Under the Sea
Now Playing: The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou (d. Wes Anderson)
Wes Anderson's films are often accused of keeping their ironic distance at the expense of emotion. His immaculately detailed frames and deadpan direction certainly aren't suited to the big emotional moments we are given to expect from Hollywood movies. I'd argue that Anderson's style (along with his preternatural adeptness selecting background music) perfectly conveys a range of emotions; just not the play-it-to-the-back-row bag of tricks we expect. Consider the sublime moment in Rushmore when Bill Murray's Herman Blume calmly drops off the diving board and sinks to the bottom of his swimming pool, cigarette still gripped in his mouth, seemingly oblivious to the choas of his boorish sons' birthday party all around him. Without a line of dialogue, we know everything about the emptiness of Blume's life and his desperation to escape. Or the scene in The Royal Tenenbaums, where Luke Wilson's Richie Tenenbaum, to the tune of Elliot Smith's haunting "Needle in the Hay," shaves off his long hair and beard under the clinical fluorescent glare of a bathroom fixture, and then, almost as an afterthought, slashes his wrists. It's a shocking moment, but it feels true precisely because Anderson hasn't let us get inside Richie's head. We know he's withdrawn and deeply disturbed, but the extent of his alienation doesn't become clear until then.

It is with some regret, then, that I must report that Anderson's latest, The Life Aquatic With Steve Zissou, is perhaps the most emotionally barren of Anderson's films to date. It's got all the elements: a fantastic ensemble cast, an incredibly well-realized world (including a fantastic cutaway-view set of Zissou's ship, the Belafonte), deadpan line delivery, Seymour Cassel. But, except for a few isolated moments, we don't really connect with Bill Murray's Zissou, a self-centered middle aged Cousteau-like filmmaker who undertakes to find and kill the elusive Jaguar shark that ate his first mate, Esteban (Cassel) during the filming of Zissou's last underwater adventure. We're told that Zissou cared deeply for Esteban, but we're never given any reason why (other than the fact that he's played by Cassel---seriously, how can anyone not like that guy?), and given the way he mistreats everyone else in his sphere of influence, his love for his friend seems kind of fake. Zissou is a mightily flawed man and a grade-A sonofabitch, just like Gene Hackman's Royal Tenenbaum or Murray's Blume; unlike those characters, Anderson can't seem to find a way to make us feel for him despite ourselves.

Joining Zissou on his quest are a crew led by the creepily loyal Klaus Daimler (Willem Dafoe, sporting a weird German accent), a pregnant reporter (Cate Blanchett, luminous and sporting a bit of her Katherine Hepburn accent), a recently-introuced young man who may be Zissou's bastard son (Owen Wilson, mostly able to maintain a southern drawl), a Bond Company Stooge (Bud Cort), Zissou's wife (Anjelica Houston, doing her icy society matriarch thing), and a guy (Jorge Seu) whose only function seems to be providing scene transitions by way of singing David Bowie songs in Portuguese. Along the way, Zissou is daunted by his wife's former husband, the much more successful oceanographer Alistair Hennessey (Jeff Goldblum), Filipino pirates, and his own inability to accept his fatherly responsibilities, complicated by competition for the affections of the reporter. And that's just about it. All the elements are there, but they just don't add up to a fully satisfying whole.

And yet I feel I may be being too hard on the film due to Anderson's track record of consistent greatness. The Life Aquatic is thoroughly enjoyable in many ways---the quirky sense of humor, the performances of Murray and the rest of the cast, the minute details of the costumer and set designer. Some critics have argued that it's time for Anderson to move past the aesthetic of his past three films. There may be some truth to that; any artist's aesthetic must evolve or become stale. I don't think it's time for Anderson to move in an entirely new direction, however. His gift is the ability to conceive of entire self-contained worlds as they might appear in the thoughts of a precocious twelve year old and translate them faithfully to the screen. When his films work best, it's through the juxtaposition of adult problems with this whimsical worldview, as in Rushmore, when Max is exiled from the "green world" of Rushmore Academy and forced to attend public school; or the reverse in Tenenbaums, when the various members of the clan retreat to the fantasy world of their childhood home. The Life Aquatic's world is brilliantly conceived and executed, from Team Zissou's matching uniforms to the magnificent Henry Selick-designed animated fictional sea life, but there's nothing grounded in reality for us to grab on to--when the film's few emotional beats come, they seem forced, out of place.

I read much of the film as Anderson's reflections on the filmmaking process. Zissou struggles with the usual bugaboos: hostile film festival audiences, financing troubles, mutinous crews. Zissou is on the downside of his career, having lost whatever joy he presumably used to find in his work. Anderson's too crafty to include a nakedly autobiographical character, but it's possible that Zissou doesn't resonate as strongly with the audience because Anderson is already too close, unable to get the ironic distance his work requires. If anything, I hope Anderson sees The Life Aquatic as something of a cautionary tale and finds a way to avoid his title character's disillusionment with the art of making movies.

Fearless Vampire Killers
Now Playing: Blade: Trinity (2004, David S. Goyer)
It's hard to get too fired up about Blade: Trinity. It is what it is, and if you liked the first two, you'll probably like this one. The first two Blade films, despite their shortcomings, were fun action flicks that managed to retain a sense of cool, presaging the current comic book to film craze (though a lesser-known comic book hero is not likely to be turned up; Blade began life as a secondary character in Marvel's Tomb of Dracula). As in the first two, Blade: Trinity provides a minimum of characterization, instead piling on the creative vampire executions and gravity-defying martial arts while making do with snappy one-liners. I enjoyed the first two and this one as well, though it feels the slightest of an already slight franchise.

As you must know by now, the films' premise is that vampires comprise an apparently significant proportion of the populations of most major cities, controlling even society's legitimate institutions through their human familiars. Blade (Wesley Snipes, with a freaky stare and a really great growly delivery) is a genetic anomaly, a vampire that is immune to sunlight, silver, garlic, and the other means of destroying regular-Joe vampires. He, however, must inject himself at regular intervals with a special serum that allows him to suppress his thirst for human blood. Together with his mentor and weapons-designer Whistler (Kris Kristofferson, providing much-needed grit and acerbic humor), Blade hunts and exterminates vampires on a large scale. He's really good at it, too, which makes him vampire public enemy #1. As the third entry picks up, a team of vampire archaeologists is working to unearth the resting place of Dracula himself, to resurrect him as part of a "vampire final solution." Led by head vamp Danica Talos (Parker Posey, slumming), this group plans to get Blade out of the picture by framing him for the murder of a human, making him look like a psycho to the general population, which generally doesn't believe in vampires. Captured by the FBI, Blade is rescued by a splinter cell of fellow vampire hunters led by former vampire Hannibal King (Ryan Reynolds, looking and sounding for all the world like a roped-up Jason Lee) and Whistler's illegitimate daughter Abigail (Jessica Biel, and I'm struggling to include a parenthetical statement here-OK, she's hot and kicks ass). The Nightstalkers (An only slightly lamer name than Blade 2's 'Bloodpack'; it's explained away with the line "We were going to go with 'Care Bears' but it was taken," from the continually-quipping King) are working on a virus that will exterminate the vampire menace once and for all. Meanwhile, the vamps are working on something with Drake (as he's now called) that will allow them to dominate humans once and for all, because...well, it's not exactly clear why the vamps want to change the status quo. But who cares? We didn't come for long-winded explanations; we came for ass kicking and plenty of it!

David S. Goyer, who wrote the other two Blades and, it seems, every other comic book adaptation in existence, steps behind the camera for this installment, with mixed results. He's not as gifted with action as previous directors Stephen Norrington and Guillermo Del Toro, but he doesn't shame himself on that count, either. The fights are confusingly edited at times, but pack a more visceral punch than the wire-fu heavy previous installments. More annoying is his tendency to keep jumping from shot to shot, never holding on a frame for long enough for our eyes to take it all in. The look is not nearly as impressive as Blade 2, but it's pretty good, and you can hardly compare second-time director Goyer to Del Toro on that count; he's the master of getting twice as much atmosphere out of half the budget. I was most annoyed by the inconsistencies in the script, with which Goyer should have done a better job. Hannibal King has been "cured" of vampirism, we're told. How? Why don't they cure Blade? Hell, why don't they cure all the vampires instead of committing vampo-genocide? The film takes place in America, yet all signs are printed in English and some other language (Esperanto?). No explanation is given. Blade is at first resistant to working with the Nightstalkers, but his change of mind is completely unmotivated. Drake is motivated by a warrior's conception of honor, yet he behaves quite dishonorably at several points during the film. I could go on.

Other observations: Goyer seems pretty good at working with his actors, getting good performances from just about everyone, with the exceptions of Dominic Purcell, whose Drake is supposed to be an ancient Sumerian yet sounds like he was brought forth from a tomb in Encino, and the inexplicably awful Natasha Lyonne, mumbling her way through a performance as the Nightstalkers' blind biotechnician. Biel proves a game heroine, and Reynolds threatens to steal the show as the wisecracking King. Posey adds some bitchy fun to the proceedings (one of the things I like about the Blades is their conception of vampires as decadent Eurotrash)--but couldn't they have designed a dental prosthesis that didn't make her sound like a thirteen year old with braces? And, gods help me, pro wrestler Triple-H is actually pretty good as a vampire henchman. Oh--and the vampire Pomeranian is priceless.

Note: After I wrote the preceding review, I watched Blade 2 on DVD and had the following thoughts: 1) Watching Del Toro's execution of the action sequences again, the difference is like night and day. Del Toro's fights are flashy, to be sure, but always coherent, while Goyer's are, for the most part, confusing. Del Toro has the confidence to hold the shot for long enough for the viewer to get a feel for what's going on, while Goyer's quick cutting seems to be sleight-of-hand designed to obscure it. 2) I can't say enough about Del Toro's production values. Damn, his stuff looks good! 3) Though I still wish Goyer had imparted more of an effort to unify the three films mythological inconsistencies, there is some precedent for vampires being "cured," as Whistler, who has been turned into a vampire in between the first two films, is put through a "rapid detox" regimen to purge the vampire virus from his system. This does not seem to be an option for Blade, so I assume there are biological differences between those who are born vampires and those who are turned. Still, a little explanation would be nice. 4) Kristofferson's Whistler is the soul of the series, and Del Toro mined the character for all it's worth, getting great interplay between wisecracking badasses Whistler and vampire teammate Reinhardt (Ron Perlman). Whistler is totally wasted in Blade: Trinity. 5) The only job with a higher mortality rate than technical support for Blade is Red Shirted Security Guard on the starship Enterprise. If you're planning on taking either job, I'd advise a hefty life insurance policy.

DVD ROUNDUP
Now Playing: David Cross: Let America Laugh (Lance Bangs, 2003)
I don't subscribe to HBO, so I'm a little behind the curve on their excellent series The Sopranos, The Wire, and Six Feet Under -- I prefer to view the episodes at my own pace on DVD anyway. However, I was so behind the curve on Mr. Show, Bob Odenkirk and David Cross' long-running late-night sketch comedy vehicle, that it wasn't until I recently caught a watered-down version of an episode on TBS that I felt compelled to seek out the series in uncut form. It doesn't disappoint; the team's deadpan-crude-surrealistic brand of humor jibes perfectly with my comedic predilections. The seamless transitions between sketches and self-referential jokes raise Mr. Show to an almost postmodern level of meta-humor. To call it the bastard progeny of Monty Python's Flying Circus and early Saturday Night Live is, I think, not too far off the mark.

Despite my hunger for all things Mr. Show, I was a little hesitant to watch Let America Laugh, a documentary of Cross' post-Mr. Show standup tour. Standup comedy is rarely my cup of tea, at least since Eddie Murphy shocked and delighted my pre-teen ears with his obscene rants on Delirious. Fortunately, this is a standup film for the standup-averse, focusing mostly on Cross' interactions with his audience onstage and off. It ends up being a chronicle of the funny, annoying, idiotic, and just plain weird people one meets when your job consists of entertaining the public. As I've played in bands since I was fourteen, I have some experience with these folks (sometime I'll relate the saga of the guy who jumped onstage with us to serenade his girlfriend with an interminable rendition of Screamin' Jay Hawkins' "Constipation Blues"). When you perform publicly, there will always be a segment of your audience egotistical-or drunk-enough to want to be the focus of everyone's attention. During the performance, you can fend off these affronts; however, the true weirdos will corner you backstage, at the bar, outside the club-basically anytime you just want to relax, have a beer, and basically get away from the pressure of being "on." What's amazing to me is that Cross doesn't seem to hide from these encounters; he seeks them out and uses them as sources of material.

Let America Laugh chronicles such indignities as obnoxious drunk hecklers, groupie wannabes, a thoroughly bizarre "reporter" whose interview consists entirely of a litany of facts culled from his extensive magazine archives, and--I kid you not--a farting hippie. A Nashville club owner refuses to move tables off the floor during a sold-out show for fear of not selling enough food actually tries to kick Cross out when his obstinacy is understandably turned into material for Cross' routine. An invitation to an "after-hours party" at a small town video store turns into a nightmarish session of stoned headbanger kids pontificating endlessly on existential quandaries. It's all grist for the comedy mill, and it's all pretty hilarious. Cross soldiers bravely onward, never seeming too flustered by what's going on. That's not to say he's passive; he mines the humor out of each situation, often with a wink to the hand-held camera. Onstage, he can be particularly withering, as we see when he turns on a drunken heckler who makes an unfortunate comment about the World Trade Center. Cross calls him to the stage, then grills him mercilessly on why he thought it would be funny to make the remark. "I wasn't prepared for that," the abashed fellow mutters sheepishly.

Often, director Lance Bangs just lets the people do the work for him, knowing that a camera is a magnet for drunks and other freaks. There are times when this crosses the border into mean-spiritedness, but it's fairly tightly edited, so there aren't too many of those moments where you're cringing for the poor idiots on camera (let's not forget each of these people gave permission to be shown in the film). Occasionally, the film shows that the impulse to mean-spiritedness is the correct one. In one scene, there's a long tipsy rant by a young woman about the virtues of independent artists and venues. "Jeez," I thought, "this girl's a little airheaded and drunk, but her head's in the right place." The payoff comes later in the film when the champion of indie art identifies herself as an employee of concert megacorp Clear Channel.

Humor's a tricky thing, and your results may vary. Mr. Show fans may be disappointed by the dearth of stand-up material. The movie is framed by an unnecessary (and not terribly funny) skit in which Cross, ostensibly a white-collar employee at a New York advertising firm, is "outed" as a stand-up comedian. However, Let America Laugh (the title comes from the stream-of-counsciousness rantings of the verbose Clear Channel woman) is thoroughly enjoyable as a document of life on a shoestring-budget tour, where one really does meet the most interesting folks, and as a cautionary tale for anyone considering taking their standup act on the road. Sound and picture are a bit uneven, as is to be expected from a film shot largely on hand-held camcorder and released straight to video. Extras are fairly limited; four extra scenes are included, as is a feature called "Deleted Scenes," which consists of several brief scenes strung together without separate menu headings.

Superheroes & Existential Heroes
Now Playing: The Incredibles & I Heart Huckabee's
We are by now so inundated with the commonly held view that Pixar is the savior of contemporary animation that I almost want to find negative things to say about their movies. Sure, their use of cutting-edge digital animation techniques is eye-popping; yes, their artists realize that a coherent, stylized approach will always be more palatable than a photorealistic approach (Polar Express, I'm looking at you); yes, most of all, the powers-that-be at the company somehow realize that good writing will do more for a film than all the visual excess their supercomputers can muster. Both Toy Story films and Monsters, Inc., succeed wildly on all these counts (full disclosure: I haven't seen A Bug's Life). But, come on--these are children's films. As much as I enjoyed them, I would have felt slightly creepy in the theater had I not seen them in the company of friends' children.

Brad Bird's The Incredibles, though not specifically for adults, hits home on a number of counts for those who have advanced past grade-school age. If you grew up, as I did, on Bond movies, you will be blown away by the fantastic retro designs that look like they were created by Ken Adam on hallucinogens and an unlimited budget. If you were weaned on comic books, the superheroic action will bring a ridiculous grin to your face. Even in recent computer-aided superhero successes like the Spider-Man films, there's a certain disconnect that happens when our brains realize we're seeing a computer-generated stunt man doing things no human could do. In a completely computer-generated world, this doesn't happen, and the filmmakers make the most of it, giving us Jack Kirby battles in three dimensions and Dolby Surround. It's enough to make you wish Pixar would take on a straight comic-book adaptation. Most of all, if you've had your soul crushed by a tedious, unrewarding job you will find affirmation in this tale of extraordinary individuals tethered to a much more mundane existence.

The world of The Incredibles is filled with superheroes (or "Supers," as they're called in the film), but while it may look like the present as imagined by a 1950's sci-fi artist, the legal climate is pure present-day America. A glut of lawsuits have forced the government to outlaw the Supers (a nod to Alan Moore's seminal graphic novel Watchmen), who must now live out their lives in a sort of Witness Protection Program, working ordinary jobs and hiding their superpowers. Bob Parr, aka Mr. Incredible (voiced by Craig T. Nelson), is providing a good suburban existence for his wife Helen, the former Elastigirl (Holly Hunter) and three kids, but he's dying inside, thanks to his anonymous job at an insurance company where he's pushed around by his bean-counter boss (Wallace Shawn) and forced to deny the claims of the little old ladies he formerly saved from supervillians. In order to feel alive, he sneaks out at night with his buddy Frozone (Samuel Jackson) and listens to a police scanner for crimes to foil. His salvation comes from a mysterious message inviting him to a mysterious island where he can make full use of his powers in battling a robotic archenemy. His trips to the island have a revitalizing effect on Bob, to Helen's delight. Of course, the whole thing is a ruse planned by the supervillain Syndrome (Jason Lee in full-on evil fanboy mode). Elastigirl must journey to the island to save her husband, surreptitiously joined by her two oldest children, who must quickly learn to use the powers they have had to hide all their lives.

Much of the humor comes from the irony of superheroes forced to live in an ordinary world. But it's not all wink-wink; Bird's script has its share of innovation, as well. One of the film's best characters is not a reference to some other pop-culture figure but a true original. Edna Mode (voiced by Bird himself) is fashion designer to the Supers; a tiny, bespectacled, cigarette-holder waving fashion maven who creates simply fabulous costumes. The film makes the most of opportunities for visual invention, as well--there's a great sequence where Elastigirl is stretching herself to sneak down a corridor but is trapped by several sliding doors which pinch off her elongated torso in a number of places. Throughout, there's a combination of the familiar and the innovative that keeps the proceedings fresh and exciting--no mean feat in a movie climate in which every comic book from X-Men to Luke Cage is being brought to the screen.

The voice acting is superb throughout; Nelson is especially good at transitioning from invulnerable hero to beat-down working stiff-his voice has that Max Fleischer Superman timbre, but also conveys a middle-aged weariness at the same time. Michael Giacchino's music is damn near perfect. It's the attention to detail in all aspects of the film, from story to visuals to sound effects, that set it apart from the crowded field of animated films--and superhero films, for that matter.

I've seen some right-wingers try to argue the film as a case against affirmative action; "If everybody's special," says son Dash, frustrated by having to hide his powers at school, "then nobody is." While The Incredibles certainly makes a case for making the most of our God-given abilities, I find it hard to believe that the filmmakers are advancing this sort of political agenda. As with all good art, it lends itself to multiple interpretations based on your viewpoint and the state of the cultural climate in which we live. I think its relevance and enjoyability will outlive the current political climate; it's that good. If you don't have children, bring a friend's or relative's, or just hit a late-night show and enjoy it with a more "grown up" audience.

A Few Words on I Heart Huckabee's

I confess I don't know what to say about David O. Russell's latest. I've been a fan of most of his work-Spanking the Monkey is a great first film, and Three Kings is the best war film of the last ten or so years (yes, better than the cliche-ridden Saving Private Ryan, D-Day sequence notwithstanding). I Heart Huckabee's, is described as "an existential comedy," which might lead one to believe that it's made of serious stuff. But it's really an existential confection, which dissolves in the brain faster than an undergraduate lecture on Kirkegaard. It offers an entertaining look at the various schools of existentialism and cleverly relates them via characters that reflect a variety of contemporary types, but doesn't really seem to offer a strong viewpoint one way or the other. The throughline seems to be that life in 2004 America is more absurd than ever, and thus a ripe target for examination through the existentialist lens. None of the characters are particularly likeable, though the acting is mostly engaging, especially Mark Wahlberg as an overly earnest firefighter suffering an existential crisis in the aftermath of 9-11. The script is clever, but not overly precious. There are no big laughs, but I found myself grinning and chuckling throughout, no mean feat for any comedy, philosophical or otherwise. And, as insubstantial as the plot is, I find myself thinking about the movie long after watching it. Perhaps the best thing to recommend it is the fact that the showing I attended (in a completely bourgeois suburban theater) featured the single biggest number of walkouts I have ever seen. Now I've seen any number of disturbing, disgusting, and downright bad films. I've seen Takashi Miike's films, Dead Alive-hell, I saw Tomb Raider 2 in a theater-yet more people walked out of Huckabee's than any of these. It might be a sign that it's a bad movie. More likely, it's a sign that it somehow disrupted the suburban audience's conceptions of what a movie comedy ought to be, and that's a good thing in my book. For now, it's earned a spot on my best of 2004 list pending a second viewing.

The Living Dead
Now Playing: Gozu (2003) & Shaun of the Dead (2004)
The setup of Gozu, the latest from Japanese shock-auteur Takashi Miike to hit western arthouses, sounds like a page from the Tarantino book of oddball gangster stories. Ozaki (Sho Aikawa), a senior Yakuza in the Azamawari crew, is meeting with the boss (Renji Ishibashi), when he becomes convinced that a Chihuahua is actually a trained assassin. When Ozaki bludgeons the dog to death, the boss becomes convinced that he is insane, and orders young Yakuza Minami (Hideki Sone) to transport Ozaki to a dump in the hinterland town of Nagoya, where he will be disposed of. Troubled by his conscience (Ozaki, whom Minami calls "Big Brother", saved his life in an unspecified incident from the past) but confronted with certain evidence of Ozaki's insanity, Minami undertakes the mission. Things do not go exactly as planned. This all occurs within the first ten minutes of the film, and after that all similarities to quirky American gangster films ends abruptly.

Shortly after arriving in Nagoya, Ozaki is apparently killed in an accident, but when Minami goes into a cafe to report to the boss, the body disappears. The bulk of the film is comprised of Minami's Orpheus-like quest for the body, as he encounters increasingly bizarre townspeople, including a prodigiously lactating innkeeper and her spirit-channeling brother, a cross-dressing cook, a cow-headed demon, and Minami's erstwhile guide through this netherworld, Nose (Shohei Hino), a strange bald man who explains the white splotches on his face as the result a pigmentation disorder despite the fact that it's clearly pancake makeup. Is he dead, dreaming, transported into some alternate dimension? If you're looking for a concrete answer, you won't be rewarded.

I've seen Gozu compared to the surreal grotesquery of David Lynch, but it shares little of Lynch's sensibilities apart from the use of dream logic when constructing the plot. Lynch's recent movies seem to be intricate puzzles that become more impenetrable the more the viewer attempts to unpack them. Gozu's audience is not invited to unravel the mystery, and attempts to do so are not rewarded. Lynch represents cinematic Surrealism where Gozu firmly belongs to the Theater of the Absurd. Many of the movie's scenes could have been lifted directly from Beckett or Ionesco, such as a local who spends his days plugging a pay phone with coins only to repeat the same terse weather report to his unseen counterpart; or the American wife of a liquor store owner, whose conversation in halting Japanese with Minami is revealed to have been written on cue cards taped to the wall of the store. As in Beckett's work, circular conversations, irrational actions, and inability for human beings to connect through language are all central themes. The incredibly weird yet happy ending (not to give too much away) also makes gruesomely explicit the themes of circularity and reincarnation.

The movie is deliberately paced, and features none of the flashy camera moves of his previous work. The bulk of the film takes place not in the neon-suffused urban landscape of Tokyo, but in daylight in a decidedly non-urban setting (Miike does a great job of capturing the surreal sense of timelessness in small towns). The gross-out factor is fairly tame compared to the rest of the Miike oeuvre (although there are a few disturbing images that will stick with you long after the ending). This, for me, confirmed that Miike is a filmmaker of true substance. As in his other films, the camerawork and compositions are first-rate, and he gets very believable performances from his actors-finding the truth in a particular scene, no matter how absurd or seemingly disconnected from real life. The fact that he can make a movie so bizarre and yet artistically satisfying is a testament to his abilities as a filmmaker. If you're not a Miike fan, Gozu won't change your mind. If you're primarily attracted to his gonzo ultraviolence, this probably won't be your cup of tea, either. But if you're a fan of Beckett, Lynch, Ken Russell, Bunuel, or movies that swallow you in the experience without spelling out their meaning, you'll want to give Gozu a shot. I just hope Miike won't be tempted to come to Hollywood to direct the latest remake of a Japanese horror film. His uniquely disturbed vision wouldn't flourish here, I fear, and he'd probably be assassinated by the Directors' Guild after making three quality films in a year.


I don't have too much to say about Shaun of the Dead, except that it's probably the best zombie movie since Romero's classic Dawn of the Dead (to which Shaun pays explicit and frequent homage). Not a spoof, but rather a tribute that stands on its own, Shaun doesn't require you to be a rabid fan of the zombie genre, though there are of course many in-jokes to be savored if you are. The plot is simple: late twenties slacker Shaun (Simon Pegg) is dumped by his girlfriend Liz (Kate Ashfield) for his steadfast refusal to get a life-or rather a life like she sees in her upwardly mobile friends, David and Dianne (Dylan Moran and The Office's Lucy Davis). Shaun lives in stoner squalor with his best mate Ed (Nick Frost), whose ambitions don't reach past smoking pot, playing video games, and heading down the pub to quaff some pints. As if this isn't bad enough, the citizens of London have been turned into flesh-eating zombies by a crash-landed satellite (presumably carrying the same disease that first generated the zombies in Romero's Night of the Living Dead). The central joke (and I don't think it's unique to London) of the first half of the film is that the zombies don't really seem that much different from the tuned-out non-zombified residents of the city. In one great scene, shot in one take, the camera tracks a hung-over Shaun as he walks through his neighborhood to the corner shop, oblivious to the signs of undead invasion because they are indistinguishable from everyday urban life: a car with a smashed windshield, zoned-out kids, a shambling panhandler. Even after all zombie hell breaks loose, Shaun is primarily concerned with getting his girlfriend back. It's a sweet, very funny, sometimes even scary experience. Some of the humor depends on a working knowledge of British reserve (A character doesn't reveal that she has been gnawed by a zombie because she "didn't want to be a bother"; Shaun's mother refers to zombie attackers as "a bit bitey"), but you don't have to have been weaned on BBC programs on public television to appreciate it. The heart of the movie is Shaun, who is shaken from his sleepwalk through life only by the threat of zombies, and Ed, who really doesn't want anything more from life but drags his friends down with him. They share an easy chemistry that adds a human element to what might have been just a clever genre exercise. The filmmakers obviously love the source material, and the film is clearly a labor of love for all involved. That gets many filmmakers only so far, however. Pegg and director Edgar Wright have gone one better: a film that caters to the genre fans but is satisfying for movie lovers of all persuasions. Well done, lads.

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