Bellyful review
A subversively entertaining think on keeping up appearances via carefully spun racism and cronyism, Melvin Van Peebles’ “Bellyful” is an original look at what transpires when closed-minded conservative hypocrites pretend to be open-minded humanitarian liberals. Stealthy French-lingo endanger based on helmer’s romance uses digital video to its advantage in re-creating the look and feel of small-town France circa 1967. Pic preemed as a noteworthy presentation in Cannes’ Critics Week and opens Wednesday in Gaul; fests make find this a accepted addition.
Respectable middle-aged couple Loretta (Andrea Ferreol) and Henri (Jacques Boudet) tell the director of an orphanage they’ve been overwhelmed with work at their bistro, Le Ventre Plein (The Full Belly), since their daughter went to stay with a sick aunt. Although they live in an insular, all-white community, the pair are unnervingly eager to offer a waitressing job to a young black woman. Sweet, trusting Diamantine (Meiji U Tum’si) fills the bill. She’s about to turn 18 and has lived her entire life at the orphanage.
Solicitous to the point of smarminess, Loretta and Henri tell their live-in employee that she’s “one of the family,” yet seem to go out of their way to encourage the townsfolk to disapprove of the accommodating young lady. One evening, they ask if Diamantine would be willing to repay their kindness by pretending to be pregnant. The girl goes along with what she’s been assured is a joke, wearing increasing layers of padding under her clothes.
Loretta can barely contain her joy when Jan (versatile Dutch musician Herman van Veen), a Flemish friend who spent seven years in prison on a smuggling charge, comes to stay. Jan keeps asking about their daughter but is told she’s in Toulouse tending to a sick aunt. Some 45 minutes in, the reasons for the pregnancy charade are revealed — and they’re mighty twisted, in a quasi-upstanding sort of way.
Scripter-helmer Van Peebles sustains an agreeably conspiratorial mood and has a field day chipping away at the allegedly pious, self-described “pillars of the community.” Ferreol simply couldn’t be better, and U Tum’si is grounded and delightful as goodness incarnate. By setting his tale in a cultural backwater back in the mid-’60s, when unwed mothers were automatic pariahs, Van Peebles draws a subtle map of how intolerance can be either fanned or stamped out.
Digital lensing is very good, as is the film transfer. A few wacky flashbacks — including one in which an elderly woman permanently lends a hand to her jealous husband — are particularly memorable for their narrative chutzpah. Helmer also composed the score, which ranges across several styles but favors jazzy, effusive piano music.
The Haunting in Connecticut (2009)
Lionsgate/Allen Fraser
In this steam still image released by Lionsgate Films, Virginia Madsen is shown in "The Haunting in Connecticut."
Despite the many ghost stories brought to the big screen, many of them titled The Haunting this or that, The Haunting In Connecticut rises above the ectoplasmic ooze. Another based-in-fact supernatural tale, it stacks ghostly troubles upon a family that’s already reeling from worldly problems.
Oscar-nominated actress Virginia Madsen, starring as the Campbell family matriarch, has dealt with evil spirits before, especially in 1992’s Candyman and 1999’s The Haunting. She battles especially angry evil in The Haunting In Connecticut.
It’s 1987 in upstate Connecticut. Madsen’s Sara Campbell is the mother of a teen son who’s receiving devastating cancer treatment. Because Sara hates seeing Matt suffer through long commutes to the hospital, she looks for a house to rent near the hospital.
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Sara finds a large Victorian home on a spacious lot. Except for its odd history, it’s perfect. As the trusty real estate agent says, the old place simply needs a little love and care to bring it back to life.
Sara signs the lease and keeps its secret to herself.
The Campbell family includes Sara’s husband, Peter (Martin Donovan), the couple’s two sons and two nieces. Simultaneously renting a house near the hospital and paying the mortgage back home is a financial burden. Peter also has a drinking problem and a construction company that’s struggling to stay afloat.
As if dealing with all of the above and Matt’s potentially fatal illness wouldn’t push any family to the edge, the Campbell clan moves into a house haunted by spirits most malignant.
Already knocking on death’s door, Matt (Kyle Gallner) is the focal point of the supernatural activities. He picks the house’s basement as his bedroom, or, more likely, the basement picks him.
The basement is even creepier than the rest of the home’s faded, dim interiors. And there’s something cold and industrial about it. A locked room enhances the space’s sinister tone. It’s a wonder that at least one person in every audience watching The Haunting doesn’t yell out the obvious: Don’t go in the basement!
Strange things don’t wait for the night. They happen in daylight, just as Matt begins an experimental radiation treatment. In another bit of good writing, Matt thinks he’s losing his mind but dares not say so because admitting it would get him dropped from the medical trial that may save his life.
As the chill count mounts, The Haunting gradually reveals the horror of wicked deeds done in this house of death. With Madsen leading the cast, director Peter Cornwell and screenwriters Adam Simon and Tim Metcalfe tell a good ghost story.
The much-loved movie characte…
The much-loved motion picture characters of ‘Arthur’ return representing this result. A crooked business deal has bilked the world’s funniest Casanova missing of his fortune. And now Arthur must do the impossible - cross a chore!
What more can one say about a…
What more can one say with regard to a movie that defines the word “classic”?
The American Video Commence voted “Casablanca” the assign-tucker American film continually made. “Entertainment Weekly” gave it their integer-three situation in the midst “100 Greatest Movies.” Owner ratings at the Internet Movie Database pungent it number five in their “Top 250 Movies of All-Time.” And a scientifically formulated and rigorously administered survey of both the Wife-O-Meter and myself set up the film squarely at number the same. Certainly, “Casablanca” has been a good subject object of particular previous DVD releases, and now it takes its place among Warner Brothers’ celebrated, two-disc, Good Edition sets.
Not bad recompense a large screen that verging on never was. After all, in 1942 when it was being made, it was considered legitimate another Warner Brothers back-share melodrama. The studio had been churning these things unserviceable by the cartload every year, using their normal stable of contract players. With a lay out that was being rewritten daily and a plot that mystified everyone on the land a express, it’s a be awed the film was always finished, obstruction alone become bromide of the most famous ever made.
When did I in front common knowledge to it? Fountain-head, it wasn’t in 1942, I can know scold you that. But it wasn’t all that long afterwards. I recall it was a rainy Saturday afternoon in the mid fifties; I was a kid, bored, and looking in regard to something to watch on one of our three television channels. I turned on “Casablanca” all round ten minutes into the picture. I’d not at all seen it before–an old, fuzzy, swarthy-and-white movie interrupted by a multitude of commercials. But I stuck with it since on the other side of two hours, fascinated by something that would normally have hand me cold–a romance! I had no idea how popular the film was, delightful Academy Awards in behalf of Best Picture, Best Manager, and Best Screenplay, nor how much more all the rage it would adorn come of on TV, eventually attaining the prominence of most-often broadcast film in curriculum vitae. I only knew I loved it.
So, what’s the attraction? Why does “Casablanca” unswervingly show up in the public’s and critics’ lists of top-ten films of all old hat? I suspect it’s the characters and air more than anything else. Infallible, it’s a riveting love story, too, but without the colorful cast and exotic locality, it would be just another potboiler, which, as I said, is about what its producers initially expected of it. But the carbon copy took on a life of its own as filming and rewrites continued, eventually emerging as the classic every movie buff knows by heart.
Based on the unproduced put cooperate “Everybody Comes to Rick’s” by Murray Burnett and Joan Alison, the film moves effortlessly from scene to scene at the mercy of the guidance of veteran maestro Michael Curtiz. The principal character is, of course, Richard Blaine, played by Humphrey Bogart. He’s a brutish-bitten, world-be cynic, thirty-seven, single, the owner of Rick’s Eating-house Americain, a night club/casino in Casablanca, Morocco, fitting before America’s entry into Time War II. He is the quintessential antihero, a houseman who proclaims, “I stick my neck into the open air in behalf of zero.” At least that’s his philosophy until old zeal Ilsa Lund (Ingrid Bergman) shows up. Then all bets are off as Rick turns backtrack from into a noble and caring human being.
On a trivia note, Jack Warner had originally considered George Raft to play the lead, but producer Hal Wallis insisted upon Bogart. Raft would later say he turned down the part because he didn’t want to perform reverse an actress then uninvestigated in America. That’s OK. The year preceding he had turned down the duty of Sam Spade in “The Maltese Falcon,” saying the movie wasn’t important enough and he didn’t conglomerate a initially-constantly director (John Huston). Isn’t it reassuring to know you’re not the only one who makes mistakes? Serendipitous for us, though.
Add to the bewilder Rick’s ever-faithful piano player, Sam (Dooley Wilson, who had to fake his piano playing); Ilsa’s war-hero, intransigence-fighter husband, the ultra-suave, ultra-inexperienced Champion Laszlo (Paul Henreid); a weaselly thief named Ugarte (Peter Lorre); a conniving black-marketeer, “leader of all illegal activities in Casablanca,” Senor Ferrari (Sydney Greenstreet); a lovable headwaiter, Carl (S.Z. Sakall); a magnificently evil villain, Major Heinrich Strasser of the German Third Reich (Conrad Veidt); and a Prefect of Police more sympathetic to himself than to the Germans who consume his city, Captain Louis Renault (Claude Rains). What you book is an ensemble arrangement that is unquestionably the most successfully ever assembled. More serendipity: the studio had entertained thoughts of using, among others, either Ronald Reagan or Joseph Cotten for the interest of Laszlo; Hedy Lamarr or Ann Sheridan for Ilsa; Clarence Chew over or Lena Horne for Sam; and Otto Preminger for Larger Strasser.
But let’s not lose commander Michael Curtiz, a staple of the Warner Brothers’ production clique; curmudgeonly though he was, he created some the studio’s most noted films. To name just a few besides “Casablanca,” there were “Captain Blood” (1935), “The Concern of the Light Brigade” (1936), “The Adventures of Robin Hood” (1938), “Angels With Dirty Faces” (1938), “The Wave Hawk” (1940), “Yankee Doodle Dandy” (1942), “Mildred Pierce” (1945), “Life With Father” (1947), “Jim Thorpe: All American” (1951), “White Christmas” (1954), “The Egyptian” (1954), “We’re No Angels” (1955), and “The Comancheros” (1961). Today, with directors elevated to the with of outright stars, Curtiz may be the most overlooked filmmaker in the history of Hollywood. And he made “Casablanca” on the brink of entirely on a Warner Brothers soundstage!
Then there’s the calligraphy. Admit it: Can you concoct of any other fade away with so myriad memorable lines? No wonder Woody Allen’s character in “Play It Again, Sam” had every word memorized and could recite the dialogue along with the actors. Think nothing of a misrepresent: Randomly fast forward to any spot in the movie and listen to the conversation. I’m betting you’ll find a renowned succession. Try these examples:
Ugarte: “You look down on me, don’t you?”
Rick: “If I gave you any bit I probably would.”
Ugarte: “Rick, intend of all the poor devils who can’t collect Renault’s price. I promote it for them for half. Is that so…parasitic?”
Rick: “I don’t plans a leech. I thing to a edit out-rate one.”
Ugarte: “You know, Rick, I have tons a friend in Casablanca, but somehow, just because you disdain me, you are the on the other hand one I trust.”
*************************
Yvonne: “Where were you model night?”
Rick: “That’s so long ago, I don’t remember.”
Yvonne: “Will I brood over you tonight?”
Rick: “I at no time bring about plans that incomparably ahead.”
*************************
Ilsa: “Play it split second, Sam. To decayed times’ sake.”
Sam: “I don’t conscious what you manner, Be nostalgic for Ilsa.”
The Children of Huang Shi (2008)
Friday, May 30th, 2008
by
Bob Cashill
Like Jack Lemmon in
Glengarry Glen Ross
, I’m overjoyed to find myself on the big board, with all the cool kids who’ve written “Most Popular” Popdose posts. And I didn’t even have to do anything new; hell, I called in sick last week, and upon my return there was my weeks-old summer-movie-guide entry, #4 with a bullet. Folks, you’ve taken me this far, so I humbly ask that you take me
all the way
. The heck with those “worst of the ’80s” music posts: what was so bad about Starship and “Kokomo,” anyway? At the very least I should be in the running for the steak knives.
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull
. It was the first movie I pre-raved about in my
ever-climbing
survey, so a word or two about it is in order. I saw it with my parents, which in itself packed a nostalgic charge, back to 1981 and
Raiders of the Lost Ark
, when you had to get to the theater early and be prepared to wait an hour to see the show. With “event pictures” opening three per summer weekend nowadays and thousands of screens showing them around the clock, we pretty much just breezed in with 15 minutes to go on Memorial Day, which meant we had to endure a fate worse than a temple of doom: Commercials. Didn’t have those back in 1981—but when I first saw them appended to movies in Hong Kong in the late ’80s, and audiences sitting sheeplike through them, my crystal skull prophesied that the practice would jump the Pacific, and so it did.
My sixth sense also told me that there was scant chance of Spielberg and Lucas getting the old-school summer-movie mojo back, 19 years after the last, wearying
Last Crusade
. I
wanted
to believe it, and my faith was partly rewarded. The new movie strikes a reasonable balance between CGI (the Dark Star where Lucas lives) and real stunts (Spielberg, keeping the faith), and it has been shot and edited by old Spielberg hands to look like a picture copyrighted in the pre-MTV, pre-
Flashdance
, and pre-digital effects eras, when everything had to get faster and glitzier. Too much digital hullabaloo regurgitated in three-second bursts on-screen and I start to nod off, my synapses overloaded with visual junk food.
I stayed awake and alert throughout
Crystal Skull
, however, even during the heavy-going expository bits, which should have been delivered on the fly and off the cuff, like so many Hitchcock “MacGuffins.” More effort, frankly, should have gone into making the plasticized crystal skull itself look a little more imposing. For this I blame Lucas, with whom I have been estranged since the near-debacle of the
Star Wars
prequels. Actually, I blame Lucas for everything that went wrong; surely, the
Caddyshack
-ish gophers that pop up in the first sequence, spoiling the action beats, were his idea. I’d blame him for the silly, bendy-twisty contortions Shia LaBeouf endures atop moving vehicles during the big Peru chase, if I hadn’t recalled them from Spielberg’s non-Lucas pictures. Oh well: Boys will be boys.
If the talkie dawdles on its way to the principality of the crystal skull, well, so did Howard Hawks’
Hatari!,
or John Ford’s
Donovan’s Reef
, two autumnal delights from cast off masters in repose. Today’s aging masters are entitled to their tomfoolery. And this boy-at-heart (and his parents—could they, in 1981, really have been three years younger than I am now?) got a kick out of reasonably of what they’ve presupposed us to forgive the lapses. There are welcome reunions (Karen Allen and Harrison Ford, Harrison Ford and his career) and amusing homages to ’50s kitsch, from juvenile delinquent sagas to
The Ten Commandments
and
The Plain Jungle
(although the scarab beetles in the knockoff
Mummy
pictures trump this one’s live dangerously ants) to the notion of reds under every bed.
The movies were never innocent, but Spielberg and Lucas believe in the old-fashioned values. It’s not altogether their fault that the era of beautiful matte paintings and stop-motion animation and all the handmade things I loved about the movies when we were all less gray at the temples is gone forever. The irony and cynicism that are rife in today’s franchise pictures, which dare you to take them seriously, is not theirs. I haven’t quite made up my mind if Indy v.4 is a good film or not; it may take another screening or two, and I know I look forward to the opportunity. For all its compromises, however, it comes as a great relief.
The other “indies” in release may be as hard to find as a kingdom of a crystal skull, but these columns should come in handy when they turn up in your neighborhood or, alas, on DVD, a typical fate these days in a challenging marketplace. I was gratified to learn that
The Visitor
, which I saw in a near-empty house here in Brooklyn, is getting plenty of visitors, and has thus far grossed over $3 million, a nice haul for a film of its type. It is an upwards climb, however, and I doubt these three pictures will be scaling the ladder.
In an amusing coincidence, joining the latest opus from those two legendary Hollywood titans is the newest picture from Teutonic stinkmeiseter Uwe Boll. Rumors abound that pedestrians anywhere near the vicinity of a theater playing
Postal
are being kidnapped and forced to watch it, with their eyes clamped open
Clockwork Orange
-style. [Just kidding. I think.]
Surprise.
Postal
is the best film in its maker’s “uwe-vre.” Granted, the bar is not set high. With his cerebellum-challenged videogame adaptations Boll has fringe status as our answer to
Plan 9 from Outer Space
’s Ed Wood, and he revels in his badness. With his propensity for publicity stunts, like arranging boxing matches with critics, he is kith-and-kin with his countryman, Werner Herzog, who once ate his shoe to settle a bet. I could whip his ass, and will if sequels to
Alone in the Dark
and
House of the Dead
materialize. But like a dog that has finally learned to do its business on the sidewalk and not the carpet, he deserves a little treat.
The gonzo appeal of
Postal
is that it is not housebroken. The movie takes the premise of a game of dubious morality (its creator and Boll tussle over the fidelity of the adaptation in one scene) and runs it through the
Kentucky Fried Movie
and
South Park
shredder. In the opening scene Muslim hijackers decide their leaders were lying about the promise of 100 virgins in the afterlife and reconsider their plans, just as angry passengers break into the cockpit and steer the plane into the trade center building, inadvertently starting our ongoing mess. I shamefully admit I laughed, and can vouch that there is nowhere for the film to go but down. There is a plot, something about Osama bin Laden (played by “Soup Nazi” Larry Thomas, minus any accent or particular ethnicity) planning to destroy America with avian flu, which in an exceedingly roundabout way is foiled by the put-upon Postal Dude (Zack Ward), his cult leader uncle (Dave Foley), trash-talking little person Verne Troyer, and a bevy of pistol-packing models. Old timers David Huddleston and Seymour Cassel turn up to talk about poontang, then make plans to get some from Postal Dude’s morbidly obese wife, who doles out sexual favors from their trailer.
The jokes are hit and miss, often within the same scene: Foley frontally nude in a hung-over romp with bare-breasted acolytes is funny, him nude and on the toilet taking a fearsomely noisy dump immediately afterwards, not so much. Clearly the Boll touch is not Midas’, and
Postal
has as much pyrite as gold. Glittering consistently, however, is Ward, a ginger nut who handles the various loosely hinged facets of his character with comic aplomb and is a real find. Every so often, the movie twinges that toxic little nerve we all have, the one that tells us that the world is sliding into the abyss and that rather than do something about it it’s better just to sit back and laugh at the insanity. Call
Postal
a Boll movement.
Jonathan Rhys Meyers has his uses, and the actor is consummately suited to the history-with-no-boring-parts approach infatuated by
The Tudors
, a favorite in my legislature. But a capacity for caring and sharing is beyond the reach of his unwholesome good looks. In
Flexure it Like Beckham
he looked liking for he wanted to rape all the soccer-playing teens in his bid; in
The Children of Huang Shi
, I feared fit the Chinese orphans he’s entrusted with, and thought they clout do outdo sticking it escape with the invading Japanese.
George Hogg, the true-human being journalist he’s playing, is a outdo sturdy against Christian Bale or Ewan McGregor; the journeyman commander, Roger Spottiswoode (of that much better newspapering yarn,
Under Fire
) drew the concise straw with Meyers, who is out of his element hijinx-ing with small kids.
Then again, not much of
Huang Shi
sat well with me. The early scenes, as the Japanese precipitate the Nanking massacre in 1937, are taut; the rest, as Hogg leads the boys to safety in a perilous Silk Road crossing over indifferently filmed locales, awfully fictionalized-feeling. When I saw
Gangs of New York
, I could sense the presence of three screenwriters standing behind Cameron Diaz, just barely out of camera range, trying desperately to find something for her to do. There they were again, hiding behind Radha Mitchell. She’s a no-nonsense Aussie nurse faced with the impossible task of trying to romance Meyers, who in a further burden on his performance is obliged to be shy whenever she’s around. [The former Elvis and Velvet Goldminer seems as gangly as Dracula.] More up to snuff, and adding a dash of movie star charisma, are Hong Kong favorites Chow Yun-Fat and Michelle Yeoh, reunited from
Crouching Tiger Hidden Dragon
and doing their best not to steal the picture from their Caucasian co-stars. [Why Mitchell, whose character has a history with Chow, would even consider a fling with Meyers is one of the unsolved mysteries of the script.] All this backstory continually pulls focus from the boys, who only become the heart and soul of the story in the end credits. Here their real-life counterparts, now elderly, talk about their experiences, and I was, finally, moved. A good documentary on the subject, on the heels of last year’s excellent
Nanking
(now on Cinemax), would be more appropriate than this tarted-up gloss.
There’s nothing superficial about
Stuck,
the latest tale of terror from director Stuart Gordon. Years ago I interviewed Gordon about his creature feature
From Beyond
and was gifted with a hat, from which protruded the nastily penile pineal gland that is at the root of the story. I wore it proudly all over Chicago and was pleased to find that the director, who has been blown sideways through the independent film market since we met in the mid-’80s, is keeping the faith as much as Spielberg and Lucas. His last film, of David Mamet’s sordid play
Edmond
, was more upscale; this one, spun from the notorious 2001 murder case, is low-slung, mean, and gritty.
A cornrowed Mena Suvari is Brandi, a calculating health care worker who after a night’s carousing runs smack into the homeless, jobless Tom, played sad-sackedly by Stephen Rea. Tom is inconveniently affixed to her windshield, for which an increasingly unstrung Brandi seeks permanent relief when she gets car and unwanted passenger to her garage. [Her drug-dealer boyfriend adds a complication or two.] Brandi’s illegal immigrant neighbors, protective of their own status, are of no help to the desperate Tom, who finds a new resolve from his life-and-death predicament. Gordon has rewritten the ending of the Texas tale, giving his black comedy take a gratifyingly grindhouse finish. If he wants to send me a replica of
Stuck
’s broken windshield, I’ll wear it all over Brooklyn.
Thank Kingdom Hearts For Epic Mickey [Dice 2010]
No, the head of Disney's gaming division wasn't taking the bait and announcing Kingdom Hearts 3 here at the annual DICE convention near Las Vegas. But he did tell Kotaku that franchise paved the way for another big Disney game.
"It forced us to challenge assumptions," Disney's game studio chief Graham Hopper said of the blockbuster series that mashes up Disney and Final Fantasy characters. Hopper recalled that, years ago and before he was working at the company, there were people at Disney who had said the game "was an abomination." But fans loved it, not minding its mixing of worlds and instead cheering it to great success.
Hopper pointed to the current sales success in Japan of the latest Kingdom Hearts, the PSP's Birth By Sleep. "That franchise is alive and its doing very well," he said.
And its influence on Disney's growing game-making ambition?
Download Impact Pt II Full Movie dvd
"If you look at nothing else, you can look at Disney Epic Mickey taking the characters and showing them in a surprising way," Hopper said. Epic Mickey, the forthcoming Wii Mickey Mouse game from renowned game designer Warren Spector and his Junction Point Studios, puts Disney's lead mascot in a darker steampunk-influenced world, facing off with forgotten character's of Disney's earliest cartoons. (See Kotaku's extensive Epic Mickey chat with Spector)
Both Epic Mickey and Kingdom Hearts take creative risks with Disney characters that just wouldn't have flown years ago. Kingdom Hearts was the breakthrough.
Hopper added that the success of Square-Enix designer Tetsuya Nomura, who has creatively led the Kingdom Hearts franchise, helped prepare Disney for granting Spector his own creative influence on the Epic Mickey project.
In both cases, the games take Disney outside its comfort zone of what to do with its characters, and while Kingdom Hearts may have been considered an abomination in some corners of Disney before it was out, the tune has changed and the company is open to just that kind of unconventional design.
As for a Kingdom Hearts 3? Hopper had "nothing to say on it," declining to address whether the project is underway.
Hopper was talking alongside his boss, Disney interactive media group president Steve Wadsworth, who had just delivered the keynote address at DICE. Wadsworth had outlined what he described as Disney's consumer-first strategy of listening to its young customers, incorporating their ideas and striving to meet the demands of a generation that always had the Internet and wants their entertainment experiences connected across platforms. Wadsworth's talk highlighted successes such as Disney's Club Penguin — the executive said that even the DS spin-off has sold 1.5 million copies, with a billion Club Penguin coins uploaded from the game to the home web platform and announced that a DS sequel will be officially announced tomorrow. He showed trailer peeks at Split Second, Epic Mickey, the forthcoming Tron Evolution game, which he said would bridge the original movie with the new one, and the action role-playing game Pirates of the Caribbean Armada of the Damned.
Afterward, talking with Kotaku and other reporters, Wadsworth praised Kingdom Hearts as an example of showing how Disney's franchises, even those thought to be targeted at kids, could appeal to a core gaming market.
Both Disney men name-checked Marvel, which Disney recently acquired, but they said the transaction was too recent for any new gaming plans related to the characters to be fully formulated. In other words, your Kotaku reporter asked if they'd do a Kingdom Hearts-style mash-up game with Marvel and Disney characters — or, more seriously, if Disney hoped to eventually make Marvel games in-house — but they wouldn't say.
Hopper and Wadsworth were bullish on upcoming Disney racing game Split/Second. And Epic Mickey, obviously they're into it. Thanks, in no small part, it seems, to Kingdom Hearts.
Send an email to Stephen Totilo, the author of this post, at stephentotilo@kotaku.com.
