krumski

I have yet to read one of the ‘Harry Potter' books and maybe it's high time I did – because, based upon the movies made from them, I have a hard time seeing exactly why they're so popular.

To be sure, the first movie (which, like the second, I saw as a chaperone for my young nieces) has a certain low-key charm, as the notion (and presentation) of the Hogwarts School of Wizardry contains enough wow-ee inventiveness to be sufficiently engaging. And, of course, the tried and true theme of the ugly-duckling transformed into a prince (or, closer still, the poor waif plucked from obscurity and ill-treatment to be lead into a life of wonder and personal distinction) that Harry's story represents is a surefire route to the capture of any child's imagination. It is accomplished, too, with sly Dickensian wit that can prove similarly entertaining to adults. As a stand-alone movie (and book, I guess), I can certainly see the appeal of ‘Harry Potter.'

But as a SERIES?? It seems to endlessly repeat itself and its dramatic beats in each succeeding storyline. So, in this third movie we get – yet again - an opening glimpse into Harry's home life with the cruel and spiteful Dursleys (whose overstated and unwarranted evil grew tiresome even before their exit from the *first* film); his re-acquaintance with friends Ron and Hermione on the train to Hogwarts; the preparations for the upcoming academic year; the maddeningly brief and perfunctory introduction to each of the whimsical wizardry classes for that year – all populated with masterful British actors who get only the most token of screen time; Harry's ongoing (and boring) rivalry with the dreaded Malfoy (whose one-dimensionality bespeaks an artistic laziness); and the entire movie threaded through with an underlying evil and threat (either to Harry, the school in general, or both) which finally erupts into the inevitable rousing (or, would-be rousing) showdown at the end. Frankly, this last always stretches my credulity, as it becomes increasingly clear with each tale that not only is Hogwarts possibly the most dangerous place in the world for Harry to be, but that it is populated by a staff of `expert' wizards who are singularly ineffectual in combating any kind of outside threat. One gets the perverse sense that the school should actually be *run* by Harry and Hermione, rather than developing them from diamond-in-the-rough wunderkinds who only gradually come to expertise in their fledgling magical powers.

Now, don't get me wrong: as a kid, I too was taken with books written in series (starring the likes of Encyclopedia Brown, the Hardy Boys, and the Great Brain) and demanded nothing more from them than that they provide the same types of stories and interactions that I loved so well the first time round. But J.K. Rowling's inflation of her books to near `War and Peace' lengths, as well as her insistence that each one represents a further step in the development of a larger artistic master plan strikes me as so much pretentious piffle. I don't begrudge kids their fun – and ANYTHING that promotes reading on such a wide scale is to be cherished and encouraged. But let's call a spade a spade.

And, while we're at it, let's call Rowling a sell-out. If there's ANY work of literary fiction that could stand on its own, without a movie needed to popularize it among the masses, it's ‘Harry Potter' (probably ‘Lord of the Rings' too, but we won't go into that). Frankly, I think the beloved authoress let slip a grand opportunity to stick her tongue out (and finger up) to Hollywood by refusing to allow her books to be adapted into movies. She certainly doesn't need the money, the books don't need the exposure, and it would have provided her young readers a glimpse into true artistic integrity at work: an example that some things *don't* work best when the most money and advertising is thrown at them . . . that sometimes, the inner recesses of your imagination is the best place for beloved characters to reside.

And of course, had she done so, we as moviegoers wouldn't be subjected to productions so overly reverent to their source that the makers live in terror of leaving even the tiniest of details out. Why o why is it important for Potter fans – who know everything that's going to happen anyway – to be able to see Hollywood's representations of their private fantasies? Why o why is it important for us non-Hogwarts initiates to be force-fed every scene and character from the book in a compressed running time that gives none of it any room to breathe or create any resonance? It's the absolute worst of all worlds, and everybody loses. (Yes, even fans of the books who enjoy the movies – because, whether they realize it or not, their own mental pictures of the characters and situations, formed when reading, are being reprogrammed and reconstituted by Hollywood. It's doubtful whether, having seen the movies, even the most die-hard reader can ever picture Harry as anyone other than Daniel Radcliff, or Professor Snape as Alan Rickman, etc.. . . Which maybe wouldn't even be an important point to bring up, except for the fact that the books had clearly done such an EXCELLENT job at capturing young imaginations, all on their ownsome. Now, even that accomplishment becomes suspect.)

But oops, I realize I haven't yet said anything about the newest movie, re-conceived by director Alfonso Cuaron, which has received buckets and buckets full of praise (and, truth be told, was the only reason I went at all). Well, yes, he is a better director than Chris Columbus, and the photography in certain scenes is much more dramatic than anything in the other two, but we're getting into some pretty minute distinctions. It's a ‘Harry Potter' film, and so subject to all the same annoyances and inconsistencies mentioned above. See it if you must - but me, I'm heading for the library . . .

I was only a middling fan of the original Analyze This, so my expectations for this second installment were practically nil. However, the first fifteen minutes or so of this movie just blew me away – I was rolling on the floor laughing, and contemplating with glee all the various subplots that had been set in motion. This was, I felt, going to be a great comedy – surpassing its predecessor by far.

And oh, how it could have! The original pretty much got by on the one-joke premise of a gangster seeing a shrink (already passé at the time, incidentally – not only because [as so many have pointed out] HBO's The Sopranos had just recently introduced that same theme, but also because another *DE NIRO* movie had even mined this territory before; anyone remember the Bill Murray character from Mad Dog and Glory?). Crystal and DeNiro worked well together, there were no major gaffes, and the whole thing had a certain low-key charm – but it was no big whoop.

By comparison, the opening of Analyze That promises a movie of so many different clever plot strands that the only seeming danger is that none of them will be developed completely. There's the fact that the DeNiro character has to pretend to be crazy in order to get out of prison (the ways DeNiro finds to do this are all admittedly over the top, but hilarious nonetheless); there's the fact that he's released into Crystal's custody and is forced to stay at the latter's house as a LIVE-IN (promising culture clashes abound); there's the corresponding fact that the cops, the Feds and even other gangsters have Crystal's house staked out and under scrutiny for just this very reason; then there's DeNiro's various ill-fated attempts to get jobs in the respectable 9-to-5 world that, as a gangster, he's been insulated from his entire life (seeing him as a pushy used-car salesman is a hoot: `Look at this trunk space, it's big enough to fit *two* bodies in there!'); then, when DeNiro's Paul Vitti character gets brought on as a `technical advisor' to a very Sopranos-like mob TV show, one begins to feel that this thing has inspiration enough for three or four different movies.

However, none of those movies made it to screen. For, as fast as any of the above-listed concepts are introduced, they are either dropped or relegated to the back-burner. What the film becomes instead, inexplicably and intolerably, is a third-rate hack job mob revenge film, with Vitti working to put the pieces together of who was trying to kill him in prison, and to hunt down and bring to justice the bad guys. This is all done without a trace of wit or intensity – and, even if it was, what's it doing hogging center stage in a supposed *comedy*? For, one thing this movie clearly is not (after those hysterical first 15 minutes) is a comedy. It's not just that things are not funny, it's that the filmmakers literally don't seem to be trying for jokes; they seem to want to involve us completely with the action and intrigue elements of the story. Since these are not in any way interesting, novel or inventive (and would not be even if the movie had been done as a drama), there's simply nothing to hold your interest. Nothing.

Once the film reveals its hand, not even DeNiro and Crystal can save it (as they did the first one). Their relationship in this one is tangential at best: DeNiro is mostly on his own, pursuing his own agenda, while Crystal hangs back out of the way, alternately fuming or obsessing (a sub-strand about his father's recent death and his backlog of grief and resentment toward the old man, which could have provided yet another rich vein of material, is handled so shallowly and incompetently as to make Crystal's character particularly annoying and ineffectual).

It's a shame. This movie could truly have been a comic masterpiece. And, if not that (realizing that masterpieces are tough to pull off even with the best ideas in the world), then at least solidly decent. The fact that it falls so far off the charts – after such a promising beginning – is a big disappointment indeed. My recommendation: if this is ever on television, watch up until the first commercial break, then turn sharply away. And if you're in a rental mood and have got a DeNiro-Crystal jones going on, rent the first one. Even if you've already seen it, and can recite all the lines by heart – it will still be a fresher and more invigorating experience than watching this.

I have never seen nor read the plays so I was prepared to say at the outset that I can make no judgment upon them. But, since so many reviews on this site have emphasized how well - even perfectly - this six-hour miniseries caught their tone and spirit, I have to openly wonder how great they were to begin with.

Basically, I agree with those who say that the AIDS-related theme breathes a nobility and importance into 'Angels' that it otherwise would not have, making it somehow *seem* profound and epic. Instead, I found it to be kind of a mess, peopled at the center with unlikable and inexplicable characters: by the third hour, I was fast-forwarding past any scene that had either Louis, Harper or Joe Pitt in it. These are just poorly written and developed characters, whose neediness and co-dependence make them strident and one-note, rather than recognizably human. The storyline with Roy Cohn was a little bit more interesting, and I was impressed with Pacino's performance, but even that devolved quickly into cliché: the powerful man brought low by suffering, with no new spin to offer. (And, frankly, his story's connection to the rest of the piece was dubious at best.) Two of my all-time favorite actresses - Meryl Streep and Emma Thompson - were stranded in unplayable parts (not just one, but three for both of them - thus compounding the damage) and so didn't even register.

Just to elaborate on my dislike of Harper, Joe and Louis: I felt their humanity was compromised because they were conceived and drawn so poorly, not least in the inconsistencies they displayed. Of course, human beings can be extremely inconsistent, but with these characters it felt more like bad writing. Harper spends most of the first part forcing her husband to admit he is gay, and then spends the rest of the piece angry at him for telling her so. Joe's conservative, Republican values are established early on, and then never explained or defended, even amidst Louis's constant challenges. Nor, frankly, is Joe's attraction to Louis: they seem mismatched from the start, making their scenes together just painful to watch (and no, not because of the erotic homosexual content). Louis himself is simply whatever the playwright wants him to be at any particular moment: neurotic and guilt-ridden in the extreme (as well as glum and charmless) around Prior, self-righteous and loghorreic around Belize, mincing and seductive around Joe. Even taking into account the notion that in life we act differently around different people, his personality jumps are simply too extreme, making him seem like three characters instead of one (none of them likable or compelling). [Prior even notes at the beginning how Louis is unable to distinguish very well who is and isn't gay, and yet Louis spots Joe a mile off when no one else picks up on it. Inconsistency!]

And then there's the fantasy sequences. I'll readily admit that these kinds of things tend to work better on the stage, and so perhaps may have been powerful and meaningful there. But I doubt it. They're so poorly written: awkwardly constructed - with flowery and rambling dialogue - and inserted clumsily into the proceedings. Rather than helping to deepen or explain the characters, these sequences actually serve to make them seem even *less* human, and more like . . . oh I don't know, special effects or something. The movie version, at least, would have benefited from their excision, I believe.

Finally, that damn angel. I guess that part couldn't have been excised, since it forms the touchstone image of the entire piece. I didn't get it. Let me say upfront that I was not offended at all by the notion of a highly sexual angel; I actually thought that part was cool (if heavenly creatures exist, why *wouldn't* they be imbued with that power and tendency that, after all, represents the highest and most extreme form of earthly bliss?). But that such sexuality was tied not to a force of compassion or empathy, but rather one of wrath and petulance seemed, once again, inconsistent and inexplicable (and made the resultant sex seem more like rape than any kind of commingling with the spiritual world). I will say that this aspect of the piece finally does cohere somewhat in the last half-hour, with the heavenly tribunal (or whatever it was), and that scene was handled with a certain degree of grace and power. But it's a long and confusing slog getting there, and by that point I pretty much didn't care anymore.

The ultimate theme of the piece is seemingly the Nietzshean one that God is either dead or has abandoned us, yet we assert our humanity by going on anyway. Though I don't tend to agree with that assertion, it's a valid theological and artistic point of view, and can serve as the basis for a compelling story. To me, however, 'Angels in America' is not such a story, because it is too sprawling and unfocused to make this point cogently, and bogs itself down in too many subplots, with too many unsympathetic characters. Clearly, many people disagree, and were profoundly moved by the piece. Which is fine: if it is able to imbue you with hopefulness and a compassion for the human race, then it has served a laudable and important goal. I wish it could have done so for me - too few works exist that do, or even try to - but, unfortunately, I found it unsatisfying on just about every level.

"Dr. Strangelove" and "2001:A Space Odyssey" are in my Top 5 movies of all time, so in my book Stanley Kubrick forever has an asterisk next to his name denoting "genius" (his "Lolita" was none too shabby, either). But right here, with this movie, is where ol' Stan began - in my mind - to vanish into his own hermetically sealed vault of cinematic pretension and designer, knee-jerk nihilism. The movies he made for the remainder of his life are cold, opaque works that don't engage on any level, save for an appreciation of the technical artistry they demonstrate: meticulously constructed sarcophagi, where lie entombed the spirit of a once-puckish, daring, and wonderfully *alive* filmmaker.

At least with `Clockwork' Stan still retained the power to provoke (he lost even that right after this release) - but he goes about it all wrong, and to extremely dubious ends. I should say upfront that I read the book (by Anthony Burgess) first, and it had a profound effect on me. (SPOILERS AHEAD) The first part - which chronicled Alex and the violent, pillaging activities of he and his `droogs' - filled me with such revulsion and hatred, that I took sadistic glee in seeing the `reformed' post-Ludovico Alex get his nasty comeuppance in the second half of the book. However, when the story took its final twist at the end by giving Alex his `freedom' back, I was furious. Here's a guy who (the narrative makes clear) has learned no lessons or morals from his predicament - who feels no remorse, and will doubtless return to a life of `ultraviolence' as soon as he gets the chance; I was rooting for him to remain a robotic pawn of the state. The book's fundamental challenge lies just in this: convincing (or at least presenting powerfully to) the reader that even brutes and reprobates such as Alex deserve the dignity of free will, and that there can be no justification for revoking that. (The challenge is, indeed, open-ended - inasmuch as I'm not entirely convinced; after all, isn't prison a revocation of someone's `free will', too? Isn't *any* form of punishment? But at least the book's presentation makes it an idea worth wrestling with.)

Kubrick's mistake, as I see it, is in making Alex such a charming and charismatic figure. In the book he's a single-minded brute; he still is in the movie, but by filtering his thoughts through the purring, dulcet tones of Malcom McDowell, and filming even his most violent and heinous acts with pop-art style brio, Kubrick leaves little doubt about his affection for this monster. Further, he does so within the context of making EVERY OTHER SINGLE CHARACTER in the movie such a caricatured and annoying drone (so much so, in fact, that it is actually *they* who become the monsters - quite a flip).

As such, Kubrick upsets the entire balance of the piece (at least as Burgess envisioned it). We get no sense of Alex's crimes against humanity - because, in fact, there's no `humanity' here: only the kind of ciphers and waxwork grotesqueries that would become Kubrick's definition of `character' for the remainder of his career. Perhaps that's his point, after all (no doubt it is): that, in fact, under a bogus sense of decorum, society consists of nothing but droning, annoying hypocrites, and there's no use in spilling a tear for any single one of them. But when you are watching a woman being violently raped and you are made to feel nothing for her - not to mention her brutalized husband (who gets absolutely savaged by the director later in the film) - then something rather sick and insidious is going on.

Burgess' book was written as a warning against the dangers of social engineering, no matter how well-intentioned. Kubrick's movie plays more as a blatant indictment of humanity as a whole. Its underlying, none-too-subtle message is that in a society so plastic and corroded only violently murderous free spirits like Alex are truly worth anything: he may not be nice, but at least he's not dead inside like every other single person on the planet.

Personally, I think the only humanity Kubrick ends up indicting by such an approach is his own. But then that's just me, isn't it.

SPOILERS WITHIN. Don't read unless you've seen the movie.

At this point, almost a decade after its release, Schindler's List is what it is: it has become a cultural touchstone, and its reputation rightfully precedes it. It certainly has an aura and a cachet that goes beyond any single endeavor to praise or criticize it; therefore, I plan to do neither, but merely to share some of the thoughts I had while watching it. Some will be positive, others more negative - but none of it is meant to (or will be able to) diminish what Spielberg has achieved with this movie.

First off, I must say that all the scenes with Schindler himself I found riveting: Liam Neeson - not an actor I usually warm up to very well - was absolutely mesmerizing: he gave the character an authority and a charisma that was totally captivating, while still preserving the basic enigmatic nature of the man. (He reminded me again and again of a young Richard Burton when he was at the top of his game.) The tug-of-war of conscience in the scenes between him and Stern (Ben Kingsley, underplaying nicely) were, though a bit schematic and obvious, nonetheless powerful - no doubt because of the enormity of the topic at hand. Holocaust movies, of course, can very easily get a free pass because of that very enormity, and Schindler's List is no exception: scenes that might otherwise have seemed simplistic or overplayed are imbued with power because of the context in which they occur.

One scene that stuck out for me, though - and not necessarily in a good way - was the liquidation of the Krakow ghetto. It is of course a tour-de-force of filmmaking and technical prowess (a foreshadowing, say, of the Normandy Beach sequence in Saving Private Ryan), but its reason for being I found suspect. Ostensibly - on the level of the story, anyway - it was there to bring Schindler face to face with the horror and waste of the Nazi policy toward the Jews, and so to suggest a reason why he converted from shameless profiteer and exploiter to Jewish savior.

Except, as such a scene, it doesn't quite wash. Schindler indeed is displayed as witnessing the liquidation, but from his vantage point - a hill overlooking the ghetto - he would in no way have been able to see the scene in the detail, and in all the different locations, that the movie makes us privy to. No, this scene is designed not to be played before Schindler, but to be played before us, the moviegoers.

So why does that bother me? Well, it seems to me a break in form. A movie that had been, up until that time, focusing narrowly on one man, suddenly opens up to wanting to display the panoply of characters and lives that were directly affected by the Holocaust. Problem is, by adopting such a large-scale approach, no one individual (or family) is able to claim our full attention, and so Spielberg becomes guilty in his own way of `ghetto'-izing the Jews - that is, grouping them together facelessly as victims, rather than showcasing any of their dignity or humanity as individuals.

My bias, I suppose, in films dealing with the Holocaust, is that the enormity of it is just lost on most of us. It's impossible - unless we lived and survived through it - to do justice to both its scale and its horror. Therefore, a film-maker shouldn't try. Not that Holocaust-themed films shouldn't be made; it's just that, to be honest and effective (not necessarily the same thing - particularly when the artist is Spielberg) they should focus themselves on a small *microcosm* of it - a family, a person, a survivor - and attempt to *SUGGEST* the full horrors, through the particulars of that person's story. Actually trying to show those horrors outright (to put us, as it were, `inside' the Holocaust) is frankly impossible, and I think Spielberg's ambitions to do so, through this liquidation scene and other similar ones in the movie - are, though perhaps high-minded, ultimately wrong-headed.

But, as I say, when he's focused narrowly on Schindler himself, the film works wonderfully - and is far more able, in my opinion, to get across the horror and waste of the Holocaust than when it's concentrating on its big (but impersonal) `herd up the Jews' scenes. The making up of the list itself is extremely powerful in this regard: `More names! More names!' Schindler demands, and his mania in doing so tells us all we need to know about the absolute desperation of the times (particularly as it comes from a formerly amoral man only interested in himself).

And as such, I must take exception to all those (and there are many) who find the last scene - Schindler's breakdown - to be completely maudlin and ill-advised, a detriment to an otherwise marvelous motion picture. To me, it was the best scene in the movie. For, in the character's hysterical insistence that he `could have done more' - coming on the heels of all the people we saw that he *DID* save - it serves to remind the audience - in absolutely unambiguous terms - that what Oskar Schindler did, though momentous, wasn't'even a drop in the bucket compared to the number of lives taken and/or disrupted by the Holocaust. That this man - driven to bankruptcy and ruin by his (eventual) unceasing efforts to save the Jews - could claim that he `didn't do enough,' only shows how much there was to do, and how much of it was left undone. That, to me, is the kind of moment that brings home the enormity of the Holocaust - not the use of hundreds of extras to be herded onto trains and into showers. We can tell ourselves (and be right) that those scenes are fake (staged for the movie). The point made through Schindler's breakdown at the end is the deepest kind of truth - the kind that never should be forgotten or cast aside.

I take up my pen tonight (metaphorically) to defend this movie from the onslaught of revisionist criticism it has taken over the past twenty years (particularly acute with its theatrical re-release three years ago). Any film that becomes as popular and as culturally defining as this one was in the late 1960s is bound to occasion any number of reassessments and reappraisals. However, the extent to which the majority of these have been so negative to the film is somewhat overwhelming. There's almost a defensiveness here - on the part of critics, anyway - as if to say, "You fooled us into thinking this piece was something IMPORTANT and PROFOUND - well it isn't! Now, we're gonna get ya for it. . ."

In fact, I'm not so sure that this film was ever intended as any kind of sweeping cultural or generational statement. I believe that may have been imposed upon it by the critics of the day, who wished to see in Dustin Hoffman's Benjamin Braddock the picture of disaffected youth, boldly rebelling against the false values of his elders. Personally, in my experience of the film (which I have seen now countless times), I don't find anything that grand. Indeed, to me The Graduate succeeds by being one of the best *minimalist* movies in American cinema. Its story is about a PARTICULAR character, in a PARTICULAR time and place, playing out a very idiosyncratic set of circumstances. It posits no doctrine, argues for no "alternative" lifestyle, and in general refuses to prostheletize or to make its hero into any kind of leader or paragon. If audiences responded (and continue to respond, critics be damned) to Benjamin's plight, it is because of the intensity of *feeling* that is communicated, not to the quality of thought. Indeed it could not be, since the main item up for display in the movie is the degree to which Benjamin's ability for clear thought has been subsumed by confusion, fear, self consciousness, and an almost soul-annihilating depression.

These oppressive qualities are communicated to the viewer through Mike Nichols' brilliantly meticulous camerawork. His dogged insistence, from the very first shot, of framing Benjamin in tight closeups even amidst (nay, especially amidst) a large group of people (the airport, his graduation party, the hotel) gives us an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. We feel acutely the young man's sense of entrapment and exposure; at the party, as he runs upstairs to his room, the camera rushes to keep up - and it is as if Benjamin is trying even to escape being in this movie. "Don't look at me!" his pinched voice and wilted expression seem to cry out, "leave me alone!" I ask you, is there a soul among us who cannot relate to that feeling, who has not felt it at least briefly during different moments of his life - being the outcast, the lost soul, the one in pain amidst the gaiety or unconcern of the rest of the crowd? The conditions which lead Ben to feel this way are not specifically enumerated (beyond a vague expression of being unsure about his "future"), but they don't need to be. The feelings are articulated so vividly - through camerawork and performance both - that they reach us on a visceral level, and we are free to fill in our own emotional backstory for them - thereby involving us more on an individual level than we would be if we were told more specific information about Ben.

Dustin Hoffman here is totally unforgettable. He takes what is essentially a cipher character, and fills him in with such pathos and vulnerability that we can't ignore him or look away. Even as we laugh at him, we ache for him. He would do it again twenty years later in Rain Man - that trick of being overwhelmingly present in every scene and yet remaining such a total blank. How is that done? What internal rhythm does he allow us to lock into so as to keep him a compelling figure, and one who garners our full sympathy, while being at the same time a total cipher. I don't know, but that magical performer's trick of Hoffman's is, along with Nichols' painstaking camera work, what keeps this film vivid and compelling all these many years later. Yes, even as the story sputters in the second half, and even as Benjamin's relationship with Elaine Robinson remains sketchy and maddeningly unexamined. It doesn't matter because by then Hoffman and Nichols have pulled you into their spell: you will follow Benjamin Braddock anywhere, accept anything he does at face value - you just don't want to take your eyes off him.

Oh, and here's to you, Mrs. Robinson. Her seduction scenes with Ben are some of the richest jewels in cinematic history. Their affair is, for both of them, a desperate and pathetic act, and their scenes together are charged with an almost overwhelming sadness and despair, which is strangely heightened (rather than alleviated) by the wicked humor these scenes also contain. It goes without saying that Anne Bancroft here is totally marvelous (just look at the way she says "Art" when Hoffman asks her what her major was in college to see how it's possible to pack a lifetime of rage and regret into just one word). But I am at pains to point out that, much as some have wanted to make her the piece's unsung and misunderstood hero, Mrs. Robinson is clearly and unmistakably the villain of the movie. She is cruel, manipulative, and (as the Simon and Garfunkel song about her would later suggest) quite possibly a borderline psycho case. She represents the death urge - the power of spite and vindictiveness to choke out all other human feeling, including the desire to see anyone else's life turn out better than one's one. It is unclear at the end whether Ben and Elaine will escape her fate - or her grasp - but it is certianly clear that a failure to do so would spell tragedy, not triumph.

It would be difficult to find someone who is more in awe of Jim Carrey's talents than I am. If you want to criticize by saying he mugs and overacts, go ahead – you're right! – but he has elevated mugging to such an art form, and within that over-the-top area he applies such a precision and a finely-honed control that he makes it a thing of beauty. Anyone is free not to like him or his movies (and I understand you), but you must – MUST! – acknowledge his prodigious talent. (A good analogy might run thus: I don't particularly care for musicals, or for Gene Kelley in general, yet it simply wouldn't do to deny what an incredible and inventive performer he is.)

As such, I've enjoyed all of Carrey's comedies on some level; even when the story or premise is lame, he is never less than riveting and hilarious to watch. So it surprised me somewhat when, very early in Bruce Almighty, I caught myself thinking to myself two distinct thoughts: 1) `Someone else should be playing this role' and 2) `Jim seems really *desperate* up there.'

To tackle the second thing first: Carrey desperate. `How can you tell?' a Jim detractor might scoff. `After all, he always runs roughshod over everything in sight, and works desperately to be the life of the party.' True, but up until now he has always tended to play (in his comedies, anyhow) characters that were so over the top, and in movies that were pitched at such a heightened level anyway , that his wildness was not only at home in the material, but completely appropriate. In Bruce, he finally takes on what is essentially an `ordinary guy.' And you know what? Jim just can't do ordinary.

He wants to flail, he wants to scream, he wants to bounce off the walls! And as Ace Ventura, or the Mask, or even his so-slimy-he's-sublime lawyer in Liar Liar, we want him to as well. But in this movie, his rubber-faced antics were not endemic to the character, but rather seemed grafted on, in order to give the audience their `silly Jim Carrey' fix. Hence, the seeming desperation: every opportunity was taken to insert familiar schtick, whether appropriate or not (and it usually wasn't), causing it to look – for the first time – like the performer was actually doing his best *impersonation* of Jim Carrey, rather than having it all flow naturally from the situations and the character.

And herein we come up against the (current) limitations of Jim Carrey as a performer. He does not play well with others. In no movie I have ever seen of his does he do an even adequate job of being an ensemble player. The other actors exist for him simply as props, not as people to play off of or draw inspiration from (yes, even in his so-called `dramatic' films – which is why none of them were any good, save for The Truman Show, which had masterful directing and an indestructible premise going for it). That being the case, he cannot simply settle back into a character and take part in the ebb and flow of a scene – he perpetually feels a need to `make something happen' and so strains, even against the grain, to be big, brassy and memorable. And as I've said – this is no crime when applied to the type of human cartoons he has heretofore played. But when it's done in the service of someone who's supposed to come across (at least nominally) as a real person, it feels fraudulent in the worst kind of way.

I would have enjoyed this movie more (for, it does have a good premise and some clever bits) had the lead character been played by someone like Ben Stiller or Matthew Perry (on the young side) or, say, Tim Allen or Bill Murray (on the older side) - someone who can balance humorous riffs against a capacity for both subtlety and self-deprecation. (Actually, it would have been most perfect for the ‘80s version of Tom Hanks, who was capable of infusing yuppie smarm into a character, yet mixing in just enough of an essential sweetness to keep him sympathetic. And, of course, hilarious. Will we ever see that Tom again?)

Morgan Freeman as God, though, is a hoot. Yeah, I could really get *BEHIND* a Heaven that had him in charge! In the scenes with him and Carrey, he just wipes the floor with ol' Jim; it's like he's giving an object lesson to the young whippersnapper in how you get laughs while remaining composed, and not relinquishing your essential humanity (or, in this case, divinity).

I don't know, man. If I were giving career advice to Jim Carrey, I'd tell him to either play to his strengths by sticking with the loony, larger-than-life roles – or, if he really wants to stretch and be serious (even if it be `serious comedy' such as this), then he needs to settle down and learn how to truly interact with other people. Far be it from me to clip his wings – I love him in the stratosphere! – but if he's determined to expand his repertoire, then he needs to develop a new set of skills. Enough awkward hybrids like Bruce Almighty, and he'll be yesterday's news.

The suburbs were the setting for three of Steven Spielberg's most popular achievements - "Close Encounters of the Third Kind," "E.T.: The Extra-Terrestrial" and "Poltergeist" - and I don't think it's exactly coincidence. As a storyteller, Spielberg drew strength and imagination from his suburban setting, and he was a wry and fair chronicler of it. He knew these people and their environs; he could perceive the inherent limitations, but he also believed in the fundamental decency of most of its denizens, and also recognized what a powerful base of operations the suburban hearthside could be (even one that was, as in "E.T." somewhat less than perfect). How different from every other single movie maker who delves into suburbia. From "American Beauty" to "Edward Scissorhands" , from David Lynch's twisted tales of paranoia to the gothic surrealism of "Donnie Darko", the suburbs are continually a place of danger and trash - a place where the soul is crushed and life is perpetually dark and soulless (underneath of course the placid and reassuring surface). It's time, I think, to send a little letter to Hollywood: "Enough with this stuff already!" Either find a new take on the subject, or at least lighten up and let some joy into the proceedings. The suburbs don't *all* suck, after all.

At first, this film looked like it might be going in that benevolent direction. It did a nice job painting a fairly normal suburban family and environment without pencilling in either too much plasticity (Mary McDonnell's mother veers in that direction, but her portrayal keeps pulling back from matriarchal harpy into a more rounded, human performance) or moodiness. But this idyll breaks down rather quickly, and we're once again into the Suburbs As Hell (teenage angst sub-genre). And you know what? Once you've been down that road a couple dozen times, there's really not too much more to say (or see).

So Richard Kelly, the writer and director, attempts to sustain our interest with a plot that, like "the Sixth Sense", infuses creepiness and notions of horror and/or insanity before resolving all with a "surprise" ending that - supposedly - sheds new light upon all that has gone before (and is meant the make the audience say, "Aw - coooooooool, man!"). As you can no doubt tell, I don't think much of the device, or of the movie, and here's why:

It makes no sense! String it all together, work it out backwards and forwards, and the film still has too many loose ends, too many things that just do not cohere. One could possibly make a plea for relativism, or ambiguity, but even allowing for that the film really doesn't hold together. For example, much is made of the firing of the English teacher played by Drew Barrymore; in the principal's office when it happens, she breaks down and bemoans anyone ever "reaching" the kids. But from what we've seen of her in class, she clearly maligns her students and acts like a supreme bitch, so why should we care. If she was onscreen for more than five minutes it might make sense; instead, it's just bad writing. Yet another of Donnie's teachers is held up as the shrewish, self-righteous type who sees things in utter black and white terms; we're not meant to like her, and we don't - but to what ultimate effect? A motivational speaker in the film is eventually revealed as someone with a dark secret, but that too is passed over and not really dealt with in any but the most cosmetic way. Amidst all this, Donnie Darko seems to be going quietly insane.

All of this might have some sort of point, in a better movie. If I had to guess, that point would be: the school Administration dispenses soul-crushing pablum, like so much mental novocaine. Is this what's eating Donnie throughout the movie? It's hard to say, since the filmmaker decides he doesn't want to deal with any of it head-on, but rather plays around on an arty concept of the world being refracted into all sorts of weird shapes through Donnie's peculiar "condition" (the exact nature of which is not revealed until the end - if there, even!). Problem is, as he plays around with the "freakiness" of what Donnie is going through, he loses sight of how to portray good old fashioned reality (exaggerations and caricatures abound), leaving the audience adrift on a sea of madness on the one hand, and cartoonishness on the other. Not a pleasant dichotomy.

Once the movie finally reveals its hand, a new spin is put on things, of course. But, reflecting upon everything which went before in the wake of the final twist, I could see no reason for the tone the director took, nor could I truly see any kind of resolution. My fear is that the director *thinks* he's made sense of things at the eleventh hour . . . but in point of fact, he's cleared up nothing. It's possible to muse that the film is wanting to be some kind of Generation Y version of "It's A Wonderful Life," but nothing of any import really happens or is revealed, so even that association is bogus.

So many ideas in this movie. So many ideas that were almost good. There isn't a good movie inside this mess, trying to get out, but there could have been. Stylistically, at least, it was very intriguing and well handled - Kelly is a natural director, with an imaginative eye for *shooting* and *displaying* the suburban landscape (almost as good as Spielberg). But the guy clearly needs to hire a writer next time. And if he's trying to make science fiction (which is what this film seems to be leaning toward), a science fiction writer wouldn't hurt.

Which reminds me: hey, Steven, you still available?! Come on back from your 21st century musings - the suburbs could really use you again!

Can men and women ever be merely friends, without the temptation of sex rearing its ugly head? This is the question that this movie so famously posed - and so glibly answered - almost fifteen years ago. As it follows the progression of Harry and Sally - a pair of charming, if neurotic, Manhattanites - from enemies to confidants to lovers, it seems to smugly relish the fact that it has proven its point: men and women can never just "be friends" - sex is always the bond that unites them. But the film is so manipulative, so dogged in its pursuit of this goal, that it never appears an alternative position was ever considered. So, as philosophy, chalk When Harry Met Sally up to around zilch.

Now, disregard the above paragraph. Because When Harry Met Sally makes up for its slights to credibility and lack of rigorous thought by being easily the funniest movie of its year (1989). This humor flows mainly from the beautifully crafted scenes and dialogue; indeed, each scene is a dialogue set piece (and could be transferred to the stage quite easily - surprising no one's ever done it, actually), which flows with the firm and confident rapidity of a 20th century Shaw or Oscar Wilde. Of course, this approach has its downside, too: mainly that the lead characters seem less and less like real people and more like tools for the brilliant lines and conceits of the screenwriter (Nora Ephron - never better; in fact, never even remotely close ever again). This may have something to do with the film's inability to seem completely real or true to human nature as it actually plays out - but with lines like these, who's complaining?

For, what is great about the movie is not its originality (it steals from all over, especially Woody Allen movies, and the few ideas it can truly call its own are, as I've said, not particularly bright or well-thought out), but its ability to hone in on stereotypes of character and situation and offer pithy and hilarious precis of the male-female condition through the witty banter and interaction of its characters. As such, the film is less like a conventional movie and more like a stand-up routine dealing with life and love in the Big City: it is to be judged not by its content, but by the dexterity of its put-ons and one-liners. (It is not surprising, for example, that several of its set-pieces and comic notions were revisited just a few years later, and in much the same manner, on "Seinfeld".) In that regard, it succeeds flawlessly.

Just think of all the conventions it gets in, and skewers: the one-track mind male (Harry); the "sensitive" and practical female, repulsed yet intrigued by said male (Sally); the emotionally unsettled mistress playing the field (Carrie Fisher, who keeps an index card file of "available" men); the live-ins who can't "commit" (Sally and her ex-boyfriend); women's concern with middle age and their biological clock ("I'm gonna be 40," weeps Sally. "When?" asks Harry. "Someday."); the male's tendency to skip out after making love; the horror and unpredictability of blind dates; and, in a scene which is almost passe to mention anymore, women's ability to fake orgasm. The way this film jumps from one familiar convention to another would be embarrassing if it weren't for the fact that each one is handled with such economy, humor and grace.

Billy Crystal acquits himself well as Harry - predictably, perhaps, as it's a part tailor made for a standup comedian. Still, seeing him in this after years of half-baked movies and fawning Oscar presentations, it's a revelation how glib and unlikable he can allow himself to be . . . and *still* be likable. Yo, Billy, if you're listening out there: try incorporating some of Harry's darker shadings and more egocentric traits into your future roles; it gives you a more complete palette to work from and keeps you from being too generic and schticky. And your charm and humor will always shine through anyway.

If Billy needs to edge a little bit closer back to Harry, though, Meg Ryan needs to get Sally completely out of her system. This role, deservedly, made her a star - but she has tried to go back to this particular well once too many times, and it's become way too familiar: you know, the adorable, bright-eyed bit - mentally disheveled, prissy around the edges with just a wisp of klutziness, all topped by that cute, mega-watt smile. It has become now the "Meg Ryan" character, but back when Sally came along it was still fresh, and it was tied to a particular personality. Ryan gives Sally a shy-cum-toughness as well as a moody, slightly cynical and self-deprecating wit that is just totally right. She and Crystal play off each other like two old pros, and they weave in and out of some charming and hilarious verbal music.

It's funny, but I just recently saw this movie on a Saturday afternoon television marathon of "Romantic Weepies" - and it struck me as an odd designation, because this movie is anything but a weeper. It takes a clear-eyed, almost cynical view of love and companionship, and creates around it a charming tapestry of bracing wit and crunching dialogue. So save the violins and the handkerchiefs for romantic comedies less sure on their feet - whose deficiency in wit must be made up for by a surfeit of melodrama and manipulation. This movie is manipulative too, of course, but its manipulation is almost beside the point. It's the laughs along the way we remember here, not the big kiss or the grand embrace. That Harry and Sally were "meant" for each other and that the film "proves" it is much less important than the fact that Sally does one hell of a great orgasm.

Waiter, I'll have what they're having . . .

So much invective, so many hurt feelings on this one. Bad press and word of mouth followed this movie around like the plague upon its release at Thanksgiving, 2000. On one level, of course, I can understand it; "Grinch" certainly didn't need the big-screen, live action treatment - the simple half-hour cartoon is, and always will be, a classic unto itself. But exactly because that version is in no danger of going away or being forgotten (or - perish the thought! - replaced), I for one was able to be more generous and forgiving when watching this movie. Oh hell, I might as well admit it - I watched it at all pretty much explicitly to see what Jim Carrey was going to do with the lead role. On that score, I was not disappointed; he took the basic character sketch that is the Grinch and embroidered it with all manner of tics, impersonations, and over-the-top shenanigans. As usual, if you're no fan of Carrey - and broad humor in general - there's nothing here that will convert you. Me, I'm constantly astonished by his resourcefulness and creativity, as well as the almost superhuman energy he brings to every role. Here it's especially impressive, as he coaxes a pulsing life force to come through layers and layers of prosthetics. In fact, it occurred to me, watching the film, that if anyone could be a modern day Lon Chaney, it would be Jim Carrey - I could see him making a good career out of bringing life to a rogues' gallery of monsters, grotesques, and other costumed or heavily made-up characters. It would in fact seem the natural extension of his talents and inclination; if there's ever been anyone constrained by the notion of being a "normal" person, it's Jim Carrey. But by the same token, no one - not Jack Nicholson in Batman, not Christopher Lloyd in Who Framed Roger Rabbit?, not even Paul Reubens as Pee Wee Herman - has seemed so at home projecting the weightlessness and exaggeration of a cartoon existence more fully than Jim Carrey. This is no easy trick by any stretch of the imagination, and I hope for all our sakes that he'll always at least keep his hand in this style of performing; there's many who can do "realistic" acting (in varying degrees of quality, of course) - there's precious few, maybe no one else currently alive, who can do what Carrey does.

As to the movie itself: is there anything here beyond Carrey's performance that makes it worth seeing? Not really. But then again there's nothing that really gets in the way, either. The sets and the basic look of the movie are reasonably well done: nothing overtly memorable, but not the ugly and barren wasteland many reviewers have suggested. Taylor Momsen as Cindy Lou-Hoo is suitably cute in her part without being insufferable (and on that score let's not forget that even Dr. Seuss's Cindy Lou was impossibly precious and saccharine in the first place) and she develops a nice rapport with Carrey that helps anchor the film. The backstory which "explains" the Grinch and how he became that way . . . well, yeah, it's stupid, but it also doesn't take up much time, so if you just twiddle your thumbs for a few minutes you can get through it without too much pain or discomfort.

But many objected to the film on the basic grounds that its portrayal of the Hoos was an abomination; that it took the simple, good-hearted creatures of the Dr. Seuss original and turned them into lunk-headed and materialistic busybodies - in essence, caricatures of Yuletide soul-lessness and consumerism. Personally, I think it's an interesting change. Seuss's heart was always more with Grinch's cynicism and disgruntlement anyway, so it makes sense to pile on those qualities in an extended treatment of the story. Furthermore, while the Hoos as paragons of perfect virtue and simplicity works OK in a 22-minute treatment (especially one where we don't see much of them), there's something fundamentally false and unsatisfying about it. After all, even in the original tale, these people *are* pretty ostentatious and materialistic in their celebration of Christmas. It makes sense to me that they - just as much as the Grinch - would need a reminder in what the true meaning of the holiday season really is before they would lovingly burst into song at the prospect of a Christmas without any presents or decorations. And, of course, this makes them closer in conception to the average American, and thereby more identifiable and accessible (if necessarily less admirable). Especially since, as I've said, this new version doesn't wipe out the old one, I think the change in the Hoos is utterly defensible and adds an interesting wrinkle that the film can truly call its own.

So that's the Grinch, circa 2000 - no big whoop, but no big travesty either. And if you like Jim Carrey, another notch on his belt of impressive performances. That's really all you need to know.

I have an earlier review of this movie posted somewhere on this site in which I pretty much deconstruct it and its status as a "classic sequel" and even "a great movie." A handful of great scenes populate it, to be sure, and a spate of fine performances (particularly a toweringly great one from Pacino), but nothing that coheres into greatness - particularly as it's at the service of a turgid and convoluted plot.

All of which I more or less stand by - at least as it befits my own taste and predilections. But I recently had some insight into why this sequel may be so well-respected: in its very dourness and lack of fire, it paints the unremittingly grim portrait of Mafia life that many apparently felt was missing from the first Godfather. I recently showed that movie to a group of my friends who had never seen it before (amazing in this day and age, no?) and they all enjoyed it - but, to a man, they felt that it definitely glorified and mythologized the violence it showed and the lifestyle it portrayed. Personally, I have a hard time seeing this - and, pay attention, because I believe here lies the discrepancy between the people who love the sequel and those who don't. On the most simplistic level, if you feel the first film glorifies the Mob - and feel at least slightly cheated because of it - you will most likely have an appreciation for the second film. If you feel, like I do, that the first movie sucks you into associating and sympathizing (hell, even *loving*!) these characters, but that the violence brings everything all back home and reminds you the evil and corruption which undergirds their way of life - then the second movie, though having perhaps some interesting elaborations upon this theme, offers nothing genuinely new. And is, therefore - despite all the evident care and superb craft involved - kind of a waste of time.

But, since the violence and worldview depicted in The Godfather is such a polarizing issue, I suppose it was a good idea that Francis Coppola decided to have another go at it, ramming down his point for all those who didn't get it the first time: "The Mob is BAD, it CORRUPTS YOUR SOUL, and NO GOOD CAN COME OF IT!" These are good points to be made, and perhaps I shouldn't be so quick to dismiss them. I had just thought, previously, that . . . well, they're obvious (or should be, anyway - and anyone to whom they're not obvious is probably beyond all hope) and that the director had already made them once. Clearly, not everyone feels The Godfather makes those points cogently enough (as my friend says about the end of the first movie: "Sure, Michael is cold, ruthless and lies to his wife - but DAMN, he's just the *man*!"). For those people, The Godfather Part II exists, and that's fine. I'll never speak ill of the movie again.

Except for those flashback scenes - those are still terrible! Either they should form a completely different movie unto themselves, or they should be cut out entirely (watching the second film as part of "The Godfather Saga", where these flashbacks have been excised, is infinitely more rewarding to me). I still don't know what function they serve - if anything, they seem a throwback to the preciousness and romanticism of the first film, except far worse, in my opinion. But no one seems to agree with me, so I'll stop beating the tune on that one . . .

But as long as I'm here and have got this movie in my sights for a second time (and am inclined to dwell on its strengths rather than its faults), let me just expand upon what I said earlier about the acting: the film is a veritable master's class in great acting, coming in all shapes and varieties. The coiled intensity of Pacino is complemented by an equally quiet yet forceful turn by Robert Duvall as Tom Hagen (whose work in both Godfathers is some of the greatest, yet most unsung, in cinema history). Lee Strasberg does wonderful things with the Hyman Roth character, adding new layers and shadings in every scene, and his soliloquy to Michael about Moe Greene is as dead-on perfect as anything can be in this world. Similarly, Michael Gazzo takes a seemingly annoying and one-note character (Pentangeli) and works in so much depth and humanity, that at the end he's one of your favorite people in the entire Godfather story (doubly amazing, since he didn't have any automatic goodwill from the audience by being a carryover from the first film). The quiet scene between he and Duvall near the end is, in some ways, the most shocking, cold-hearted and violent of the whole series - and not one weapon is drawn, the two speaking in pleasantries the entire time, barely above a murmur. This, folks, is great acting - as well as sophisticated writing, all topped off by a director who has total confidence in the audience to get it, without his having to exaggerate or accentuate a thing. This is, simply, peerless moviemaking.

Such peerlessness exists, for me, in doses rather than all the way through in The Godfather Part II. But to extrapolate from this that the film is somehow worthless is a mistake - one I must apologize for. Though I still stand by my assessment that, for me anyway, the second Godfather is largely "unnecessary", I am more aware and sympathetic to the larger purpose it serves for a good deal of the audience. And, necessary or not, it still has on show some absolutely top-notch cinema acting, writing and directing. Maybe it, unlike the first one, is an offer I *can* refuse, but having once accepted it, I'm there for the duration.

***** SPOILERS WITHIN ********

Let me start my review with a question: are those "beings" at the very end of the movie supposed to be aliens or advanced AIs? From things I've read and people I've talked to, the second answer appears to be the consensus - but I'll be damned if I thought the point was driven home in any meaningful way. I bring this issue up first because I find the confusion symptomatic of the entire movie: "driving home a point in any meaningful way" is not something this film is particularly good at.

To start with the positives, though: the visuals, I thought, were quite trippy and memorable - and Spielberg did a fine job of balancing his own style with Kubrickian trademarks, and thereby achieving a kind of third type of thing in the end. At least, he did in the first section (David and the parents at home) and the incredible last section (New York submerged under the melted ice caps). But I thought the middle section - the punk apocalypse of the Flesh Fair and Rouge City - was actually pretty tawdry and underwhelming. It tried to beat "Blade Runner" and "Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome" at their own game and it just looked shoddy and derivative.

That whole middle section of the movie, anyway, was pretty much a waste. . .. . . . And I say that because, for me at least, whatever interest to be found in the film is either in that first section (i.e. the psychology of a human family learning to live with, and eventually love, an AI) or in the very last - with the notion of a world which has been completely taken over by automatons (or, as they're called in the film, "mechas"). Focusing the story on either one of those two tangents would have been worthwhile. What the film *did* choose to focus on - David's search for the Blue Fairy and his desire to become "a real, live boy" - was remarkably simple-minded and reductionist. Ultimately, I just didn't CARE about David, because his quest was stupid and ill-fated from the very beginning. Nor did I think it was smart to set up a "mecha" as our tragic hero: since I am after all a human being, I am much more interested in the reaction of human beings in an increasingly mechanized and roboticized society. Leave it to cold as ice Stanley, though, to prefer following a robot around than a human being. But then leave it to the sentimental Spielberg to try to humanize that robot, leaving him as an annoying hybrid. What I mean to say is that, if Kubrick had lived to direct the film, while it may not necessarily have been any better, I think he would have had the good sense to keep David eerily "robotic" at all times - whereas Spielberg couldn't resist the temptation to make Haley Joel Osment emote and carry on like a real live boy. And thereby muddling the theme ("ya see, Steven, he *wants* to be a real boy, he's not supposed to already *be* one").

In those moments - mainly early on - when little Haley is permitted to fully be an android, he is dead on and extremely chilling. What he was called upon to do was quite subtle and complex - to totally subsume his humanity, and yet to inhabit a being which longs for and apes that very humanity. This kid is not just a great "child actor" - he's a great actor, period. (As for Jude Law, the other major actor here - he was great and hugely entertaining in his role as a "gigolo" AI, but his character seemed more of a contrivance and an afterthought than anything else.)

As to that ending, with the mechas/aliens: I must admit, I didn't even so much as *entertain* the notion that they were AIs until I read a comment someone made about the movie online. The fact is, if they're supposed to be "mechas", that really raises a lot more questions than it answers. Such as, well what happened to all the humans, then? Also, when did AIs become sophisticated enough to be able to run an entire society without input or instructions from their makers? Surely, none of the AIs we see during the course of the movie is anywhere near that self-reliant (both David and Gigolo Joe are dependent upon, and serve at the whims of, others). Finally, why would these advanced robots be so interested in finding out about mankind? Presumably, they're far more perfect and efficient than we could ever be, and anyway they're only running at all because they already have human programming built into them somehow. My point here is this: if the movie is indeed positing an eventual all-mecha society, then it is being lazy and disingenuous in the extreme to only mention it as an afterthought, a footnote to its otherwise "Pinnochio"-lite movie (by the way, didn't all that direct quoting of "Pinnochio" get on your nerves - it's like Stanley and Steve were worried that we wouldn't get the reference or something). If an all-AI world is in the cards - then, dammit, that's a WHOLE *OTHER* MOVIE!! (and one I'd prefer to see)

Obviously, any way you slice it, that ending opens things up for much more speculation than the filmmakers allowed themselves to engage in. Certainly, you can make the valid point that one can't criticize a movie simply because it wasn't the one YOU would have made. But, really, I'm puzzled as to what Stan and Steve thought the point was of their movie as they conceived it. What - that robots are people, too? Umm. . . they're not, guys. Whether they're something *more* or something *less* is a question worth examining, and a good subject for a rigorous and inquisitive film. "A.I." isn't it.

Yes, I know it wasn't as good as A Fish Called Wanda (which it was the unofficial "sequel" to - being not a continuation of the same characters, but featuring all the same lead actors, in roughly the same configuration and relation to one another as in the previous film). And yes, it's clear that John Cleese has lost a step or three on his precision and comic timing (though John Cleese at half speed is still funnier than most comic actors working today). But this film has such a sweetness and a general good spirit to it that I find it impossible to dislike.

The story itself is rather convoluted, and one could make a fair claim that it seems more a hodge-podge of stitched together ideas than a seamless throughline. That is so, and yet since it is a hodge podge of almost entirely *good* ideas, it's harder to find fault with. Cleese stars as an ex-cop who is hired by a huge Rupert Murdoch-like conglomerate to run an English zoo that they have picked up in a mergers acquisition. Needless to say, the zoo has absolutely no inherent interest to the company, but they are willing to keep it going if it can return a profit at a certain rate. Cleese plans to do this is by appealing to people's bloodlust, and only keeping the most dangerous and fearsome of the animals (the "fierce creatures" of the title). Things change somewhat when Jamie Lee Curtis and Kevin Kline show up to take over Cleese's job (but keep him on as an employee). A brainstorm by Kline (playing a character every bit as hilariously slimy and petty as his counterpart in Wanda) introduces the notion of corporate sponsorship into the zoo-going experience. Eventually, all the employees are decked out in animal costumes (like mascots at a "Zoo Land" amusement park), and Kline has even begun the process of introducing animatronic creatures behind the bars. All the while, a budding romance between Cleese and Curtis is playing out behind the scenes, and the two eventually join forces to try and save the zoo from the clutches of the crass and evil conglomerate.

Any one of the comic scenarios the film-makers bring up would be worth exploring to the end. The fact that they cannot seem to keep one satirical conceit going for any stretch, and feel the need to overhaul the plot in a new direction every twenty minutes or so, definitely lessens the impact the movie could have had. And yet, for example: just because the writers beg off early on the "fierce creatures" idea doesn't make it any less hilarious - both as a concept and in execution. The scenes of the kindly zookeepers trying to sell their individual cute little animals as dangerous is one of the funniest scenes in the movie. But then, later, when that concept has been forgotten, and we instead see Kevin Kline leading around a group of potential financial backers, giving them his notions of how corporate sponsorship could work at the zoo . . . well, that's one of the funniest scenes too. What I'm saying is, though a strong focus is something the film lacks, it makes up for it by filling its running time with enough entertaining and well devised comic moments to make you feel like you got your money's worth.

The performances help. As in Fish Called Wanda, Jamie Lee Curtis is not particularly noteworthy as an actress OR a comedienne, but she gets by on her general sultriness and willingness to play cheerfully along. Most importantly, she keeps out of the way of the big boys and lets them do their stuff. As I mentioned, Cleese is a little moldier here than usual, but there's still no one who does high-strung fussiness better, and he holds down the screen nicely. As with Wanda, though, it's Kevin Kline who really steals the show - this time in a dual role, as the Murdoch-like head of the conglomerate and his stupid slimeball son who has big plans for the zoo (as well as getting into Curtis's pants). The sheer *energy* he throws out is infectious, and his ability to "play off" himself - in the scenes between father and son - is nothing short of superb. Blessedly, the dual role bit is revealed as more than just an actor's stunt by the way the movie is resolved: had Kline not been playing both roles, the movie could never end the way it does. That, too, was a nice touch.

Genial, breezy, good spirted - this is Fierce Creatures. Nothing in the masterpiece league but, especially if you've seen A Fish Called Wanda, it's a nice evening spent with old friends - with some new and well devised jokes thrown into the mix.

The premise and initial set-up are awesome, a bold and imaginative revisiting of an oft-told tale, in this case the Peter Pan story. (Worthy of mention: the story idea and screenplay are by James V. Hart, who provided another such awesome re-imagining of familiar material with his next film, BRAM STOKER'S DRACULA - then followed it through with a clunky and discombobulated narrative.)

The early scenes in London are great. A magical look and feel is established, with an undertone of both menace and wistful regret that gives the movie the feel of a classic in the making. Also, Julia Roberts is absolutely dead-on perfect as Tinkerbell - tomboy and coquette in equal measure, and totally captivating (overall, I don't get the whole Julia Roberts "thing" and in general think she's way overrated, but I do love her here). Robin Williams . . . well, he's just Robin Williams in the early going, I'm afraid; doesn't really create a character so much as be himself - but what the heck, it feels appropriate. Plenty of time for him to transform himself into Peter Pan later.

Problem is, though, he never does. I'm not sure that any grown-up male could convincingly portray Peter Pan (although Martin Short probably could give it a good shot), but Williams never even looks like he's trying. He keeps up a steady stream of one-liners which are funny, but ultimately distracting. They keep him too aloof from the proceedings, and that's death in a story of this kind. I know that in some ways it's an intangible kind of criticism, but he simply never BECOMES Pan, and so the film - whatever its other merits - is simply dead in the water.

Not that it has particularly too many other merits, anyway, once it arrives in Neverland. Once again, it may simply be impossible for any set or movie-created environment to be as evocative and full of wonder as the one we carry around in our heads concerning this mythical place. Still, what the film-makers come up with here for a setting is ugly and pedestrian beyond belief. The whole thing *looks* like a movie set, and a particularly cheesy one at that. Ed Wood or Roger Corman would be at home on this set, but it's not what we would expect from Steven Spielberg - nor, indeed, what is suggested by the wondrous opening London segment which preceded it (did they blow their whole set design budget on the first fifteen minutes?)

The Lost Boys, too: okay, I get what Spielberg was going for, and on the face of it maybe it's not even a bad idea (though I'm prepared to say that yes it is) - the boys not as Victorian waifs and innocents but rather as more closely akin to a present day junior high school class, complete with modern lingo and attitudes. Problem is, as executed, it just comes across as The Goonies in elfin dress, with all the dumb humor and clunky writing intact. Come on now, a food fight! A "turf war" between Peter and the would-be East Compton homeboy? Arsenio Hall-like "whoo-whoo" dawg pound salutes? Updating something for the modern age is one thing, Steven, but dumbing down your material in order to pander to the Nike generation of kids is just embarrassing.

What is really a shame, though, aren't the bad elements per se - it's that the good stuff really is deserving of greater material surrounding it. First and foremost: the title character himself. Dustin Hoffman just OWNS this role, I mean he really, absolutely just NAILS it. As a matter of fact, what he comes up with here as a characterization is so startling and completely out of left field (the best way to describe it being William F. Buckley and Long John Silver inhabiting the same body), but so wonderfully appropriate and uncannily *right* . . . that it's disappointing when we realize how poorly written and developed this character is going to be. Aside from what Hoffman puts across as a performer, the script never makes Captain Hook really menacing, or even particularly intelligent (his cartoonish sidekick Smee being, jarringly, the real brains of the operation). In fact, he's such a buffoonish character - full of empty threats with no backbone or follow through - that he's not even a worthy antagonist. Perhaps Spielberg was trying to soft-peddle the danger, in order not to make the movie too scary for little kids - but unfortunately, what we're left with is a powder-puff villain. Inevitably, then, our investment in the hero's struggle against him is greatly lessened.

Even that may not have mattered so much if the film could have found a way to better utilize and sustain its most brilliant conceit : the revelation, halfway through, of what finally caused Peter to want to grow up and leave Neverland . . . the chance to be a *father.* This particular sequence is handled beautifully, and brought tears to my eyes. It gives his character real tragic dimension, as we realize that his failures as a dad are not simply unfair to his kids, but a betrayal of the best part of his nature. Then there is the delicious irony that Peter's "happy thought" - which restores him to his full former glory - is that of holding his child in his arms for the first time. This completely floored me, and suggested a much deeper and more well-thought out premise: that the real enemy to be feared and fought against is not Hook (he's just the catalyst for the story), but in fact Peter's own divided nature.

Alas, the film settles for the convention of the "climactic showdown" and a not very well-earned (or justified) "happy ending." But, it seems to me, it could have been so much more.

David Lynch movies pretty much exist to annoy me, so why I even bothered with this is somewhat of a mystery. In truth, a friend of mine who really did want to see it (and loved it, by the way) more or less twisted my arm, but I never particularly expected to enjoy it. And I was not disappointed.

I'm not gonna go on about it, though: Lynch is someone you either like or you don't, and I just don't. His desire to tell stories devoid of narrative, or at least with a punctured and messed-up sense of narrative, is not really entertaining to me. Perhaps if his visuals and atmospherics were more compelling, I might be willing to just groove on them in the absence of story. (As a counter example, I *can* groove to, say, the imagery in Blade Runner, and enjoy watching the film just for that, even though I don't find the story to be particularly interesting or well told.) But that's just a personal call: if you like Lynch at all, you must like his style and visuals, and that's fine. I just don't - they don't do anything for me. But I think we can part the ways amicably on that.

However, I can't leave this film without lodging one fairly serious complaint - one that I believe holds validity whether you're a Lynch lover or not. For about three-fourths of the way through, the story actually DOES make sense: it's not told in the most conventional way, perhaps, but it is at least something you can follow. Unlike Lost Highway, which (from what I've heard) was confusing and tripped out from the beginning, Mulholland Drive has a throughline that does appear to be headed somewhere. Then, just as on the TV program Twin Peaks all those years ago, it's as if Lynch decided, "Oh my gosh, this story is actually GOING somewhere - I can't have that!" And so at the eleventh hour he does a double flip-back whammy and in the final fifteen minutes turns it all into incomprehensible weirdness - for no better reason, seemingly, than that, well, he's DAVID LYNCH after all. A little consistency here, Dave, would be nice: if the whole film is going to be like a "dream state" - or whatever it is you're going for - establish that closer to the beginning of the film. But this is just yanking the audience's chain, pure and simple.

Anyway, that's my opinion. Lynch fans can (and probably will) have a field day with me, but there it is.

What director Karl Freund achieves in this movie is nothing short of staggering, even at a remove of nearly 70 years. If this same story, with this same basic approach, were released today, it would still be great. And especially now, when the box office successes of such movies as The Sixth Sense, What Lies Beneath and The Blair Witch Project demonstrate that audiences are hungry for a return to the classic horror virtues of style, mood and suspense (as opposed to the tired formula of gore, in your face shocks, special effects, and more gore) The Mummy would seem ripe for some kind of revival (too bad the lame Brendan Fraser vehicle has stolen its title - though nothing of its wit, skill, or conviction).

What makes this movie so good is. . . gosh, there are so many things! Start with the creepy and unsettling tone, which the movie establishes right away. The very first scene - where the Mummy is awakened - is one of the greatest ever for pure atmosphere and chills. Look at the way Freund *under* plays it, every step of the way. Instead of piling on a crescendo of "scary" music and using odd or distorted camera angles to dramatize the situation, he has the action play out in total silence and with a resolutely still camera, the tasteful cut-aways (from the mummy in the tomb to the archaeologist sitting not five feet away) being the only frill. The tension which results is unsettlingly powerful - and is made moreso by the fact that the scene refuses to resolve itself in the way which we expect it to. I'll give no more details, but when you watch the film, ask yourself: isn't *this* resolution ten times more creepy and effective than the one we thought we saw coming. Already, five minutes in, it's clear that The Mummy has a far more wicked, sophisticated sense of horror than any of the other big "monsters" of the day (Dracula, Frankenstein, Wolf Man, etc.) - and a good deal more than many that have come after, too.

But of course, all the style in the world ultimately cannot save a weak or hackneyed script. And so it's a great pleasure to report that all of Freund's technical finesse is at the service of a really super cool story. Not content to be merely a spooker, the film is also - nay, one might even say primarily - a tragic love story: one that deals intelligently with such provocative notions as forbidden love, reincarnation, religious desecration, inhuman torture, and a strong sub-theme of the desire to respect the past vs. the need to live for the moment. All of these elements swirl so ingeniously and non-didactically in The Mummy's streamlined storyline, that I'm tempted to proclaim this at once both the most compact, as well as the most ambitious, horror movie script I have ever come across.

Of course, such superlatives can get you in trouble too, so let me add that yes, there are flaws - mainly the ones endemic to all horror movies of the time. The so-called "hero" is once again a young man of no charm or interest whatsoever. Meanwhile, the venerable old "expert" who must explain the ways of the monster to everyone else is already a tired convention at this point - and since the role here is played by Edward Van Sloan (who was Van Helsing in the original "Dracula" and its sequel "Dracula's Daughter", as well as Dr. Waldman in "Frankenstein") there is an even greater than usual sense of perfunctoriness to the undertaking. However, even here the movie displays its strength and uniqueness by toying with our expectations of what these stock characters will be able to do and achieve. Whereas in most other horror films, the romantic lead and the crusty old doctor end up being the white knights who vanquish the monster and save the girl, here they operate on a much less exalted plane - and are thereby made more human in the process.

As for faults, that's pretty much it. The pace is masterful; some have called it slow, but I strongly disagree. The film flows naturally and inevitably, with every scene building upon the one before it. There's nothing extraneous in the way it unfolds - achievement enough when compared to the countless other horror movies of its day. As an added treat, there is a flashback sequence in the middle of the movie that is a mini-masterpiece all by itself: it has all the fury and grandeur of a D.W. Griffith silent, honed and encapsulated down to its bare essence. It tells the tale of the title character's previous life with an economy and precision that could still serve as a model for filmmakers today. And, well, most of all, the movie has. . . Boris Karloff.

I've restricted my discussion of him until the end because his towering greatness is so routinely accepted and understood that it's almost redundant to comment upon it. Also, I wanted to make clear that, though he is the film's chief asset, he is far from its only one. But there's no question that it is his stately, brooding, menacing performance that ultimately pushes this film over into the realm of greatness. The key thing here is this: while the concept of a centuries-old being raised from the dead and out for vengeance is a great *idea*, Karloff's portrayal is what gives it tangible, terrifying REALITY. Observing this man - with his stiff ramrod posture, his measured and stately movements, and his absolutely hypnotic voice - we are truly convinced, on a visceral level, that yes here indeed is the walking dead. That kind of verisimilitude is rare enough in horror movies of any era, and its presence here stands as an absolute revelation. Just as does the entirety of this wonderful, exquisitely made film.

This film is inadequate on so many levels - not *bad* mind you, but inadequate; it posits a very strong and promising story - following ex-con Max Dembo (great name, that) from the moment of his release from prison and chronicling his attempts at re-integrating himself to the outside world, ending in the wasteful tragedy of him returning to a life of crime. A powerful premise, obviously, as it contains the possibility of exposing the prison system as caring solely about locking up, rather than rehabilitation; it would let a character like Max whither on the vine for years and years, then release him coldly into the world with no props, no survival skills, no real knowledge of anything but crime, violence, and institutional thinking. The *indignity* of the parolee's existence, belonging neither to the jail nor really to the outside world, comes through here in several of the opening scenes - particularly those between Dembo and his imposing parole officer (underplayed superbly by M. Emmet Walsh), and they are striking. But there's just not enough of it before Max jumps back into the convict's life: the latter two thirds of the movie involve his attempted scores with old buddies, leaving the examination of the whys and wherefores of his defection from the law-abiding life to simply drift into the wind. Indeed, I'd say the film throws away its true strength and uniqueness early, in order to settle into being a fairly routine and unspectacular caper thriller. It's too bad because it's such a great premise - that of the put upon ex-con - and one that's been used in such '90s films as "Heat", "The Shawshank Redemption" and "Carlito's Way" to yield penetrating insights into human nature. But "Straight Time" - probably one of the first films to ever deal with the subject head on - never really uses it to much benefit.

What makes the film something to see, though, in spite of itself, is the toweringly great performance by Dustin Hoffman as Max. This may very well be his single greatest performance -even taking such classics as "The Graduate", "Tootsie" and "Kramer vs. Kramer" into account. For one thing, he eschews the mannered gestures and speaking patterns that tend to bring a staginess to even his best performances; in "Straight Time" Hoffman is a model of stillness and calm - and yet, with a ferocious electricity in his eyes and a wiry tension in his body that at all moments practically scream, "Kill!" Though his character has relatively little dialogue (that is, for a leading role), you can't take your eyes off of him, because you're perpetually scared at what he might do. As it happens, the violence in the film is fairly minimal, but Hoffman sears the screen with such coiled intensity that you are kept afraid and off guard at every minute (and, of course, when the worst finally comes, it packs quite a punch - no pun intended). I truly believe this performance bears comparison to that other great mid-70s showcase of quiet angst and intensity - Robert DeNiro in "Taxi Driver" (and, while we're making comparisons, even Pacino in "The Godfather Part II").

Though he can't make up for lackluster direction and a lazy script, Hoffman does as much as any actor could reasonably do to fill in the blanks of Max's personality. His flat, deadened voice suggests a man who has been beaten down so long that all passion and volume has been removed from his larynx; his stony and expressionless face registers neither joy nor sorrow, letting us know all excitement and expectation have been drained from this man. Even his affair with the fresh-faced and pretty Theresa Russell (a hackneyed and unconvincing sub-plot, in any case) can arouse no great feeling in him; when he has to, he abandons her with no greater thought or regret than one would feel for a misplaced duffel bag.

Again I say, the first part of this film - which establishes Max's desire to fit in on the outside and his frustrated attempts at doing so - is so strong and Hoffman's performance so focused and intense (cementing our connection to him almost immediately) that it leaves you breathless for a great movie that, alas, never comes. In fact, the film gives up on its own greatness relatively early on. But, even after all the disappointment at the wasted opportunities, still there remains the memory of Dustin Hoffman's fantastically controlled and harrowing performance. And you know what? That turns out to be - just barely - enough.

Any film made during the "Swinging Sixties" is almost sure to look silly to us today - a plethora of "groovy man"s as well as doped-up pontifications about "letting it all hang out" and becoming one of the "beautiful people", all served up with garish camera tricks and gaudy production design. You know, "Austin Powers" but without the wink-wink knowingness.

(NOTE: To see how a so-called "classic" can be killed by the passage of time - and the absence of pharmaceuticals in one's system - check out "Easy Rider". That is, if you can stand it.)

On the surface, "B&C&T&A" seems to be in line with such films: it is, after all, how a quartet of middle class "squares" become indoctrinated into the hippie values of free love and "doing your own thing." However, the film uses that set-up as a means to deflate - gently and good naturedly - those very values. For, as the group becomes more uninhibited and "with it," the more goofy and ridiculous they all seem. This is particularly true of Robert Culp and Natalie Wood (Bob and Carol), as they take on the hippie philosophy full-bore and unquestionably. Casting here is impeccable: seeing the square-jawed, All-American looking Culp (then the epitome of middle-brow, as star of "I Spy") utter lines straight out of the Dennis Hopper - Peter Fonda playbook is just unutterably funny; he's got the words all right, but the music is woefully wrong. Same thing with Natalie Wood; can there be anyone more whitebread than her? The more she attempts to be "groovy" the more perfectly square she seems, particularly as Carol appears to just be parroting everything her husband says and does in adopting this new lifestyle. Quite the opposite of "liberation", wouldn't you say?

Perhaps funnier, though, are Elliot Gould and Dyan Cannon as Ted and Alice, since they get to register all the (comic) shock and horror of their friends' complete abandonment of rationality. And the equally strong undercurrents of jealousy that their friends are getting to enjoy all the freedom and sexual gratification that they themselves, as good well-behaved members of society - are missing out on. Cannon's neurotic sessions with her psychiatrist - where she continually broaches, and then backs off of, what's really troubling her - provide wonderful moments of comic denial and delusion.

What the film ultimately exposes is the moral vacuity of much of the hippie philosophy - that happiness and feeling good about oneself are not all there is to life, and that focusing too narrowly on them leads ultimately to emptiness. It also makes the subtle point, however, that much of what might initially have been good about hippie thought (or at least, the thoughts of those who inspired the hippies in the first place) was oversimplified and thereby corrupted when the middle class tried to incorporate it, seizing only upon those elements of it which seemed "fun" or "a turn-on" to them. Let's face it: how much of the so-called Woodstock Nation really had any deep political or philosophical commitments; most were just middle class kids turned on to the immediate buzz of easy drugs, free sex, and rebellion for its own sake. Likewise, cosmetic changes such as longer hair or listening to rock'n'roll didn't necessarily change the minds or policies of many in the power structure. As John Lennon said in 1971: "The Sixties didn't change anything. The same b***ards are in power now, it's just they've all got long hair."

I don't mean to suggest that the film gets into issues like this directly; it is never less than a pleasant and even sunny comedy. But these issues in a very real way undergird the film and make it ahead of its time. Released in 1969, "Bob, Carol et al. . ." displays a jaundiced attitude about the counterculture - at least, the middle-class *embrace* of the counterculture - that wouldn't come widely into vogue until at least a decade later. Indeed, the film almost seems contemporary in its bemused and dismissive view of Sixties mores. Austin Powers fans would do well to check it out.

I've seen this movie three times now, and every time I've seen it I've come to like it *more*than the previous time - which is fairly incredible. I definitely liked it well enough the first time, but upon the third viewing I became convinced: this isn't just a good, solid movie - it's one of the greatest of all time.

Why? Well, for me, I'd say that "Donnie Brasco" is the movie that "Goodfellas" wasn't. I don't actually get what the big fuss is over "Goodfellas" (which I realize, for many people, disqualifies my opinion right there, but here goes) - it's objective to the point of not taking any kind of stance at all on its characters or its situations. And even at that, in comparison with "Donnie" it actually *does* glamorize mobsters' lives: they are all the masters of their little world, and are entitled to the best of everything, even in prison. By contrast, "Donnie" shows the cheap and petty underside of mob life: a bunch of frustrated grunts, hanging out in the local grease joint, hatching schemes to make any kind of buck in order to pay off their bosses. It's sad and pathetic - and the attempts of Pacino's character to puff himself up (as well as the life he leads) into some kind of mythic significance is just unutterably sad. It's the "Death of a Salesman" of mob movies.

And that in itself would be quite enough. But in fact, it's also something else, something equally gripping and profound. It's maybe the best "undercover cop" movie I've ever seen, as well. That is, not only does it gives us a good inside view of the actual mechanics and legwork involved (wearing a wire, reporting to superiors, etc.) but also the effect that staying perpetually "in character" can have on the undercover cop's personal sense of self. Johnny Depp's character here is torn between his two separate identities: that of Joe Pistone, upstanding cop and family man, and the slimy and amoral "Donnie Brasco" that he is forced to live out every day as. His loyalty also becomes torn between his superiors, who stand loftily and sanctimoniously above him, and the everyday mob characters that he spends his time with and comes to feel a closeness for - particularly Lefty (Pacino). The relationship the movie builds between these two men is one of the strongest and most tender (while still understated) that I've ever seen in any film. And the conflict that it brings about in Donnie is made very real and poignant to the audience.

Also helping to make Donnie's dilemma effective are the scenes between he and his wife, played (perfectly) by Anne Heche. I bring this up because there might be a tendency to view these scenes as filler, since they take us away from the main action, and are pretty touchy-feely to boot (the quality of writing in them, I'll admit, is not as consistently high as the other scenes in the movie - though never less than competent). However, I find them just as necessary and vital to the film as all the mafia stuff: those scenes add incalculably to the composite picture of Johnny Depp's character, and how it is being pulled this way and that by the call of duty and the pull of his heart and conscience.

A FINAL NOTE: Concerning Al Pacino's performance here; it's been lauded as one of his best, but I'm not so sure. The CHARACTER of Lefty is definitely one of the greatest he has ever been handed, but there's not much subtlety to his portrayal, i.e. it's of the hambone, "Hoo-Ha" variety that has become his stock in trade ("Sea of Love" being the last time he created a fully three dimensional person on screen). However, what's affecting and poignant is how the film *uses* that portrayal: we're so used to seeing Pacino as the big boss, the head honcho - where his bluster is justified by his position - that to flip the formula on its head, and show him as the lowliest of the bottom feeders, yet still maintaining the same bluster, is tremendously jarring, in a sad kind of way. It's as if we're seeing the character of Lefty say to himself: "I'm a nobody, but maybe if I puff up enough and carry myself more like Al Pacino does in the movies, I can become a somebody." In this situation, is it the actor who's creating the magic, or the filmmakers' canny *use* of the actor, with all of his associations? I'm inclined to think the latter, but ultimately it doesn't matter: the bottom line is, Lefty Ruggiero is one of the greatest characters in all of film, and his story will break your heart.

A great, great movie. I'm sure I'll revisit it many more times through the years.

. . . because it's heart is in the right place, and it says all the right things about the United States' current "war on drugs": namely, that it is fundamentally un-winnable, and that to even wage it, we must - as Michael Douglas's character in the film states - "declare war on our own families" by treating addicts as criminals. Furthermore, the tremendous amounts of money to be made on the supply side, added to people's inevitable desire for altered states of consciousness on the demand side, ensure that there will never be an end to drug trafficking, no matter how many busts the government makes. Someone will always be ready to step into the breach and pick up the slack.

The problem, as I see it, is that all of these points have been made before and Traffic does nothing to make them more lucid or compelling. I think the structure is the problem: the movie tells four different stories (well, three-and-a-half: two of the strands together form one entire story arc) spread out across four different locations: Washington D.C., San Diego, Cincinnati and Tijuana, Mexico. In theory, this should provide for epic movie making: a vast mosaic of snapshots from within and without the drug trade, as we alternately rub up against dealers and suppliers, lawmen trying to put a stop to it all, and the people whose lives are directly affected by the presence of illegal, yet available, drugs. Coming in, I was very much looking forward to the interplay of these various stories.

But the truth is, these stories don't resonate off each other in any particularly useful way. Aside from the fact that they all have something to do with the drug trade, they may as well be separate movies. In fact, that's exactly how it feels: as if four separate and distinct movies have been jammed together into one giant hodge-podge, with parts cut out of each in order to make them all fit. Whenever a particular story strand is getting interesting or building some dramatic momentum, it is cut away from in order to visit one of the others. After little less than a half an hour, the technique becomes annoying and self defeating.

Furthermore, because time is at such a premium for each story, any semblance of subtlety or nuance must be forsaken in order to streamline and get points across. This isn't to say that the film lapses into Oliver Stone style polemics or overstatement, but it does mean that none of the stories yields any particular surprises, nor develops along lines that are any more than the most relentlessly cookie-cutter.

Story #1: Michael Douglas, playing an Ohio Supreme Court judge with a reputation for being tough on drug offenders, is appointed the nation's new drug czar, only to find out (at *EXACTLY* the same time!) that his straight-A daughter has become a major user. Oh, irony of ironies! Story #2: Catherine Zeta-Jones, after years of living the high life in San Diego, finds out that her husband, who she previously thought a legitimate businessman, is one of the country's biggest drug importers. After what seems like thirty seconds of soul searching, the genteel socialite turns ruthless she-bitch in order to secure her man's release from prison, as well as the successful continuation of his drug business. The other two stories are mirror images of each other: Benicio del Toro and Don Cheadle as, respectively, Mexican and American cops trying to put away drug pushers amidst a system that is, at best, ineffectual (in Cheadle's case) and at worst (for del Toro) actually encouraging of the lawbreakers. Cheadle and del Toro both give great performances, but we've seen this all before too: the frustration of the "one good cop" against all manner of corruption and villainy. The stories in Traffic bring nothing new to the party. (In fact, in the del Toro story, when we find out that a top ranking Mexican official is in fact involved with the drug trade, it seems as if it's supposed to be a surprise. But it was so loudly telegraphed from the very beginning that it packs absolutely no punch whatsoever.)

To be honest, I found the Michael Douglas story, though melodramatic, to be the one with the most heft and heart. I think the movie would have been much better if it had cut out the other tales and just focused on this one. After all, this one story covers an awful lot of ground in and of itself: as the new drug czar, Douglas not only must meet with Washington movers and shakers, but he also elects to visit with customs officials at the border (both here and in Mexico) to try and figure out how the situation is currently being handled. Add to that the harrowing personal dilemma of his own daughter's drug dependence, and you've got a story that is already sufficiently well-rounded and existing on more than one level (and locale). Making this one story into a gripping movie would have been accomplishment enough; unfortunately, Soderbergh and everyone else involved felt they had to pack in more, and in doing so they've plainly overreached.

But, as I said at the outset, I mean to be kind to this movie. I ultimately can't give it a positive rating, but I should emphasize that it's not a *painful* film to sit through in any way. And, if you're sympathetic with the viewpoint expressed, you should find something to like. Trouble is, that's a bit like preaching to the converted. And Traffic isn't good enough to win over anyone from the other side. So it fails as politics, and it's iffy as art. But it does have the best of intentions; in Hollywood today, that's got to count for something.

About what you would expect from a made-for-TV drama based on the Bible: reverent, hagiographic, and scrupulously faithful to a literal reading of the New Testament. No attempt to question or deconstruct the officially handed down story, this production works primarily as an illustrated guide to the Acts of the Apostles (for a more controversial view of Paul, and his relationship with Jesus's original disciples, read Hyam Maccoby's "The Mythmaker: Paul and the Invention of Christianity"). As such, I suppose this could be seen as a useful teaching aid for Bible studies - much like the miniseries Jesus of Nazareth was for the Gospels. However, don't expect much beyond that: the locations, direction and acting are all serviceable at best, and the drama is mostly underdeveloped. To anyone not already familiar with the story, in fact, the events portrayed within are probably too confusing and inexplicable to be enjoyable or instructive in any way.

I first saw this as a little kid, and I remember that Anthony Hopkins (who I'd never heard of or seen before) made an impression on me (this was well before his Hannibal Lecter days). I rented this on video recently mainly to find out why. It was probably because he is so very striking *looking* as Paul - he has strong features, and a perpetually determined expression on his face. However, I do not find his portrayal convincing overall; he is far too restrained, too genteel, and he plays the part, from first to last, as if assured of his sainthood from the outset. That's the problem with all these Bible stories for TV: they get mired in their own piousness, and assume a reverence which is never earned or explained. As such, they are for believers only. Certainly, Paul must have been a more wily and bombastic character, more slippery and egotistical, than he is portrayed here. In other words, there's a great *human* story in him - to be told by someone, somewhere. This ain't it.

I just saw this movie last night for the first time and I must say I was deeply impressed. As a child of the "talkie" era - and as one who has a love of great dialogue - I am not prone to watching silents. However, this one is well worth it: its composition and lighting, as well as its ability to create an effective atmosphere, work to draw the viewer in. Furthermore, the *faces* in this movie - Gowland as McTeague and (particularly!) Zasu Pitts as Trina - are so vivid and compelling, and the story so inherently tense and dramatic, that dialogue is not missed nearly as much as it could be (I won't go so far as to say it's not missed at all, though - I simply am a fan of great dialogue, and for me no silent can ever be as effective as a talkie; sorry, that's my bias and I'm sticking to it).

The reason I rented the film at all was because I read the novel "McTeague" for a literature class in college, and stills from the movie were included in the book (they looked intriguing). Now, I must say that I rather detested the book: it was written in much too heavy-handed a style, was relentlessly crude and depressing, and it awarded itself far too much significance in using this rather maudlin and melodramatic story to draw supposedly "profound" truths about the human condition. I bring this up for two reasons. It is often remarked (and usually rightly so) how a particular movie can never be as rich and satisfying as the novel it came from. This is because a novel has more space to develop its story and, more importantly, greater latitude in affording psychological insights into its characters.

With "McTeague/Greed," however, the opposite is true. Since the story is so tawdry and melodramatic to begin with, it is actually better served by film, a more naturally sensationalistic medium (particularly silent film), where outsize characters and emotions are more at home. Furthermore, the transfer allows the tale to be streamlined to its bare bones, and the ham-fisted moralizing and ruminations of the author to be excised. Having read the book, I can well imagine what was included in Stroheim's initial nine hour cut - and, believe me, I don't feel the loss. If anyone is curious, they can simply read the novel and picture it for themselves. As for the rest of us, what we get in the two hour version is all we really need to know for the story to work - in fact, any more of this story and, frankly, it would be held up for what it is: a preposterous and grotesquely inflated tale. In the book, for example, there are two or three sub-plots which add nothing to the story but time, and cutting them represents an actual improvement. Would anyone feel, for example, that The Godfather would have been a better movie if Coppola had included scenes (found in the book) of Johnny Fontane's carousing, or Lucy Mancini's sexual problems and her need for vaginal surgery? Of course not!

What I'm saying, then, is that, much as we instinctively tend to sympathize with artists and creators in their struggles against the bean counters and money men - in this case, I believe the studio made the right choice. "Greed" is a powerful movie. The natural inclination is for people to believe that it would have been even MORE powerful had the fullness of Stroheim's vision been allowed to come to light. In fact, the exact opposite is true: "Greed" is so good *because* it has been so tightened and foreshortened. So please, people, let's drop this pose of regret and disgruntlement, and simply enjoy the film for what it is: one of the greatest and most effective silent movies of all time.

I take up my pen tonight (metaphorically) to defend this movie from the onslaught of revisionist criticism it has taken over the past twenty years (particularly acute with its theatrical re-release three years ago). Any film that becomes as popular and as culturally defining as this one was in the late 1960s is bound to occasion any number of reassessments and reappraisals. However, the extent to which the majority of these have been so negative to the film is somewhat overwhelming. There's almost a defensiveness here - on the part of critics, anyway - as if to say, "You fooled us into thinking this piece was something IMPORTANT and PROFOUND - well it isn't! Now, we're gonna get ya for it. . ."

In fact, I'm not so sure that this film was ever intended as any kind of sweeping cultural or generational statement. I believe that may have been imposed upon it by the critics of the day, who wished to see in Dustin Hoffman's Benjamin Braddock the picture of disaffected youth, boldly rebelling against the false values of his elders. Personally, in my experience of the film (which I have seen now countless times), I don't find anything that grand. Indeed, to me The Graduate succeeds by being one of the best *minimalist* movies in American cinema. Its story is about a PARTICULAR character, in a PARTICULAR time and place, playing out a very idiosyncratic set of circumstances. It posits no doctrine, argues for no "alternative" lifestyle, and in general refuses to prostheletize or to make its hero into any kind of leader or paragon. If audiences responded (and continue to respond, critics be damned) to Benjamin's plight, it is because of the intensity of *feeling* that is communicated, not to the quality of thought. Indeed it could not be, since the main item up for display in the movie is the degree to which Benjamin's ability for clear thought has been subsumed by confusion, fear, self consciousness, and an almost soul-annihilating depression.

These oppressive qualities are communicated to the viewer through Mike Nichols' brilliantly meticulous camerawork. His dogged insistence, from the very first shot, of framing Benjamin in tight closeups even amidst (nay, especially amidst) a large group of people (the airport, his graduation party, the hotel) gives us an overwhelming sense of claustrophobia. We feel acutely the young man's sense of entrapment and exposure; at the party, as he runs upstairs to his room, the camera rushes to keep up - and it is as if Benjamin is trying even to escape being in this movie. "Don't look at me!" his pinched voice and wilted expression seem to cry out, "leave me alone!" I ask you, is there a soul among us who cannot relate to that feeling, who has not felt it at least briefly during different moments of his life - being the outcast, the lost soul, the one in pain amidst the gaiety or unconcern of the rest of the crowd? The conditions which lead Ben to feel this way are not specifically enumerated (beyond a vague expression of being unsure about his "future"), but they don't need to be. The feelings are articulated so vividly - through camerawork and performance both - that they reach us on a visceral level, and we are free to fill in our own emotional backstory for them - thereby involving us more on an individual level than we would be if we were told more specific information about Ben.

Dustin Hoffman here is totally unforgettable. He takes what is essentially a cipher character, and fills him in with such pathos and vulnerability that we can't ignore him or look away. Even as we laugh at him, we ache for him. He would do it again twenty years later in Rain Man - that trick of being overwhelmingly present in every scene and yet remaining such a total blank. How is that done? What internal rhythm does he allow us to lock into so as to keep him a compelling figure, and one who garners our full sympathy, while being at the same time a total cipher. I don't know, but that magical performer's trick of Hoffman's is, along with Nichols' painstaking camera work, what keeps this film vivid and compelling all these many years later. Yes, even as the story sputters in the second half, and even as Benjamin's relationship with Elaine Robinson remains sketchy and maddeningly unexamined. It doesn't matter because by then Hoffman and Nichols have pulled you into their spell: you will follow Benjamin Braddock anywhere, accept anything he does at face value - you just don't want to take your eyes off him.

Oh, and here's to you, Mrs. Robinson. Her seduction scenes with Ben are some of the richest jewels in cinematic history. Their affair is, for both of them, a desperate and pathetic act, and their scenes together are charged with an almost overwhelming sadness and despair, which is strangely heightened (rather than alleviated) by the wicked humor these scenes also contain. It goes without saying that Anne Bancroft here is totally marvelous (just look at the way she says "Art" when Hoffman asks her what her major was in college to see how it's possible to pack a lifetime of rage and regret into just one word). But I am at pains to point out that, much as some have wanted to make her the piece's unsung and misunderstood hero, Mrs. Robinson is clearly and unmistakably the villain of the movie. She is cruel, manipulative, and (as the Simon and Garfunkel song about her would later suggest) quite possibly a borderline psycho case. She represents the death urge - the power of spite and vindictiveness to choke out all other human feeling, including the desire to see anyone else's life turn out better than one's one. It is unclear at the end whether Ben and Elaine will escape her fate - or her grasp - but it is certianly clear that a failure to do so would spell tragedy, not triumph.

Saw this movie in the theatres over the summer. Enjoyed it, but pretty much promptly forgot about it. I saw it again recently on video and, already knowing the story and the outcome, I was free to pay more attention to the technique. And my verdict is this: U-571 is one of the most finely crafted popcorn movies of the past several years. One of the things which has become most regrettable about the Big Hollywood Summer Movies is their relentless pace: everything is in your face, it's all whiz-banging by you a million miles a second, with the (increasingly hokey looking) CGI special effects hogging just about every frame of the screen. Hollywood action directors have lost touch with how to pace a film for maximum impact: that there must be peaks and valleys, moments of calm and white-knuckle tension in order for the explosions to pack the wallop they should. U-571 gets it just about all right. It is a very satisfying viewing experience; nothing to rewrite the book on film, certainly, and nothing you will carry with you for the rest of your days - but a solid, intelligent entertainment that won't leave you feeling like you've just been raped by Industrial Light and Magic.

The setup is solid and well thought out; it gets the film rolling at a good clip (I won't bore you with details of the plot here - you can read the IMDb summary for that). There's a no-nonsense quality to it all, right from the get-go: the filmmakers are not interested in any romantic subplots (there are no women in the movie), inter-crew rivalries or joshing, puffed- up backstories (no "proving something to his father" or "avenging the death of his best friend" type character profiles) and least of all no gratuitously overlong "money shots" showing off the hardware and special effects. To some tastes, this might make the movie a bit too dry and faceless, and I'll be the first to admit that I wouldn't want every movie to be done in this way. But it's appropriate to the subject at hand: in such a scenario, the task - the mission - is what is most important (not whether or not Ben Affleck and Liv Tyler - or Mark Wahlberg and Diane Lane - are together at the end of the movie) and it's refreshing to see a big Hollywood actioner get that right. It reminded me of the classic war movies of the past, like Guns of Navarone, or Where Eagles Dare: Ok, we've got a job to do and we're going to do it - that's what we're here for (*all* we're here for) and that's what the audience really wants to see. So let's get to it!

Furthermore, making all (rather than just some) of the story take place on the submarine was very brave. It's the tightest, most claustrophobic place imaginable, and it does not allow for the type of cathartic, big action payoffs that other films can provide (aerial dogfights, car chases, kung-fu blowouts, etc.). There's a muted, constricted feeling to even the good guys' victories here that does not allow for a satisfying "Hooray!" from the audience - just a pattern of high tension, slight release, then back again, all leading to a surprisingly muted finale which, in its own way, is as clear-eyed about battle and as respectful of the men who fought it as was Saving Private Ryan (though, of course, much less pointed about it).

Some might question how I can actually use a word like "respectful" in relation to this movie, since - as has been widely noted - the exploits of the American crew here are wildly fictionalised, and that the true heroes in acquiring the Enigma machines from German subs were the British. Well, I'll agree: this is Hollywood revisionism at its worst. But you know what? It's a cracking good tale, done with care and respect (it even lists, at the end, all the different missions - British and American both - that were responsible for successfully confiscating Enigmas). The film's concern is not with presenting historical "truth" but with using the backdrop of history as an entryway onto a tautly constructed cinematic thrill ride. If such an endeavor strikes you as offensive and opportunistic - well, I can't really argue with you. But if you can get past it, and are only interested in a solid, well crafted, well thought out movie. . . gentlemen, I give you U-571.

If you wish to experience the group's charm and musical euphoria of this time full on, without the intrusions of a tacked on plot or supplementary characters, check out the wonderful documentary "The Beatles' First U.S. Visit". Done by the Maysles brothers - the duo behind the Rolling Stones' "Gimme Shelter" later in the decade - the film captures all the excitement [and footage] of the Beatles' triumphant arrival in America, including all their Ed Sullivan appearances, various backstage reflections and shenanigans, and an extended, supercharged sequence of their concert at Washington Coliseum. For my money, this film is even MORE essential than A Hard Day's Night; it is, quite simply, the best extended visual document of the Beatles that we have.