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N.B.: Spoilers within. Nicholas Roeg's "Full Body Massage" belongs in the Talk Flick category, but with a twist. (I'll get to that.) Nina (Mimi Rogers) is visited by a substitute masseur, Fitch (Bryan Brown), and during their session they gab on endlessly. The movie centers on one long conversation – about art, spirituality, relationships, destiny, ancient healing methods, and other assorted riddles of life – which might as well take place between two people on a road trip, or sipping their lattes. But.....

The two main characters are a study in opposites. Nina, a product of very humble origins, has worked her way up to become a highly successful art gallery owner. Fitch, on the other hand, was born into affluence but has spent his whole adult life fleeing from it. Nina tends to gravitate toward the more personal during the massage. Early on she claims not to over-intellectualize, but rely on intuition. Fitch remains aloof in comparison. Yes, he is full of innumerable "truths," but keeps the truth about his own self effectively hidden. We rarely get a straightforward answer out of him. He spouts on and on about Hopi tribal medicine, which is fine, but in this film the character of Fitch is sorely lacking a sense of humor. I kept wanting him to lighten up already.

The twist I speak of constitutes the only brand of tension, curious as it is, in the film: reams of rational discourse versus the massage's very sensuous physical contact...a lot of it. (Part of Nina's and Fitch's early conversation refers to the sensuous. Nina: "Massage is sexual...very sexual." Fitch: "Can be, doesn't have to be, shouldn't always be...") This tension is embodied by the mostly brainy discussion – and its cool delivery – taking place while the camera lovingly and sumptuously dotes on every inch of Nina's oily flesh with Fitch's expert hands manipulating it. An example (one of many like it): at one point the two characters are literally cheek to cheek in physical proximity, with Fitch rubbing away, while they talk about a "bankruptcy of the spirit." Huh?

Numerous flashbacks in both leads' minds fill in sporadic details about their pasts, especially their most recent relationships. Fitch's loving memories of Alice, who turned him on to the Hopi teachings he is so fond of, show us that at least he had a warm and sexy side to him at one time. (Here he is actually caught smiling.) But Alice's tragic death in an accident appears to have shut the door to his emotions permanently.

If there is such a thing as cerebral sensuality, this film attempts to capture it. For me it was difficult to mesh the two elements. You have an afternoon full of highbrow chit chat competing with a nonstop visual diet of Mimi Rogers' nude, lushly stroked body. Most of us would be waiting for some real sexuality to bubble to the surface, but don't hold your breath.

Toward the end of the film, Nina makes an attempt to show that the pair is closer in spirit than they may realize (something having to do with each of their pasts making up much of who they are now). Whatever... When we first met her, Nina was saddled with a vague ennui, and her encounter with Fitch seems to have lifted it a bit. It's hard to tell...the whole film is drenched in laid-back understatement. For his part, Fitch – as he drives off into the sunset – makes a gesture indicating he has moved on from Alice. Is there hope for these two independent spirits? The film leaves that question open. Personally I didn't find the dialog itself quite as odd as the "fleshed out" characters who spoke it and the angular way they interacted.

"The Miracle Worker" is astonishingly moving, intense, and rewarding storytelling. All of the forces involved – Ann Bancroft as Annie Sullivan, Patty Duke as Helen Keller, the supporting cast, writer William Gibson, and certainly director Arthur Penn – combine to present a straightforward, well-paced, stark, yet richly resonant retelling of Annie's early encounters with Helen.

Bancroft is magnificent as Annie, a character who is haunted by her early years of abuse and misery, not to mention nearly losing her own sight completely. But she is feisty, intelligent, and fiercely determined. She overcomes. It would take nothing less to tackle her charge. When we meet the child Helen, she is wild, animalistic, and out of the control of her parents. Patty Duke's portrayal is absolutely awe-inspiring. Her acting abilities at the (actual) age of 16 are uncanny. Watching her Helen collide with the outer world from an utterly isolated state really stirred my imagination into exploring, as it never had, how dark, unknowing, confused, and primitive such a person would be. Duke seemed to understand this about Helen on the deepest level.

The script presents a journey toward transcendent understanding on Helen's part, though it is effectively measured with a mixture of setbacks and small triumphs. Annie's journey, too, is well told: she is new to tutoring, and her constant tussles with Helen's family require the firmest belief in herself. The dining room confrontation is masterfully acted and directed. Its forceful and violently physical clash of wills leaves you exhausted. The other scene to equal it in intensity is Helen's breakthrough connection of water, indeed all things in her life, to language. Here Annie's hard work has paid off, and the floodgates open inside the ecstatic Helen. It's the peak of the film, and is guaranteed to make most of us cry after an hour and a half of unrelenting buildup.

This is one of those singular and extraordinary films that simply everybody should see. The indomitable human spirit, the capacity to adapt and grow (this applies to all members of the cast), the will to persevere through impossible odds...all of it and more is captured in this mesmerizing story.

N.B.: Spoilers within. If you have never seen "Jacob's Ladder," do not read beyond this first paragraph. I would never ruin the special experience for the first-time viewer. Just know that it is not for the faint of heart, but that none of its disturbing material – which there is a lot of – is gratuitous: I promise you. If you're up for the film's emotional intensity, graphic visual style, and thought-provoking plot, then see it. Period.

This entire movie (except for a single scene I can think of) takes place in, is made of, Jacob Singer's mind. He is on a long, agonizing search. What really happened to him in Vietnam? Why are demons tormenting him? Why are secretive army thugs harassing him? Why is his very existence a disintegrating fugue between three worlds? Is he even alive, or is he experiencing hell? Ultimately, what is the meaning of his life?

Roughly in the manner of "Slaughterhouse Five," Jacob lurches uncontrollably between 'Nam, life with Jezebel, and life with Sarah and their two sons. Which is real, and which is only a dream? We are kept guessing, and this really propels the story forward. Jezebel is a purposely complex character: highly sensuous, feisty and impatient, compassionate and concerned. Sarah and the children are all about stability and love. 'Nam is, of course, Jacob's worst nightmare. But his deepest anguish is the loss of his youngest, favorite son, Gabe, who died in a tragic, untimely accident.

Evil seems to be winning the war through much of the film, but Jacob's visits to his chiropractor, Louis, are oases of relief and Light. Louis is literally the film's guardian angel: sage, mentor, savior. Not only does this angel bravely extract Jacob from a hellish entrapment in the hospital; his wise words (see below) revisit Jacob in the penultimate scene and help him achieve his final release. The appearance late in the film of "the Chemist" offers another temporary reprieve from the terror, if only because he has an important piece of the Truth.

"Jacob's Ladder" of course does not belong to the traditional horror genre. It is far richer; a uniquely psychological-horror film. It is so effective because the viewer is inside Jacob's mental state, experiencing the horrors and fears as he does. For all the emphasis on evil, there is a thread of Good, often in symbolic Christian guise which structures the film in a long tradition. The main characters' names: Jacob, in the Bible the personification of personal struggle; Jezebel, thought of through the ages as all that is wicked in Woman (yet our Jezebel here is much more); Sarah, astonishing beauty; Eli, the Old Testament priest and judge; and Gabriel, the "Left Hand of God," chief messenger who is sent to earth to prophesy and aid. There is Jacob's Ladder, the gateway by which angels pass from heaven to earth and back. And there is the welcome presence of Louis, who quotes Meister Eckhart, the 14th-century Christian mystic and philosopher. In Jacob's most crucial meeting with Louis, he hears Eckhart's decisive wisdom. To crudely paraphrase: in death, or in one's fear of it, let go of all earthly concerns, and the demons will release you.

Director Adrian Lyne is brilliant here; this film has to be his magnum opus (to date). He works effectively between sustained eeriness, flat-out terror, and meditative quiet. Every technical element is impeccably realized and integrated, and the acting is first-rate. The character of Jacob has to be one of the most beaten down, harried, confused, and embattled I've ever seen, yet he is a fighter to the end. He drives himself toward the answers. Tim Robbins could have easily slipped into overdone caricature, but he finesses the role admirably. Elizabeth Pena captures the many shadings of Jezebel. Danny Aiello conveys persuasively Louis's strength and serenity. And kudos to writer Bruce Joel Rubin, who – after all of the dark, demonic struggles and bewildering reality bending – rewards Jacob, and us, with a transcendent resolution to the greatest questions there are at the end.

I won't even bother with what is real and what is not and what is what, except to say that the film may or may not be a take on the great Ambrose Bierce short story "An Incident at Owl Creek Bridge." Despite any concrete interpretations even by its director or writer, their own creation defies easy answers. I welcome a film of diverse readings. It means very different things to different people; it says something new with each viewing. (Personally speaking, I don't watch this film often; it has a powerful spell over me that I don't want to lose.)

A last word about the music: Maurice Jarre's haunting and unsettling score perfectly supports the story. His contribution to the feel of the moment is immense. Finally, there is the coup of using the song "Sonny Boy," which becomes a leitmotif for Gabe, the absolute love of Jacob's life. (It's an astounding fit: "...You're sent from heaven and I know your worth / You made a heaven for me right here on the earth / When I'm old and gray, dear, promise you won't stray, dear / for I love you, Sonny Boy.") Early in the film we briefly see Jacob bouncing along in his Postal truck: he is casually singing a broken version of the song. At Gabe's first appearance, the song sounds as if from a magical music box. A minute later, father and son sing it together as Gabe is tucked into bed. But, in a jaw-dropping stroke, the classic version by Al Jolson wafts into the air just after Jacob is pronounced dead in the final moments; it continues through the fade-to-black and into the credits...it segues into the beyond. Is it the last thought Jacob has on earth?

N.B.: Spoilers within. Assigning an artistic director to an operatic production naturally and inevitably means you are going to get a piece of that director's mind. But directing a Wagner opera is an especially tricky task, as he was perhaps the most explicit opera composer in terms of what things should look like and how they should unfold. Hans-Jurgen Syberberg loads this filming of "Parsifal," Wagner's final masterpiece, with enough extraneous ideas to cause it to nearly burst at the seams. You get more than a piece of the director: you get the whole fatted hog and then some. Syberberg is to be admired for his penchant for tearing back the covers on the uglier aspects of German history. But does it work to meld that desire to a Wagner opera already brimming with its own concepts?

The scenes with the knights of the Holy Grail in Acts I and III are especially laden with visual allegory and symbolism. These are drawn come from Wagner's own time, from long before, and go well beyond. If you know what these things mean, they can enrich Syberberg's vision for you (but not necessarily enhance Wagner's vision); if you don't know what they mean, they're simply confusing, if not annoying. I won't bother uncoiling the plot of the opera here. Suffice it to say it is a typical Wagnerian synthesis of diverse elements, in this case a blending of the Holy Grail legend with the principles, practices, and pageantry of Christianity. The theme of redemption plays the main role here, as in nearly every Wagner opera.

I personally had to sweat to get through Syberberg's first act (amidst my jarring acclimation, the music saved the day). But Act II picks up the pace. Here we meet Klingsor, the evil sorcerer, out to entrap the wandering "innocent fool" Parsifal. The greatest seductress of them all, Kundry, will be used to entice him to the dark side. After an initial dalliance with more symbols, these get stripped away, and the long, gorgeous, transformational duet between young fool and temptress really takes off. Finally the film starts working a genuine magic, and it is chiefly due to Syberberg's choosing to set things naturally and simply. Suddenly the acting starts to work (the expressive actress Edith Clever and the luscious soprano of Yvonne Minton team to create a wondrous Kundry); suddenly the music seems to come to life and make vivid the inner turmoil of the two characters. The camera work stays simple and quietly fluid. In other words, Wagner is allowed to tell his story more on his own terms. And it works beautifully. For me it was the most engrossing part of the film.

With the re-entrance of the knights in part 2 of Act III, the weird extraneous symbolisms unfortunately creep back in. Some other loony Syberberg ideas: using a huge Wagner death-mask as a major set-piece (causing the composer's protuberant proboscis to loom comically large); dressing the Act III knights in all manner of costumes, wigs, and makeup (what is the director saying? That the knights are a bunch of buffoons? That they express multiple or timeless layers of significance beyond their surface functions? It's anybody's guess); the insertion – just after the incredibly touching baptism of Kundry by Parsifal – of rear-projection footage of the conductor rehearsing, in modern-day realism, his orchestra in the studio (this completely snapped my dramatic thread, requiring a few minutes to regroup); the complete avoidance of having any time pass between Acts II and III (when we meet the knight and "narrator" Gurnemanz again, he should be an old, old man, and Parsifal should re-emerge as a world-weary but wiser middle-aged man); but certainly the most bizarre stroke is to split the Parsifal character into male/female components. Some find this the most brilliant stroke. No doubt I can credit Karin Krick, who plays "Parsifal 2," with acting of strength and dignity (she also happens to be the best lip-syncher of the whole cast). But please...Wagner's conception of Parsifal is already so complex. His growth from a completely innocent boy who knows nothing of his past, to his breakthrough realization in Act II of what Amfortas's eternal wound means and how it has become his own, to his return as the great Redeemer of Act III – this is the journey of a masterfully constructed character. The bi-sexual emphasis is just gimmicky and absurd. (And what's with this nonsense about a homoerotic Gurnemanz and Parsifal?? Can't we just accept a mentor/apprentice relationship, which is marvelously reversed in Act III?)

The Monte Carlo Philharmonic under Armin Jordan plays with passion and beauty (though the chorus is disappointing). But after watching this film I only wanted to whip out my Solti-led recording (HIGHLY recommended) and get my Wagnerian bearings straight again. The film experience for me ranged from bizarre to entertaining to infuriating. To Syberberg's credit, he's created a visually arresting work, and he certainly offers a unique take on an important opera. But instead of sticking to "Parsifal," he seems to have wanted to bring in all things Wagnerian: the man, the life, the enormous influence...all of it in crude symbolic code. "Parsifal" the opera is already full of weighty symbolism: the Grail, the Spear, the Holy Sacraments, baptism, Amfortas's ever-bleeding wound, Klingsor's self-castration, the Kiss, Kundry's Curse, and on and on. This is not to mention the *musical* symbolism sounding constantly in the score, in the form of Wagner's leitmotif system. "Parsifal" itself is one huge symbol! Getting back to my first-paragraph question, Syberberg's whole hog is all way too much for me. But if this project sounds like something to tickle your fancy, then go for it. I won't recommend just staying away from this; you may find yourself heartily satisfied. Or if you need something to crack your Wagner barrier, try it...but please, please, don't stop here. "Parsifal" is in a late, very ripe league of its own.

NB: Spoilers within. This great movie is "about" so many things, all of them successfully: sci-fi time travel, unstable psychologies, dystopian society, the what-is-real syndrome, gradual undermining of belief systems, worldwide bioterrorism, and a nascent love story.

The ramifications of the story's twisted time line stir up loads of heated debate - witness the discussions within this site; or, as an extreme, check out the dissertation at www.mjyoung.net/time/monkeys.html. Whew! Such temporal emphasis speaks mostly to the brilliant plot, coming from the magnificent work of writers David and Janet Peoples, not to mention the inspiration of Chris Marker's "La Jetee." Without a doubt, this is one of the most successful, fascinating time-travel movies ever conceived. But there are many other levels speaking here.

The movie's real genius is to focus on the nasty side effects of time-travel in the mind of James Cole (Bruce Willis, doing the best work of his career here). His journey progresses from gung-ho vaccine-hunting warrior to gradually unhinged victim – and back again. The other broad sweep of the story increasingly emphasizes the personal tale between James and Dr. Kathryn Railly (the wonderful Madeleine Stowe). I love the simultaneous shifting/opposing viewpoints of these two characters. For me it all comes to a head in the fleabag hotel room scene. By this point, James – once gripped by an unshakable determination – now slumps in utter doubt about his own reality; while Dr. Railly – the cool and rational scientist – has finally become wildly convinced, after absorbing James's proofs, of his horrific predictions. Her desperation to get through to James and hang on to the mission shows how far she's come.

Gilliam makes us care about these characters, especially through the crescendo of tension threading their lives. The balance held between emotional roller-coaster and mounting sci-fi puzzle/thriller is exquisite. And the denouement at the airport is heart-poundingly intense because we see it coming so clearly through James's dreams. It is here, just after James has decided to quit the whole mess – and is fighting his insanity more than ever – that he steps back up to the plate and does what is necessary for mankind. See Jose and the gun… (Just before this, the references to Hitchcock's "Vertigo" and identity switching/confusion are brilliant.) This is a movie to be hashed out between thinking people; it not only holds up under repeated viewings, it demands them. "Twelve Monkeys" is intelligent, provocative, bizarre, funny, and suspenseful stuff.

The supporting cast is excellent, especially Brad Pitt stealing all of his scenes and showing great flexibility as Jeffery Goines, crazed and spoiled, but ever the survivor. And there is David Morse as Dr. Peters (interesting how the movie simply leaves to the viewer his wicked motivation) and Christopher Plummer as Dr. Goines. But the biggest accolades belong to Terry Gilliam, surpassing here - just barely - his outstanding "Brazil." (Lots of parallels, of course, especially the lonely combatant trying to escape his crumbling surroundings: lunacy within, lunacy without.) Every frame of this movie has his unique stamp and tone. The soundtrack is terrific, too.

This is one of the great achievements of the 90s, a true favorite of mine, and sure to hold up for a long time to come.

N.B. Spoilers within. Part action/thriller, part character study, "Leon (The Professional)" is a sure-fire bet for lovers of both categories. The story is about the meticulous hit-man and determined loner Leon (an amazing Jean Reno) and the precocious 12-year-old Mathilda (the equally amazing Natalie Portman) who crashes his party. They are vastly different from each other, separated not just by wide gaps in age, culture, and experience, but by their basic psychologies.

Leon runs a strictly one-man show by sheer will and by necessity: it allows him to survive and flourish. But as bottled up as he is, he is marked by tragedy and sorrow. These feelings he keeps tightly compartmentalized, which makes him so successful as a killing machine. Enter Mathilda, the product of a wholly dysfunctional home, where she was regularly beaten and abused by her drug-dealing father and loveless family. Despite this, she is by nature a strong, hopeful, and highly intuitive girl. The movie throws these two together and lovingly documents their emotional journey toward each other.

All of this is skillfully woven with Leon's violent line of work, providing the film with some spectacular action sequences. It gets even better when the savvy Mathilda joins Leon on the job, giving her a sense of purpose while forcing Leon to join the human race, or at least one headstrong member of it. The movie really succeeds when it goes deeply into the emotions driving each character. Mathilda, after all, is just discovering love and sexuality, which she presses on Leon, the object of her newfound desires. As for him, Leon can barely stand this nuisance at first, but gradually becomes the caring father figure she never had. The more she gets under his skin, the harder he looks into himself to do the right thing for her. This whole process becomes incredibly touching. You root for these two oddballs; they flesh out a unique love story.

Meanwhile, Leon and Mathilda are up against one of the stranger villains of the 90s, the malicious D.E.A. agent Norman Stansfield (Gary Oldman: he scores again). Stansfield is also an oddball: he is outrageously high-strung (always being pampered and brought back to reality by his fellow nasties), he pops weird pills, and rambles on about Beethoven to his soon-to-be-dispatched victims. In any case, he is a creepy, ruthless dude.

Besson keeps the tension high for much of the film, letting go only long enough for the occasional scene where Leon and Mathilda have some time alone. (The two actors really shine here.) Otherwise, the film has a running undercurrent of menace and unpredictability. Compassion and cruelty weave continually in and out.

The film's climax is gripping, and the do-or-die moment when Leon and Mathilda say goodbye is positively heart-wrenching. The two have come a very long way. A good word should be put in, too, for the always dependable Danny Aiello as Tony, Leon's boss and a father figure himself.

This is a smart, highly enjoyable film – tight, focused, and personal. It's a rush for the senses and a gratifying story of memorable characters.

N.B. Spoilers within. It's hard to do justice to this modern masterpiece. Let me get this out of the way: "The Twist." The whole issue is a real shame to me; viewers should just stick to the complexities of the story and characters, and not — as the marketers selling the film would soon glom onto — a twist. To think that this would go on to nearly define for the world Neil Jordan's incredible movie! (Along with this, the "I-could-see-it-coming-a-mile-away" attitude...give me a break and just suspend some disbelief.) It doesn't matter now: the poignancy and importance of what Fergus (Stephen Rea) and Dil (Jaye Davidson) experience in this film have given it staying power.

But let's start at the beginning, in Northern Ireland and the IRA, and the kidnapping of British officer Jody (the very solid Forest Whitaker). Here Fergus shows his true colors as a man, befriending Jody — his hated enemy — and proving himself something of a human beyond the sworn duties of his terrorist associations. This first 35 minutes of the film will indelibly imprint on everything that happens thereafter. Fergus's bonding with Jody cannot be helped — because of who the two men are — even as it complicates the emotions between them. The essential story narrated by Jody of the scorpion and the frog serves as background metaphor for the rest of the story: "I can't help it…it's in my nature." Jody's revealing to Fergus of his distant lover Dil (why did he do it? To pre-avenge the terrorist acts happening to him? Out of pure love and sharing?) lights a fuse for the rest of the film, too. IRA activist and lover of Fergus, Jude (Miranda Richardson) proves herself tough in these opening sequences, but is nothing like the Valkyrie she will emerge as in Act III. Jody is unfortunately dispatched early from the picture, but the damage is done: his work on Fergus's psyche has been cemented.

Fergus departs the IRA holdout, now in smithereens, and heads to London, where he becomes Jimmy. He looks up Dil, heavy with the knowledge of how complicit he was in Jody's fate. This, too, takes a constant place in the storyline and must always be kept in mind. (Stephen Rea wears his burdens in the way he talks, walks, breathes: he and Davidson are incredible.) Dil seems to be able to take care of herself just fine (dumping the the dufus Dave, for example), but once she meets Jimmy she falls in love. The feelings are mutual. At the club where Dil performs, bartender Col (a smooth and perfectly knowing Jim Broadbent) mediates the tentative relations between grieving Dil and searching Jimmy/Fergus.

So, the decisive moment: the big reveal. Dil says honestly, "I thought you knew." And later (with the film's many touches of grim humor): "Even while you were throwing up, I could tell you cared." Fergus has another dream about Jody afterward: now Jody is not pitching (i.e. sharing) a cricket ball, but strolling away with a smirk and a genuine sense of revenge. But Fergus needn't worry: one of the great themes in this movie is the way he can't help but stick with Dil, no matter who she has turned out to be. It's all about Fergus's (and Dil's) huge capacity for love, which has become far more universal.

All comes together breathlessly in the final Act. Jude & co. show up in London and re-recruit Fergus to the cause, an important assassination. Now Jude is ruthless and jealously knows of Dil and Fergus. It's incredibly touching when Fergus shears and disguises Dil to save her life: he has put her in harm's way. (One leitmotif in this movie is the music that accompanies the intimate moments between Fergus and Dil — a little sugary but very effective.) When Fergus FINALLY reveals to Dil his relationship with Jody, she is too drugged to fully grasp. But soon she will get it, in spades. The collision between love stories and terrorist plot is unforgettable. Jude is unprepared for the emotional force wielded by the liberated Dil, whose feelings for Jody come to the fore as she has learned of how Jude seduced Jody to his capture in Ireland.

Now that Dil's secret is out (in the real world), the viewer must be fair to the film and *always* keep him/herself in Fergus and Dil's heads. Their points of view are crucial to taking this film on its own grounds. This is one of the most powerful and intelligent films I've ever seen; a thriller combined with multi-layered love stories. Jordan et. al. have created an utterly absorbing and memorable tale.

N.B. Spoilers within.

This is an underrated, sublimely realized black comedy by the (at the time) struggling Scorcese. There is a perfect balance here between the big picture—-uptown white-collar insurance guy out of his league in night-time bohemian SoHo—-and infinite numbers of details within. Scorcese has taken a great script by Joseph Minion and crafted a piece of comedy, suspense, self-exploration, plenty of twists, and interpersonal discovery. Our lead, Paul Hackett (the subtle and brilliant Griffin Dunne) is the most hapless "hero" to grace the screen in a long time. Whatever can go wrong does go wrong. As Paul steps into the next venture, there is no telling what will come of it. The script keeps the viewer constantly on edge and clueless as to what to expect next. Paranoia becomes rampant.

The music that frames the picture—-a youthful symphony by Mozart—-defines the outwardly tidy guidelines of Paul's world (number crunching and computer interfacing). But even the small glimpse we get of that world says that all is not right. The trainee whom Paul is overseeing (a small part for Bronson Pinchot—-see "True Romance") hates the job and wants out of it. Then there is that telling moment where Paul looks around him and watches everything flow by in its idiosyncratic motion. The quick vision is both sexy and unsettling. He's having a momentary insight, but exactly into what? Is his whole life here empty and pointless? Is he bored out of his mind? Scorcese never lets us know for sure. But then Paul meets Marcy in the diner and the fun begins.

We can't know if Murphy's Law applies to Paul all the time, but it certainly does on this fateful night. There is a flat-out poetic shot of Paul's sole 20-dollar bill floating from the cab into oblivion, and this is just the beginning. This brings up my first observation, though, on Scorcese: his stunning and beautiful camera work. It flows, it jumps, it's liquid, now it interrupts jarringly. The whole effort contributes to the anxious nature of the story and of how Paul never feels completely grounded while he's out of his territory.

The multitudes of characters that Paul meets are all convoluted stories unto themselves. Kiki (a smoking-hot Linda Fiorentino—-where has she gone?), Marcy's artist roommate, and the ultimate 80s bohemian; her leather-bound friend Horst (a menacing Will Patton); the "nice" waitress (Teri Garr) with more baggage than Paul can handle; Gail (the hilarious Catherine O'Hara) who will turn on Paul in a big way; Tom the bartender (John Heard), himself a ticking time-bomb; Cheech and Chong, industrious through the long night, and the solution to who the bad SoHo burglars are; but especially there's Marcy (the luscious Rosanna Arquette). She is sweet, good-hearted, ditsy, but full of dark secrets. A lot of these are spilled, others only suggested. The rape story, for example...hard to understand until you've seen it, but it's full of comedy. Arquette plays Marcy just right, a girl who is just short of being completely unhinged, but who still stumbles ahead smoothly and confidently if not a good bit clueless-ly. This is one unique character. Her suicide contributes much to Paul's emotional weight—-how exactly did he contribute to it?—-and also to the comedy's being so black.

"After Hours" occupies an era that is pre-ATMs and cell phones, but there are Checker cabs, subway tokens, gritty artists' lofts, and rotary phones. Punk is king. The picture strikes me as being linear, yes, but also kaleidoscopic: Paul meets and re-meets the same characters throughout, but each time this happens, his circumstances have taken a new turn. The story is also full of strange details that help knit the whole together. An example: the subject of burns and scars. There is this brief focus on burns and burn treatments. Marcy's cream, her trip to the drugstore to get it, the book of gruesome pictures that Paul can't keep himself from...then Marcy floats back in (he slams the book shut) and what is she holding? A candle with a huge flame! Ha! It's details like these that make the movie feel so integrated. (Even Kiki tells Paul she has "horrible, ugly scars.") Finally, and this part is truly sick, once Marcy is dead under the sheet, Paul can't help but inspect her body for those suspected burn marks. Ugh…

I have to mention the last of Paul's meetings, when there is absolutely nowhere else to turn: June, at the club (Verna Bloom), seems to be the only person who truly understands his predicament and who helps to finally "rescue" him, but her means are highly suspicious. Is she also trying to kill him? What a stroke. One of the key themes of the flick is that everyone Paul encounters is for the moment his savior, but who soon leads him into more trouble than he already has. It is Paul/Upper East Side/trying-his-best versus the nighttime/living-on-the-fly/Downtown mentality, and "After Hours" places the two mindsets at opposite ends of the universe.

Scorcese, temporarily abandoning the beleaguered "Last Temptation," hit the mark spot-on with this wonderful comedy. In the process he proved his love for the medium, not to mention loving all the memorable characters that inhabit the wacky, unpredictable story. I also think this is Griffin Dunne's pinnacle: he perfectly inhabits a role where everything is falling apart around him but where he hangs on and finds something inside that keeps plugging on until the sun rises again. Polished, inspired, funny, and disturbing film making. Highly recommended.

This movie got me puzzling over how I come to care about some film characters but not others. Don't read any further if you're looking for an answer because I don't have one yet. I only realize, quite sharply, that the characters in this flick are flat as doors and I couldn't care less about what happened to them. Watching this one was torture, as a result. Why am I utterly fascinated, for example, by the (for a long while) completely unspeaking Harry Dean Stanton in "Paris, Texas"? Again, I don't know, but a lot of factors must come into play beyond what the actors are doing. Thus I could heap a lot of scorn on Meg Ryan or Mark Ruffalo, but I don't think that's fair. Writers, directors, and other mood makers and plot steerers must factor in. It's a complicated and fascinating issue.

But alas, this movie was incredibly dull and depressing. There is a lot of talk out there about risk-taking, brilliant underplaying, psychosexual adventurism, blah blah. Meg Ryan taking a big leap by flashing her boobies and longing for the bad boy? Well bully for her - her career needed SOMEthing. Ruffalo I'm not worried about, but whatever drove him in this movie, again, escaped me. I love Jane Campion, but this is territory where her take on things goes for a sleepwalk.

What are the origins of dullness in this piece? It's just everywhere - the dialog, the situations, the atmosphere. I like "paced" movies, but I have to care about people. And I always try to. (My reviews elsewhere confirm this.) I have to mention one particularly annoying moment: Frannie (Ryan) expresses amazement - in her somnambulant fashion - after Malloy (Ruffalo) goes down on her: "How did you learn to do that?" This triggers a pointless monologue about a childhood event in Malloy's life, when his response could have simply been, "You learn by doing." It would at least be keeping with his less-is-more character.

Meantime, I'll keep considering why I care when I do; maybe I'll figure it all out for myself. This viewing didn't help things. zzzzzzzz