admit it. I HATE Garrison Keillor and his show. My parents were avid fans, and I cannot count the times I was forced to yield to Keillor's interminable bouts of nostalgia while riding in the car. Plus there's just something about his voice that makes me want to kill something. But I still have great hopes: it was directed by Honorary Academy Award recipient and resident old-coot Robert Altman, and stars the likes of our beloved Meryl Streep (see previous post,) John C. Reilly, Kevin Kline, Lily Tomlin, Virginia Madsen, Lindsay Lohan and Woody Harrelson. I plan to see it as soon as it hits Boston, if only so I can safely say that I hate absolutely everything about Garrison Keillor.

There's a big emphasis on music (the music festival is the biggest of the series) and concert films and documentaries abound. Included are East of Havana about Cuban hip-hop, and Metal: A Headbanger's Journey, among many, many others. But the coolest thing about SXSW is that I didn't recognize a lot of the names on the bill. Unknown directors face a long hard slog to get any kind of recognition, and many of them are creating more important and interesting films than all the Spielbergs in the world.

While reading the coverage of this little hippie-fest, I had half a mind to clean out my bank account and wing my way down to sunny Austin to see what I could see.... But the threat of failing classes and living on the street pulled me back from the brink. But for any of you out there in Blogland lucky enough to be in the Austin area, go and check it out! It's the only place in the world that would have Keillor and Erykah Badu in the same vicinity.

Meryl Streep, one of the few Great Dames left in American cinema is being honored in a retrospective and Life Achievement Award this week at Boston's Coolidge Corner Theatre. The theatre will be showing The Deer Hunter, Kramer vs. Kramer, Sophie's Choice, Defending Your Life, Silkwood and Out of Africa. It's a good thing to do if one is in Beantown and wishes to bask in the glory of Streep.

Or if one wants, one could Netflix them and bask, as I intend to do as alas, I am but a poor college student with no time for the treacherous ride down the C-line. But if I were you, I would skip Sophie's Choice (a brilliant film, but don't we all know what the choice is by now?) and go for The Hours or the HBO miniseries Angels in America. Both are still appropriately depressing, but Angels in America has Streep playing executed possible Communist Ethel Rosenberg. And the Mormon mother of a gay son. And an old Rabbi. And an angel.

It's complicated. But gloriously so, and good for a 6-hour marathon of sexual ambiguity, AIDS and religious debate.

Streep is similarly resplendent in The Hours as Clarissa Vaughan, one of the many Dalloway counterparts in the film that literally does "buy the flowers herself" for her dying friend's party. She's a bit more demure in this role, but her performance still shines through as one of the best in the film.

There's also her role in Adaptation. And Dancing at Lughnasa. Oh, and The French Lieutenant's Woman! Oh the list goes on- just IMDB her.

But if for whatever reason you have never witnessed a Streep performance (and it breaks my heart a little to think that someone may not have) and you happen to be passing Boston in your travels this week, go to the Streep-a-thon at Coolidge Corner. It's good for the soul.

Mystery Train (1989)
Starring: Masatoshi Nagase, Youki Kudoh, Screamin' Jay Hawkins
Written and Directed by: Jim Jarmusch
IMDB Listing

Photo by: DVDBeaver.com

Who wants to see a film with an actor named "Screamin' Jay Hawkins?" You know you do. Hawkins is actually the composer for many of Jarmusch's films, and appeared in Mystery Train as a sage old night clerk of a seedy, yet fated hotel. He's best known for his single "I Put a Spell on You," a truly hot song, now shafted and abused in jean commercials. There is no justice in the world.

But this strangely riveting film uses Hawkins to his best ability, as well as a host of other talented unknowns (you know you're indie when your biggest name is Steve Buscemi.) Mystery Train centers around a block of strangers in Memphis, including two young Japanese tourists (Nagase and Kudoh,) an a recently widowed Italian woman (Nicoletta Braschi) and a local barber (Buscemi.) They never actually meet in any significant way, but through different circumstances are forced to stay in the same motel on the outskirts of the city. It's a story about music and Elvis, about foreigners and strange happenings, about love and silence.

One would think another movie about the interconnectedness between human beings would be tired and pointless- the theme has been a favorite of directors since the dawn of time. But Jarmusch's freshness and originality keeps the idea alive. Jarmusch recently directed the wonderful Broken Flowers, and what seems to set him apart is his celebration of the mundane. He has a fantastic attention to detail, and a willingness to let a look or moment of silence steal the scene, which is rarely found in "mainstream" directors. Many people would find this merely dry and unmotivated (he is an acquired taste) but for me it's a wonderful demonstration of the world in all it's quirkiness and banality.

My favorite characters hands-down are Jun and Mitsuko, the Japanese tourists. Obsessed with 1950s American culture, they travel from city to city on the train, seeing rock-and-roll landmarks. Kudoh is both funny and charming as Mitsuko, the Elvis-obsessed girlfriend, dressed in a series of vintage T-shirts and carrying around a stuffed-dog purse. Nagase is similarly hilarious as Jun, Mitsoko's sullen yet loving boyfriend. The two are perhaps a bit of a caricature, but there's something about the way they carry the stereotypes that makes it entirely genuine.

Some of the best scenes belong to Hawkins, however, and the bellboy (Cinque Lee.) The smattering of conversation between the two lights up the movie. Though the bellboy is young, he seems like an old face in the hotel along with the night clerk. In the end they become part of the scenery itself- the broken-down, overgrown outskirts of Memphis, TN, barren and clinging to its glorious past.

A touching little piece of American cinema, Mystery Train allows us to explore the run-down beauty in our own backyard. It's well worth having a look at.

The 40-Year-Old Virgin
Starring: Steve Carell, Paul Rudd, Catherine Keener
Written by: Judd Apatow and Steve Carell
Directed by: Judd Apatow

Photo by: Can Mag

As it is with many movies, The 40-Year-Old Virgin was one I had always meant to see, and "never got around to it." It was shameful, I know, to claim myself as a die-hard Carell fan, and not seen the movie that ushered him into stardom, but I had... stuff to do.

But no matter! I have seen it now, and can honestly say that I laughed until I cried. The chest-waxing scene, the speed-dating scene, the end with the whole cast belting out "Age of Aquarius" all had me falling off my chair. But it was the movie's inherent sweetness that really got me. In many ways, the DVD cover says it all- Andy looking glowing, boyish, full of wide-eyed naivete. Andy's virginity is not the only thing keeping him from happiness. He's a social misfit, the kid in high school constantly being stuffed in his locker. His whole demeanor is slightly uncomfortable throughout the entire movie, and you can feel his embarrassment. You feel sorry for Andy, and cheer for him, but not so much that you feel uncomfortable also laughing at him. It's a tricky tight-rope walk, and Carell walks it masterfully.

On the other side of the aisle are his gruff, but ultimately kind, friends (Paul Rudd, Romany Malco and Seth Rogan,) who all have advice for Andy's problem. They are really three icons of manhood- Jay (Malco) is the player, constantly cheating on his girlfriend and hitting on drunk girls in bars. Cal (Rogan) is the tattooed "man's man," opting for the aloof bad-guy approach. And Rudd is the SNAG (sensitive new-aged guy,) obsessed with his ex-girlfriend, loving her and hating her in the same breath. In the end none of these approaches work for Andy- only learning to grow up, giving away his precious action figures and admitting who he is gets him the girl.

But let's not get so sappy (or, God-forbid, read too much into this little gem) because in the end it's simply a fantastic comedy- one of the many recently coming from director/producer Judd Apatow and a new generation of comedians recently dubbed the "Frat Pack." I wouldn't be surprised if the chest-waxing scene went down in history as comedic genius, like Monty Python's "Knights who Say Ni!," or Tom Cruise's dance scene in Risky Business. Carell deserves the lauding he got when the movie first came out, and I'm also giving props to Catherine Keener, for her wonderful performance as the "hot Grandma" Andy falls for. Finally, Rudd, Rogan and Malco are absolutely hilarious as Andy's friends, without being too over-the-top (I expect to hear the 'Know how I know you're gay' sketch referenced mercilessly.)

It's been difficult lately to find a comedy that wasn't either completely forgettable, or something I only wish I could block from my memory. Carell is due to act in eight more films in the next three years; it'll be exciting to see what this meticulous comedian can come up with next.

Melvin Goes to Dinner (2003)
Starring: Michael Blieden, Matt Price, Stephanie Courtney, Annabelle Gurwitch
Written by: Michael Blieden
Directed by: Bob Odenkirk

(Photo Courtesy of sundancechannel.com)

Once in a very great while you find a movie that's surprising. And not horror or thriller movie surprising, with their so-called "plot twists," because that is far easier to achieve. I mean surprising in a way that speaks to you, that brings you in, and tells you to make yourself at home. Surprise achieved without the help of special effects or grand set design- the kind that can happen to someone walking down the street.

With that in mind, let me say that Melvin Goes to Dinner is the most surprising movie I've seen in a very long time.

Based on Michael Blieden's stage-play Phyro-Giants!, the movie is indeed about a guy named Melvin who meets three people for dinner. Most of the film is the conversation that ensues between the four relative strangers, and ranges from gut-bustingly hilarious to sad to reflective.
What is most extraordinary about these characters, and this movie, is how natural all these people are in their conversation, and their actions outside of the restaurant: they could be my friends, my family, the people I sit next to in class. Their experiences are experiences any of us could have. But their stories- their affairs, their unhappiness with their jobs, their sense of spirituality- are not mundane. They are beautiful and tragic. They are true to life, without ever seeming trite or cliched. It's so true that the "twist" at the end is simultaneously shocking and completely realistic.

The movie also has a terrific supporting cast, including Jack Black as a rational schizophrenic, David Cross as a motivational speaker and Maura Tierney as Melvin's sister. All these people are remembrances- part of the stories the four characters tell in the course of their evening. These people are distant from the four protagonists; it's as if the dinner party are in a world or a dream of their own, where openness and real honesty reigns supreme. When the waitress comes to tell them that they need to pay their bill, it's like some wonderful spell has been broken.

I bought this movie the day after viewing it. I plan to keep it for a day I need something truly surprising- something to help me pause my busy life and simply laugh and look at the beauty that can be found in anything. Even a dinner party.

Email from my dear Mother Maven on the Oscars:

We will speak more of the Oscars BUT...When you have a woman as beautiful as the divine Charlize why, oh, why would you stick her in a dress that is 1) hideous and 2) doesn't even fit her. I was appalled. Did they dope her up in order to get her to consent? At some point in the evening did the opium wear off and she was suddenly confronted with the horror that she was? Has anybody checked on her today? I'm worried about her...

Indeed I am worried about Charlize who had to endure not only an Oscar loss (predictable though it may have been) but also wearing some sort of wrapped number that looks like it was made with green crepe paper. Let's hope the roofies have worn off.

I am also worried about our darling Jon Stewart; I put on a good face, showered him with a mother's affection, but the cold hard truth is he bombed. Hard-core. It would have been bad if he'd been actively horrible, but in the end he was just flat. Boring- an adjective I would never associate with Stewart, but there you are. And flat is worse. I lost interest. It was depressing to watch. Cintra Wilson smells a conspiracy against the beloved fake-anchor, and there is a yearning in my heart for it to be so, but we must face the truth: Jon Stewart bombed.

But the show went on. We were dragged through endless montages of classic films and themes, jumped up and down when Hoffman won for best leading role (I did in any case) and Crash inexplicably breezed by Brokeback Mountain to score best picture. The only major award I think Brokeback actually won was best adapted screenplay for Larry McMurtry and Diana Ossana, a huge surprise for the talking heads with all the "buzz." Don't get me wrong, Crash was an excellent film. And in the end it was safe movie. You mean there are racial tensions in L.A.? AND they're complicated?! Get out of town! But the Academy will go with what's safe- and, in the end, gay cowboys (or shepherds) are not safe. Cest la vie.

So it was a safe year for Oscar, with worthy films, and, if anything, announced the graduation of George Clooney from A-list star to Hollywood GOD, a la Jack Nicholson. Let's just hope he doesn't start wearing those horrible sunglasses.

A final word to our friend Jon Stewart, who is probably nursing a massive hang-over after drowning his sorrows in champagne:

It's all right Jon. We love you. People have bombed the Oscars before you, and they will bomb them after. Stiff upper lip, old boy. You are still our leading man.

'Lo all! Welcome to the 1st Annual Movie Maven Oscar Coverage- in real time!!

We've started the all-important Oscar countdown- the most important aspect of the awards, I believe, because who cares about Brokeback Mountain when there are swan-dresses to mock?!!
One of the anchors appears to be wearing some sort of stripper get-up with a sequined mid-section. Someone needs to be fired.

Matt Dillon. There's something about him that bothers me, but there's no doubt he's good with sleazy roles. It's that furrowed cave-man brow. It's good for sleazy.

I am truly, truly tired of entertainment journalists yelling at me. What did I ever do to them?

Dresses appear rather low-key this year. There's a rather refreshing lack of skin. It's a shame, but I'm not terribly good with the style commentary (check out my cohorts' blogs Fashionistas First and Style in the City for far better commentary than I could provide.) Oh goodness the countdown's over! Time flies when you're having fun, I suppose.

Truly surreal Oscar intro... Oscar himself overtowering the rest of the buildings... maybe paying homage to King Kong?

Oh God, Jon, please don't bomb.

This is taking too long- oh wait, Jon's in bed with George Clooney. Suddenly my interest has been renewed.

"I'm sorry to say Bjork will not be here today- she was trying on her Oscar dress and Dick Cheney shot her." There you go Jon, keep 'em coming...

Best Supporting Actor roles are up first... Nicole Kidman and her glorious Aussie self presenting... it's George Clooney!! So Matt Dillon and his forehead were defeated after all. Hooray!

Am I hallucinating, or is Ben Stiller in a green suit? Oh, he's doing the visual effects awards. That makes a little more sense... just a little.

Look at Nick Park's tie! And he has some for the Oscars too.

Has anyone noticed that Dolly Parton looks like a ventriloquists' dummy? Seriously- just look at her.

Oh dear god, they have two animated creatures presenting animated shorts. It's like I'm watching the Oscars while on hash. Between them and Reese Witherspoon there's too much cuteness going on in this show.

It's occurred to me how few movies I've actually seen. My friends think I've viewed every film under the sun, but there's still so much to see. Every time they name a film I think to myself, Oh yeah, I wanted to see that! But unfortunately food wins out over movies (by a small margin, but still.)

My friends appear to be not too keen on Russell Crowe, who's presenting. I don't care what anyone says- I love that he hit someone with a phone.

Oh Amy Adams. I know she won't win, but I want her to so badly. Her desperate friendliness in Junebug was so wonderful. But she won't win.

She didn't win. But it's ok, I'm quite fond of Rachel Weisz as well.

I stepped away from the TV for just a moment, and suddenly I have no idea what's going on. Another classical movie montage? The montage ode to King Kong and other monkey films was about as much as I could take.

I'm actually pretty pleased with Stewart's hosting. Here's a good quip, after yet another montage of social issue films like Guess Who's Coming to Dinner and The Grapes of Wrath: "None of those issues was ever a problem again."

A funny looking man claims to be the President of the Academy... Who exactly is the Academy anyway? Are they like the Freemasons or something?

Ohhhh... Technical awards... I'll see you in a bit folks. As much respect as I have for these workers of the cinema, and their capabilities, I can't watch sound editors, and mixers for the next hour.

We're back! And Clooney is doing the memoriam for those who have died. Solemn moment ensues... Oh wait we applaud their deaths, all right then.

STOP THE PRESSES!!! PHILIP SEYMOUR HOFFMAN HAS WON!!!

Let's just stop and reflect a minute on the sheer fabulousness of Philip and the enduring wisdom of the Academy. Solemn moment. Ok.

I suppose I should see Hustle and Flow. So how hard is it really out here for a pimp? Inquiring minds want to know.

Argh! The blasted penguins took Best Documentary. I knew they would, but I had wild fantasies where hordes of Werner Herzog fans take over and steal the Oscar of Grizzly Man's behalf. But no. Apparently adorable flightless birds trump murderous bears and the men who love them. Go figure.

And Witherspoon. I should be accurate and say I still haven't seen Walk the Line, so I shouldn't talk. Perhaps she brings June Carter's persona to grand new heights. But I've said it before and I'll say it again- that girl is too cute for her own good. Plus I don't think I can ever forgive her for marrying Ryan Phillipe.

Wow- they're already at Best Picture? I'm impressed Academy- just under four hours. They must have had Halle Berry gagged backstage.

And it's...... CRASH?!! Oh, I suppose I'm not that surprised- the Academy's big on guilt this year. But I'd hoped for Capote or Good Night, and Good Luck, sappy journalism nerd that I am.

Well there you are, folks! I'll write again tomorrow for a more, um, coherent run-down of the Oscars, (and perhaps rant a bit more on the great injustice done to Herzog.) Until then my Hollywood darlings, get some sleep, and rise bright-eyed and bushy tailed for endless post-coverage. Nighty-night!

I will be covering the Oscars tonight, as they happen, ladies and gentlemen. So after the festivities, come to the Maven for all the coverage you could ever need. It's like the commentary after the State of the Union. Only more intelligent.

Also one of my culture heroines Cintra Wilson will be doing an Oscar simulcast along with Camille Paglia from their home at Salon. If you have never read Wilson's post-Oscar essays before you cannot miss this simulcast. So much better than watching Oscar commercials, which believe me are not nearly as cool as the Super Bowl's.

See you there!