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Wiry, athletic, bespectacled Harold Lloyd may rank third after Charlie Chaplin and Buster Keaton in "silent age" comedy polls, but when it comes to perilous, pulse-racing, gravity-defying stuntwork, he's the "King of the World!"

The aptly-titled "Safety Last" is without a doubt Lloyd's signature film. The indelible still taken of Harold dangling from the minute-hand of that Big Ben-looking clock is definitive silent screen imagery. A shame too for it is only one classic moment from a tireless legacy of work that is too often overlooked.

Isn't it amazing that despite knowing the outcome of this movie, knowing that Lloyd survived all these crazy stunts, your heart still skips a beat every time he scales that 12-story building, floor by floor, encountering every obstacle imaginable...or unimaginable? Those pesky pigeons, the mouse, the flagpole, the painters, the rope, the mad dog and, of course, the clock. What adds to the intrigue is knowing he did his own stunts, that he had lost fingers prior to this filming in another movie mishap, that there were no safety nets underneath, and that there was no trick photography used. I say Harold deserves a more prominent place in movie history, suffering for his art as no other artist has.

The plot leading up to his daredevil antics is fairly pat but sprayed throughout with inventive sight gags. Harold plays your simple, hapless, small-town 'everyman' who goes to the BIG city to seek fame and fortune, leaving his true love (played by Mildred Davis, his real-life wife) at home until he's makes it. Fresh off the bus, he eventually manages to scrape up a job as a clerk in a department store, a job that takes him nowhere fast. To save face, he keeps sending expensive trinkets back home that indicate otherwise. Convinced that he has indeed made it, she heads off to the BIG city to join him, much to his chagrin. Desperate to earn quick cash before she discovers the truth, he takes his boss up on an offer and works up a publicity ruse to drum up sales for the store.

The rest is classic Lloyd. Wearing his trademark straw hat and horn-rimmed glasses, the meek mouse suddenly turns into Mighty Mouse as our boy, through a series of mishaps, literally moves up in the world, scaling heights even he never dreamed of!

All's well, of course, that ends well, as we've been saying for centuries. Sure, we know how things ended back in the good ol' days, but isn't it great to know that when Harold got the girl, he STAYED with the girl? In real life, Harold and Mildred remained sweethearts for over 45 years.

Highly recommended for those who want to see more of this genius's amazing work is "Kid Brother" and "The Freshman." For me, this guy still provides one heck of an "E" ticket rollercoaster ride.

Throughout the 80s and 90s, Barbra Streisand has grown in stature (albeit sporadically) as a formidable producer and director of social drama for both films and TV. The apex of her behind-the-camera career came with "The Prince of Tides," a poignant study of a man coping with the long-term effects of childhood trauma. Streisand nurtures this pet project from start to finish (co-adapted by Pat Conroy from his epic novel), finding a precise heartbeat for the profoundly sentient piece. Despite a rather protracted love story and one too many climaxes, Streisand, who also co-stars, never loses sight of the novel's primary intent.

Streisand graciously hands the spotlight over to actor Nick Nolte, who gives the most sensitive, emotionally complex performance of his varied career. Tom Wingo is a walking shell of a man who quells his pain with a drink, an easy smile, a cleverly foul remark, and a bitter, uncontrollable outpouring of anger. A one-time Southern-bred football coach-turned-teacher, he has grown increasingly irresponsible and disconnected over the years. With a troubled marriage hovering over him, he conveniently heads off to New York City at the urging of sister Savannah's psychiatrist, Susan Lowenstein, following his twin's most recent wrist-slashing attempt. His purpose is to fill in the missing details of her tormented past (she has blotted out all childhood memories) in order to help steer the psychiatrist in her recovery process. Eventually, Tom, who lacks faith in psychiatry, finds himself facing his own demons as these initial discussions about Savannah take a suddenly dramatic and romantic turn.

In addition to Nolte's Oscar-nominated showcase, much of the film's strength lies in the highly concentrated flashback sequences as Tom recalls his turbulent family life. Kate Nelligan (also Oscar-nominated) is simply extraordinary as Lila, Tom's brittle, often callous mother, who quite understandably vows to remarry into money after surviving a horrific first marriage to Tom's violent, alcoholic, dirt-poor father (played by an absolutely terrifying Brad Sullivan). Nelligan grabs this role literally by the throat and allows her character no apologies for her flawed, self-serving logic, despite the effects it would have on her children, as her wealthy second husband starts exhibiting the same abusive traits as the first. Kudos must also go to the three strong young actors who play the Wingo siblings as children for reenacting the more horrific elements of this story.

Some of the other present-day roles, however, are hit-and-miss in their effectiveness. Blythe Danner has some strained though affecting moments as Tom's neglected wife. Sadly, the vital role of Savannah is nearly excised from the film. What with the talented Melinda Dillon egregiously reduced to such an insignificant extra, one can only rue the dramatic potential untapped here. As Savannah's neighbor and trusted friend, George Carlin seems to be around merely to show off New York gay chic -- providing mild amusement, a bit of pathos, and little else. On a brighter note, Jason Gould (Barbra's real-life son) acquits himself surprisingly well in the difficult role of Lowenstein's antagonistic son who slowly bonds with Tom's absentee father figure -- showing for once that nepotism isn't necessarily blind or reckless. Dutch actor Jeroen Krabbé gets brief but noticeable exposure as Herbert Woodruff, Lowenstein's charming, smug-elegant husband, a renown concert violinist who demonstrates more affection for his Stradivarius than either his wife or child. There is one telling dinner scene at his opulent Manhattan high-rise in which the out-classed Wingo gets to put Woodruff in his place.

As for Streisand herself, many will invariably take her to task for casting herself in the fundamental role of Susan Lowenstein. A star of such magnitude always faces the daunting task of presenting a fully- realized character, and Streisand is only marginally successful here. Although there is undeniable sexual chemistry between her and Nolte, it's hard to overlook her somewhat glossy approach to the role and the unethical intentions of her character. One can only imagine the ramifications of such a harmful act had her suicidal patient ever uncovered the illicit affair between her brother and psychiatrist.

Director Streisand, however, must be applauded for her explicit attention to exterior details. A visually resplendent picture, great care was taken to get the right look and feel. Notice particularly the lovely allegorical scenes with the children at the beginning and end. And with Streisand's exceptional musicianship, it is hardly surprising that James Newton Howard's lush score is one of the most beautifully designed ever (in fact, I borrowed it for my own commitment ceremony in 1996). It floods the film with an unexpressible tenderness. Nick Nolte's bookend narration is perfect as well -- warm, wise, poetic and reflective.

And so, despite the flaws "The Prince of Tides" may have, Streisand certainly shows that her heart was in the right place.

The vivid, vibrant, highly graphic strokes and style of French impressionist Toulouse-Lautrec was inspired by the colorful night life of the Montmartre district of Paris -- the circuses, the brothels(!), but notably the Moulin Rouge cabaret which he frequented often and became a routine host to an elite, partygoing bunch of artistic intellects and deviants. Were he alive today, he could very well have been reinspired by this ambitious recreation of the Moulin Rouge 100 years later. A mammoth, toyingly libidinous piece of escapism to be certain, the painter would simply revel in the outre, over-the-top, visually assaultive mind of its creator writer/director Baz Luhrmann.

I, too, was quite bowled over by this "everything but the kitchen sink" extravaganza, although not always as ecstatically as I would have wanted to be, but certainly enough to appreciate the intentions of this masterful deluge of gaudy Gallic grandeur circa 1899.

Refreshingly original (the previews had me fooled), what did NOT race through my categorical mind while experiencing this film! In its initial stage, the love story seemed to borrow its concept directly from Christopher Isherwood's "Berlin Stories," specifically the Sally Bowles "Cabaret"-inspired chapter in which a naive, struggling writer recalls (via his typewriter) his doomed love affair with a capricious entertainer who got caught up in the phony glitz and decadent glamour around her. But from then on, it was anybody's guess. A potpourri of other musical shows and films flashed through my mind --from the typical (Jose Ferrer's "Moulin Rouge," "Can-Can," "Les Girls," "An American in Paris") to the more imaginative and surreal ("Sergeant Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band," "Blade Runner," "Fellini Satyricon," Fosse's "All That Jazz," the phantasmagorical "Yellow Submarine", anything Gilbert & Sullivan-ish, and Disney's "Aladdin"). Don't even ask me why on some of these.

Nicole Kidman's Satine could have easily been based on the life of the indelible French star Renee Adoree, a one-time circus performer who became a Folies Bergere dancer. She subsequently was ushered to Hollywood and illuminated one classic love story, "The Big Parade" with John Gilbert, that remains a silent screen treasure. A frail beauty, Renee died in her mid-30s of tuberculosis/consumption.

Once the incessant battering by the camera's eye took a breather and I was allowed to actually focus on something tangible -- like the love story -- I found the enticing, highly photogenic Kidman, coupled with Ewan McGregor's honest-guy Christian, to be quite affecting as a pair, even moving. And that wasn't easy. The visual bombardment and gimmicky use of modern songs constantly threaten to isolate the viewer from the film's emotional core. Fortunately, it did not succeed.

Speaking of, the use of contemporary pop and classic rock songs worked better at the beginning when it was a novelty but, of course, the pattern eventually wore out its welcome as I started spending my time ingenously thinking about what next classic hit should be used for the present scene -- much like the so-so musical "Mamma Mia!" wherein a series of Abba songs are thrown together (very weakly) to create a ridiculous storyline. I thought the "Material Girl" number (despite the engaging presence of Jim Broadbent's bombastic impresario, Zidler, and Richard Roxburgh's oily villain, the Duke of Worchester) was stretching a potential good idea too far. However, Kidman's breathy song stylings and, especially, McGregor's sturdy pop tenor handled the love songs quite effectively.

As for the handling of simple little love stories, however, I sincerely hope Luhrmann doesn't get any ideas by setting his sights on a remake of "The Fantasticks." I don't think the fragile little story could take it!

The reviews were extremely black and white for this art-house film. People were either enthralled or bored to tears by the whole experience. There seemed to be no middle ground. Now, that's my kind of movie. Any picture that can reap awards (Cannes Film Festival) and get lambasted by the general public at the same time will always pique my interest. In respect, it was a rich, rewarding odyssey, much easier to get through than, let's say, even half of "8½."

My initial respect for the unique, uncompromising style of Danish director Lars von Trier goes back to his compelling work in "Zentropa" and "Breaking the Waves," both bleak, surrealistic studies of man vs. reality. His pieces usually center around some innocent, simple-minded, self-sacrificing soul who inevitably succumbs to the cruelties of life.

I found the central role of Selma (as played by the extraordinary Björk) to be very much the emotional equivalent of Emily Watson's touchingly childlike, near-sociopath Bess in "Breaking the Waves" -- blessed and cursed with a naive, soulful purity. Selma represents one of God's little quirks of nature. A bespectacled, pathetically infantile little ragamuffin completely out of touch, Selma has somehow survived like the runt of a litter would - through luck, will power, and the extreme kindness of those around her. An impoverished Czech-born emigré living in a small Northwestern U.S. industrial town during the mid-60s, this luckless creature manages to eek out a meager Airstream-like existence as a factory worker, despite the fact she is legally blind.

Selma is, amazingly enough, a mother. Seemingly ill-equipped to care for a child much less herself, she has nevertheless managed to provide for the 12-year-old boy, while nurturing the child as a young girl would her rag doll. The fairly adjusted boy suffers, however, from the same optic disease as the mother, while the crux of the story revolves around her attempts to save up money for his inevitable operation.

The fascination of "Dancer in the Dark" lies in Selma's musical world. With her eyesight failing, her ears become the only sense of joy, falling periodically into bouts of fantasy anytime she grabs onto a rhythm or beat (like machine sounds, train engines, etc.), wherein she becomes the star of her own working-class musical production. These compelling sequences become mere extensions of her real-life circumstances, i.e., the musical interludes at work will include the factory itself as a set piece and the other workers as her ensemble. A strange mix of Fellini neo-realism and Busby Berkeley illusion, these daydreams (sparked by Vincent Paterson's inventive choreography and von Trier's purposely puerile lyrics) become her only escape. Björk's odd musical talent and vocal style may be an acquired taste, but she is so mesmerizing here it becomes a non-issue. In addition, there are brief moments of levity as a hopelessly inept community theater production of "The Sound of Music" goes into rehearsals with the very awkward Selma playing Maria.

The subordinate cast is equally in tune. The wonderful, beguiling French star Catherine Deneuve downplays her ethereal beauty as Kathy, Selma's co-worker and trusted friend. And a strange, maternalistic friendship it is indeed, for this woman seems to have no other purpose in life than to be this girl's eyes and hands, looking out for her practically day and night. Peter ("Fargo") Stormare shies away from his ruthless killer image with this touching portrayal of a sensitive, almost pitiable boor who only has eyes for the ungainly Selma. David Morse is gripping as a seemingly compassionate but despairing policeman whose one desperate act involving neighbor Selma results in tragedy. Joel Grey has a brief, telling moment near the film's end as a faded musical star idolized by Selma.

As in his other featured works, von Trier's gritty, hand-held camera work may be dizzying to the point of distraction at first but its overall impact to the stark proceedings is unquestionable. Moreover, the grueling paces he puts his actresses through to achieve absolute truth borders on misogyny but the rewards are tenfold. As in the case of Emily Watson, Björk has never shined brighter as an artist.

A harrowing, refreshingly original piece of filmmaking that should be experienced by anybody who dares to be different.

Have you ever been to one of those movies that everyone's been pushing you to "go see! go see!" Sure enuf, you "go see" and then, after 15 minutes, you just want to "go" period. This stinker was SO bad it made me angry! I wanted my money back. Why the reviews have been from "good" to "excellent" on this one is totally beyond me.

Nicolas Cage and airhead Sarah Jessica Parker headline this misguided slapstick as a long-standing couple who finally decide to tie the knot after years of hedging on his part. They head to (where else?) Las Vegas to make it official wherein Cage proceeds to "lose" Parker in a stacked poker game set up by a big time mobster (Jimmy Caan). Trying to win her back is supposedly the fun part of this "comedy" what with all the crazy problems that ensue and inane characters he encounters.

It's all for nought. Cage and Parker, known for their loopy auras, are just plain dumb here, as is everything and everybody else associated with this dreck. Cage, who has always been an acquired taste, was FUNNIER in "Leaving Las Vegas"! (That's a joke, guys, and better than anything you'll find here.) Parker, who can be a sexy, delightful featherbrain (catch her in "L.A. Story") is entirely wasted here.

Supposedly full of inventive bits, it has more the feel of somebody who stitched a bunch of stupid, tasteless, half-baked ideas together using very weak thread. Offbeat director Andrew Bergman has done better work I suppose ("It Could Happen to You" -- also with Cage) but, to tell you the truth, I just don't connect with his style or humor.

As far as I'm concerned, a THOUSAND flying Elvises couldn't save this turkey!

"The Bridges of Madison County" is a leisurely-paced, finely-tuned romantic drama beautifully orchestrated by director/actor Clint Eastwood, with a transcending performance by Meryl Streep.

Based on Robert James Waller's surprisingly successful novella, this project has Clint Eastwood straying from his formulaic action material and winding up with one of the most lyrical, passionate dramas to come out recently. Who knew Eastwood could aim so perfectly for the heart without the help of a gun and holster.

In adapting this rather prosaic piece of prose for the screen, Eastwood shrewdly (and graciously) shifts the point of view from Robert Kincaid to Francesca Johnson. With Meryl Streep as its primary focus, how could anything go wrong? Streep is simply luminous here as the foreign-born Iowa farmwife and mother consigned to a life of drudgery. Her family away for the week, she happens upon a handsome, worldly photographer briefly in town scouting out locations for his next National Geographic spread. What results is a beautifully mature story of spiritual and unconditional love. Eastwood himself displays a rare, vulnerable side as the taciturn Kincaid who has grown accustomed to a solitary, self-serving existence. The chemistry between Eastwood and Streep is surprisingly potent and ultimately moving, a real tribute to their disparate talents.

With subtle nuance, we slowly become familiar with these two unlikely strangers in the night. A harmless lunch...a cozier dinner...revealing conversation...a slight brush of the shoulder...the casual adjustment of a shirt collar...a spontaneous mating dance. Once their true feelings finally come to the surface, we feel for them and understand and rationalize their attraction. This is absolutely crucial in maintaining the beauty of the romance for it must reroute the obvious appearance of a housewife conducting an adulterous affair with some fly-by-night Romeo. Significantly, Francesca's husband is not portrayed here as an abusive lout deserving of such betrayal. He is simply a remote, unresponsive farmer who has settled routinely into mid-life -- still devoted to his family.

The perfervid affair, of course, is beset with feelings of guilt, anguish and fear, but never regret. Ever mindful of small-town gossip (one cruel restaurant scene has a known ‘scarlet' woman openly ostracized by its patrons and employees), the couple find out-of-the-way places to go to enjoy their brief time together, while faced with the dilemma of their futures. The climactic scene in the truck with the tormented Francesca gripping the door handle, torn between staying in the truck with her unsuspecting husband or fleeing to Eastwood in the automobile stopped just ahead of them is one of the most searing, agonizing screen moments ever experienced by this viewer.

A minor drawback to the film is the "present day" subplot device, which reappears sporadically and bookends the affair seen in flashback. These scenes involve Francesca's two surviving children coming to terms with the discovery of their mother's past affair via letters, diaries and mementos purposely left to be read upon her death. These segments are integral, to be sure, but awkwardly presented and annoyingly intrusive.

Known for his deep love of jazz, Eastwood incorporates a wonderfully lush, often bluesy score, littered with familiar classics, notably by the late, great Dinah Washington, whose exquisite version of "I'll Close My Eyes" is a must for every music library, and Johnny Hartman, whose "For All We Know" highlights the lovers' initial encounter.

"The Bridges of Madison County," despite its deliberately languid pace, is an enduring wallow for incurable romantics everywhere. Simply, it is an affair to remember.

The warmth and affection generated by Kim Stanley's brilliant, thoughtful narration in the Oscar-winning "To Kill a Mockingbird" couldn't capture better the essence of Harper Lee's semi-autobiographical novel. I could swear hers is the inner voice I heard when I first read this book as a young teen.

A woman recaptures a single childhood summer during the Great Depression, a period she recalls with great fondness despite the difficult times. As seen through the eyes of an impressionable tomboy (nicknamed "Scout"), the story, set in a drowsy, dusty Alabama community, initially centers comfortably around typical adolescent escapades, until the town is jarred by a grown-up incident in which an indigent black man is accused of raping a white woman. Scout's widower father is given the daunting, disputatious assignment of representing the already condemned man.

Gregory Peck as Atticus Finch is exemplary as the father we wished for as a child. A tower of quiet strength, he is a man of utmost integrity, a steady voice of logic and reason, a man of disciplined, yet tender reserve. A father you can count on to defend you against mad dogs or pervasive demons that disturb your sleep at night. Too perfect? Maybe. But in that perfection Atticus represents everything we aspire not only in ourselves, but for mankind as well. He is a reassuring factor that man, in spite of his flaws, is innately good and decent -- his saintliness accentuated by his offspring's loving reflection. Peck's utter sincerity in this role is never doubtful for a minute. And for once his sometimes stiff, sobering demeanor meshes beautifully with a character that has become his signature piece.

The superbly talented "young 'uns", Mary Badham and Philip Alford, play the children Scout and Jem. They may not have had longevity in their acting careers, but here they make an everlasting imprint with performances so natural, triggering sweet memories of our own lost innocence. Their simple joys and fears are exquisitely realized and instantly become our own. They and the late John Megna, as their rather frail, awkward summer-time friend, touch the heart with their simple discoveries, theories and revelations.

The trial aspects may seem overblown by today's standard but the dramatic tension and poignancy is not lost. Brock Peters gives a deeply felt performance as defendant Tom Robinson, a man rife with fear, yet able to muster shaky courage and dignity throughout his ordeal. On the other side of the coin, James Anderson gives despicable meaning to the term "poor white trash" as the bigoted, redneck father of a piteous rape victim, played with neurotic intensity by Collin Wilcox. Atticus's closing argument and the trial's denouement are only two of many highlights, with Peck's speech one of cinema's most memorable soliloquies.

Slow-minded recluse Arthur Radley, who is taunted by the nickname "Boo" (a compelling Robert Duvall), serves to represent the fear in all of us...fear of the unknown. He becomes a phantom-like symbol for those who have ever been unfairly judged or persecuted due to prejudice, gossip, opinion, and/or ignorance. His final scene with Scout remains etched in my mind.

Director Robert Mulligan evokes welcoming sentiment without the saccharine in this sensitive Horton Foote adaptation. "To Kill a Mockingbird" never fails to open my heart, mind and tear ducts.

A triumph of the human spirit. It is a treasure to be sure.

My opinion of "Repossessed" is extremely biased. I appear VERY briefly within the first few minutes of this movie. Linda Blair's young kids are channel-surfing and come across a TV episode of "Brideshead Revisited." I play the soldier coming home from war. Anyone familiar with the British series will remember the scene. Here I return searching for my dear, sweet, loving bride and find her (well, her HEAD, anyway, planted on a table) back home waiting patiently. Hence, "Brides-HEAD Revisited." I know. It's one of many groan-inducing bits you'll find here, popping up everywhere like body-snatching pods.

I remember the whole filming process fondly. This scene ran nearly three minutes when we shot it but when the movie was released, they used only about five seconds of it. I mean, hey, once you get to the punch line, where do you go? Rim shot – move on!

An innocuous "Airplane"-like spoof of "The Exorcist" horror classic, a very game Linda Blair went back to her evil ways here as a suburban housewife suddenly repossessed by you know who. The gags come on so fast and furious, there's really no time to look back, which is probably a good thing.

Linda (an extremely kind and gracious lady offstage, by the way), is a good sport here getting slimed and roughed-up throughout the proceedings. She really gets into it and pulls a lot more of this nonsense off than you might think. She is the best thing in the show. Leslie Nielsen and Anthony Starke, spoofing the Max Von Sydow and Jason Miller priestly roles respectively, add to the insanity, which lampoons everybody from Groucho Marx to Michael Jackson, and blasts everybody from Joe Cocker to Ted Kennedy.

Director Bob Logan (a fun, laid-back, sports cap-wearing presence – like you might expect in a film of this caliber) also helmed "Meatballs 4" and "Up Your Alley." Check him out.

As for me, I can watch "Repossessed" over and over again. Why? I still get a residual check! Rim shot – move on!

It's hard to remember a time in my youth when I wasn't at the picture show watching some sort of new Ray Harryhausen special effects-laden fantasy. He singlehandedly created the perfect Saturday matinee for me and my buddies – the only guy I know who could make me forget I was holding a box of popcorn. Not that I was scared or anything...well, not TOO scared anyway.

THE pioneer of contemporary visual effects, any action spectacle blessed with Harryhausen's amazing creatures always stood a great chance at the box office. From his sci-fi 50s monstrous creations ("The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms") into his fascination with Greek mythology ("The 7th Voyage of Sinbad"), wizard Harryhausen and frequent collaborator, producer Charles Schneer, had an incredible way of bringing these fantastic stories to life. And despite the fact that we've advanced to computer-generated, state-of-the-art technology that can give us a creature of "Jurassic Park" proportions at the drop of a hat, I am surprised how well his specials hold up today. Despite the sometimes creaky, poorly acted story line ("The Valley of Gwangi" and "One Million Years B.C." come rapidly to mind), you could at least count on this master craftsman to hold up his end of the bargain. Even more stunning is the fact that Harryhausen worked alone! Every animated frame of film was painstakingly done by hand – via stop motion technique.

The creme of the crop for me is the colorful epic adventure "Jason and the Argonauts," which retells the mythic tale of Jason and his crew who must survive by their own wit, strength and the willingness of the gods in sailing unchartered waters to the other side of the world as they search for the golden fleece that will reclaim Jason's birthright and kingdom. Battling insurmountable odds in their quest, one awaits breathlessly for each new threatening challenger to rear its ugly head (or heads) – the winged Harpies that Jason must capture; the bronze Goliath-like warrior/statue Talos; the draconic, seven-headed Hydra that protects the fleece; and, my personal favorite, the legion of skeletons that attack the remaining Argonauts in an attempt to take back the fleece.

The stoic, mostly European cast is lead by commercially lesser known actors. Brawny, bearded, darkly handsome Todd Armstrong cuts an impressive, chiseled figure as Jason, while sultry beauty Nancy Kovack as Medea provide exotic and alluring set decoration. Kovack, the wife of conductor Zubin Mehta, may be remembered for her recurring role on TV's "Bewitched" as the snobby socialite ex-girlfriend of Darren who got her comeuppance by Samantha at elegant dinner settings. Adding muscle to the proceedings are Gary Raymond as Acastus and Nigel Green as Hercules, while Britishers Niall MacGinnis as Zeus and Honor Blackman ("007" nemesis Pussy Galore in "Goldfinger") as Hera head up the formidable gods list.

Directed by Don Chaffey, who later helmed the less impressive "Creatures the World Forgot" and "Pete's Dragon," this epic story seldom lags. However, the realistic sound effects and, especially, Bernard ("Psycho") Herrman's resounding score (he was involved in three other Harryhausen features) must be given credit as well for adding infinite intensity and excitement to the adventurous goings-on.

This movie, by the way, compares more than favorably to the 2000 TV miniseries of the same title, produced by the Halmi father-son producing team.

Stick with the original.

Jimmy Cagney returns to familiar "Public Enemy" territory as a tightly-coiled, psychopathic killer with a severe Oedipus complex in "White Heat," a still potent crimer that has Cagney fighting off the "coppers" every which way in his inimitably jaunty, sneering, pugnacious style.

Cagney stars as Cody Jarrett, the ringleader of a gang responsible for a wave of brutal crimes hitting California, the most recent being a train robbery in which two engineers were killed in cold blood. The heat's on after one of the robbers left for dead provides a posthumous clue as to who pulled the job. Cagney shrewdly decides to turn himself in on a lesser crime that he DIDN'T commit in order to allow himself an air-tight alibi for the more serious train killings. Sentenced to no more than two years in the pen, he figures he'll be out in no time to rejoin the gang and continue his life of crime.

Despite rather stereotyped characters, the actors bring them vibrantly to life here. Blonde, brassy Virginia Mayo portrays Cagney's bored, two-timing wife, a typical gangster's moll who always has her eyes on a new mink. She expertly fills in for Mae Clarke (remember the ‘grapefruit' scene in "Public Enemy"?) as the dame Cagney shoves around. And does she ever deserve it! A real turncoat, this gal plays both sides of the fence, selling her own mother down the river if given half the chance. Dark, broad-shouldered, hirsutely handsome Steve Cochran is perfect as the surly, ambitious member of the gang who cooks up a scheme to supplant the now-incarcerated Cody as ringleader while stealing the affections of his more-than-interested wife. Edmond O'Brien has all the right ingredients to play the dogged cop who wants to put Cody permanently behind bars by pinning the train murders on him. Placed in Jarrett's cell as a plant, he tries to worm his way into Cody's good graces in order to set him up for the inevitable fall. John Archer (actress Anne Archer's real-life father) is solid as O'Brien's immediate supervisor who puts the plan in action.

The most intriguing angle in this straightforward drama is Cody's odd, unhealthy devotion to his overprotective ma, played with utter conviction by the superb Margaret Wycherly. As a child, it seems Cody used to feign headaches as an attention-getting device. He now suffers from constant migraines with ma always around with the magic hands to get rid off them. Fascinating stuff! A seemingly docile, sedate presence, Ma Jarrett nevertheless has "Ma Barker" instincts, playing a shrewd, prominent role within the gang. And as Cody's mouthpiece while in prison and the only person he trusts, she is resolute in protecting his ringleader image in absentia, taking on anybody in the gang who sees different.

Pretty violent for its time, Raoul Walsh's crisp direction (he also helmed "The Roaring Twenties," another classic Cagney caper) keeps things moving at a fairly fast clip, while the excellent black-and-white photography and art direction give the film a real starkness. Max Steiner's imposing score should be mentioned as well. One other intriguing aspect is the updated "sophisticated" equipment the police use (circa 1949) in tracking down the whereabouts of the culprits, done in almost "Dragnet" series style.

"White Heat" is legendary, of course, for its fiery "top of the world" finale at the chemical plant and, while the scene undeniably deserves a place in Hollywood folklore, there is plenty about this movie leading up to its classic denouement, notably the riveting performances of both Cagney and Wycherly, that makes it stand on its own two feet.

Already considered a mainstream cult classic, "La Cage aux Folles" ranks as one of the biggest crossover box-office hits ever to land on American soil. And for very good reason. Italy's Ugo Tognazzi and Gallic Michel Serrault are the most inspiring and oddest couple to appear on screen since Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau, and just as entertainingly colorful as Siegfried & Roy!

Tognazzi essays the role of Renato, a suave, successful, over-the-hill cabaret owner whose nightly drag revues spotlight his long-time partner Albin (who goes by the stage name "Zaza"), a touchy, temperamental, hopelessly mincing diva who has got to be seen to be believed. A neurotic wreck most of the time, Zaza (Serrault) is a full-time job for the exasperated Renato, needing constant coddling and stroking when it comes to "her" age (she's up there), figure (a deep fondness for chocolates hasn't helped), and affairs of the heart (they are celebrating their 20th year anniversary, but the invariably jealous Albin/Zaza is sure Renato is playing around while she's performing). Getting the insecure Zaza on stage every night usually includes your usual number of psychoanalytical sessions, shoe-throwing tirades and prescription medicines.

The fun begins after Renato's son, Laurent, conceived during a temporary moment of heterosexual abandon ("you should try everything once"), informs his father of his plans to marry -- a girl! The daughter of a staunch, right-wing bureaucrat whose political party is in the midst of a shocking moral scandal, Laurent is obligated to introduce her priggish parents (who think a big traditional wedding could restore the party's reputation) to his "straight" parents. The fiancee has passed them off as a respected cultural attaché for the Italian embassy and a Catholic housewife/mother of six.

The resulting farcical set-up unleashes a barrage of priceless comic moments as the pair must not only refurnish their "gay-ly" luxorious apartment, which is right above the nightclub, but pass themselves off as heterosexuals. The crème de la crème of all scenes takes place at a restaurant where the somewhat more virile Renato instructs Albin how to drink tea, butter toast, and walk butch á la John Wayne! The dinner party segment too is absolutely crammed with riotous sight gags, especially the erotically-designed soup bowls and shoeless butler bits.

The cast is impeccable. Serrault and Tognazzi are to be cherished for pulling off such an acting coup. Under normal circumstances, these two roles could be hammy, forced and quite offensive. But in the hands of this pair, they are not only funny, but credible and even touching. Serrault, in particular, is a marvel, with every gesture, tone and vocal inflection coming from a real emotional center, while Tognazzi's charming boulevardier provides the perfect "straight" man to Serrault's antics. Together, their "I am what I am" message really hits home. You believe these two as a couple. You believe their longevity. You believe their spats. You believe their devotion.

Michel Galabru and Carmen Scarpitta are superb as the strict, moral-minded parents who slowly come to the horrifying realization that all is not right with their prospective son-in-law's family. Benny Luke has some wonderfully outré moments as the gay couple's barefoot live-in "French maid" who dusts the house in skimpy hot pants and very little else. Claire Maurier is effective as Laurent's estranged mother, who tries to get back in Laurent's good graces by agreeing to be part of the dinner party charade.

Two lesser sequels and an abominable American remake cannot tarnish the beauty of the original. WARNING: When renting this video, make sure you rent the version with sub-titles, not the inferior English-dubbed version. Much of Michel Serrault's magic is in his voice.

Once upon a time there was a young, handsome, fair-haired commoner who dreamed of being a young, handsome, fair-haired prince. In fact, while the Britisher is bicycling through Austria, he sees the very castle described in the fairy tale picture book his mother gave him when he was young, and that he now carries with him at all times. Encouraged by this vision of splendour, the young drifter sets out to fulfill his life's dream.

Doesn't this sound like a lovely, whimsical, touchingly optimistic tale about believing in one's destiny and having the courage to seek it out? Normally, yes. But in the hands of director Hal Prince, this darkly comic tale takes another direction altogether. Michael York plays the clever, enigmatic young opportunist who is willing to seduce, charm, outmaneuver, even murder whoever he has to in order to become "king of the castle."

The afore-mentioned domain is inhabited by none other than the Countess Von Ornstein (the wonderfully eccentric Angela Lansbury) and her brood. The widow has fallen on hard times since the death of her husband and realizes she must marry into money once again to return to her former glory. But with a homosexual son and chubby, homely young teenage daughter left to carry on the family dynasty, prospects look truly abysmal.

To say any more would be a dastardly move on my part. Suffice it to say that the sharp, highly astute performances alone make this seldom-seen little gem worthwhile. There are enough twists and turns to keep things compelling from start to finish. Director Prince takes full advantage as well of the breathtaking Bavarian landscape.

York, as Konrad, has seldom had a meatier role as he first becomes a footman to the castle, then proceeds to eliminate all the other human elements that interfer with his rise to the social top. Lansbury steals every scene she is in, while given a number of deliciously wry monologues to remind viewers that the Jessica Fletcher character she played in "Murder She Wrote" was a popular move but a real step down. Jane Carr, who the year before gave a touching, timorous performance as the ill-fated student in "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie," does a 100% turnaround here as the dry, sardonic "plain Jane" daughter who is wise to York's game from the very start. And Anthony Higgins as the smitten gay son and Heidelinde Weis as an amorous young heiress are quite effective as two of Konrad's romantic pawns.

"Something for Everyone" definitely HAS something for everyone. A real find in my book.

This blatantly mediocre 1996 remake of "La Cage aux Folles" has none of the charm and nuance of the French classic. If you have NOT seen the original, there is a twinge of enjoyment to be found. If you HAVE seen the original, this experience will be a total bust.

Robin Williams (as Armand) admirably downplays his role as a gay cabaret owner who showcases his brittle other half (Albert) in nightly drag revues. In a role that would seem tailor-made for the larger-than-life talents of the usually impressive Nathan Lane, the actor instead comes off (surprisingly) unfunny and (not surprisingly) hammy, indulging himself in the `see-how-hilarious-I-am' school of comedy acting. Lane's one-dimensional character merely comes off nasty and needy, while the relationship between the lovers seems forced and superficial. Not once did I believe them as a couple. The absolute lack of chemistry between these two comedy masters remains a mystery.

Masquerading as a heterosexual pair (with Lane ending up in matronly drag) to appease Arnaud's straight son who wants to pass off his family as `straight' to his fiancee's parents, the film offers the stars endless comic possibilities. The resulting series of mishaps sputters at every turn.

As the fiancee's parents, Gene Hackman, in particular, betrays his serious character by going for obvious laughs, while Dianne Wiest, who has demonstrated her Academy Award talent as a farceur, looks lost and uncomfortable. Dan Futterman and a pre-Ally McBeal Calista Flockhart are a cute enough young couple in love, and Hank Azaria as the flaming houseboy certainly has his moments prancing about. Christine Baranski comes off grounded but basically ineffective as the boy's real mother who tries to help out.

The sad truth is that the film has no truth...no heart...no joire de vivre. There is little place for this movie to go but down the tubes. So PLEASE, PLEASE do yourself a favor and rent the 1978 French film from whence this mess came. It is alternately hysterical and touching. But, most importantly, rent the French version with subtitles for the full comic effect, NOT the atrociously-dubbed English version.

Some Americanized versions of French films have not done badly ("Three Men and a Baby" for one). As for `The Birdcage,' avoid it like the guillotine!

Mel Brooks' parodies are like your favorite, worn-out couch. You know it's not the greatest in style, taste and quality, but it just feels so damn comfortable. Of late, most of Mel's spoofs have been off the mark, his work mellowing into predictability. In fact, you really have to go all the way back to 1974 to see Brooks at his sharpest. In that year we were awarded "Blazing Saddles" AND "Young Frankenstein."

Perhaps "Young Frankenstein" is not definitive Mel Brooks, although he directed it. Gene Wilder, who not only stars but co-wrote it with Mel, was the inspiration to make this movie. And it's his influence, I think, that brings the best out in Mel. When spoofing a historical era, movie genre or legendary tale, Brooks' satirical bag of tricks always included a hodgepodge of crude sight gags, burlesque schtick and stale Jewish jokes done at rapid-fire pace. The plot became an after-thought, working around the barrage of unsubtle humor. In targeting the classic ‘Frankenstein' series, however, Brooks worked in reverse, wisely focusing on plot, tone and atmosphere, then complementing them with clever, carefully constructed bits.

A rich staple of comedy pros from Brooks' fun factory (Mel graciously did not cast himself here) were employed to wring out the most laughs possible out of the fresh, inventive material. Gene Wilder plays the frizzy-haired, eruptive college professor Frederick Frankenstein (pronounced FRONK-en-STEEN), grandson of the infamous scientist, who gives in to the maniacal tendencies of his mad ancestor after inheriting the late Baron's Teutonic castle. His simmer-to-boil antics have seldom been put to better use, while only pop-eyed Marty Feldman, who gets to break the fourth wall as Igor (prounouced EYE-gor), the dim, oddball assistant, could milk a hump for all its worth. Kenneth Mars too gets a lot of mileage out of his one-armed, slush-mouthed inspector. In the film's most difficult role, Peter Boyle's appearance as the Monster is jarring at first, looking like a cross between Herman Munster and Uncle Fester. But he increasingly wins you over, earning even a little empathy along the way. His character is the most crucial for this parody to work right and he succeeds, figuring in a high percentage of the comedy highlights.

Representing the distaff side, Madeline Kahn is one cool cucumber, stealing focus whenever she's on camera as the placid, meticulous, hopelessly stuck-up fiancee Elizabeth; Cloris Leachman sinks her teeth into the role of the grotesque Frau Blücher, whose mere mention of her name sends horses into panic; and Teri Garr is delightful as a dinghy Deutschlander who assists Frankenstein in his wild experiments and other things.

An amalgamation of Universal's earliest and best ‘Frankenstein' movies ("Frankenstein," "Bride of Frankenstein" and "Son of Frankenstein," this spoof relies on close imitation and Brooks took painstaking methods to recreate the look and feel of James Whale's original sets, black-and-white photography and musical score. It pays off in spades.

Nearly 30 years later, this movie still leaves me in stitches. Wilder and Garr's revolving secret door bit is still priceless, as is Cloris Leachman's ‘ovaltine' routine and the Wilder/Boyle "Puttin' On the Ritz" tie-and-tail duet. Boyle and the unbilled Gene Hackman in the "Blind Hermit" scene ripped off from "Bride of Frankenstein" are uproarious, easily winning the award for sustained hilarity in a single sketch. Add Feldman's hump and Mars' troublesome mechanical arm and what you have is rib-tickling entertainment from start to finish. Madeline Kahn's post-coital, cigarette-smoking scene with ‘ol zipperneck' who leaves her in a sexual snit must go down in Hollywood annals as the funniest scene ever caught on camera. Certainly Jeanette MacDonald's puristic rendition of "Ah, Sweet Mystery of Life" will never have quite the same meaning again after you've heard Madeline's spin on it.

"Blazing Saddles" indeed has its insane moments but when it comes to toasting Mel Brooks in the years to come, "Young Frankenstein" should certainly stand front and center when representing this clown prince of comedy.

Little did I realize when I picked up the videotape of `Lonesome Dove' that I would be pitching a tent myself, camped out in front of the tube for most of my Saturday (6 hours, not including pauses for bathroom breaks, meals, letting the dog out, etc.). It certainly rearranged all my weekend priorities, but it was well worth the sacrifice after all the hoopola I've heard regarding this movie. It is a must experience.

Robert Duvall and Tommy Lee Jones top-line an outstanding cast in this epic-proportioned western which should have been worthy of a cinematic release for it captures beautifully the look, the feel and the time of the Old West as never before.

In a nutshell, it relates the tale of two former Texas Rangers, Woodrow Call (Jones) and Gus McCrae (Duvall), both getting on in years, who manage a dusty but comfortable living running a cattle company just outside rundown Lonesome Dove, Texas. A third ranger, Jake Spoon (Robert Urich), returns from up north, on the lam for an accidental murder, and perks Woodrow's interest in being the first to take a herd into the mostly unsettled northern region of Montana, while laying claim to an area considered `perfect cattle territory.' He convinces relaxed old-timer Gus, who is content these days with a bottle of whiskey and a whore, to join him for one last thrill to recapture their old "Texas Ranger" glory days and shake up their too sedentary lives.

Re-stealing horses and a herd from Mexican bandidos, they sign on a team of men to undertake the arduous journey eventually braving about every type of adversity imaginable. When it's not windstorms and snake-infested waters threatening life, limb and livestock, they have murderous horse thieves and vengeful Indians to contend with.

What makes `Lonesome Dove' stand out proudly is not only its rich, panoramic beauty and intriguing story-lines, but its caring, sharply-defineated characters that keep this six-hour plus movie from ever wandering off. These are people you become fascinated with; people that you want to know as much as you can about – even minor characters stay with you here, such as the desponding, thick-accented bar-owner who carries the torch for one of his whores, or the spiritual cook who passes out whittled amulet-like carvings to the cattle team. When asked why he doesn't ride horses, he simply responds, `We are all animals. How would you like it if someone rode on you?'

An intricate, finely-tuned subplot weaves in and out of the main Woodrow/Gus narrative. A northern sheriff July Johnson (Chris Cooper), accompanied by his stepson, reluctantly takes off to Texas after Jake Spoon for the accidental murder of the town's mayor, but gets sidetracked halfway when he learns his new wife Elmira (Glenne Headley) has abandoned him and the boy in her obsession to find the no-account man she left behind.

The acting is superb all around, especially by those mentioned above. They give this movie such heart and scope. Also contributing greatly are Diane Lane as the town whore who seeks a better life; earnest Ricky Schroeder as the youngest member of the team whose family tree is questioned; Danny Glover, the wise and dedicated team scout; Barry Corbin as the slow-thinking undersheriff; Frederic Forrest as the murderous redskin Blue Duck; Angelica Huston as Duvall's kind-hearted former flame; Steve Buscemi and Frederick Coffin as a pair of lusty lowlifes; Nina Siemaszko as a scrappy backwoods waif, and others too numerous to name. But Tommy Lee Jones and, especially, Robert Duvall are the heart and soul of this piece. They limn characters so fascinating and complete, they just stand apart from the rest. Gus McCrae, in particular, will be remembered as one of Duvall's proudest creations.

So, if you are into all-day campouts that will make you feel you yourself have been on a trek, `Lonesome Dove' is your ticket. It is wondrous entertainment that now lies in the miniseries Hall of Fame along with "Roots."

Ah, yes. "Johnny Guitar." A nifty piece that takes us back to the late 1800s frontier, where men were men...and so were the women.

"Johnny Guitar" is a staunch feminist oater that has gone the cult route over the years -- a decidedly offbeat, revisionist western, if you will. But after seeing this strange bird again recently, I regret to say it doesn't fly as well as it use to.

Directed by Nicholas ("Rebel Without a Cause") Ray, it goes way off the beaten path compared to the typically rugged Republic Studio releases that were dished out back in the early 50s. Those dusty programmers were uncomplicated, assembly-line productions that served the public's hunger at the time. We knew who the good guys were (Gene Autry, Roy Rogers), while the black-hatted bad guys were your standard gunslingers, stagecoach robbers, land-grabbers and cattle thieves. The prairie flowers, sweet and mighty "purrrdy," were as dependable as, well, the faithful horse. They were usually seen waitin' by the hitchin' post for their man to come home a hero. And then along comes "Johnny Guitar."

It starts off familiar enough. You've got the brawny, handsome, laconic, quick-on-the-draw type (Sterling Hayden) with the standard fearful moniker ("Johnny Logan,") who has mended his trigger-happy ways (now "Johnny Guitar"). Typically enough he is riding into town to protect his own "prairie flower" (Joan Crawford) from impending danger. O.K. So far, so good. But then, everything starts feeling a little weird. Suddenly, all the Stetson-wearing heroes and gunslingers sorta go and take a backseat to the prairie flowers! They kinda shrink in their boots. I mean it's called "Johnny Guitar", isn't it? So what's this all about?

Vienna, as played by Crawford, is a shrewd businesswoman and former saloon hussy who sets up a fancy gambling joint of her own on the border of a small Arizona town just as a railroad is being put in, ensuring a booming business. She hires a former paramour (Hayden) to protect her from the town's dissidents who don't welcome her or her establishment.

A stage robbery and murder has the "decent" folks up in arms and they, instigated by a tiny-framed, harsh-faced, hell-raiser named Emma Small (Mercedes McCambridge), are ready to pin it on those they despise most. The "Dancin' Kid" (Scott Brady), who happens to be Vienna's kinda sorta casual boyfriend, and his gang conveniently get the blame and are ordered out of town. Disgruntled, the Dancin' Kid and his gang retaliate by robbing the central bank. They head for the hills but get trapped because of some dynamiting going on for the railroad. The pernicious Emma, who supposedly has a hankering for the Kid, would rather see him dead than with Vienna, so she rounds up a posse to go not only after him and his gang, but Vienna (who she handily accuses of conspiracy), lynching and committing arson along the way with a maniacal glint in her eye.

Brimming with McCarthy-like symbolism (it was made in 1954) and laced with unintentional lesbian overtones, "Johnny Guitar" finally cashes in its chips with the hotly anticipated, gun-toting, all-woman finale. But it has a long way to go to get there and there is enough meandering and dull stretches to really test one's patience.

As vigorous a presence as Joan Crawford may be, it's hard to root for her as a heroine. She comes off so imposing (more so than any of the men in the movie, including Ernest Borgnine!), that when she tries to pull the "dainty, helpless" routine, one can only smile weakly. Her outfits are VERY Freudian in this picture and her line-readings are exactly that, line-readings -- calculated, unrealistic and old-style theater. Thankfully, she's got Mercedes McCambridge around to ignite her scenes and the scenes of those around her. McCambridge, who won a supporting Oscar a few years prior to this and may best be remembered as Linda Blair's demonic voice in "The Exorcist," tears into her role with an unholy, unbridled vengeance! In fact, the two crop-haired "prairie flowers", both of whom could wear plaid shirts very comfortably in this film, have the best chemistry of all Joan's pairings in the movie!

"Johnny Guitar" is definitely a curio item and certainly worth a gander just to see what all the buzz has been about. See if you can stay with it but just don't try to read into it that much. It's not worth the brain power.

P.S.: That's Peggy Lee singing the title tune.

Biopics are always a difficult nut to crack. It's never easy to condense the bigger-than-life story of a legendary celebrity into a two-hour movie and still provide the viewer a complete feeling of satisfaction. What it needs to do is not only highlight the well-known peaks and valleys of their career and personal life, but then, and most importantly, write choice, definitive scenes that will flesh out and humanize the character.

Chronicling the life of a famous country singer is especially tricky. So many things can go wrong. Severe miscasting, a hokey, superficial story line, an overly glossy, sanitary, and/or inaccurate treatment of the source. Many of these gals have had their hard-knock life stories laid out. Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline, Dottie West, Tammy Wynette, Barbara Mandrell. The best of the film pickings is assuredly 1980's "Coal Miner's Daughter," Loretta Lynn's backwoods tale. And, fair or not, everything similarly produced since has been up for comparison. Thus, "Sweet Dreams," the retelling of country and pop superstar Patsy Cline (1932-1963), had a lot going against it by the time of its release, which was only five years after "Coal Miner's Daughter." Not only identical in heartache and rags-to-riches narrative, Patsy and Loretta Lynn were actually sisters at heart. They KNEW each other. And so, well, I'm surprised this biography came off as well as it did.

"Sweet Dreams" would be relatively fine on its own but it suffers in comparison to you-know-what. Shorter in scope, detail and focus, it is the star performances that rise above the conventional material here and earns what respect it gets. Patsy the Star is short-shrifted here, electing to concentrate more on Patsy the Woman and her stormy off-stage love life. Not necessarily a wrong decision, it's just that the execution lacks that creative spark. Despite the use of Cline's original soundtrack (superbly lip-synched here by Lange) to a number of her greatest hits ("Crazy," "Walkin' After Midnight" and the title tune), the movie rests on the fact that you already KNOW Patsy Cline became a BIG, BIG star. It doesn't capture the magic and electricity of Patsy that made her the star she was.

Jessica Lange is absolutely luminous as Patsy. She does her proud. Neglecting Kline's entire childhood, the film begins with her in the mid-50s, weighed down by a stalled career and a benign, boring husband. Lange captures the essence and spirit of the feisty, indomitable Cline. Like a restless stallion, she breaks free and shakes up her life, tangling with a reckless, kick-ass cowboy who she hopes will put the twang back in her life. With Charlie Dick (played with macho flair by Ed Harris), Patsy gets much more than she bargained for. With a last name like "Dick," you know this is going to be a fightin' man with a short-trigger. The virile, blue-eyed Harris is the perfect tough-and-tumble co-star. He's so damn good when he's bad, and sexy to boot. He does more than justice to the real Charlie, who had little of Harris' charisma. The two stars show real chemistry here and it ends up being the film's strongest suit.

In support, Ann Wedgeworth as Patsy's careworn mom (remember her from "Three's Company?") finally drops the tawdry, superficial "Mrs. Robinson" stereotype she's done way too much of, and offers us a deeply-felt portrayal of a quiet, strongly spiritual down-home woman who stands behind her girl through thick or thin. Basically a stage actress, this is Wedgeworth's finest film role to date. Meanwhile, John Goodman gives us another broad, healthy dose of comedy relief as Harris' brawling bar buddy, while P.J. Soles offers her cushiony 'other slutty girlfriend' routine.

But, alas, "Sweet Dreams" has been done before...and better Potential female country singing star marries lusty, hard-drinking ne'er-do-well. The wife becomes a big success. The dirty dog slides into his lyin', cheatin' ways. They fight. They make up. And over again. It offers no new or unique approach to the standard female slogan, "Can't live with him, can't live without him."

What kid did not fantasize, at one time or another, being left alone, completely unsupervised, for a long, long, LONG period of time? To be allowed to say or do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased. To eat anything he wanted, to go to bed late, to not go to school, to act or behave as he pleased without reproach. To be his own adult. Usually those kind of thoughts permeated our little minds right after a heavy-duty punishment. In 1990's "Home Alone," we saw a broad, comical take on this fantasy. With 1963's "Lord of the Flies," we get to experience the flip side.

"Lord of the Flies" was required reading in junior high school. William Golding's dark, sobering allegory, set during wartime London, tells the story of a large group of young schoolboys airlifted out of England who are left to their own devices after a plane crash leaves them marooned on an uninhabited isle with no surviving adults. As the boys struggle to adapt to their crude but strangely exotic "Robinson Crusoe" existence, the troop begins to splinter into two opposing sects after failing to come to terms on an autonomous code of ethics. Most of the boys decide to revel in their unsupervised freedom, reverting to primitive, animal-like behavior while resorting to barbaric acts and ritualistic practices. A conch shell becomes the embodiment of power; a boar's head a symbol of lordly conquest. On the other side, a minority group try to repel the tempting force of evil by forming a more civilized commune. Eventually the "survival of the fittest" factor sets in as the anointed leader of the hostile group incites violence to force an autocracy.

Golding's fascinating premise certainly does not hold much hope for the future of mankind. We are conditioned as a people to be civilized; it is an acquired trait, NOT an inherent trait – according to the author. And if and when the shackles of goodness and purity are at any time removed to the extent that we are allowed to become our own social and moral dictator, we will invariably revert back to what comes naturally. And with a child, who has been less-conditioned, it will take little time at all. Evil is stronger, easier, and much more seductive. When playing "good guys and bad guys" as a kid, which did YOU prefer to be?

Boasting a surprisingly natural cast of amateur actors and directed by radical stage director Peter Brook ("Marat/Sade"), this lowbudget British effort impressively captures much of the novel's back-to-nature symbolism that I found so powerful and fascinating. The young masters representing good and evil, James Aubrey ("Ralph") and Tom Chapin ("Jack"), effectively portray the resolute leaders of the two disparate tribes, while butterball Hugh Edwards as the bespectacled, philosophical "Piggy" and towheaded Tom Gaman as the quietly sensitive "Simon" are touching as two of the weaker followers who become likely targets of the surrounding chaos and burgeoning brutality. What I love most about this cast is that they act like little boys, not little actors, grounding their often awkward actions and behaviors in reality. Trivia note: one of the secondary boy players is none other than Nicholas Hammond, who went on to play young Friedrich in the film classic "The Sound of Music" two years later.

Brook's use of grainy black-and-white photography, plus the lack of any comprehensive musical score (remember Tom Hanks' "Castaway"?), accentuates the bleakness of its surroundings and feelings of isolation. The movie can hardly be expected to capture fully every single intention of this highly complex novel (most don't), but it does respect Golding's words and captures the very essence of what he wanted to say. For that alone it should be applauded.

By the way, don't waste your time on the 1990 color remake featuring "professionals" like Balthazar Getty. The poetic beauty is all but dissipated in this haphazard, jarringly Americanized update. It makes me worship Peter Brook's version even more.

And what story could BE more disturbing yet topical than "The Lord of the Flies" as it applies to today's "latch-key" society?

They say "the idle rich is the devil's playground." Well, never has the playground been more playful or fun than in "The Philadelphia Story." It's so gratifying to know that vintage movies like "The Philadelphia Story" will outlive us all. Playwright Phillip Barry certainly had an ear for sophisticated chatter and, along with "Bringing Up Baby" and "Holiday," he singlehandedly defined the term "screwball comedy" in the late 30s. And so it is fortunate for all of us that the screen adaptations of each of these classic Broadway plays are classics in their own right.

Katharine Hepburn, who starred with Cary Grant in all three of the aforementioned films, plays society prig Tracy Lord, a spoiled, temperamental rich girl who owns a will of iron and a heart to match. What she wants more than life itself is to experience true love like a down-to-earth REAL person, but is she capable of it? A stormy first marriage to C.K. Dexter Haven (Grant) has not taken the wind out of her sails, so she decides to make a go of it again. Announcing her forthcoming marriage to wealthy George Kittredge, a rather staid, uptight sort, it comes off more like a match made in gold than in heaven. However, the stubborn Tracy is convinced she is in love this time.

Around to disrupt the wedding plans is Tracy's former husband, who still has feelings for her and her family, her estranged scandal-ridden father, her young, precocious sister, and a posterior-pinching uncle. Also hovering around the Lord estate is tabloid reporter Liz Imbrie and her photographer Mike Connor, assigned to cover the impending nuptials and, of course, scout out any juicy gossip.

With a deft ensemble and crisp, intuitive direction (George Cukor), the dialogue blisters with furious fun (courtesy of Oscar-winning scripter Donald Ogden Stewart), with every character having his or her chance to bask in the limelight. Hepburn, who was considered "box-office poison" at the time, revitalized her Hollywood career with "The Philadelphia Story," smartly buying the film rights to ensure her starring role. Dripping with frilly-edged sarcasm, she makes full use of her clipped Bryn Mawr speech tones. But her ultimate triumph is that her 'ice queen' demeanor never alienates the viewer. We still root for Tracy to come down to earth, rejoin the human race and live out that fairy tale ending. Cary Grant is as smooth as silk pajamas as Tracy's first husband, raring and ready to pull her off that mighty pedestal she's placed herself so high on. Synonymous with elegance and style, I doubt there is another actor who can handle martini-dry banter the way he does. He is flawless -- in a class by himself.

The real revelation, however, is Jimmy Stewart as the smitten photographer who is only too willing to keep Tracy perched on that pedestal. Stewart, who won the Oscar, breaks from his usual "aw shucks" mode to show a surprising comic range. His midnight poolside soliloquy with Kate is wondrous and lingers long after the closing credits. Completing the romantic quadrangle is the wonderful Ruth Hussey, who inherits the wisecracking Eve Arden role, the good-natured trooper who always seems to come in second man-wise. Hussey takes the ball and runs with it, giving the ripest performance of the bunch.

Additional praise must be given to Mary Nash, as Tracy's flowery, meticulous mother; young tomboy Virginia Weidler, an adroit little scenestealer, for keeping up with the big folks and offering a wickedly smart-assed rendition of "Lydia, the Tattooed Lady"; John Howard for his dour, stuffy groom-to-be and good sportsmanship as the butt of many a joke; John Halliday, who manages a couple of razor-sharp scenes as Hepburn's reproaching father, and Roland Young, who played Cosmo Topper in the delightful "Topper" film series, for adding his typical brand of bemused merriment as lecherous Uncle Willy.

From the opening classic bit with Hepburn and Grant squaring off to the church altar denouement, "The Philadelphia Story" provides a wealth of entertainment. It's a rare, rich package even the Lord family can't buy!

Decades before there was a Jim Carrey, the movies unleashed another inspired nut case – Jerry Lewis – whose 50s and 60s Paramount Studio vehicles tended toward an oil-and-water mix of outrageous physical comedy and mawkish sentimentalism. 1960's "Cinderfella" is a casualty of that uneasy blend.

Taking the classic fairy tale and tailoring it to fit his talents, the stretch-faced, rubber-limbed comedian portrays "Fella," a poor, imbecilic, ostracized stepson who lives only to serve his cruel, absurdly wealthy stepmother (Judith Anderson) and her two greedy sons (Robert Hutton, Henry Silva) in their palatial mansion. The only reason they even allow Fella to still "bunk" at the mans (his bedroom is more the size of a closet) is that Fella's late father has hidden a vast fortune somewhere on the grounds of the estate and the step-kin think the dolt may know where it might be hidden.

Jerry is priceless when it comes to engineering clever, complex, high-energy sight gags. A testament to his versatility here is his miming flutist scene as he listens to a ditty on the radio in the kitchen (one of my all time favorite Lewis routines). The dinner scene where he caters to his family at an absurdly long dining table is another ingenious moment. Sprinkled throughout too are numerous well-timed bits, like the reading of the inscription off his father's ring, or (the frequently used) hair-combing bit, etc. But too much of the time, Jerry bogs the scenes down with cheap, slick, sentimental mush. He gets what I call "telethon tender" on us -- trying to work our heartstrings instead of our funnybones.

I remember the Marx Brothers having the annoying habit of breaking up their frantic comedy skits with "straight" musical numbers sung by some insipid ingenues that always took away from the fun. Same problem here...only worse! Lewis incorporates HIMSELF, a very mediocre singer, into these cloying musical numbers, and ten times out of ten they don't work. In "Cinderfella," he allows himself no less than FOUR soporific songs to indulge in, with one of those numbers, some silly nonsense about being a "people" instead of a "person", just unbearable. Jerry the Clown sells; Jerry the Lounge Lizard doesn't.

Judith Anderson is appropriately huffy and haughty and Henry Silva and Robert Hutton make a fine pair of oily villains, while proving good sports, too, as the unwitting victims of some of Jerry's mishaps. But the late, great Ed Wynn is wasted here as the "Fairy Godfather," mired in those gooey scenes I was talking about before. The demure, exceptionally lovely Anna Maria Alberghetti, who complements the lavish surroundings, appears too late in the proceedings to make any difference as the "Princess Charming" character who, for whatever reason, is smitten by the ungainly Fella. By the time she arrives, the film has lost its charm and humor, and we have lost our patience. It's too bad she didn't get to sing instead of Lewis.

I know it sounds like I'm not a fan at all of Jerry's, but I am! Like many producer/director/stars of his calibre, their egos get the best of them. Like Elvis Presley, most of his vehicles were not up to snuff. And in the case of "Cinderfella," Frank Tashlin may be credited with directing, but I think we all know who the director REALLY was on this set.

For those who appreciate Jerry as only the French can, I would suggest "The Disorderly Orderly," "The Ladies Man" and his most popular, "The Nutty Professor," to get a better feeling of this man's genius.

Walter Matthau, one of Hollywood's greatest curmudgeons, is in fine form as the star of "The Bad News Bears," playing the grousing, beer-swilling coach of a misfit little-league team that has sewn up last place since their formation. A former ballplayer reduced to cleaning swimming pools, needless to say he has invested little of himself to make the scrappy team any better...until he recruits a foul-mouthed star pitcher in the form of a young girl (Tatum O'Neal).

With that perfectly craggy, blood-hound mug of his, the droopy shoulders and sluggish ‘couch potato' demeanor, Matthau is just great – flipping out sardonic remarks as casually as he flips open a beer tab, and looking like he hardly has the energy even for that. Mixing it up with the tykes here, he evolves into a perfectly reincarnated W.C. Fields.

Tatum O'Neal showed that her performance in "Paper Moon" wasn't just a fluke. Displaying the same wise-ass mien that won her an Oscar three years earlier (with more generous outpourings of profanity), she more than holds her own against the veteran Matthau, even teaching his character a lesson or two about team spirit and sportsmanship, while evoking sympathy on her own as she is forced to confront more personal, off-the-field problems.

The runt-sized, ethnically disparate team is a fun, motley little crew that could have come right out of a McDonald's commercial. Chief rebel but much more coordinated is one small, hell-raising fireball, Jackie Earl Haley, who shows more grit than his sneakers after the bottom of the ninth. Though his open defiance and teen-cool stance masquerades a need to be liked and wanted, he still provides a mean spark before coming into his own.

Vic Morrow shows off his formidable macho as the typically underhanded opposing coach, while Brandon ("The Courtship of Eddie's Father") Cruz, who plays Morrow's star pitcher son, has a nifty, poignant scene as a kid who finally stands up to his father's belittling bully act.

Set smack dab in small-town, flag-waving America, director Michael Ritchie, who scored critical points the year before in the little-seen but dead-on satire "Smile," hits a box-office home run this time, always keeping things popping and managing to toss in a few interesting curve balls in the plot to keep it from falling into a typical "root for the underdog" comedy. More importantly, Ritchie never sacrifices the humanity of the characters for sure-fire comedy

This highly, immensely popular film spawned a couple of sequels and a brief TV series. But beware, they are foul balls compared to this winner.

Mississippi-born Beth Henley adapted her Pulitzer-prize winning play to the screen and, for that reason alone, is worth a look-see especially if you haven't seen the theatre production. Directed here by Bruce Beresford, this is quintessential Henley -- her first work to be produced professionally -- offering the story of the three quirky, maladjusted Magrath sisters, who reunite following family misfortune to reflect on their unstable past, present and futures.

Lenny, the eldest sister, is the repressed 'plain Jane' self-imposed into early spinsterhood because of her barren condition. Considering herself damaged goods, she now conducts her life as such, tending to her garden and other non-romantic pursuits. Meg, in the middle, is the listless live wire, the capricious, hard-living beauty who fled the coop early to pursue an aimless career in Hollywood as a singer. The prodigal daughter finally returns, rather reluctantly, when serious trouble brews back home. Babe, the youngest and most susceptible to eccentric behavior, seems to take after their dead, self-destructive mother (a suicide) as she battles with manic depression and resorts to off-the-wall bits of craziness. In jail at the present for critically shooting her husband (she "didn't like his looks"), her bizarre action prompts this filial reunion.

As served up by a triune of powerhouse, Oscar-winning ladies, the star performances should have really cooked. Instead they seems unoriginal and pat. Diane Keaton and Jessica Lange are overtly mannered as the two older sisters Lenny and Meg. Keaton especially, easily the "Sandy Dennis of the 70s and 80s", has her neurotic fireworks on full display. The snorting laughter, the flailing gestures, the quizzical eye-rolling, the stammering speeches. What seemed delightfully offbeat in Woody Allen comedies has become old hat and irksome as the years roll on. Lange, too, has her patented affectations on all four burners. The far-away gaze, the slow, reflective speech patterns, the whimsical, lackadaisical laugh and edgy stance. Both of the actresses have represented themselves much better in other vehicles. Ironically, Sissy Spacek, whose character lends itself to be the most neurotic of the three, comes off more inspired and assured -- a complete departure, by the way, from her typical "Coal Miner's Daughter" money-maker. Good for her.

In support, rangy actor/writer Sam Shepard, Lange's long-time off-camera squeeze, has little to do here but look longingly as Lange's on-camera squeeze. But Tess Harper goes way overboard as the overly-opiniated Chick, the snippy, mullet-haired cousin and next-door neighbor, who stereotypes the vicious down-home chatterbox to the nth degree. While her villainy (which kept jogging my memory of wonderful Madeleine Sherwood's Sister Woman portrayal in "Cat On a Hot Tin Roof") certainly enlivens the action as chief foil to the sisters, they tear down the walls of believability as well.

Despite some well-acted moments from this unarguably talented cast, the overbaked production cannot overcome its stagy origins, striving much too much to push the "black comedy" element down the viewer's throat. One wacky scene has Diane Keaton chasing Tess Harper out of her house and around the backyard with a broom, a bit that comes off just plain ridiculous even though it's meant to be a catalyst for liberating Keaton's Lenny character. I'm sorry, but broom-chasing went out with Marjorie Main's "Ma Kettle" character years ago. This and other eccentric scenes simply come off forced, as if the actors are playing the intention instead of the moment. Lange and Shepard's giddy dancing drunk scene, Spacek's over-sugared lemonade bit, and even Keaton's impromptu birthday cake segment are guilty of this felonious acting charge.

While definitely Tennessee Williams-influenced, the rather thin Henley story and characters pale in comparison. Working much better on stage, this movie remains, however, a curiosity item that somehow ended up on simmer instead of boil, despite the obvious potential.

"Mary, Queen of Scots" is court intrigue at its best with the titular queen at odds with her cousin, Elizabeth I, Queen of England in their bid to rule Tudor England. Redgrave and Jackson are magnificent as the two polar queens whose very lives rest on the royal actions of the other. The entire film is rich in atmosphere and scope, complemented by gorgeous scenery, costumes and an astute cast made up of classical stage veterans.

The lovely, ethereal Vanessa Redgrave teams with passion and reckless abandon as Mary Stuart who rules with her heart instead of her head, signifying her ultimate downfall. Political and morally erratic particularly in her impulsive private affairs, she finds her controversial marriages arousing the ire of both her Roman Catholic followers and the Protestants, forcing her to quell revolts from all sides. Redgrave beautifully captures the essence of a Queen willing to risk all for love.

Glenda Jackson, slightly overshadowed here by Redgrave with a lesser number of vignettes, nevertheless makes every one of them count. Crisp and fiery as the smart, able but still-tortured Elizabeth, who remains husbandless and barren, her scenes crackle with intensity as she sees how dangerous a threat Mary is to her throne, especially when the Scottish queen bears a male heir to continue the royal line she cannot.

The supporting roles are bold and colorful as well, played by an extremely talented host of classical actors. Virile Patrick McGoohan with that lovely Scottish burr expertly plays James Stewart, Mary's brother, who instigates rebellions against his sister. Nigel Davenport stands out as chief conspirator Lord Bothwell, the love of Mary's life, and their impassioned scenes together are altogether lusty and vibrant. Timothy Dalton is at his slit-eyed slimiest as Henry Stewart, Lord Darnley, the spineless husband of Mary who betrays his wife and other court subjects around him in his all-consuming bid to secure the crown for himself and his own heirs. As the man who would not be king, his comeuppance scenes are deliciously awaited for. And effete, snively, ill-fated David Rizzio, Mary's court favorite who hides behind the Queen's robe to the ire of the other courtiers, is played with great relish by Ian Holm.

This lavish costumer never falters dramatically, aided to be sure by the historical liberties it takes to heighten the narrative. In actuality, the two queens never met but with two such veteran stars as Jackson and Redgrave, the film begs for a confrontation and it delivers in spades. Their two scenes together, though fairly brief, are absolutely electric and they alone are reason enough to tune in.

Well-recommended, if not for historical value, then for sheer entertainment...especially for lovers of period drama.

This 1967 British import, trying to be hip and trendy for all intents and purposes, was created as an elaborate spoof on the James Bond phenomenon. For the most part, it's a plotless, convoluted mess that lost a kazillion dollars at the box office. If "Laugh-In's" Rowan & Martin were given an unlimited budget and told to throw together a bunch of weird sketches that had nothing to do with each other, add some music, and given nothing but the words "offbeat" and "James Bond", I think it would come off looking something like this.

Producer Charles Feldman had the rights to Ian Fleming's spy novel "Casino Royale" (Albert Broccoli had obtained the rights to all the others in the series). Movielore has it that Broccoli wouldn't lend out Sean Connery to do "Casino Royale," so Feldman decided instead to rewrite the script as a silly, all-out parody. Well, after a circus line-up of no less than five directors (including John Huston), three scripters (not including ghostwriters Woody Allen, Peter Sellers, Billy Wilder, Terry Southern and Ben Hecht(!)), an enormously eclectic cast, and swarms of unbilled star cameos, this is the elephant they hatched.

David Niven (who, by the way, was Fleming's "personal" choice to play "007" in the popular film series) plays an aging Sir James Bond who reluctantly comes out of retirement to do battle with his old nemesis, the syndicate SMERSH (they should have called it CHAOS), after international spies are being knocked off left and right. That's about all I could make of it. The rest is a blur. The story, and I use that VERY loosely, sorta gets in the way after awhile. The sum of its parts are definitely better than the whole.

"Casino Royale" is, most importantly, a feast for the eyes. The treat is in its superb visuals and art design, with eye-popping, hallucinogenic effects that were state-of-the-art at the time. The shockingly vibrant, Peter Max-inspired sets and Twiggy-cut costumes add immeasurably to the film's kitsch factor. The enormously catchy title tune included in the opening/closing credits, and Bacharach's original music throughout are also a plus factor. You can't ignore the expense, resources, and mind-blowing imagination that went into this wild roller-coaster ride.

Favorite parts: Joanna Pettet's lush, exotic dance as Mata Bond (I dare you to guess who her famous parents are); Orson Welles' feats of magic at the baccarat table; Peter Sellers and the scintillating Ursula Andrews cavorting slow-motion to Dusty Springfield's smoky version of "The Look of Love"; Woody Allen's unveiling as Dr. Noah; Sellers' drugged-induced, psychedelic nightmare sequence, and, of course, all the expected ka-booms and gadget-filled chase sequences betwixt and between.

Cast-wise, "Casino Royale" is a humdinger. You've got David Niven, Peter Sellers, Deborah Kerr and Orson Welles to give it ersatz class; you've got William Holden, Jean-Paul Belmondo, George Raft and Peter O'Toole in gag cameos to give it a "hip" happening kind of thing; and you've got the afore-mentioned Andress and Bouchet, in addition to Daliah Lavi, Barbara Bouchet (as Moneypenny), and the ever-tasty Jackie Bisset (as Miss Goodthighs) as mini-skirted Bondian eye candy.

As for the rambling, uninspired, highly explosive wrap-up: well, let's just say the insanity includes the cavalry, fighting seals, the CIA, go-go dancing Indians, a hiccuping Woody Allen, and more James Bonds running around than you can shake a stick with, and leave it at that. It makes about as much sense as the rest of it. It's too farcical even to be considered a farce!

So, don't try to make heads or tails of it; you'll give yourself a headache. Just relax and enjoy a phantasmagorical experience if ever there was one. It really kinda grows on you after a few attempts.

This is the 1960 culprit that catapulted the horror film to an altogether new and gruesome plateau. It's the ship that launched a thousand blood-spurting imitators, although that was never Alfred Hitchcock's intent. Unfortunately, 90 per cent of those writers and directors inspired by his unprecedented work in "Psycho" never got past the initial primitive thrill of seeing on-screen violence for the first time. They didn't "get" the homework that went into this brilliantly macabre masterpiece. Just what DID make the infamous shower scene and "Mother" Bates' stairwell confrontation so shockingly memorable, other than providing front row forum seats to the carnage?

With "Psycho," the master of suspense would tempt us to enter the intricate, insidious mind of a violent, psychotic killer, something he surely tampered around with in "Strangers On a Train." Hitch himself created the essential tool kit for modern day terror – implementing story, set-up, characterization, photography, camera technique, mood and music in order to weave an elaborate spider's web that would playfully entice, then seduce his intended victim, the audience.

Norman Bates will forever be enshrined as THE infamous poster boy of cinematic psychosis. As expounded by Simon Oakland's psychiatrist in the last reel, Norman was an isolated, terrified, severely undernourished man-child consumed by a hideously abnormal fear of change. In the end, the self-suffocating Norman lashed out like a wild, kicking, screaming child at a world he never knew or understood. Smart enough to distance himself and the Bates Motel as far from the highway of humanity as possible, it still wasn't far enough. For somewhere down the line, fate, coincidence, or maybe just a primal need for human contact, would inevitably lead a John Doe (or Marion Crane) to his door.

The most compelling scene for me is when the verrrrrry brave Lila Crane sneaks into the decrepit Bates' house behind the motel to investigate her suspicions as to sister Marion's disappearance. After coyly tormenting us throughout the first three-fourths of the movie, Hitch finally lets us in on the equally decrepit world of Norman Bates and his mother. Norman's bedroom holds the key elements to his enslaved childhood. The pathetic little bed with his careworn stuffed animal nearby, the little phonograph with Beethoven's "Eroica" record in place. It's such a private, eerily invasive moment that one feels guilty for possessing this natural ‘Peeping Tom' curiosity.

Seeing Norman huddled up looking maniacally serene, immured within the confines of a "new" prison and armed only with a security blanket, you know that the poor innocent fly that lands on his hand, a fly he promises to respect, will never see the light of day again. And neither will Norman...despite the inferior sequels that tried to alter his obvious fate.

We can only thank Anthony Perkins for sacrificing a brilliant, promising, and highly versatile film career after bestowing upon us the most definitive, sympathetic creature of violence ever to assault the eyes. There will never be another one like him. Janet Leigh, one of Hollywood's biggest, fluffiest stars at this juncture, graciously cut short a dramatic "starring" role and instead offered us the screen's most tragic golden girl of all time. Both of their sacrifices were rewarded with film immortality.

I was introduced to "Psycho" at the age of 9. My older brother and I had the option one night of seeing "Psycho" or Jerry Lewis' "Cinderfella" at the local Riviera Theater. I wanted Jerry Lewis but my older brother had clout and, of course, won out. Needless to say I lost a good portion of my innocence (and my hair!) that night, succumbing to the frequent nightmares and shower traumas that obviously accompany such a youthful experience. Oh, yes, there is that abnormal fear I developed of screeching violin strings...

On a bright note, my faith in today's horror suspense was restored after experiencing the bravura Shyamalan-directed "The Sixth Sense" and "The Blair Witch Project" a raw, but creepy and effective little thriller filmed on a pittance. Both took stock of Hitchcock's tool kit for terror. "Blair Witch" proves once again that the real horror of shock films today lie not in its low-grade budgets, but in its third-grade scripts and mentality.

Alfred Hitchcock opened our eyes in awe, wonderment and, yes, horror. But never in disgust. And he never sacrificed his story or characters for the sake of shock. We can only apologize for all the gratuitous "Friday the Thirteenth" and "Halloween" dreck that rose out of his ashes.