Film Reviews
Film reviews are updated on Fridays. This section compiled by Marjorie Baumgarten (M.B.); with reviews by Hollis Chacona (H.C.), Steve Davis (S.D.), Robert Faires (R.F.), Marc Savlov (M.S.), Russell Smith (R.S.).
| Ratings: 5 stars As perfect as a movie can be 4 stars Slightly flawed, but excellent nonetheless 3 stars Has its good points, and its bad points 2 stars Mediocre, but with one or two bright spots 1 stars Poor, without any saving graces 0 stars La Bomba |
Few new movies are opening this week in deference to the big lizard known as Godzilla. Expect that to change in the coming weeks, as word seeps out about the creature's less-than-monstrous performance at the box office. (5/29/98)
(M.B.)
New Reviews
ALMOST HEROES
D: Christopher Guest; with Chris Farley, Matthew Perry, Eugene Levy, Kevin Dunn. (PG-13, 92 min.)
Not reviewed at press time. This comedy of the American frontier by Christopher Guest (This Is Spinal Tap, Waiting for Guffman) charts the expedition of the other Lewis & Clark explorer team ñ Leslie Edwards and Bartholomew Hunt (Friend Matthew Perry and Chris Farley in his final screen role). (5/29/98)
(M.B.)
Lake Creek, Lincoln, Northcross, Roundrock, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South, Westgate
HOPE FLOATS
D: Forest Whitaker; with Sandra Bullock, Harry Connick Jr., Gena Rowlands, Mae Whitman, Michael Paré, Cameron Finley, Kathy Najimy. (PG-13, 114 min.)
Hope doesn't float in this film so much as it rises to the surface and then stagnates. This romantic drama has an engaging premise and starts off with a promising opening sequence but then slumps into a flat, familiar routine. Hope Floats tells the story of Birdee Pruitt (Bullock), a former small-town beauty queen whose husband has cheated on her with her best friend. Birdee learns the life-altering news during the film's compelling opening moments. Lured to the taping of a daytime TV talk show by the promise of a free makeover, Birdee is led blindfolded onto the set whereupon her best friend (Rosanna Arquette in an unbilled cameo) tells her of the affair with her husband. With her embarrassment beamed coast to coast on national television, Birdee retreats with her young daughter Bernice (Whitman) to her home town of Smithville, Texas (the neighboring Austin town where the movie was actually filmed). Birdee moves back in with her mom (Rowlands) and is faced with the dilemma of starting life anew. It's enough to make her hide under her bedcovers, but the encouragement of her kooky but wise mother and the needs of her wise but inexperienced daughter draw Birdee out into the world of the living. There's also the allure of Justin Matisse (Connick), the first boy Birdee ever kissed and who just coincidentally still happens to be single, hunky, and head over heels in love with her. There's very little drama or tension to impede their slow courtship. On a pure narrative level, it may be fair to wish for more grit to the romance but on an emotionally superficial level the teaming of Bullock and Connick is picture perfect. The two of them combine to make a very handsome couple. Individually, each of them has an ingratiating presence; together, they create a near irresistible force. Yet no conflict in the storyline warrants the 90 minutes they spend sniffing each other out before giving in to the big release we all know is coming. It's as though they're waiting to exhale or something. Perhaps it's this held-breath tendency that will be the hallmark of Forest Whitaker's directorial career. (Hope Floats is his follow-up to Waiting to Exhale.) He elicits undeniably good performances from his actors, but his visual sensibilities are perfunctory and border on cloying. Hope Floats' thematic undercurrent of small-town salvation is accentuated by the oh-so-pretty camerawork of Caleb Deschanel (The Black Stallion, The Natural). Plaintively slow dissolves encourage us to linger with the sights much longer than we would otherwise be inclined. If there were more developments in the plot, these country cornucopia moments might be less tiresome. (Some suggestions include the under-utilized introduction of Birdee's Alzheimer's-stricken dad in the retirement home and the inadequately explained presence of her nephew Travis.) Love, divorce, mother-daughter conflict, and one death all receive screen time in Hope Floats, but they occur as if on cue and without resonance. Hope floats and time passes. (5/29/98)
2.0 stars (M.B.)
Barton Creek, Gateway, Lakeline, Lincoln, Northcross, Riverside, Roundrock, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South
I GOT THE HOOK-UP
D: Michael Martin; with Master P, A.J. Johnson, Gretchen Palmer, Tommy "Tiny" Lister Jr., John Witherspoon. (R, 93 min.)
Not reviewed at press time. Rapper Master P's self-financed film follows the fortunes of a couple of ghetto entrepreneurs whose scam operation of moving cell phones out of the back of a van hits some static. ()
(M.B.)
Lake Creek, Lincoln, Riverside, Tinseltown South, Westgate
I LOVE YOU, DON'T TOUCH ME
D: Julie Davis; with Marla Schaffel, Mitchell Whitfield, Michael Harris, Meredith Scott Lynn, Darryl Theirse, Nancy Sorel, Wally Kurth. (R, 85 min.)
Not reviewed at press time. A hopeless romantic, who is also a virgin, surveys the Los Angeles singles scene looking for Mr. Right in this low-budget romantic comedy. ()
(M.B.)
Arbor
THE REAL BLONDE
D: Tom DiCillo; with Matthew Modine, Catherine Keener, Daryl Hannah, Maxwell Caulfield, Elizabeth Berkley, Marlo Thomas, Bridgette Wilson, Buck Henry, Christopher Lloyd, Kathleen Turner, Denis Leary, Steve Buscemi, Dave Chappelle. (R, 105 min.)
Indie-darling Tom DiCillo (Living in Oblivion) fails to capture the hearts and minds of his core audience in this fourth film which is nearly as meandering as his last (Box of Moonlight), but this time out draws upon a much larger canvas. It's such a large canvas and filled with so many players that any emotional or even comic resonance the director may have been going for is lost as the film ricochets between its many stories and characters. It makes for a very crowded movie that babbles endlessly without ever saying very much. Modine plays Joe, a 35-year-old New York City actor and part-time waiter who is so busy griping about his artistic integrity that he's permanently out of work. Anyone who's ever shared loft time with someone in that position can attest to just how annoying the situation can be, as can Joe's girlfriend Mary (DiCillo regular Keener), who's also worried that their sex life is on the outs as well. DiCillo's daisy chain of circumstance and low-level comedy leads us through Joe and Mary's lives, which in turn introduces us to the other players, among whom are Joe's sex-hound acting buddy Bob (Caulfield) who's on a quixotic search for "a real blonde"; Bob's newest conquest, the shallow, blonde, and Little Mermaid-obsessed underwear model Sahara (Wilson); Bob's other newest conquest, actress Kelly (Hannah); and Joe's cynical casting agent Dee Dee (Turner). All these strands ñ and many more ñ are woven into an intricate skein of interpersonal relationships from hell. If nothing else, The Real Blonde is apt to make you feel better about your own love life, but DiCillo's habit of appropriating the subatomic particles of day-to-day existence and then mashing them into light comedy is beginning to wear a tad thin. The dozen-odd encounter group couples we get here are shuffled in and out so hurriedly, and back again, that it's all you can do to keep up with their trials, schemes, and waylaid plans. And then, in the final reel, when things begin to pick up and look hopeful for Joe and his pals, it's all you can do to care. DiCillo has always had the laconic, funkified, vaguely surreal air of a Woody Allen on cough medicine (or a Jim Jarmusch on Jolt, for that matter), but The Real Blonde is just so much ado about nada. His final epiphany, that love may yet conquer all, is as worn as Joe's stillborn street cred, and in the end it's all just a lengthy, slightly-less-smarmy version of Seinfeld. (5/29/98)
2.5 stars (M.S.)
Dobie
Still Playing
THE APOSTLE
D: Robert Duvall; with Duvall, Farrah Fawcett, Todd Allen, John Beasley, June Carter Cash, Walton Goggins, Billy Joe Shaver, Billy Bob Thornton, Miranda Richardson. (PG-13, 133 min.)
The movies haven't portrayed the evangelical preacher in a very flattering light, suffice to say. Invariably, this man of the cloth is depicted as a hymn-singing, prayer-spouting charlatan who hypocritically breaks the commandments with a singular regularity. That's one reason that The Apostle is an astonishing work: It defies the stereotype. Its protagonist, Sonny Dewey, is not some gross exaggeration, but rather a flesh-and-blood human being with flaws, two critical ones being a wandering eye and a homicidal jealousy. After committing a very serious infraction against the laws of man and God, Sonny flees Texas for the wilderness of Louisiana, like some Biblical prophet. Changing his identity, in a quest to both lose and find himself, he christens himself "The Apostle" and seeks to start his own church, one that is based on a fundamental faith divorced from material trappings and other distractions. In the course of this journey, Sonny achieves a degree of redemption when he finally comes face-to-face with his past sins. The story scripted by Duvall in The Apostle is, in many ways, reminiscent of the work of Horton Foote, which is not surprising, given that Foote wrote Tender Mercies, the film for which Duvall deservedly won an Oscar. The themes are simple, the dialogue is sparse, the characters are everyday folk. And there is something so American about it all, from the roof-rattling tent revivals to the junked cars in front yards to the quiet desperation that people endure in their lives from day to day. In his capacity as screenwriter and director, Duvall is careful to avoid sentimentality and easy answers, which gives The Apostle a vibrant ring of truth. (This integrity may not become apparent until after the film is over; it's an observation that gradually sinks in, after replaying the movie in your head.) In the film's most moving scene, Sonny compassionately converts a man threatening to raze the church he's worked so hard to build, as the rest of the congregation looks on. It is a scene in sharp contrast to an earlier one in which Sonny resorts to physical violence in protecting his tabernacle against the same man, who's played by good ol' boy du jour Thornton. In many ways, The Apostle is the tale of Sonny's conversion as well, from a wrathful creature of the Old Testament to a man shaped by New Testament ideals. Of course, then there is Duvall, the consummate actor. Whether strutting like a bantam rooster for the Lord, fervently calling himself a "genuine Holy Ghost, Jesus-filled preaching machine," or humbly acknowledging the folly of his actions, Duvall inhabits the character of Sonny, completely disappearing into the man's skin. In interacting with other members of the film's fine cast (including the immensely watchable Richardson as a fleeting love interest), he creates a rapport that only enhances their performances. Duvall is a true original, who ñ along with Hackman, Newman, and others ñ proves that older is sometimes better. His The Apostle is a genuine labor of love that both literally and figuratively graces the movie screen. Say amen to that. (2/6/98)
4.0 stars (S.D.)
Village
BARNEY'S GREAT ADVENTURE: THE MOVIE
D: Steve Gomer; with Shirley Douglas, Trevor Morgan, Diana Rice, Kyla Pratt. (G, 75 min.)
Well, Barney and I didn't quite have an "I Love You, You Love Me" lovefest during his Great Adventure in feature filmmaking, but neither did I come away from the experience agreeing with the backlash perception of the character as something of a modern antichrist. The Purple One is just a big flannel dinosaur with a goofy laugh, who imparts wholesome messages about indulging your imagination and respecting others. Given the target audience of two-to-five-year-olds, the subtext seems more or less appropriate and the packaging isÖ well, who am I to question such a marketing juggernaut? Storywise, there ain't a whole lot here, but its 75-minute-long story ñ in which Barney and his three human playmates chase after a magic egg ñ moves steadily enough that grown-up chaperones won't find themselves clawing the walls in exasperated boredom. I'm not arguing that the scenes move fluidly or cogently from one development to the next; in fact, it's all rather clumsy and routine. And just because it's possible to pass off such wobbly material on unsophisticated children who don't know any better, does not mean that such cynical filmmaking practices should be condoned. Nevertheless, there's a huge amount of pleasure here to be derived from hearing the spontaneous swell of tiny three-year-old voices joining Barney for a chorus of "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" and "Old MacDonald Had a Farm." Isn't this really a rudimentary demonstration of what each of us comes seeking in the darkened theatre: that shared sense of total involvement ñ we come to laugh or weep, and maybe even sing (or clap for Tinkerbell, or whatever the circumstances require)? By and large, Barney's Great Adventure will most probably find its greatest audience through home video (this may explain the elaborate nomenclature of Barney's Great Adventure: The Movie). Released only in a limited number of theatres nationwide, the producers clearly seem poised to position the dinosaur to meet market demands. The greatest market demand may be for stuffed versions of the new character introduced in the movie: the adorable Twinken. (4/3/98)
1.5 stars (M.B.)
Great Hills, Tinseltown North
THE BIG HIT
D: Che-Kirk Wong; with Mark Wahlberg, Lou Diamond Phillips, Christina Applegate, Avery Brooks, Bokeem Woodbine, Lela Rochon, China Chow, Elliot Gould, Antonio Sabata Jr. (R, 94 min.)
More aptly titled The Big Miss, this grade-Z action parody looks like a second-rate John Woo cast-off (Woo and longtime partner Terence Chang produced it, alongside a slumming Wesley Snipes) and feels like something out of Lloyd Kaufman's Big Bag o' Troma Rejects. Wahlberg makes a stunningly bad career move as Melvin Smiley, a Long Island hit man who just wants to be loved, so much so that he can't seem to break up with either his uncomically Jewish fiancée Pam (Applegate) or his mistress Chantel (Rochon). Things come to a head when, desperate for cash in order to keep Chantel happy, he takes a moonlighting gig with his buddies and ends up kidnapping Keiko (Chow), the goddaughter of head honcho Paris (Brooks, of Deep Space Nine). From here on out, it's one long, long, long chase to avoid slaughter by his old henchman Cisco (Phillips), who's turned tail and is out to save his own skin by flaying Melvin's. Confused yet? Ah, but this is just the first 20 minutes, grasshopper. Incidental comedy comes and goes in The Big Hit like artillery at a Triad block party, but very little of it connects. Thankfully, director Wong has a firm grasp on the action, and plenty of skillfully over-the-top shoot-outs litter the film like spent shell casings, but all action and an incomprehensible plot make for one strange hybrid. This almost feels like one of Sammo Hung's early comedy misfires, although it enjoys a bigger budget and the added bonus of Elliott Gould as a Passover lush. Mark Walhberg's adenoidal monotone works to good effect in The Big Hit's first 30 minutes or so, but a running gag involving a late video store rental and his character's wanton inanities quickly make one wish for surcease from this emerging master of unfunny comedy. Phillips, Woodbine, Brooks, and all the rest of Wahlberg's crew turn their acting up to "11" and then rip the knobs off. Never have I seen so much ham in a film with so many overtly Jewish characters, nor would I care to again. Christina Applegate, so good in Gregg Araki's Nowhere, reverts here to her Married With Children mode, while, in the background, Lela Rochon seems to screech every other line, drawing out her consonants in ways that'd make Urkel proud. A genuinely freakish melange of bad acting, godawful production design, and one of the most convoluted plots of the Nineties, The Big Hit is for masochists only, and hardcore ones at that. (5/1/98)
0 stars (M.S.)
Alamo Drafthouse, Great Hills, Tinseltown North
THE BIG LEBOWSKI
D: Joel Coen; with Jeff Bridges, John Goodman, Julianne Moore, Steve Buscemi, John Turturro, David Huddleston, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Sam Elliott, Ben Gazzara, Jon Polito, Tara Reid, Peter Stormare, Jimmie Dale Gilmore, David Thewlis, Flea, Torsten Voges. (R, 117 min.)
The Coen Brothers ñ Joel and Ethan ñ go for broke in The Big Lebowski, and we the viewers are the winners. With The Big Lebowski they take their now-familiar brand of absurdist mystery/crime/thriller ñ writ visually large ñ and turn the whole melange into a fresh new affair. It's paved with delightfully irregular and unanticipated bits of business that stimulate the viewer to stay fully alert, while renewing our faith in the sheer joy of watching movies. In its wonderful title sequence, The Big Lebowski quite literally announces itself as a tumbling tumbleweed of a movie, a go-with-the-flow yarn that intends to drift toward cohesion. And who better to star in a tall tale such as this than a go-with-the-flow character like the Dude (Bridges)? The Dude is a lazy, crumpled leftover from the Sixties whose laid-back daily routine has been pared down to the essentials: weed, White Russians, and bowling with his pals Walter (Goodman), a hotheaded and hazily militaristic vet full of half-baked ideas and an ability to bring any discussion back to 'Nam, and Donny (Buscemi), a dim but good-hearted schlub who always lags a beat or two behind any conversation. A case of mistaken identity causes some nasty goons to break into the Dude's ramshackle apartment, rough him up, and soil his rug. All the Dude wants now is his rug ("because it really tied the room together"), so at Walter's urging he follows the trail of the rug-pissers and thereby becomes embroiled in an intersecting mix of kidnapping, pornography, German nihilists, sultry women, gumshoes, missing money, and missing toes. It's almost enough to interfere with league bowling. But, oh, the characters the Dude meets along the wayÖ. The film is populated with rich, colorful figures: David Huddleston as the Big Lebowski, a wealthy, pompous, wheelchair-bound corporate achiever; Philip Seymour Hoffman as his toady assistant; Julianne Moore as the idiosyncratically mannered artist Maude; Ben Gazzara as the porn entrepreneur Jackie Treehorn; and Sam Elliott as the Stranger, the cowpoke whose inexplicably omniscient voiceover narrates the Dude's story. Then there are all the secondary characters, any of whom could be excised from the story and never hurt the narrative flow. We are the ones who would be deprived of never having known them ñ characters like Jesus, John Turturro's heart-arresting turn as the flamboyant Latin pederast bowler; David Thewlis' perversely twittering art-world friend of Maude's; and Smokey, the pacifist bowler played by Jimmie Dale Gilmore. Also punctuating The Big Lebowski are a couple of visually wild and elaborate fantasy/dream sequences, one of them a Busby Berkeley bowling/porn phantasmagoria more outsized and ambitious than anything the Coen Brothers have tried in the past. More like Raising Arizona with its crazy kidnapping plot than straight-ahead narratives like Fargo, The Big Lebowski is also very site specific. It is an L.A. movie, calling to mind the worlds of Raymond Chandler and The Big Sleep. All the film's details ñ cinematography, costumes, music ñ are note perfect. Some viewers have criticized the movie for being too much of a shaggy dog story, lacking a cohesive point or purpose. Yet to look for the point is to miss it entirely. Coen-heads hop aboard for the ride. (3/6/98)
4.5 stars (M.B.)
Arbor, Dobie, Westgate
BLACK DOG
D: Kevin Hooks; with Patrick Swayze, Meat Loaf, Randy Travis, Gabriel Casseus, Brian Vincent, Brenda Strong, Charles Dutton, Stephen Tobolowsky. (PG-13, 89 min.)
Patrick Swayze does some "dirty driving" in this routine trucker tale. There hasn't been a good truck-driving movie on the horizon since the glory days of CB radios and convoys. Black Dog does nothing to alter that situation. It's the kind of movie that gives good trucker movies (i.e., Jonathan Kaplan's White Line Fever, Sam Peckinpah's Convoy, Steven Spielberg's Duel and Hal Needham's first Smokey and the Bandit) a bad name. A butched-up Swayze plays Jack Crews, an unlicensed trucker hauling an illegal shipment of AK-47s from Atlanta to Newark, New Jersey. Jack used to be one of the best truckers around but then he pushed too far and saw the Black Dog ñ the apparition reportedly seen by sleepy truckers at the end of the line. Jack's run-in with the Black Dog caused the death of two individuals. Now, after serving two years in prison, Jack has been released, minus his license to operate a rig. All he wants at this point is to do right by his wife and young daughter. But the bank is trying to foreclose on his house and his boss wants him to drive just this one illegal shipment, so what's an earnest, well-intentioned guy to do? Director Kevin Hooks demonstrates his massive versatility as he switches from the airplane action of Passenger 57 to the truck theatrics of Black Dog. The script by William Mickelberry and Dan Vining woefully slides by on autopilot and sports some of the worst dialogue this side of Quest for Fire. Lots of trucks get blown up real good (especially when colliding with trains or hurtling off cliffs). Swayze maintains a stolid, low-key presence throughout but it seems, well, too stolid and low-key for someone caught in the eye of this death run. Randy Travis has a tongue-in-cheek good time with his role as a trucker who writes tuneless country songs in his abundant spare time. Meat Loaf, on the other hand, as the gospel-spouting bad guy and sputtering loon, plays a character more tired than yesterday's meatloaf. The usually reliable Charles Dutton and Stephen Tobolowsky are utterly wasted as the squabbling FBI and ATF chiefs in charge of the mission. Black Dog is best kept on a short leash. (5/8/98)
0 stars (M.B.)
Tinseltown North
BULWORTH
D: Warren Beatty; with Beatty, Halle Barry, Oliver Platt, Jack Warden, Christine Baranski, Paul Sorvino, Richard Sarafian, Don Cheadle, Isaiah Washington, Amiri Baraka, Sean Astin, Laurie Metcalf. (R, 108 min.)
Smart, funny, and even a little bit dangerous, Warren Beatty's new film Bulworth is an all-out attack on mediocrity, no matter its address ñ Hollywood, Washington, or whatever street you perchance call home. Beatty's unwilling to accept mediocrity in the body politic and he's unwilling to accept it for himself as an artist. Thus he has created this political satire that's as fresh and exhilarating as anything we've seen come out of Hollywood in quite some time, and certainly more invigorating than anything he himself has produced as of late (see Dick Tracy and Love Affair for examples). Even more challenging, Bulworth treads a delicate line between political consciousness-tweaking and goofball slapstick so that you're never 100 percent certain whether you're seeing a farce with surprisingly sharp teeth or a drama featuring a clown protagonist. That uncertainty is just one of the ways Bulworth challenges the predictability of the status quo. As the film begins, we discover that incumbent Senator Jay Billington Bulworth (Beatty) of California seems to have come unglued. Perhaps he's just plain sick of all the lying and manipulation and currying of favors that it takes to keep the wheels of government rolling. Maybe he's sick of the rubber-chicken circuit and the bland political platitudes he hears coming from his mouth and the family who's only present in his life for photo ops and other state occasions. Or maybe it's just that life-and-death decisions shouldn't be made when one is feeling suicidal. But whatever it is, it's got a hold of him bad. So on the eve of the 1996 primaries, Bulworth discreetly arranges to have himself assassinated. Ironically, the knowledge of his pending demise proves incredibly liberating and the new freedom spurs him to start speaking his mind. Then, after a night of low-down partying in Compton, Bulworth is not only speaking his mind, but he now speaks it in pithy rapper's rhymes. By the time pretty Nina (Barry) catches his eye, he's starting to have so much fun with his new unfettered way of thinking and speaking that he wants to call off the assassinationÖ if only he knew how. It could be said that Bulworth's targets are mostly safe and audience-friendly institutions: the insurance industry, health care, and the empty promises of the Democratic party. But as Bulworth, Beatty nevertheless manages to slip in a surprising number of pointed zingers. Beatty is also unafraid here to look his age (more apparent as the movie progresses and the character's lack of sleep and intake of drugs begin to exert their toll) and appear clumsily idiotic as an over-the-hill, white-boy rapper decked out in baggy shorts and woolen cap. None of this is status quo for a Hollywood movie. Neither is the May-December interracial subplot (which Bulworth himself also manages to comment on before we have a chance to roll our eyes at this movie contrivance). With a good deal of the film's action taking place in the Compton ghetto, the film might also be faulted for its seeming reliance on black urban stereotypes, but really, the whole movie uses the shorthand of stereotypes ñ be they smarmy insurance agents, fawning press flacks, overweening Jews, and so on. Assisting Beatty in this project is a spectacular group of actors. Oliver Platt's wry turn as the senator's assistant is a true delight in itself, and the appearance of activist/playwright/poet Amiri Baraka as a roving street shaman is another unexpected pleasure. Only Halle Barry remains somewhat inscrutable as a character, which is just about the only misstep of the movie. Like its namesake, Bulworth the movie will not go gentle into the good night. (5/22/98)
4.0 stars (M.B.)
Great Hills, Lake Creek, Lakehills, Lincoln, Riverside, Roundrock, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South
CHINESE BOX
D: Wayne Wang; with Jeremy Irons, Gong Li, Maggie Cheung, Ruben Blades, Michael Hui. (R, 110 min.)
In the new movie by Wayne Wang (Chan Is Missing, The Joy Luck Club, Smoke), you can't scratch yourself without knocking elbows against the enigmatic metaphors crowding in on all sides. Starting with the portentous title, the complex political issues of Hong Kong's transfer from British to Chinese rule are variously symbolized by hacked-open fish with hearts still beating, a jilted and disfigured young woman, and a pathetic dog who amuses his master by running to exhaustion on a treadmill. Unfortunately, even for a fan of Wang's earnestly humane cinema, Chinese Box is likely to invoke yet another image: a slightly confused-looking Chinese-American man flinging random buckets full of shit at a movie screen and hoping something sticks. But even acknowledging this movie's high school lit journal pretensions and failure to deliver the insights for which it strains so mightily, there's a touching fervor and authenticity here that makes it compelling to watch, especially if you're already tuned into Wang's sensibilities. Per the hallowed Hollywood tradition of A Dry White Season, Havana, and The Year of Living Dangerously, Chinese Box assumes our basic cluelessness about or disinterest in "furrin political doin's." To keep our attention from wandering, the story is filtered through the eyes of a jaded Western observer who's both alienated from and circumstantially bound to the culture at hand. An intense, ill-fated romance is thrown in for added flavor enhancement. Jeremy Irons steps into the classic insider/outsider role as "John," a terminally ill photojournalist trying to decipher Hong Kong's inscrutable soul before he kicks the bucket. Adding to the pathos of it all are his emotionally charged relationships with two women. One is an ex-flame named Vivian (Li) who's trying to nullify her history as a prostitute by wheedling a rich old suit (Hui) into marrying her. The other is Jean (Cheung), a mysterious, scarfaced young beauty whom John seems to regard as the key to the Big Mysteries he's chasing. If all of Wang's dreamily intoxicating images and portents of millennial revelation in this quintessential modern city seem, in the end, to offer nothing more revealing than an extra-lavish American Express commercial, it's no fault of the actors. The stunning Cheung, in particular, comes close to conveying through sheer emotional force all the elusive truth that Wang and co-screenwriters Jean-Claude Carriere (Buñuel's longtime collaborator) and Larry Gross are straining for. The craggy, sad-eyed Irons is almost as impressive, squeezing hard for the few drops of fresh juice that remain in his derivative role. Overall, Chinese Box has to be considered a failure, simply because it achieves so few of its own clearly implied goals. Yet it's a failure that bodes well for Wang's future work. With its passion, unexpected outbursts of emotional rawness, and shameless reach for spiritual grandeur, it's a sharp break from the wan, aimless whimsicality that were becoming the director's trademarks. As artistic personae go, existential turmoil is more appealing than middle-aged slackerdom any time. (5/15/98)
2.5 stars (R.S.)
Village
CITY OF ANGELS
D: Brad Silberling; with Nicolas Cage, Meg Ryan, Dennis Franz, Andre Braugher. (PG-13, 116 min.)
For many cinephiles, the notion of an Americanized remake of Wim Wenders' haunting film about an angel that aspires to become human, Wings of Desire, is nothing short of blasphemous. Although some may debate whether Wenders' film is indeed great, few would disagree with the assessment that Wings of Desire is a work imbued with a sense of greatness. Its lush black-and-white images of angels watching over us everywhere, consoling a troubled humanity, is indelibly comforting, one of the closest things to poetry ever achieved on film. So, the question is: Is City of Angels a faithful reworking of Wings of Desire, or a misguided bastardization of it? Unfortunately, it's more of the latter. While the storyline is more or less the same ñ witnessing the mysteries of the human race, a celestial spirit yearns for mortal experience ñ the emphasis in City of Angels is more on simple romance than lofty questions of eternity. Set in Los Angeles rather than Berlin, the film's first half appropriates a few of the visual and aural concepts of Wenders' work, although the sight of angels resting on a freeway exit sign, as opposed to perched atop the Reichstag eagle, is a less arresting one. But eventually, rather than ponder philosophical issues to which there are no easy answers, it takes a familiar story of self-sacrifice and gives it a high-concept spin: Angel gives up his ethereal existence to be with the woman he loves. While you can argue that Wenders' film is too talky and ponderous, there's the sense that City of Angels trivializes its predecessor's themes, particularly in the way that the love story traditionally plays. You know the drill; it's as old as the Greeks: Angel meets girl, angel loses girl, angel gets girl, tragedy ensues. Maybe it's the unshakable memory of his performances in movies such as Moonstruck, Raising Arizona, and Face/Off, but Cage's attempts to register a beatific saintliness here is often spooky. The first physical meeting between Cage's Seth and the object of his desire, the heart surgeon Maggie, occurs in a hospital hallway after visiting hours. Wearing a long black overcoat, speaking in a hoarse whisper of a voice, and making little to no sense in his conversation, this modern-day Gabriel looks and acts more like a deranged stalker than a heavenly being ñ how is it that she trusts him, finds herself so mysteriously drawn to him? Any sane person would have called Security immediately. But even if you accept this plot contrivance, the consummation of this union of souls isn't very emotionally involving ñ it lacks that transcendence you associate with stories in which love knows no bounds. Watching this film disintegrate into something close to being hackneyed, you ultimately wish that Seth had never chosen to fall to earth to take human form. It's a tumble from which City of Angels never fully recovers. (4/17/98)
2.0 stars (S.D.)
Barton Creek, Gateway, Highland, Lakeline, Roundrock, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South
DANCER, TEXAS POP. 81
D: Tim McCanlies, with Breckin Meyer, Peter Facinelli, Ethan Embry, Eddie Mills, Patricia Wettig, Eddie Jones, Alexandra Holden, Wayne Tippit. (PG, 97 min.)
There are so many captivating characters, so many funny moments, and so much sweet affection in this movie, its ending comes as a sorrowful leave-taking. You're tempted to wave goodbye to it (if you have a hankie to wave, so much the better) and linger in your seat long after the lights have come up. John, Keller, Squirrel, and Terrell Lee are four fast friends who are fixin' to graduate and make good on their childhood pact to get the heck out of Dancer, Texas, thereby decreasing their hometown's population by five percent. Their plans are to head out to L.A., believing that their small-town woes will disappear once they're west of the Rockies. Most of the townspeople know better, of course ñ some hold their counsel, some relate long and (hilariously) tragic tales about the fate of similar odysseys, and still others make book on how many, if any, of the four will actually leave. And, indeed, as the film progresses, it looks as if the skeptical bookie will prosper. Faced with imminent departure, each boy struggles with the childhood vow, and just who will take that westbound bus is uncertain. The hours that unfold between graduation and the estimated time of departure tell a loving and funny tale of small-town life distilled into the creak of a porch swing or the dust from a speeding car on a lonely highway, a tale of opportunities that beckon and ties that bind. Writer/director Tim McCanlies proves that rural wit is not an oxymoron. A wonderful script is matched by a terrific cast. Meyer (Keller) and Mills (John) are particular standouts. Keller is eager to leave and angry at his friends' defection, but he is Dancer's Everyman, a restless native son who is (and makes us) acutely aware of why they would choose to stay. Mills is simply big, big star material. Though John is the quietest of the four boys, Mills' slight frame and scrubbed face emit something powerful and pure, with a connection to that vast land that goes far beyond his years. His John is an anathema to L.A., a young man you'd like to meet. Patricia Wettig (thirtysomething) has a scene-stealing turn as Terrell Lee's mama. She captures a quality peculiar to rich Texas women: the ability to be icily brittle and sashay down the street at the same time. The film is filled with such performances ñ fond and funny and never condescending. Shot entirely in the Fort Davis area, Dancer, Texas is a gorgeous picture that makes wonderful use of the West Texas landscape. We can breathe the air, squint at the sun, and feel dwarfed by the towering buttes and endless sky. And, sitting in traffic on I-35, I feel like getting the heck out of Austin and heading straight for Dancer, Texas, where the deer and the antelope and a bunch of warm and witty characters roam. (5/1/98)
4.0 stars (H.C.)
Barton Creek, Gateway, Highland, Tinseltown North
DEEP IMPACT
D: Mimi Leder; with Robert Duvall, Tea Leoni, Elijah Wood, Vanessa Redgrave, Maximilian Schell, Morgan Freeman. (PG-13, 123 min.)
The first of this summer's dueling comet films, Leder's Deep Impact takes the high road and offers up more tearful reunions than actual fireballs and more egregious, sappy dialogue than you can shake a tsunami at. How does the world end? Not with a bang, but with a sniffle. Leder brackets the earth's demise around three sets of characters: Wood's 14-year-old Leo Beiderman, who first sights the offending celestial object while out star-spotting with his high school astronomy club; Leoni's Jenny Lerner, an ambitious MSNBC journalist with plenty of familial issues; and Duvall's Spurgeon Tanner, the old-guard astronaut picked to head up a U.S.-Russian team sent to intercept and possibly destroy the comet before it wipes out the summer blockbuster season as we know it. Leder (and co-screenwriters Michael Tolkin and Bruce Joel Rubin) move things along at a stately pace ñ we're 30 minutes into the film before the world is alerted to the impending crisis, but even then, there are still 10 months left before impact. Deep Impact uses the time to set up a "what if?" scenario that includes everything from the building of massive, underground bunkers that will preserve 200,000 of the best and brightest Americans (alongside an 800,000-strong lottery drawing) to the media's reaction to the largest story of all time, and from young love blooming in the face of overwhelming catastrophe to estranged families returning to the nest as the Eastern seaboard is engulfed in a 2,000-mile-per-hour tidal wave that makes James Cameron's Abyss wave look positively tedious. Still, this is a film about people (James Horner's lush, painfully obvious score keeps reminding you of that), and as it moves from one crisis to the next (i.e., Will Leo's newfound girlfriend make the lottery? Will Jenny forgive her philandering father?), the sheer weight of all the Melrose-esque storylines threatens to crush the forward momentum of the action saga at the heart of the tale. By far and away the slowest-moving disaster film since Irwin Allen's passing, Leder here trains her lens perhaps too closely on her characters in lieu of the action. It doesn't help matters that despite the close, personal attention to characterization, there's virtually no character development, or none that you wouldn't find outside of a TV Movie of the Week. Somber and reflective, the film seems leaden and moribund. Even Freeman's stilted, Jesse Jackson-esque speechifying ("lifeÖ will go on") is comically trite, evoking more chuckles than tears. So weighty, so serious, so very deadly dull, Deep Impact is a panacea for all those who complained about too many damn explosions in their summer action diet. Now you know: Be careful what you wish for. (5/8/98)
2.0 stars (M.S.)
Gateway, Lake Creek, Lincoln, Northcross, Riverside, Roundrock, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South, Westgate
FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS
D: Terry Gilliam; with Johnny Depp, Benicio Del Toro, Gary Busey, Christina Ricci, Cameron Diaz, Ellen Barkin, Tobey Maguire, Michael Jeter. (R, 119 min.)
You know the feeling you get when you're the only straight person in a room full of people who are all ripped out of their gourds? That painful realization that you're over-the-counter while everyone else is under-the-tableÖ way under? Watching the film version of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas is something like that experience. Not very much fun to observe, yet altogether fascinating. All the naysayers who, over the years, have pronounced Hunter S. Thompson's counterculture classic to be "unfilmable" have now been proved wrong. Co-conspirators Terry Gilliam, Johnny Depp, and Benicio Del Toro have executed the book's transition to the screen almost flawlessly. That flawlessness, in fact, may almost be the problem. There's something about that extra layer of distancing that a book can offer and the screen can't, which in this case might account for why film viewers feel vaguely discomforted by an icky fifth-wheel sensation. The film is amazingly faithful to Thompson's presciently gonzo tome in which a journalist's assignment to cover a motorbike racing event outside Las Vegas turns into a twisted, first-person descent into the demented psyche of the unraveling American Dream. It's a journey fueled, of course, by a legendarily prodigious amount of drugs, extracts, and epicurean black-market imbibeables ñ enough to turn Thompson's alter-ego Raoul Duke (Depp) and his sidekick attorney (Del Toro) into drooling, manic madmen, visionaries of the apocalypse but imbeciles of the immediate reality. The film's most stunning achievement is the veracity of its portrait of the hallucinatory drug state. It's use of state-of-the-art visual technology to create such illusions as winged bats, carpet patterns enveloping their human cargo, and hotel-bar patrons morphing into frightening lounge lizards (courtesy of Rob Bottin) is no less true and dazzling than its ability to capture such moments as the drug-addled paranoia, the twisted perceptions, the mescaline-induced puking, and the more-is-better credo in action. The camerawork by cinematographer Nicola Pecorini (making his feature filmmaking debut here) is a constantly amazing thing to watch, full of strange lenses and intoxicating movements that serve the material well. Also note-perfect are the performances of Depp and Del Toro, whose spooky renditions of their subjects are kinetically compelling wonders. And Gilliam, whose body of work as a director is a virtual testament to the belief that madness is indeed a salve for the soul, seems the perfect director for this "unfilmable" material. So why doesn't this movie work? I think it has something to do with the film's focus on the fictional character of Raoul Duke as the story's protagonist. As a "character" Duke assumes the proportions of a drug-addled buffoon. The movie obscures the key aspect of Duke as the "alter ego" for this wonderfully insightful observer known as Hunter S. Thompson. Even though the film faithfully quotes long portions of the book in continuous voiceovers, we get little sense of the writer and journalist who "shapes" this adventure into a thing of commentary. By focusing on the excess, the film loses Thompson's philosophical mooring in the belief in excess as a valid path to wisdom. And it's that wisdom which may be the untranslatable part of the book. It's what comes through when we read about all this stuff on the page, when we recognize that the experiences have all been sifted through the mental process that translates thought into expression. The immediacy of the movies may contradict the ideological conceit at the heart of gonzo journalism ñ that being the idea of the observer creating a fiction that's more true than the movies. Ironically, the film may be a better tribute to the artwork of Ralph Steadman than the writing of Thompson. Steadman's garish illustrations have always been an undervalued element in most understandings of the book's success, and it's certainly this film's visual qualities that truly set it apart. At any rate, the movie is clearly intriguing in ways it may not have intended. Unfortunately, in ways that it probably did intend to engage, Fear and Loathing has much more bark than bite. (5/22/98)
2.5 stars (M.B.)
Arbor, Highland, Lake Creek, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South, Westgate
THE GINGERBREAD MAN
D: Robert Altman; with Kenneth Branagh, Embeth Davidtz, Robert Downey Jr., Daryl Hannah, Tom Berenger, Robert Duvall. (R, 114 min.)
The Gingerbread Man is Robert Altman's best film in many a season, and certainly his best genre piece since The Long Goodbye. The Gingerbread Man is also probably the most stylish and original John Grisham story on film. Thus, it's odd that the movie has experienced so much trouble along the way. After Altman's original cut of the suspense film scored low with test audiences, PolyGram took the film from the director and re-cut it, while Altman threatened to rescind his name from the credits. But then PolyGram's edit scored just as poorly, so the company restored Altman's original cut. Yet, following the film's bicoastal bows back in January, PolyGram has been slow to roll it out to the rest of the country. Additionally, there's the issue of Grisham's authorship, The Gingerbread Man being the first story the novelist wrote directly for the screen. Reportedly unhappy with Altman's final take on the dialogue, Grisham had his name removed; the screenplay is now credited to the pseudonymous Al Hayes. Be that as it may, The Gingerbread Man probably presents Grisham's most morally ambiguous legal-eagle hero to date. Branagh plays Savannah lawyer Rick Magruder, a high-powered attorney with a perfect conviction record and a weakness for anything in a skirt. As the film opens, Magruder's offer to drive Mallory Doss (Davidtz) home after her car has been stolen is just the thing that nudges open the whole Pandora's box of mayhem that is to follow. Nicely counterbalancing the story's brewing emotional, legal, and moral tempest is the ongoing backdrop of Hurricane Geraldo which is bearing down on Savannah. Altman makes good use of the impending storm and milks it for all its thematic, ironic, and atmospheric possibilities. Altman's Savannah differs from the quaint portrait of the city seen recently in Clint Eastwood's Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. Altman's Savannah is a town of insidiously creeping Spanish moss, a city of sharp class divisions, and a savvy center of the New South. With the stunning assistance of cinematographer Changwei Gu (Ju Dou, Farewell, My Concubine), Altman creates a moody sense of incipient menace. Small, seemingly inconsequential things generate nagging feelings of concern and dread. It's a beautifully carved tale of suspense. And as usual in an Altman film, the performances are outstanding marvels. Branagh's command of Magruder's well-oiled Southern charms are enough to make you forget he ever had a Shakespearean bone in his body. Embeth Davidtz has never had an opportunity to reveal as many facets of her skills as she does in this role, and Daryl Hannah is practically unrecognizable as Magruder's sharp, buttoned-down and buttoned-up brunette assistant. Robert Downey Jr., as a seedy private investigator, is utterly captivating as the film's second-banana, but Robert Duvall is the show's resident eccentric as the crazy backwoods coot who is Mallory's father. A less-than-tidy (and all-too-tidy)third act mars some of the jagged momentum that has built to that point, but The Gingerbread Man is a tasty treat nonetheless. (5/15/98)
3.5 stars (M.B.)
Arbor
GODZILLA
D: Roland Emmerich; with Matthew Broderick, Jean Reno, Maria Pitillo, Hank Azaria, Kevin Dunn, Michael Lerner, Harry Shearer, Arabella Field, Vicki Lewis. (PG-13, 139 min.)
Another summer, another giant lizard. Whoops, what am I saying?! This is Godzilla's made-in-America debut, and nothing to sniff at lest I incur the wrath of those two diminutive maidens from Godzilla vs. the Thing. As a longtime fan of the 22-and-counting Godzilla films cranked out by Japan's Toho Studios since 1956's Godzilla: King of the Monsters, I went into this newest addition with the same kind of jittery, wary enthusiasm usually reserved for weddings, bar mitzvahs, and funerals. Despite being shrouded in secrecy and having that annoyingly effective tagline "Size Does Matter" plastered across the country, the Green Giant was effectively kept out of the pages of Entertainment Weekly and off Harry Knowles' website (no mean feat) by his handlers, Roland Emmerich and writer Dean Devlin (Independence Day). Sadly though, as it turns out, this Godzilla looks like George Foreman after an irradiated rumble in the jungle. With a huge, jutting, Jack Kirby-esque jaw and a spade-like head, he looks and moves far too much like an overgrown Spielbergian Velociraptor. Appearances aside, though, Emmerich and Devlin's film fails to live up to the hype as well, with plenty of miscast characters and groan-inducing humor and homages that leave you wishing you had rented Destroy All Monsters instead. Godzilla begins on a high note, as the title sequence gives us a glimpse into the origin of the big lizard ñ just as you always suspected, it's those pesky French nuclear tests in the Polynesian islands. Once mutated, Godzilla (accidentally renamed from the correct Japanese Gojira) makes his way toward New York City to ñ surprise ñ lay eggs in the subway system. Broderick, as Greek "worm guy" Dr. Niko Tatopoulos is called in to lend his expertise regarding giant, asexual lizards while his old flame, journalist Audrey Timmonds (Pitillo), covers the breaking story from the front lines. Where's Raymond Burr when you really need him? Alas, this Godzilla is lacking both the awesome spirit of the original and the sublime silliness of the more recent Toho outings. A running gag concerning a Siskel and Ebert mayoral duo is downright ridiculous, and poor Matthew Broderick's Tatopolous is one of the decade's great misfires, nearly as goofy as Elisabeth Shue's cold-fusion expert in last year's The Saint. The real star of the film then is the fluidily imaginative effects work by visual effects supervisor Volker Engel and designer Patrick Tatopolous (that's right, they named the main character after their model-maker). The many, many shots of Godzilla racing through the labyrinthine corridors of downtown Manhattan are especially effective, with swarms of helicopters overhead and tons of rubble crashing down everywhere. Still, this isn't the knock-'em-dead update we'd been expecting. Falling somewhere between Godzilla '85 and Godzilla vs. the Cosmic Monster in terms of purist quality, it's a misfire on many different levels. Still, you're going to go see it, so do yourself a favor and rent King of the Monsters to watch later, compare, and see how effective the original still is. (5/22/98)
2.5 stars (M.S.)
Barton Creek, Gateway, Highland, Lakeline, Northcross, Riverside, Roundrock, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South
GOOD WILL HUNTING
D: Gus Van Sant; with Robin Williams, Matt Damon, Ben Affleck, Stellan Skarsgard, Minnie Driver. (R, 126 min.)
Will Hunting (Damon) is a "Southie" ñ a twentysomething kid from the rough-and-tumble neighborhoods of South Boston. By day he works construction with his best friend Chuckie (Affleck) and by night he works as a janitor, mopping the hallowed halls of M.I.T. When he's not doing that he's out drinking down at the local pub or engaging in the sort of street-tough shenanigans that gave Alex in A Clockwork Orange such a bad name. And when he's not doing all that, he's anonymously solving some of the toughest mathematical equations that M.I.T. professor Lambeau (Skarsgard) can pitch to his students. Will is a misplaced genius, "an Einstein," the kind of mental gymnast who comes along maybe once in a generation, if that, and when he gets nailed by the cops and stands facing some hard time, Professor Lambeau tracks down this wunderkind and packs him off to his old psychologist pal Sean McGuire (Williams), himself an ex-Southie from those same mean streets. It's here that Will opens up about his battered childhood, his mental prowess, and his seeming lack of ambition, and also where a steady war of wills begins to simmer, Southie vs. Southie. Co-written by real-life pals Affleck and Damon, Good Will Hunting is the sort of coming-of-age story that all too often bogs down in cheap, sentimental claptrap and budding-wisdom brouhahas, but Van Sant and a very, very solid cast keep the film from breaking up, at least until the final reel or so. Will's romantic interest, the pre-med Skylar (Driver) at first seems to be such a stock deus ex machina that you grit your teeth, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but Van Sant never lets it happen; she's not Will Hunting's clever, witty salvation, at least not in the classic, screen sense. That comes from William's McGuire, a crotchety, angry, seething psych professor who's trapped in the painful aftermath caused by his wife's death from cancer and his refusal to rejoin the living. He's Will's mirror image, and he knows it. It's the key to both their salvations. I've been wondering recently just who the hell Matt Damon is and why he adorns the covers of so many magazines when he's done so little film work thus far, but I have to admit, he shines in the role of Will. Will is 30% cocky bravado, 30% violent thug, and 40% bewildered mastermind, and Damon plays up a storm as he ricochets off Williams (in one of his best "serious" turns yet) and pals around with Affleck with the sort of ease you feel they share in real life. Things stumble a bit in the third act as emotional speeches flow like cheap red wine and Good Will Hunting threatens to spill over the dams of pathos, but it's never so much that Van Sant loses sight of the film's original intentions. Part character study, part redemptive drama, and all cheesy heart, it's Boston-baked melodrama, a little too gooey at times, but still pretty delicious. (12/26/97)
3.0 stars (M.S.)
Arbor, Lake Creek, Westgate
HE GOT GAME
D: Spike Lee; with Denzel Washington, Ray Allen, Rosario Dawson, Milla Jovovich, Ned Beatty, Hill Harper, Bill Nunn, Jim Brown, Zelda Harris, Lonette McKee. (R, 136 min.)
With He Got Game, the director most capable of delivering Hollywood's first truly great hoop drama squares up at the three-point line and takes a big, no-conscience shot for all the marbles. The result? Well, neither a brick nor an extension of Malik Hassan Sayeed's gorgeously filmed visual symphony of nothing-but-net jumpers that opens the movie. Among several factors that keep this nervy, ambitious film from delivering the emotional slam dunk promised by those dazzling images, one of the most puzzling is Lee's failure to play to his strength. For all his superfan's intimacy with b-ball culture, he focuses less on the sport's fascinating mystique than on generic recapitulation of how celebrity culture seduces and devours young minority athletes. The two key players are ultrastud schoolboy hoopster Jesus Shuttlesworth (Ray Allen of the NBA's Milwaukee Bucks) and his dad, Jake (Denzel Washington), who's in prison for accidentally killing his wife. Jake catches a break early on when the jocksniffing New York governor offers to furlough him out and trim his sentence if he can wheedle Jesus (whose name is, regrettably, milked for every lame biblical play on words you can imagine) into playing for his alma mater. With the upstanding but harried youngster already ducking swarms of human parasites ñ agents, coaches, journalists, and his conniving girlfriend ñ who all claim to have his best interests at heart, the sudden reappearance of his less-than-beloved Pops is just one more cause for suspicion and bitterness. With brilliant recent documentaries like Hoop Dreams and Soul in the Hole having already covered similar situations with the force of great fictional drama, it behooves Lee to dig for still deeper revelations. Instead, due to an apparently conscious decision to reduce every character and situation to generic archetypes (even the colleges wooing Jesus have names like Big State and Tech U) in search of mythic universality, he ends up telling us nothing we don't already know about how money, hype, and celebrity mania trash the virginal purity of sports. Playing a role deliberately written not to strain his limited acting range, the neophyte Allen hangs in respectably, though there's only so much variety one can inject into four or five readings of the line, "You're not my father, man!" And Washington stretches impressively in a role that calls for rough, inarticulate workingman's torment rather than the debonair suavity for which he's known. But despite the affecting father-son storyline and Lee's ability to deliver scenes that sizzle with an indie-film freshness and vitality few mainstream directors even try to match, too many other scenes (including the finale) are bombastic groaners that rampage across the line separating big-heartedness and schlock. To rate such a wildly uneven film essentially forces an aggregate, rather than general evaluation. There's just too much to cover with one clean toss of the critical net. But then, that's Spike Lee as we've always known him. Sometimes brilliantly on target, sometimes way off, but never afraid to take the big shots that safer, more risk-averse filmmakers pass off when the artistic stakes are high. (5/1/98)
3.0 stars (R.S.)
Great Hills, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South, Westgate
HANA-BI (FIREWORKS)
D: Takeshi Kitano; with Takeshi Kitano, Kayoko Kishimoto, Ren Osugi, Susumu Terajima. (Not Rated, 103 min.)
Like some omnicompetent Buckaroo Banzai of Japanese pop culture, Takeshi "Beat" Kitano services his teeming domestic fan base with a constant output of self-written and -directed films, TV and radio shows, newspaper columns, novels, painting, poetry, and lord knows what else. But until now, the absurdly prolific 50-year-old auteur has hardly breached the perimeter of American cultural awareness, existing for the most part as a passing sub-reference in hipsteroid conversation and journalism. Fireworks, Kitano's multi-award-winning seventh film (but first to be widely released in the U.S.) should fix that. Tenuously related by theme to the Seventies Death Wish genre of films about decent but not-to-be-fucked-with everymen, it's so much more than that in so many ways that few of the standard reference points really apply. Like the wooden puzzle one of its characters constantly manipulates, the film's narrative structure is composed of basic, minimal forms that combine to create a startling variety of dramatic effects. The story deals with converging crises in the lives of a tough, stoic ex-cop named Nishi (Kitano, who looks sort of like an Asian half-brother to Robert Blake). His wife terminally sick, his old recent partner paralyzed in a shooting caused partly by Nishi's absence, and his indebtedness to yakuza mobsters a growing threat to life and limb, Nishi decides to pull a bank heist to solve his money problems and help his near-and-dears. Violence ñ vivid, startling, and disturbingly realistic ñ occurs at regular intervals. Nishi broods stoically behind ever-present sunshades, marinating in remorse and loathing as he simultaneously plots his crime and attends to his wife and crippled partner. But Fireworks isn't really a caper movie, or a payback movie, or an Eastwoodesque Portrait of the Hardass as a Middle-Aged Man. Critical cop-out though it may seem, you really need to see this film to appreciate the sheer creative vigor that crackles through it like static current inside one of those glass lightning-globe toys. Kitano's distinctiveness isn't expressed in tour de force set-pieces like those of John Woo, nor through stylistic quirks that can readily be imitated and commodified à la Tarantino. Much of the imagination in Fireworks seems lavished on the quiet intervals between the plot turns. An overhead shot of night fireworks fades into one of a massive painting of a flower. Blood drips from a white car onto new-fallen snow. In a serene pointillist painting, a man stares at peaceful cloud banks; by his side is a (recently used?) sword stuck in the dirt. Kitano's wholly original interplay of matter-of-fact savagery, whimsy, surrealism, and pure aesthetic reverie is the freshest thing I've seen in some time. It's the sort of revelatory experience you only need once in a hundred trips to the movies to keep you going back. Efforts to pin down its odd seductive power are as futile as, say, describing the specific sense of disorientation you feel at the instant when a darting cloud suddenly obscures the sun, throwing all your perceptions into a new light before you realize what's happened. Disquieting, but subtly consciousness-expanding. Just see the movie. (5/22/98)
4.0 stars (R.S.)
Village
THE HORSE WHISPERER
D: Robert Redford; with Redford, Kristin Scott Thomas, Sam Neill, Dianne Wiest, Scarlett Johansson, Chris Cooper, Cherry Jones, Ty Hillman, Catherine Bosworth. (PG-13, 164 min.)
I detect the scent of a golden statuette wafting in the breeze. Redford's adaptation of Nicholas Evans' bestselling novel is a countrified, monolithic thing of beauty ñ gorgeous to behold despite the fact that its overlong two-hour-and-45-minute running time plays off Redford's weather-beaten golden boy good looks far too often for its own good. It's an homage to all things Redfordian ñ the Big Sky country of Montana; the mercurial, saturnine beauty of the horses; and the redemptive power of love, patience, and the great outdoors. The film opens with a masterful sequence that sets the tone for the whole piece. On a snowy winter's morning in upstate New York, 14-year-old Grace MacLean (Johansson) leaves her parents' house to ride horses with her young friend Judith (Bosworth). The two girls discuss boys and ride through the back country until they encounter gravity while climbing a slope overlooking a rural route road. Judith's horse slips, throws her, and topples backwards down the slope into the path of an oncoming tractor trailer while Grace, astride her beloved horse Pilgrim, struggles to save Judith. Amidst the swirling snow, Judith is killed, Grace loses her right leg below the knee, and Pilgrim is terribly injured, his face a gory mess and his right front leg hideously torn. When Grace recovers, she's the shell of the girl she once was: bitter, angry, and terrified of the future. Her mother Annie (Thomas), a high-powered New York magazine editor (think Tina Brown of The New Yorker), refuses to have Pilgrim put down, and instead takes her wounded daughter and the damaged horse 2,000 miles cross country to visit Tom Booker (Redford), a "horse whisperer" who may or may not be able so save the spirits and bodies of both Grace and Pilgrim, while also teaching the city-bred Annie a thing or two about the meaning of life, love, and other single syllable heavy-hitters. Left behind in the city are Grace's father (Neill) and all pretenses of a normal life. Once the story moves to Montana, Redford opens things up, literally, as the screen image widens to take in all those shots of azure skies and sweeping vistas, and all the quiet, emotional avalanches to come. Apart from being a subtle treatise on the redemptive power of the human spirit, the film might as well also be a travelogue for God's country, so enamored of the snow-capped peaks and scudding clouds is the director. Redford, a screen icon if ever there was one, doesn't do too much here except squint and squat, though he does both with panache. And Thomas, as the brittle Brit who finds the meaning of true love beside the New Age horse doctor, is all pained expressions and tousled hair. However, it's the remarkable, affecting performance of Johansson (Manny & Lo) that propels The Horse Whisperer. She's a broken ray of sunlight cutting through the icy pines, and when the film lags with endless shots of the wise Tom Booker birthing a calf or some such, it's she who keeps things focused and alive in the midst of the film's pageant of unspoken truths. (5/15/98)
3.5 stars (M.S.)
Barton Creek, Gateway, Highland, Lakeline, Northcross, Riverside, Roundrock, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South
I THINK I DO
D: Brian Sloan; with Alexis Arquette, Christian Maelen, Maddie Corman, Guillermo Diaz, Marianne Hagan, Jamie Harrold, Lauren Vélez, Tuc Watkins. (Not Rated, 90 min.)
According to the late Southern writer Carson McCullers, the world is essentially divided into two types of people: the lover and the beloved. The tragic irony of this polar situation is that, quite often, never the twain shall meet. In the good-natured romantic comedy I Think I Do, the course of true love is a bit rocky as Bob ñ genially played by a bemused Arquette ñ finds himself pursued by Brendan (Maelen), his old college roommate who spurned his advances years ago andÖ well, let's just say, things got ugly. The problem is that Bob is now in a relationship with Sterling (Watkins), who's pushing for a commitment because his figurative biological clock is ticking. (In the twentysomething perspective of the characters in I Think I Do, any age above 30 is considered no man's land.) The Big Chill weekend in which these and other school-days characters converge for a wedding provides a setting full of screwball possibilities as couples, both gay and straight, couple and uncouple, no one really knowing exactly what or who they want in the way of a romantic partnership. As its title indicates, there's no real certainty in the affairs of the heart depicted here. I Think I Do starts off slowly in establishing the confused relationship between Bob and Brendan, but once the film flashes forward to the nuptial events, the movie percolates nicely. It's farcical, but not broadly so, thought-provoking without being serious. If the narrative structure isn't as seamless as it should be, the movie is nevertheless a pleasant experience, particularly in the deft use of the clichéd tricks of the genre: keys are misplaced; conversations are misinterpreted; and, of course, there's only one bed. (The most inspired gag in the movie involves, of all things, a neck brace.) As the relationships in I Think I Do knot or unravel, a Partridge Family-inspired score gives the movie a fitting retro feel that underscores the uncertainty of romantic inclinations. It's a world in which people preface, "I love you" with the qualification, "I think." (5/22/98)
3.0 stars (S.D.)
Dobie
LOST IN SPACE
D: Stephen Hopkins; with Gary Oldman, William Hurt, Matt LeBlanc, Mimi Rogers, Heather Graham, Lacey Chabert, Jack Johnson, Jared Harris. (PG-13, 122 min.)
Next time Dad suggests the family all pile into the space camper and head out for a 10-year jaunt to another galaxy, just look the old man in the eye and tell him to cool his jets: The family that flies together, dies together. Except maybe when your launch pad happens to be in Hollywood, since everyone who takes off from there gets to live happily ever after ñ or at least live in a state of suspended resolution, bouncing directionlessly from planet to planet in an eventful yet fruitless search for a way back home. A metaphor for life? Nah, not reallyÖ just one more workmanlike recycling of an old Sixties television series, albeit with Nineties visual razzmatazz, dependable animatronics by Jim Henson's Creature Shop, and tip-of-the-hat cameos by some of the TV show's original stars (including Angela Cartwright, June Lockhart, and others). "There's a lot of space out there to get lost in," warns Professor John Robinson (Hurt) early in the film, but his grave observation seems more a promise of sequels to come than sobering philosophical caveat. And now that Lost in Space has earned the envious distinction of being the first movie in 16 weeks to knock Titanic from its #1 box-office berth, this new franchise's future seems, well, unsinkable. The fact that both chart-toppers are sagas about ships that go disastrously off course may be less a portent of Hollywood trends to come than the fact that mega-budget effects spectacles are now sure to be interpreted as the safest means of appeasing consumer demand. Such a reading ignores the rudiments of good storytelling as a factor in film excellence. Lost in Space exhibits little in the way of narrative urgency; ironically, its undemanding storyline may just be part of its secret of success. As the spaceship with our Swiss Family Robinson family of galactic explorers, stowaway villain (Oldman), randy but steadfast pilot (LeBlanc), and Forbidden Planet-issue Robot careens through space, the question is not whether they will survive, but how. Episodically eventful but utterly unsuspenseful, the film is a diversion that requires little attention and satisfies the film-going needs of a wide variety of viewers. The film sets up character attributes and situations without ever developing the elements into a cohesive two-hour-long plot line. This leaves viewers free to latch on to whatever aspects or tangents that appeal to their individual fancies. For me, these included those form-fitting cryo fetish suits the characters wear during the first 40 minutes, seeing indie world plaything Heather Graham performing as a no-nonsense scientist, watching helium-voiced Party of Five gal Lacey Chabert lusting after Friend Matt LeBlanc, and conceding that the creepy space spider attackers had already been outdone this year by the more commanding insect antagonists of Starship Troopers. Hardly a space-age Swiss Family Robinson, Lost in Space plays more like Robinson's CrewÖ So? (4/10/97)
2.0 stars (M.B.)
Lake Creek, Tinseltown North, Westgate
LES MISERABLES
D: Bille August; with Liam Neeson, Geoffrey Rush, Uma Thurman, Claire Danes, Hans Matheson, Reine Brynolfsson, Peter Vaughn. (PG-13, 129 min.)
I should confess up front that after a cursory high school reading of the classic novel and a late-Eighties viewing of the Broadway phenomenon, this is actually my first brush with a cinematic version of Victor Hugo's sprawling, melodramatic epic. That said, this version by director Bille August (Pelle the Conqueror) holds together extremely well; it's full of rich, dark hues and excellent overall casting that's highlighted by a bulky Neeson as the convict-turned-mayor-turned-redemptive archetype Jean Valjean and Rush as the grimly determined, obsessive-compulsive Inspector Javert. August is a master of distinctive shots and glowering close-ups (Thurman's woebegone Madonna/whore Fantine is almost always seen in grimy, gritty detail) and production manager Ales Komarek makes the most out of the film's Czech, Polish, and French location work. For those unfamiliar with Hugo's tale, Les Misérables begins outside of Paris in the early 19th century, when the recently paroled convict Valjean receives a new lease on life from an aging priest who parts with his silver in order to return his charge to the hands of God. Ten years later, Valjean has set himself up as the respected mayor of the community of Vigau, when his old nemesis Javert arrives in town as the new police chief. Javert recognizes and denounces Valjean, but not before the mayor falls in love with the lovely Fantine, a penniless streetwalker who soon dies of consumption. Having given his word to Fantine that he would seek out and protect her only child, the young Cosette, Valjean flees Vigau, locates Cosette, and raises her as his own daughter while hiding in a Parisian convent. Here, Cosette grows from a chipper street urchin into Claire Danes, and eventually falls for rabble-rouser Marius (Matheson), a handsome student intent on revolution. As Paris teeters on the brink of another internal disaster, Javert reappears just in time to finally arrest the saintly Valjean. That's not the final score, of course, but it's as much as I feel safe in revealing to all three of you who are new to the subject and period piece. August takes no prisoners: His Paris of 1812 and the July 1832 revolution are finely realized, crammed to bursting with scullery maids, wenches, and befouled extras. Likewise, his smooth tracking shots that snake through the subterranean sewers and the narrow, cobbled alleyways. And true to its source, August's version aroused not a few fusillades of sniffling from the audience around me. Condensing a massive tome like Les Misérables into a cohesive 129-minute film is a labor of love in any case, and August succeeds with remarkable, powerful results. (5/1/98)
3.5 stars (M.S.)
Tinseltown North, Village, Westgate
THE OBJECT OF MY AFFECTION
D: Nicholas Hytner; with Jennifer Aniston, Paul Rudd, John Pankow, Alan Alda, Nigel Hawthorne, Tim Daly, Allison Janney, Steve Zahn. (R, 112 min.)
The prevailing, cynical joke in some circles of single heterosexual women is that the only men worth marrying are already married or gay. The romantic comedy-lite The Object of My Affection comes close to perpetuating that myth in its depiction of the complicated relationship between a pregnant social worker, Nina (Aniston), and her gay roommate and best friend, George (Rudd). The problem is that Nina's feelings for George are more than platonic, a development in their domestic arrangement that George cannot confront directly. Of course, the notion of a thicker-than-blood affinity between two such people isn't out of the ordinary ñ think as recently as Julia Roberts and Rupert Everett in My Best Friend's Wedding ñ but when sex, commitment, and babies enter the picture, things get knotted. Wendy Wasserstein's screenplay for The Object of My Affection, which is based on Stephen McCauley's novel, is situationally contrived; from Nina and George's first meeting, to the way they come to live together, to the way they decide to raise Nina's child, the storyline lacks credibility. Why don't these two reasonably intelligent people realize what they're getting themselves into before it almost destroys their friendship? (Of course, it's always easy to be objective about others' relationships, isn't it?) Just when the film starts to demonstrate some wisdom about the age-old dichotomy of s/he who loves and s/he who is loved, it resorts to clichéd melodramatics as the brewing conflict between Nina and George finally comes to a head. As likable as Aniston and Rudd are, their respective movie presences have not yet developed to the degree that they can overcome the shortcomings of The Object of My Affection. So, for the most part, the movie just plods along, occasionally funny and usually so-so. To its credit, however, it doesn't perpetuate another prevailing, cynical joke in some circles of single heterosexual women: The love of a good woman is all a gay man needs to "straight"en him out. (4/24/98)
2.0 stars (S.D.)
Great Hills, Lakehills
PAULIE
D: John Roberts; with Gena Rowlands, Tony Shalhoub, Cheech Marin, Bruce Davidson, Jay Mohr, Trini Alvarado, Buddy Hackett, Hallie Kate Eisenberg, Matt Craven. (PG, 87 min.)
There's something vaguely disturbing about Paulie. Is it Jay Mohr's double-billing, as both con artist Benny and the voice of Paulie, the speechified parrot of the title? Well, yes. Perhaps it's utterly subjective on my part, but for the life of me I'll never be able to separate the comedically talented Mohr from his vocal coup de grace, which is to say his alarmingly spot-on impersonation of Christopher Walken. Seriously folks, Rich Little has nothing on the younger Mohr, who mimics Walken's turns in The King of New York and True Romance verbatim without a touch of schtick. Anyone who saw his pas de deux avec Walken on Saturday Night Live (or even Late Night With David Letterman) knows what I mean. The phrase "separated at birth" comes readily to mind when discussing the pair, though hopefully not for long. That personal quibble aside, it should be noted that ñ first and foremost ñ Paulie is a kids film, one of the first in what appears to be a burgeoning sub-genre within the fledgling DreamWorks SKG. A quick review: DSKG's first film, The Peacemaker, was an adolescent boy's fantasy of post-Cold War nuclear hi-jinks; their second ñ the clever Mouse Hunt ñ was a Grimm fairy tale by way of D-Con and Roald Dahl; and this newest ñ Paulie ñ is a heartworming tale of love, loss, and redemption, all seen from a parrot's point of view. Not a bad track record for what appears to be more or less a Nineties updating of Chaplin and Pickford's early-version United Artists Studios. Still, Paulie falls flat in its labored plotting and heavy-handed morality. It puts one in mind of Disney's mid-Sixties live-action farces, but minus Kurt Russell's nascent charm. When janitor Mischa (Shalhoub) takes a job at an unnamed university animal lab, he encounters a conversational parrot who proceeds to tell him his life story, involving, among other travails, his separation from young Marie (Eisenberg), whose speech impediment he hopes to help. When her family moves from New Jersey to California, Paulie must conquer his fear of flying (sans Erica Jong) and track down his one true friend ñ often in the face of bitter enemies. Yes, it's a metaphor for growing up, taking responsibility for one's actions, and so on, but surprisingly, director Roberts gives it all an even keel. The youngish audience I saw the film with seemed to hold rapt attention on Paulie's plight despite the frequent wooden one-liners. Mohr, for his part, thankfully holds off in his Walkenesque abilities, and instead turns in a moderately moral-inducing vocal performance that touches on everything from self-reliance to the importance of being, ah, "earnest." Hardly perfect by anyone's standards, Paulie is instead a convenient, unprepossessing time-waster for Saturday afternoon kiddies. Adults may choose to take an extended popcorn break every now and then, but everyone under 13 seemed to be having a ball. (4/17/98)
2.0 stars (M.S.)
Great Hills, Lakehills, Tinseltown North
QUEST FOR CAMELOT
D: Frederik Du Chau; with the voices of Jessalyn Gilsig/Andrea Corr, Cary Elwes/Bryan White, Gabriel Byrne, Gary Oldman, Bronson Pinchot, Pierce Brosnan/Steve Perry, Eric Idle, Don Rickles, John Gielgud, Jane Seymour/Celine Dion, Jaleel White. (G, 88 min.)
This may be misconstrued as a comment best belonging to the Department of Damning With Faint Praise, but it must be said nevertheless: Quest for Camelot is so much better than its trailers make it appear. That is to say, Quest for Camelot is not awful ñ not by a long shot. Come expecting the lackluster animation and wimpy storyline that are trumpeted by the trailers and you will leave most pleasantly surprised. You will hardly be bowled over, mind you, but parents who've been dreading tagging along with their youngsters to see this new animated feature need not fear the experience. The new Warner Bros. animation unit touts Quest for Camelot as its first fully animated feature, following up 1996's half-jock/half-cartoon smash Space Jam. Wisely, Warner's has released Quest a full month before the highly anticipated debut of Disney's new animated feature Mulan. And for its part, Disney has decided to do the decent thing and not bogart the market like it did last Thanksgiving when it re-released The Little Mermaid in time to directly compete with the debut of Anastasia, the first animated feature from the new Fox unit. Like Anastasia, The Little Mermaid, and Pocahontas, Quest for Camelot seems designed to reel in the distaff market with its central female protagonist and contemporary feminist overtones. Of course, it's only the contemporary layering of a feminist perspective that will permit the storyline of a medieval girl who dreams of joining King Arthur's Round Table and becoming a knight who recovers Excalibur, the King's stolen sword, and thereby restoring peace to the land. On top of that, this ahistorical girl who actualizes her dreams of derring-do is assisted by a blind boy who has also hoped to become a knight until injury quashed his grand dreams. Although the film starts off a bit slowly, things pick up as the two heroes venture into the mysterious forest in search of Excalibur. There the images start twisting themselves into wacky animated fun. But still, events are interrupted by way too much singing, a prospect not helped much by the caliber of the instantly forgettable tunes composed by David Foster and Carole Bayer Sager. The vocal characterizations are all top-notch however, and the comical two-headed dragon voiced by Eric Idle and Don Rickles seems to be the character destined for breakout success. The film is also packed with the kind of knowing cultural references that only adults will understand (i.e., signature lines from such films as Taxi Driver, Dirty Harry, and Apollo 13), but they seem oddly out of place in this medieval setting. Nevertheless, there's something for everyone in this new Arthurian legend. (5/15/98)
2.5 stars (M.B.)
Barton Creek, Great Hills, Lake Creek, Northcross, Riverside, Roundrock, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South
SHOOTING FISH
D: Stefan Schwartz; with Dan Futterman, Stuart Townsend, Kate Beckinsale, Nickolas Grace, Claire Cox, Ralph Ineson, Dominic Mafham, Peter Capaldi. (R, 103 min.)
This frothy, pop confection from the U.K. could be construed as echoing the upbeat, changing moods abroad these days, what with the Tories out and Labor in and London the capital of all things cool and hip once more. Then again, you could take it as just another treacly sweet cinematic pastry from Cool Britannia. There's not much of substance going on here, but it sure looks good going down. Geeky Jez (Townsend) and ladykiller Dylan (Futterman) are two twentysomething con men working out of an abandoned oil tank outside London. Raised as wards of the state, the pair grew up dreaming of someday owning a home to call their own, and not just any home at that: The properties they dream of are huge, towering, baronial mansions, and to this end they've dedicated their lives to bilking the wealthy and putting aside their swindled fortunes with the hope of securing their much sought-after homestead. Once within the $50,000 mark of their goal, the pair take on a third party in the form of Beckinsale's Georgie, a medical school student in need of some quick cash to save her family's home for children with Down syndrome (seriously). Acting as the pair's unofficial secretary, Georgie soon realizes that she's in the employ of a pair of self-obsessed Robin Hoods and bails out; as quick as you can say "waif," though, Beckinsale's back, aiding, abetting, and hoping that the pair's ultimate scam can assist her own monetary and philanthropic endeavors. There is, of course, a good bit of flirting going on among the trio, and nobody flirts better than Beckinsale these days (with Gwyneth Paltrow running a close second). Before long, she's fallen for the computer-whiz kid Jez, and it's an ongoing battle of the Doe-Eyed to see who will experience a cuteness meltdown first. Director Schwartz has created a bit of a throwback to groovier times in Shooting Fish; from its jaunty pop-music score to cinematographer Henry Braham's breezy, madcap shooting style, it's all very retro, and very swinging Sixties, with bubbling, lava lamp titles and gobs of primary colors splashed every which way. Cotton candy for the senses, Shooting Fish is a predictable affair that nonetheless ingratiates itself into your good fortunes by sheer virtue of its amiable nuttiness. It's mindless fun while it lasts, but then poof! it's gone. (5/22/98)
2.0 stars (M.S.)
Arbor
SLIDING DOORS
D: Peter Howitt; with Gwyneth Paltrow, John Hannah, John Lynch, Jeanne Tripplehorn, Douglas McFerran, Zara Turner. (PG-13, 105 min.)
Don't let the title fool you. Sliding Doors has nothing in common with the obstreperous aluminum patio portals in soulless suburban houses. Quite the contrary. This lovely little British movie is filled with the mystery of those noiseless, invisible thresholds around us ñ the blind luck of love, the random strike of tragedy, the slippery digressions of deceit. In a finely realized and multi-layered first film, writer-director Peter Howitt treats us to a clever and urbane exploration of the monumental repercussions of tiny twists of fate. Helen (Paltrow) has just been fired from her PR job, and on her way home, dual scenarios are played out. In the first, Helen bumps into a little girl on the steps of the subway and misses her train, delaying her homecoming and affording her philandering lover a narrow escape. In the second scenario (after the footage literally rewinds and begins again), the little girl is whisked out of the way and Helen slips through the closing doors of the train, thereby encountering the charming, jocular commuter James (Hannah), and interrupting Jerry's mid-morning tryst. From that pivotal moment of missing or catching the train, the film follows two parallel, but very different, narratives. (Helen #2 cuts and bleaches her hair in a post-betrayal metamorphosis, and so that we'll know just which Helen we're seeing.) The brunette Helen labors on in her relationship, suspicious (Jerry is not the cleverest of Casanovas) and weary (she cannot find another PR position and must take two menial jobs to support them both). She grows paler and more remote in each scene while the blonde Helen, freed by her anger and courted by James, grows more vibrant and joyful (she is, after all, having more fun). But, we find out as the stories unfold, even parallels do not follow straight tracks. The wonderful script is matched by an engaging cast. Paltrow's chameleon beauty dazzles as the dual Helens, wanly aloof one moment and coltishly exuberant the next. Lynch manages to make dirty dog Jerry as endearing as he is exasperating ñ a contrite and sweet-faced basset hound who gets into the garbage again and again even though he really does know better. More winning still is Hannah's performance. In a movie literally filled with wonderful surprises, his James is an unexpected gift ñ the kind you stumble upon when the fates are smiling. Poorly wrapped and easy to overlook, he's Sliding Doors' reminder of all the hidden treasures out there. If you don't have one yet, you simply haven't happened upon the right door. Yet. (4/24/98)
3.5 stars (H.C.)
Arbor, Dobie, Lakehills
THE SPANISH PRISONER
D: David Mamet; with Campbell Scott, Rebecca Pidgeon, Steve Martin, Ben Gazzara, Ricky Jay, Felicity Huffman. (PG, 112 min.)
Writer-director David Mamet is up to his old tricks again. In fact, if the title were not already taken, he might have named this film House of Games. As it is, he named this new film The Spanish Prisoner, a term described as the moniker for "the oldest con in the world." Mamet seems intent here on creating a labyrinthine Hitchcockian thriller, along the lines of The Man Who Knew Too Much or North by Northwest. Campbell Scott makes an excellent Jimmy Stewart-style Everyman ñ seemingly a patsy ripe for duping. But the key word here is "seeming," as the film takes great pains to point out on numerous occasions. Mamet sets up the situation in a way that encourages the viewers to consider all the angles. Good guy, bad guy; is she or isn't she? We're invited to mull every possibility, as though the mental game of trying to uncover the magician's sleight of hand is the real endgame and the fluffy rabbit is mere window dressing. And to a certain degree that's true. However, The Spanish Prisoner seems an almost purely theoretical exercise, with Mamet as the con man whose sole goal is to make us believe anything he wants. It feels rather manipulative and makes us feel a bit too conscious of the trickery at hand, especially given all the film's explicit warnings that things are rarely what they seem, and conversely, that things are usually exactly what they seem to be. And with Campbell Scott practically walking through this whole thing with a "kick me" sign on his back, he's the perfect foil for all this push me/pull me action. Add to this structural artifice the calculated clip of Mamet's unique dialogue blocking, and the result is a work that never lets us escape the knowledge that it is a work of pure fabrication. The Spanish Prisoner is populated with constructs rather than a sense of flesh-and-blood characters. We never fear for any of these characters or worry whether the crop duster is going to mow them down. Nevertheless, taken for what it is, The Spanish Prisoner is actually quite a lot of fun. The performances are all solid, and the cat-and-mouse storyline is always a diverting amusement. (And who ever suspected that David Mamet had a script in him that could pass PG muster?) But for such a lot of supposedly smart people, these characters do an awful lot of dumb things. (5/1/98)
2.5 stars (M.B.)
Arbor
TITANIC
D: James Cameron; with Leonardo DiCaprio, Kate Winslet, Billy Zane, Kathy Bates, Frances Fisher, Bernard Hill, Jonathan Hyde, Danny Nucci, David Warner, Bill Paxton. (PG-13, 197 min.)
Romeo and Juliet on the Titanic, if you haven't heard yet. The costliest film ever made is also one of the best, unlike the second costliest, Kevin Costner's ill-fated Waterworld (and just what is it with aquatic overexpenditures these days, anyway?). Reams have already been written on James Cameron's wild cost overruns, so I'll spare you that and say right off that every penny spent is up there on the screen. Like the doomed vessel from which it takes its tale, Cameron's film is a behemoth, svelte, streamlined, and not the least bit ponderous, even with its lengthy three-hour-and-fifteen-minute running time (the film is practically as long as the sinking of the Titanic itself). DiCaprio is charmingly rakish in the role of lower-class scoundrel-cum-artist Jack Dawson, who wins his way onboard the HMS Titanic during a card game moments before the ship sets sail on its maiden and funeral voyage from England to New York City. Once onboard, he meets Rose DeWitt Bukater (Winslet), a 17-year-old first-class passenger, who is engaged to the wealthy, utterly pompous Cal Hockley (Zane). In short order, Rose and Jack fall in love, he sketches her in the altogether, and Cal, predictably, grits his teeth and scowls meaningfully. Just over halfway into the film, the oceanliner grazes the fatal iceberg that will, 80 minutes later, send it plunging into the icy depths. It's a matter of historical record that 1,500 passengers perished that night due, in no small part, to the fact that there were less than half the necessary lifeboats on board. Cameron, who is inarguably the greatest living action director working today, milks this for all it's worth and does a splendid job, cutting between Rose and Jack's ill-timed romance and the fate of the ship in general. His crosscutting between those two stories and several other, minor subplots is the stuff film courses are made of. At his core though, Cameron, for all his Terminators and True Lies, is a savagely sentimental romantic, and it's this interplay between the lovestruck steerage lad and the first-class dream girl that fires everything else about the film, including the modern-day wraparound that features Cameron favorite Bill Paxton as a salvage engineer intent on plundering the Titanic's silted corpse. I've always had trouble getting past DiCaprio's spirited self ñ he seems unable to fully vanish into any role other than that of himself, though he comes very, very close under Cameron's iron thumb. Winslet, on the other hand, is so perfectly cast that it's as though she's a brand new face, and not the Hollywood superstar she's currently becoming. The two of them play wonderfully off of each other, as do the host of lesser players (notably David Warner as Cal's conniving valet and Bernard Hill as the ship's captain), resulting in a monster of a film in which, for once, the astonishing special effects are overshadowed by the characters onscreen. Just barely, though. Cameron's dialogue has never been as good as his direction, which makes for a few stilted clunkers along the way, but the unstoppable flurry of Action! Romance! Etcetera! sweeps them away like so much driftwood. It's obvious this is Cameron's bid for historical relevance, and though it may fall short of the Lawrence of Arabia mark he was aiming for, it's still by far and away a grand, gorgeous, breathtaking spectacle. (12/19/97)
3.5 stars (M.S.)
Barton Creek, Gateway, Lakeline, Tinseltown North, Tinseltown South
WILD THINGS
D: John McNaughton; with Neve Campbell, Kevin Bacon, Matt Dillon, Theresa Russell, Denise Richards, Daphne Rubin-Vega, Robert Wagner, Bill Murray, Carrie Snodgress. (R, 108 min.)
Dillon plays Sam Lombardo, the ladykiller-cum-boating instructor at a tony South Florida high school who finds himself accused of rape first by one leggy blonde student (Starship Troopers' Richards) and then another, darker one (Scream's Campbell) in this noirish sleazefest that plays like Basic Instinct meets Out of the Past and feels like Party of Five as directed by the Dark Brothers. McNaughton has come a long way since his personal high-water mark with 1990's Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, though you wouldn't know it from this teasey, cheesy mess. Still, like Henry, Wild Things is shot in a filter-heavy, smeary-lens fashion that makes the blinding Florida sunshine look positively grimy (how anyone ever gets a tan in this film is one of the great mysteries of the universe). After the accusations, Sam takes on a shyster lawyer (played to the hilt by a goony, thoroughly believable Murray), while local detective Bacon tries to sort it all out. The fun of Wild Things ñ and there's a lot of it ñ is in its never-ending game of cross and double cross: Who's scamming who is the tune McNaughton's playing, along with who's screwing who, and of course that old standby: Is that really Kevin Bacon's penis? It's stupid, asinine stuff when you get right down to it, but fun nevertheless. Director of photography Jeffrey Kimball has a ball coming up with ingenious new ways to make Campbell (who needs help) and Richards (who doesn't) look slutty. Dillon, who apparently hasn't aged since The Flamingo Kid, has finally mastered the fine art of cinematic lechery. Even Russell's smallish part as Richard's rich floozy mom has zip to it, although she still sounds for all the world like she's reading her lines off the Goodyear Blimp. In keeping with the noir sensibility, there's no moral in this film ñ except perhaps the old saw about good girls going to heaven and bad girls going everywhere. On second thought, scratch that: Wild Things has no good girls, just horny ones and dead ones (and maybe horny dead ones if someone can get George Romero to do a sequel). Brainless and trashy in the extreme, it's also the most canny fun to be had in a while, if you're partial to a swampside Cheez-Whiz nosh. One very important note: When "The End" comes onscreen, stay seated ñ the film continues to unfold, with even more outlandish plot twists to follow. I have a gut feeling Wild Things is going to end up on a lot of otherwise respectable critics' "guilty pleasures" lists, not least of all mine. (3/27/98)
3.0 stars (M.S.)
Discount, Dobie, Showplace, Westgate 3
WOO
D: Daisy v.S. Mayer; with Jada Pinkett Smith, Tommy Davidson, Duane Martin, Michael Ralph, Darrel Heath, David Chappelle, LL Cool J, Girlina. (R, 80 min.)
Try as I might, I just can't seem to figure out what the original story pitch for Woo could have been: "A Nineties-style 'It' girl finds romance in the big city despite herself?" "An obnoxious fashion plate falls for the buppie of her dreams and learns she isn't 'all that' after all?" "The WB and Fox Network life lessons of 'let them eat crap' taken to new cinematic extremes?" It's all too much, or, in the case of Woo, perhaps not enough. Pinkett Smith plays Darlene "Woo" Bates, who, as the film opens, is having her fortune read by her drag queen pal Celestrial (Girlina). Despite Woo's penchant for nailing herself to the wrong fella, her psychic love connection appears to be in alignment this time as Celestrial assures her that her one and only is about to enter her life any second now. Woo is doubtful at first, but when a chance meeting with a handsome, sensitive paralegal named Tim (Davidson) materializes out of thin plot, she's ready to take her chances over the course of a (lengthy) evening of miscommunication, gender land mines, and eventual (what else?) love. Mayer, who (under her full name von Scherler Mayer) directed Parker Posey in the underrated Party Girl, tosses everything against the wall (including the kitchen sink) and prays for something to stick. Something does, but unfortunately it's an amorphous blob of comedy goo, and it slithers right down to the baseboard and lies there like a recently deceased Shmoo. Woo's tone is all over the place, veering from the gratuitous, dogg-pound comedy of Tim's three buddies ñ Martin, Ralph, and Heath ñ who stereotypically prejudge their potential mates on the size of their posteriors, to Chappelle's downright creepy turn as a fowl-obsessed sex-addict with a penchant for cheap wine and cheaper women. Tim, by comparison, is all manners, though the script takes pains to point out that even this self-effacing bupster is as full of hot air as anyone else. It's up to Pinkett Smith, then, to carry the film, which she manages to do up to a point. Early scenes of her stopping traffic in Times Square (Toronto, actually) with her billowy, pink, spaghetti-strapped dress and teasing bob, are a hoot. She has the same sexy electricity Mae West had, only in a more compact package, but the character of Woo is so cloyingly over-the-top that the jokes wear thin faster than a third-string condom. Taken as a glimpse into the hectic, unforgiving world of date 'n' mate, Woo is a comparative lightweight, an easy, breezy cover girl on the make who fails to make you laugh much at all. (5/15/98)
1.5 stars (M.S.)
Great Hills, Lincoln, Tinseltown South
Revivals
DELICATESSEN (1991) D: Jean-Pierre Jeunet, Marc Caro; with Marie-Laure Dougnac, Dominique Pinon, Karin Viard, Jean Claude Dreyfus, Ticky Holgad. This weird and visually inventive French comedy about cannibalism is set in some kind of bizarre post-apocalyptic future that suffers from food shortages. The film is about as eccentric and mesmerizing as they come. (NR, 95 min.) @Alamo Drafthouse; Fri-Sat.
THE MAN WHO WOULD BE KING (1975) D: John Huston; with Sean Connery, Michael Caine, Christopher Plummer, Saeed Jaffrey, Shakira Caine. We're not sure why this Rudyard Kipling corker has suddenly been dusted off for re-release but we're certain that it can only be for the good. The story captures the adventures of a couple of British soldier pals who scam the high priests of a remote land beyond Afghanistan into believing that Sean Connery is a god and thus parting with their wealth. The broad comedy sometimes disguises the nuances of the actors' work, but of all the Academy Awards for which the film was nominated, none of them were for acting. (PG, 129 min.) @Village; Fri-Thu.
THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW (1975) D: Jim Sharman; with Tim Curry, Susan Sarandon, Barry Bostwick, Richard O'Brien. Austin Rocky Horror fans have been dressing up and doing the "Time Warp" thing live for 22 years straight. Well, more or less straight. Now, the long-running, interactive movie/stage/camp experience has found a steady, new weekend roost at the Wells Branch Discount Cinema. So if you've been searching for the way home to Transylvania or are merely curious about perusing a weekend excursion, this show is your winning ticket. In the meantime you might check out the Austin group's website: http://www.kdi.com/~riffraff/queerios. (R, 95 min.) @ Wells Branch Discount Cinema; midnight, Fri-Sat.
TRON (1982) D: Steven Lisberger; with Jeff Bridges, Bruce Boxleitner, David Warner, Cindy Morgan, Barnard Hughes. Spectacular visual effects anchor this story about a computer whiz sucked up into a mainframe with a mind of its own Despite some prescient 1982 concepts about the upcoming computer age, Tron's story is mostly conveyed on the strength of Jeff Bridges' terrific performance. (PG, 96 min.) @Alamo Drafthouse; midnight, Thu (5/28).
Film Series & Other Screenings
AIVF SALON:
Project Incognito (1998) D: Bob Sabiston and Tommy Pallotta. The Association of Independent Video and Filmmakers (AIVF) sponsors this screening of Sabiston and Pallotta's amazing experimental video short. Recently featured on John Pierson's Split Screen show, the film represents the work of 12 artists who have used Sabiston's proprietary software to create unique cartoon portraits of real subjects who were interviewed during a road trip last December. The animation is unlike anything you've seen before. Admission is free. (NR, 13 min.) @Ritz; Tue, 8pm.
AUSTIN FILM SOCIETY "Summer Free-for-All":
The Cool World (1963) D: Shirley Clarke; with Hampton Clayton, Yolanda Rodriguez, Carl Lee. The portrait of Harlem life pictured here in 1960 by avant garde filmmaker Shirley Clarke is still regarded as one of the most penetrating and vivid documents of inner-city life. A narrative framework that uses the incendiary words of a separatist preacher and a teenager's desire for a gun and gang stature provides the background for a broader examination of daily ghetto life. Back in circulation after 10 years - with brand-new prints. Admission is free. (NR, 125 min.) @Texas Union; Tue, 7pm.
AUSTIN FILM SOCIETY "A Frank Sinatra Tribute":
The Man With the Golden Arm (1955) D: Otto Preminger; with Sinatra, Eleanor Parker, Kim Novak, Darren McGavin, Arnold Stang. A searing portrait of junkie life, Preminger's film was quite daring in the Fifties and still feels honest today. It's based on a Nelson Algren novel, has stupendous Saul Bass title credits, and a brashly jazzy soundtrack by Elmer Bernstein. Sinatra kicking heroin cold turkey as Kim Novak hides all the kitchen knives is still a riveting movie moment. (NR, 119 min.) @Alamo Drafthouse; Thu (6/4), 7pm. Admission $8 double feature, $5 single (AFS members: $6.50 double feature, $3.50 single)
Ocean's Eleven (1960) D: Lewis Milestone; with Sinatra, Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford, Angie Dickinson, Joey Bishop, Richard Conte, Cesar Romero. The best of the Rat Pack movies, the Vegas hotel heist story is a pleasantly frivolous excuse to call the whole gang together. Admission is free. (NR, 127 min.) @Alamo Drafthouse; Thu (6/4); 9:40pm.
CINE-CLUB of the ALLIANCE FRANCAISE D'AUSTIN:
The 400 Blows (Les Quatre Cents Coups) (1959) D: Francois Truffaut; with Jean-Pierre Leaud, Patrick Auffay, Claire Maurier, Albert Remy, Jeanne Moreau, Jean-Claude Brialy, Jacques Demy, Truffaut. It's one of the films that announced the arrival of the French New Wave. It's also the first introduction of Truffaut's alter ego character, Antoine Doinel, and apart from all that, a timeless study of the frustrations of youth. The subtitled screening is part of the Cine-Club's year-long series, "Seven Decades of French Film." For more info about the series, go to http://ccwf.cc.utexas.edu/~prom/cine-club. (NR, 99 min.) @ St. David's Health Resource Center Theatre (3000 N. I-35 - enter parking lot through south entrance gate; exit code announced at screening); Fri, 7:30pm.
FUNHOUSE CINEMA: Missing Film Histories: Part 1 (1984-97) D: Various. This two-part series kicks off with a program of 16mm experimental films from San Francisco's No-Nothing Cinema group. Between 1984 and 1997, the No-Nothing compound of editing studios and screening room was the center of artistic film activity for a loosely defined group of nonconformist filmmakers. Their free, word-of-mouth shows always had party-like atmospheres and creative bents. (NR) @Ritz Lounge; Mon, 8 & 10:30pm.
IMAX THEATRE (San Antonio):
Everest (1998) D: Greg MacGillivray, David Breashears, Stephen Judson; narrated by Liam Neeson. The anticipation for this new Imax film showcasing the splendors of Mt. Everest is heightened due to it having been shot during the fateful 1996 expedition when several mountain climbers died. (NR, 44 min.) All seating is assigned and may be purchased in advance. Other daily shows include Alamo: The Price of Freedom, Whales, The Magic of Flight, and conventional 35mm theatrical screenings each evening. For more info and reservations, call 800/354-4629.@Imax Theatre in San Antonio; Fri-Thu.
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