Philip Crowther 2001

When you see The Mexican, you realise just how big an influence the American independent cinema has had, and still has, on mainstream production. The Mexican is certainly not an indie. It is a straightforward studio film, but it adopts the now very profitable aesthetics (or lack of them) that independent productions introduced in the early 1990s, courtesy of Quentin Tarantino & Co. All the trademark stuff is there: oblique camera angles, filtered colours, absurd dialogue and over-the-top ketchup violence etc. But the screenplay itself is hardly revolutionary: a run-of-the-mill romantic comedy/road movie, albeit with more than its fair share of twists and turns.

It might sound a little bit hypocritical to fit a mainstream story into a non-Hollywood mould, but that is just where the film hits the right notes (and it's certainly preferable to a Hollywood story in a mainstream mould). The Mexican has an authentically independent feel to it, sufficient even to gloss over most of the script's stereotypes and clichés. One of the most glaring of these stereotypes is Julia Roberts' character, a hysterical woman who, even in her few shared scenes with co-star Brad Pitt, comes across as anything but likeable.

Pitt ‘n Roberts actually only share the screen for about fifteen minutes of the film's overlong running time, which is probably just as well, as they don't seem to have the right chemistry for a good screen couple. Both, though, give pretty convincing performances, aided and abetted by a hilarious contribution from James Gandolfini, of The Sopranos fame. The best scenes in the film feature him and Roberts in their quest for a long-lost mythical pistol called `The Mexican', which Pitt is also looking for in the parallel plot. Most of the film takes place in Mexico, resulting in the stylish images reminiscent of Traffic: yellow tones, a grainy picture – but no subtitles in this case.

Come to think of it, a comparison with Traffic is a good way of showing what independent cinema is all about. Traffic is a very honest film, in which director Steven Soderbergh had complete artistic control and was not afraid to do a third of the film with Spanish subtitles. Bowing to mainstream convention, on the other hand, a film like The Mexican is forced to depict Mexicans as dirty, hard-drinking layabouts speaking English, badly (American audiences being notoriously allergic to subtitles). This disrespectful depiction of the Mexican might not go down too well with some of the more discerning audiences hereabouts.

Ultimately, though, The Mexican is a perfectly decent star vehicle. It offers quite a few laughs and is pleasantly laid-back. With its many twists, the story is always entertaining, and Brad Pitt and Julia Roberts, though certainly not on Oscar-winning form, are still worth the price of a ticket. After all, it isn't often that both of Hollywood's biggest stars appear in one and the same film. The fact that they do is a real coup for director Gore Verbinski, who somehow managed to persuade both of them to take hefty pay cuts to grace his movie. The result is good entertainment – no more, but certainly no less.

The Exorcist is a classic, and a modern one at that. So what's a `Modern Classic'? How about this: a landmark work of art that stands the test of time and is immune to criticism, from generation to generation. That, at least, was what I thought until I saw the re-release in the company of a typical weekend multiplex audience. Even a masterpiece like The Exorcist clearly needs to be watched with the historical context in mind. How else is it possible to explain the audience's laughter at the film's most disturbing and shocking scenes? (A generation ago, audiences were fainting en masse.) Admittedly, the film was made in the Middle Ages – or was it only 30 years ago? – and the effects (the revolving head, say, or the strange spider-walk down the stairs), though pretty special at the time, do not bear comparison with present-day computer-generated imagery. (Anyone who went to see Dungeons & Dragons might beg to differ!) But The Exorcist is still one of the best and scariest (horror) films ever made. Maybe the giggles served only to mask the nervousness or tension that such an effective movie can create, and not just among the more faint-hearted members of a cinema audience.

This new version of The Exorcist is what they call the `director's cut'. Eleven minutes of previously unused footage have been included in what is by now, though, generally accepted as writer William Peter Blatty's version. But that is not to say that the studio too will have been perfectly happy to rake in even more money with what is already one of the highest grossing horror films of all time. Only last year, Britain saw the release and subsequent box-office success of the original 1973 cut, but only with this version do we finally get close to Blatty's vision, based on his best-selling novel.

Nothing really important has been added (or rather, nothing really important was left out in 1973). There is a stronger religious dimension, which gives the film an eerie undertone, and just a few more gruesome details to satisfy today's horror fans. With so few changes, you could really just as well get the original cut from your local video store. But the fact is that nothing beats the experience of watching The Exorcist, complete with great picture quality and surround sound, on the suitably large screens at the Utopolis.

Luxembourg's `cinéphiles' breathed a huge sigh of relief when a print of the film did at last reach the country – one day into the Cinénygma film festival, although not as part of the festival programme. (Director William Friedkin had personally refused to allow it to be shown as the festival's opening film.). Friedkin, a very popular and talented director, and incidentally creator of the best chase sequence ever shown on film (in The French Connection), now seems to be on something of a downward curve from the cult status he acquired with back-to-back successes The French Connection and The Exorcist. A flop like the politically ambiguous Rules of Engagement would be enough to put paid to most directors' careers, though Friedkin might just find his way back into the A-list of Hollywood film-makers.

Let us hope that, disappointing audience reaction notwithstanding, this timely re-release of The Exorcist will introduce a whole new group of (serious) fans to the movie – or should that be `franchise', what with the fourth instalment, Exorcist: Dominion, now apparently in the pipeline.

At the moment, The Exorcist is, alongside Steven Soderbergh's Traffic, probably your best chance of seeing a real masterpiece on our local screens. It is, after all, a milestone film, a genuine must-see, and – that very rare commodity – a universally acclaimed horror film. You just need to allow yourself to be frightened by a film that relies more on atmosphere than on shock effects.

Sometimes, the best films are those that struggle for ages to find a distributor before being eventually plucked from obscurity and then finding both an audience and critical acclaim. Luckily for us, The Yards has now, after numerous attempts, at last found a slot in our busy cinema programme. It might not be an extreme case, but no print of The Yards had hitherto made it to Luxembourg's screens, despite plenty of advertising. Now it is on, though, and it was well worth the wait.

The film concentrates on ex-convict Leo (Mark Wahlberg), a pretty dumb (`I'm not too good with words') but normal member of the Handler family, a family that includes his longtime friend Willie Gutierrez (Joaquin Phoenix), cousin Erica (Charlize Theron) and corrupt Uncle Frank (James Caan), the latter being head of the company that controls most of the NY railways. After a botched sabotage at the railway sidings (`the Yards') in Queens, Leo takes the brunt for his friends' failure and gets into serious trouble with the police. And, at the same time, he is in the middle of a love triangle too.

The Yards really is nothing more than a genre film – that is, if you want to call the mafia-film an established genre. The basic scenario is not far removed from any of the luminary films of the mafia genre. There are elements of The Godfather, of course, and like all these films, the story is one of a whole family caught up in the dirty business of, no, not narcotics or booze, but the slightly less illustrious world of control over the New York subway. And plenty of people get ` whacked'.

Writer-director James Gray, whose only previous directing credit is for hitman-portrayal Little Odessa, has assembled one of the best cast lists you'll have seen for ages. `Marky Mark' Wahlberg is for once not overshadowed by his fellow actors or by computer-generated gadgetry. He is perfect in the role of the innocent-looking ex-convict and, considering his surroundings, relative softie. True, he sports just one expression for the entire running-time of the film, but it is a convincing one. His screen-friend Joaquin Phoenix just keeps on surprising with consistently great performances (see Quills for his best outing yet). With a face like his, the danger is of being continually type-cast (as the nasty villain of course), but he has already conquered adversity to pick up some of the most fascinating parts on offer. Alongside these young guns, there is a treat for the lads too: Charlize Theron is as good and as beautiful as usual. But they only make up half of what is a terrific ensemble, with leading ladies (and a leading man) from Hollywood's recent past all playing their part. It's a treat for all died-in-the-wool cinemagoers to see Ellen Burstyn, Faye Dunaway and James Caan in one and the same tremendous movie.

The Yards is essentially The Godfather (James Caan's name in the credits provides the obvious link) on a smaller and, dare one say, more realistic scale. Here the players don't all wear dark suits, preferring baggy shell-suits instead. And the obvious accents, while not as strong as those of Don Corleone & Co, are still there. There is always a subtle hint of Coppola/Scorsese in this film, be it only a snatch of music or a certain camera angle. The Yards is a film that is aware of its genre, but that is one of its great strengths: it takes the conventions and uses them to great effect in what is a very personal look at the mafia and the way it is portrayed in the cinema.

But The Yards' great forte is the tense, and intense, atmosphere that it manages to keep up throughout. The narrative structure is pretty classic, but the film has all the things that, taken together, make up a great movie: subtle script, superb performances, music, lighting, editing etc. This is undoubtedly one of the best films of the year.

Scarlet Diva is Asia Argento's first serious attempt at directing a feature-length movie after a brief but successful acting career. It tells the story of Anna Battista and her first serious attempt at directing a feature-length movie after a brief but successful acting career. Sounds like another example of every debut film turning out autobiographical and, in most cases, pretentious and self-indulgent? Yes indeed, Scarlet Diva is all of these.

25-year-old Asia Argento learnt her trade on set with her father, Dario Argento, Italy's very own horror-film specialist. Having starred in many of her dad's gore-fests – but also in more mainstream films like La Reine Margot or last year's B. Monkey – she is now out to make a name for herself in the writing/directing business. While she comes a cropper in the writing department (the story is very simple, and some of the dialogue is excruciatingly self-important), it has to be said that the film has style, of a kind. Its use of video footage, the fast editing and the pumping soundtrack go some way towards deflecting attention from both the miserable script and the inept cast. Apart, that is, from Ms Argento herself who, in the title role as Anna Battista aka Scarlet Diva, somehow manages to keep her head above water as the rest of one of the worst acting ensembles for some time (the scenes in Los Angeles are especially bad) go under and stay under.

In both form and content, there are parallels between Scarlet Diva and Baise-moi, the French scandal-film par excellence. We are given (relatively) graphic rape scenes, a whole sex-drugs-and-rock ‘n roll attitude, and the main character(s) portrayed as victim(s) of the system (in this case the movie production system). Although any comparison with a thoroughly distasteful product like Baise-moi may well have put you off giving the film a chance, not everything about Scarlet Diva is wholly bad. The improvised home-movie style gives the film a pacey and refreshingly amateurish feel that is pretty rare in cinema nowadays. But even that faint praise cannot make up for the sheer pretentiousness and exhibitionism that Asia Argento treats herself to. And there's some dodgy religious imagery to boot. A little more subtlety would certainly have done a lot to improve this film, a film incidentally that would never have seen the light of day had the leading lady not received some timely financial help from daddy and his associates.

A typical debut film, then, from a first-time director, but still interesting enough, if only for us diehard film fans and for any wannabe anarchists out there.

Robert Redford has clearly not forgotten the time in the 1970s when he and Paul Newman were two of Hollywood's leading men. As soon as you see the posters for his sixth outing as a director – this time golfing story/parable The Legend of Bagger Vance – you are immediately reminded of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid and The Sting. Because in Matt Damon and Will Smith he has got two of the most illustrious members of the new generation of American screen heartthrobs, reminiscent of his own legendary partnership with Paul Newman. But the undoubtedly talented Damon and Smith are not just pin-ups: they really manage to carry the film for all of its 128 interesting, and strangely fascinating, minutes.

I say `strangely' because a simple film like this shouldn't really be able to satisfy regular cinema audiences, what with the plot being no different from virtually any other golfing, or indeed sporting, movie. But Redford actually manages to pull off what every basically similar film in the sporting genre tries to do in one form or another: sport as a metaphor for life. Now this may sound pretty pretentious, but in his hands it isn't, because not only is the storyline a success; the historical context is right (Savannah in the Great Depression), and even the more philosophical utterances play their part in creating a very enjoyable and quite profound package.

The unfortunately named Rannulph Junuh (Matt Damon) is a world-weary Great War veteran who, after his harrowing experiences in the trenches, is encouraged by golf-course owner and fiancée Adele (Charlize Theron) to recover his `long-lost swing'. But only thanks to the help of his mysterious and spiritual caddie Bagger Vance, the catalyst of the story, does Will Hunting, sorry – Rannulph Junuh, get his `authentic swing' back to triumph in Adele's three-man exhibition tournament.

Although Damon dominates the screen throughout, it is Will Smith's character who gets all the best and most important lines, and he delivers them with obvious enthusiasm, though always keeping out of the limelight and maintaining a certain physical distance. Bagger Vance's religious overtones might irritate a few people, but in fact the film can be taken as a straightforward, old-fashioned sports melodrama, with a nice little love story thrown in for good measure. The ups and downs of the main character's sporting life are narrated, as all historical dramas seem to be, with the help of a flashback structure and voice-overs. The colours – sepia-tint brownish tones dominate – suggest not only a very nostalgic, respectful look at the Deep South in the 1930s, but also a tribute to the film-making techniques of the time. It seems as though only modern Hollywood conventions kept Redford from filming the whole thing in black and white. But then again, some of the sweeping camera movements (or are they just computer-generated images? The end credits certainly suggest so ….) are breathtaking; ditto the settings.

Although the film often lays it on a bit thick in the sentimentality department (the inevitable slow-motion scenes at the final hole, complete with mawkish, swelling violins), Redford's calm, almost poetic images and his ability to tell a simple story with style have the power to surprise even some of the more cynical moviegoers among us.

Dr T. and the Women is already the umpteenth film from old-stager Robert Altman. Altman has always been a hit-and-miss director, and lately, at the age of 75, his career seems to have been given a fresh start, with The Player and Short Cuts being enormous critical successes in the early 90s. More recently, Cookie's Fortune, a delightful satirical look at small-town life, saw him in excellent form.

Dr T. and the Women can also be considered a satire, this time of Dallas high-society ladies who all meet in the microcosm of a gynaecologist's waiting room. But as a satire, this ultimately does not work. Very few laughs are to be had, and it is only the surreal climax to the story that really hits the right notes. And any film that relies on Richard Gere to carry it for two hours has to be doomed to failure. (Has Gere ever been in a good movie?)

But the main criticism to be levelled at this predictable and plodding film is the sheer boredom that descends on the viewer. Let's hope that Altman comes up with a more interesting subject and a more entertaining end product next time around. And with this prolific director, you can be sure there will be a next time!

The Watcher is a conveyor-belt serial-killer thriller for the `MTV generation'. Slow motion, time-lapse photography and video effects will make a lot of youngsters feel very much at home. This production is a classic case of a film being saved by good, and in this case very fast, editing. The pace of the editing – and certainly not the wafer-thin storyline – keeps the audience just about interested. And wherever you see more than three writers' names in the opening credits, you'll know the story has been continually rewritten by `scriptdoctors'. In which case you're bound to ask yourself how bad the original idea was.

The name that dominates all posters and trailers for this film is Keanu Reeves, even though James Spader has far more screentime. Reeves here plays the bad guy, and he is, well, utterly unconvincing. He is miles away from the deadpan hacker of The Matrix, a role that effectively saved his career. All of which means that his career highlight remains Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure.

And then there is the ending: embarrassing special effects leave a bad after-taste to what is ultimately a disappointing effort. The Watcher is director Joe Charbanic's debut feature, and judging by the overall style of this film, you have to conclude that this somewhat obscure film-maker must have come from the world of advertising or videoclips.

Every year, it's the same situation: everybody complains (justifiably) about how basically similar and boring Hollywood's production line has become, and then along come a few interesting, innovative and critical films, and all of a sudden Hollywood is once again a symbol for all that's good about cinema. Last year, we had films like Gladiator, Erin Brockovich and American Beauty that managed to break the mould of run-of-the-mill movie-making.

And now here is Pay It Forward, one of those films that have got some critics hoping again. It's a film that can be compared to American Beauty in the way it questions and explores the substance/illusion of the "American dream". The idea that drives the story is a simple reversal of convention: instead of paying favours back, you pay them forward (hence the title), in this case to three lucky people. This utopian principle, invented by an innocent schoolkid (Haley Joel Osment) is applied through a variety of more or less tragic figures from the suburbs of Las Vegas.

The film is directed by Mimi Leder, one of the few women with any influence inside the studio system. She has now become the kind of director Hollywood adores: with a background in TV series, she has recently tried her hand at all sorts of genres, including the action movie (The Peacemaker), the disaster movie (Deep Impact) and now - well, what shall we call it? - a pseudo-critical and incredibly soppy melodrama.

It has to be said that the cast is excellent. Kevin Spacey, sporting heavy make-up (but, strangely enough, only in the scenes where it matters to the storyline), is, for a change, overshadowed by the recently very busy and, in this case, brilliantly countercast Helen Hunt. But the star is 12-year-old Haley Joel Osment, who has already secured his place in cinema history with the catchphrase "I see dead people". Sadly, James Caviezel (The Thin Red Line), an enormously talented actor, has very little screentime here, and seems to have had a lot of his footage cut out in post-production. But the interplay between these top-rate actors remains fascinating and, no doubt, entertaining.

In terms of social critique, Pay It Forward is light-years removed from the vicious satire of, say, Todd Solondz's Happiness. In this new film, important contemporary issues like alcohol, violence at school and social tensions are treated only superficially at best, and any good impressions the director might have created are completely destroyed by bolting on a cringingly sentimental ending to what is a surprisingly cold movie.

When you are immersed and emotionally involved in a movie's storyline, there is nothing wrong with a tear-jerker of an ending. But with this ultimately detached movie, the contrived ending is at odds with a film that promised a fitting conclusion to an interesting premise.

Sometimes, you just wish you could take a film back to the cutting room and banish the last few minutes to the waste bin. This is yet another example of a film that simply refuses to end. The finale is stretched out so much that it is doubtful whether even the most empathizing viewer could really be happy with it.

Nancy Meyers' What Women Want is another much-hyped and heavily publicised success at the US box office. Having arrived in Luxembourg for the ridiculously expensive Valentine's Day premiere at Utopolis, it is now expected to take our cinemas by storm too. And it undoubtedly will, because on paper this is very promising stuff indeed: Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt top the bill, Alan Alda supports, and the synopsis is interesting, to say the least.

Mel Gibson plays Nick Marshall, a successful advertising executive and notorious `ladies' man' who, after a painful incident involving a bath and a hairdryer, finds he can read women's minds - a welcome gift in theory, but one that turns into a bit of a nightmare and gives our hero his timely come-uppance. His new-found ability (Didn't he realise that men have always been able to read the thoughts of the opposite sex? It's just that, having tuned in, they've never found anything worth listening to ..) initially brings him further success in his job and - more important to the storyline - helps along his romance with his new colleague-cum-rival Darcy McGuire, played by Helen Hunt. But then it all goes pear-shaped as Nick has to cope with the downside of his life as an incorrigible macho.

Gibson's influence on this comedy is obvious: his very own production company Icon is involved, and there are numerous references to earlier roles of his. And the screenplay gives him plenty of opportunity to show off his real comic talent and the quality of his interplay with Helen Hunt, who gives another solid performance after her parts in Dr T. and the Women, Cast Away and Pay it Forward - all three of them currently enjoying successful runs in Luxembourg's cinemas. (How about spending a whole Sunday afternoon and evening in a darkened room watching a Helen Hunt quadruple-bill?)

So far, so satisfactory. What is disappointing, though - and intensely annoying - is the ending, yet again. This is another example of Hollywood just not knowing how to end a movie nowadays. Only recently we have had the embarrassing efforts of Pay it Forward, Cast Away and Harrison's Flowers lingering in the mind long after the final credits, and all for the wrong reasons. But What Women Want not only has a bad conclusion - it also starts off on the wrong foot. Strangely enough, though, the ninety minutes in between are hugely entertaining: a spot-on romantic comedy. The jokes work and the love story rings true. Gibson and Hunt make a great couple - they not only look good, they act well too.

The film also features a couple of secondary plots - one involving Gibson's screen daughter, the other focusing on a suicidal office-worker. Both of these only come into their own in the final quarter of an hour, by which time I would humbly advise you to have left the cinema unless you want to emerge cursing either the director for not shouting `Cut!' in time or the editor for not getting rid of the superfluous footage. If you do leave early you will have seen a far better movie that anyone who sits it out through the painful last act.

But don't get me wrong, because even if you stay to the end, you will undoubtedly have been entertained. Good actors, screenplay, editing (apart from the last bit!) and, crucially, superb comic timing combine to produce a refreshing film, one that stands out from the monotonous run of romcoms made in the US of A.