DVD Roundup
Now Playing: Ray (2004, d. Taylor Hackford)
As the Academy Awards draw near, one can notice a certain cloying stench in the air...ahh, yes, there it is again. It's coming from that Oscar staple, the biopic, which invariably reduces the complexities of a life to cheap theatrics and obvious messages, capping off the wretched concoction with a rote feel-good ending. It's a recipe that Academy voters can't seem to get enough of, and so we have Jamie Foxx's portrayal of soul legend Ray Charles as the presumptive favorite for Best Actor honors this year. The buzz around Foxx's performance was so positive that I thought perhaps it would be enough to elevate (the aptly named) Taylor Hackford's film above the level of tear-jerking pablum. Wrong! Foxx's impersonation of Charles is dead on, and his musical performances unquestionably great, but the award is not called "Best Mimic" or "Best Singing and Piano Playing." Foxx proved he can act in Collateral--if there was any justice (and when it comes to Oscars, there isn't) he'd have been nominated in the Best Actor category for that role. In this film, he just isn't given anything to work with outside of a legendary stable of songs to perform.

The screenplay, credited to James L. White (from a story by White and Hackford) lays on the biopic conventions: a childhood tragedy that haunts the protagonist; a tough mother (shown in incessant flashbacks) that helps the protagonist overcome his handicap, the protagonist's struggles against adversity (racism, philandering, heroin addiction--take your pick), and a joyful ending in which our hero conquers his demons and the world. The problem is that there's no connective tissue. We know Ray's a genius not because of anything we see on screen, but because we're told so repeatedly by the characters. We know Ray must conquer his heroin habit because drugs are bad (mmmmkay?), but there's no evidence that his shooting up and fooling around had any negative effects on his personal or professional life. Sure, it annoys his faithful wife, gospel singer Della "Bea" Robinson, but that's not enough to get him to change his ways (a scene examining how she came to terms with her husband's wild road life would have been nice). Nor are the earnest entreaties of Atlantic Records chief Ahmet Ertegun (Curtis Armstrong, playing perhaps the first sympathetic record company honcho in movie history), whose vision catapulted Charles to stardom. Nope, Ray just quits heroin (we're never told if he stopped sleeping around) because that's what people do in biopics. And because he has a nice vision where he makes up with his mom and dead baby brother.

Worst of all, the movie shortchanges Charles' undeniable creative genius. Songs spring fully formed into his head, without even a cursory nod to the creative process. Maybe Ray really did write "What I Say" extemporaneously to fill time when a club owner demanded he play 20 more minutes, but would his full band just be able to pick it up on the spur of the moment, complete with finished horn parts and backup vocals? Seeing the group struggle to keep up would have added some interesting tension, but apparently Ray's genius was so great that it extended to anyone who got onstage with him (I know for a fact this isn't true-more on that in a moment). We're shown again and again how Ray's personal life informed his art. Hey, it can't but be the case for all artists, so why does it feel so fake in this movie? The most odious example is a scene in which Ray has just broken off a long affair with backup singer Margie Hendricks (Regina King). He cruelly tells her it's now strictly business from now on, then breaks into his new tune, which just happens to be "Hit the Road, Jack." Of course, Hendricks tearfully breaks into the response part and nails it, having only just picked up the sheet music that Ray, despite his blindness, has somehow been able to write. It was all I could do to keep my eyes from rolling clean out of my head.

From all evidence, Charles was a bit of a bastard. He cheated on his wife, shot horse, mistreated his musicians, and screwed the record company that gave him his first break by leaving to write bland, string-laden crap for big bucks at ABC. To his credit, Hackford doesn't soft peddle this behavior. But instead of drawing a portrait of a complex and conflicted genius, he uses Charles' character flaws as mere signifiers for what he sees as the greater psychological conflict which must be overcome for him to succeed (never mind that Charles wrote his best music during the tumultuous early years). It's complete horseshit. Interestingly, Hackford includes a scene in which Charles stops a performance to berate a musician who's not up to snuff. In the movie, this is to show that despite his addiction, Ray never went onstage high and wouldn't tolerate it from his musicians. When I saw Charles perform several years ago (long after he was supposed to have conquered his addictions), he did the exact same thing, bringing a song to a crashing halt to lay into the drummer, who was filling in that night for the regular drummer, who was ill. It was completely embarrassing. My question is: if the real Ray was a jerk, horse habit or no, wouldn't that make a more interesting film? Well, that doesn't fit into the formula that dictates our protagonists must conquer all their demons by the end of the film. Bring on the gold statuettes!

I couldn't bring myself to delve into the full slate of extras on the double-disc DVD, which include director's commentary, two featurettes, and two uncut musical performances. I will warn potential purchasers about the "extended version" touted on the box. This is not a director's cut; rather, 25 minutes of deleted scenes are branched into the theatrical cut without any editing. It's a jarring experience-when you come to the point where a deleted scene is inserted, the player pauses and then jumps to the scene, and then jumps back and resumes, often right in the middle of a scene. Fortunately, this feature can be turned on or off, but come on-don't bill this as the "extended version."

Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!
Ever since my faith in the Academy Awards was crushed by Dances With Wolves' Best Picture win over Goodfellas I have tried not to get too worked up over the Oscars. Everyone is well aware of the shortcomings of the system, the tendency to recognize style over substance, etc. But the omission of Paul Giamatti in the Best Actor category is simply unconscionable. I don't think I've seen a single review of Sideways, pro or con, that didn't single out Giamatti's extraordinary performance. Jeff Wells has advanced the theory that Academy voters reacted adversely because his character is none too admirable, stealing money from his mom and getting drunk at inopportune moments. In the absence of a better explanation, I guess I have to concur. But, voting bluehairs, this is precisely the reason you should have nominated him. Giamatti's Miles is not a guy you automatically root for, like Depp's or Cheadle's characters; nor is he given a larger than life role to chew like DiCaprio in The Aviator. But, thanks to Giamatti's nuanced performance, you feel for the character, hoping he finds a measure of happiness at the end. Paul, you deserved better. More on this in my "If I Picked the Oscars" column, but I can't say this is a good sign--usually it's at least a couple of weeks before I start to feel "blah" about the Oscars.

The Best Films I Saw in the Theater in 2004
Not that anyone asked for it, but here's the year-end best-of list. The usual caveats apply: these lists are meaningless and subject to change; I didn't see every film that was released this year; not all films on the list were released this year (but, as the column title indicates, they were released in Denver theaters this year). Onward!

Sideways (d. Alexander Payne)

Payne eschews the superciliousness regarding his characters that marred About Schmidt and Election and produces a heartfelt and moving (not to mention hilarious) portrait of midlife crisis. Not that he's getting all gushy; Paul Giamatti's Miles Raymond is a depressive borderline alcoholic and his pal Jack (Thomas Hayden Church) is an inveterate womanizer whose mental age seems to have been arrested at about 16. Their adventures on a trip through wine country are the stuff of a good novel. Not having read the novel upon which the film was based, I can't speak to the faithfulness of the adaptation, but Payne succeeds where so many others have failed, creating a film that's tonally novelistic but thoroughly cinematic in execution. This marks the second year in a row that a film starring Giamatti has topped my best films list, and it's not coincidental. He's one of the best actors working in film today, able to convey a broad palette of emotions with his soulful eyes alone. His looks generally get him cast as losers and outcasts, but just as with last year's American Splendor--in which he found a buried vein of humanity in misanthropic cartoonist Harvey Pekar (which many have claimed doesn't exist in the real Pekar)--he doesn't play types. He embodies characters, which is altogether more difficult for the actor and more satisfying for the viewer. But I'm a card-carrying Giamatti fan; the surprise is that the other actors keep up. Hayden Church is perfect as a has-been actor unable to commit to a monogamous relationship, and Virginia Madsen is luminous as a divorcee who forges a tentative connection with the emotionally fragile Miles. Even Sandra Oh, who's given the least to work with, hits all the right notes as an outwardly free-spirited "pour girl" who's really looking for a father for her daughter. To his credit, Payne doesn't go for the "home-run" Oscar-bait emotional scene, which makes Miles' life of quiet desperation all the more heartbreaking. The comedy sparkles, too: I still chuckle when I think about the scene in which Miles snatches a bottle of wine and careens down a hillside, chugging as he tries to evade the pursuing Jack. And the line "I'm not drinking fucking Merlot!" may prove to be the catch phrase of the year.

Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (d. Michel Gondry)

Charlie Kaufman is one of the best screenwriters (if not the best) working today. Yet if you think his scripts are impossible to screw up, take a gander at Gondry's so-so Human Nature. The announcement that Gondry was taking on another Kaufman project filled me with apprehension, which proved to be misplaced. Eternal Sunshine employs Kaufman's metafictional (metacinematic?) bag of tricks to produce a melancholy exploration of memory and regret through the lens of a failed romance. If anything made me more apprehensive than the selection of Gondry, it was the announcement that the film would star Jim Carrey, whose best performance as an actor was to mimic the quirks of Andy Kaufman. This, too, proved unfounded-Carrey is just fine as the jilted loner Joel (if anything, he's too subdued). Even better is Kate Winslet as the flighty Clementine, giving some emotional weight to a character that we all know (or have dated): the person whose outward exuberance and spontaneity are a carefully constructed fa?ade concealing deep emotional wounds. Frankly, I don't understand the complaints that the film is too hard to follow. Once we accept the premise that the events of the film are a journey through Joel's memories as he attempts to have them erased, there is logic (more correctly, dream logic) to all the weirdness. And, as in all of Kaufman's work so far, it's not weirdness for weirdness' sake. True, Kaufman isn't afraid to shatter the traditional barriers of "realistic" film, but it's all in service of the story. I don't mind being reminded that I'm watching a film, as long as it's a film worth watching. The critic Walter Chaw suggested that Kaufman is the nexus of Orson Welles and Preston Sturges. I'd go one better and say that he may be the missing link between Borges and the Marx Brothers.

The Incredibles (d. Brad Bird)

In this time of comic book movie saturation, simply making a good superhero movie is a notable accomplishment. Brad Bird and Pixar went one better and produced a movie that stands as not only one of the best of that genre, but with the best animated films ever made. It's certainly the best-looking CG film ever made, from the first rate scenic design to the fabric of the super-suits. The action is expertly staged, making use of all the wowee capabilities of the format. Thankfully, the filmmakers realized that while these elements are essential to a first-rate production, they are nothing without a first-rate script. Funny throughout yet capable of genuinely emotional moments, the script acknowledges our ironic distance from the superhero concept without stooping to wink-wink irony for its humor. The Incredibles is pure joy for those of us who spent too much of our formative years buried in comic books, but it's not just a love letter to the geeks of the world. In fact, it's hard to imagine any future list of the best animated films without this film (and Bird's previous effort, the criminally underseen The Iron Giant) very near the top.

Gozu (d. Takashi Miike)

Shock-auteur Miike sidelines the over-the-top gore (well, mostly) in favor of a Beckett-inspired aesthetic, with haunting and thought-provoking results. Unfettered by the restrictions of conventional plot structure (more so than usual), Gozu takes the audience into a dreamlike state, weird and funny and frightening all at the same time. I recently read a review of the film that made much of its homosexual subtext. It's there, no doubt--on reflection, I'm surprised I didn't get it the first time I watched the film. I prefer to think that Gozu is "about" coming to terms with repressed homosexuality in the same way the Waiting for Godot is "about" looking for God. Yes, it's there, but as with all real art, it's just one level. Gozu takes all the traditional themes of the Yakuza movie--honor, loyalty, violence (and, yes, homoeroticism)--and marinates them in a heady broth of striking visuals and bizarre characters, baking the concoction under the stage lights of the Theater of the Absurd to come up with a truly unique dish. Miike is a consummate craftsman and a director of unique vision, even in his less arty direct-to-video films; he's truly worthy of the auteur tag. Let's be grateful that he has thus far resisted the trend of Japanese horror directors coming to Hollywood. I don't think he'd do too well in today's bottom line-driven, mediocrity-championing American film industry. Though I would like to see his vision of Bush-era America...

Collateral (d. Michael Mann)

Essentially a two-man piece, the interplay between Tom Cruise's self-actualized hitman Vincent and Jamie Foxx's procrastinating cabbie Max is so good that one forgives any number of holes in the high-concept plot and a final act straight out of Hollywood Action Hack Screenwriting 101. As a thriller, it ain't all that, but as the story of a character's dark journey toward a kind of authenticity, it's compelling. Cruise, who has always been a solid (if overeager) actor, proves that he's much more interesting when he gets a chance to explore the darker aspects of human nature. Foxx proves beyond any doubt that he is, in fact an actor and not simply a gifted performer. The largely digital photography should be singled out for some kind of special award--the ability to shoot at night and in low-light situations is something that wasn't possible before the digital revolution, and while you'll never see me aboard the "film is dead" bandwagon, Collateral is a great example of how the medium can enhance the right story.

I Heart Huckabee's (d. David O. Russell)

Russell's giddy screwball take on existentialism shouldn't have been any good at all. At various points throughout, I found myself wondering if there was anything beyond a freshman philosophy-level intro to existentialism to be found in this story of an overearnest young environmentalist (Jason Schwartzman) who experiences an existential crisis in the midst of his battle against Wal-Martesque superchain Huckabee's. There may not be, in fact, but I was grinning throughout the film, and it stayed with me long afterward, begging for subsequent viewings. It says something about our society that a dead philosophical movement seems uniquely suited to address the difficulty of finding meaning in post-9-11 America. Perhaps it's philosophy itself that's the con game, promising answers, which are really just riddles and intellectual evasions. One thing is certain--Mark Wahlberg should only be allowed to work with Russell, who finds depths in the former underwear model that other directors are unwilling or unable to bring out. Wahlberg's painfully earnest, anguished Tommy Corn gives humanity and gravity (not to mention some great yuks) to what might have been a weightless intellectual exercise.

Kill Bill Vol. 2 (d. Quentin Tarantino)

Whether it was always intended to be so (as QT has claimed in interviews) or not, the second part of Tarantino's epic revenge pastiche managed to be quite a tonal shift from the first installment. Gone is the adrenaline-fueled nonstop action of the first film, replaced by a more contemplative pace and an almost mournful feel. In Vol. 1, Tarantino paid homage to the gods of Asian action cinema; the spirit of Sergio Leone seems to guide this second installment. As usual, Tarantino's myriad influences are on display (the Shaw Bros. tribute of the "Cruel Tutelage of Pai Mei" chapter is so dead-on as to transcend any thought of parody and proceed directly to coolville), but they seem on the whole to be more of a piece this time out. But what really makes it work is love: Tarantino's love of cinema, the love of the actors for the material, and especially the main characters' love for each other. David Carradine's performance gives an elegant answer to the question of why Bill would slaughter the Bride's entire wedding party, and meaning to his enigmatic opening monologue ("...this is me at my most...masochistic.") Uma Thurman adds depth to her character, too--in the fantastic final confrontation, it's clear that she still loves Bill, even though she must kill him. After Vol. 1 hit, I wondered whether the two parts would have to be edited together to make a truly great whole--I can say now that the two parts stand just fine separately. QT gets the revenge thing right: Vol. 1 ramps up the bloodlust; Vol. 2 has the appropriately elegiac feel of the end of the quest.

Shaun of the Dead (d. Simon Pegg)

Simon Pegg and Edgar Wright's "Romantic Zombie Comedy" (RomZomCom!) managed to have more warmth, humor, and genuine fun than just about any genre movie this year (though the first 15 minutes of the Dawn of the Dead remake are spectacular). Just a few of the many great moments: Lucy Davis' master class on how to act like a zombie. The wonderful tracking shot of the hungover Shaun walking to the local store, oblivious to the zombification around him. "Well, they were a bit bitey." Sade as a zombie-killing weapon. Shaun is everything films should be when they are made by fans of the source material: passionate, clever, and well-executed; it contains enough inside jokes to keep the fanboys happy but doesn't rely on them for its appeal. The film hits exactly the mark it's aiming for, nothing more and nothing less. That in itself is rare enough in movies; so is the fact that it's so damn fun to boot.

Honorable Mentions:

The Bourne Supremacy (d. Paul Greengrass) - It's saying something about the current state of action films that this well-executed, well-acted, workmanlike spy thriller seemed somehow exceptional. In the end, the plot just wasn't involving enough to earn it a spot with the year's best, but this was a great time at the movies.

Baadasssss! (d. Mario Van Peebles) - Mario conjures up and exorcises the spirit of his father (yes, I know he's still alive) in this involving, honest account of the making of the first blaxploitation film. Mario's portrait of his father in unsentimental and unsparing, showing Melvin's passion and vision right alongside his destructive obsession and failings as a father (the scene where Melvin offers up the prepubescent Mario for a sex scene is particularly chilling, more so because it really happened). Vital indie filmmaking that puts most big-budget biopics to shame. All is forgiven for Posse.

Fahrenheit 9-11 (d. Michael Moore) - Yes, Moore is a self-important, manipulative ass who may have had a hand in losing the election for the Democrats. Yes, this film uses questionable tactics to make its points and ends up preaching to the choir. So what? Who says films can't be polemics; that they can't aim to rile people up? In this time of political and media conformity, voices that challenge the company line are needed more than ever. The film's enormous box-office proved that by preaching to this particular choir, you're speaking to at least half the country.

Spider-Man 2 (d. Sam Raimi)
Hellboy (d. Guillermo del Toro)

Two comic-book adaptations that provided the requisite big screen thrills, but relied on characterization and small moments for their effectiveness. Tobey Maguire's Peter Parker embodied everything that made Lee and Romita's unlikely hero connect with generations of young people, and Alfred Molina's Dr. Octopus was such a well-drawn character that his descent into super-villainy conveyed a true sense of tragedy. In Hellboy, del Toro again showed that a passionate and able filmmaker doesn't need Bruckheimer-sized budgets to look great and supply blockbuster thrills. The best thing about the movie, though, was Ron Perlman, whose ability to project soul through pounds of makeup applications was more amazing than anything conjured up by a computer this year.

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