jake kasdan's WALK HARD: THE DEWEY COX STORY (2007)

Walk Hard has a pretty impressive pedigree in front of and behind the camera, which makes it that much more disappointing that it very, very rarely scales the walls of standard parody; it's a much more graceful, intelligent animal than most other genre entries from the past decade, sure, and picks at an enormously deserving target in the Oscar-Bait Music Biopic, but it plays so broadly with its conceit that it squanders the audience's connection to it. the performers are all terrific, the look is appropriately self-impressed, and, lest i forget to mention it, the film is funny throughout, but it respects its audience and itself a little less than it could have, opting instead to merely please.

nicholaus goussen's GRANDMA'S BOY (2005)

a surprising number of friends have recommended this movie to me, so i took advantage of a late-night showing on HBO, and was unsurprised; it's essentially everything i had pegged it as when i steered so carefully clear of it when it was released - crass, poorly assembled, and ruthlessly inessential - but it's also not too hard to see why someone in the right mood might find it perfectly diverting. overwhelmingly non-talented "star"/mastermind Allen Covert hasn't the least excuse to ever appear in front of the camera, but there's good work from the supporting cast (particularly co-writer Nick Swardson, whose faculty for arrested development in a smaller role surpasses Covert's to an embarrassing extent) and a surprising degree of watchability. a lot of press seemed to peg it as Adam Sandler's sloppy seconds (it was made by frequent collaborators but apparently passed on by Sandler, who produced instead) but the least you can say about Grandma's Boy is that it's far closer in spirit to his own heyday than anything he's made in a while.

christopher guest's FOR YOUR CONSIDERATION (2006)

jean-luc godard's BAND OF OUTSIDERS (1964)

perfect. absolutely perfect.

john mctiernan's DIE HARD (1988)

david cronenberg's EASTERN PROMISES (2007)

chris columbus' HOME ALONE (1990)

Home Alone is what it is, but it deserves the reputation it's built as a contemporary christmas classic; subsequent slow, boring declines don't dull Macaulay Culkin's precocious charisma or John Hughes' superior script (which coincidentally falters only when it comes to Culkin's too-cute fourth wall-breaking), and i suppose it counts as praise to say that Columbus has never made a better film.

francis lawrence's I AM LEGEND (2007)

i've not read the book, or seen the other screen versions, but i'm even more interested to now, because Lawrence's I Am Legend starts out strong and engaging, and i'm interested to see if the others stumble so clumsily between the story and its telling as they near their ends. (my guess is that Matheson's novel, at the very least, probably does not. so why not put it on the screen?) for what it's worth, Will Smith is characteristically solid, even affecting, and the film's first half makes some handsome design/fx choices that make the postapocalypse (so pointed as our society reaches a probable cusp) as curiously beautiful as it is terrifying. but the film's hard-earned horror supsense is suddenly upended halfway through by some stunningly mediocre CG zompires, and finally loses its grip completely as the third act takes a detour into corny pandering. and it's a shame: I Am Legend is on its surface one of the most impressive big-budget horror flicks in recent memory, but it doesn't survive the night.

liam lynch's TENACIOUS D AND THE PICK OF DESTINY (2006)

alfred hitchcock's NOTORIOUS (1946)

i watched this late at night a month ago, but i will share my enduring impression: Cary Grant and Ingrid Bergman have absolutely unbearable chemistry. i've never seen anything like it.

joel coen's BARTON FINK (1991)

Barton Fink confirms, as No Country attests, the Coens as mean sumbitches, meaner than they seem. Fink, written in the midst of Miller's Crossing writer's block, is above all an uncomfortably damning examination of the writing process, and the writer himself; Fink is occasionally a sympathetic character when he gets in over his head, but it's more important to the Coens that he's callow and deluded, so lost in his patronizing ideals that he actively dodges honest perspective. ("Boy, I could tell you some stories." "I bet you could.") his inability to write anything truly genuine, or in fact anything at all, forces the question of art's relationship to reality, and the pathetic folly of all the hacks gumming up the works on both sides.

still, it's got That Coen Brothers Feeling (in spades!), so there's ample comedy beneath the peeling wallpaper. ("Have you read the bible, Pete?" "The holy bible?") writerly pretension saturates the craft as much as it does the story, as the brothers Coen, born with tongues grafted to their respective cheeks, further scene by scene the symbological goofery they toyed with in Raising Arizona and Miller's Crossing, reaching a fever pitch in the final shot (an all time favorite.) and all the while it's a small cinematic marvel. it's little wonder the film was so well-received at Cannes, as it draws wittily on the European traditions (and merits the rarely-deserved adjective "Kafkaesque"), but it's also as solid a piece of Americana as exists in their filmography.

chris weitz's THE GOLDEN COMPASS (2007)

Weitz gets an A for effort (okay, maybe a B) but winning intentions don't save Pullman's book from the tragedies of adaptation, especially an adaptation co-scripted by New Line's anthropomorphic desperation. it succeeds to a pleasant degree visually, affected though its epic touches may be, and it's nice to see that Pullman's vitriol isn't critically dulled despite the Chruch's well-anticipated uproar, but the elegance of the book's metaphysical conceits (primarily dust & daemons) is sullied almost entirely by an uncontrolled rush. of course, doling out information slowly (or smartly) isn't a luxury typical of a family fantasy film, and therein's the folly of adapting a book just because it sold well, but The Golden Compass' main crime is the ending, or lack of one; the final scene is a lot more upbeat than the book's, sure, but there's no excuse for adapting a book with attempted reverence and then second-guessing its author as to where the story ends, not to mention squandering every cent of Daniel Craig's salary by reducing his Lord Asriel to little more than a plot device. The Golden Compass aims to differentiate itself from the overwhelming crop of kid-lit cash-ins surrounding it (lord, please get this fad over with, i've seen all of those trailers five too many times) but the self-respect just isn't there.

the coen brothers' NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN (2007)

the Coen Brothers obviously seem to think they have something to prove with No Country For Old Men; its every step is as focused and mean as Javier Bardem's unforgettable Chigurh (who here gives Hannibal Lecter a run for his monstrous money), as if the Coens are apologizing for their recent slump with a middle finger and a shrug. in many ways it's a return to form, as airtight and flawless in its scripting and execution as the Coens' best, but despite debts to the relatively straightfaced pulp of Fargo and Blood Simple (plus an ending that loses a bit of solemnity when put alongside Raising Arizona's) they step pretty far outside their comfort zone, and even their audience's. the witty performance flourishes are there in subdued bit parts, and the Coens' sensibilities meld surprisingly with McCarthy's own nihilism, but much of No Country also seems uncharacteristically clinical where the rest of their films brake at giddy precision. it may well be that the brothers needed a comedic palate cleanser after the one-two stumble of Intolerable Cruelty and The (underrated) Ladykillers, and No Country For Old Men is certainly that, but even as it repeatedly assures their seat among the cinema's living masters, its pitch-black efficiency repels nearly as often as it provokes. No Country For Old Men is unfathomable in its raw quality, but the bleak misanthropy of nearly every frame leaves it distancing, as hard to like as it is to disrespect.

a failed experiment / cleaning my plate

ok, so here i am, almost eleven months into this thing and two months removed from my last entry. shameful. writing about every film i watch took a surprisingly long time to become tiresome, but in the end it was wedding preparation that waylaid this thing for good. and once you get backlogged (it first happened to me, i think, with Danny Boyle's Sunshine, which i liked quite a lot but made the apparent mistake of sharing my thoughts on via email, after which i felt i'd said what i needed to say, and never bothered to translate here) there's no hope.

so i'm rebooting this thing. for the sake of completism i'm posting empty entries for the films i've watched since i took a powder, with the hopes that i'll go back and fill them in.

but i've spent the past few weeks putting together a pretty nice little home theater, which is to my mind primarily an investment to the same effect this one is.


oh god, the movies, i love them so much.

orson welles' TOUCH OF EVIL (1958)

william seiter's ROOM SERVICE (1938)

disney's THE MANY ADVENTURES OF WINNIE THE POOH (1977)

sam wood's A NIGHT AT THE OPERA (1935)

charlie chaplin's THE GOLD RUSH (1925)

henry selick's THE NIGHTMARE BEFORE CHRISTMAS (2006 3D reissue)

andrew dominik's THE ASSASSINATION OF JESSE JAMES BY THE COWARD ROBERT FORD (2007)

warren beatty's REDS (1981)

luc besson's THE FIFTH ELEMENT (1997)

michael curtiz' THE ADVENTURES OF ROBIN HOOD (1938)

seth gordon's THE KING OF KONG: A FISTFUL OF QUARTERS (2007)

robert zemeckis' BEOWULF (2007)

Beowulf, Robert Zemeckis’ latest firm shove at the envelope of cinematic technology, is an oddity wrapped in a gimmick, and it’s genuinely hard to say whether such a curious juggling act is what keeps the film afloat, sinks it in the end or both. the gimmick in this case is, of course, the latest confluence of waning ticket sales and America’s hot-and-cold love affair with the (cue big reverb) Third Dimension. the oddity? it’s an animated film “for adults.”

or at least it would like to think of itself that way. miles from the edgy realms of Heavy Metal, Fritz and the like, Neil Gaiman and Roger Avary’s adaptation of Britain’s oldest epic slouches for the most part toward the considerably easier task of being an animated film for teenage boys: noisy, dark, violent and awkward in its embrace of sexuality.

more than that, though, Beowulf flubs its aspirations to maturity by playing unintentionally fast and loose with its tone. by all appearances, the film wants to be taken seriously; there are somber moments and others that carry the gravity of death and monstrous destruction. but there’s also grand miscalculations, none more egregious than Beowulf’s in-the-buff showdown with Grendel, which counterbalances its tension and brutality with blithe genital-obscurance visual gags. (sensitive though I am to inappropriate laughter at the movie theater, Beowulf earned every awkward guffaw.)

it’s admittedly no great surprise Gaiman and Avary cast a re-interpretive eye toward Beowulf’s heroes-and-villains simplicity; the millennium between the poem’s transcription and its inevitable apex of being “that movie where Angelina Jolie is all golden and naked” has seen its share of changes in how we approach concepts like good and evil, and the script makes plenty of room for shades of gray. but their deconstruction of the heroic ideal muddies as it wrestles with Zemeckis’ spectacle, which ends up casting aside the quotation marks in favor of an honest-to-god hero.

as destabilizing as that is to the film’s intellectual identity, though, it’s the spectacle that really defines Beowulf. using the same motion capture technology he pioneered on his Polar Express (and honed significantly with last year’s underrated Monster House), Zemeckis achieves a look that hovers, as the story itself does, between truth and myth, and it, too, may be thematically appropriate that both Grendel (Crispin Glover, in an obscenely perfect piece of casting) and the Dragon achieve a greater verisimilitude than any of the film’s human inhabitants. Beowulf himself looks fine throughout, but he obviously received the bulk of the animators’ attention (especially with regard to actor Ray Winstone’s considerably less chiseled physique), while most of the other characters, women in particular, parade the array of imperfections that keep computer animation from yielding passable photo-real people, including the damning “uncanny valley” effect, suggesting that the closer these figures come to humanity, the more off-putting their appearances can be. (kids are still having nightmares about The Polar Express.)

overall, however, it’s to the animators’ credit that such evident flaws somehow fail to derail the film visually. though about 20 percent of the animation can be distracting (even occasionally cringe-inducing), the remaining 80 percent redeems it confidently, and its 3D presentation strengthens it further. anyone who’s ever seen a film in 3D knows the “oh my god it’s coming right at us” drill, and Zemeckis isn’t entirely above such parlor tricks, but neither does he pander to the format; there are a few visual flourishes that draw unnecessary attention to themselves, but by and large, the film subdues gimmickry in favor of an enhanced depth of field, pushing the unreal that much further into reality.

still, Beowulf confounds. it’s tempting to suggest a more conventional mix of live action and CG would have yielded a work of greater dignity and depth. (most of the film’s performers seem to have embraced the challenge of shining through such clumsy avatars, but i’d much rather see John Malkovich’s Unferth in his real-life glory.) but without the tech-demo trimmings, would it be as fun, or even as engaging? it’s hard to say, but the questions themselves betray Beowulf as a fair deal short of satisfying.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

josh gordon & will speck's BLADES OF GLORY (2007)

a dumb trifle, though there's some laughs here. the cheeky sports comedy has been done to death (Will Ferrell and his peers are among the executioners) but there's an energy here that might have paid off if Gordon & Speck had anything to focus it on besides the single gay panic-laced joke of two men figure skating together. Amy Poehler and Will Arnett steal the show (i love Ferrell, but he coasts here) as their psychotic brother/sister opponents, and for a few minutes the pair leads the film along a more righteous comedic path...but for naught.

carol reed's THE THIRD MAN (1949)

i'm not even going to try writing anything about The Third Man, especially after such a long break from movie blogging. it's strange how the inconsequential films are easier to write about, but when it comes to the stuff that floors me, i can't express anything to my satisfaction. maybe that's what makes it art? or maybe i'm just a little too aware that my own impressions of masterworks are pretty banal in the shadow of the volumes already written? painful self-awareness, though, is a small price to pay for exposure to brilliance, on both the screen and the page, and The Third Man, in its studied, quietly suspenseful pursuit, is brilliance itself.

nancy meyers' THE HOLIDAY (2006)

it's obvious that Meyers thinks her concept and script for The Holiday are much funnier than they actually are, which hobbles the film early on; that's not to speak against the scenario, which is a fine setup for low-key romantic comedy, but the miscalculations involved in playing it so broadly end up reflecting poorly on the whole thing. even worse is the pacing, which lingers carelessly on the prettier of its two couples despite the fact that the other pairing (saddled in their limited screen time with a generally useless subplot concerning an elderly screenwriter) are much more likable. no one really asks for movies like this to be great, but sloppy storytelling is a lot harder to forgive when you're working with such staid framework.

james mangold's 3:10 TO YUMA (2007)

the early buzz readied me for the revival of the western, and though Mangold's remake doesn't necessarily dance hoodoo around The Duke's grave, it's still a good time at the movies, full of fine performances and genuine thrills.

two days, three nights in the riviera for seven bucks: an impromptu film festival

well, it’s finally here. after years of speculation and financial aggravation, a convoluted $14.85 million collaboration between Regal Entertainment Group, private investors, the City of Knoxville and its tax codes has yielded the newest feather in Gay Street’s cap: the Regal Riviera Stadium 8. combining a faux-classic (but still classy, haters be damned) veneer with eight well-appointed auditoriums, the Riviera is downtown Knoxville’s next big hope in its rapid crawl towards its ever-idealized revitalization. first a liquor store, and now this!

the lack of a movie theater convenient to downtown has long been conspicuous. it’s no secret, after all, that the primary demographic for contemporary cinema ranges from late adolescence to early thirties, which falls neatly in line not only with the increasing gentrification of downtown and its outlying neighborhoods but also with the 800-lb gorilla separating it from West Knoxville: the 25,000 attendees of the
University Of Tennessee, previously served most conveniently in their moviegoing needs by the screens at West Town Mall. considering the thousands of those lacking either personal transportation or the parking deathwish that is Leaving Campus On A Weeknight, it’s little wonder that so many college students are content to BitTorrent shitty bootlegs and huddle around a 19” monitor. combined with the theater industry’s apparent embargo with South Knoxville, it’s actually kind of a shock that it took so long to make this happen.

but it did happen, amidst much ado. state grants were handed out, preservationists were mollified, architecture was criticized, et cetera. and now the Riviera is open, and the focus drifts toward the practical. is it a nice theater? (not that it matters, beyond our tax dollars’ role in it – go to Wynnsong if you don’t believe me.) more importantly, what sort of movies will they be showing? the post-opening schedule wasn’t made available until a few days beforehand, but late in July Regal announced that the Riviera would be prefacing its Grand Opening with three themed days of $1 films and concessions with the proceeds from each day going to a different charity. a similar pre-opening event at Pinnacle yielded screenings of It’s A Wonderful Life, Top Gun, the first two Indiana Jones movies, and the Lord Of The Rings trilogy, so film fans all over Knoxville held their breaths. could this be a rare chance to show Regal that Knoxville might be just as interested in seeing the occasional favorite of yesteryear as the standard-lowering late summer nonsense of today?

the answer: an enthusiastic no! the bow of Regal’s upscale downtown moviehouse apparently didn’t merit such crowd-pleasing, theater filling fare, as its programmers opted instead for easy choices like Spider-Man 3 (not even as old as some of the charity days’ supplementary second-run films, and certainly not old enough for anyone to have forgotten how disappointing it was) and Tim Allen’s Yuletide classic Christmas With The Kranks.

Regal Marketing VP Russ Nunley was generous enough to assuage my own resulting Krankiness with assurance that past corporate experience actually shows that Riviera’s three daily themed films is fairly generous for an eight-screen theater, and that familiarity sells more tickets than prestige. “during the preview events our goal is to entice as many people as possible to see the new facility in the hopes that they enjoy the experience and then tell family and friends to spread the word,” Nunley explains.

so what’s a snooty film fan to do, stuck with two days off to devour sixteen hours worth of favorites from the lauded Late Spring Of 2007? the prospect of all that $1 Golden Flavored Topping-y popcorn, sugary soda and air-conditioning was hard to pass up, so why not? for the price of one normal movie ticket I could treat myself to a gloriously run-of-the-mill film festival, and see if there were any pleasures to be had.

TUESDAY – Vigilante Justice & Dead Daddy Issues

i anticipated the sell-out crowds that greeted the Pinnacle’s charity festivities, especially given the day’s “Superheroes For United Way” theme, showcasing recent hero-flicks Batman Begins, Superman Returns, and the aforementioned Spider-man Stumbles (personal wishlist: The Incredibles, X-Men 2, and…well, Batman Begins) so I was surprised to find no line outside the Riviera. a quick trip to the box office and concessions, though, gave me enough time to take in the Riviera’s lovely (though somehow surprisingly small) lobby, which features as its centerpieces three blown-up photographs of Gay Street from the 20s to the 40s, each of them revealing a different angle of the original Riviera Theatre, which occupied the very same space from 1920 until it was torn down in 1988 after a decade of inactivity.

i decided to kick off my Rivierafest with DJ Caruso’s Disturbia, the story of a young man (Transformers’ Shia LaBeouf) whose erratic behavior after witnessing his father’s death lands him on house arrest just in time to spend his summer vacation spying on the neighbors, including a beguiling girl next door and a yuppie who may just be a serial murderer. this is, of course, a loose variation on Rear Window, with a little of The ‘Burbs thrown in for good measure; such a pedigree would render most teen-centric remakes all but stillborn, but while Disturbia certainly lacks their respective brilliance and levity, it carries itself confidently as a thriller and inhabits its reimagined story with an endearing sincerity. both LeBouf and villain David Morse (in a lamentably rare meaty role) turn in fine performances, and though it could have done with a bit more ambiguity where Morse’s character was concerned, Disturbia is admittedly one of the finer B-thrillers I’ve seen lately, and started out the day on a note of pleasant surprise.

second was Christopher Nolan’s Batman Begins, in an even smaller auditorium than Disturbia. (I’d come to find out that while several of the Riviera’s theaters are quite sizable, boasting the highest overall seat-to-screen ratio in town, the ones along the western wall are as small as a cozy 109 seats.) i’d been impressed with the film when I first saw it, and though the novelty of Batman-taken-seriously dulls somewhat upon a repeat viewing, it’s still probably the superhero genre’s most successful work where psychological, emotional and procedural realism are concerned. Nolan shakes every last detail out of how a troubled billionaire playboy might go about turning himself into a creature of fear and justice, and sews them back into a creatively structured origin story that skimps on neither the pathos nor the horror that a good Batman film deserves. sure, they didn’t quite nail the cowl, and Katie Holmes fearlessly proves her own uselessness amid an otherwise perfect cast, but Batman Begins still rewrote the book on how to treat an icon to a worthy character study.

Superman Returns, on the other hand, suffers much worse upon a second viewing, and following a screening of Batman doesn’t help. approaching the other half of the World’s Finest with a realist bent surely wouldn’t have done the material any favors, but neither does Bryan Singer’s choice to wallow sloppily in Superman’s assumed iconic glow, leaning far too heavily on the continuity of Richards Donner & Lester’s first two Superman films and all but forgetting to shape the rest of the film’s lazy emotional meandering into a compelling story. Kevin Spacey strikes a smart, faithful tone as archvillain Lex Luthor, but Singer sadly refuses to follow his lead, relegating him to a dramatically inert plot while dedicating all of his energy to making everyone else flat and uninteresting, except for Lois Lane, who is well-developed insomuch as she’s quite deeply callow and unsympathetic.


WEDNESDAY – Advice From Disinterested Screenwriters On Being A Father

after battling a much direr parking situation at the State Street garage, I arrived at the Riviera just in time for the opening credits of Tom Shadyac’s Evan Almighty, shown in a surprisingly large auditorium befitting the film’s epic commercial and creative failure. the facile $200 million religious pander-fest revisits Bruce Almighty’s Evan Baxter (a bored, paid Steve Carrell) as God badgers him into building an ark in hopes of strengthening the bond with his three anonymous sons, with the downplayed side effect of saving two of every animal from a watery holocaust centered in suburban DC. sure, acknowledging the implied genocide of its central conceit would be kind of a comedy killer, but, then, so is the script, which is so bad that multiple scenes between Wanda Sykes, Steve Carrell, John Michael Higgins and Jonah Hill rarely even manage a laugh. Evan Almighty will no doubt find a second life as last-minute entertainment at junior high youth group lock-ins, but as a comedy (let alone the most expensive one ever made) it’s pretty worthless.

wednesday’s theme was “Christmas In August”, but none of the choices appealed to me save for Elf, which I’m content to wait until Christmas to watch again. (wednesday wishlist: A Christmas Story, Home Alone, and Die Hard.) instead, I moved on to the third installment of a franchise for which I harbor an intense distaste, but have somehow managed to see all three of; crass and unambitious, Shrek The Third is little different than its precursors, bouncing back and forth between unfunny children’s humor and unfunny adult humor in an insulting half-simulation of archrival Pixar’s warm and witty, genuinely family-friendly aesthetic. thankfully, unexplained technical issues repeatedly halted the get-em-while-they’re-young standards-lowering, and I must say that listening to the little oracle behind me rain spoilers of minor physical humor down on her sister was just as compelling, and twice as funny, as seeing it play out onscreen.

Disney’s Meet The Robinsons, however, proved a maniacally weird antidote to Shrek, despite a ten-minute wait for them to start up the projector. i regret missing it in 3-D earlier this year, but even in two dimensions it impresses, thanks primarily to its swift spirit and madcap good-naturedness, and even though it sags in places it brings a sort of restless originality to Disney’s diminishing animated efforts.

THURSDAY – Hud

i was only able to see one film on Thursday, but it was the one I would have otherwise gone out of my way to see. Martin Ritt’s modern western Hud was presented alongside Steel Magnolias and Walk The Line under the guise of “WIVK Day On Theatre Row”, showcasing films with local ties (wishlist: James Agee’s Night Of The Hunter and Charade, the first film shown when the New Riviera was reopened in 1963), and was undoubtedly the prize of the Riviera’s pre-opening event. starring Paul Newman and Knoxville native Patricia Neal, the film takes a hard look at a family of latter-day cowboys, paying special attention to the way teenaged orphan Lonnie (Brandon DeWilde) tries to reconcile his respect for his grandfather (Melvyn Douglas) and his fascination with his callous, cavalier uncle Hud (Newman). like the other six films (which don’t even include Knocked Up, which I’d already seen twice), Hud draws heavily on themes of fatherhood, but doesn’t succumb to any of the sentimentality; no, Lonnie never seems preoccupied with his father, but studies the two men in his life carefully, finding out just for himself just who he wants to be.

Hud sees itself to a dour, cynical ending, the likes of which only come up these days in finicky indie flicks. (it’s a testament to Ritt and his film that Hud is nonetheless considered a classic.) but as the lights went up at the end and the projectionists no doubt prepared to replace the black and white dinosaur with a print of Balls Of Fury, there was a definite feeling among the audience (the largest I’d been a part of in three days) that we’d all shared a satisfying experience, taking in great cinema with the wonder they surely felt in that very spot eighty years earlier, before movies were just marketing, before everything was so crass.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

david lynch's INLAND EMPIRE (2006)

ok, david, i give up. what's it mean?

you mean you don't know either?


oh, you don't care?


sorry, must have misheard you.

robert altman's GOSFORD PARK (2001)

nicholas ray's REBEL WITHOUT A CAUSE (1955)

i was alarmed and heartbroken to find that, after years of putting it off until i could see it on the big screen (mostly because it's a usual suspect for revival) that the tragic second act of Rebel Without A Cause had been ruthlessly spoiled for me years and years ago by Paula Abdul's "Rush, Rush" video. that aside, though, the film is still remarkably fresh for its age, and deep; the name (borrowed from a psychology book because...well, because it's a great name for an iconic movie) is colossally inaccurate, as every mote of rebellion (or, rather, angst) is poignantly delineated as a horrible, ineffable gift from parent to child, as Jim, Judy and Plato struggle to find the path to adulthood when the adults around them withhold influence, love, even presence. ("How can a guy grow up in a circus like that?" "Beats me, Jim. But they do.") James Dean is a revelation; i must admit this is the only one of his few films i've seen, but it's immediately clear why he still haunts American iconography. he was a beauty with a beautiful gift.

judd apatow's THE FORTY-YEAR OLD VIRGIN (2005)

i've jocked Apatow enough lately, so i'll skip that, except to say that i'd forgotten how broad 40-Year Old Virgin is in a lot of ways, and much to its credit; sure, you have stuff like the chest-waxing and the face-vomiting, but the extent the film goes to the trouble to earn, and own, those sorts of gags is really a wonder. but the main thing, on watching the extended cut of the film: alternate cuts are usually something i regard with mild curiosity rather than excitement, but i remember being struck by the longer versions of Peter Jackson's Lord Of The Rings films (which i naturally adore) and how interesting it was to think about where and why he managed to cut so much material that, in its restored context, seems so essential. just as interesting craft-wise, though, the opposite is true of a film like The 40-Year Old Virgin, where the extended cut simply sloppies up the movie by 30%. that's not to say that extended versions of some of the funniest scenes in recent comedy aren't a joy to have access to, but comparing this newer version to the one that so impressed me in the theater is a useful highlight of what's required of a good comedic film versus a compilation, however hilarious, of funny riffs on scenes that sadly don't have any business being longer. (that's not to say 40 Year Old Virgin isn't funnier in it's longer form...it's just not necessarily as good.) again, though, a good lesson in editing: just because Apatow's films feel loose (maybe, despite the results, even a tad bit more than is good for them) doesn't mean they haven't been carefully polished. but, then, it must be that much easier now that, with DVD and all, he's only parting with the footage for four months.

greg mottola's SUPERBAD (2007)

it’s interesting that audiences generally demand very little from teen comedies where authenticity is concerned. while most of us haven’t ever been chased by a knife wielding maniac or (sadly) gotten caught up in a too-cute, happily ending romantic comedy, nearly everyone experienced the four years of social and hormonal torture that is high school, with the apparent exception of the people hired to write movies about it. Superbad, though, proves itself a bawdy, gorgeous exception to the rule, tackling the frustrations of late adolescence with an unexpected genuineness and an underlying emotional intelligence (quickly becoming producer Judd Apatow’s trademark) that twists its protagonists’ constant vulgarity into a sweet love song to male friendship. it certainly helps, of course, that Michael Cera and Jonah Hill turn in revelatory comedic performances as two friends in pursuit of booze, though their chemistry does become a sort of liability for the film as it progresses, due simply to the fact that a typically less-funny subplot concerning a third friend’s misadventures with a pair of wistful cops persists in drawing us away from Cera and Hill, and slows the movie down in the process. still, Superbad is a distinct treat, destined for cult status and content for the moment with being the funniest movie of the summer.

matthew vaughan's STARDUST (2007)

Vaughan's winning, clumsy comic fantasy has been subjected to more than a few Princess Bride comparisons, but it's the two films' key dissimilarity that's most interesting: Princess Bride allows its fantastical adventure to flourish in the background of its wit and whimsy, while Stardust unwisely puts these elements at odds with each other, trading in tonal focus for a strained grandiosity (one hopes Vaughan was at least offered a bulk discount on sweeping aerial shots) that leaves it on an awkward fence between the genres. it's a pity, too, because Stardust is an otherwise charming piece of late-summer escapism, stocked with a game cast and a refreshingly fun, ribald attitude that raises it well above any of its peers in the post-Frodo/Aslan cash-in frenzy, even if one is left with the distinct impression that Neil Gaiman's source novel is probably that much more entertaining.

werner herzog's RESCUE DAWN (2007)

one of the most immediately apparent qualities of Herzog's Vietnam-era POW drama is a relative technical crudity, particularly compared with the stylistically slick (albeit usually "gritty") war films we're accustomed to; it's pieced together without much regard for useful conventions of story and pacing, and only occasionally takes the time to drink in the imposing splendor of the Laotian jungles that so thanklessly serve as its backdrop. but this indifference to expectations is symptomatic of what ends up being the film's greatest strength: downed American pilot Deiter Dengler's harrowing journey into and out of a makeshift prisoner camp is lent an astonishing dimension of truth (as it deserves, being a true story) by Herzog's dismissive attitude towards affected Hollywood scriptcraft. Dengler's fiancée, for instance, is mentioned in a brief anecdote, but we aren't subjected to mooshy bookends; Dengler recounts his childhood inspiration to be an aviator, but we aren't whisked away to flashback; Dengler is betrayed, and the betrayer walks away from the narrative's grasp, or concern. instead, there are only scenes, however disjointed, from the barefooted jungle travails of a mild man unwavering in his intent to emerge a survivor, and even if Herzog never hits at the heart of Dengler's character, his journey is uniquely credible enough to make us reflect on our own.

danny boyle's SUNSHINE (2007)

david lean's LAWRENCE OF ARABIA (1962)

having never seen it before this weekend's presentation at the Tennessee Theatre (i had been holding out for the big screen), Lawrence Of Arabia was an interesting surprise to me. i'd expected an epic, and an epic it certainly is, the sort that Hollywood has forgotten how to make - it's not just the size of the canvas but also the level of detail you place on it, and Lawrence draws fine, patient lines where today's outsize spectacles throw broad, lazy strokes. yet it's not these lines that really matter in the film, but what's between them: a careful (though occasionally oblique, and frustrating) character study well-merited by a figure of such mystique. it would have been enough for the film to wrestle with itself over whether T.E. Lawrence (played with a distinct otherworldliness by Peter O'Toole) is a noble warrior or a patronizing, narcissistic creature of dangerous folly, but Lean and screenwriter Robert Bolt smartly pester the audience with a further question only they can answer: does it matter that he's both?

paul greengrass' THE BOURNE ULTIMATUM (2007)

Greengrass is at this point responsible for two of the decade’s finest, most affecting films in Bloody Sunday and United 93, so it seems a little strange that he’s also behind a pair of its most breathless, rollicking action flicks, but it’s the gravity and apparent lack of polish that make The Bourne Supremacy and The Bourne Identity such essential, encouraging mainstream fare. in Ultimatum an impeccably beefy Matt Damon (nearly unrecognizable next to the bucktoothed smile in a few carefully recycled flashbacks) continues his reign of terror upon the people who so tragically made him into such a badass, and Greengrass once again drags the audience by the gut through a minefield of dense conspiracy and virtually nonstop action setpieces, his camera shimmying and shaking all the while in a verité whirlwind of combat best observed during a hand-to-hand fight to the death during which neither the musical score nor the audience dare make a sound. earlier this summer Live Free Or Die Hard scored points by looking amiably back at the whiz-bang of 90s action, but it’s nice to know that the Bourne films continue to grow in popularity by keeping their eyes fixed firmly forward.

billy wilder's ACE IN THE HOLE (1951)

not long before the end of "Portrait Of A 60% Perfect Man", the centerpiece special feature on Criterion's spectacular new DVD release of Billy Wilder's Ace In The Hole, film critic Michel Ciment is unfortunate enough to voice an observation about the warming romanticism of Wilder's later work, at least in comparison with the good-natured acerbicism of his best-known films. the 74-year old Wilder, ambling around the patio of his California home, immediately perks up in his own defense. "Don't say that," he fumes playfully. "I want to be known as a cynic, as somebody with a vitriolic tongue, I like that much better. I don't want to be known as a softie." Wilder is obviously amused, but there's little to suggest that he's not perfectly serious.

among Hollywood's all-time greats, Billy Wilder has the filmography to back up his claims to such cynicism, however sweet. responsible for films like Some Like It Hot, Sunset Boulevard, Double Indemnity, and The Apartment (to name only the most classic of the classic), the writer-director always sought to push the envelope as he entertained, and took obvious pleasure from highlighting the unsavory corners of the mundane. and it's this aspect of Wilder's creative personality that makes Ace In The Hole, released in 1951 but previously unavailable on home video, such an essential piece: this is Wilder at his most forceful, uncharacteristically disinterested in anything but illuminating society's basest tendencies. it starts mean and it ends sad, and 56 years later it strikes a deeper chord than ever.

the film follows disgraced big-city reporter Chuck Tatum (a fiery Kirk Douglas) as he joins the staff of an Albuquerque daily in an effort to work his way back up the ladder. such an opportunity eventually reveals itself at a pit stop on the way to cover a rattlesnake hunt, where Tatum and his young photographer learn that the filling station's proprietor, in search of Indian relics, has been trapped in an underground shaft. Tatum sees his in and seizes it, deftly tipping the national spotlight to a roadside cliff dwelling and the tasty "human interest story" trapped within, and before long the local sheriff, an excavation contractor, and even the man's own wife are on board to milk power, money, and fame out of the would-be tragedy...even if it means protracting his rescue.

Ace In The Hole was an abject failure upon its release, both commercially and critically, and it's not hard to see why: it's a nasty, bleak portrait of America at its worst, and offputtingly bereft of the witty humor that marks nearly all of Wilder's other work. but it's also fearless in its misanthropy, and uncomfortably prescient, as our news media has done little but slouch toward Tatum's ethically desolate sensationalism in the ensuing years. it’s the subtext to Wilder's ruthless indictment of the burgeoning Media Circus phenomenon, though, that contains Ace In The Hole’s most scathing, and important, lesson: the blame lays as much with the consumer as the producer.

true to form, the Criterion Collection has bestowed Ace In The Hole with an impressive restoration and a collection of supplementary material befitting an American master’s lost opus, from a fine commentary to a handful of lengthy interview pieces, including the aforementioned hour-long 1980 bull session with Ciment. (there’s even a video afterword by Spike Lee, speaking of how the film’s social outrage influenced his own work and proudly showing off a poster signed by Wilder and Douglas.) given both the film’s bottomless relevance and own compelling history (before being essentially buried for half a century, for instance, it was briefly re-released with the “more cheerful” title The Big Carnival), it’s a bit of a shame that the producers of the two-disc set weren’t able to present a bit more about the film itself, but the focus on Wilder is a welcome tribute. and though it’d be unfair to say that Ace In The Hole is one of his very best films, its merits extend beyond its notoriety, and its teeth are as sharp as anything Hollywood has dared to make since.

(from the KNOXVILLE VOICE)

david silverman's THE SIMPSONS MOVIE (2007)

maybe the best thing about seeing The Simpsons finally make it to the big screen is watching a perfectly inflated, good-to-very-good caliber episode of the show with an auditorium full of people; as we've all forged our own personal relationships with American humor's most important family unit, it's easy to forget that millions of others all over the world have done the same, and it's honestly fascinating to sit with a group of strangers and see who's responding to what. (that's not to sound snooty, of course, because no matter what facet of The Simpsons' inimitably broad-yet-oddly-specific humor they're responding to, it's still The Simpsons, and odds are it's pretty goddamned funny.) due undoubtedly to the veritable all-star team of contributors from the show's glory days (go on, ask a Simpsons geek who his favorite writers are), the film manages an effortless return to form, inspired in a way few post-heyday episodes have been and tackling a quadrupled running time with easy grace. there are even a handful of canon-worthy gags, including a razor-sharp look at the proximity of Moe's and Lovejoy's and a single, pitch-perfect celebrity cameo. it's funny how a movie literally a decade in the making ended up being one of the summer's least disappointing.

david yates’ HARRY POTTER AND THE ORDER OF THE PHOENIX (2007)

though only Prisoner Of Azkaban has thus far been a truly successful adaptation of Potter’s exploits from page to screen, Order Of The Phoenix is the first to really fail; Yates and screenwriter Michael Goldenberg (both making their series debut) have mercilessly hacked their way through the fifth installment’s dark, rich corridors and emerged with what amounts to a poorly-compiled Greatest Hits, relegating most of its surviving characters and subplots to clumsy cameos and asides that may as well have joined the other half of the book on the cutting room floor. abridgement is, of course, a sad reality of adaptation (especially for works as wonderfully, deceptively dense as J.K. Rowling’s) but Goldenberg’s unfocused stabs deal just as much damage to the central narrative, from the negligent muddling of the book’s angsty Dark Side Of The Force themes to the inexplicable excision of crucial events and information, not the least of which being the poignant resolution of Order’s central MacGuffin. (sorry, Neville.) even the climactic Ministry Of Magic sequence, which should have played better on the screen than on the page, is rushed and diminished, most egregiously in the case of a key casualty, robbed by cliché of its devastation. all that said, the film isn’t bad, or, given Chris Columbus’ bloodless initial entries, even necessarily the series’ weakest; its young stars continue to grow as actors, the additions to the cast are characteristically spot-on, and for all the new holes Rowling’s story doesn’t falter in its intrigue. but without the mystery infrastructure of the previous films to prop up the narrative, Yates would have done well to put a little more faith in the intricacies of his source material, and as it stands there’s no excuse for the longest book producing the shortest film.

michael bay's TRANSFORMERS (2007)

by and large, Michael Bay gets a bad rap. i myself feel nearly obligated to dislike him, and even the best work in his filmography are films to be defended more than shared, but there's no denying that he's constructed his own outrageous grammar on the groundwork laid by folks like Cameron and McTiernan, and whether or not he's fully hip to the silliness of his stylistic grandiosity is beside the point. what's largely wrong with his worst work, though, is also what's specifically wrong with his Transformers: amid all the gorgeous bluster, there's no dignity, no integrity. that's not to say that a film like Transformers (it's credited source material being "the line of toys by Hasbro") should take itself seriously, per se, but nor should it feel like it was plotted out at a Monday morning Paramount board meeting. the film, overlong by at least half an hour, dawdles at a buffet of computer hackery, military skirmishes, shallow sci-fi, hot chicks, cutting-room floor comic relief, government conspiracy, and teen angst, intent on trying everything and leaving with a stomachache of distancing tonal inertia, and Bay's slick spectacle, fine performances, and jaw-dropping effects are undone by a story that only intermittently engages, and thus rarely thrills. Transformers has a ton to impress, a good bit to dislike, and nothing to love.

leo mccarey's DUCK SOUP (1933) / charlie chaplin's MODERN TIMES (1936)

i'm at a loss as to what to say about these two classics/favorites, except that watching them in a glorious double feature highlights the sharp, giddy plane of anarchy that film comedy's early masters were operating on. both lampoon their targets with a frothy (but no less studied, or profound) ruthlessness that still stimulates and incites seventy years later, casting as bright a light as any other scrap of cultural record on how much, and how little, things have changed since Chaplin and Groucho stepped in front of the camera to chide people about blind nationalism, warmongering, uncareful industrialization, and capitalism, even as they harvested knee-slaps and tears of laughter.

"mister firefly, i'm a man of few words..."

"yeah, and i'm a man of one word: scram!"