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but its presentation fell flat and grew quite grating. None of the characters were especially warm-hearted and and yet the humor wasn't scathing or memorably malicious enough to be interesting. There were only a couple of quotable one-liners and the situations weren't particularly innovative or unique. When an adult farce filled resorts to multiple moments of scatological humor, there's a problem brewing. In the 21st century - the 'secret' was a letdown. Oz can fill a minute film without many lulls, but some of these characters were downright annoying. Adam Nyman's 'Howard' was an example. His pestering skin problems were never entertaining and his only function appeared to increase the number of problems everyone had to face. Characters like 'Howard' are appealing when a layer of sweetness or tender humanity is revealed...but that wasn't there. Matthew Macfayden's 'Daniel' was the de facto protagonist - but he was portrayed so wimpy and without conviction I couldn't rally behind him. Stephen Fry has a similar appearance - but he brings an authority to his roles that Matthew couldn't match. 'Simon' was silly, not a riot. 'Martha' responded with the personality of a sitcom actress. On the bright side - it doesn't overstay its welcome and Peter Dinkledge is always a joy. If he wasn't so physically limited, he would have been a big star.

After a few years when most cinefiles have had the opportunity to view this perverse (Eli Roth, James Wan, Leigh Wannell should bow to this landmark exploitative realist torture porn exercise)freak show, Blanche Baker's performance as the ringleader of some of the most demented and cruel forms of abuse ever depicted on celluloid. Perfectly cast, this once attractive woman has given into her bitterness and misogynistic hatred. (Did I miss any allusions of her hubby(ies) leaving her for other women?) Any vespice of decency has evaporated. Her skin grows more ragged, pale and lined with each cigarette that mephistocoleanly cascades around her heavily made up face. What makes her so mezmerizing is her command of both language and seductive techniques. The children, some of which are devious to be begin with, fall to Ruth's most primitive primeval desires. Although the film respects its victims to never display any of the sexual abuse on-screen, Ruth's permanent content smile serves the salacious quotient. Oh my, and her voice is god-awful pleasant, delicious - akin to a ripe deep red strawberry sliding down your throat. Although heavy-handed (and apparently not historcially accurate) the movie's visual style impressively mocks the pure, clean-living images usually associated with white-bread 1950's Americana. Outside the cemetery-grey basement, the colors are bright, sunny and filled with the promise of budding adolescence. As to keep the audience horrifyingly subjected to Ruth's hold over the children, certain logical problems of prevention - aka either the children or the system preventing Ruth from caring for so many children - arose. Also, the forment of jealousy inside Ruth over Meg's burgeoning good looks, and other situational contexts are dismissed for intimacy concerns. Ummm...not really sure what the bookended present-day scenes served outside to add some fatuous symbolism. The end credits score should have haunted me more.

What should have been a comedic romp a la 'Sex & The City' with moments of dramatic introspection turned into a hate-filled misanthropic mess. The anthropological voice-over conveniently focused the subject matter and the existential malady facing our heroine. Unfortunately, Scarlett proved once more that although she's a voluptuous figure of epic photographic opportunity, she lacks a buoyant charm to overcome that phlegm ridden congested voice. This was her 'Carrie Bradshaw' role, and she fell flat. The fact she's made too look dawdy and plain doesn't help matters. However, she was not assisted by the dreary subject matter made only worse by the completely unsympathetic drawn-up role of Mrs. X as played by Miss Linney. Outside the opening two scenes, she spends the rest of the film as mega-bitch. And if her villainy wasn't enough, a shockingly hairless Giametti is around to add insult and the excuse for Linney's malevolent behavior. I understand the fanciful attempt of the scenes involving the Mary Poppinesque umbrella - but there's not enough magic in the scenes between Scarlett and 'Grover' for us to care about Scarlett's potential outside the 'X's' home. She doesn't stick up for herself, and there's nary a spark in her eyes. Alicia Keyes's staunch strong presence and voice added some light...but I'm not sure if there's enough acting ability where it can become a day job. The romance is perfunctory.

Lacking scares, suspense or interesting characters, this sequel abides by the CGI-horror schlock that proved a box-office draw for two weeks upon its release in 1999. How should an audience become properly hooked by the mood of a supposed horror film when the director both accelerates the pace and includes an abundance of CGI images during the requisite full-scale extreme wide shot of the stark sanitarium and its surroundings? The attempt to add a haunting quality to the proceedings with the statue mythologizing is laughable...especially the coda, with actors cast out of Romance novels. Amanda Righetti, with football wide shoulders, has impressive physical stature, but the film wasn't interested in emphasizing her heroic qualities. Twas much more concerned with photographing its women from advantageous perspectives...(nipples, and Cerina Vincent's globular breasts) Speaking of, the lesbian scene was by the far the most enjoyable aspect...one had thin but magically dark brown hair - and the other surprisingly generous well-sculpted... Their expressions were reminiscent of Jean Rollin's vampire chicks from his Euro-trash classics of the 70's. Besides that, a waste of time.

When a film desires to present a foreign ideology within the framework of a metaphorical film, it is wise to present a simple yet lively storyline most audiences will long to follow. Ritchie, a singular talent of cleverly intermingling various characters around nefarious activities, opts for an airless and monotone presentation and a confoundingly uncoupling plot. Perhaps for lack of confidence there's a boatload of audio and visual flourishes that only further distract from any beating pulse. Kaballah may be mystical and esoteric, but unlike its mother religion Judiasm, it longs to convert - not to distance. "Revolver," no matter how sly - it'll take one to my head if I ever watch another second of this crap again.

Why do producers have a predilection for adapting Stephen King's impressionistic short stories? Although they're blessed with a catchy premise their resolutions are almost always sloppy and overstuffed assuring filmmakers a difficult time ascribing both the visual and temporal into a convincing emotional whole. Unfortunately, this film follows that same pattern. Two different teams collaborated on this project, and their differing takes on the material rears its head early as scenes feel disjointed and the dialogue a little too irreverently silly. However, the strength of the premise and appealing takes by Cusack and Jackson - their scene has a mephistophiclean appeal - draws us into the far-fetched notion of a single room in a large metropolitan hotel as being the beacon of a ridiculous amount of freakish happenings. Credit also to director Hafstrom for using employing every possible camera angle inside '1408' as to open up the audience's mind as to where the source of menace may be coming from...or coming at you next. Cusack is quite capable of carrying most ships as long as he's not required to burden the emotional load. But, this is a King tale - their can't be horror without some treacly subplot involving a kid. And plop - as the action in the room grows more hectic, Cusack's forced to wring through every emotion imaginable... and everything falls apart. I didn't buy anything from the hour point on...and the last moments inside the room are ludicrous. Cusack wisely knows he lacks the talent or charisma to appear in either tentpole or prestige pictures every year - so he generously offers himself to genre - wistful romantic comedy being his favorite. Although this is a sidestep from 'Identity's' surprising bounty, he should continue exploring the dark side - though something closer to 'Grosse Pointe's' black comedy would probably suit his appeal a lot more.

Ahhh... got to be the only schmuck with a subject line like that for a 'Harry Potter' movie - but think of the intent behind "Joy" and you've captured much of the feeling of the audience's reaction walking out of the latest 'Harry Potter.' Though it's madly efficient and quite often exciting, squeezing in 850 pages of text into the shortest Potter yet, less than 140 minutes, this fifth installment is decidedly more dour and grim than the previous installments. A recurring theme of the past films has been the teamwork that has made Harry, Hermoine and Ron such a formidable trio. The later two take a backseat in this story so that the depiction of Harry's melancholic internal struggle can be front and center. Thankfully, the prevalence of the book's most devious and clever creation, the fascist middle-manager Delores Umbridge, has remained intact. Imelda Staunton, her family name quite appropriate for such a niggling squat character. Gosh, how I adored the emittance of her high-pitched squeal - intended to be friendly...instead such an assault. Also, like always, the film makes grand usage of its exemplary all-star British cast - everyone getting an opportunity to interact within the rich Hogwarts universe. Especially noteworthy are watching Branagh's old flames mug it up under heavy makeup. Never dull, the film flies by... but by the end of a special effects laden climactic battle we realize how unimportant this story in the grand scheme. In effect, I felt a bit used, and my urgent desire to want more from Rowling waned.

Some guys have all the luck?! Is there any other explanation possible considering B W is both sexier bald and the only human who can outgun a F-16 fighter jet without an automatic audience chortle? Intelligently, the film never allows any mental deliberation even remotely enter our brains...it's slam bam from the opening minute. This is mass produced schlocky lunkhead entertainment overwhelmingly geared for those who prefer their movies in through the eyes and out through touche. But director Wiseman intelligently avoids the audience any mental skepticism by always plunging forward with the consequences increasingly growing ever more dire. It really is a throwback action flick without the pervading sense of irony and irreverence which strangles other like-minded fare. Even that blowhard Kevin Smith subverts his enlightened schlump persona to only serve the mechanics. The MAC commercials have given JL some brain credibility allowing the writers to not feel compelled to give McClaine both a mind and rock-solid bod. Move over fantastical 20-something comic book super heroes and welcome 50 back 50 plus Bruce Willis as the summer's #1 action star.

I yearn for the day that sequels prefer scaling back in lieu of the Overstuff. Villain on top of villain - tone change outside of tone change - poor Mary Jane is regarded with the same nonchalance...bouncing to and from the same 2 men. Raimi invests 15 minutes into the Sandman's backstory then drops him as a character til Venom requires a tag partner. One moment Tobey's got roid rage, the next he's strutting like Tony Manero from Flatbush. Poor flick requires a valium. Thankfully, amidst all the schizo ambitions, there are pleasures. The menace of the 'venom' is both well-realized as a possessory and malicious source of evil. Tobey glides through the material with his usual effusive ease. Villainy is far more suited to Topher's lizard eyes...and the special effects, especially the disintegrating grains of the Sandman. If only there was some tonal coherence and a singular commitment.

While watching this '46 homage to gender role-reversals within noir, (Welles is the femme-fatale)I was struck by the second act, at how little interest Welles has in the plot and particularly creating intriguing protagonists. Obviously, it's called the 'The Stranger' for a reason...but Welles puts little thought into creating memorable scenes and psychological insight into both Loretta's long-suffering wife and Robinson's driven detective. It's been said this is Welles's least favorite of his own films and that may be considering he did nothing for and with a legend like Robinson and Young is made to look like a girlish fool for buying into this imposter. Although Welles does a keen job of weaving us into the story, their are few memorable innovations save for the final clock tower sequence that has been ripped off countless times from "Batman" to "Back to the Future." The real interest lays into your own interpretation as to the intersection of beliefs between Welles and the character he wrote. To sentimentalize on Nazi horrors would have been beneath Welles, so instead he creates an amoral character who believes the ends surely justify the means. Pay close attention to the scenes where Welles is allowed to expound, his storytelling techniques throughout the first twenty minutes, and a few set pieces...it's what makes the film still intriguing to watch some sixty plus years later.

Although the significance behind the title is only superficially explored - whether it be from too much 'isolation' from cosmpolitan city life, from interpersonal emotional relationships, from wholesome medical meddling, etc... this tightly told story of science run amok at a backwoods Irish farm becomes frightening due to keen usage of natural elements combined with a focus on natural visual/special effects - no CGI! Although the characters are unremarkable, the unrelenting tension gets its strength from the filmmaker's refusal to ever leave the premises. In addition, the overcast skies and the interiors' infrastructures allow the director many opportunities to increase the audience's fear of when and how the creature will affect the proceedings. Though the audience never witnesses the full poteniality of its metamorphosis (although the budget was almost $9.5 million, they may have run out before unleashing a complete masterpiece) the glimpses of how science's ambitions can run amok are horrifyingly conveyed. Essie Davis is gorgeous, but did not create a 'Jamie Lee Curtis' in "Halloween." Definitely recommended.

Witless, Frightless, Uninventive are just a few of the many poor adjectives anyone should attribute to the increasingly pathetic exploitative output of the hack known as Eli Roth. There is exactly 45 seconds of interest in this wanna-be connoisseur of torture porn: a) the Elizabeth Bathory bloodbath scene and b) thigh for dinner? The rest repeats the exact trajectory of the first instead with three forgettable leads; the bland though, of course, resourceful Lauren German, Bijou Phillips repeating the same bratty tendencies that afflict every obnoxious character she inhabits, and in the cruelest joke of them all - Heather Matarazzo bullied by the public's association of her from "Welcome to the Dollhouse." In reality, her voluptuous figure and facial features as well as her oddball way of communicating with her environment are by far the most interesting aspect of this dud. How deaden were Roth's attempts to connect these perversities to the bored tendencies of the average corporate suburban men? And did any of the absurd characters and their role reversals provide any fulfillment? Unlike 'Subspecies' which successfully melded susceptible western women with eastern Europe's foreign rituals and odd looking characters, the men recruited to seduce our helpless heroines sneered as if on displaying 'tude' for their next model shoot. Suspenseless and stupid.

J-Horror's career can be summed up by the audience's potential fright at being confronted by the righteously malcontent spirits attempting to breach their world for ours. However, visions of decrepit, deformed stringy-haired Asian women slowly reaching out to take our lives is no longer anything haunting because of their ubiquity in the early 2000's. Therefore, it'll have to take a memorable narrative twist, or unique emotional characterizations to be affected by their work. Neither are found in this exercise because of the director's erratic tendency to play temporal puppetmaster whenever he sees fit. The lack of faith I placed on the director's control of what is dream/what is reality led my mind astray and distracted me from the strengths of the singular setting. You get bits and pieces of the three main characters lives...but nothing sincere enough to create a lasting impression. Also, I found Ryo Ishibashi's acting to be cheap and second-rate though his character's breakdown is less involving and more two-dimensional than the other two leads. The film-making and the eerie green colors reflecting the malevolent spirit is fine...but the storytelling's too shoddy and incomplete to matter. An addition of western/genre plot reveals would have added more pleasure to this experience.

Without effective indulgence of the supernatural or the poetic motivating nuances of humanity, all this creative team has to hope for is effective usage of its middling, unoriginal elements. 'Party of Five' gone maniacal then genetically unescapable there's little rooting interest because the singular non-homicidal element is a second-rate bland awful-acting 'Wes Bentley' mopester. In fact, all of the acting is skin deep. Even though the dark-haired women appeal, the salaciousness is kept to a minimum. No nudity here. Also lacking are sufficient buckets of blood. All sensations are kept at a teasing, safe distance...an unfortunate fact considering the given name of the directors is 'butcher.' Only the soundtrack, the droning angsty alt-country and the tense fluctuating score provide any palpable tension. Sometimes some static storyboarded compositions add appealing low-angles that adds to the malaise...but for a film that calls itself horror, I did not even get close to flinching once. Perhaps a greater emphasis on societal rejuvenation through blood intake, scenes directed with varying geometric shapes outside the square, and a sustained focus on playfulness through the family's maliciousness or traps sympathetic characters need to escape in order to escape their dilemma would have improved my opinion, but this was not a good start to my excursion through horrorfest.

An addition to the growing litany of films that portray blissfully deluded unfulfilled suburban mothers whose subconscious erupts in a series of increasingly panic-filled paranoid episodes. Yet who is to blame for their ennui? No one besides themselves as within should be the strength to reject such traditional American life trajectories and live larger-scale, humanistically beneficial lives. Still the notion of the unfulfilled suburban woman is a goldmine that has led to several excellent films - Todd Haynes's "Safe," and Forster's "Everything Put Together." However, this little ditty lacks both the scares and the mood to create a lasting impression. Because the film concerns itself with genre thrills of violent and sexual hallucinations, the subject matter behind the gloss gets lost. Tomei is decent if a little unforceful in her role while Bierko's beefy masculinity is properly used if his role requires a sparse amount of screen time. Not a bad piece of work, and the final two minutes have haunting images and eerie psychological attentions that will retain in my memory, but neither emotionally or frightfully effective enough for a recommendation.

Confrontations with ones emotional hollowness and inability to engage in physical love doesn't get more harrowing than in Haneke's typically masochistic study of incomplete individuality and the facades we publicly offer to assure ourselves of a full life. Despite existing in a world of gorgeous, soulful music that stirs the heart, an instructor finds herself incapable of communicating with the smallest amount of grace and decency in order to assist her frazzled students. Should it be a surprise then, that something more than failure is met when a chance at a meaningful physical connection is offered. Despite veering off in foolish and stagy extremes during its last few minutes, this is a believably inexorable experience. Huppert is perfectly suited, with her severe brow and her uncanny introverted instincts, like Nathalie Baye, to play women who succeed in wringing out every last potentiality of pain in her characters. However, I did disapprove of Magimel's casting as his leering eyes lasciviously undress 'Erika' from the onstart. Klemmer's character should be aware of his uncommon talent, but more oblivious to his own sexiness and charms. Then, his longing for'Erika' and its eventual unraveling would have been doubly heart-renderingly tragic - for him as well as for her.

Another overstuffed and convoluted vivacious mess from that oft-adored consummately colorful artiste from Spain, Aldmodovar. I'm not quite certain why he felt compelled to include a political prologue and epilogue to what is a melodrama with a sliver of social commentary. Typically, the performances are impassioned and committed, especially Bardem who foreshadows his miraculous wooden turn in "Te Sea Inside." However, what mostly troubled me is Aldmodovar's salacious yearning to portray the men as unworthy of these delectable yet self-righteous femme fatales. Admirable as it may be to avoid such seemingly obvious scenes that display evidence of spousal abuse, Almodovar's alignment with the piously important 'Rabal' smacks more of his selfish sexual longing than out of narrative obligation. That being said, who could avoid feeling longing when such fine physical specimens are shot with such desirable yummyness. My goodness, am I envious of the Spanish skin tone. Both the characterizations and narrative plotting are strongest from the late 1st act through the end of the second. The rest is all a bit far-fetched and trying.

Though filled with appealingly random peripheral glimpses into post-Civil War settings and booming entrepreneurial opportunities, watching this tersely written and sparingly verbose film is a laborious process. Though the story's details are unspooled with precision, the refusal of the film to pass judgment on its protagonists makes the final reel increasingly silly and metaphorically sanctimonious. I appreciated the refreshing lack of irony and stubborn reliance on classical though stylish action. However, in order to induce emotional attachment the audience must buy into Pierce Brosnan as the ultimate survivor in a frontier environment. Pierce has always been a skilled actor at suggesting superficial feats of incredulous stunts in slick Hollywood fare. This film demands an actor who convinces with a moody gruff apathy. Pierce is visibly straining during the rigorous physical challenges. Liam fares better, but the film is hesitant to adorn its sympathies with him choosing loyalty to biblical questions of righteous vengeance.

This film was made for no other reason than commerce and a guaranteed payday for everyone involved. Considering the content emotional state of its protagonists there was little place to take both the story and its passe post-modern ironic jabs at pop and Disney culture. Murphy's voice is only an exploited extension of his hilarious work as the Klump family in 'The Nutty Professor.' Banderas's charm as 'Puss' is negated by monotonous character jokes as well as a poor second-act twist that makes the film increasingly grating. The plot hinges on 'Arthur' and Timberlake imbues him with a whiny, effete personality that is less than winning. He also appears incapable of reciting his dialogue with any double-entendres or meanings as everything sounds like he's reading from a kids book to a five year old audience. The film's saving grace continues to be the wonders that the film's limitless budget can provide to an expressive animated universe. There's no real urgent ambition here, just an opportunity for viewers to reconnect with old "friends."

Very early impressions: Oy. Shia's brash approach to this character is already grating on me within the first five minutes. He's too brash, loud, and strongly NYr present...he even wears the toolish of all tool T-shirts, ("Ramones") ('Guideto Recongnizing...too omnipresent in his blood) in the first fishing scene. Craven plays it with twinkling Irish eyes...Shia's acting if he's got something to prove. Imagine Kal Penn's bravado faux toughness, caretaker vibe in 'H & Kumar.' Oh no, the accident...Let's pour our hearts out. Only his lost puppy dog-eyes bail him out of the early scenes where he must play weak. He's stuck on house-arrest, where's his porn collection? Even Mom is totally casual-cool, 'sorry you're a felon...' I grew up in the wrong household. Rest: A by-the-books story that nonetheless pleases when it indulges its cheap, low-rent thriller pulpy origins that are a Foley specialty. Too bad it's hampered by its PG-13 rating, it should have been dirtier. Poor Morse, doomed to always play morally ambiguous creepazoids. (Even Von Trier could not resist.) However, its silly 'house-arrest' subplots and lack of honest emotional characterization made this an annoying downer for me.

Perhaps "Desperation" would be a more appropriate title for Stephen King's multimedia career. Despite simplifying Jack Torrance's dilemmas, how King could possibly justify that Kubrick's "Shining" can't hold a candle to his schlocky, beyond over-long & literal Steven Weber tortuous remake? Anyways, namevalue alone guarantees more of his TV adaptations in the upcoming years. Let's hope they improve over this self-righteous, dull, God-athon where projecting mediocre ideas about a deity takes precedence over clever plotting and haunting characters. Eight adults take backstage to a pious, humorless child as his devotion to God allows for the destruction of evil. On the written page, the mythic mid nineteenth century origins of the Earth Demon might weave a spell, but considering the whole kit and kaboodle is revealed in one cheap-looking sepia told flashback, to that frickin kid no less, it holds very little grip on my fears. Speaking of annoying characters, what's with King casting himself as a writer who saves the world?! Tom Skerrit looked more badass making out with Drew Barrymore in the rain than he does in that sad excuse for a black leather jacket? The only moments of true entertainment came from a few easily made suspense scenes, the rotting overheated flesh of the dead, and Ron Pearlman's obscene overacting.

When a sequel is direct to video and ups the ante to a 'R' rating, shouldn't the audience hope for a more salacious and violent viewing experience? Unfortunately, with the perpetually stern and severe, though gorgeous, Angie Harmon starring, those hopes are laid to rest. Whereas the original was proud of its B-roots and had an excellent slimy, perverted performance from Stellan Skaarsgaard...this film actually wants the audience to take the plot of a grieiving mother gone overprotective gone crazy, seriously. The original had a PG-13 rating, and yet delighted in ingénue Leelee Sobieski's nubile, well-developed frame while providing its audience with delightful action and a propulsive narrative. In this poor sequel, we get a whiny prudish protagonist, very little violence, and stultefyingly lame tension. The original was set in that amazingly austere cold house, made of actual glass. "The Glass House 2: the Good Mother" instead employs its characters in an adobe-styled Spanish château, which leads me to the poor choice of cinematography. The allegiance to using a gold-hued tint to add Latina flair to the visuals was poor decision-making especially considering the milquetoast energies enemating from the acting crew. (There are white people still in Cali, y'know.) I like Joel Gretsch, but when Jason London has more inner force than any of the other talent, "Houston, we may have a problem."

A by-the-numbers exorcism exercise with a disappointing non-allegiance and usage of the term 'blackwater.' The cinematography appears right out of basic cable MOW land which removes any semblance of swampy, murky atmosphere from the proceedings. In addition, there's not nearly enough gore, sex or attractive young things to satiate the majority of the film's targeted viewers. That being said, the lead actress who plays the possessed has a sexy olive-skinned presence. What else needs to be said about this non-winner? Don't rent unless you've got a thing for middle-aged adults bemoaning their past and rants with clichéd priests, shrinks, hispanic stablemen all regretting their past actions.

Whereas "Blair Witch" cemented its eternal cult classic standing through mood, keen peripheral knowledge of its setting and a mythic storyline, "Altered" exposes Eduaord's fallacies as a director. The cheap budget and stiff direction are felt throughout the moments of dialogue. Whereas Heather Donahue was given ample opportunities to showoff a resolute resourcefulness, this female character is completely disposable and wasted. However, kudos should be given to the makeup crew, where it looks like the majority of the budget was spent. That green alien, though structurally generic, was massively mean. Also, the 'Leviathanesque' alteration of some of the supporting characters was sickening. However, it is not suspenseful or scary enough to merit a watch.

Despite its obvious well-meaning humanistic intentions, "Catch a Fire" remains mired in genre trafficking despite its ambitions to convey the power of self-realization. By repeatedly flushing the screen with the hopeful, joyous chantings/dances of the saintly natives he overshadows the smaller personal story of one man's triumphs over his own mild-mannered acquiesces to the injustices that plague his nation. Robbins adds a stern introspection that adds slight dynamicism to this otherwise didactic tale. However, Noyce's talents are on display. check out the multiple gorgeous shots of African vistas, most notably Swaliland and the large communities of tenement housing. It's unfortunate that the script's utter simplistic nature...black man ='s life white man ='s emotional doldrums overwhelms Luke's wondrous personal story.