cowboyandvampire

This series was a lot of fun-like, yelling at the TV fun. But seriously, give Electra her own series. She was the best part of a good show.

Detective Jim Wilson is a good cop mired in a bad world of hustlers and pimps and crooks. He has a black and white sense of right and wrong, but he's trapped in infinite shades of gray — a garbage handler, as he self-identifies, who spends his days and nights thankfully cleaning up the trash on the mean streets. He's got pencil-pushing bureaucrats breathing down his neck, and every dame who crosses his path has angle. But he gets things done, he rights wrongs, usually by beating bad guys into submission. In other words, he is an archetype for every bad man on a good mission and this movie is a blue print for every renegade copy movie ever made thereafter.

And as is this case in almost every one of those cop movies thereafter, the world is quickly changing around him and in the new world, you can't solve all your problems with your fists — or, as in more modern movies, with a gun. (Side note: apparently things don't change too quickly much because this story line is still alive and well.) After a particularly brutal scene in which the sympathetic, sadistic cop beats a confession out of a craven, seemingly masochistic criminal, he draws the ire of his commanding officer who sends him upstate to a rural area gripped in an icy winter. A girl has been murdered and the locals, especially the father, aim to settle the score. Everything in his gritty, urban background has readied him to dole out some sympathetic justice, but there's just one problem — in the course of the investigation, he meets a dame without an angle: the beautiful, and blind, Mary Malden (played by Ida Lupino).

Her mentally challenged brother is a suspect and Jim and the victim's father are forced wait out the night at Mary's house. For a man who has seen too much and trusts no one, he can't help but fall for the lovely Mary who has can't see anything and is forced to, as she admits, trust everyone.

More modern sensibilities are used to (numbed by?) a direct visual treatment of passion, but the muted approach in this movie heightens the impact. When their hands touch, we are treated to a moment of romantic discovery that surpasses all the heat and energy of the currently more popular bra and pantie clad tussling between love interests.

The movie is shot in a jumpy, jerky way (mumblenoir?) with crackling dialog, adds to the tension, sense of foreboding and drama. And the car chase — sliding along icy roads — was well-executed. For such a short movie (82 minutes), it covers a lot of territory — from the heart of the city to the emptiness of the wilderness, and from cynical resignation and brutality to hope and redemption.

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What makes us special? Not much, really, especially in the world created in this movie. Michael Rapaport plays Les, a down-on-his luck meter maid (what's the male equivalent of a male maid? A meter dude?) stuck in a dead end life. He's single, lonely, eating gross microwave food and reading a lot of comic books. (That last part got a serious, sideways and long-suffering look from Kathleen.) What guy can't relate? The world Les lives in, and the real world, is bleak. That's why he, and many of us, seek escape in movies and comic books that allow us take part in the hero's journey vicariously. Les is lonely and sadder than most, so he signs up for a clinical trial to test a drug he thinks will give him superpowers. When he starts to manifest powers, he uses them to try and fight crime. But it's highly likely the powers are manifesting only in his mind as the drugs may be forcing a psychotic break.

The movie pits him against a nasty pharmaceutical company and his own demons. What we learn along the way is that the world doesn't need superheroes, we just need people willing to act like superheroes. And as Les indicates early on, that means always getting back up, no matter what bad guys throw at you, or what life throws at you. From asteroids and laser beams to dead end jobs and emotional minefields associated with dating, true bravery is always just getting back up. And the hero's journey — though often spiffed up for cultural consumption — is really just continuing to trudge forward when every muscle fiber in your body screams to give up.

A couple of things of note. First, clinical trials are not skeezy and there are many oversights and controls to prevent just such abuse. It makes for a fun movie, but outside of the big screen, they are closely monitored. Second, Alexandra Holden as Maggie, an intersecting love interest who is marginally differently-abled, was tremendous.

I greatly enjoyed this movie, and Rapaport, but I may have been conditioned to like it -- I cheerfully admit to reading way to many comics (like Elephantmen and The Boys).

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The best time travel movies, and there aren't many, hurt my head as I try to keep track of the ramifications of someone stepping outside of the flow of linear time. Can they influence events? Can they talk to future or past versions of themselves? Are all the versions alike, or do they have different personalities? What kind of risk does time travel have for the rest of the world? Even if the movies, and books for that matter, don't address these issues directly, you can feel it when the authors/directors don't have a solid grasp of the physics behind their version of time travel. Timecrimes (it's a Spanish film, so actually Los cronoscrimenes) clearly has a solid core, never swerving from the underlying principles.

The set up is simple: a "regular Jose" sees something odd from his yard with his binoculars — a splash of color and later a woman peeling off her shirt — and wanders off to investigate. In short order, he finds the woman — naked and unconscious, is attacked by a man whose face is swaddled in bloody bandages and then is forced seek refuge in a high-security research facility. The facility is investigating time travel and, apparently, they are on time and under budget. He hides in the chamber and before you can even say "maybe try the closet instead," he has set off a chain of events that will unravel time for him in disastrous ways — he literally meets himself coming and going. It's spooky, moody, believable and fun as he tries to keep everything straight and return to the right time.

The thing that struck me the most is how the movie hints at the intricate swirl of stories and interactions and events occurring all around us and of which, we only have insight into the smallest fraction. We're just scratching the surface with what we see, even when we use binoculars, and we're mostly oblivious to everything occurring around us. And some of it might just be at the hands of other versions of ourselves. It's also a good reminder that I should probably pay closer attention to the details of my life in case I need to remember exactly what I did at any given moment so as to not upset a future version of me and possibly cause the world to melt down into a black hole-like singularity. (Note: that does not happen in the movie, I just have a fear of time travel-related catastrophes.)

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Confession time: I got this movie because Jill Wagner is in it. I'd seen her on Wipeout a few times and she has a cool kind of charisma – the only good part of the show (sorry, smarmy, snarky guy hosts). When I saw the preview, I thought "that looks mildly entertaining," then I saw her name and put it on the list.

It's a decent movie with a solid concept – some sort of splintery, fungus type thing that feeds off of blood or flesh and reanimates corpses by some splintery, gory but ineffective means. It's a mindless kind of monster, driven by hunger and causing slimy, sloppy corpses to slam repeatedly into barriers like cars, windows and beer coolers.

As a writer of paranormal fiction, I should probably have more refined tastes, but I enjoy these horror movies with all the familiar tropes: the beautiful, headstrong girl in her de rigueur tank top, the geeky and hopelessly inadequate boyfriend with round spectacles and just the right kind of "book learning," the savage criminal with a deeply hidden streak of good, and all the various other characters that end up in the belly of the beast.

Jill was fine as "firecracker" Polly Watt, and I hope she makes it into more movies soon, but Shea Whigham (incredible in Boardwalk Empire) was the standout. Menacing, laconic and seemingly barely able to contain an oversized amount of rage boiling within him. He got all the good lines, and for good reason.

This movie will not change your world view, and it won't make you jump or scream or squirm (though I did look away from a couple of scenes – come on, I was eating a chili dog and steaming human entrails look a LOT like child dogs), but it will scratch the horror itch.

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Call Northside 777 is half documentary, half ode to newspaper men and half noir thriller and — yes, it's completely oblivious to basic math. In fact, it socks math right on the nose gives it the bum's rush right into the gutter. The movie — ostensibly based on a true story — follows the case of two men sent to prison for allegedly killing a policeman who'd stopped in for a wee dram at a speakeasy during the Prohibition era.

Fast forward 11 years — everyone is happily soused again while the pair of cop-killers are rotting in prison. But then the editor of the Chicago paper happens to see a curious classified ad: "$5,000 reward for information leading the exoneration of the one of the men. Call Northside 777 for details." The hard-bitten and probably boozy newshound smells a story and assigns his ace reporter P.J. McNeal — played by Jimmy Stewart playing the part of Jimmy Stewart. And of course, P.J. doesn't want to touch the story. But something doesn't smell quite right, like the fact that the mother of one of the convicts (played by the earnest Richard Conte) has been scrubbing floors and saving her dimes for a decade to put up the reward.

This just in: human interest stories can move papers. Pretty soon, P.J. has his typewriter limbered up and he's clacking out stories that have all of Chicago sitting up and taking notice, including the flatfoots who would like to avoid any embarrassment of potentially incarcerating innocent men for a decade.

The action is slow, at least compared to many noir movies, but it does provide an intense look at Chicago back in the day when newspapers still mattered. And for two possibly innocent men, the newspaper really mattered.

The scenes between Jimmy Stewart and his wife (played by Helen Walker) are especially charming — "You look nice. Will you marry me?" "I did." "Oh yeah, that's right. Thanks." — but Wanda Skutnik is a character who shall live on in infamy.

Rififi is a slang term meaning something akin to "trouble," only it's more like "street trouble involving fisticuffs or some other form of violence and probably a little bit of sadness." That's a loose translation, of course. The movie Rififi is about that particular kind of trouble that follows criminals around.

I first read about Rififi in Mental Floss (thanks Mental Floss!) in an article about how the director, Jules Dassin, was blackballed during the height of McCarthyism for his socialist leanings. Drummed out of Hollywood because he dared to think workers might be getting a raw deal, he bounced around a bit and ended up in France where things looked pretty rough for him. Not rififi tough. He got the chance to direct a crime film and on a shoe string budget and managed to create a classic that still vibrates with a sense of urgency, seedy despair, unspoken rules of the underground and shocking violence.

The plot is simple – le Stephanois is a tough, street smart and aging criminal who gets out of jail after taking a fall for his fellow thugs. To make it up to him and give them all one more big pay day, they convince him to pull one more job knocking off a jewelry store. And they got it all planned out, of course, down to the very last detail. His pals for the caper include a strapping young tough with a lovely wife and kid, a hedonistic playboy type with his fun-loving moll and an imported safe cracker on the prowl for a good time.

Plus there's a whole back story going on though that involves le Stephanois and his former lover, now associated with a crime boss. He's none too happy about her new pal and so beats her severely enough to leave a mark and send a warning.

Pretty soon, the cops and the criminals are after the le boys and thins soon spiral out of control.

The whole movie is razor sharp and layered with a sense of urgency and foreboding. The infamous heist scene, shot in near silence with no dialog, is almost unbearable This really is the grand daddy of all heist movies with a central character who is as tough, haunted, and blasted by rififi as anyone to slouch through a crime film. Check it out.

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A charmingly amoral club owner sets his sights — amorous and financial — on a beautiful, naïve blue collar girl and propels her to the height of celebrity thanks to her titillating dance skills.

It may sound like a contemporary, cutting edge urban drama, but French Cancan was made in 1956 by famed director Jean Renoir. The movie — a darkish comedy with a progressive take on sexuality — chronicles the birth of the Moulin Rouge. Legendary Jean Gabin plays Danglard, a world-weary hustler, club owner and anti-hero for the ages, who makes no pretense of his philandering and amorous proclivities. He's casting about for a new lover and a new money making venture when his current club fails and he grows bored with his mistress. He discovers a beautiful young washer girl, Nini, whom he convinces to headline at his new "concept" club, the Moulin Rouge, making it a hot spot and her a celebrity before the doors even open.

It doesn't hurt that Nini's moody ex-lover — a sullen baker (le petit grump) — injures Danglard in a fight and an even moodier Russian count becomes suicidal because Nini spurns his advances. As the salacious headlines drive up public interest, they learn the club will feature the cancan in all it's thigh-revealing, petticoat-flashing, bawdy glory — a disreputable dance to begin with now fallen completely out of favor.

The movie is a riot with memorable characters, beautiful, dizzying club and dance scenes, a few titillating moments that must have pushed the limits 60 years ago and swooning French girls forever throwing themselves desperately into and out of the arms of their lovers. You almost forget that it's a musical, so seamlessly are the musical and dance scenes integrated into the plot.

Danglard's gangly side kick is hilarious as is the whistler. Most delightful of all was seeing and hearing the divine Edith Piaf on screen after listening in awe to her songs all these years.

The movie is best enjoyed with absinthe in honor of the absinthe consumed on screen — as fate would have it, we had some delightful Oregon-made absinthe that night — or lots of champagne.

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Bonsai is a sweet, sad and highly relatable Chilean love story about a lost young man, an aspiring novelist, who casually lies, passionately reads and – at least as an adult – idly romances his way through life. After telling his current lover he is transcribing a novel written in long-hand by a famous author, they bond more deeply over the process.

To nurture that lie, and to give his own life some structure and purpose, he begins forging a copy – on the same notebooks and complete with coffee stains and cigarette ashes. His writing is clumsy at first, probably due to the fact that he has little experience to draw from, until he starts retelling his first love, with a beautiful free spirited girl.

In a series of flashbacks, he remembers their meeting, their long romance, the passion and the lounging about reading and enjoying each other. That energy is channeled into the fake novel and his present day life is re-energized. Of course, we all know the first love doesn't survive and we travel back and forth in time to learn why, to watch as his current relationship slowly evolves and to find out if it is possible to recapture that youthful fervor as a more experienced – and more disappointed and disillusioned – adult.

The bonsai, of course, is symbolic of the past relationship and his current aimlessness (no accident that the plant is not deeply rooted and exists as a carefully sculpted miniature of real life). It sounds corny, and ham-fisted, but works surprisingly well and while potted plants figure largely throughout, the bonsai itself is actually more of a breakthrough that adds a sliver of hope, albeit with tiny, tiny limbs.

When a movie opens with the funeral of the main character, you know you are in for a long, sad ride. Really long, in this case – the movie clocks in at two hours. With the inevitability of a tragic death fixed at the opening, it's hard not to see the entire film through filter of sadness.

The Barefoot Contessa follows the rise, perpetual dissatisfaction and demise of a beautiful, charismatic Maria Vargas, a young Spanish woman played by Ava Gardner. A powerful wall street type turned movie backer wants her to be the new face and visits her in her small village, dragging along a PR man, the director and washed up actress. There are two narrators – a little confusing at times – but most of the movie is relayed from the perspective of Humphrey Bogart, a sad sack, world weary writer/director (in a mythical time when writers were as famous as the stars). He was great, as always, and Gardner was good but lacked oomph for someone supposedly able to set the world on fire.

I think that was due mainly to the direction, she wasn't allowed to sparkle; quite the opposite, she was prohibited from shining. The odd thing about the movie is how much of her action happened off screen. When Hollywood arrives in her village to see her dance, we only see her hands clicking castanets. When she has a screen test which dazzles jaded directors and, we don't see it. When she makes three movies, we never see her on set or even get a hint of what she was like in the movies. When she rises to the top of the celebrity mountain with legions of adoring fans, we don't see them or even understand why. In fact, all she really does is mope around and wait for her demise. The only time she is allowed to partially captivate is during an odd scene where she hand-dances at a Gypsy camp.

It must have been intentional, and added to the doomed mood throughout. Instead of the details, instead of watching a small town girl lose her innocence (though she always seemed quite confident, self-possessed and resigned to her fate) we see the outcomes -- cruel people growing crueler, the dehumanizing effect of fame and redemption for a few characters (Bogart's character finds true love after three marriages and manages to kick the booze habit for good). Mostly we see barefoot Ava, drifting through life, never able to let herself be happy, or fall in love, or enjoy success, or even laugh. And we are never really able to understand why. The opening shot shows that she is doomed and I was never able to shake that inevitability throughout.

Still well worth the time.

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If hell is other people (as one of Sartre's characters said in No Exit), one level of hell is certainly other people on a stagecoach careening through a dusty stretch of desert where lurks an army of angry Apaches. Stagecoach is a classic and for good reason. A bunch of strangers, each with their own murky and complex motivations, are jostling around on the stagecoach trip from hell.

The beauty of it all is that each person, more or less, has their polar opposite along for the ride. There's the morally upright and pregnant wife of a cavalry officer off to rejoin her husband, and her antithesis, a "fallen" lady ready to end her ways of harlotry; but will society let her? There's a drunken, flamboyant, disgraced doctor – beloved, but run out of town for his incompetence, and his opposite, a meek, mild mannered, easily forgettable whiskey peddler. There's a ramrod straight sheriff who can't see fit to bend the law, and his counterpart – Ringo Kid (John Wayne showing why he would become a star) who has escaped from prison to avenge a wrongful death and is a criminal, even though he has justice on his side. Rounding out the motley crew, a smooth gambler with impure intentions, an embezzler and Andy Devine as the stage driver, bringing his peculiar voice and comic relief to tie it all together. And it works beautifully.

This was 1939 and director John Ford was pulling together what would become standards in movie language – the hooker with a heart of gold, the against all odds love story, etc. It may seem trite now, but it was likely revolutionary in those days. The natives, sadly, were basically cardboard cutout characters, and it seems many horses suffered in the climatic running gun battle, but fans of westerns should see this.

And there's one more character worth mentioning – the landscape. Much of Stagecoach was filmed in Monument Valley and even though their linear trip inexplicably circles past the same buttes repeatedly, the back drop is amazing. It must have been a revelation in those days when seeing that part of the county was less straightforward than clicking on the internet. We had the good fortune of staying at The View hotel overlooking Monument Valley (go there if you can) and the buttes and mesas featured in the film. We hiked the only trail into the now-protected land circling around one of the most familiar outcrops (bring water!) and the movie was even more enjoyable as we saw them traversing the same country we walked through.

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Forty Guns is a hoot -- a weird mix of western noir, musical (Really? 'Woman with a Whip?' That's a song?) and comedy ("I've never kissed a gunsmith before." "Any recoil?") all bundled up into a traditional cowboy tale with lots of steely eyed stares and deliberate walks down a dusty main street, hand clenched near a pistol aching to be drawn.

Barbara Stanwyck is tremendous, as always, as the headstrong (was she ever anything else?) ranch owner who ruled a big chunk of Arizona with a delicately gloved fist (wrapped around the riding crop of course). She has a huge spread, an army of ruffians at her disposal, the local law in her pocket and a younger brother who causes nothing but trouble. You know he's a bad seed when he slaps around his beautiful Latina lover for nothing more than disagreeing with him.

Her world is challenged by the arrival of a federal marshal with a craggy jaw, a strong moral compass and a nice suit, and his two brothers, who brings law and order, and romantic intrigue to that windswept (and, actually, tornado-swept) corner of the west.

There are crooked lawmen, ambushes, fistfights, weddings, funerals, stolen kisses, tumbleweeds, public drinking (and bathing), a strolling minstrel and classic lines – "You seem upset." "I was born upset." Saddle up, this one's a winner.

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This self-described modern musical is a gritty, sweet and realistic look at two people falling in love because of – and through – their shared love of music. Set in Dublin, the guy is a passionate, moody busker – a street musician – and vacuum cleaner repairman dragging around a large, matching set of emotional baggage related to his ex. He meets and falls for a charming Czech (she has a seriously disarming smile) flower girl who has her own problems including a tough relationship, a mother whom she caretakes, and a young child. They make beautiful music together and spiral ever closer to "making beautiful music together." Along the way, they cut some demo tracks together, growing ever closer as life and circumstances conspire to push them apart. The music they perform together, and apart, drives the movie and it's a quiet joy to listen to them perform their own love story and to watch them grow to appreciate each other ever more deeply with each song together. It's a low budget gem, like a movie-length music video that uses songs and mellow performances to tell a memorable story. And best of all, the ending is touching and true to the characters.

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This is a sweet, poignant look at young lives and loves in Tel Aviv and the damning, degrading effects of the political landscape around it. The central characters laughingly call Tel Aviv "the Bubble" because it seems insulated from the conflict between Israel and Palestinian Territories. As the movie brings to light, that is clearly not the case. The hatred, anger, blind violence, "otherization" and decades (centuries?) of mistrust on both sides color everything and everyone the question becomes are they blind to it or just so scarred they can't recognize it.

The movie focuses on the relationships — familial, sexual and friendships — between three long-time friends, two gay men and one hetero woman. Their chemistry and crazy lives would make for an entirely enjoyable romantic comedy without the layers of cultural context and history, but with the addition of, it creates a memorable, urgent and rewarding story.

When one of the men falls for a gay Palestinian, their bubble is popped irreversibly as they are all forced to confront the realities of life in a region defined — and seemingly sustained by — hatred. And being a gay Palestinian, it would seem, means twice the agony and hardships as there is little tolerance for alternative life styles within that culture and religion. That's less the case in Israel, at least according to the movie.

I appreciated the straightforward, unflinching approach the film brought to the love scenes, regardless of orientation. The sex scenes between the men were just as sweet, tentative and passionate — more so in fact — than the sex scenes featuring the girl. Even though the movie is now six years old, this approach resonates with me because same-sex scenes usually lack the same … panache as different-sex scenes, at least in Hollywood style movies. (Hollywood, check the election results and get with the times; love is love).

The entire cast was effective, but Daniella Wircer as Lulu was awesome. She had such great energy; truly a rare talent.

This is a fine movie and one that, it seems to a westerner, excavates the Israeli/Palestinian conflict effectively and without finger-pointing. It also reminds us that we all have a role to play in ending hatred and cycles of violence.

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This is gorgeous, odd, powerful movie that reminds me just how good film can be, even when focused on odd or distressing subjects. Kirsten Dunst is amazing as a woman plagued by near-crippling depression. We first meet her on the night of her wedding night in what can only be described as the longest night ever (the grueling clash of exhausted personalities through an endless night reminds me of the movie Gothic, and the night in which Poliodori wrote the first vampire novel and Mary Shelley came up with Frankenstein).

She is at the lovely estate of her care-taking sister (Charlotte Gainsbourg, who is tremendous) and exasperated, wealthy brother-in-law (played by Kiefer Sutherland in a strong performance). Over the course of the evening, she is able to completely wreck the wedding and her life. Fast forward some short amount of time and she is barely functional, returning to the estate to mend, all against the backdrop of a fast-approaching planet called Melancholia that is destined to pass very close to the earth. That's right, melancholia is a giant intergalactic body on a collision course with everyone on earth — read into that what you will.

There is so much going in this movie it's hard to pin it down. It's an exploration of familial and marital bonds, a discourse on the effects of depression upon those who suffer from it and upon those who suffer at the hands of those who suffer from it and it tackles the meaning, and likely futility of, life. There's also a focus on fear of death and how that plays out, a look at possibly misplaced faith in science and an under-appreciation for instinct and even "second sight." It's an achingly beautiful movie about lives colliding as, literally, worlds collide, and how the filter of depression changes our world view. The music, Wagner, only adds to the power.

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First, David Korvo (played exquisitely by Joes Ferrer) is one of the most demented, manipulative, scandalously amoral cads to ever grace the screen. The movie is worth watching for him alone. Second, Gene Tierney (playing Anne Sutton) is so painfully lovely and vulnerable, the movie is worth watching for her alone. Do the math.

Anne Sutton is the bored wife of a fabulously successful and rock-jawed psychoanalyst (luckily for her, his knowledge proves useful). She is one of those tragic kelptomaniacs with daddy issues (the field of psychology has advanced greatly in 60 years) who falls under the sway of Svengali-esque David Korvo, a truly despicable astrologist, mentalist and woman-beating, trust-fund draining con man. Ferrer has such a subtle, contained performance, conveying his evil intent with a half-hearted gesture or a dropped consonant or a lazy look of his eye — how can you not pull for him? Of course, he uses his considerable bag of tricks to draw poor Anne into his web of deceits and ultimately frames her for a murder (don't worry, it's 1949, there's no blood).

Will her controlling and distant husband believe her? Will she let him believe her? And what of Korvo, apparently confined to bed after a surgery, could he actually be innocent? And can someone actually hypnotize themselves? Only grizzled police detective Colton, recently widowed and still grieving, can get to the bottom of it. This is a moody thriller with deep emotional undercurrents that pairs well with a rainy Sunday afternoon and a martini, especially if it's served in one of those old fashioned glasses that look more like champagne saucers.

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Gentlemen broncos is one of those predictable, run-of-the-mill stories you always see about intergalactic yeast Lords, gonad napping, rocket propelled attack stags, blow gun darts dipped in dog poop, Cyclops henchmen, vomit-flecked first kisses and python poop. Why can't Hollywood ever come up with anything original? And why can't there be a sarcasm font?

This movie is pure, exuberant mayhem. It taps into the bizarre, probably drug-fueled science fiction work of the 70s and 80s with their crazy covers and prog-rock inspired plots, and maintains two stories within a story, complete with dueling movies. Along the way, it examines young love, life in a really small town, home schooling, the creative process, pompous authors and more.

I saw a clip of it in The New Yorker iPad app and was hooked. Jennifer Coolidge is amazing, and so is the lead, Michael Angarano. There's no way around it, Gentlemen Broncos is a bizarre and crazed movie, but well worth watching. If you disagree, you can, in the words of Bronco, "eat the corn out of my crap."

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For a movie about a middle-aged woman forced by circumstances to manually administer orgasms to strangers in a seedy sex club, Irina Palm is surprisingly sweet. The set up is simple: Maggie's grandson needs medical treatment that the parents can't afford and desperate, she takes a job at a sex club working the glory hole. As it turns out, she is a natural and is able to earn a good salary and eventually develops a name for herself — and a faithful clientele — as "Irina Palm." It's a great set up and the movie could have gone a couple of directions, playing for laughs and titillation or taking a more serious, thoughtful approach. The filmmakers chose the serious path and it was well worth it. Marianne Faithful is tremendous, bringing vulnerability, strength and an appropriate resignation that comes with age, to the character. Her Maggie sees a way out of the predicament, and makes the best of it. The entire cast is excellent though, gritty and real, but Miki Manojlovic as the club owner is a standout. It covers a lot of territory including the inequity of health care, the objectification of women, familial bonds, small town pressures (in England, but I presume they are universal) and, of course, the mechanics of the perfect tuggie. Check this movie out, it's a treat.

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You don't have to be well-versed in the history of Egypt to appreciate the Yacoubian Building, but it might make for an even richer viewing experience. At times tender, shocking, sweet, brutal, light-hearted and deadly, deadly serious, The Yacoubian Building offers insights into what it means to be an Egyptian. It's a collision of the old world with the new, and the sadly the old seems filled with regret, pettiness and corruption and the new seems filled with anger, despair and religious fervor. It's especially illuminating viewing given the conflict and cultural upheavals occurring in the Arab Spring (though set before it) but, lest it sounds too heavy, this well-crafted movie is a poignant, meaningful look at lives intersecting in the fading splendor of the once grand building, and apt metaphor for Egypt, it would seem. New lovers meet, old lovers part, familial bonds are tested, cultural mores and religious attitudes are explored and questioned, and the human condition is laid bare. As a westerner, it was difficult to see the way women were/are treated in the movie, but there was hope and dignity underlying it all — it's unclear if that extends into reality, but I like to hope so. The movie is based on a book of the same name that is now on my Goodreads list.

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To think that a film about the Dark Arts could be so adorable! The thought of Jimmy Stewart in such a wacky vehicle -- covens of witches and warlocks hanging out at hidden clubs (shades of Harry Potter) was too good to pass up. He did not disappoint, stammering and hamming his way through the twists and turns in classic fashion. Kim Novak was excellent as well -- strong, confident and tortured, with an edge of coldness perfect for a powerful witch. Ernie Kovacs turned in a great, imbalanced performance as well, constantly on the prowl for witches and a good barbershop. Jack Lemmon as a bongo playing, beatster warlock was something to behold. Although, the cat -- Pyewacket -- stole the show. A love story that's perfect to watch on a lazy Sunday morning with some killer lines.

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