KILLERS AND HAND-HELD CAMERAS
Doug Liman's 2002 thriller The Bourne Identity took many by surprise, thanks to its intelligent approach to Robert Ludlum's now-cliche spy genre conventions. I myself waited until it came out on video, wary of the film's good notices lest they be overreactions to a film that did little more than avoid playing to the cheap seats. Truth be told, Liman delivered the goods, discarding much of the original story in favor of a smart script and gripping action of a decidedly anti-Bruckheimer persuasion. Matt Damon impressed with his physicality; playing a brainwashed superspy who has lost his memory, his presence was completely believable-each movement a textbook example of economy and effectiveness, selling the notion that this was a man whose hardwired instincts could take over when necessary.

As the sequel begins, Jason Bourne is living off the grid in India with Marie (Franka Potente), his love interest from the first film. Their peaceful existence is short-lived, however, as an assassin dispatched by a Russian crime boss with unknown motives is determined to track Bourne down. Meanwhile, Bourne is framed for the killing of a CIA agent, bringing him to the attention of Pamela Landy (Joan Allen), a mid-level CIA staffer who was in charge of the busted op and feels responsible for the death of the agent. Bourne's file is sealed, but Landy tracks down Ward Abbott (Brian Cox), who was in charge of Treadstone, the top-secret program which trained Bourne. At first, Abbott refuses to help Landy, but orders from higher up force them to work together to track down Bourne, who has traveled to Berlin to find the source of troubling flashbacks to pieces of his past life as a killer. As events unfold, Landy realizes that there may be more to the story than Abbott is telling her; meanwhile, Bourne is on the run from a CIA dragnet and the mysterious Russian assassin.

For this installment of the surprisingly popular series, Paul Greengrass takes over as director. His style is similar enough to Liman's to instill a feeling of continuity with the first film, with great atmospheric shots of gray, rainy European cities advancing a classic spy-movie vibe. Greengrass and his cinematographer Oliver Wood take a markedly different approach to shooting the action, however. Where Liman's action was shot with an eye toward describing the geography of a fight or car chase (I found the hand-to-hand particularly impressive), Greengrass-as he did in the excellent Bloody Sunday-relies on shaky hand-held camerawork to impart a "you are there" feeling of speed and disorientation, to mixed effect. Sometimes, as in a car chase that ups the ante on the chase from the first film, the almost impressionistic camerawork is thrilling. Elsewhere, as in a fistfight between Bourne and a fellow Treadstone agent, it's mostly confusing. I disagree with those who point to Supremacy as an example of the flashy cutting that's come to dominate Hollywood action spectacles, however. Greengrass is doing something completely different here-using almost experimental techniques to create a first-person perspective, not relying on editing tricks to artificially pump up the excitement to the detriment of logic and storytelling. Wood's shots always include flashes of just enough information to momentarily get your bearings-the implication is that this is the information Bourne is processing; if we had been trained as black-ops warriors, we would be able to react with Bourne's speed and decisiveness.

On close inspection, many of the plot details don't hold up. How, for example, does Bourne acquire the high-tech equipment he uses to get the upper hand against his enemies? He can't remember anything about his past, but he knows where to get the latest in spycraft toys-right. Later in the film, Landy seems to know that Abbott is responsible for a pivotal event without any supporting evidence. There's also a bit of a dramatic misstep in a coda that's meant to give Bourne closure with the daughter of a victim of his Treadstone work-it doesn't really work dramatically, and we're left to wonder how what amounts to a simple, "Hi, I killed your father-sorry," is supposed to enhance our sympathy for the character.

Overall, however, Supremacy pleases in the same ways as its predecessor. It's a lean thriller that doesn't assume its audience is comprised chiefly of brain-dead fourteen year-olds, told with great style and atmosphere; a middle ground between Ian Fleming and John LeCarre. It's a popcorn flick for folks who want something just a bit meatier than the next effects extravaganza.


Advance reports in the press for Michael Mann's new film Collateral centered on its co-star, Tom Cruise, finally playing an outright bad guy. Yet anyone familiar with Mann's work knows that he likes to keep the moral compass spinning, blurring the traditional definitions of good guys and bad guys. Cruise's Nietzschean hitman Vincent is a model of self-actualization, a man of action whose determination and dedication to getting the job done right won't let him get derailed by such trivial concerns as conscience and morality. Contrast with Max (Jamie Foxx), the cabbie Vincent hijacks in order to complete his night's work of eliminating several key witnesses in an upcoming trial. Max is a guy who's been talking about starting his own business for twelve years but can't seem to get everything set up just as he wants it. Over the course of what has to be the worst single night since After Hours, the timid Max goes on something of a journey of self-discovery, becoming a man of action thanks to Vincent's goading, experiencing a sort of rebirth through violence by the end.

Cruise, an actor who's always solid yet often seems to be trying a little too hard, is in fact quite good here. He doesn't use his "amped up" persona (a la Magnolia or Jerry Maguire)-Vincent is always focused and in control, knowing exactly what he wants and how to go about getting it. Foxx gets the juicier of the parts, and does a great job with it, not overplaying Max's deficiencies. He's just a guy that has dreams but is too unsure of himself to accomplish them. Credit writer Stuart Beattie for not including a big emotional blow-up scene that triggers Max's transformation. It's more believable because it Max reacts to each successive horrific event in character, and we see them gradually piling up on the psyche of this gentle person until he reaches a critical point. And that's it-it's basically a two man piece. We get some nice moments from Jada Pinkett Smith, Irma P. Hall, Javier Bardem, and Mark Ruffalo, but they're basically cameos.

The real star of the film is the camerawork, credited to Dion Beebe and Paul Cameron (Beebe left the project early in production)-something I never expected to say about a film shot digitally. The hi-def digital allowed the film to be shot at night using primarily available light. This creates a nocturnal atmosphere that is, as far as I know, unmatched in film. The action takes place in the close quarters of Max's cab, in back alleys and nightclubs, lit by the orange glow of sodium lights on the LA streets, none of which look like movie sets. All of it looks great and real at the same time, and though there are some video artifacts and other blemishes, they are easily forgiven when one takes the package as a whole. Mann's other films have all been marked by great cinematography; here the art is less evident but more visceral.

Not to give away too much about the ending, but this is Collateral's biggest misstep. What begins as a witty, character driven piece that could almost have been performed as a stage play ends in typical Hollywood action movie fashion, as if the writer (or studio executives) felt that the film couldn't sustain itself without a cliche showdown between protagonist and antagonist with a girl at stake. It doesn't ruin the film, but I have to wonder about the truly great film that might have been with a different ending. At the root, Collateral is a meditation on morality and purpose, on our responsibilities to other humans, and on the ways in which we make our marks on the world. An ending other than the usual action movie denouement might have served these weighty themes better. Though there is a nice circularity between Cruise's final scene and a seemingly offhanded comment he makes early in the film.

Between Collateral and The Bourne Supremacy, moviegoers have been treated to a couple of thoughtful, adult-oriented action pictures. I can only hope that this is the beginning of a trend.

FAHRENHEIT 9-11
If you're ever bored and want some cheap thrills, just go to an Internet movie fansite like Ain't It Cool, get on the message boards and bring up Michael Moore. Then, sit back and watch the hilarity ensue as movie geeks from all over get themselves worked into a lather of either love or hatred at the mere mention of his name. Everybody seems to have a strong opinion on Moore, centering largely on political orientation. Polite liberals tend to support his work, yet are somewhat chagrined by his obnoxious personality, much as I would like to think polite conservatives feel about right-wing blowhards like Rush Limbaugh. I used to count myself among those ranks, but after watching the country sit complacently as first its Presidency was decided under (at the very least) dubious circumstances, and was then led into an unjustified war and occupation under blatantly false pretenses, I have decided that a muckraking gadfly propagandist is just what we need right now. Moore has been up-front about his hope that this film will influence voting in November. But will his film reach the key swing voters that can make the difference in a race that will likely be decided by 2% or fewer votes?

Perhaps cognizant of the stakes, Moore injects less of himself into this film than in previous efforts. He still provides the sarcastic narrative voice, but there are fewer of his trademark attention grabbing stunts. The exceptions are a pointless scene in which Moore drives around Capitol Hill in an ice cream truck reading the Patriot Act over the loudspeaker, and a slightly more effective scene where Moore pesters Congressmen to sign their children up for the army. Neither of these works as well as in previous Moore efforts, perhaps because we're used to his antics. But after his much-maligned verbal ambush of Charlton Heston in Bowling for Columbine, it seems like he's giving us a more restrained Moore--and it probably doesn't hurt his case.

Moore's greatest strength is his ability to move from hilarity to pathos in the blink of an eye without losing the audience. There are a lot of downright hilarious moments in Fahrenheit, such as a clip of John Ashcroft belting out his unintentionally funny song "Let the Eagle Soar," and the indelibly creepy sight of Paul Wolfowitz slobbering on a comb to plaster down his hair before a television appearance. When the tone turns serious, as when Moore shows footage of maimed Iraqi children or interviews the grieving mother of a slain soldier, it doesn't feel forced or exploitative. It's a great gift, the ability to make us laugh and cry in the space of a few moments.

Not so Moore's reliance on hoary tricks like cueing up the hick banjo music when he's making the point that W is an idiot. Yes, it's funny, but does it help your rhetorical aims to portray the man as both a moron and the head of a cadre bent on world domination (he does advance the notion that Daddy's pulling the strings, but doesn't go very far with it). Even worse is his tendency to undercut his own credibility by using obvious editing tricks to illustrate his points. Not content with an actual soundbite of Bush claiming a relationship between Iraq and Al Quaeda, he follows it with chopped-up footage of Bush saying the words "Iraq" and "Al Quaeda." Does Moore think this is bolstering his argument?

Moore's meandering style doesn't lend itself to a cogent argument, but then again that's not really the point. He's a propagandist, and he's about angrying up your blood. Which it does in spades, if you have even the slightest inclination that Bush & Co. haven't exactly been on the level these past four years. I hate to break it to the people out there crying foul because of Moore's obvious liberal bias--there has never been a completely objective documentary produced in the history of motion pictures. Period. Documentaries, just like all films, are scripted, filmed, and edited by people. People with biases that, more often than not, go into a project with some idea of the point they're trying to get across. I'd argue that Moore, who wears his biases on his XXL sleeve, is much less dangerous than a documentarian that operates under the guise of objectivity.

If you're a conservative, go see the film as a skeptic. Listen to Moore's claims, then, instead of dismissing them out of hand, check the facts for yourself (I'd recommend something more objective than Fox News or that "Michael Moore Hates America" website). A good place to start might be Christopher Hitchens' much-quoted anti-Moore diatribe on Slate.com (most of which is in my opinion hogwash, but he's at least done some research). If you're a liberal, you should also see the film with a skeptical eye. And then you can rejoice in the knowledge that, between Moore and Al Franken, being a liberal no longer means taking the polite higher ground when we're assailed by the multifarious lies and slanders foisted upon the public by the right-wing loudmouths that dominate the supposedly "Liberal Media." Maybe, just maybe, being a liberal might once again be fun.

Rating: 4 out of 5

DVD ROUNDUP
The Harder They Come (1972, Perry Henzell)

Anyone who spent any time at an American college or university in the last three decades is no doubt familiar with the superb soundtrack to The Harder They Come, featuring some of Jimmy Cliff's best songs, along with a who's who of ska and reggae royalty including Desmond Dekker and Toots and the Maytals. For me, and many others, this album is an integral part of the soundtrack to our college years, and hearing one of the songs instantly transports me to a time now long gone. For Americans in the early '70's, this album was their first introduction to Jamaica's native music--and what an introduction! Yes, musicians in the know like Paul Simon and the Rolling Stones were already mining Kingston for its distinctive laid-back beats and on-the-offbeat rhythms. But this was the pure, unadulterated sound of the shantytown, raw and irresistible. It made you think of the tropics, of poverty and human struggle. And it really made you want to dance.

Somehow, I never had an opportunity to see the movie itself. Once a staple of college film societies and midnight movies, the film had by the '90's drifted into obscurity. Rescued by the good folks at Criterion and restored from the original 16mm negative, the Y Generation now can get a sense of what all the fuss was about. Of course, the film will always be valuable as a vehicle for the incredible soundtrack, but how does it hold up as a film? Despite rough edges, amateur actors, and dialogue rendered in a nearly indecipherable patois, the film has a rawness and vitality that does the music justice.

The picaresque story concerns Ivan (Jimmy Cliff), a young man from the country who comes to Kingston in search of fame and fortune. Of course, the wide-eyed country boy has "rube" written all over him, and all his possessions are stolen within minutes of his arrival. He finds his mother, who takes his remaining cash and kicks him out with the admonition to go back to the country. Ivan, however, is determined, and scrapes by as best he can, sleeping on the streets and begging for handouts and odd jobs. Taken in by a preacher named Preacher (Basil Keane), Ivan hones his singing skills in the choir and woos Preacher's young charge Elsa (Janet Barkley). Preacher finds out about the impure maneuverings and has Ivan kicked out. Whether he does this out of religious conviction or because he wants Elsa for himself (the latter is strongly implied) is unclear. As he's leaving, Preacher's behemoth handyman Longa (Elijah Chambers) picks a fight, which Ivan ends with a knife. Out on the streets again, Ivan's persistence pays off when local music mogul Hilton (Bob Charlton) agrees to let him record a song in his studio. The song (the title track) is clearly destined to be a hit, but Hilton's power is such that DJ's won't play anything without his imprimatur, and Ivan is forced to surrender the rights for a mere $20. It's then that Ivan runs into Pedro (Ras Daniel Hartman), the streetwise hood he met in the first scene. Pedro admires Ivan's perseverance, and gets him a job hustling ganja, the local cash crop. Not content with being the low man on the totem pole, Ivan uses force to move up in the organization. He finally realizes his dreams of fame when he kills a policeman, and becomes a wanted man and a folk hero to the poor people of the city.

Shot on 16mm, the film has a gritty look that underscores the nature of the story. Often, probably due to budgetary limitations, Henzell shoots with a single stationary camera, giving the audience a participatory feeling during the scenes in the church and nightclubs. The technique works exceptionally well during the recording of Ivan's song, where we focus virtually entirely on Cliff's expressive face as he delivers a searing rendition of his signature song. Often, faces are shot in extreme close up, creating interesting transitions between scenes, as the camera focuses for a moment on the intricate geometries of someone's hair, for example. The disk supplements chronicle the guerilla tactics employed by the filmmakers (officials tried to shut down filming due to its political content), which sometimes led to happy accidents, such as a great sequence with Ivan driving a Cadillac all over a golf course. There are technical shortcomings to be sure--the editing is often confusing; the stationary cameras occasionally make one pine for a dolly shot--but considering what the filmmakers were working with, it's a remarkably assured effort. Criterion also remastered the audio from the original print, and the music comes through clear and sweet, as does the dialogue (for what it's worth, my ears finally started becoming attuned to the patois about three quarters of the way through).
The actors, seemingly comprised largely of people from the music scene, add an aura of naturalism to the proceedings, but Henzell does a good job avoiding the twin perils of using inexperienced actors: apparent consciousness of the camera, and allowing them to engage in capital-A "Acting". The camera seems a fly on the wall in dialogue scenes, enhancing verisimilitude. Jimmy Cliff is extremely likeable as Ivan, yet his easy demeanor belies a complicated character. He's an optimist who never doubts that he's going to make it, but will take the easy way if it presents itself. He seems a decent, good-hearted fellow, but is capable of shocking brutality if pushed. These contradictions make the character much more interesting than that old warhorse The Good Guy Forced Into a Life of Crime. You can see why he's a folk hero, but he's not so pure that we don't feel a bit morally queasy about rooting for him, and perhaps question our affinity for other examples of the Robin Hood archetype.

The film manages to be a scathing social indictment without being too preachy. Like all good picaresque, the characters are satirized with a broad brush: The preacher who covets Elsa, the music producer whose greed destroys good musicians, the cops on the take from the ganja dealers. We get a sense of the abject poverty of the area by its contrast with the exclusive resorts for wealthy whites and tourists. The absurdity of a whole area's economic well-being being based upon an illegal commodity is highlighted--even the cops depend on the ganja trade for their livelihoods. Through it all, there's this incredible, uplifting music that, while rooted in the Spiritual tradition, has much more revolutionary goals--don't wait for heaven, says the Rasta credo, fight for what's yours here on earth.

Criterion does its usual gold standard work on the picture and sound restoration. There's some grain, but it's to be expected, given the source. The mono sound is superb. Extras are not exhaustive, but I wish other manufacturers would take note of the care put into the package--we want quality, not quantity! There's a commentary with director Henzell and Jimmy Cliff, an informative interview with Chris Blackwell, founder of Island Records and a fixture on the Jamaican reggae scene from the beginning, and biographies with selected discographies for all the artists represented on the soundtrack. I have one major gripe: the only subtitles include an audio descriptive service for the deaf. Most people who don't spend a lot of time around rastas are going to need the subtitles on; it would be nice to see the dialogue without sound effects and song lyrics cluttering up the screen.

Film: 4 (out of 5)
Look/Sound: 3.5/4
Extras: 3.5

HARRY POTTER AND THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN
I had the same opinion about the first two Harry Potter films as most critics: that they were solidly made, well-cast films that were almost bereft of fun thanks to the overfaithful adaptations and director Chris Columbus' blatantly Hollywood sensibilities. Not being a huge fan of the books (I've read the first two, though I'm told the series improves with the later additions), I found Columbus' plodding adherence to plot details while ignoring visual and storytelling details annoying. Columbus' vision looked exactly like a Hollywood film studio's conception of a very English book, kitted out with luminaries like Richard Harris and Maggie Smith for an air of authenticity. Thus, I was interested to see what Alfonso Cuaron, director of last year's lyrical Y Tu Mama Tambien and the more age-appropriate A Little Princess, would bring to the franchise.

Thankfully, it's clear that things will be different this time around from the first scene, in which we see the burgeoning adolescent wizard Potter (Daniel Radcliffe) playing with his wand under the covers late at night. We're then reintroduced to his life away from Hogwart's School with his horrible 'muggle' adoptive family, the Dursleys. After a visiting aunt pushes Harry too far, resulting in some unauthorized magic, Harry runs away (mercifully, this sequence is brief, as the scenes of Harry's torment at the hands of the Dursleys are becoming extremely tedious). He's picked up by the triple-decker Knight Bus, a magical conveyance that, in a nicely accomplished setpiece, weaves through muggle traffic at impossible speeds, returning Harry to the unseen magical realm that coexists with present-day England. The bus is the first indication that we're not in Columbus anymore, Toto. With its grimy windows and yellow lights, it looks like something out of the fifties. The conductor is a bizarre looking fellow with crooked teeth and blotchy skin-everywhere in the film's design, there are indications that the magical world is a truly funky place, whereas everything from the Dursley's rowhouse to Knockturn Alley in Columbus' films looked like clean, Disneyfied movie sets. Cuaron gives us a truly magical world that has grime, funk, and danger. It's evident, too, that we are dealing with a director that has taken care to duplicate the real atmosphere of the UK--many of the exterior shots actually appear to have been filmed outside, and they look appropriately foggy and damp. The requisite Quidditch match takes place in the rain (in Columbus' efforts, the game is played on a perfectly sunny California day--anyone who's been to England knows these happen once or twice a year on average).

Upon his return to Hogwart's, Harry learns that a murderous wizard named Sirius Black (Gary Oldman) has escaped from Azkaban Prison, the wizarding world's Alcatraz. A squadron of Dementors--black, skeletal soul-sucking wraiths that force their victims to relive their worst nightmares-are dispatched to find the escapee before he can take his revenge on Harry. Black, you see, is thought to have been instrumental in the betrayal and murder of Harry's parents by super-evil Lord Voldemort some years hence. Harry must find Black before Black finds him, while dealing with the usual problems of adolescent wizards everywhere; torment by bullying archrival Draco Malfoy; the suspicions of Professor Snape (Alan Rickman), who may or may not be out to get Potter; a new Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts, R.J. Lupin (David Thewlis), who may know more about the situation than he's letting on.

Cuaron's assured touch with young actors really shines here. The trio of Harry and pals Ron Weasley (Rupert Grint) and Hermione Granger (Emma Watson) seem more believable as adolescents, and there is much less of the mugging for the camera that marred the earlier films. For evidence, look no further than the scene in which Harry is given a ride on a Hippogriff, which, as an entirely FX sequence, could easily have looked phony. It manages to feel exhilarating, however, thanks to both the excellent CG work (some of the best I have seen) and Cuaron's ability to coax the appearance of true joy out of the previously stiff Radcliffe. While Watson has emerged as the best actor of the three, even Grint's insufferable mugging has been toned down. Cuaron does well with the cast of British A-listers assembled for what amounts to cameo roles as the Hogwart's faculty. Emma Thompson scores some laughs as a spacey instructor, and I always want more of Robbie Coltrane's Hagrid, the mostly gentle giant (and Cuaron actually shows him as a giant, where he was just a pretty big guy in the Columbus films) who has been promoted from groundskeeper to teacher. Michael Gambon does a good job filling Burton's shoes as Headmaster Dumbledore, bringing a touch of dark humor to the part (the professor Hagrid is replacing has retired to "spend more time with his remaining limbs," he deadpans). Making the most of their screen time are Thewlis, as the sympathetic yet enigmatic Lupin, and Oldman, who appears through the first two thirds of the film only on creepy animated wanted posters. Cuaron appears to be following Orson Welles' dictum about his character in The Third Man, about which he said (I'm paraphrasing here) that a leading character is one that all the other characters talk about for the first two acts, but who doesn't show up until the third. Black is a little batty after years of the Dementors' attentions, and Cuaron gets the right amount of lunacy out of him to make him believable and not cartoonish.

Cuaron's expert compositions and Michael Sarasin's rich cinematography also star. Each frame is busy with details that enhance, not detract from, the main action. There are some great touches, like the "iris out" transitions between scenes that lend the feel of an older film, or the cut scenes that show the passage of time as the seasons change around the "whomping willow" tree. The redesigned sets, as I noted earlier, are much improved over the Hollywood theme park look of the previous films-fantasy is always enhanced by the appearance of realism. There are repeated visual motifs, notably the school's giant clock, which inform the themes of the film. It's nicely textured filmmaking.

The problems with the film come largely from the story itself. Steve Kloves' adaptation is fine, excellent even (though Potter purists will no doubt be up in arms over some of its omissions), moving along at a good pace that never feels rushed. No, the main problems come from the source material. Though J.K. Rowling has undoubtedly improved as a writer over the course of the series, it seems to me her strengths lie in the inventiveness of her small details, rather than big action or character development. Ironically, where the rather linear plots of the books seem to have been constructed with movie adaptations in mind, a little more intricacy would help the film adaptations. And, as the middle part of a long arc, the film's denouement seems a little "ho-hum" as it serves mainly to set up future storylines. But at least PoA eschews the "Scooby Doo mystery leading to a climactic setpiece with a giant CG monster" formula of the first two.

If you have children, chances are you've already seen this film. If you're wondering about the much-forewarned "darkness" of this film, it's nothing that all but the youngest kids can't handle (though they found the Dementors pretty creepy, the kids in the audience seemed most scared by a chase scene involving a werewolf). And, as a kid brought up on Roald Dahl and Edward Gorey, I think rugrats these days could stand a little more darkness in their entertainments. If it's any indication, I saw the film at a matinee in a theater full of young children--not my ideal movie-watching environment, to be sure--and was amazed to find they were so riveted that the room was practically silent throughout. (Your results may vary.)

4 broomsticks out of a possible 5.

DVD ROUNDUP
BUBBA HO-TEP

If you are a regular visitor to online movie-geek sites like AICN, C.H.U.D. or Movie Poop Shoot, you're already well acquainted with Bubba Ho-Tep, a microbudgeted indie film that made the festival rounds last year. Despite its lack of financial backing, positive buzz on the film reached a deafening pitch thanks to its trifecta of source material (a story by popular horror and mystery writer Joe R. Lansdale), star (Bruce "King of the B-Movies" Campbell), and director (Don Coscarelli, of "Phantasm" fame). The geek contingent stirred up enough support that the film got a limited release (it played for several weeks here in Denver), and now a rather nice DVD treatment from MGM. Those who give it a try will likely be surprised (as I was) that a film with such a genre geek-oriented premise and pedigree is actually a rather contemplative meditation on regret and redemption, despite the presence of a large Egyptian mummy who sucks the souls out of elderly people through their anuses.

To backtrack: at the start of the film, we find 70 year-old Elvis Presley (Campbell) lying in a Mud Creek, Texas nursing home, bemoaning his ill health and the possibly cancerous lesion on his member. Seems at the height of his fame, he switched places with impersonator Sebastian Haff because he could no longer stomach the intense pressures of his fame. He lived for a time in happy anonymity for a time, until he fell from the stage and broke his hip, landing him at Shady Rest. Unfortunately, the documentation of this switch was destroyed, and so the nursing home staff believes him to be a cantankerous Elvis impersonator who's slipped off his rocker. Lying in his bed, Elvis waits for death, subjected to the myriad indignities of nursing home life, not least of which is the ministration of cortisone cream to his afflicted area by a stodgy nurse. His self-pity is interrupted by some strange goings-on, including an attack by a giant scarab beetle and hieroglyphic graffiti in a bathroom stall. He forms an alliance with Jack Kennedy (Ossie Davis, fantastic as ever) another resident who claims he's actually the former president (LBJ, he explains, replaced part of his brain with sand and dyed his skin black so that no one would believe his story). Thanks to a good deal of research, JFK believes the source of the attacks is actually the reanimated remains of an ancient Egyptian pharaoh, who must feed on the souls of the living for sustenance. Together, they set about finding a way to stop the ancient evil.

Still with me? I imagine synopses like the above one turned many potential viewers off. But it's probably not the film the film you'd expect. Lansdale's premise is so wonderfully bizarre and played so straight that it's actually quite easy to go along with it. The story perfectly captures the paranoia that pervades the American popular consciousness with its conspiracy theories and the circular logic that backs up any paranoiac's worldview. As metaphor for the literal and figurative impotence of the elderly, it's quite effective. As a redemption story about atonement for a life squandered, it's surprisingly touching. As I noted above, the film has a bittersweet, melancholy tone that serves the source material well.

Much of the credit has to go to Campbell's dead-on performance. Sam Raimi's favorite leading man here goes beyond the expected caricature and finds something honest and real in a well-known figure. Even confined to a bed or struggling along with a walker, Campbell's aged Elvis shows flashes of the supercool yet down-to-earth personality that connected with so many fans even in the Vegas years. He's a man with many regrets, but he's still the King, dammit, and it's hard not to root for him when he becomes revitalized by the prospect of living out the hero fantasy that he played at in his movies. Ossie Davis too provides a perfect gravity to his role, never winking at the audience no matter how ridiculous the line. The chemistry between the two is terrific, and creates both hilarious and unexpectedly dramatic moments. As for other characters-the mummy is suitably mummy-like, and Ella Joyce has a couple of moments as the officious nurse, but this is basically a two-man show, and Campbell and Davis, along with Coscarelli's script, are game.

For a film clearly made on a shoestring budget, it looks great. Coscarelli is clearly used to working without money, and he gets the most out of a few locations and a limited special effects budget. Adam Janeiro's cinematography helps the film look like it cost a great deal more, and Brian Tyler's original music almost makes one forget that the production couldn't afford actual Elvis songs. Hopefully this film will find success on DVD and convince someone in Hollywood that imagination and commitment (along with some B-movie smarts) can produce artistic dividends from a tiny investment.

Not to imply that this is a perfect film by any stretch. The climax in particular falls flat, as what has been a dialogue-driven film resorts to the standard action movie cliches. Coscarelli's overuse of contemporary horror movie visual tricks like flash cuts and speeded up motion becomes annoying. Overall, however, Bubba Ho-Tep is a testament to what can be achieved with dedicated filmmakers working to realize a good script. It's funny and wistful, with just the right amount of quirkiness and, most importantly, heart. Extras include a commentary track from Coscarelli, Lansdale, and Campbell; a behind the scenes featurette; clips of Lansdale reading the original short story, and a very funny commentary featuring Campbell in character as Elvis, critiquing the film.

Film: 4 out of 5
Look/Sound: 4 out of 5
Extras: 4.5 out of 5

DVD ROUNDUP
Ichi the Killer ("Koroshiya 1," 2001)

In an interview in the supplements of (if memory serves me) Dead or Alive, Japanese shock auteur Takashi Miike opines that the film of his that he'd most like American audiences to see is a little thing called Ichi the Killer. He doesn't say why; perhaps he feels it's his best work; or maybe he feels it's the most uncompromised version of his uniquely disturbed vision. More likely, he feels that this film is most likely to offend the delicate sensibilities of we Yanks. And he's probably right. Now, thanks to the fine folks at MediaBlasters and Tokyo Shock Video, we can fulfill his wish by watching it uncensored in all its blood-spewing, viscera-dripping glory.

A woman is graphically beaten and raped while the erstwhile protagonist watches, masturbating. A man is hanged from the ceiling by flesh-piercing hooks while boiling oil is applied generously to his face and back. Another is split clean in two, the halves peeling apart like something out of Looney Tunes, only with copious amounts of blood and guts. A sadomasochistic Yakuza apologizes for a mistake by cutting off something more valuable than a finger. A face, liberated from its head, slides down a wall with a somewhat bemused expression. Nipples are sliced off, skin is punctured, and limbs are ripped clean from their sockets. These sights and much more await the brave viewer who plunks Ichi into their DVD player.

This film is certainly not for everyone. In fact, it may not be appropriate for anyone. I would be truly frightened by the person that wasn't disturbed by it. Yet, for the viewer who's truly strong of stomach, there are rewards, chief among them the visceral (pun intended) joys of a gifted and innovative filmmaker at the top of his game.

There are mitigating factors that set Miike's work apart from the mindless and bloody exploitation films that have polluted our cinemas and video stores since the seventies. One is the nature of the violence. It's so outlandishly over the top that, however disgusting it is to watch, it can't possibly be taken as a realistic depiction of acts of extreme sadism. Ichi is adapted from a popular manga, and the violence accurately reflects the cartoonishly extreme violence and acts of perversion frequently featured in these Japanese comic-books-for-adults. (And yes, cyberspace Otaku, I realize that there are all kinds of manga that don't feature graphic sex and violence. But they are, on the whole, more explicit in their approach than mainstream American comics.) At one point, Ichi, a psychopath who's taken to killing Yakuza leaders, enters a roomful of gangsters. The camera stays outside the room, motionless, as blood, limbs, and organs fly out to the sounds of a cacophonous battle. It's clearly a visual quote from manga (and from the great Looney Toons skirmishes). We aren't meant to be titillated by the violence, as we are in a "Friday the 13th" movie, but neither is it completely verisimilar. It's not played strictly for laughs, yet there is often the air of slapstick about it. I suppose the closest equivalents might be darkly humourous splatterfests like Peter Jackson's Dead Alive or Romero's Dawn of the Dead. Or maybe there's an analogue in David Lynch's earlier films, where a severed ear or a dog with a human hand in its mouth are at the same time gross, funny, and symbolic. Miike doesn't want us to take him too seriously, but he also wants to push the envelope past the point where we can comfortably dismiss the images he presents as filmmaking fun and games.

Another mitigating factor is Miike's technical proficiency as a filmmaker. His output over the past decade has been beyond prolific, averaging something like ten films a year. For most, this inhuman work schedule might portend the lowest-quality dreck imaginable, but Miike has continued to progress as a filmmaker, doing more with less, coming up with imaginative solutions to restrictions of time and budget. His compositions are excellent, his camera moves inventive and eye-catching without seeming superfluous. Nobody gets better-looking results out of digital video, and I'm including George Lucas' overpriced and overwrought DV affairs. Most of all, his films are suffused with a relentless and infectious energy. Sometimes, this is to the detriment of the story, but I'll take energy over careful, by-the-book filmmaking any day.

I won't go into the plot; you already know if you want to see this film, and I wouldn't try to talk anyone into checking it out for fear of being branded a sicko. Storywise, it's actually one of Miike's more straightforward efforts. Miike fans will notice themes common to many of his films, chief among them the notion of transgressive behavior as liberating force for those not at home in normal society (though I have to suspect that the transgressive behavior depicted onscreen is symbolic of something less, well, criminal--I can't believe that Miike is suggesting that literally killing and abusing other humans is the way to find inner peace). There's some good acting, especially Tadanobu Asano as the sadomasochistic gangster Kakihara, whose iconographic blond 'do and slit and pierced cheeks are referenced by Tarantino in Kill Bill V.1. There's a cool score, clever use of CG effects, and lots of visual jokes: my favorite involves the classic shot of the gangster posse in their trenchcoated finery striding down the street in slow motion--except one of the henchmen is struggling to keep up as Kakihara has just plunged a large steel needle into his foot. It's not my favorite Miike film; I prefer the restrained suspense (for the first 3/4 of the film, anyway) of Audition and the straight-up weirdness of Happiness of the Katakuris. Ichi is a worthy and thought-provoking addition to his resume, however, and those who dare to watch will not be disappointed. For my part, I have resolved to seek out Midnight Eye.com founder Tom Mes' Miike monograph, Agitator, to see if he sheds any light on the film's abrupt and cryptic ending.

MediaBlasters' presentation of Ichi the Killer is anamorphic widescreen with 5.1 English and Japanese tracks and optional subtitles. The picture quality is very good, as is the sound. One quibble: why on earth does the disc default to the English dub? It's not a horrible dub by any means, but I think the audience for this disc would be fans of cult Japanese cinema who prefer to watch in the original with English subtitles. There are no extras, save for previews of other recent releases from the company. A word of warning: there appears to be an R-rated cut of Ichi in release. The copy I obtained from Netflix was the original unrated cut (as is their policy--and the reason I will stick with them despite their recent rate-hike). My guess is if you want to see this film, you don't care to see a watered-down, censored version of Miike's original vision. So caveat emptor when you're buying or renting this at the local retailer.

Film: 4 (If you're a fan of Miike or early Jackson); 0.5 (if you have a relatively normal tolerance for onscreen violence)
Look/Sound: 4 out of 5
Extras: 1 out of 5

KILL BILL VOL. 2
After watching the first part of Tarantino's epic revenge pastiche, I wondered in this space whether there wasn't a great movie to be had by trimming and condensing the two parts into one. Now comes word that Tarantino plans to show a combined cut at Cannes and at a few theatres in the States (and which will no doubt appear on a DVD double dip at some point in the future). I doubt this will be the great single movie I had envisioned; to make the two parts a cohesive whole, there would have to be some serious rejiggering. And it doesn't appear as if QT has much interest in cutting anything; Kill Bill Vol. 2 features no fewer than three credits sequences at the end (including a noir tribute clearly intended for the beginning of the film which has been slapped on the end as if QT couldn't bear to part with it).

And, as it turns out, that's OK. In its current incarnation, the two parts are so tonally disparate that one almost buys Tarantino's ridiculous statement that he intended the thing to be two parts all along. Where Vol. 1 was a nonstop barrage of action and pop-infused eye candy, Vol. 2 is almost ruminative in parts-if the inspiration of the first part was Eastern action cinema, the Western (by way of Leone) aesthetic guides the second. There is more of Tarantino's distinctive dialogue, and on-screen action is kept to a minimum, with the exception of a bang up brawl between the Bride (Uma Thurman) and Elle Driver (Darryl Hannah) in cramped quarters that rivals the visceral kick of the knife fight that kicked off the first film (or the train compartment fight in From Russia With Love, my personal gold standard for cringe-inducing brutality).

A somewhat tangential note on Tarantino's distinctive dialogue: someday, someone will write a great monograph on Tarantino's strength as a writer/director, which seems to be knowing exactly how his dialogue will sound on-screen. I read some of the script for Kill Bill (this was before it was split, and I stopped after the first three chapters to preserve the surprise of the movie), and the dialogue looked absolutely awful. I wondered if Tarantino had lost or squandered his gift. Yet on the screen, it seems natural (in his heightened, movie-cool way) and every bit as snappy as in his earlier efforts.

The plot is so simple it obviates description. It continues the Bride's quest to "get bloody satisfaction" by killing each of her former partners in the "Deadly Viper Assassination Squad" of high-paid, super-skilled killers for hire, who murdered her wedding party and left her for dead some four years prior. We meet Bill's brother Budd (Michael Madsen), who has left the squad, lapsed into alcoholism, and lives with a sense of the grim inevitability and deservedness of his death. There's a flashback to the Bride's training in China by the rather sadistic martial arts master Pai Mei (Gordon Liu, who played the leader of the Crazy 88s in Vol. 1), which goes a long way toward explaining (again, in movie-sense) how the Bride got to be so damn tough. There's a showdown with Elle Driver (Darryl Hannah), and the final reunion of the Bride and her former lover and master Bill, who has a surprise for her in the form of BB, the child she'd long assumed was dead.

As in Vol. 1, there's not much to redeem the pervasive violence. Some critics have taken the film to task for this, believing that the film would have been better as a serious exploration of the moral ambiguity of revenge and the ultimate meaninglessness of violence. I've got news for them-nobody's going to top Hamlet for that. This just ain't that film, folks--it takes place in a world of filmic construct where the only meaning is provided by the violence. It's not an examination of the world in which we live, it's a celebration of the movie world that exists and ferments inside Tarantino's head. Just as the "Our Feature Presentation" clip before Vol. 1 signaled the audience's entry into this world (and, as a film-loving child of the 70's, that scratchy clip with the funky music caused my heart to beat double-time), Vol. 2 begins with an obvious black and white process shot of the Bride driving to meet her destiny as she recaps the past film in overblown movie trailer style. Though parts of the film feel more grittily realistic, they're no more "real" than this shot. It's all part of my world, says Tarantino, from the Leone homage at the El Paso wedding chapel to the grainy stock and crazy Shaw Bros. zooms of the Chinese training sequence. Jackie Brown was a mature, adult film by Tarantino. Kill Bill is something else entirely, a labor of, and about, love-love of movies of all kinds and the worlds to which they transport us. I'll take Tarantino's patently unrealistic revenge fantasies over the manipulative pseudorealism of Man on Fire any day.

As in the first part (and, given Tarantino's track record of getting unprecedented depth out of his actors, I have no idea why this would continue to be the case), the biggest surprise is the acting. Uma Thurman continues to impress with her awesome physicality and note-perfect line readings. Madsen is perfectly sodden and puffy, with the tired resignation of a man who's given up on living but isn't quite ready to die. David Carradine is a wonderfully noble shambles. He knows he's a bastard, but can't help himself. He destroys the Bride's life because she has broken his heart; we come to understand the depth of his heartsickness during a nicely played scene in which Bill appears at the chapel before the massacre. I admit I had my doubts going in, but Carradine is fantastic in the part. Tarantino originally wrote the part for Warren Beatty, and in some of Bill's more conspicuously "cool" dialogue (especially in Vol. 1) you can hear Beatty's voice. But I doubt Beatty would have managed to be as genuinely touching in the part-a mean sonofabitch to be sure, but one who sought only to preserve his "family" through whatever means necessary.

In the end, the themes of motherhood, love, and regret give Vol. 2 a poignancy that's absent from the pure adrenaline high of the first part. But I'm not holding my breath for the haters of Vol. 1 (and there were many) to hop on board with this one. Many were quick to jump on the "Tarantino's lost it!" bandwagon with the release of Jackie Brown, a film that most of its initial detractors admit has aged well and is better than they originally gave it credit for being. I suspect that in a few years--who knows how many, given QT's glacial filmmaking pace--when we're able to view it in the larger context of his oeuvre, this film will be respected for what it is. Maybe we'll get that reedited masterpiece that I suspected might be possible. Maybe not. For now, I am grateful to have been given a movie that seems to have been engineered to tickle the pleasure center of my brain (and this is both Tarantino's great gift and the reason for his divisiveness), rekindling that joy I felt at an afternoon matinee as a kid. It's a good time at the movies, and, given the current state of commercial moviemaking, that's more than enough for me.

5 out of 5

DVD ROUNDUP
Bad Santa (2003)

Having enjoyed Terry Zwigoff's previous directorial efforts, the documentary Crumb and the Daniel Clowes adaptation Ghost World, I was curious yet apprehensive about his first foray into mass-appeal filmmaking. I wondered how Zwigoff's dry yet skewed point of view would translate into a Christmas movie (albeit an extremely dark one), and how much the studio would soften up his ascerbic nature. Turns out, not too much. Dimension Films, the film's distributor and a relative of the Disney family, backpedaled a bit when audiences complained that they took their kids to this movie (more evidence that the MPAA's ratings system is completely irrelevant) and were shocked--shocked!--to see a beloved icon drinking, smoking, swearing, urinating on himself, etc., etc. The controversy quickly calmed when the movie performed better than expected, becoming a modest hit.

The good news is that the powers that be have done nothing to soften Zwigoff's cynical worldview. The bad news is that isn't a good thing across the board. Billy Bob Thornton's Willy, a miserable drunk safecracker who partners with an African-American little person named Marcus (Tony Cox) as a department store Santa and elf. They case the joint during December, then rip off the store's safe and merchandise on Christmas Eve. Willy sets a new gold standard for self-loathing characters on the screen; his drinking and depressive sexual escapades are on a par with anything in Leaving Las Vegas, and he surely sets the record for most uses of the "F" word in a Disney movie. Over the course of his latest job at a mall in Phoenix, Willy becomes involved with a bartender with a Santa fetish (Lauren Graham), and an obese kid (Brett Kelly)--who might be mildly retarded or perhaps, as they say down on the farm, "just ain't right"-- who, despite all evidence to the contrary, believes Willy is actually Santa Claus. As Christmas draws near, the pair's scheme is complicated by a store detective (Bernie Mac) who wants in on the heist, and what might be twinges of a vestigial conscience in Willy stirred by his new "friends."

Much of the movie's humor involves the irony of a guy in a Santa suit doing repulsive things like puking, pissing, cursing, and having nasty sex with plus-sized store patrons. While I admit to laughing at many of these scenes, the constant barrage of transgressive St. Nick moments becomes tiresome over the course of the film. The Coen brothers get a producer credit on the film (and reportedly gave the script a rewrite), and I would have liked to see what their self-consciously quirky sensibilities would do for the material. As it is, Zwigoff doesn't bring much visual flair or eccentricity to the proceedings. The supporting characters are mostly wasted; the appealing and comedically gifted Graham is reduced to a (how to put this delicately?) receptacle for Willy's gratification; Bernie Mac is given little to do; and the late John Ritter, as an uptight store manager, has a couple of funny moments but disappears halfway through the film. I assume this is due to the actor's untimely death, but the disappearance is strange and should have at least been explained away somehow.

Thornton, however, does good work as Willy. He's thoroughly disgusting, and yet manages to be somewhat sympathetic. By the end of the film, he's softened a bit, but not so much as to betray his characterization from the rest of the film. Cox is quite good as Willy's long-suffering partner Marcus, who struggles to keep Willy from blowing the gig and to keep his wife (TV show King of the Hill's Lauren Tom) happy by stealing her extensive Christmas wish list from the store's inventory. Somehow, Kelly's hapless Thurman Merman, with his blank gaze and monotone delivery, managed to move me. I couldn't help but feel for this sweet-looking (in a weird way) kid, who's constantly dealt unfair blows by life but trundles on with an innocent's view of the world.

In the end, however, Bad Santa is little more than an amusingly foul diversion, something to watch with your buddies as an antidote to the pervasive sap of the holiday season. I can't comment on DVD extras, as my screener was devoid of supplements. An unrated director's cut is apparently in the works--I'm not sure which version I saw, but it's tough to imagine what could possibly have been cut out, or what might be improved by its reintroduction.

Film: 3 out of 5
Look/Sound: 3 out of 5
Extras: N/A


Kill Bill Vol. 1 (2003)

My thoughts on this film are detailed in my first post on this blog; therefore, I'll keep it short. I'll say that I enjoyed the film even more on successive viewings; familiarity with the material adds to enjoyment--the little Tarantino touches are easier to spot, and things that might have seemed arbitrary or silly make more sense. As Vol. 2's release approaches, I'll go on record as saying that I'm a bit offended by Miramax and Tarantino's splitting the film in two; with the front-loaded action of the first part and the reported talkiness of the second, I can't help but think there might have been a truly great film to be had if the makers were willing to better edit themselves. Nonetheless, Vol. 1 remains great fun, and serves as a reminder of why Tarantino is held in such high regard by many film aficionados: his obvious passion for the material and willingness to let the audience in on it. He's not just a gifted pasticheur; he's a technically accomplished filmmaker in his own right, and forms his myriad influences into a cohesive whole. Because of its "love it or hate it" characteristics, I'd like to think of the film as a litmus test for folks' taste in movies, but it just doesn't work; perfectly reasonable people with generally good taste in movies disagree vehemently on this one.

No doubt due to multiple double-dips planned for future release, this version, hurried to DVD to whet appetites for Vol. 2's theatrical release, is pretty bare-bones. All we get is a "behind the scenes" featurette, which doesn't depart much from the standard self-congratulatory fare. It's always great to hear QT (at least when he's not rambling drunkenly on late night talk shows) holding court on his inspirations, and he illuminates several of the more obscure references for those who aren't quite as familiar with the grindhouse, yakuza, and giallo genres. Other than that, we get foreign language tracks, previews for all of Tarantino's films (including a very cool 70's grindhouse-style "Bootleg Trailer" for KB), footage of the 5,6,7,8's performing on the House of Blue Leaves set, and 5.1 and DTS audio tracks. Here's where the disc's presentation really shines. No matter what your opinion of the film, I think everyone will agree that it's criminal that the film wasn't even nominated for a Sound Design Oscar. The sound is simply amazing (there's a lot of documentation out there on the brilliant sound design, which goes to the extent of signifying QT's genre influences by the sound of a particular punch or sword thrust), and the disc does it justice: effects are clean and clear, and well placed in the stereo picture. Even at low volumes, everything comes through perfectly clear. The dialogue, too, is perfectly audible throughout (my major DVD pet peeve is the trend toward mastering effects and music at eardrum-piercing levels while the dialogue is virtually inaudible). Bravo, Miramax!

Film: 4.5 out of 5
Look/Sound: 5 out of 5
Extras: 2 out of 5

DVD ROUNDUP
RIPLEY'S GAME (2002)

Surprisingly, this adaptation of the Patricia Highsmith novel (which has a previous incarnation in 1977's The American Friend with Dennis Hopper as genteel psychopath Tom Ripley) never received an American theatrical release, even after the relative success of Anthony Minghella's version of The Talented Mr. Ripley, which even garnered some Oscar nominations. As a fan of Highsmith's novels, I appreciated the languid Mediterranean atmosphere of Minghella's version and thought that Jude Law was perfectly cast as slumming rich boy Dickie Greenleaf. The film was undone by the casting of Matt Damon as Ripley. Even though the story concerns the "making" of the adult criminal, Damon was too rough, too unrefined, too American (yes, the character is a Yank, but he aspires to Old World refinement) to be convincing. The insertion of a homosexual subtext, too, was all wrong: Ripley wouldn't be above leading a man on to achieve his ends, but he's primarily in love with himself.

John Malkovich makes an excellent Ripley. His studied movements and theatrically nonaccented accent are perfect for a guy who's essentially a blank, able to transform himself into whatever he wants others to see. He delivers his lines with a touch of the dilettante, always talking down. There's a great sense of ennui in his delivery. "I don't think anyone will catch me," he says at one point, "because I don't think anyone's paying attention." When he kills, he invests the act with the same gusto that made him such an enjoyable baddie in films like Dangerous Liaisons and In the Line of Fire. And who else could pull off a jaunty black beret without looking like a sissified Frenchman?

After a brief prologue, we meet Ripley living la dolce vita in a luxurious Italian villa with a beautiful musician (Chiara Caselli). He's more or less retired from criminal exploits, until Reeves (the always magnetic Ray Winstone), a criminal associate from his past, appears at his door and attempts to enlist Ripley to get rid of his competition. Ripley wants no part of the job, but thanks to a chance occurrence, he tells Reeves he has idea for a suitable replacement. He's just been to a party thrown by his neighbor, Jonathan Trevanny (Dougray Scott), an expatriate Brit who's struggling to make ends meet as a frame maker. Trevanny, it turns out, is dying of cancer, and worried about how his wife and young child will get along after he's gone. At the party, Trevanny makes the mistake of insulting Ripley's taste in restoring the villa (nothing pisses Ripley off like someone acting superior, especially an Englishman), which sets the game into motion. Ripley, knowing that Trevanny is desperate, puts him in touch with Reeves. He also knows that Trevanny is essentially a good man, and will be destroyed by the guilt of his actions. The first hit goes off without a hitch, but Reeves knows he's got Trevanny on the line, and tries to use him to get rid of a Ukrainian mobster who's horning in on his territory. Ripley has a change of heart and decides to help the unfortunate Trevanny. As Highsmith's readers know, Ripley's kind of "help" is best avoided-- things don't go exactly as planned, leading to disastrous results.

The film is well directed by Lillia Cavalli (The Night Porter), who injects some hilarious moments of black comedy into the proceedings. It's beautifully photographed, with exterior shots bathed in a desaturated yellow light that seems to echo the opulence gone decadent of old Europe. There's even a catchy score by the Old Master himself, Ennio Morricone. It's not a perfect thriller--there is some clunkiness to the pacing, which slows to a trickle between flashes of action; the motives of Reeves and his antagonists are never explained. Nonetheless, it's involving and well acted, with Malkovich providing an irrepressible streak of fun to his character. Just like the characters in the film, you shouldn't like this guy, but you just can't help yourself.

Why, then, did this film never make it to the States, where it almost certainly would be well received by the art house crowd? Moviepoopshoot.com's Jeffrey Wells suggests that FineLine may have gotten cold feet after opening the film first in Europe to worse-than-expected box office; they may have decided to save the budget for prints and marketing and release the film direct-to-video. Unfortunate, because it deserved a better fate. It also deserves a better fate on DVD-the transfer is fine, but extras are limited to the trailer.

Film: 4 out of 5
Look/Sound: 4 out of 5
Extras: 0 out of 5


MELVIN GOES TO DINNER (2003)

The advent of Digital Video may be a boon for aspiring filmmakers with good, talky, low-budget scripts. Or it may open the door for every would-be Woody Allen who can afford a Sony Digicam. Judging from films like this one and Roger Dodger, there are some good scripts out there that might not otherwise get made. Melvin Goes to Dinner, a surprise hit at Sundance, was directed by comedian Bob Odenkirk, one of the folks behind HBO's hit series Mr. Show. Fans looking for that show's brand of raunchy, offbeat humor may be disappointed. Written by Michael Blieden (adapted from his play, "Phyro-Giants!"), the movie consists primarily of a dinner conversation between four thirtysomethings seemingly thrown together at random. Melvin (Blieden), has gone to meet an old friend, Joey (Matt Price who, through no fault of his own, is very reminiscent of Friends' Matthew Perry) for dinner. He arrives late and finds Joey has been joined by a friend from business school, Alex (Stephanie Courtney), who's in town for one day on business. Alex has bumped into a friend of hers, Sarah (Annabelle Gurwitch) and dragged her along. As the evening wears on, the conversation jumps from topic to topic, touching on such matters as religion, sex, ghosts, mental illness, and infidelity. The conversation progresses, and we become aware that each of the characters has been holding back a secret that causes us to reinterpret all the action that's come before.

The good: Blieden's script is quite funny and most of the conversations have the aura of authenticity. The acting is good all around, particularly Courtney and Gurwitch. Odenkirk has reassembled the cast of the original play, and it shows-the actors are all extremely comfortable with their characters. There are also nice cameos from Maura Tierney and Odenkirk's Mr. Show compatriots David Cross and Jack Black. The DV look of the film (as in Roger Dodger) adds a documentary feel to the film; we feel like we're spying on private moments, reality TV-style. Michael Penn's sparse score is perfect (I'm sorry that his career as a rock star flopped back in the day, but Penn seems to have found his true calling scoring films).

What doesn't work so well: it's adapted from a play, and it feels like it. Odenkirk has added some cinematic touches, mainly flashbacks, to flesh out the story; these work with varying degrees of effectiveness. Some genuinely add to the overall effect, but most seem inserted to make the thing look like a movie. The dialogue, while funny, occasionally seems stagey; big revelations aren't motivated or justified. Some viewers may have a problem with the fact that none of the characters are especially likeable-for me, that's not a problem. It makes them more empathetic for me (and maybe that's my problem).

Extras are not exhaustive, but there are a couple of good ones. Along with a commentary track from the cast and director, there's a couple of scenes from the original production of Phyro-Giants! and a bizarre yet hilarious mockumentary of the group's trip to the world's smallest film festival--the Frank Film Festival-hosted entirely within the house of a movie geek named (you guessed it) Frank. There's also a copy of the script in PDF format.

Film: 3.5 out of 5
Look/Sound: 3 out of 5
Extras: 4 out of 5

HELLBOY
It pains me to report that Hellboy is not the comic-book movie to end all comic-book movies. It pains me so because I am always rooting for director/writer Guillermo del Toro, the Mexican horror auteur whose passion for his craft drips from each frame like ectoplasm (I defy anyone to watch the infectiously passionate del Toro on the Blade 2 DVD without entertaining the notion of dropping everything to go and work as a gofer for the man). Up until this point, del Toro's small, independent efforts (Cronos, The Devil's Backbone) were much superior to his forays into Hollywood (Mimic, Blade 2). It seemed that Mike Mignola's clever, moody Hellboy comic, with its blend of noir and pulp horror aesthetics, might just be the ideal source material to lift Toro up to the level of Peter Jackson, another genre fanboy who won critical and commercial acclaim with a passionate adaptation of source material near and dear to his heart. Alas, Hellboy is not that movie. It is, however, a thoroughly entertaining superhero romp with much more heart than most of the recent spate of comic book adaptations.

The story (and if you haven't seen Mignola's book, you should check it out post-haste): in the waning days of the WWII European Theater, Hitler assembled a cadre of black arts practitioners including the very hard to kill Grygori Rasputin (Karel Roden), his lover Ilsa (Biddy Hodson), and Karl Kroenen, a sinister assassin whose surgical modification fetish has left him a mutilated husk that runs on some sort of bizarre clockworks. This group plots to reverse the course of the war by opening a portal into another dimension and unleashing the Seven Gods of Chaos, creatures that hold the power to lay waste to the planet. Fortunately for the good guys, FDR had the presence of mind to create a bureau dedicated to counteracting Hitler's fiendish occult dabblings, led by the young Professor Trevor Bruttenholm (played as older man by John Hurt). Bruttenholm, wise to the Nazis' plan, leads a group of American GIs to the remote Scottish island where the portal is to be opened. The Allies carry the day and close the portal. However, something escapes from the other side: a demon baby, as it turns out, bright red, horned, and with a massive stone right hand. Dubbed Hellboy, the creature grows up in a secret government base and is trained to fight on our side. Fast forward sixty years (Hellboy ages much more slowly than humans), and we find Hellboy in the employ of the Bureau for Paranormal Research and Defense, which operates under the aegis of the FBI but is, of course, publicly disavowed. FBI director Tom Manning (Jeffrey Tambor) is tired of covering up for the exploits of what he considers to be nothing more than a freak show, and is looking to shut the BPRD down. Bruttenholm, meanwhile, is dying of cancer, and selects young FBI agent John Myers (Rupert Evans) as his replacement to be responsible for his "son." Myers accepts the assignment and quickly meets Big Red, along with Abe Sapien (Doug Jones, voice by David Hyde-Pierce), an intelligent and clairvoyant fish-man; and Liz Sherman (Selma Blair), a pyrokinetic young woman who, as the action begins, has checked herself into an asylum because she has trouble controlling her powers. We learn that Hellboy is in love with Liz, and that he resents Myers' interloping on his turf (Myers quickly develops a crush on the moody and enigmatic Sherman). Meanwhile, Ilsa and Kroenen have managed to bring Rasputin back from the alternate dimension and are up to their old mischief.

The film is worth watching if only for the performance of Ron Perlman as Hellboy. Long known to genre fans (and a favorite of directors such as del Toro and Phillippe Jeunet), Perlman brings just the right amount of crustiness to the wisecracking demon. Lifting enormous weights, chomping on a cigar butt, or whomping monster ass, Perlman is never less than absolutely convincing as a supernatural hero of immense strength and few well-chosen words. What sets Hellboy apart from other muscle bound superheroes (and Perlman apart from, say, Vin Diesel, who the studio originally wanted for the part), is his emotional vulnerability. He'll take time out of a battle to save a kitten, and each morning files his horns down to nubs in a futile attempt to appear "more normal." Despite 60 years on our planet, Hellboy is still a teenager, emotionally speaking, with all of the attendant self doubts and foibles. He's a guy who is most comfortable beating the crap out of some horrible tentacled beast but clams up when he tries to express his feelings to Liz--no doubt many in the audience will sympathize with Red (as he's known to the team members) and his plight. That Perlman can express all this while completely covered in makeup and Rick Baker-designed latex appliances is a great credit to his abilities as an actor. In this special effects extravaganza, the best scene is one in which Hellboy, spying on Liz and Myers from a rooftop, receives dating advice (and cookies) from a preadolescent child.

The film falters most when del Toro emulates the formula of the contemporary blockbuster, which races from one action setpiece to the next. There's a cracking good battle in the middle of the film between Hellboy and a "resurrection demon" named Sammael that takes place throughout the New York subway system which successfully conveys the titanic-scale monster-bashing of Mignola's comic book work. However, the fight goes on so long that the audience's energy is sapped; the battle at the end of the movie between Hellboy and a gigantic Lovecraftian tentacle-thing seems anticlimactic as a result. The film's "human" villains are disappointing; Roden gives Rasputin a calm resolve when he should be a scenery-chewing madman; he is trying, after all, to bring about the end of the world-hardly the pursuit of a sane fellow. The film doesn't give us enough insight into Rasputin's plan, either. For much of the film, we simply know he's up to something-but he's not given any onscreen time to flesh out his plot or his character. Kroenen is suitably creepy and sinister, but he's just a henchman and doesn't have a lot to work with besides killing people and looking sinister. The great Jeffrey Tambor is wasted in a cliched "bureaucratic authority figure" role.

There are other errors in logic that stem, I think, from Sony's insistence that the film be trimmed to under two hours (my fingers are crossed for a "director's cut" DVD which will verify this assumption). At one point the bad guys have put a plan into motion to draw Hellboy to their lair, yet Kroenen is surprised by their arrival. Most inexplicably, a scene where Hellboy and Liz vanquish a roomful of Sammaels cuts directly to a scene where Hellboy's trapped in a set of magical stocks and Liz is laid out upon an altar. In the comic book vernacular: "Wha?!!?"

Other difficulties may stem from the expectations, bolstered by Sony's marketing campaign, that this film is a big-budget, mindblowing FX bonanza. Uninitiated audiences may be disappointed by the lack of rollercoaster thrills and the concentration on relationships and the HB/Liz love story. None of these problems will detract from a fanboy's delight the first time Perlman growls Hellboy's signature "Aww, crap!" Or at the appearance of a prop Hellboy comic cover drawn in the style of Jack Kirby. Or at the cameo by the reanimated corpse from Mignola's short story "The Body." No, del Toro has made sure to include plenty of goodness for those already on board with Hellboy. The big question is whether he's made a movie that will appeal to the popcorn-munching masses. Though opening-weekend grosses were hurt a bit by the move of The Rock's Walking Tall remake, there's a good chance that positive word of mouth will push the numbers up to bona fide blockbuster totals. With a budget of just $60 million (and looking onscreen like every bit of twice that), prospects are good for a sequel. At that point, it will be fair to ask whether del Toro has, like Sam Raimi did with Spider-Man, evolved from a good genre director into a great storyteller that works in a particular genre. For now, I'm almost hoping that Dreamworks delays del Toro's big-budget Lovecraft adaptation At the Mountains of Madness so that he'll make another independent production in Spain--a script he's written called Pan's Labyrinth.

4 "Big Damn Guns" out of a possible 5.