deadbull-95171

Samuel Jackson has a way of dominating every scene he's in, if not the entire movie, and Lakeview Terrace is a case in point. This movie trots out almost every stereoptype known on "black/white" rascism, reverse rascism, multicultural and sexual rascism, and any other category is inferred. So, Jackson is planted firmly in his wheelhouse as one of the funniest, most outspoken, most attitudinal, and smartest actors dealing with this topic. He revels in portraying angry racial archetypes. This act has made him one of the hottest properties in movies, and these extreme alpha postures have made me a fan too. The movie speaks for itself. It's supposed to be outrageous but I can't picture anyone naive enough to even react to anything except the implicit comedy. If there's anything to question it's the man's actual feelings and thoughts in these matters. When you take a brilliant guy, extremely successful and rich, worldly, highly respected and sophisticated, you might think, well such a person is too sophisticated to really entertain the attitudes he usually, but not always, so blatantly as this , portrays. But you could invert the same argument with equal justification: How could a guy with this level of intelligence, sophistication in the way things work, NOT be genuinely and blatantly rascist? Both arguments hold water, to me anyhow. The interesting thing is, that as an actor, he plays with all these notions and he's good enough at it, that his performance is usually riveting and provocative, as sly as it is bold. It's not a great movie, but it's got Sam Jackson, so it's definitely worth checking out, and I have my own opinion on where he's actually at.

Miguel Ferrer has the chops to run away with Night Flier, playing a cynical bitter s.o.b. Whose been around the block too many times. I've liked him since the first RoboCop. He's got attitude big time. His collaboration as a drummer with the late great Keith Moon makes sense; the guy has rock 'n roll. Stephen King adaptations are very hit or miss and this one is a very definite hit. Too often King's stuff is softened when it gets adapted, or the other way around, like changing Walt Disney's Old Yeller to become horror. Not this time. It's creepy and strange and has a "vibe"; A fresh old school style chapter in the vampire book, but like Nick Cage in Renfield, it's really a one man showcase for Ferrer, who keeps this thing interesting and always moving forward. You might find yourself going back to it a few times when nothing seems to be a good watch. It's solid, and very entertaining.

It's widely panned. I see the point. I think this one's best enjoyed, and that can be done, by not thinking about it and going with it's goopy emotional interior: Boy meets Girl, Boy loses girl for 15 years, Girl searches for and finds boy, the longed for reunion occurs, Boy is shot and drops dead.

This simple business is so shrouded in a bizarre and busy plot that it's best viewed with all neocortical activity shut down. But the thing is, there are some wickedly smart bits floating around in the soup. Oscar, "O", and Peaches, become child-lovers while waiting for the "fated" reunion with Loux. They both grow into criminal androgynes. Both are crudely manipulated by their twisted, deeply jealous and covertly sadistic boss, "Birdie", who has a thing going with "Peaches", a woman he's got fifty tears on, and so wants to rip these two apart.

Then there's the bit with "Sway", Mark Boone Junior, my favorite player in this, the Faginesque character who makes open reference to Oliver Twist, as though that situation wasn't obvious enough, and who is chomping heart pills like M&M's for his arrhythmia, who finally gets his guts blown out with a 12 gauge by a manipulated Peaches, because of "His heart problems, it's too big."

A note on these obvious literary references: Dicken's, Romeo & Juliet, Frankenstein, (The Michael Pitt creation) and to me most strongly, You Can't Go Home Again, is that they are more or less obvious and awkwardly sutured together, Frankenstein stuff, in this Frankenstein of a movie.

These touches are just built in and not a big deal is made of them. So the movie is devious, just like the characters, and that interested me. The smartest bits in the movie are right out there, but so little is made of them as the main story line trudges on, little subconcious bombs, that occurred to me later. And these are actually the best parts of the movie. Then, the players chosen are an interesting crew to be sure. It's aways nice to see William Forsythe again, this time playing a strict dad. If there was ever a natural born bad guy, it's him. And it was nice to see that he's put back every pound of the weight he made such a point of losing for much of his career. He looks like himself again for the first time in 30 years.

I agree with the crowd that the movie is a mess. But....it's "shot with sugar, through and through."

It's a classy movie with a bookish feel. It must have been a good book. And if there's any weakness here, I suppose that's it. Re: adaptation; Some plays and books clear the bar with room to spare and this one catches its toes. Everything in the production and actors' delivery is too right, too tight, too pat.

The adaptation is self-consciously literary, and that makes this adaptation feel boxed in, narrative. But Tommy Lee, an old lit major, grounds things with ease. He can't take back the talent he put out there with McCarthy's 'The Sunset Limited.' Plus, he's just made to play cops (people in dominant authority) with troubled minds. John Goodman is less robust than usual; He's separated from his role by the design frame he's in. The bursting exhuberance and joy just isn't there for this show. So I considered what killed it.

Still, it's a fine movie, and this sense of things, this smothering, if I'm accurate, doesn't detract so much, as make the whole movie operate in a vague mist. It's a better watch than the "usual" fare, and the only shortcoming is that the movie just misses its own mark. It could have been edgier, but its conception is too controlled. It settled for "classy" instead. Goodman's performance is the most obvious symptom.

He looks like a low budget clone of Philip Seymour Hoffman (Think Love Liza) but there's nothing low budget in this performance. Everything about this film surprised me in a good way. I like these broke desperate loser movies; men in the throes of extreme financial distress. Is there anything else that really can disturb a dude to the core? Guys like that come up with special moves and that's what going on here. It's a sort of tradgedy of errors after our hero decides the best course of action is to kidnap the infant son of his employer, a vicious drug dealer. Things go from bad to wretched to comically hideous.....and it's all served up straight. I recommend seeing this and then 'Cash Only' for desert. Your credit card balance will seem less ominous after that program.

I really like this movie for the corniest reasons. It seems very honest and courageous and touching. I liked the young Burt Reynolds with his brash and funny style, but there's nothing about Smoky, or the guy from Deliverance that prepares you for the performance here.

If a mark of good acting is that it dosen't seem like acting, then Burt has never done anything better. It has a good story line. But what gets me is how in the end, whatever that is, being old, being young, all of the concerns that we all experience at any age, put us all under the same umbrella. We all have something to say to each other if we can get past all the BS and allow ourselves to be open once in awhile. We're all going to die, some sooner some later, and we're all at some point on the identical continuum. I hate it when I try to be philosophic , it always sounds like some drippy hippie gibberish. But anyway, Burt does a great job here, whether he's acting or just being exactly who he is, and it doesn't really matter. He's just so vulnerable and open and honest, way past being able to kid himself and no interest in lying to anyone either. Along the way in this story he just finds himself opening up to the love around him, which doesn't need to come from some high profile prestige source. Love is love at any age, always in season. Ten stars.

This is as advertised. That's the great thing about Gerard Butler movies. They live up to expection. This is very much like Rambo in the Jungle, getting a load of passengers to safety, but this time on a crippled passenger jet. It's a surprise how something so formulaic and derivative can be so tense and attention grabbing. It's Gerard andMike Colter that keep things revved up and continually escalating. Spare editing cuts out all the fluff and gives it a modern docu feel. Good action movie. I need another one hundred and four "characters to get this review off the ground, now just twenty too, and...rotate.

I couldn't make it through the whole thing. I knew in the first 2 minutes, less actually, that would happen. When a screen goes black and you hear a violin, and you are left to wait with bated breath for whatever fascinating image will be revealed to you in slo-mo, it's a very bad sign. When this image was a slow closeup of a woman's back in a florid rococo gown, jumping off a precipice in slow motion, any lingering doubt ended. "If there's any doubt, then there's no doubt". I jumped around for another minute, doing a biopsy of this thing. Every image was like some hideous combination of Flaubert, Baudelaire, "Madama Butterfly", with a hideous dose of "Black Swan" thrown in for good luck. I already knew the story, a combination of "Short Eyes" and "Frankenstein", so it's not like I need a reprisal of those topics.

Every image was calculated to overwhelm you with the "gorgeousness" of the photography, every lousy second. All that in service of a grotequely dressed up, squalid and boring story about abuse. Some call this cheap shot approach mastery. I like stuff lean and mean and to the point, not jumping into a swimming pool of molasses with violins playing. Polanski is a tremendous artist, so's Scorcese. They impress with great camera work. But it's dynamic. This is just mush.

If your head's in the right place, this is fabulous. Otherwise about all you can do is gawk at Mathilda May, who's body is strategically deployed, stark naked, all over the place. Those fabled appearances, the Vampire Lady Godiva, keep you watching, in a coma, until your next hypnic jerk when she appears.

I am one of those that got off on this. My head was definately in the right place in 1985. Now I'm more aware of the astonishing acting and amazing lines. "And if that fails, sterilization by thermonuclear device has been approved", something like that. Patrick Stewart does a turn here, the "kiss" scene and the deal where, cross-eyed, he vomits a few gravity-defying gallons of blood, that I'd guess still give him insomnia thinking about 40 years later, and with Steve Railsback derailing and getting more wildly frenetic every minute, the stuff these actors are being asked to do, or are not being asked to do, is enough to keep your eyes wide open without even considering the astonishing story line. What could possibly be coming next? What'll top that? Just you wait and see!

This story line has to be unique in motion pictures. I have the arrogance to presume to imagine I see the thread holding it together. But this thread has to be seen to be believed. I won't try to describe it. There's no need anyway, as the greatest scholars on this website have all tried their hand at it, and all of them shed some light on the bedazzling situation.

I'm also a fan of the beautiful mess "Big Trouble in Little China".

But that had some coherence and artistry and this is just outrageous. A locomotive moving at high speed, moving towards complete derailment yet incredibly accelerating, right into your astonished face. As funny as it is, it was designed to be taken with the utmost seriousness.

10 stars.

It's harder to comment on uncomplicated things. Ironweeds comes and goes and doesn't seem to have a beginning or end. The camera catches a time segment of a process. The terrific Nicholson and Streep play unabashed bums living in post depression Albany. Nicholson; Fran, tortured by his ghosts, has options; he has a home to return to, but he has to keep punishing himself, and opts for the miseries, freedoms, brutality, comraderies; and the agonized poetry of penury and hobo jungles. Streep is his on/off lover of nine years, a once concert pianist that hit the skids long ago. There's something very gentle at the center of them both. Their poverty and alcoholism has burned them to simplicity, and the appreciation of the simplest and most practical things. They accept horror with a shrug and move to the next case. Streep can't hide her enormous intelligence as an actor, and either can Jack, so they don't even try to play muddled people...they couldn't. The movie's about their wounded gentleness, their self-imposed exile, the terrible and very deliberate choices they've made. The sets are beautiful. So's the acting and so's the whole composition.

A situation where the actual area of research, into undifferentiated cells and their potential medical applications, is more interesting then a crude dramatization. Exquisite complexities become gross fodder for the vulgate to chew on, murders in tunnels, dedicated doctors becoming Frankensteins, the wearisome social/ethical issues around premature experimentation. This is handled better with Arnold and Robert Duvall in the "Sixth Day" or the Herbert West character in "Reanimator". At least there the issues are unabashed, the gross characterizations often hilarious, and the science actually more sophisticated. Still, gene Hackman is Gene Hackman, one of our best actors, and he brings his acerbic indignant dignity to this party in full force. Engaging watch.

The tale of the twins, Stewart and Cyril Marcus, must have been a fascination for the Soska twins, to create this homage to them, to Cronenberg, to "Dead Ringers". Katherine Isabelle has never been sexier, and she's still doing what she did with Pacino in "Insomnia", only a lot better. There's a lot going on here, but the main thing I get, over the passing commentaries on modern notions of sexuality, body modification, criminal medicical practice, is the ground covered very overtly with Clive Barker's "Nightbreed': Monsters need a place to go. The final shot is one that keeps putting in an appearance in film, the "Christ Posture", and it's monsters or good people doing monstrous things that earn it. Apparntly only death brings a reconciliation. Some people will see a Dark comedy here. I see a seriously composed horror/tragedy, and J. E. Tracy as Detective DOLOR is the compass, something like (but not as masterful) Cronenberg's "The Fly." Good Movie.

This is as repetitive, superficial, and manipulative a view of 3rd world poverty stereoptypes as you're likely to get. It's the 2 hour version of one of those mailings that depict a child with a belly swollen from kwashiorkor and huge fies buzzing around his head. Except this time the child is an angel faced waif. It's bleak and boring, and to the extent you let it get to you, either because of its content, or because of the inferior quality of the film-making, depressing.

A "cute" child, an abandoned Lebanese ragamuffin, Oliver Twist with no twist at all, is subjected to endless "dehumanizing" cruelties. There's zero relief anywhere, absolutely no person or situation offers any comfort. He's embroiled in an incredible legal battle, essentially suing God for his miserable existence. Lawyers, doctors, evil parents, magistrates, street hustlers, assorted grotesques; They're all presented as one dimensional, hard surfaced, casting stock creations, that the poor kid bounces off like a pin ball in an arcade game called "You are Worthless". His entire city, as overhead pan shots show us, is a colorless sheet of corrugated industrial garbage.

The hand held camera work jolts us around with the kid. You become insensate and that's the idea. Chronic poverty is a condition affecting human beings, so it will, in "reality", have moments of humor, and occasional stolen moments of genuine pleasure, anesthesia, nutriton, diversion etc, but not here in this movie bubble. In its final ten seconds, the film-waif cracks a smile, he's been given a passport out, the only solution being to just get out of the Middle East, to be orphaned within new borders; Perhaps relegated to the exquisite joys of the United States.

I'd counsel avoiding this depressing bore.

It took quite a few outings for Rambo to grow into himself.

From the buffed and hysteria prone male model of "First Blood", to the puffed steroidal aged hulk, fighting Burmese pirates, well into his 60's with jet black hair, reflects something. What might this be? This is the stripped down version; The old stuff made new, and he comes dancin' in. Rambo has learned: less is more. Not a syllable is wasted. Helming the sad raft that takes his naive crews upriver to their respective dooms, his face becomes massive, stolid, forbidding, a mountain of reproach. With a hand hammered medieval battle axe, a bow and several arrows that are fired as fast as Jerry Miculek can shoot on a good day, a wheel mounted 50 caliber Cannon as a small sidearm, and a rusting blockbuster bomb, nestled in the forest, a remnant of some forgotten war, imminent annihilation asleep in a pile of Burmese leaves, awaiting the Prince's kiss to awaken its sleeping beauty...Rambo takes on an entire Army. One cartridge blows an enemy in half, as does a single cut from his astounding scimitar. Expressionless, gigantic, his planetary vengeance thunderous, a new standard in retribution, foes have never tasted their own medicine in such gagging quantities, he lumbers forth: Transcendent, Profound. One can not help but be impressed. The man is pushing 70 for God's sake.

This interesting movie is just made to read things into and I'm sure people will indulge and debate the subtexts they project onto it. As for me, it's enough to go on the face of it.

When two old friends, men, have a rift and a friendship shatters, it can be devastating, especially to the party that feels the most unjustly rejected. It has no sexual overtones, no clear reason at all, beyond one man tiring of the other's presence. And something ancient and held dear is just gone.

When it's inexplicable, incomprehensible, or over something that seems tiny or inadvertant, and keeps going, rolling and getting bigger and bigger in the head, it's something really awful. Gleason is a great character actor, and Colin Farrell is getting cream roles these days, and he's growing with the excellent casting, and becoming more subtle and expressive, and Barry Keoghan is another comer. These three have been cast together in some form or other: In Bruges, The Sacred Deer etc. And really cook. Strange roles and strange scripts, roomy vehicles for gifted actors. Everyone's good in this strange, very tilted story, especially the animals.

Mute and patient, they are the creatures cast to make the most sense.

Kostner's famed blandness was better suited for his portrait of Earp. Everything about that movie is more "realistic". But last time I looked, possibly excepting documentaries, that isn't what we go to movies for.

A gigantic star studded cast turns this Western into a dazzling amusement of personalities and spiked up moments.

It lingers on opiate addictions, marital infidelity, gun twirling theatrics, antics at the card tables, street fights, and with the smarmy comic grimaces of Paxton, and Kilmer's highly stylized portrait of Holliday combined with Russell's glamorous ideas about Earp ("He's a real tall drink of water") there's nothing sepia-toned about this rendition of 1881.

Locals' problems with Clanton's gang and the big fight at the OK are the main set pieces, as expected, and the following revenge saga that results in the preposterous execution of Ringo are all directorial doffs to realities, and the movie sails off into the sunset with Russell and a sumptuous Dana Delany waltzing into urban bliss. As advertised.

Bill Miner, as he preferred being called, was known as The Grey Fox, The Gentleman Bandit, and George Edwards. He spent more of his 66 years in jail than out. The Pinkerton agency credited him with initiating the phrase "Hands Up" and he earned his Gentlemen title for his politeness during robberies. He was a skilled thief but not too good at staying out of jail. A cursory online search will give you this and some interesting old photos of the man. The movie sticks close to facts and embroiders with some romance. Unlike a lot of films where that domesticity is felt as little more then an obligatory distraction and padding, here it has a lot of charm. It's something of a highly streamlined Tombstone, and impossible to find a scene that feels embellished or goes over the mark. The sweep of the photography stands out but it's always in service of the story, never gratuitous. Farnsworth is perfect. You'll remember the planes of his kind craggy face more then anything else. Like Redford in "The Old Man and the Gun" another larger then life true story, sometimes a guy can put a big bore gun in your face, and at the same time disarm you with the kindness of his expression, so incongruous with his actions, but a true marker of his actual spirit. I've seen this one several times and it's a keeper in the imagination, partly for the deft simplicity of its telling. It's in the Western genre, uses some of the stylistic touches that can't be avoided, but feels nothing like a western. Excellent movie.

It's a reworking of the Pacino/DeNiro - "Heat"; but way sweatier and grimier. The best crew of bad guys against the best cops; The big difference is Gerard Butler. His appearance alone pretty much guarantees violence so excessive it's comedy. Tatooed, leathery, every pronunciation a huffy grunt of mockery, sarcasm, or aggression, his presence dominates every scene he's in, including the face offs he has with his similarly adorned adversary, or with his wife's new boyfriend when she can't take it any more. Of course he becomes Achilles when dealing with the one tiny daughter that his ex hasn't poisoned against him, his little "Pooky". But, after a tender scene with Gerard talking through a fence to her and crumbling, (He has to cover his face with his hands when an expression other then rage or sarcasm is called for) what better therapy could there be for our champion then to unload twenty thousand rounds or so of high test ammo in the face of.....whomever happens to be there. Yes, there is a plot...ripping off a Federal reserve bank for a modest thirty million in clean paper. But, like any self respecting Butler extravaganza it's just the perky excuse to trot out the hero's completely insane, but totally in-synch anger issues. Not since the bizarre mincing rampages of Stephen Segal has Justice been meted out with this kind of demented force. And to be "frank", this is the better stuff. What could be more fun? I'm always down for it.

Imelda Staunton's performance is an avalanche. She gets good support but by the denouement it's detached itself and flies off into that special virtuosic place you rarely see. There isn't a lot to say otherwise. It's a simple straightforward story, so down to earth that at times it feels surreal, since surreality is the contemporary norm. I came into it expecting some kind of standout performance, based on the uniformly great reviews, but I was pretty blown away by it. It's a beautiful piece of work.

That concludes my thoughts on this and but I need 55, now 36 more characters to submit. Done.

In the near hopeless quest to create an "original horror" movie, those involved have gone to great lengths to blend genres and play with filming techniques. As for me, a good six decades past being turned on by these shenanigans, and having an IQ higher then a turnip's, I look for a little more. I've said it before, and will again, boring the staff reviewers who are usually the only ones who read my babbling because I often am the 1000th person to comment on something, that originality is definately not prerequisite for something to be good. I like my horror served up straight, not to offend LGBTQIA sensibilities, as far as any that might apply to movie-making. This production is trying way to hard to be funny. Slaughtering people and eating them is a boring topic for a movie no matter how you serve it up, possibly with the low key exception of "My Friend Dahmer" or the ancient "Eating Raoul". It's as bad as the endless zombie things, or demons chasing teens through woods, or the found footage crap. Jarring camera work and one-liners endlessly spouting from predators and prey dosen't help. Nothing replaces good acting and a solid script. Ho hum.

There are "slow burns", and then there are dead ashes. I gave up at 28 minutes. Maybe something happened but i couldn't wait to find out. By that time I didn't care. It was too late for redemption. I like Emily Watson, which is why i came to check this out, but her moodiness couldn't rescue this. Competent cinematofraphy, if that's all you want. Endless moody shots of the seacsape, or the interior of a warehouse; the struggling fishing industry in a small town. The elements of a possible conflict are suggested with excrutiating slownes when it becomes apparent that the returned prodigal son hasn't learned much or saved a dime, or a Euro, and is back to poaching oysters. Anyway, I didn't have the patience to find out if there's some kind of pearl here, all I got was the irritated grain of sand.

Medieval Times was more then a comical restaurant franchise. Fantastic cruelty and belief in magic, bald faschist aristocracies ruled the day, Kingdoms and peasants, savage uncontrollable pandemics, and a violent, powerful primitive, omniscient European Christian Church.... Knights, minions, and torturers, all there.

It's nice to know that 700 years later absolutely nothing has changed. Be that as it may, some of us have a sentimental yearning for simpler administrations, uncomplicated by things like today's global s**t-show, the digital faschist technocracy.

If you believe in magic, then so it is. If you believe in science, so it is, same with Christian dogma. The last man standing, Osmond, had his belief shattered , and then found his true religion: Delusional Vengeance.

With a great cast, committed performances, a grim cold script with filming to match, this lean mean production is one to see.

10 stars.

Horror's my favorite genre. It's the place that invites the most creativity and with the ocean of garbage out there, the hardest place to do something creepy....and to be original in any way, nearly impossible, since every good idea has been cannibalized for so many decades. By the time something can be categorized as a genre, or get a"cult following" or an affectionate nickname ie. An "indie" it's almost ruined.

Now everyone is slinging words like "tropes" around, as though that confers an authoritative perspective, and filmmakers are crossbreeding every genre..... horror/romance/comedy....trying deperately for something new. The saddest possibility is when a film goes for "high art." When you cross breed you usually get still borns and mutations, and when you cross genres you get dilluted themes and confused lines and lousy movies......usually, and agaiin, I'm specifically talking about horror, not things like the brilliant drama/horror/satire first Robo-Cop, or the unique horror/tragedy "The Fly"(1986)

With all the genre mishmosh, the only criterion left is, good/bad, and more simply, for practical purposes,.... Do I like it or not? You need to know, especially if you have seen hundreds, or thousands of movies, what questions you need to have affirmatively answered, before you start sifting through the gigantic pile, before you waste your time and aggravate yourself. Otherwise you have to go through your list of previously seen stuff that you know you aproved, and pick one that has some dust on it, rotation farming.

There IS nothing new. When I go to a restaurant more then once, I want the identical steak done a certain way because that's what I want. If a movie, like a reliable appliance, does what I want, then all I can do, if I want to analyze it, is think about how it accomplished it. And more then anything, it comes down to the script and the acting. And great acting can sometimes trump a weak script but never the other way around.

Saint Maud. Of course it's derivative, The Exorcist, The Messenger, on and on.... BUT, it's clever. The acting is above, the script is solid, the ending satisfies. No spoilers, just the above aggravated lecture, because I haven't been able to pick a winner all day, so I'll rewatch this.

Vin Diesel isn't the ordinary hulking muscle-bound behometh. He brings a kind of wit and sincereity to the game. He also has acting chops. I'm thinking of "Find Me Guilty". But he's fast and furious as Riddick, the hunted anti-hero. He's got enough gravity and gravitas to center this big fat epic hit. His constricted world in the first movie has become grand, full blown, multi-planetary, filled with lethal politics and strange dimensions.

On hand are Judi Densch, Colm Feore, Keith David, Karl Urban, and many other actors, and none of their talent is wasted. You can tell when people dig a project...they dig into it and get inspired. Watch Thandiwe Newton as Dame Vaako, snarling and insinuating and treacherous. Nobody's wasting their screentime.

And all this human and semi-human movement is set in lush sci-fi environments. Something like the wonderful Blade Runner, but with more partial VFX back drops, the visions are huge, strange, fantastic.

I guess I like this movie.

We've all plagiarized English since Shakespeare and it's all good; It's a matter of how cleverly you do it. I like Mel as an actor, producer, and especially as a personality, of which he has a lot.

And so does someone like Nick Cage, although in that case of a very different sort. Gentlemen like Mel and Tom Cruise are kinkier then even they realize, and I'd guess far before they found their way to the golden road. And that 'specialness', that can't help but seep it's way into their work, is turbocharged with their rampant narcissism, also of a special variety. When hyper-narcisism finds itself pefectly adapted to some special niche in this world, you get transcendent criminals like Trump, or megastars like Schwarzenegger.

In Arnold's case the Supernova of self love is so gigantic, that when it bursts, the spiritual chrysalis, what emerges is just a great guy, the Zen of super-self-love. In Trump's case you get.....Trump. Cruise and Mel just haven't quite become so full of themselves that they have burst. This state of suspended preburst self-adoration, when one isn't quite big enough to blow, wonderfully blended with baseline peculiararities, which will be defined in subsequent lectures, have produced these special personalities and special movies. They're interesting people, talented, and have lottery luck in life.

And now this latest thing from Mel.

You can smell the twists from a mile away, but so what? It's a decent movie, bizarre enough in it's Melish way. Surely not one of his Epics like Braveheart or the astounding Apocalypto, a feature that caused eyes around the world to gape in astonishment, and multitude voices rose as one to question the director's sanity,....but pleasant nonetheless.