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Director’s Cut ***/**** DVD – Image B+ Sound B+ Extras A+ BD – Image A- Sound A- Extras A
Theatrical Cut **/**** DVD – Image B- Sound B+ Extras A+ BD – Image B- Sound A- Extras A starring Tom Cruise, Mia Sara, Tim Curry, David Bennent
screenplay by William Hjortsberg
directed by Ridley Scott
by Bill Chambers The American theatrical release of Legend is more impressionistic than the Director’s Cut of the film that accompanies it on DVD–because it’s the hollowed-out carcass of a complete cinematic experience. It’s this gorgeous, dainty thing that hints at something beyond the horizon, lacking not colour but texture, which is in abundance in Scott’s latest rendition of the picture. As a child, I watched Legend over and over again, never liking it but always dazzled by it and hoping, perhaps, that repeat viewings would help me to see what isn’t there. There is fire and ice yet no warmth and no chill in the U.S. Legend. (I imagine the European cut is little different at five minutes more.) Ridley Scott’s exclusive-to-DVD re-edit of Legend contains approximately twenty minutes’ worth of heretofore-unseen footage and restores Jerry Goldsmith’s lyrical score, and with no pun intended, it’s fantastic.
****/**** starring Kathy Bates, Adrien Brody, Carla Bruni, Marion Cotillard
written and directed by Woody Allen
by Ian PughMidnight in Paris begins with a Manhattan-esque montage of the titular city, and after so many consecutive duds, Woody Allen has finally rediscovered (and relocated) the vital essence that traces back to his very best films. Don’t mistake his latest for a nostalgic throwback, though–in fact, it’s something of an essay on the dangerous intoxication of nostalgic throwbacks. Take it, too, as a fair indication that Allen has shared our frustrations with his recent output and knew the only way to get out of his rut was to confront the spectre of his earlier work. While he probably hates himself for it, it was bound to happen sooner or later: The pull of the past is simply too great to resist. Here, Manhattan becomes Paris, Paris becomes Manhattan, and we’re left to wonder what, exactly, that’s supposed to mean in the long run. Allen projects himself onto a younger avatar, who in turn projects himself onto the artists who came before him, who in turn have their own projections to deal with. As usual, Allen stops the action cold to explain his theses in a brief monologue, but for the first time in a long time, it feels necessary. It feels like legitimate self-criticism.
½*/**** Image B Sound D+ Extras C+ starring Nigel Terry, Helen Mirren, Nicholas Clay, Nicol Williamson screenplay by Rospo Pallenberg and John Boorman, adapted from Malory’s Le Morte d’Arthur by Pallenberg directed by John Boorman
by Walter Chaw Anyone with an answer for what the good fuck is going on in John Boorman’s Excalibur is the forgiving sort who already has a working conversation with the Arthur mythos–who’s already read T.H. White or, at the minimum, watched The Sword in the Stone. Maybe said scholar was also a fan of Winston Churchill and likes to think that the great British PM was the very reincarnation of the 1st-century figure; maybe in a fit of frustration at the film, WIKIPEDIA was consulted. But most likely, the person who finds not only coherence in but also affection for Excalibur was nine or ten when they first saw it, enjoyed the tits and swordplay, didn’t notice the acting and the screenplay and the green light “special effect,” and was probably just as happy with any other contemporary fantasy that provided the same (Ladyhawke, Clash of the Titans, Legend, Conan the Barbarian, Dragonslayer). Really, the picture Excalibur most resembles is legendary stinker Krull (which likewise features an embarrassed-looking Liam Neeson in a tiny secondary role), complete with deplorable special effects, identical central plot, incomprehensible execution, and from-outer-space choices everywhere else. It probably shouldn’t be as big a surprise as it seems, given that Boorman has been obsessed with, and essentially retelling, the Arthur myth for the bulk of his career and, at the point at which Excalibur was made, had been working on the project in some form for nearly two decades. The film meant the world to him–and that romance with it appears to have drowned out the warnings of his better nature.
*½/**** starring Reese Witherspoon, Robert Pattinson, Christoph Waltz, Hal Holbrook screenplay by Richard LaGravenese, based on the book by Sara Gruen directed by Francis Lawrence
by Ian Pugh Genre hack Francis Lawrence moves into Twilight territory with the trashy forbidden-romance flick Water for Elephants, in which the opposing forces contriving to keep our lovers apart prove to be minor obstacles at best. Despite its circus setting, this is a thoroughly familiar and perfunctorily told tale. Feel free to blame Lawrence’s typically meat-and-potatoes direction. Go ahead and blame screenwriter Richard LaGravenese for an adaptation that, on the surface, leaves no room for complexity or ambiguity. And, sure, blame Robert Pattinson for his infallibly bland delivery. Maybe hold off on blaming Witherspoon, whose charms seem diluted by the woodenness of onscreen beau Pattinson. Just, whatever you do, don’t blame poor Christoph Waltz, who brings his “A” game to this sorry affair and is rewarded with one of the most patently ridiculous send-offs ever bestowed upon a character actor. You thought Inglourious Basterds was brutal? Man, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.
**/**** Image A- Sound B+ Extras C+ screenplay by David Lindsay-Abaire and Lowell Ganz & Babaloo Mandel directed by Chris Wedge and Carlos Saldanha
by Walter Chaw Surprisingly, perhaps shockingly, Robots isn’t terrible, even though it’s a product of the same chowderheads behind Ice Age and even though it’s your basic ramshackle kid’s flick/self-esteem trope (complete with closing musical number) upon which the Shrek franchise has founded a scatological empire. What works in its favour is its attention to the little details of a world that, without explanation, is completely populated by robots that employ other robots in specialized, superfluous functions. What works against it is the lack of a firm grip on Robin Williams’s bridle (resulting in a bunch of gay jokes that weren’t funny when Milton Berle was doing them half a century ago), a weak reliance on pop cultural in-jokes that are already dated (Britney Spears? C’mon–why not Ricky Martin?), and the usual roster of fart and diarrhea jokes, which aren’t exactly a calling card for immortality. The appropriately-named Blue Sky animation studio promises a lot with its giant mainframes, but it can’t deliver anything beyond a brilliant opening sequence, a Tom Waits song (like Shrek 2), and then a lot of the same passionless, heartless idiotspeak that passes for children’s fare nowadays.
*/**** starring Danny McBride, James Franco, Natalie Portman, Zooey Deschanel screenplay by Danny R. McBride & Ben Best directed by David Gordon Green
by Walter Chaw David Gordon Green continues his burnout trilogy with the medieval stoner swords & sorcery flick Your Highness, a sharp, incisive satire that rips the lid off the long-held secret of smart people-in-the-know that Red Sonja is a piece of shit. It’s an extended, hostile slam of stuff like Clash of the Titans, and just because it’s better than, say, Excalibur, that doesn’t excuse it for being the kind of movie “Mystery Science Theater” would make if it made movies instead of taking shots at them from a privileged position. There’s no love in Your Highness–replacing Harryhausen’s clockwork Bubo with an animatronic crow that’s resurrected from a trash heap in an offhand rejection of the Clash of the Titans remake doesn’t go nearly far enough towards convincing me that Green and his writers, Danny McBride and Ben Best, actually give a damn about the genre or any of its key films. I’m not sure the genre merits much respect, frankly, but all I’m really certain of after this one is that the filmmakers thought Ladyhawke would be a lot better with a fat slob saying “fuck” and wearing a penis around his neck. Indeed, in case you were wondering, Your Highness is in the same family as the asshole who writes “faggot” on your forehead in Sharpie while you’re sleeping.
SOURCE CODE ****/**** starring Jake Gyllenhaal, Michelle Monaghan, Vera Farmiga, Jeffrey Wright screenplay by Ben Ripley directed by Duncan Jones
Copie conforme ****/**** starring Juliette Binoche, William Shimell written and directed by Abbas Kiarostami
by Walter Chaw The one part of Source Code that isn’t duck-ass tight poses so many questions about the nature of our hero’s heroism and the aftermath of the film that it opens up what initially seems a hermetically-sealed conceit into something of real depth and fascination. Far from the solipsism of failures interesting (Timecrimes) and not (Primer), different from marginal successes like 12 Monkeys and Déjà Vu, Duncan Jones’s sophomore feature (after the similarly thorny Moon) plays most like a child of Last Year at Marienbad and a companion piece to Abbas Kiarostami’s contemporaneous Certified Copy. It speaks in terms of quantum physics and string theory, but without pretension, achieving the almost impossible by introducing difficult concepts at the same pace with which its characters–not a dummy among them–are able to understand them without gassing (or worse, falling well behind) the audience. That it presents itself as a mainstream, popular entertainment is more to its credit, giving lie to the notion that Hollywood is bankrupt of ideas. Rather, it’s the destination for gifted filmmakers–some of them smart enough, and resourceful enough, to hold fast to their idealism and intelligence for, if not an entire career, then at least long enough to set a bar.
**/**** DVD – Image B Sound B+ Extras B+ BD – Image B- Sound B+ Extras B+ starring Cher, Nicolas Cage, Vincent Gardenia, Olympia Dukakis screenplay by John Patrick Shanley directed by Norman Jewison
by Travis Mackenzie Hoover SPOILER WARNING IN EFFECT. If you were to make a film about African-Americans in which everyone is shiftless, ignorant, and constantly eating watermelon or fried chicken and acting lascivious, you’d be rightly vilified for your inherent racism. But if you were to make a film about Italian-Americans in which everyone is loud, hilarious, and constantly eating pasta and acting lascivious, apparently you’d be rewarded with the Oscar for Best Original Screenplay. That, at least, is the conclusion one draws from watching the stereotype cavalcade that is Moonstruck, which, however affectionate, creates a tedious minstrel show out of those wacky Eye-talians while minimizing their pain. There’s plenty of talk about the chaos of love and the torment of attraction, but who are they kidding? That everything works out in the end for problems that would normally rip a family apart is par for the course in a Norman Jewison film, meaning baked ziti for all and true drama for none.
½*/**** Image A Sound A Extras C+ starring Matt Damon, Cécile De France, Jay Mohr, Bryce Dallas Howard screenplay by Peter Morgan directed by Clint Eastwood
by Ian Pugh It’s an age-old problem: how do you make a movie (or write a book, or stage a play) about the broad and ultimately philosophical subject of death? Not like this, that’s for sure. Looking and feeling like it was shot from inside an aquarium, Clint Eastwood’s Hereafter is a failure of staggering proportions. Three stories intertwine to form a bland whole: George (Matt Damon) is an honest-to-gosh psychic who’s trying and failing to stay out of the racket; Marie (Cécile De France) is a French TV presenter who recalls visions of the afterlife after being caught in the Indian Ocean tsunami; and Marcus (Frankie McLaren) is a young lad who seeks answers when his twin brother dies in a traffic accident. Rest assured, their paths will cross in profoundly obvious ways as they wrap their heads around the very concept of death and what comes next. I’m certainly not the first person to compare Hereafter to Babel, but Eastwood offers little alternative. Hereafter approaches the various perceptions of death in the same way that Alejandro González Iñárritu approached “life,” and the end result is equally bloated and condescending.
ZERO STARS/**** starring Amanda Seyfried, Gary Oldman, Billy Burke, Julie Christie
screenplay by David Leslie Johnson
directed by Catherine Hardwicke
by Walter Chaw That Catherine Hardwicke keeps getting jobs speaks to a deep, ugly dysfunction in the Hollywood dream factory. Not the thought that money talks, but the idea that people like Hardwicke and Adam Sandler and Michael Bay are handed the keys to the executive washroom because they understand what it is that certain critically-deficient demographics want and proceed to provide it in massive, deadly draughts. In other industries, there would be regulatory agencies–though it’s fair to consider that checking the poster for Red Riding Hood would give you all the nutritional information you probably need. Namely that Hardwicke is the main ingredient, and that had I remembered this before the screening, I never, ever would have gone, in exactly the same way I wouldn’t eat scrapple again. I’m sure a lot of people like that shit, but grey pig-mush is grey pig-mush. Red Riding Hood is easily the worst movie I’ve seen since probably all the way back to A Sound of Thunder, and in a lot of the same ways: horribly written; horribly performed (but they didn’t have a chance); directed by someone that cameras should file a restraining order against; and edited by a cast-iron moron (make that pair of morons: long-time Hardwicke accomplice Nancy Richardson and poor Julia Wong). At least there’s Gary Oldman along for the ride to order his Moorish henchmen to, at one point, “put him in the elephant!”
ZERO STARS/**** Image C Sound B Extras D starring Katie Holmes, Josh Duhamel, Anna Paquin, Elijah Wood screenplay by Galt Niederhoffer, based on her novel directed by Galt Niederhoffer
by Walter Chaw Though technically correct, I much prefer the term “Romanticists” to “Romantics,” but that’s a fussy kind of neither here nor there in a film, hyphenate Galt Neiderhoffer’s The Romantics, that suffers from nothing like precision, elegance, or, crucially, poetry. It’s a nightmare–a handheld, artfully ugly mash-up of Rachel Getting Married and Dead Poets Society that starts with credits in Wes Anderson’s favourite font and slogs on through with Lilith Fair/coffee-shop folk and a character played by Katie Holmes who’s jealous of a character played by Anna Paquin’s boobs. Let’s call it a draw, ladies, and discuss instead this variety of faux-prestige romcom, which hijacks Lloyd Dobler’s holding of a boombox blaring Peter Gabriel over his head by having frickin’ Josh Duhamel hoist an iPhone with Keats’s “To a Nightingale” on its screen. It features idiots like dollar-store Cameron Diaz Malin Akerman and an increasingly Gollum-esque Elijah Wood in awkward supporting roles; allows scenarios like the nightmare rehearsal-dinner toast montage; and tasks Candace Bergen’s team of handlers and feeders to drag her out to yet again fulfill the role of Tyrannosaurus Reaction Shot. Good job, Ms. Neiderhoffer, for not only mistaking Catch & Release for Noah Baumbach or Lars Von Trier, for not only setting your indie emoti-fest in the Dan in Real Life bizarre-verse, but for borrowing a bad burlesque from the lame 27 Dresses, too.
½*/**** starring Matt Damon, Emily Blunt, Anthony Mackie, Terence Stamp screenplay by George Nolfi, based on the story “Adjustment Team” by Philip K. Dick directed by George Nolfi
by Walter Chaw George Nolfi, writer of Ocean’s Twelve, The Sentinel, The Bourne Ultimatum, and other movies I can’t really remember if I’ve seen returns to his “Renaissance Fair: The Movie” (a.k.a. Timeline) roots with this howler of a hyphenate debut. Somehow mushing together the worst elements of bad films as disparate as The Box and Return to Me with an uncannily bad ear for dialogue and the instincts of a twelve-year-old Catechism student, The Adjustment Bureau jollily romps through Christian quandaries of predestination vs. free will by pitting fedora’d Wim Wenders angels against milquetoast Matt Damon and his badly-slumming object of desire Emily Blunt during their Satanic (I guess) quest to be married to each other. It doesn’t take a stand one way or the other, having its host and eating it, too, all the way through to a genuinely stupid conclusion in which it’s revealed that the almighty DIRECTOR is neither and both male and female and appears to all of us in His/Her own way. I suppose you could say that The Adjustment Bureau is a Wim Wenders movie if Wenders were a douchebag given to sackless pop-Christianity musings scored (by the up-and-down Thomas Newman) with what sounds like the music from Field of Dreams as performed by an orchestra of baby deer.
*½/**** Image A Sound A Extras D starring John Cusack, Rob Corddry, Craig Robinson, Chevy Chase
screenplay by Josh Heald and Sean Anders & John Morris
directed by Steve Pink
by Walter Chaw Emboldened, perhaps, by the surprisingly good The Other Guys and the surprisingly great Get Him to the Greek, I went into Steve Pink’s Hot Tub Time Machine with the belief that its high-concept idea–not the time travel, but the casting of ’80s icon John Cusack in a film that would return him to his decade of greatest power and influence–would be at least enough for it to function as a fairly smart nostalgia piece. Sadly, it’s not very smart, nor is it very funny–and the parts of it that work do so in spite of what feels like Cusack’s disdain for this period that made him famous. It’s pretty standard fare, really, full of obvious jokes about changing the past and the obvious “rebellion” of not honouring the Prime Directive by introducing The Black-Eyed Peas into an eighties music scene that, for everything you could say about Falco or Flock of Seagulls, never produced anything remotely as odious as The Black-Eyed Peas. No, not even Billy Joel. In other words, Pink and his stable of writers can’t seem to tell what’s ironic from what isn’t, meaning the whole project was doomed before it left the starting gate.
“Good-looking people turn me off. Myself included.” –Patrick Wayne Swayze
RED DAWN (1984) [COLLECTOR’S EDITION] – DVD **½/**** Image B Sound C+ Extras N/A starring Patrick Swayze, C. Thomas Howell, Lea Thompson, Powers Boothe screenplay by Kevin Reynolds and John Milius directed by John Milius
THE OUTSIDERS (THE COMPLETE NOVEL) (1983) [TWO-DISC SPECIAL EDITION] – DVD ****/**** Image A+ Sound A Extras A+ starring C. Thomas Howell, Matt Dillon, Diane Lane, Leif Garrett screenplay by Kathleen Knutsen Rowell, based on the novel by S.E. Hinton directed by Francis Ford Coppola
YOUNGBLOOD (1986) [TOTALLY AWESOME 80s DOUBLE FEATURE] – DVD ZERO STARS/**** Image D+ Sound C- starring Rob Lowe, Cynthia Gibb, Ed Lauter, Patrick Swayze, Jim Youngs written and directed by Peter Markle
POINT BREAK (1991) [PURE ADRENALINE EDITION] – DVD + [WARNER REISSUE] – BLU-RAY DISC ***/**** DVD – Image B- Sound A Extras C BD – Image B- Sound B+ Extras C starring Patrick Swayze, Keanu Reeves, Gary Busey, Lori Petty screenplay by W. Peter Iliff, based on the novel by Rick King directed by Kathryn Bigelow
DIRTY DANCING (1987) [TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY] – DVD ½*/**** Image B Sound A Extras B starring Patrick Swayze, Jennifer Grey, Jerry Orbach, Steven Reuther screenplay by Eleanor Bergstein directed by Emile Ardolino
GHOST (1990) [SPECIAL COLLECTOR’S EDITION] – DVD + BLU-RAY DISC */**** DVD – Image A- Sound B Extras B BD – Image A Sound B+ Extras B starring Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore, Whoopi Goldberg, Tony Goldwyn screenplay by Bruce Joel Rubin directed by Jerry Zucker
KEEPING MUM (2006) – DVD ½*/**** Image A Sound B+ Extras B starring Rowan Atkinson, Kristin Scott Thomas, Maggie Smith, Patrick Swayze screenplay by Richard Russo and Niall Johnson directed by Niall Johnson
by Walter Chaw Early on in the stupidest/smartest movie of 1984, a band of high-schoolers, having just witnessed a few planeloads of Cuban paratroopers land in their football field and machine gun their history teacher (“Education this!”), stock up for a stay in forest exile by cleaning out a gas-n-sip. Sleeping bags, canned goods, and the last thing off the shelf? That’s right: a football. I spent the rest of Red Dawn trying to figure out if the football played some role in the eventual fighting prowess of our carbuncular guerrillas or if it was merely a big “fuck you” to the rest of the world that thinks “football” is soccer. The jury’s still out, because while there’s an awful lot of grenade-chucking in the last hour of the picture, none of it looks particularly football-like (or athletic come to think of it) despite the deadly accuracy of each toss aimed at the hapless commie combatants. (So clueless are they about modern-day conventional warfare that they’re repeatedly ambushed by this untrained makeshift militia; they’re the Washington Generals to our Harlem Globetrotters.) It’s just one puzzle in an altogether puzzling film–one that has Patrick Swayze playing Charlie Sheen’s older brother (and Jennifer Grey the sister of Lea Thompson in an even greater genetic stretch) and C. Thomas Howell as a remorseless, psychopathic nihilist who takes his dose of glory by Rambo’ing up against a Russian attack helicopter. Maybe his transformation from ’80s-wallpaper milquetoast to tough-guy killing machine had something to do with being forced by the brothers Swayze-Sheen to drink fresh deer blood from a tin cup.
GNOMEO & JULIET
**/**** screenplay by Kelly Asbury & Mark Burton & Kevin Cecil & Emily Cook & Kathy Greenberg & Andy Riley & Steve Hamilton Shaw, based on an original screenplay by John R. Smith & Rob Sprackling
directed by Kelly Asbury
CEDAR RAPIDS
**½/**** starring Ed Helms, John C. Reilly, Anne Heche, Sigourney Weaver
screenplay by Phil Johnston
directed by Miguel Arteta
by Ian PughGnomeo & Juliet is pretty much exactly the movie you’d expect from one of the directors of Shrek 2. On the bright side, it’s also a little bit more. In this latest iteration of Shakespeare’s timeless classic, Montague and Capulet are a couple of pensioners living on Verona Drive whose lawn gnomes spring to life every now and then to wage war on each other. The lad and lass of the title (voiced by James McAvoy and Emily Blunt) meet from opposite sides and fall in love, and so on and so forth. As you may have already guessed, Gnomeo & Juliet makes room for its cutesy puns and pop-culture references by robbing “Romeo & Juliet”‘s premise of all emotional heft: the warring tribes have no sense of familial bond, which renders the central romance completely weightless; and it’s all performed with an absolute minimum amount of bloodshed, culminating in, yes, a happy ending. It’s tempting to cry anti-intellectualism until one considers the film’s predominantly British cast–after all, hasn’t British culture earned the right to make self-deprecating jokes about Shakespeare’s influence? (It just feels right knowing that Michael Caine and Maggie Smith are leading the charge in this gnome war–though Jason Statham voicing an angry, Napoleonic Tybalt sounds more subversive than it actually plays.) In fact, the film’s generally cavalier attitude towards “unassailable” literature gives the impression that it was trying to piss someone off, what with most of the loathing and introspection replaced by the requisite noisy action sequences.
**½/**** Image A Sound A- Extras B starring Emma Stone, Penn Badgley, Amanda Bynes, Thomas Hayden Church screenplay by Bert V. Royal directed by Will Gluck
by Jefferson Robbins What do I have to do these days to see a teen sex comedy where teen characters get to have sex? Filmmakers have gotten so good at larding chastity tracts with suggestiveness that you come out of the theatre believing, for fifteen minutes or so, that you actually witnessed youth in debauch. So far, the 21st century in teenage fare is like the Hays Code era all over again, only not well-written. Terrified at being accused of portraying high-schoolers doing what millions of high-schoolers do, studios have turned sexual misdirection into the best special effect since the lightsaber.
THE KILLER (1989) ****/**** Image C- Sound C Extras B starring Chow Yun-Fat, Danny Lee, Sally Yeh, Chu Kong written and directed by John Woo
HARD-BOILED (1992) ***/**** Image C Sound B Extras A+ starring Chow Yun-Fat, Tony Leung, Teresa Mo, Philip Chan screenplay by Barry Wong directed by John Woo
by Walter Chaw It's possible to try to detail the history of John Woo at the beginning of the Heroic Bloodshed movement in Hong Kong–how, with the first two A Better Tomorrows (the second of which features a genuinely astonishing amount of violence and the infamous subtitled malapropism "don't fuck on my family!"), he created in buddy Chow Yun-Fat a fashion/role model in the James Dean mold, and how he eventually left for Hollywood's golden shore at the service of Jean-Claude Van Damme and John Travolta (twice) and Nicolas Cage (twice). It's possible–but Planet Hong Kong, City on Fire, Hong Kong Babylon, and on and on have done a pretty fair job of it already. Better to say that Woo's group of films from this period–the A Better Tomorrow pictures, his acknowledged masterpiece The Killer, his flawed but undeniably bombastic Hard-Boiled, and his ambitious, deeply felt Bullet in the Head–meant the world to me as a Chinese kid growing up in a predominantly white area in predominantly white Colorado. I saw a devastated 35mm print of The Killer at a midnight show in CU Boulder's Chem 140 auditorium in the early-'90s. It was dubbed (a mess), the screening was packed, and I, for maybe the first time in my life (and still one of the only times in my life), felt a genuine kinship with my countrymen and a certain pride in being Chinese. Here, after all, was the best action film I'd ever seen, and it wasn't John McTiernan's or Robert Zemeckis's or Steven Spielberg's name above the title, but someone called John Woo. And he was directing not Bruce Willis nor Arnie nor Sly nor any of the tools he would eventually work with in the United States, but a handsomer version of me with the same last name. As existential epiphanies go, it wasn't bad.
YOU WILL MEET A TALL DARK STRANGER **/**** Image A Sound B starring Antonio Banderas, Josh Brolin, Anthony Hopkins, Gemma Jones written and directed by Woody Allen
SECRETARIAT **/**** Image A Sound A Extras B starring Diane Lane, John Malkovich, Dylan Walsh, Scott Glenn screenplay by Mike Rich, suggested by the book Secretariat: The Making of a Champion by William Nack directed by Randall Wallace
CONVICTION **/**** starring Hilary Swank, Sam Rockwell, Minnie Driver, Juliette Lewis screenplay by Pamela Gray directed by Tony Goldwyn
by Ian PughYou Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger represents the apotheosis of what shall now be called the New Woody Allen Average–those perfectly competent nothing movies that never rate more than two, two-and-a-half stars. I say that without a hint of sarcasm, and I say that as someone who considers Allen's work a primary influence–and as the guy who regularly defends Scoop. But I have to be honest: the New Woody Allen Average has become so predictably mediocre that I just can't take it anymore. The director's latest surrogate is another novelist, Roy (Josh Brolin), who's struggling to complete his latest book. It's putting a strain on his marriage to Sally (Naomi Watts), so he looks into the window of his pretty next-door neighbour (Freida Pinto) for romantic respite. Sally, an art curator, feels the same pressure, and casually drifts closer to her boss, Greg (Antonio Banderas). Sally's father Alfie (Anthony Hopkins) has left his wife for a prostitute (Lucy Punch), while his ex, Helena (Gemma Jones), retreats to spirituality, consulting a medium to find out where she stands in the great cosmic plan. It's a matter of "what you want" versus "what you take" in a race to see which floundering/philandering idiot can make the most tragic mistakes in the span of 90 minutes. Is it any different from Vicky Cristina Barcelona? When you break it down to its most basic components…no, not really.
BARNEY’S VERSION ***/**** starring Paul Giamatti, Rosamund Pike, Minnie Driver, Dustin Hoffman
screenplay by Michael Konyves, based on the novel by Mordecai Richler
directed by Richard J. Lewis
NO STRINGS ATTACHED **/**** starring Natalie Portman, Ashton Kutcher, Cary Elwes, Kevin Kline
screenplay by Elizabeth Meriwether
directed by Ivan Reitman
by Ian Pugh It’s easier to accept Barney’s Version once you realize it doesn’t have much to say. Little more than a series of vignettes, the film surveys in piecemeal fashion the life of one Barney Panofsky (Paul Giamatti), a Jewish artist who endured three tumultuous marriages (the wives are played by Rachel Lefevre, Minnie Driver, and Rosamund Pike) and the mysterious death of best friend Boogie (Scott Speedman, whom I initially mistook for Hugh Jackman) along the way to producing a popular soap opera. Giamatti doesn’t do outstanding work here, but he’s reliable in that familiar Giamatti way: perpetually locked in a state of concentration, trying to understand the subtext of whatever fortunes or misfortunes befall him. Seems like we’re all trying to figure things out, doesn’t it? The film doesn’t know whether to focus on life as a comedy or as a drama, and for that reason alone, it feels incredibly disjointed. It should be. It’s supposed to be.
ZERO STARS/**** Image B Sound B+ Extras D starring Julia Roberts, James Franco, Richard Jenkins, Javier Bardem screenplay by Ryan Murphy & Jennifer Salt, based on the book by Elizabeth Gilbert directed by Ryan Murphy
by Walter Chaw It’s a little tempting to not take the piss out of this latest instalment of How Julia Got Her Tube Packed, but the sins of Ryan Murphy’s unwatchable Eat Pray Love are such that it’s nigh impossible for any sentient human to resist. More interesting might be to chart the route America’s sweetheart has taken to becoming one of the most irritating and hateful personas in the modern pantheon–how the once top-earning female star is lately this pinched, drawn, graceless thing trying her best and in vain to recapture the sociopathic sprightliness of her early successes. It could simply be the natural process of aging that makes it harder for her wronged-woman act to cull any sympathy: a 43-year-old woman making pouty lips and acting out is a much different animal than her 23-year-old self doing same. If she were to poison her husband or steal her best friend’s bridegroom now, it would play very differently. And play differently it does as she dumps her non-descript/non-character hubby (Billy Crudup, typecast), buys an Italian phrasebook (“Every word in Italian is like a truffle!” the moron says), and travels to Bali in search of wisdom at the feet of adorably helpful minorities who only exist in movies like this to help coddled, rich, white people be content with their unimaginable privilege. If On the Waterfront was Kazan’s apologia for singing like a canary, then Julia’s late career seems an apologia for buying someone else’s husband and getting away with it, for the most part, in the court of public opinion.
by Bill Chambers The American theatrical release of Legend is more impressionistic than the Director’s Cut of the film that accompanies it on DVD–because it’s the hollowed-out carcass of a complete cinematic experience. It’s this gorgeous, dainty thing that hints at something beyond the horizon, lacking not colour but texture, which is in abundance in Scott’s latest rendition of the picture. As a child, I watched Legend over and over again, never liking it but always dazzled by it and hoping, perhaps, that repeat viewings would help me to see what isn’t there. There is fire and ice yet no warmth and no chill in the U.S. Legend. (I imagine the European cut is little different at five minutes more.) Ridley Scott’s exclusive-to-DVD re-edit of Legend contains approximately twenty minutes’ worth of heretofore-unseen footage and restores Jerry Goldsmith’s lyrical score, and with no pun intended, it’s fantastic.
by Ian Pugh
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