mnpollio

There have been some pretty savage comedies written about estates, terrible relatives, and death, so it is fertile ground for someone with the right comedic chops. Writer/Director Dean Craig is not someone with those chops. From frame one to the last frame, The Estate is criminally unfunny, predictable and tiresome. The characters are largely unpleasant from the start and do not improve during the course of the film.

The ham-fisted plot casts Toni Collette and Anna Faris as sisters desperately trying to maintain control of their dad's dream - a financially underwater diner. Apparently it was once the spot to eat, but under the supervision of these two it has foundered. It is not hard to see why. Faris is a complete moron, who is not even remotely interested in being responsible for anything. Collette is a dishrag, who allows everyone to walk all over her and whose latest relationship is with a construction worker who constantly cries over everything. When their gorgon mother informs them that their filthy rich aunt Kathleen Turner is terminally ill, Faris browbeats Collette into showing up at her mansion to suck up and hopefully get put in the will. To their dismay, the same thought has already occurred to their cousins - the sleazy David Duchovny who has always wanted to put the moves on Collette and manipulative Rosemary DeWitt - who are already sucking up fast and furious.

After the set-up, the remainder of the film is basically the characters trying to one up each other and seeing how their various schemes go wrong or work in ways they did not foresee. The whole effort is just dreadfully unpleasant without any of the benefits of dark comic humor.

The characters are divided between dishrags and users. Why in the world Collette took this part is beyond me, unless she needs a new agent. She is much better than this material. She is given very little funny to do and spends the majority of the film looking whipped, wan and weary. Her character does not even function as a suitable moral compass or an amusing straight-woman for others to bounce off. As her sister, Faris is abrasive and irritating. If there was a time when anyone thought Faris had talent or range, those days are long left in the rear view mirror. Similar to her ex-husband (Chris Pratt), Faris seems to have one brand of shtick and she has no idea how to break out of it, especially now when it is not doing her or her films/shows any favors.

The supporting cast fares little better. Patricia French as their mother is as abrasive as Faris, but dialed up to 100. Duchovny embraces the whole sleazeball route, but the film gives him very limited notes to play. DeWitt is a bit better as the plotting cousin, who is so desperate to get her hands on Turner's money that she is literally willing to prostitute her husband, Ron Livingston, against his will. Keila Montorosso Mejia initially appears briefly as the youngest sister and the two leads, who still lives with their mother, has a Dungeons & Dragons obsession, and does "zany" stuff like dressing up as her favorite D&D character and drinking pickle juice. Later in the film, our oh-so-classy leading ladies along with their cousins decide to use the underage sister as bait for a sex pervert, and everyone seems to think this is fine. Livingston is the other dishrag in the cast. He is ostensibly the only one with a conscience, but he allows his nasty wife to walk all over him and then browbeat him into offering himself sexually to their aunt. A scene which may have been funny if anything came of it, but it stops before any comic gold can be mined from it.

And dear God, what in blue blazes has Hollywood done to Kathleen Turner? If Collette is wasted here, then Turner is desecrated. Turner was once the toast of the town with wonderful performances in Body Heat, Romancing the Stone and Peggy Sue Got Married. Since she has become older, her roles all seem to be as battle axes depicted as repellently as possible. Here, Turner must contend with nonstop indignities. She is photographed as unflatteringly as possible and depicted as disgustingly as possible. Her weight gain is used for "isn't she gross" comic moments and her age allows for such gems as watching people wretch over her bodily fluids and appear shell-shocked over the news that she may want intimacy with a man.

Honestly, if a film is this repulsive, it better be damn funny. Something About Mary, this isn't. And pretty much everyone who has ever read a book or seen a film will predict the "twist" ending from 100 miles away. And I kept thinking that if Collette and Faris's crummy management and cooking skills had tanked their dad's dream diner, why in the world would anything change with the infusion of fresh money into the mix if the same incompetent boobs were still heading the enterprise?

Just a horrid misfire on all counts.

Urbane con artist Michael Caine has carved out an opulent life on the French Riviera scamming copious amounts of cash from easily corruptible romance-starved wealthy women. His territory is infringed by brash, abrasive low-level American con artist Steve Martin, who offers not to blow the whistle on Caine if he teaches him the ropes. Ultimately the teacher and student find themselves competing against each other to swindle $50-grand from klutzy American "soap queen" Glenne Headley.

DRS is a remake of a 1950s romp called Bedtime Story. The original featured David Niven and Marlon Brando in the roles. It is a mildly diverting but largely forgettable comedy that was ripe for a remake. Brando was a great actor, but hardly known for his tremendous comedic talents. By contrast, Niven was the very definition of urbane and was always likable, but (a puzzling Oscar nod aside) discerning critics never confused anything he did as great acting.

DRS succeeds where its predecessor fell short largely due to expert casting. Martin could play this role in his sleep, but he doesn't. He gives it his all and the film is the better for it. Ditto, it has been a long time since Caine looked like he was having this much fun on screen and it translates to the audience. What this duo does seems effortless, but it is not. The chemistry, the comedic timing, etc., can be like lightning in a bottle. And they have caught that here.

Frank Oz's direction is fleet-footed and as frothy as the finest champagne. The screenplay and dialogue are smart and snappy. The cast as a whole works like a precision timepiece. The scenery is lovely.

Certain sections of this film could function as the highlight of a lesser solid comedy, but we get a succession of highlights. The student-teacher training session, the compilation of snooty women scared off by Martin's one-eyed brother, are all memorable.

One would think the film would lose momentum in the latter portion wherein Martin and Caine go mano a mano to dupe Headley, but some of the funniest scenes occur therein, with Martin pretending to be a psychosomatic paraplegic to win sympathy and Caine disguised as a tortuous German specialist out to "cure" him.

Which brings us to another component that pushes this film over the top - Headley's endearingly ditzy work as Janet Colgate - the American "soap queen". Headley was a pretty frequent cast member in supporting roles and character parts during the 80s/90s. This was a rare time when she was offered a lead role to shine and she grabs it by the horns and runs with it. Janet is kind, but also funky so as not to be boring and winsome enough that we see why both men spark to her.

Most people know the climactic twist, but I will not ruin it here. Needless to say that Caine and Martin sell it, and it is a tribute to Headley's work that the whole scenario seems possible and somehow delightfully delicious.

If I have any complaints about the film, I would say that I wish that the multi-talented Barbara Harris were used a bit more as Fanny Eubanks of Omaha. Harris was fading from the screen at this point and any opportunity to see her was worthwhile.

One of those rare comedies filled with belly laughs that you can actually watch with the whole family.

I am not a particular fan of director Jane Campion. I have seen the majority of her films and they are often murky, jumbled and dreary populated by unappealing characters conducting themselves in ways no one in real life ever would. Her most notorious film is The Piano. It is indisputably her best, but to say that it is supremely flawed would be a massive understatement.

When critics and Oscar voters began inventing superlatives in regard to her latest endeavor, The Power of the Dog, I somehow had forgotten her hit-and-miss history. I usually love Benedict Cumberbatch and Kirsten Dunst, and the story sounded like it might be interesting, so I looked forward to viewing it. Fasten your seatbelts, ladies and gentleman, because this is a real stinker.

Where to begin? The film has some nice cinematography featuring bleak landscapes. Then again, everything in this picture is bleak, so I guess that is no surprise. I will say that I did not particularly buy the setting as Montana.

The story can basically be summed up as miserable people being miserable...the end. The film runs slightly over 2 hours, but easily feels like 4 hours. Largely because so very little actually happens and what does is relentlessly unpleasant. Seriously, we have just pushed through two years of COVID - does anyone really want to trudge through this experience? Not every film needs to be upbeat and some brutal films are compelling. However, this is none of those. It is literally like mainlining an IV of pure depression. Those on anti-depressants - beware!

The action - and I use that term very loosely here - centers on two brothers who run a Montana ranch. The steely macho Cumberbatch and the civilized plain Jesse Plemmons. Plemmons, Cumberbatch and their rowdy crew stop at a local hotel/restaurant run by widow Kirsten Dunst and her young son Kodi Smit-McPhee. To the apparent delight of the crew, Cumberbatch is grossly rude and terrorizes and mocks the two of them reducing them to blubbering messes.

In one of the film's many ridiculous developments, Plemmons returns later to apologize and an offer of marriage for Dunst. In a further peak of absurdity, Dunst accepts, even though it means moving herself and her overly sensitive son into closer contact with the brutish Cumberbatch. Cumberbatch naturally wastes no time launching a campaign of abuse, mental torment and increasingly demonic manipulation against the "intruders".

I literally have no idea what anyone sees in this film. It cannot even remotely be described as entertaining. Watching it is an absolute chore. The characters are either hateful beyond compare or so passive as to be mere wisps. And will someone please explain to me why the whole canard of the macho bully being a closeted gay guy taking out his frustrations on the world is still considered edgy. There are tons of closeted gay men who do not act this way, but literature and film seem to think this is the norm. This is also nothing new. It is a cliche and listening to critics and fans of this film act as though it is some shocking twist rather than a cliche one could see coming from 15 minutes in just makes them seem idiots.

I usually enjoy Dunst, but this film does her no favors. She plays a simpering passive victim from start to finish. She has no backbone and is incapable of standing up for herself or her son. Instead of facing down Cumberbatch or packing up and leaving, she becomes a walking whipping post who melts into drink and despair. She never makes us understand why she accepts the out of the blue proposal or why she would think living in close proximity to Cumberbatch would ever work. Hers is less a character than a plot contrivance.

Smit-McPhee plays the son with the weirdness quotient dialed up to 50 and enough over the top tics to make Norman Bates appear normal. Plemmons is utterly colorless. He is as stiff as a board and seems completely clueless as to what is actually happening or how to be proactive in any sense.

And finally, the elephant in the prairie - Cumberbatch. God is he awful here. Let us start with something good. He strips naked and shows everything - so congrats for that. Otherwise, he is miscast in the extreme. His American accent is off-key enough to prove distracting. The role seems meant for a rough-and-tumble old school man-of-the-earth cowboy type. Cumberbatch, looking pale, gangly and aristocratic here, does not even come close to cutting the mustard, no matter how much over the top swaggering he trowels on. Reviewers seem to have doubled down that the reason everyone puts up with the character's brutish, bullying behavior is because of his "charisma" and "beguiling" nature. Was he? I beg to differ. I found nothing charismatic or beguiling about this character. He treats most people like garbage - at one point he even beats a horse for no discernible reason other than his frustration at being in the closet. He manipulates and torments pretty much everyone in his orbit.

I hear this film often described as a "slow burn". When applied to Oscar dramas, I have concluded that this is code for "endless slog". This is a dreary, dull, pretentious, and woefully unpleasant waste of time that ostensibly should only appeal to those who like watching someone pull the wings of flies for fun.

An updated version of The Brady Bunch (which was already old hat when that premiered) with construction worker Patrick Duffy and beautician Suzanne Somers as two imbeciles who spontaneously marry only to discover that their respective three children (each) despise each other already making the pitfalls of living together challenging.

Where to begin. Let's start with the good stuff. Patrika D'Arbo and Peggy Rea are both fine as Somers's sister and mother, but rarely are given anything of worth to say or do. Despite being handed some of the worst "Dude" lingo, Sasha Mitchell does have some appeal as a cousin, before his career was derailed due to false allegations of abuse from his drug addict wife.

I normally like Patrick Duffy and was a fan of Somers from her Three's Company days. They are both dreadful here. Duffy does not appear to have a comedic bone in his body and I do not believe he garners one legitimate laugh ever. Sommers also appears to have lost the knack for playing comedy and merely looks lost and blowzy. They have no chemistry together - we literally have no idea what attracted them to each other, what made them spontaneously marry, or why they stay together. As parents, they are equally disastrous. Neither really seems to know what is going on in their home or among their children. Duffy's kids are fairly good-natured. However, while Somers younger kids largely mix together, one of them seems to be a budding sociopath that no one is alarmed about (more on that below).

Unsurprisingly with these noxious types of family sitcoms, the adults take a back seat to stories involving the kids, so the shows can rise and fall on the young cast. Here. the gaggle of kids with two exceptions, largely make no impression. Brandon Call with smirk enshrined on his face really wears thin as Duffy's mischievous eldest son. He seems to have neither the charm nor the teeny bopper appeal to make the part memorable (no wonder why Mitchell was added as the cousin!).

By contrast, Staci Keanan, fresh off My Two Dads, is disturbing in every sense of the word. Not sure whether to blame the writers here, the actress, or both, but her character comes across as a psychopath. She actively seems to despise Duffy, Call and Mitchell, in fact she seems to despise every male (and a good number of females) that have the misfortune of spinning into her orbit. The scenes where she constantly goes out of her way to insult, undermine and humiliate her step-siblings are uncomfortable because not only is the writing not funny, but she plays it so seriously that we begin to worry for the safety of Duffy and his children. Keanan actually seems mentally unbalanced and certifiably hateful here. We could easily see her gleefully mixing up a bottle of arsenic into the lemonade and serving it to them all with a wicked smile. I have seen Bond supervillains less menacing than this girl. This is not a character who or a performance that should be frequenting a family comedy show.

The plots are dead on arrival, the cast largely a wash (with Keanan ostensibly auditioning for the role of a young Cruella DeVille) and the laugh track so jacked up that it would deafen a hard of hearing senior citizen. The real mystery is how this debacle skated by for 7 seasons. It makes Full House look like The Godfather.

I love many of the classics and was fascinated to watch this film when I recently found it on TCM, but the fascination wears off quickly. This was the film that won Katharine Hepburn her first Oscar. Unless voters were deluded to believe that her shameless scenery-chomping here was "unique", then it is impossible to understand any affection for either her performance or the film.

The story is pretty threadbare even at this stage in cinema. Hepburn plays young aspiring actress Eva Lovelace from the sticks, who shows up on Broadway to try to make her mark like her idols of yore. The main characters are introduced when she shows up at an open casting call for a new Broadway show. Adolphe Menjou is the producer, Douglas Fairbanks Jr. is the writer, Mary Duncan is the diva and C. Aubrey Smith is the character actor who becomes her mentor of sorts. We realize there is a problem pretty quickly. Hepburn babbles incessantly, introducing herself to everyone and invading their space. Some of this could be attributed to her character's nerves, but she acts this way through the whole damn film. She talks and talks and talks, often without barely taking a breath. She name drops incessantly, tells nonsensical lies, rarely listens when someone speaks to her because she is too busy talking over them, and gestures madly all over the place as though she were already on a stage. More disturbing is that after a brief meeting with Menjou, where he barely tolerates her obnoxious presence, she somehow convinces herself that she is in love with him and he with her.

Next sequence finds her wandering the streets obviously broke, when she stumbles across Morris who insists she attend an opening night party with him at Menjou's apartment. She gets drunk and captivates the party by reciting Shakespeare (the film's rare highlight) before making a fool of herself. Menjou is mildly amused, but also irritated by her. Fairbanks for some reason is captivated and starts to promote her career, but Hepburn is so infatuated by the nonexistent romance with Menjou that she takes Fairbanks for granted.

A la 42nd Street, when Duncan's diva walks out, Hepburn has her chance on stage. Tellingly, we never actually see Hepburn take the stage or emote thereon. We just have everyone else tell her how brilliant she is, while she conducts herself like a loon. In the last 10 minutes alone, she goes from the high of her success to the realization that Menjou never loved her (he could not have been more obvious!). Fairbanks declares his love, but she spurns him for her "art", then immediately regrets it and babbles about the loneliness of being an artist, and then decides it is great after all. Truly the woman is cuckoo for cocoa puffs and it is impossible to understand why no one else sees it. There is a difference between an artistic temperament and nuts.

Fairbanks has barely a role to play and ends up just being blandly handsome. Menjou is better, but has limited notes as well since he is stuck having to be slightly amused or annoyed. Duncan is a riot as the diva and Smith is his usual great character actor self. If you are a die-hard fan of Hepburn, you may enjoy her here. Anyone else will undoubtedly find her insufferable. She never manages to make Eva likable or even worth rooting for. Instead, Eva just seems mentally unstable, grasping and obnoxious. Her endless babbling and talking over everyone else gets old fast.

During a trip to a boardwalk amusement park as a child, young Adelaide Wilson wanders away from her parents and into a strange hall of mirrors where something terrified her. Years later, Adelaide is a married mother of two children and is a bit skittish when her husband wants to meet up with friends at the same beach. A string of coincidences and portents leave Adelaide more than a little uneasy. Even worse, that night back at the vacation house, the family is besieged by four malevolent doppelgangers brandishing sharp scissors who seem to want to destroy them.

Anyone wondering what filmmaker Jordan Peele had up his sleeve after the success of Get Out, need wonder no more. As to whether Us equals or surpasses the earlier film, will be up to the respective viewer. That said, the film is undeniably ambitious and creepy. The film looks fantastic and has a sense of the surreal right from the start. The viewers are allowed to tap into Adelaide's unease and the film has the viewer off balance long before the unsettling action begins.

The attack on the house and the dynamic between the different characters and their doubles is scary and disconcerting. Many questions abound. Are these doppelgangers only after the Wilson family or is it more widespread? What do they want? Where did they come from? Why is any of this happening? Some of the questions get answered and some remain enigmas. Undoubtedly if one dwells too much on the details about "the tethered" and their existence, one can spot weaknesses, but Peele gives just enough detail without going overboard and allowing us to do too much questioning. Truthfully just the concept of us all having shadow beings that despise us is jarring.

The film is violent without being disgusting. The attack scenes pack quite a wallop, but some of the quieter scenes can be even eerier and more disturbing. For instance, watching Elisabeth Moss's double grotesquely smiling while indulging in lip gloss while alternately threatening a woman cuffed to a bed is a bit nightmarish. As is the strange way the doubles have of speaking or communicating.

Winston Duke is a lot of fun as Dad Wilson and his intimidating double. However, the film would not succeed at all if not for the amazing performance from Lupita Nyong'o as Adelaide. Essentially playing two markedly different roles, Nyong'o manages to be initially frightened and sympathetic as Adelaide before graduating to a tough and resourceful fighter determined to protect her family at all costs. As her double, Red, Nyong'o is scary as hell - speaking in some kind of combination between a hiss and a gasp. We may not be able to discern Red's ultimate plan, but she leaves us no doubt that it does not bode well for humanity and it will cause the most pain as possible. This is a really incredible performance which received raves, but was completely overlooked in awards season, which is inexcusable.

While I figured out the twist involving one of the main characters before its revelation, I was in the dark for a lot of the film and I mean that in a good way. I also had the feeling that literally anything could happen to anyone, so the stakes were high. The up-in-the-air ending a la The Birds will probably not sit well with everyone and there are still questions left unanswered, but the ride is worth taking and the film should be allowed to take its place in the pantheon of terrific ambitious thrillers that seem to be cropping up with some frequency.

Released at a time when Stephen King adaptations seemed to be showing up at the movie theater every month, Firestarter was not considered either a prime King novel or an especially great film. Yet ironically, through the mists of time and perhaps nostalgia, there seem to be a number of viewers who hold a soft spot for the film. I am one of them.

The story centers on young Charlie McGee, whose parents Andy and Vicky foolishly participated as college students in a drug experiment for easy money. The drug causes wildly divergent results ranging from nothing to full on psychosis to the development of certain psychic abilities. Andy and Vicky are able to communicate without speaking and, in Andy's case, he can influence another person's thinking. Charlie is born with the ability of pyrokinesis - the ability to start fires at will - which makes the family the targets of shadowy government operatives with plans to exploit Charlie as a weapon. The film opens with Andy and Charlie on the run from said operatives and Charlie's ongoing struggle to contain her ability, which spills out when she becomes angry or emotional. And given that Charlie is a child, a temper tantrum can be deadly.

The film has its faults - notably that it is uneven. Viewers who do not stick with it past the opening third will be missing out though because the film slowly but surely course corrects.

One would feel that the moments with Andy and Charlie on the run would be the most effective and exciting, but oddly that is not the case here. Drew Barrymore is ideally cast as Charlie, but she is strangely uneven in these moments with David Keith, as her father. To be honest, Keith is simply dreadful. His acting is stiff, his line readings are stilted and he feels like a bargain basement Patrick Swayze here. There are endless moments of him getting down on one knee and giving Charlie pep talks that are just plain excruciating to watch or listen to.

Ironically, the film picks up substantially after Charlie and Andy are captured and separated at the government facility. With Keith's godawful performance temporarily sidelined, it allows the better actors to enter the fray and right the listing boat. Martin Sheen heads the facility as a weaselly government lackey and Moses Gunn is an oily unctuous doctor, who wants to test the limits of Charlie's abilities. These scenes are actually pretty fascinating.

The film also has one of the best villains to appear in a King work courtesy of George C. Scott as the wily assassin John Rainbird. Rainbird sees Charlie as a force of nature that he longs to control, manipulate and ultimately destroy. He masquerades as a sympathetic custodian to win her empathy and her trust, and strings her along until he is granted the go-ahead to annihilate her. Whereas Barrymore is uneven in her scenes with Keith, the opposite happens in her scenes with Scott. She positively blossoms and the relationship between the two of them becomes the most interesting thing in the film. We know that Charlie is won over by Rainbird and feels affection towards him, but strangely it also appears that Rainbird (while never deviating from his original goal) develops an affection towards her as well. Of course, the viewer knows that all hell will break loose once the deception is revealed.

Mark Lester's direction is solid without being overly original. The sequences of Charlie unleashing her powers are all exciting and nicely choreographed. The concluding battle is especially well done. The script sticks close to King's novel without being slavish. Tangerine Dream's score seems a bit bizarre at first, but ultimately enhances the overall action.

Barring Keith's dismal effort, the cast even down to the smaller supporting parts is extraordinary. Barrymore and Scott truly hold everything together and give you a rooting interest in the action and a watchability factor that the film otherwise may not have had. Heather Locklear brightens up a few scenes as Charlie's mother. Oscar winners Art Carney and Louise Fletcher show up in brief roles as a kindly couple that temporarily offer shelter to Andy and Charlie and then have a pivotal role later.

As King adaptations go, you will find better, but you will also find a lot worse. And I think you will be surprised at how well the film holds together, especially in the latter two-thirds. It is definitely an entertaining effort.

Stephen King's novels have always been ripe for film adaptations and, as a fan of much of his work, I have often looked forward to those adaptations with some trepidation. For every 'Salem's Lot, The Dead Zone, Misery or The Green Mile there will be a low rent tawdry entry like Graveyard Shift or Maximum Overdrive.

The plot revolves around young doctor Louis Creed, who has accepted a cushy post at a local college and moves his family (wife, two children and cat) to small town Maine across the street from bucolic welcoming old neighbor Jud Crandall. The homey house faces a very busy highway where semis speed through at all hours of the day, while the back faces a dense forest wherein lies the Pet Sematary. A place where local children for generations have buried their pets, ergo the misspelled sign. When the family cat is killed on the road and Louis frets on breaking the news to the kids, Jud conveys a local secret that beyond the title place there exists an old Indian burial plot wherein the cat can be buried and resurrected. Unfortunately, the cat comes back markedly different and not in a good way, and that is only the first tragedy to befall the hapless Creed clan.

Pet Sematary is one of King's better novels filled with sympathetic, well-drawn characters, a sense of foreboding and atmosphere of dread, and a good idea of how to disconcert the reader and put them through the ringer. The Creed family and Jud are all likable. Even when they do arguably stupid actions, King makes you understand why they did it and the emotional toll that compelled such action.

Sadly this film adaptation is a mess. The film looks and feels cheap. The effects - from special effects to make-up to lighting - are phony and tacky looking. Director Mary Lambert - known mainly at this time for her efforts at music videos - has no idea how to develop atmosphere or character or suspense. The film snags some of the plot set pieces from the novel, but abandons any of the build-up or the character development that would make them have any emotional resonance. The whole effort feels rushed and you would be hard-pressed to remember it a week later.

The production is just a debacle - victim of both a badly thought out screenplay and lackluster direction. Louis's nocturnal visits from a young collegiate that was hit by a car and died on his first day of work should be nightmarish, but every time the guy shows up in his bad make-up and spouting dreadful lines, one cannot help but giggle. Ditto, another character's unexpected suicide is so badly rendered that it resulted in guffaws from my theater audience.

The characters that populate this landscape are barely sketches. With one notable exception, the acting is awful. Never once are any of them able to make you understand why they do what they do. Why does Jud convey the secret of the graveyard when he knows history has often repeated itself with tragedy? Why do Louis and Rachel stay in a house on a busy highway with their children? Why do they let the cat roam in such an environment? Who knows?

Fred Gwynne manages to rise above the material as the neighborly Jud. He is personable and sympathetic and makes you wish he were in a much better film.

Blaze Berdahl is not especially memorable as the Creed's daughter Ellie and Miko Hughes, while cute as a button, as the younger son Gage, just does not sell the film's latter portion at all. Then again, I am uncertain what young actor under this horrible direction could do it. What should be tragic and frightening somehow ends up being laughable.

Denise Crosby is abysmal as the overly emotional wife Rachel, who may as well have victim tattooed on her forehead. The sequences featuring her memories of dealing with her spinal meningitis-afflicted sister are dreadfully rendered.

Louis demands an actor with some heft, but instead we get the handsome, but psychotically bland and lifeless Dale Midkiff. Midkiff seems shell-shocked long before the film's woebegone climax. He is oddly introverted and ambivalent towards his wife and kids, so his actions later on do not ring true. He does get the film's best scene though, where the now demonic cat drops a disemboweled rodent on him while he is relaxing in the tub. It is one of the film's few honest and successful jolt moments that succeeds in spite of Lambert's clumsy staging. Sadly, Lambert works overtime to Austin Powers the scene within an inch of its life to avoid any nudity from Midkiff - which is a shame since I may have been inspired to raise the rating a star and given that his physical looks are the only worthwhile things about his performance here.

By the film's conclusion, you will be neither scared, exhausted from the suspense nor moved by the plight of anything that happens on screen. The whole result is bereft of excitement or dread and just ends up as a tacky, cheap waste of time. Which is quite sad considering the promise implicit in the King source novel.

The Amityville Horror, based on the purportedly true bestseller by Jay Anson, focuses on the Lutz family, whose dreams of home ownership after purchasing a rather stunning waterfront home in Amityville, New Jersey, quickly change to horror when they realize that the house appears to be haunted by a malevolent presence, which ends up driving them out after less than one month.

Whether or not you believe the premise as fact (I do not - especially since none of the subsequent owners have experienced anything similar to what the Lutz family claimed), The Amityville Horror was a huge hit and all anyone talked about for months on end in 1979. Critics dismissed the film with derisive sniggers, but the box office was astronomical. Stephen King wrote in Danse Macabre that he thought the film was awful, but realized when exiting that people were spending time debating and discussing it, which meant it had impact. In my humble opinion, the film is definitely flawed and I am uncertain that it will actually scare anyone or change their opinion on hauntings, but I find it undeniably enjoyable and fast-paced.

The haunting events start small and pick up steam. The Lutz's are depicted as a fairly likable and relatable family. Their reluctance to leave immediately after sinking so much of their finances into the house are understandable. One could argue that some of the obstacles they initially face (windows sticking, toilets backing up, swarms of flies invading the house) can be easily attributable to non-supernatural forces, but it builds fairly believably from those founding events. Given that the family is in the house for less than a month, there are a lot of events that come to a head quickly, so the fleet-footed pacing does not give one a lot of time to contemplate some of the absurdities.

One of the main plot threads centers on the tragedy of the family prior to the Lutzs in the home, where son Ron DeFeo assassinated the entire DeFeo family in their sleep with a shotgun. The film focuses on George Lutz's uncanny resemblance to DeFeo and his increasingly antagonistic manner with his family as the stress and the events spin out of control. It is something that would be touched on in the following year's The Shining, which was labeled by some detractors of that film to call it a mannered Amityville Horror.

James Brolin and Margot Kidder share the heavy lifting as George and Kathy Lutz. Brolin was never considered a spectacular actor, but he was rarely better than he is here and does a fairly commendable job of communicating George's love for his family along with the stress and outside influence that near drive him mad. Fans of Brolin may also appreciate the number of scenes of him wandering about in tighty-whities to investigate disturbances in the night. Kidder is even better in an exceptional performance as Kathy (not looking too shabby herself in the couple's one love scene), whose fear gives way to concern over her deteriorating husband and the safety of her children.

If the film has one inexcusable lapse, it is in the third member of its acting trio. Rod Steiger is cast as a priest, a family friend of the devout Kathy, who is called upon to bless the house. For some reason, he shows up when the Lutzs are out and proceeds to make himself at home to do the blessing, before being assaulted by the flies, sickness and a demonic voice that demands he "Get Out". He shares no scenes with the family and spends the remainder of the film trying to unsuccessfully reach the Lutzs to warn them of the impending evil and convince his dismissive superiors to exorcise the house. He has no real role to play after the initial visit to the house, but the film keeps leaving the family (who are deserving of our attention) to return to Steiger overacting to the heavens. He sputters, he gesticulates, he spits, he snarls - apparently thinking this role is going to nab him another Oscar. It descends quickly into howling embarrassment and audience annoyance culminating in a ridiculous moment (not in the book) where Steiger tries to exorcise the house long distance from the church only to have the evil forces invade the church and symbolically blind him with debris from crumbling religious statuary. Steiger's acting in this sequence would make Shatner and Heston blush and crosses the line into the laughable. Truly, the majority his scenes should have been cut.

Bring up the name of director Tobe Hooper and most will wax wistful over The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Some of his lesser known films should be re-discovered, especially the Grand Guignol-fueled The Funhouse and the original TV version of Salem's Lot, which still ranks as one of the best Stephen King adaptations ever. And it is hard to believe that people still need to be reminded that Hooper is responsible for directing cathartic sentimental horror classic Poltergeist (and not Steven Spielberg). Unfortunately, Hooper's career hit the skids in the mid-80s and for anyone wondering why, look no further than the debacle of Lifeforce.

The story - such as it is - has something to do with a joint effort between US and UK astronauts to study up close Halley's Comet and discovering a mysterious craft traveling in tandem with it, wherein lies the strikingly beautiful Mathilda May and two interchangeable hunks slumbering in crystal coffins. Naturally, these beings end up back in earth, where May and her cohorts rouse themselves to terrorize London by sucking the energy out of everyone they come in contact with and creating an army of zombie-like beings. American astronaut Steve Railsback - a survivor of the earlier mission - and British army officer Peter Firth team with doctor Frank Finlay to stop these space vampires and their reign of destruction.

The synopsis makes this sound like a fun film. It is not. The film is inexcusably tedious and a real chore to sit through. There is literally no character development, it jumps around narratively without rhyme or reason, and is often near impossible to follow exactly what is happening on screen. There are a lot of effects light shows to distract the eye, but the mind needs to be in a vegetative state to view this tripe. Apparently there are catastrophic events happening, but we are shown few of them and instead have them related to us in endless scenes by old interchangeable British men sweating or shouting in conference rooms. Given that Railsback and Firth are tasked with tracking down and stopping the vampires, you would think they would share some chemistry or banter as partners. They have zero chemistry together and are humorless and seem to be going through the motions without much urgency. The dialog veers between tedious exposition, stating the obvious, and howlers that must be heard to be believed, delivered by stone-faced actors apparently thinking they were cast in Hamlet.

Look quick for Patrick Stewart in a nonsense role a physician at an asylum. Firth and Finlay, both notable Oscar nominees of the past, are wasted wandering about in a tight-faced daze. Railsback is abysmal on levels previously unimaginable. Once a promising actor, his career derailed after this mess with his only other notable subsequent appearance being in an X-Files episode. He appears haggard and his performance lurches between looking lost and bad over-the-top Shatner-esque emotional outbursts.

As the vampire queen, May is stunning looking, but that is literally all the part calls for. The vampires slumber in the nude, so she spends pretty much every moment on screen wandering about full frontally starkers glaring at people before sucking them dry of their energy. She does not seem particularly menacing. Ironically, there are two male vampires who apparently are also trotting around naked, but the filmmakers are not especially interested in them or what they are up to. Neither actor playing the male space vampires gets so much as a bare butt shot, but the filmmakers make sure we see enough of May to near function as her gynecologist. Just noting that a bit of titillation balance here would have been welcome.

A spectacular exciting ending may well have saved this mess, but after more than an hour of incoherence, awful acting, bad dialog, noise, flashy effects and painful boredom, the opaque conclusion is inert and will leave more than a few viewers just scratching their heads. Not sure how this film has any fans considering it fails at serious sci-fi and fails at being cheesy fun.

Set during the 18th century reign of Queen Anne in England, The Favourite focuses primarily on the dueling relationship between two women - Lady Sarah of Marlborough and her cousin Abigail - in their bid to oust the other from a position of power in court through the Queen's favor.

Judging from the non-stop adverts for the film and its designation at the Golden Globes, one would expect to view a savage comedy of manners, but instead the final result is anything but comical. More often than not, it is downright depressing, tiresome and childish. The film gives us a brief crash course in the political maneuvering. Parliament is split, there is a war going on, taxes are high and everyone is jockeying for a foothold on which to sway the Queen. The serious decision making seems to be delegated to the Queen's current favorite lady-in-waiting, Sarah, a childhood friend. Into the mix arrives Sarah's black sheep cousin Abigail, who initially snags a job as a maid, but ingratiates herself with Sarah, and then ultimately the Queen. This leads to a power play between Sarah and Abigail as to who will retain the Queen's favor.

Where to start! Given that the film strives for some degree of authenticity and received serious awards, it appears to play havoc with both facts and atmosphere. I really do not see ladies-in-waiting at court dropping f-bombs. The film also devolves into a series of sordid lesbian encounters between the Queen and Sarah, and later the Queen and Abigail. Granted that history is up in the air about whether or not such encounters happened or were the product of malicious gossip intended to damage the Queen, much of it ostensibly initiated by Sarah in retaliation for being replaced. However, I think given the players and history involved, there are more intriguing stories to be told here than settling on questionable salacious encounters as a centerpiece. Unfortunately, that is not the road chosen by the writers and the director.

The film is not overly long in running time, but ultimately feels at least double. Not sure if it is just me, but the odd score was off-putting as well. Technical aspects like costumes, sets, etc., are top-notch.

Emma Stone gives one of her best performances as the initially fresh-faced, but ultimately manipulative Abigail. She seems genuinely concerned and open, so the audience gets suckered into her machinations as well. Conversely, Rachel Weisz is all subtlety, intelligence and snark, as Sarah. The film dramatically overstates the kind of power the Queen gave Sarah in governance, but Weisz is completely credible pushing around sputtering men of power and leaving them stewing in their own juices.

Where I differ in the acting department is in Olivia Colman's performance as Queen Anne. Anne was considered a bland monarch (barring the lesbian gossip) plagued by miscarriages, the deaths of children, and questionable health, but still managed to rank some serious accomplishments during her reign. Colman was a surprise upset winner for Best Actress, but damned if I know why. Although I did not carry a stop watch, it seems that Colman has less screen time than co-stars Stone and Weisz, who landed in the supporting actress category, which makes her inclusion as Best Actress indefensible. Worse, I really find her the least of the three actresses here. Colman's Anne is depicted as an easily manipulated, weak, mewling child. We never get any indication that this woman could rise to the occasion of even minimal leadership. She is a one-note caricature to be either pitied or repelled by, who is eternally at the mercies of outside forces and the whims of heinous lying shrews. I freely admit that my disdain for the part could be the fault of how the writers have envisioned Anne, but I would be remiss in not pointing out that Colman does absolutely nothing to transcend the problem or breath any semblance of dignity into the role. Her Anne is merely a plot contrivance to set up the rivalry between the real leads - Stone and Weisz - and then retire to the sidelines to marinate in her own apathy and weakness. Not a fan of her work here at all.

Although the advertising for this film includes some savage one-liners, the film is almost devoid of comedy. Certainly the latter half is no laughing matter. The depressing climax which finds Anne duped into ostracizing Sarah (and her husband) into outright exile, Anne being felled by a crippling stroke which makes her more of an emotionally unstable infant than before, and Abigail realizing that her role as a favorite (including pleasuring the Queen in a dead-eyed manner) is not all it was cracked up to be, will leave no one skipping out in high spirits. A real desperate miss here.

Nubile college student Rebecca Balding scrambles to find housing and ends up boarding at the Engels' Gothic seaside home. Fellow boarders include funny girl Juli Andelman, braggart trust fund dude Peter Widelock, and hunky dreamboat Steve Doubet. The house is managed by the nerdy Brad Rearden, whose mother Yvonne DeCarlo rooms in the attic and emerges on occasion to glare mutely at the boarders. A psychopathic killer enters the mix and begins offing the inhabitants, bringing in detectives Cameron Mitchell and Avery Schreiber to investigate.

Most have probably never heard of this film, although it did fairly well in the early dawn of the 80s slasher genre and seems to have a very small cult following who insist it is better than it really is. The sad part about the film is that the bones of something quite good are there, but it simply never catches fire and contains zero surprises.

The fact that the film is painfully predictable is a downfall. The film opens with a flash forward of the police running into the house in irritating slow motion and we get snatches of carnage, so we have a good idea from the first few frames of who ends up six feet under. We also know that Balding and Doubet as the two lookers in the group will automatically fall in love/lust, but it seems to happen even improbably quicker in this film than usual. They get one brief sex scene where Balding bares her boobs, but alas Doubet predictably merely doffs his shirt. Further, with only four potential victims in the house and a healthy running time, there is not much suspense as to who is on the killer's chopping block. There is also no surprise as to the identity of the killer as the film pretty much tells us from the outset.

On a plus side, the film looks great. The house - with its cobwebbed passages and hidden places - is a creepy setting. It is easy to see what truly gifted filmmakers could have done with this scenario (adding a few more students to the mix to keep suspense going would have been nice), but the director here too often settles for the obvious.

Mitchell and Schreiber are wasted as the detectives, whose subplot really does not go anywhere and seems included only to pad the running time. Rearden never really milks the prospect as to whether he may or may not be a Norman Bates-ish character and veteran DeCarlo is never given enough material to really ham it up. Barbara Steele is effective at her menacing best as a mute hidden denizen of the house. The students are all appealing and fairly well played. Andelman seems like that fun best friend everyone wishes they had. Balding and Doubet are credible and sympathetic, and have nice chemistry.

The kill scenes have some minor gore, but they never really have much shock value or scare factor going for them. Again, the fact that we can guess who is a victim and when they will be taken out is disappointing, as is the tiny body count for a slasher film. The climax holds no surprises either and seems more of an anticlimax.

Again, the film is actually OK to watch if expectations are not high, but I would not advise anyone to go out of the way for it either. This is definitely one that would be ripe for a better remake in the hands of someone who could remedy its weaknesses and capitalize on the creepy sets and situations.

An unbalanced professor leads a gaggle of not-so-bright college students off on a field trip to find the yeti.

Stumbled upon this odious mess as a teenager back in the days when late night weekend TV aired horror films that you had never heard of (and in this case, wish you had never heard of). It is bad enough that pretty much every element of the film is inept, but what makes the film stick out like a sore thumb is that the film feels low rent and downright sleazy - even without any notable sex or nudity.

The entire concept is absurd. Alan Brock is the professor, who seems cursed with questionable ethics and more than a tad unhinged right from the start. His performance leaves a lot to be desired, so we will speak no more of it. The thought that a gaggle of students would follow this guy across the street much less onto an isolated patch of land known as Boot Island requires a major suspension of belief. We never get a good idea of where this Boot Island supposedly is, but it looks suspiciously like northern New York. Who knew that was a stomping ground for a yeti?

Even more stupid is that the students are made aware from the start that the professor's first foray to find "the yeti" seven years earlier resulted in the deaths of all the students involved save one. A drunken wretch who just so happens to show up at the parting party to ramble incoherently and warn the students of impending doom and to not trust the professor. The students are too busy listening to the 70s kitsch class Popcorn to pay attention. This charmer is escorted out by his suitably embarrassed wife. Most film's would have allowed them to exit the action, but instead we follow the couple home where the drunk attacks his wife with a knife before staggering into the bathroom to take a bath fully clothed, where his still alive beaten bloody wife crawls in moments later to drop an unplugged toaster into the tub to electrocute him...yes, the toaster is unplugged, but it still electrocutes him.

The group heads off on their jaunt into the wilderness. They include Brock, studious bland Michael Harris, his innocent girlfriend Jennifer Stock, her dorky friend Darcy Brown, and wise-cracking dude Jack Neubeck. Although Boot Island is purportedly "off limits" they seem to have no problem accessing the island and moving into their accommodations, which are already inhabited by pony-tailed doctor Tawm Ellis who exudes sleaze and mute Native American Laughing Crow (Ivan Agar) - who looks about as Native American as the albino assassin in The DaVinci Code. From there, it is just a matter of time before the "yeti" makes its appearance and figuring out which of the students will be the first to go.

The film has uneventful stretches and the writing is ludicrous. Ellis insists that although he has found footprints and heard the howl of the yeti in the night, he has never actually seen it. Then shortly thereafter he tells a story of being watched from the woods by the yeti, which is shown in flashback with Ellis giving such a detailed description of the beast that it contradicts what he initially said about never seeing it and none of the students gainsay him. At about the one-third mark, the film completely changes course and ceases being about a yeti, but about a gaggle of cannibals. The change in focus does not improve things.

The film looks like it cost about $1.95 to make on someone's home camera. The yeti is laughable looking like a cross between a chubby guy in a costume and a slobbering chihuahua. The film is not overly gory, but the subject matter and the look and feel of it have the unhealthy miasma of a grind house film. The fact that the professor starts carving up the bodies of the beast's victims to use as bait and the remaining survivors do not immediately head for the door or find suitable weapons to protect themselves from the "yeti" AND the professor and his cohorts is astonishing.

With the technical aspects a wash-out, the acting does not fare much better. The actors playing the villains come across as unsavory from the moment they enter the action, so their revelations as such are no surprise. Harris and Stock are not especially winning as the main couple. She spends most of the running time either looking blank of face or in an over-the-top palsy of prostration. For someone purportedly crazy about her, Harris wanders off repeatedly leaving her to fend for herself. His character seems eternally clueless and by the time the credits roll what little sympathy he may have generated is completely gone.

And let's not even get into the grotesque downer ending. No doubt meant to be darkly humorous, it comes off as just depressing and gross, punctuated by a crummy one-liner and a lingering shot of Harris' blank face uncontrollably drooling. Just yuck!

Based on the novel Doll's Eyes by Bari Wood, In Dreams centers on beleaguered suburban housewife Annette Bening who develops a strange psychic connection with a kidnapper/murderer stalking the area. She does not understand why this has happened and cannot initially get the investigating detective Paul Guilfoyle to take her seriously. While saying goodbye to her pilot husband Aidan Quinn at their daughter's school play, their daughter is kidnapped and murdered. The bereft, grief-stricken Bening tries to take her own life, but lives to be bandied back and forth between one unsympathetic psychiatrist after another, while the killer uses the psychic link to mentally torture her, until the whole thing comes to a climactic confrontation.

The film opens with a disturbingly eerie segment documenting the "drowning" of a small town to make way for a reservoir and then moves to the future where body recovery divers make their way through the submerged ghost town to search for one of the victims. The sequence is chilling and amped up more by Elliot Goldenthal's creepy soundtrack. The connection with the town will become clearer as the film progresses. Director Neil Jordan provides an atmosphere of creeping dread that enshrouds everything and there is a distinct uncertainty as to where the film will go next or how everything will turn out.

Despite the first-rate cast and production team, almost no one saw or remembers this film, which is quite a shame considering how original and disturbing it is. It is quite the underrated gem.

While Robert Downey Jr.'s is memorable as the killer, making a late entry in the film as he previously remains in shadow or seen in quick bits, the film belongs to Bening. I find Bening an often overrated actress. She gets accolades for broad uneven performances in Oscar fodder films like American Beauty, but then gets overlooked for more nuanced work here. She takes you on a manic ride from the character's initial stability through her unbearable grief into her teetering on the edge of madness before unearthing a hidden strength that even she failed to imagine she possesses. Bening makes the grief of a mother losing her child and the subsequent mental breakdown palpable. There were times where I truly believed that the actress was losing her mind on camera, so pitch perfect is she here. She is also incredibly sympathetic.

Between Bening's astounding lead performance, the surreal eerie visuals, the unpredictable storyline and Jordan's able direction, which turns everything topsy turvy and rarely gives us breathing room, this is a thriller that is more than ripe for rediscovery.

Earlier filmed as a TV play, Marty relates the tale of a middle-aged sad-sack Italian butcher in New York City (Ernest Borgnine). Marty is a bachelor, who still lives at home with his mother while supporting her financially. His existence seems to revolve around being berated by his social network for the sin of not being married and punching out kids, trying unsuccessfully to get dates when he is nothing to look at and being put down, and listening to his whining friend ask what they are going to do tonight. One evening he meets a plain Jane schoolmarm (Betsy Blair) and things look like they might turn around for both of them.

It must have seemed daring in 1954 for Oscars to shower big awards on such a small, intimate film like Marty, which is so different from many of the spectacle driven films usually honored. Yet years later, Marty seems like such a forgettable and underwhelming film to deserve such salutations. At the risk of seeming crass, I actually prefer the thinly veiled John Candy remake Only the Lonely to this film, if for no other reason than that Candy and Maureen O'Hara provide the zip that is missing from Marty.

Borgnine won Best Actor as Marty and he is solid here. I am actually glad that Borgnine, typecast playing bullies and villains, was given a chance to play a sympathetic role. He plays it well, but I do not think it is worth a Best Actor Oscar, especially given his competition that year. The remaining members of the cast are believable if not especially memorable.

I really dislike how self-important and dour this film is, especially when masquerading as being an uplifting "real" film about "real" people. Showcasing people without movie star looks does not by default make them "real". The people in Marty's orbit are manipulative and downright nasty to him for no good reason other than to forward the narrative. His mother (Esther Minciotti) berates him for not trying hard enough to find a wife, but changes her tune on a dime when Marty shows up with a serious girlfriend - having an epiphany that this will cause her upheaval. Marty's irritating best friend and fellow sad sack on the prowl for a wife claims to want what's best, but similarly changes tune when he realizes he may lose a hang-out buddy by denouncing Marty's date as "a dog" not worth anyone's time. The Italian women who frequent Marty's butcher shop are downright surreal - hurling non-stop abuse at him and bleating what an embarrassment he is to his poor mother by not getting married. One would think that the only reason for being in existence from this film is marrying any warm body you can find and punching out kids. Talk about anachronistic!

Worse, Borgnine and Blair have absolutely no chemistry together. When they get together for their date, it is an excruciatingly awkward experience. Rather than two kindred spirits meeting and falling in love, we witness two extremely desperate characters browbeat into believing they cannot be happy unless wed, who settle on each other because they have no other options. Blair is withdrawn and barely speaks - while Borgnine sweats and talks and talks and talks - about himself - too much. It is hard to say whether they feel any honest romance or kinship, so much as they view each other as an out to escape the manipulative people in their orbit and to just shut them up.

Somehow rather than feeling happy for Marty and his girlfriend, the whole experience just left me empty and depressed. Rather than offering hope or being uplifted, watching two people that we are uncertain belong together latch on to each other out of sheer desperation seems incredibly gloomy and disheartening.

Robin of Locksley (Kevin Costner) returns to Sherwood Forest from the Crusades with his compatriot the Moor, Azeem (Morgan Freeman), to discover that his father has been killed and his lands confiscated by the treacherous Sheriff of Nottingham (Alan Rickman) and his minions. Worse, the people are buckling under the the yoke of Nottingham's greed, so he sets about assembling his merry men and starting his mission of robbing from the corrupt to give to the poor, while winning the respect and love of Maid Marian (Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio).

On its release, this version of Robin Hood was a box office hit, but received middling critical response. Nowadays, you will find a respectable number of people who fondly recall the film with a good deal of sentiment. Part of the problem is that many critics of the time zeroed in on the miscast leading man and acted like that was the be all and end all of the film. It is not. Other charges, such as it being filled with anachronisms and not being serious enough, are laughable charges since those same things apply to The Adventures of Robin Hood (with Errol Flynn), which is considered a classic and the best adaption of the Robin Hood legend.

Prince of Thieves is more serious than the Errol Flynn film - no one is swinging about in green tights. Director Kevin Reynolds keeps the action grounded and moving at a robust pace, but slows it enough to give his cast and characters time to reflect and shine. Plus this version is certainly a towering achievement over the dour version released the same year with Patrick Bergen, the misguided adaptation with a long-in-tooth Russell Crowe, and the recent debacle with Taron Egerton. For each rousing moment, we get sequences like the exchanges between Robin and Marian in the forest, where we are taken by surprise by how smart and thoughtful some of the dialog actually is.

The cinematography is impressive and Michael Kamen's stupendous old-style adventure score is a highlight. While some may carp over the inclusion of a witch as an advisor to the Sheriff or the changing of the roles of Will Scarlett (Christian Slater) or the outcome of the fight with Little John, I do not believe that these impact the tone of the film and allow it its own identity away from the 1938 classic. I also like the addition of the local bishop being corrupt and in cahoots with the villains and confronted by the heroic Friar Tuck.

The supporting cast is terrific. Slater is underused as Scarlett, but the remainder of the merry men are vividly cast. Mastrantonio is a lovely and gutsy Marian and Freeman provides a rich and mature presence as Robin's friend and mentor. The film is all but stolen by the grand Rickman, hamming it up delightfully as the nasty Sheriff. His one-liners may not be period appropriate, but they do bring down the house.

The film's biggest stumbling block is Costner as Robin. He is not awful and carries the action solidly, but not for a moment do you forget he is miscast. He initially starts the film with a weak stab at a British accent, which sounds more surfer than Surrey, but then that token effort vanishes. Costner's career was at its peak, so it is understandable why filmmakers wanted a box office presence to head the picture, but he just seems all wrong. His stirring speeches to rouse the troops lack fire and passion. He has good chemistry with both Freeman and Mastrantonio, but his reaction to the revelation of Slater's true identity is jarringly off. Even moments he would seem suited for, he ultimately fails to deliver on, including the much ballyhooed nude swimming scene where Marian catches an eyeful of the naked Robin bathing. This would seem a given for Costner who bared quite a bit in the prior year's Oscar winner Dances With Wolves, but he opts to bestow this moment on a stand-in. So one honestly wonders how much better the film would have been with a British actor (or an American actor who could better simulate a Brit accent) who could deliver on all the requirements.

That said, the film succeeds despite the faults of its lead. It is a rousing and entertaining spectacle. Certainly the last Robin Hood film worth its salt that actually reminded us of why this legend was worthy of mythic status.

Robin Hood is one of the most oft-filmed cinematic subjects on record. So if one plans to do it again, the end results better be either a load of fun or have a new approach. This somber entry into the pantheon by director Ridley Scott is decidedly NOT a load of fun, but it definitely does have a new view. One that renders it fairly pointless, as I will discuss below.

The story centers on Russell Crowe's Robin Longstride, who with his compatriots stumbles across the dying Robin of Locksley (the real "Robin Hood" of legend). In an act of charity, he agrees to return the man's sword to his father (Max Von Sydow). Once there, he gets roped into pretending to be Robin of Locksley to aid Von Sydow and the dead man's widow Cate Blanchett due to political and economic issues. In the background, there is a lot of murky political maneuvering with a confidante (Mark Strong) of the callow Prince John (Oscar Isaac) acting as a double agent and provocateur to foment a French invasion. The ultimate goal seems to be whether Crowe's Robin can rally the citizens and his men to defend England and Prince John against the invasion, when they really do not serve defending.

While the production is solid, the screenplay is obtuse and often times needlessly dense. There are a ton of supporting characters and the film does a poor job of differentiating them. Robin's band are immensely forgettable and the casting director should have been replaced, because too many of the political players sound alike and resemble each other to such a degree that they blend together. Except for William Hurt who, for some unknown reason, is cast as a British politician, but who never attempts a British accent and seems to be wandering through the film in search of his paycheck.

Crowe is solid, if a bit dull as Robin. He is also a bit long in tooth for the part. Strong trots out his trademark scowl, but little else. Isaac seems more bratty than menacing as Prince John. Best performances come courtesy of Von Sydow, who is both appealing and convincing (and should have been in a better film), and Blanchett, who balances Marian's restraint with some wry wit. The final battle is noisy and confusing.

What makes the film pointless is that it gives us no reason why it should even be part of the Robin Hood canon as opposed to just being about new characters. It keeps some of the names, but very little about the legend itself. This counterfeit Robin never gets into robbing from the rich and giving to the poor - the whole point of the character. Matthew MacFadyen's Sheriff of Nottingham is barely a cameo part with nothing to do. In fact, the film ends before any of the elements of the legend even come in to play. It is akin to going to see a film about "James Bond" only to find out that it is not really about "James Bond", but about a plumber going about his life doing things that have nothing to do with "James Bond", and then at the end we get a blurb telling us that after the conclusion the man went on to become "James Bond". It may be true that this fake Robin went on to become the Robin Hood of legend, but Scott and company give us no evidence to believe this and fail to tell that story at all.

Horror films were a dime a dozen in the late 70s/early 80s and most of them got at least a brief stint at the local cinema. If you fail to remember The Unseen - a rather prophetic title - that is because despite its cast and good production values I am fairly certain that it went straight to video at a time when pretty much everything got some cinema play. And that should tell you something.

Reporter Barbara Bach, her sister Karen Lamm and friend Lois Young are sent to cover a completely uninteresting festival in a small California town. With all the local motels filled, the women accept an invitation to stay at the family farm of museum worker Sydney Lassick and wife Lelia Goldoni. Of course, something frightening lurks in the basement to menace the nubile guests.

Nary a cliche is left out in this unsuspenseful mess. You have your three dim-witted babes ripe for the stalking, the isolated home that is big enough to house unknown terrors, the seemingly helpful nervous guy, his surly wife, a back story of familial abuse and incest, and so on. It is hard to believe that any news association would send reporters out into the field without appropriate accommodations, or that the staff would be three curvaceous women.

The film actually looks pretty good production wise and at least two of the suspense scenes are fairly well choreographed keeping the cause of terror relatively hidden. There is, of course, a reason for this. Once the climax lets us in on what the horror in the basement is, to say it is a letdown would be an understatement. Given that one of the terror's talents is creeping in and out of rooms using smallish vents for access, its revelation makes such a thing highly unlikely. Plus, given that Lassick and Goldoni are ostensibly desperate to keep the secret in the basement under wraps, it makes no sense that Lassick would openly invite strangers into the mix.

Lassick, a character actor specializing in morally challenged roles, does more of the same here. He seems nervous and sweaty right from the start, which makes the women's near immediate acceptance of his hospitality a bit unconvincing. He and Goldoni both overact to the heavens here - and the sequences where they recall past abuses are particularly cringe-worthy. Fall Guy alum Doug Barr is on hand for no discernible reason as Bach's boyfriend with a bum knee, who shows up later on to accomplish nothing. Lamm is not bad as Bach's sister, but Young's role is fairly thankless. She gets to show up, claim she is not feeling well so that she gets to separate from the other women and make herself a target at the farm, don one of those flowing nightgowns and then get killed in a tasteless montage mixed with a sequence of Goldoni beheading a live chicken. Oh, and she gets to have Lassick perve at her full frontal nudity through a keyhole while she bathes. I truly do not mind obvious titillation scenes being thrown in for the men, but a level playing field would be nice. Could someone direct me to the scene where a hot naked guy gets this attention? I mean how about a sequence where Barr gets ogled full frontally naked through a keyhole. Just saying! Ostensible lead Bach basically has nothing to do but be clueless that anything is going on for the duration and then scream hysterically during the laughable climactic moments. Which all seems a come down considering a few years earlier she was one of the more memorable Bond women.

All in all, I definitely saw worse in the 80s, but there is nothing that compels one to seek to this out. Gore hounds will be disappointed, people looking for genuine jolts will be bored, and viewers seeking out quality filmmaking will definitely want to look elsewhere.

With critics and film afficionados inventing new superlatives to describe it, I really want to love this film. Cinema needed a new entry in gay romance that could take its place alongside Brokeback Mountain. Alas, this is not it.

Set in the 1980s, the story centers on the summer love affair that develops between 17-year-old Elio (Timothee Chalamet) and visiting grad student Oliver (Armie Hammer), who shows up to assist Elio's professor dad at their idyllic Italian villa. The film touches on all the pitfalls and heightened emotions of first love between two erudite and well-spoken guys. The parents are present throughout, but pretty much leave Elio to his own devices, to write his music, read and fantasize.

The film largely has two things going for it. First is the beautiful photography. Everything looks lush and intoxicating - the villa, the quaint Italian villages, and gorgeous scenery. Second is Chalamet's lead performance. He disappears into the role of Elio - never for one moment do we not believe that this is who he is. The intelligence, the emotion, all are genuine. Although not a fan of the film, I think this performance is easily better than Gary Oldman's bring-out-the-latex Winston Churchill that took the Best Actor award this year. It will be interesting to see if Chalamet can maintain the acting momentum in his next roles.

That said, the film is well over two hours and does not merit that length by a long shot. As beautiful as the scenery can be, director Luca Guadagnino spends absurd amounts of time focusing endlessly on fountains and streets and trees to the point where one wants to shout at the screen to get on with it already. While establishing the scene is important, a little less of Elio's parents and visitors having long-winded philosophical conversations to hammer home the point that we are walking among brilliant, high-minded individuals would also have been welcome. It truly seems forever for the leads to acknowledge their attraction and act on it, and that is the crux of the film.

A big failure is that every great love story needs chemistry. As terrific as Chalamet is in bringing his character to life on screen, he cannot generate any chemistry with co-star Hammer. In my mind, Hammer suffers from something I tend to call "The Idris Elba Syndrome" in that everyone keeps stressing what a fantastic and charismatic performer he is and I really want to like him, but I find him more often than not stiff and uninvolving. Here is no exception. I give him credit for taking on what is apparently still a stigma of playing a gay role, but there is not an ounce of chemistry with Chalamet. While physically Hammer fits the bill of the glamorous movie star-like American visitor (I keep waiting for him to reach under the table and bring up a box of toothpaste to shill) that is about all he brings here. He looks a bit long in tooth to be a 25-year-old grad student. He keeps referring to working on papers and is given a moment to wow us with his intellect wherein he corrects Elio's dad on something - but the dialogue seems unbelievable coming out of his mouth. He captivates all the young women in town who gaze at him adoringly on the dance floor and discuss his prowess as a dancer - another laughable moment since Hammer looks more like someone suffering palsy than dancing. Worst of all, in the romantic moments, he is stiff, stiff, stiff. We know ahead of time that Oliver and Elio will eventually part at the end of summer, but we should not already be acknowledging that Elio can do better.

Another problem is how staid the film is given its purported bona fides as being an "erotic" tale of first love. The much-ballyhooed notorious peach scene seems more American Pie-ish than erotic. When Elio and Oliver finally have their first love scene, the camera moves from the still partially clothes actors to a minute-and-a-half stationary shot of a tree outside the window. Really? If the actors and/or the director were this timid, why not just fade to black rather than have a lengthy shot of a tree? If any film called out for some degree of nudity, it is this one, but all we get is brief or blink-and-you'll miss it shots. Chalamet briefly bares his rear walking into the bathroom to change. You would need a bionic eye to catch a split second shot of Hammer pulling up his bathing trunks, while his only other revealing scene takes place in such darkness by a window that it could be Kate Smith standing there. Ironically, we get more skin from a topless supporting actress in a tete-a-tete with Elio. The male nudity in this film could easily have passed unedited in a PG-rated film - I am pretty sure Cops and Robbersons had more lengthy nudity. Producer/writer James Ivory complained to the press about the timidity of American actors and their refusal to do frontal or casual nude scenes when the material called for it - and he has a point here. Perhaps at least Hammer's role should have gone to a European actor that could assimilate an American accent. As it stands, instead of eroticism, we get a rather staid and dull series of coyly filmed encounters - and let's not forget that tree!

By the end, I was struggling to stay awake and actually was mentally urging Elio and Oliver to part. Michael Stuhlbarg as Elio's dad gets an inspiring speech at the end, but you may well have wished the film ended a good thirty minutes previously. I am all for further explorations into gay romance and look forward to them, but I certainly hope that they are more successful than Call Me By Your Name. Perhaps in another 10-20 years someone will remake this effort with a bit of a pulse. It would be hard to better Chalamet, but the inclusion of a mannequin in Hammer's role may be an improvement. I know people love this film, but this was a really sad miss for me.

Any movie buff alive in 1982 will probably remember the critical lambasting directed at the big screen adaptation of the popular Tony-winning Broadway musical Annie. But watching it with an unjaundiced eye, it is difficult to understand the hatred then or now.

Based on the long-running Little Orphan Annie comics and the acclaimed Broadway hit, Annie keeps the same narrative beats as its predecessors. Curly-haired carrot top Annie is a 10-year-old orphan in Depression-era New York City, whose upbeat attitude and refusal to be cowed by the obstacles thrown at her makes her a thorn in the side of boozy dictatorial orphanage matron Miss Hannigan. By luck, Annie is offered the chance to temporarily reside at the palatial estate of billionaire Oliver Warbucks, and she proceeds to melt the heart of Warbucks and his staff, while Miss Hannigan, her devious brother Rooster and his floozy Lily hatch a scheme to cash in.

It is hard to see where all the carping comes from. The film retains all of the favorite songs and numbers from the stage hit, while getting rid of dead wood like "Hooverville" and adding a few of new songs that fit right in (i.e., Sandy, Dumb Dog, etc.). Director John Huston opens up the film so that it never feels like a filmed stage play, which is usually the main complaint of people in Broadway to film translations. He nicely captures the tone and spirit of the Depression-era NYC. If the number celebrating "NYC" is missing, it is more than made up for with "Let's Go to the Movies", where Annie experiences her first movie-going experience at the lavish Radio City Music Hall where period-garbed Rockettes kick with abandon. I would say that the clips of Garbo's Camille could have been cut in this segment, although it would defeat the last sight gag. Ironically, everyone had the knives out early on for Huston, claiming he was an inappropriate choice for director. I would argue that Huston is infinitely more successful here in crafting joyous musical interludes as opposed to the dead air that "acclaimed" director Clint Eastwood perpetrated in Jersey Boys.

I would also venture to say that Huston's use of his lavish budget is present everywhere and used to great effect, particularly in the film's second half, which concludes with an exciting rescue that avoids the ho-hum effect that impacted the stage version's problematic second act. And while the visit with FDR and Eleanor Roosevelt, with everyone singing on "Tomorrow" may seem hokey, it was no more so than in the show, and there are many highlights to counteract that saccharine bit. "You're Never Fully Dressed Without a Smile" featuring the orphans is a lovely bit and both "I Think I'm Gonna Like It Here", "It's a Hard Knock Life" and "Little Girls" are all showstoppers.

Aileen Quinn nicely anchors everything as an appealing Annie (although I daresay some of the other orphan girls give her a run for her money in the talent department). Carol Burnett hams it up with abandon in a scene-stealing turn as the chronically inebriated Miss Hannigan. Albert Finney walks the tightrope between stern and warm as Daddy Warbucks. Tim Curry and Bernadette Peters are a memorable Rooster and Lily (their Easy Street is also a highlight), while Ann Reinking is a delight as Warbucks' secretary Grace Farrell.

Ironically, for a film declared a misfire by so many critics, I have not come across any musical fan or child who does not get caught up in its effervescent joy. Definitely a film to watch to chase away the blues and instill some hope. Steer clear of the woebegone modern remake with Jamie Foxx, whose sole saving grace was watching the same critics who trashed this film suddenly develop amnesia by pretending they originally liked it and the remake was so bad.

NBC and Fox seem to be leading the way with broadcasting live musical events and the results can be hit or miss. For every success like The Wiz, there is a misfire like The Sound of Music (is there any way to remove the horrid miscasting of Carrie Underwood in that debacle from our collective memories?). Shortly prior to the broadcast of Hairspray Live!, Fox completely stumbled with a dunderheaded effort of The Rocky Horror Show. Mercifully, Hairspray barely edges out The Wiz as a prime example of when things come together nicely.

By now most people know the story of the hit stage play and film focusing on chubby 1960s Baltimore-based teen Tracy Turnblad, whose dream of dancing on The Corny Collins Show, winning the heart of hottie Link Larkin, and championing the cause of integration for African-Americans, while taking on white Barbie nemesis Amber von Tussel and her monstrous mama Velma, producer of the very show that Tracy hopes to conquer.

The story is fun, the music by and large is bright and lively, and the production numbers veer between both personal and lavish. NBC does a creditable job of mounting a mammoth and rousing production. Although I am uncertain why they chose to omit the very funny production number The Big Dollhouse.

If there are any stumbles it comes in some quibbles in the casting. Maddie Baillio is an energetic Tracy and holds the center of the show together, but she is probably the least impressive singer/dancer of the Tracys that I have. Baillio's singing seems to take on a breathy air when notes become too strenuous for her - which is a bit too often. She does a lot of vocal straining here. Ditto, her dancing is mediocre at best, so when everyone in the cast keeps harping on what a great dancer she is, they come off a tad delusional.

Stage legend Harvey Fierstein returns to play Tracy's mom Edna, a rotund introvert forced out of the house by Tracy's popularity. I missed Fierstein on stage, but seeing him here I actually prefer John Travolta's more vulnerable take on the role in the film. Fierstein is amusing, but he cannot sing...at all. The majority of the lyrics to the songs are garbled by his trademark gravelly voice (let's be honest, Carol Channing has a gravelly voice, but she knows how to use it for effect and does not garble lyrics!) to the point where one feels like they are straining to make heads or tails of what he is saying. By contrast, Martin Short is a delight as the eternally upbeat Wilbur Turnblad.

Of the supporting cast, Garrett Clayton is a bit too bland and Ken Doll-ish as Link. Derek Hough is surprisingly strong as Corny Collins. Both Kristin Chenoweth and Dove Cameron hit all the right notes, both acting and singing-wise as the villainous Von Tussels. Cameos by performers as Rosie O'Donnell, Sean Hayes, and Ricki Lake actually seem pretty pointless.

The film's biggest misfire in my mind is the miscasting of Jennifer Hudson in the pivotal role of Motormouth Maybelle. Hudson sings well, but she is not much of an actress (fluke Oscar win included). One could best describe her efforts here as pleasant, but nothing disguises that she is all wrong for this part. Motormouth Maybelle is written as (and previously been played as) an older woman with weight issues. Watching the youthful and skinny Hudson sashay into the room, one is puzzled when she sings a song to Edna about how she has accepted her own "extra large largesse," because Hudson does not currently share any of these elements. One could get away with casting Queen Latifah in the part. One could even imagine the thrill of seeing an Aretha Franklin or Patti LaBelle play the role. But Hudson is completely wrong.

Still, for these quibbles, at the end of the day, this production largely succeeds because it is such a blast of good spirits and its message of fighting for a good cause and racial harmony seems more timely than ever in the Era of Trump Supporters.

I have been a fan of a number of efforts from the Coen Brothers. Truthfully, even when they miss the mark, I am still able to find something worthwhile in the effort. The Big Lebowski is the exception to that rule. I originally saw it in theaters, where it played for an eyeblink and received mixed reviews. It was one of the few films my family has ever walked out on. I caught it later on cable and watched it to the end to see if I missed anything worthwhile, since it had inexplicably developed a cult following. The answer was a resounding no.

In what can complimentary be deemed a plot, the action centers on a zoned out bowler nicknamed The Dude, who somehow is mistaken for the title billionaire and gets pulled into what must be the most ill-conceived kidnapping plot in the history of cinema.

The ludicrous nature of the action would seem to recommend it to comedy, but the film is devoid of laughs. Unless the idea of a young woman's body parts being sent via mail is especially funny to you. The film introduces one needless and ostentatiously bizarre character after another in order to drum up some semblance of entertainment, but since none of them are important to the "plot" and have nothing of comical worth to contribute, it all seems a huge waste.

The dialogue is basically thinking up new ways to drop the f-bomb every 10 seconds. What passes for comedy is having the avuncular narrator (Sam Elliott) actually stop the proceedings at the midway point to good-naturedly ask The Dude why he has to to use such chronic foul language, to which The Dude responds with another f-bomb. How meta! How coy! And to rouse viewers lulled into a stupor, there are occasionally pointless unrelated fantasy sequences.

Julianne Moore shows up to no avail, speaking in some wacko old-Hollywood actress rhythm (think Jennifer Jason Leigh in The Hudsucker Proxy). But whereas Leigh's impersonation had a legitimate reason to be, Moore's quite simply does not. Jeff Bridges can be an amazing actor and has contributed some wonderful cinematic contributions. This is not one of them. It seems incomprehensible that a following has cropped up around this character, because The Dude is little more than a cipher. The Dude is a completely passive non-entity, who spends the duration in a zoned out state. He seems to have nary an opinion on anything and it is inconceivable that anyone could mistake him for the title character, much less a sentient being at all. The plot careens him from one improbable and unfunny set-up to another eliciting little in the way of energy or emotion from him. He is just not remotely interesting here.

The only appealing or likable characters in the film are Elliott's narrator and Steve Buscemi, as a perpetually sunny and helpful fellow bowler. Alas, Buscemi is basically here to be bullied, brutalized, cursed at, and finally die. If most of the cast is awash in unlikable and appalling characters, the worst by far is John Goodman. The normally reliable Goodman is so over-the-top that his every moment on screen is like fingernails down a chalkboard. He plays The Dude's "best friend", a completely incompetent bully who inserts himself into everything to the detriment of all involved. He drops the f-bomb as much as The Dude and treats everyone around him with loud-mouthed contempt. He is an illiterate, detestable, brutish bore and the performance desecrates the screen, yet the filmmakers actually seem to think his antics are a riot. The film is pretty awful without Goodman's godawful work, but with his participation it descends even further into cinematic hell.

I cannot think of anything to say complimentary about the film and the fact that this abomination was vomited forth by otherwise talented filmmakers seems inexcusable.

Anthony Hopkins and Emma Thompson are two thespians who could arguably make reading the telephone book into a vivid experience, but even their copious talents are sorely tested with this pointless drawing room melodrama of manners. The Remains of the Day is yet another in a seemingly endless parade of staid British interior decorating historical dramas that propagated during the 1980s-1990s from the Merchant-Ivory stable. When the concept worked, one had solid films like Howard's End or A Room With a View. When it failed, you got The Remains of the Day.

Set circa WW2, stiff, rule-bound butler Hopkins finds his narrow worldview challenged by the arrival of sunny head housekeeper Thompson, who is not afraid to lock horns with him in his British manor domain. The relationship ostensibly moves from friction to grudging respect to something much deeper.

There are a number of problems that plague The Remains of the Day that hinder the enjoyment of it, despite the best efforts of its leads. Despite being sprinkled with some notable performers, the supporting cast is shamefully underused and forgettable. Everyone seems to have been directed to underact to the point of catatonia. Even Thompson, playing a somewhat more vibrant character than her cast members, seems unduly restrained here.

The pace can generously be described as sluggish. This is made worse in that most modern audiences will not understand or relate to servants who give up all hope of lives for themselves in order to live vicariously through buffoonish upper crust snobs. Nothing brings this home more so than the ludicrous sequence wherein Hopkins refuses to present at the side of his father's deathbed so that he can ostensibly serve drinks to the Nazi-sympathizing lord of the manor (played on one strident note by James Fox). This episode may well be historically accurate, but it seems a foolish move to a modern viewer and fails to endear the lead character, whose emotions are often so repressed throughout the film as to make him seem robotic.

Worse, there is no character arc here. We open the film with Hopkins strait-jacketed into his role as an unbending, unemotional servant. There are moments throughout where he has some obvious interior struggle, especially with the arrival of Thompson, but he never breaks through this facade. When Thompson's character resigns from the manor in protest, we again think that there will be some forward momentum for Hopkins's butler, but again he fails to change. At the climax, we are again led to believe that Hopkins may break free of these now self-imposed bonds of behavior and social class mores, when American Christopher Reeve buys the manor and encourages him to take his first ever vacation. Hopkins does so only grudgingly and seeks out Thompson, ostensibly to convey his unrequited feelings, but yet again fails to do so. In fairness, Hopkins plays the role to the hilt, but nothing can disguise that he is playing a dull man. This character changes nary a jot throughout the film; he is the same rigid, hopeless creation at the end as he is at the start. With no emotional investment or character arc, the most we can summon is some minor pity. Although truthfully one may well also wonder why so much time (and this film does seem glacially long) should be wasted on such an intractable and uninteresting man.

Just in case we have not gotten the "message" of the film (such as it is), it concludes with a laughably heavy-handed segment where Hopkins stares frozen and slack-jawed at a pigeon that has gotten into the manor and seems trapped there. Get it! The pigeon is like him! Trapped in the manor and unable to free itself! This is for all the slow learners that did not get what was hammered home for the lengthy running time preceding this moment. Critics and Oscar voters, of course, love pretentious twaddle like this and could not resist raining down kudos, but it does little more than serve as proof that film elites really like boring British dramas set in tastefully decorated manor houses.

A film by the Coen Brothers is always worth checking out, but contrary to their reputation they can either achieve cinematic brilliance (Fargo, Blood Simple, No Country for Old Men) or excruciating lows (Intolerable Cruelty, The Big Lebowski, O Brother Where Art Thou), and a number of in-betweens. Hail, Caesar is definitely not one of their crowning achievements.

The story is set in the heyday of the big Hollywood film studios and centers on studio "fixer" wheeler-dealer Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin) detailing the various fires he must put out in order to keep production rolling on some the studios future hits. Aside from the usual, Mannix must contend with the ostensible kidnapping of the studio's most popular leading man (George Clooney) from the set of a Ben-Hur style biblical epic by a cabal of Communists and ward off the machinations of twin sister gossip columnists (Tilda Swinton) on the trail of big scandals.

The film should be a lot of fun. Unfortunately, it missteps entirely too often and has huge dead spots. The obvious problems with the film hit the viewer pretty quickly. Eddie Mannix was actually a real figure, but the sanitized do-gooder that we see here bears no resemblance to the real thing. Brolin is an amazingly talented actor, but here he is forced to play everything straight as the film's purported anchor, which ends up making Eddie more than a bit of a drag in the central role. In fact, Brolin/Eddie is so stiff here as to be painful.

Worse, the only time the film comes to glorious life and gives us an idea of what a success it could have been, is when it recreates in cheeky fashion some of the set pieces from yesteryear Hollywood. Alas, these moments are too few and far between, as the film gets bogged down in the tedious and criminally unfunny kidnapping plot, which takes up too much screen time and is never as amusing or subversive as the filmmakers believe. Every time we detour to Clooney and his kidnappers, you can almost hear the sigh of frustration from the audience.

An amazing cast has been compiled for the film, but a number of them are wasted. Blink and you may well miss Frances McDormand as a daffy editor or Jonah Hill as a professional patsy. Scarlett Johansson gets a nice homage to Esther Williams spectacles and shines briefly as a tough-talking actress, but is underused. Ditto, Channing Tatum, who dazzles with a Gene Kelly-esque sailor dance routine before being utterly wasted. Clooney hams it up nicely, but he is saddled with the film's worst subplot which pretty much hogties his performance. If there is a standout, it is newcomer Alden Ehrenreich as a Gene Autry-type singing cowboy. Ehrenreich seems to be one of the few acting like he is in a comedy and is perfectly believable as the nice guy rube. Some of the film's few highlights are courtesy of him being forced to step in as a last minute replacement as lead in a British comedy of manners. His miscasting is hilarious and sets off director Ralph Fiennes into spasms of apoplexy.

Alas, the misses far outnumber the hits. The tiresome kidnapping plot that dominates the screen time is ultimately pointless. Between the respectable recreations of old-style Hollywood splendor set pieces, most viewers will be checking their watch. The film is episodic and haphazard - it also needs a decent editor to remove what bits simply do not work. The whole thing culminates into a disappointing viewing experience.

I am really not a fan of the modern sitcom - especially the "family" sitcom. A genre of which Everybody Loves Raymond is a prime example. The formula seems to go somewhere along the lines of find a comedic actor/actress, plop them down in suburbia, give them a few (usually three) interchangeable charmless children, and surround them with colorful family members/friends whose wackiness drives to distraction and viola! instant success.

Everybody Loves Raymond centers on Droopy Dawg-faced Ray Romano as Ray Barone, an Italian-American sadsack semi-happily married to Patricia Heaton and stuck living on the same street as his overbearing family, including dad Peter Boyle, mom Doris Roberts and brother Brad Garrett.

The show does have things going for it. Scratch that - the show has one thing going for it. The trio of supporting performances from Boyle, Roberts and Garrett. These three seem to be the only ones to be aware that they are in a "comedy", are expected to be funny, and rise above the limitations of the mediocre scripts to attempt something better. Garrett looks like he could conceivably be Romano's brother and gives the kind of performance that Romano should be contributing in the lead role. Boyle and Roberts are fun together and playing off the others as well. Roberts, particularly, is good in scenes as the mother-in-law from hell to Heaton's colorless daughter-in-law.

The actors playing the children are instantly forgettable - in fact, the kids are used so sparingly and without thought that they could vanish from the show and no one would notice (or care).

Unfortunately, the show is cursed with leads that are challenged. Romano literally seems to have one facial expression and a voice that could put caffeine into a coma. Listening to his chronic affectless delivery is downright disconcerting enough, but someone should have pulled him aside early on and explained that there is a huge difference between deadpan and deadly dull. Literally, Raymond is almost completely devoid of charisma or personality. The show is truly centered around a lackluster droning sadsack.

Yet oddly, Romano still manages to come off better than his on screen wife. Given that this is a modern comedy, it seems to be the new thing that actresses playing wives/mothers in sitcoms are simply not expected to be or allowed to be funny. The days of Lucille Ball in I Love Lucy, Audrey Meadows in The Honeymooners and Mary Tyler Moore in The Dick Van Dyke Show, where comedic actresses were allowed to be as equally funny as their male counterparts are apparently dead. Heaton gets to play the now all-too-common role of the wife/mother, who is not allowed to be funny because she is too busy acting responsible and being the professional scold. Her entire role is to react to those around her. Ostensibly she is the straight man - if being a straight man required you to be criminally unfunny and annoying. Alas for Heaton, there are too many examples of great straight men/women who manage to be funny in their own right to function as an excuse for what she is doing here. Think Margaret Dumont in the Marx Brothers epics or, more recently, Jane Curtin in Third Rock from the Sun. Heaton's delivery sounds chronically forced and delivered in that mock-acting tone/volume that all too often characterizes bad TV comedies. She is almost diabolically unfunny and actually manages to drain the life from some of her better cast members when sharing a scene. She is such an irritant that we can easily fathom why Ray is such a sadsack and why his family seems to have ambivalent feelings about her below the surface. Failing as both a comedic actress and even a functional straight woman, Heaton manages to be a black hole at the center of this show, often throwing the dull leading man off, and hobbling it from attaining any heights of amusement. Purportedly Heaton did not get along with her co-stars and, if true, it certainly shows on screen. However, that can certainly not be the sole excuse for the kind of crummy acting exhibited by her here, since she has been equally lousy in her subsequent mercifully short-lived comedic pairing with Kelsey Grammar in a show whose title I cannot even remember and in the somehow still-currently-running The Middle.

So I must say that while there are times that I may love Peter Boyle, Brad Garrett and especially Doris Roberts on this show, I most definitely do not love Ray Romano and I think the dreadful Heaton makes Larry the Cable Guy resemble great comic art.