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Sideways (2004)
Saturday March 20th 2010, 11:43 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized
“A beautifully realized but,
nevertheless, all too familiar story about a pained man.”

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Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

Writer-director Alexander Payne’s (“Citizen Ruth”/“Election”/“About
Schmidt”) very entertaining but thinly drawn romantic/comedy, buddy/road
movie, surprises (perhaps like a familiar wine that unexpectedly proves
to have a rich fruity taste) that it has more substance than what at first
appears to be only a frivolous tale. Sideways turns out to be a beautifully
realized but, nevertheless, all too familiar story about a pained man,
Miles (Paul Giamatti), not yet recovered from his divorce of two years
ago and who might be ready to pack things in as hopeless as he’s still
carrying the torch for his remarried ex-wife. Jim Taylor, the longtime
writer partner of Payne’s, again collaborates on the script that is based
on the novel by Rex Pickett.

Miles is a depressive, shlumpy, aspiring unpublished writer, who
supports himself by teaching English in a middle-school. Jack (Thomas Haden
Church) is a cheerful, hunky, superficial, washed-up former TV actor and
longtime friend of Miles’ since they were college roomies. They hook up
in their hometown of San Diego and go on a weeklong wine tasting, golfing,
and soulful heart-to-heart companionship trip through central California
wine country (around the environs of Santa Barbara) where wine connoisseur
Miles is in all his glory as he revisits his familiar haunts and samples
some pinot noir. The excuse for the trip is for the old friends to celebrate
together that Jack is getting married for the first time in a week. 

At one fine restaurant, The Hitching Post, Miles meets again the
attractive blonde Maya (Virginia Madsen), a waitress he remotely knows
who shares Miles’ love for wine. But Miles, at first, is too unsure of
himself to follow up the interest Maya shows him, despite Jack’s urgings.
Meanwhile Jack makes it clear that his mission on this trip is to get both
himself and his old pal laid, as the approaching middle aged womanizer
still can’t believe he’s soon-to-be-married and will have to give up his
swinger lifestyle. 

Jack hooks up with the free-spirited motorcycle riding Stephanie
(Sandra Oh, the director’s wife), a friend of Maya’s, who plays a feisty
single mom wine-pouring hostess for the tourists at the local vineyard.
They double-date, and Jack and Stephanie are doing the love thing as fast
as it takes to pour a glass of vintage wine. But Jack never bothers to
reveal his upcoming marriage, instead he professes his true love for her
and plans to relocate to start a wine business with her. Miles in the meantime
goes along with Jack’s lie that his novel has been published and eventually,
in due time, succeeds in scoring Maya by getting her to read his sensitive
manuscript. The film takes off in grand style when their deceits become
known. 

The great acting is the thing here, as the foursome all play their
roles with a controlled eye for getting to their character and keeping
with their characterizations. I was especially pleased with the nuanced
performances of Madsen and Church, and I was not disappointed by the usual
quality performances I have come to expect from both Oh and acclaimed character
actor Giamatti. It results in an honestly told relationship film, in a
genre that is hard for filmmakers to ever get right. Payne to his credit
leaves no bitter aftertastes with this delicious offering and has come
up with a quality film that deserves Oscar attention. Just by making everything
real and keeping a wry observing eye out for comparing the way wine ages
gracefully with the way the featured men are aging, makes this one of Payne’s
better efforts and a welcome contribution to fighting back against the
dumbing down of such familiar comedy fodder by so many mediocre studio
directors who are only after the next blockbuster. As the snobby wine-lover
Madsen character says about sampling a wine she favors “it tastes so fucking
good,” one can easily transfer that compliment to the movie.



Once Upon a Time in Triad Society II review
Wednesday March 17th 2010, 11:18 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

Less a sequel - it has the nevertheless manager, writer and star as the first movie, but new characters and an unrelated storyline - than an exact more inventive follow-up. This era Ng plays a forceful gambler and congenital coward; unluckily payment him, his need to present a macho front wins him a starring role in a affray to shelter control of Mongkok from a marauding Mainland China crowd. His bathetic exploits (mostly with a gay prostitute friend getting in the way) are intercut with the lives of a cold-but-tender triad foot-soldier (Roy Cheung) and an out-of-his-depth cop (Cheung Tat-Ming) whose pregnant wife goes shopping in the wrong place at the wrong ever. Funny, emotive and really quite exciting, this was one of the best Hong Kong movies of its year.

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The Lady Confesses review
Sunday March 14th 2010, 2:43 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

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“A routine mystery story with
a sort of misleading title.”

Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

A routine mystery story with a sort of misleading title. The lady
confesses to lying about the alibi she provided for the killer. This low
budget film is watchable, but do not expect anything more.

Larry Craig (Hugh Beaumont) is going to marry Vicki McGuire (Mary
Beth Hughes), but surprisingly after a seven year absence Larry’s wife
Norma (Barbara Slater) returns and confronts Vicki by arrogantly telling
her that she will never give Larry a divorce, even though she wants nothing
more to do with her rotten husband.

Larry while drunk goes to a nightclub that Lucky Brandon (Edmund
MacDonald) owns. Lucky gets rid of him, but he returns. The club’s singer,
Lucille Compton, thinks he’s too drunk to see Vicki in her place, so she
lets him sleep it off in her dressing room.

In the wee hours of the night, Larry is awakened by Lucille and is
now sober. He goes with Vicki to see Norma and ask for a divorce. When
they show up at her house, Captain Brown (Vogan) greets them with the news
that Norma was strangled to death with a thin wire. He suspects the couple
because they had a motive for killing her and proceeds to check their alibis.
He finds three of four people at the club back Larry’s alibi, only Lucky
denies Larry was with him and denies that Larry saw him sneaking back in
to his club late at night.

Warning: spoilers to follow in the next two
paragraphs.

Under police questioning it turns out that Lucky was seeing Norma
and that she lent him $10,000 to open the club. Vicki suspects Lucky, and
goes on her own initiative to get a job in the club to find out why he
lied about seeing Larry that evening. She gives the club photographer (Andrews)
$50 to take her place for a few days; and, she finds out from Lucille that
she was at one time seeing Lucky and that Lucky had gone to Norma’s house.
When the singer tries to shoot Lucky because he won’t see her anymore,
he takes the gun away from her and asks Vicki to take her home. But before
Lucille goes home she writes a note to Captain Brown, telling him she lied
about the alibi she provided for Larry. She does this to cover up that
out of jealousy, she strangled Norma.

In her apartment, Larry sneaks in and strangles Lucille with a thin
wire because he says she can’t keep quiet. Vicki goes to Lucille’s dressing
room and gets a note that she wrote addressed to Captain Brown and without
reading it takes it to Larry. Fortunately, Captain Brown, who is taking
Lucky down to the station, also comes to Larry’s place just as he was going
to strangle Vicki. Larry confesses that he killed Lucille. Captain Brown
plugs Larry when he tries to escape. It turns out that Lucky was in Norma’s
place to pay back the loan and rekindle their romance, he therefore explains
that the reason he lied was that if he gave Larry an alibi the cops would
let Larry off the hook. Lucille apparently misunderstood Lucky, as much
as did this viewer.



Closing the Ring (2007)
Thursday March 11th 2010, 4:03 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

At 84, this much-loved bastion of British cinema has a new photograph, energised no qualm by an winning anecdote with strong appeal for the more act one’s age viewer. Michigan, 1991, and a Fraternity Conflict II flyer goes to his tomb after years of an without marriage, leaving widow Shirley MacLaine with some explaining to do to bristling daughter Neve Campbell.
Meanwhile, in Belfast, value hunters (Michael McCann and Pete Postlethwaite) imperil the wrath of the IRA by excavating a contested site where a US  bomber went down during the cross swords, discovering a ring which could fasten together destinies on both sides of the Atlantic. Although fortunes straighten out at a pace unhurried by today’s standards, and the schmaltzy fixed consult flirts with incredulity, the film’s affirmation that it’s never too modern development to underwrite assail lives in discipline carries a ruminative touchy safe keeping. While MacLaine’s fearless postulate is something to conduct, the story’s awkward contrivances verify insurmountable. With all the will in the fabulous, this is a mere footnote to Attenborough’s famous filmography.

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Bellyful review
Monday March 08th 2010, 12:43 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

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)
Sunday March 07th 2010, 10:48 am
Filed under: Uncategorized

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…
Friday March 05th 2010, 11:23 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

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…
Thursday March 04th 2010, 8:38 am
Filed under: Uncategorized


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)
Tuesday March 02nd 2010, 12:33 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized

Friday, May 30th, 2008
by

Bob Cashill

noconcessions.jpg

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.