This Is Your Brain On Anime: Paprika

There is a story of the Chinese sage Zhuangzi that goes:

"Once Zhuangzi dreamt he was a butterfly, a butterfly flitting and fluttering around, happy with himself and doing as he pleased. He didn't know he was Zhuangzi. Suddenly he woke up and there he was, solid and unmistakable Zhuangzi. But he didn't know if he was Zhuangzi who had dreamt he was a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming he was Zhuangzi. Between Zhuangzi and a butterfly there must be some distinction! This is called the Transformation of Things."

Though on its face this may seem an almost childish idea to most, if you have ever experienced a lucid dream, or if you really pay any attention at all to your inner life, you may come to realize that there is truth to it. What is more, there is a real terror that can accompany realizing that the ground we stand on, at least figuratively speaking, is not solid. All experience is simply experience, whether it involves balancing your checkbook or talking to the monk levitating above a colossal, marching procession of cymbal-crashing frog men.

Many movies have dealt with this idea. (The Science of Sleep and Vanilla Sky are the first two that come to mind that do it any justice, but there are many more.) However, few have done it with such a brilliant flare for the surreal as Satoshi Kon's Paprika. Like his previous film, Perfect Blue (review here), the animation is top notch, and the script solid, though even the best animes tend to be a little stilted in translation. He also utilizes many of the same techniques in both movies, including breaking that fourth wall nearly every scene. In the case of Paprika, these techniques are being applied for a different purpose, and I would say they are done somewhat more gracefully.

However, the genius of Paprika lies in the sheer inspired weirdness that exists in the realms of consciousness between waking and deep, dreamless coma. There is a certain logic to dreams, which tends to only make sense within the context of the dream itself- while dreaming it makes perfect sense that you are talking to a fox, while underwater, that is somehow both your mother and your dead future self at the same time. Whenever we wake up and try to recount our dreams to friends, they oftentimes sound foolish for this reason. It really is true that you "had to be there." Paprika succeeds at dealing with these realms, bringing us there without it feeling too forced. (Unlike your stereotypical dream sequences where the director is like "it needs to be weird. Get a smoke machine and find us a midget!")

Though I will admit I have not (yet) read it, I would imagine much of this influence comes from Yasutaka Tsutsui's novel that the movie was based on. On the strangeness scale, between Full House and Naked Lunch, this movie is definitely a trip to Interzone.

So if "off the beaten path" is your thing, and you haven't taken the trip yet, I suggest you strap yourself in for quite a ride. Just don't be surprised if you have some really strange dreams afterwards.

--James Curcio.

Excuse Me... Who Are You?

In a world where we are expected to play a variety of conflicting roles, in which our lives are all interconnected, broadcast and dissected, we invariably develop situational identities. We are not one person, we are many people who go by the same name.

Though all of us deal with this in varying ways as we go through life, nowhere is it more of an issue than in pop culture. The long list of psychologically and emotionally fractured ex-teen stars is ample proof. "Who are you?" Mima, the central character in Perfect Blue, asks of herself. It is her first line in our 'play within a play.' It is a question that really seeks no answer, instead expressing the complete lack of a frame of reference.

Just a decade after its release some of the devices of this film may now seem old - websites pretending to portray the 'real life' of pop idols, obsessive paparazzi, frothing J-pop fans - however, many of the questions explored by Perfect Blue remain as vital as ever. In fact, it is possible they have become even more so as the line between reality and fiction continues to blur.

Britney Spears vs. Perfect Blue -- Mashup

In many ways this movie seems downright prophetic. To the Myspace Generation, everything is either performance, or irrelevant. If you can't photograph, blog, videotape or otherwise record something, it may as well not have happened. I'm sure you've heard this before: A.D.D. running rampant in our children, cultish obsession with actresses that only recently got their periods, on and on. I'm not about to contribute to all of that alarmist noise.

However, it is rare that we take a step back and think about how all of these things are symptoms of underlying identity crisis, a crisis that actually transcends most of our other sexual, cultural or racial boundaries. The teen idol, acting out the pre-scripted, cut-out role, and their screaming fans are united in their lack of intrinsic identity. The former plays to the expectant dreams of the latter, yet neither of them actually are that illusion. When it shatters, there is nothing there. Playing to the expectation of a lover is ultimately no different than playing to the hopes of the audience. It is all acted in the mirror.

Is she Mima the pop star? Mima the actress? Mima the shy girl who loves her tetra fish? Unless if pantomiming is all it takes, the answer is "no." She is none of the above.

Sure, there are several things about Perfect Blue that don't quite hit the mark. The film-makers probably could have made their point without busting the 4th wall every couple minutes once the film gets rolling. It also may have gone further if Mima's actress-persona developed an actual personality of its own.

However, despite its occasional stylistic heavy-handedness, this movie is positively brilliant for it's ability to deal with the 'heavy' themes of identity and cultural expectation without being a 'heavy' movie. (It doesn't hurt that the animation has the ambiance and grace of older classic anime's such as Akira.)

"Who are you?" Mima asks herself, never really finding an answer. Everyone in the film is united in their desire to be this perfect idol. This is the reality Perfect Blue gives us a glimpse of, although you see it anytime you turn on the television. Japanese or American, all of our cultures seem to meet at this crossroad: we are a planet of voyeurs.

This was a syndicated review first run on Alterati. Next up, I'll be running an original review of another film by Satoshi Kan, Paprika.

• Order Perfect Blue on TLAvideo.com.
• Interview with Satoshi Kon, Director of Perfect Blue.

--James Curcio.

Unleashed

I've been a fan of martial art films for going on a decade. It might not be readily apparent now, but once upon a time I even practiced kung fu rather obsessively, though I always shied away from the acrobatics that is the bread and butter of these films. In this genre, Jet Li has always been a favorite for me. (This was a point of contention with my se gung back in the day, who apparently trained Jackie Chan for his Drunken Master role, and was really bent out of shape that I was impressed by Jet Li's "Northern style bullshit." Drunken masters and their weird rivalries.)

Jet Li became known as a stand-out martial artist in Shaolin Temple and the Once Upon A Time In China films, though I was especially a fan of Fist of Legend, a Bruce Lee remake, which in this re-interpretation is possibly more dazzling, even if both suffer from the stereotypical rival-school, you-killed-my-master-now-you-have-to-die premise. For the martial arts buffs out there, I suggest them all.

He is not, however, well known for having acting chops to accompany his martial ones, and many of the American-made movies that don't recognize this fact suffer for it. In fact, his acting is oftentimes downright agony.

As a result of this, I was somewhat stunned to discover that Unleashed (a.k.a. Danny The Dog) is a gritty and touching drama first, and a martial arts film second. Without a solid acting performance from Jet Li, this movie would have been even more painful than the glitzy but vapid Romeo Must Die. Even with this, solid direction, and supporting roles, scuttlebutt on Rotten Tomatoes seems to be that the premise of this movie is "unbelievable." How this is a valid criticism to level at a genre that allows people to fly and get tossed through brick walls, I'll never know. But there it is. If you can accept the premise that someone can be beaten down and re-programmed like one of Pavlov's dogs (no pun), and still retain enough humanity to get really excited by the ripeness of melons and gourds (seriously), then pipe down and enjoy the film.

It struck me that, while it is true that Unleashed clearly has one foot in martial arts-action and the other in drama, this genre-blending isn't done haphazardly. The sappy, child-like Danny seems almost absurd against the stark back-drop of the violence, but that's the entire point, and I can't see any other way the point could be made. In other words, the strength or innate flaw of this movie comes straight out of its central premise- but if you can accept that, and want to watch a martial arts film that is a bit more than "you killed my master, now it is time to die," I suggest Unleashed.

(A final note, the atmospheric soundtrack for this film, beautifully composed and produced by Massive Attack, is a regular in my iPhone playlist. The music alone is reason to check it out.)

--James Curcio.

Drunk For Your Amusement (pt 2)

My stomach still hurts from laughing. This weekend I saw Doug Stanhope at the Trocadero theatre, and I got exactly what I asked for- raw truth and bitterness, served by a drunken lunatic.

Here are some of the thoughts I had when I first encountered his work, (from Alterati). They still hold true, and I'm not a fan of regurgitation:

"For years now, I’ve wondered who the next Bill Hicks was going to be. As things grew more and more grim, I wondered if maybe we would have no more ranting, fool messiahs, because the meter was just fucking broke and we’ve all become too whitebread and insecure to recognize the rallying call if it comes. “COMEDY IS DEAD, GO HOME, GAME OVER.”

There are times when being proven wrong is the best thing in the world. The other night I was stopped dead in my tracks by this man. He made me want to pick up three of the bad habits I’d managed to kick, and start up about twenty new ones. Most importantly, he made me laugh. A lot.

Really, we’re all laughing as Doug goes down like a screeching 747, and we will probably laugh when invariably it crashes and turns into flaming wreckage. Maybe it’s like the sacrifice that gets slaughtered every year so the crops can grow- more likely, we’re just laughing at a world that many times seems too fucked to do anything else with but laugh at it.

Society needs its “fool messiahs”, its jesters. Comedy allows us to express thoughts and feelings that might otherwise cause a lot of trouble. Consider what the Daily Show has done for, or to, news and journalism in general. Stephen Colbert lampooned the president to his face. Comedy gets written off because it’s half pretend, but oftentimes we forget that the things that make us laugh are the things that are true. Doug takes this process a step further though. With him, I don’t think there is actually any satire here. There is no ‘pretend.’ He gives it like he sees it at that particular moment in time. I imagine it might be somewhat alienating for those who don’t understand what’s going on, (arguably the title of his most recent DVD, No Refunds, has something to do with that.)

So, I acknowledge that there’s a fair chance you’re not going to be able to take this journey with me, and by the end of this article I’ll be figuratively standing in an empty hall, drunk and naked, ranting while riding a crack-whore bareback across the stage. (I guess in this fantasy I’m wearing a wireless mic.)

All the same that would at least leave me in the right frame of mind to enjoy Doug’s erudite body of work. So come with me on this one, or don’t. Either way- I think we’ve found this generation’s Bill Hicks. Enjoy it before he finds a nice hole in the ground."

He rightly predicted that many of us would go home and blog about the performance, and pre-emptively told us to fuck off. Which isn't to say he won't be ego googling himself at 2am and come here. So in deference to that, "Doug-- I'm sorry, but your reverse psychology worked. Here I am, like a tool, telling everyone to buy your shit because you told us all to fuck off. Honestly, I'm not sure which one of us is the tool here. But you'll get the royalties."

Fuck it. I'm not going to delve into critique. But I will give you a quick litmus test- if your insides shrivel in the presence of bullshit, if you think an ambien, vodka and mirapex binge in Vegas would be a fantastic time, if you are too smart to buy into the corporate brainwash, but too stupid or apathetic to create something better- then welcome! We can all laugh together as we float into oblivion.

Start with No Refunds. But don't end there. Go out, see him, and buy him a drink at the bar.

--James Curcio.

Anti-Xmas 1: Black Christmas (2006)

The original Black Christmas, made in 1974, was one of the archetypal slasher flicks - a sort-of contemporary of Halloween, and one has to wonder if it's any coincidence that we got two movies wreaking bloody havoc over highly targeted consumer holidays in the midst of the biggest economic slump between WWII and a month ago, but that's a different essay. As were all the proto-slashers, Black Christmas was low-budget, sparse, and effective as much for what it didn't show as for what it did.

The remake, naturally, is slick, highly produced, and well-lit, so of course everyone hates it. That's not a totally unreasonable stand to take, but I'm here to put forward a radical notion - the reason other reviewers hated it is that they're applying the wrong criteria. Black Christmas '06 isn't a classic horror movie; it was just marketed as such because Madison Avenue lacks imagination. If you review it as a critical commentary on modernity, it's both a more interesting story and, frankly, a more credulous review.

The plot doesn't take much explaining, but here it is in a nutshell: a traumatized kid grows up to become a psycho with woman issues and a peeping fetish, and one Christmas he escapes the asylum to return to his family home; since his family home is now a sorority house, you can probably guess where all this is going. With a plot like that, what could it be if not a slasher in the classic vein? Let's look at the charges against:

1) The sorority sisters are essentially interchangeable. Yes, this is pretty true - all the girls are basically bitches to each other, all of them are shallow, and we don't really get to know any of them before they start dying. This makes it difficult for the audience to connect with the protagonists or particularly care when they get offed. Fine, but compare that to watching the nightly news and ask yourself how much you care for the faceless strangers you hear about having been run over by trains or gunned down by gangs.

But it goes further than that. Consider, for example, any season of America's Next Top Model - do those girls each portray a distinct archetype? No, especially as the end draws near, they're basically interchangeable - aside, I suppose, from how their eye and hair color sets off the fabric of whatever bizarre catwalk fetishwear they happen to be selling that day. Consider also the central characters in Mean Girls, Clueless, or hell, even Jawbreaker - the same sort of interchangeability transpires among the the collective groupings of high-fashion anti-heroines. For better or worse, entertainment has evolved since the 70s, and the update of Black Christmas insists only that the slasher genre evolve to pace.

2) The killer's backstory humanizes him. The '74 killer, like most proto-slashers, had no reason for his acts; he just shows up and kills teenagers in what is apparently an existential nod to Descartes (Contrucido ergo sum - I slaughter many, therefore I am). 32 years later, Billy is a messed up cookie who spent his formative years locked up in an attic, spying on people with a telescope and fathering his own sister (in, I will grant, the movie's biggest WTF? moment). Some people say these scenes are overwrought and unnecessary, doing nothing but reducing the splatter per minute ratio; I say they're put in for anyone who watches Lost and is annoyed by the smoke monster.

This, in many ways, is the corollary to the point above - just as entertainment itself has evolved, so too has the audience consuming and interacting with it. Starting arguably with Hill Street Blues in the 80s, television plots have become more and more complex, and movies have had to rise in density to keep pace; even the smugly self-aware Scream had to turn not having a motivation for its murders into yet another cliché to be riffed. If this seems contradictory right after having dissected the genericness of the girls, consider that we know as much about them as we need to - we know the different reasons they're staying in the house, we know their relationships to one another, and we know the kinds of people they are as much as they'll let anyone else know, either. Their only purpose, ultimately, is to be slaughtered; Billy's purpose is to serve as both deus ex machina and metaphor, so a deeper exploration is required.

3) There's no tension. The scars left on my forearms by my girlfriend's fingernails beg to differ. Nonetheless, one of the hallmarks of Christmas horror movies (and this trope was used, albeit with a different intent, in the original as well) is the blasphemous tarnishing of nuclear family togetherness into a portent of unspeakable horror. This is not a haunted house on a lonely hill on a dark and stormy night with a full moon and howling wolves; this is brightly lit, comfortable territory - and despite that you still aren't safe, even if you have a coterie of shallow, self-interested "friends" to back you up. Indeed, one might even see it as a commentary on the lack of modern community - if all you have to count on is friends who don't think about anything but themselves, and then only in vague notions, how can you hope to stand against unstoppable forces of nature?

So we're left with a 94-minute meditation on the futility of modern individuality, the inevitability of death, and the illusory nature of safety. And we get several good death scenes and a few breasts along the way. Starlet Michelle Trachtenberg sums it up: "Merry Christmas, motherfucker."

–Tovarich

Movies For People Who Hate Christmas Movies

I hate It's A Wonderful Life.

Always have, from the moment I laid eyes on it. It feels every bit as disingenuous to me as a Norman Rockwell painting, envisioning an America that never existed and a set of values that would even give Ned Flanders pause. I understand the whole concept of suspension of disbelief, don't get me wrong - I just prefer to get something out of my suspension other than an early take on The Secret.

Which makes this a pretty atrocious time of year to consume media. The boob tube and silver screen abound with titles in which a schmaltzy kid learns A Valuable Lesson™ and everyone wakes up to fully-wrapped gifts under the tree as a non-aerodynamic vehicle pulled by eight grounded quadrupeds invades our airspace without setting off UFO detectors and a booming voice utters "Ho Ho Ho" at a volume adequate to be instantly audible from 30,000 feet without causing a sonic boom.

If we're going to get stupid seasonal fare, says I, at least do something interesting with it.

So over the next few weeks, allow me to indulge in a bit of seasonal whimsy with a few of my favorite anti-Xmas flicks. All will give you a valid seasonal alternative to the Hallmark channel, and all will be linked from this post for easy reference.

1. Black Christmas (2006 remake)

–Tovarich

The Fountain

Darren Aronofsky first gained notoriety in the film world through his movie Pi, a black and white excursion into the fine line between genius and madness, riddled with fascinating but largely unexplored Kabbalistic overtones. Later, his film Requiem For A Dream, though masterfully shot and lushly scored, seemed to lead us into an even deeper abyss, without even the scantest light at the end of the tunnel. I remember feeling the desperate need to shower after watching the film, (and scrub my insides with steel wool)- but was left with little more than the realization that it was an accurate portrayal of the shallow, beautiful horror that is the downward spiral of addiction.

His most recent film, The Fountain, which was in and out of production for several years and almost never made it onto the screen at all, is in my opinion by far his best to date. Partially as a result of these production issues, it was also made into a graphic novel as well, based off of the original script for the movie. The graphic novel, which I recently picked up at a comic convention, is a true work of art in its own right, with a sketchy and yet strangely painterly style that is uncommon and much called for in comics.

The Fountain deals with some of the most central issues we face as humans, the big ones: life, death, what is lost, and what remains. He does so in a visually stunning, deeply moving manner. Aronofsky’s background in myth and metaphor is as clearly apparent as most people’s complete lack of understanding in these areas. To begin with, from review to review, and even in the wikipedia entry (a source well known for its standard of infallibility), there is talk of this story taking place in three times, or of consisting of three plots: a Conquistador, set in the time of Spain’s conquests and search for glory, a scientist, dead-set upon saving his dying wife, and an astronaut or mystic, exploring a nebula referenced in the other “time-lines” as relating to the Mayan creation myth. These converging and diverging time-lines seem to confuse people, as they try to track how they might relate to one another, and try to wrap their heads around three different stories.

News flash: there is only one story here. This is encompassed within three narratives filled with symbolic devices, all of which exist primarily to enrich each other. It is constantly baffling to me what a hard time most people have with layered metaphors. At it’s most extreme, this literary problem results in holy wars. In this case, it just results in baffled critics. The through-line of a plot is most clearly expressed in the narrative of the scientist, as the other two, one above and one below, express emotional and spiritual elements of his futile quest to save what cannot be saved. For, as we learn through millenia of the worlds myths, from various derivations of the pagan “green man” to the Egyptian Osiris and even the more familiar Christian icons, there cannot be gain without loss, and it is not the flesh which remains. In many of these myths it is in fact the flesh which must be ultimately sacrificed to the spirit, which is to say to the rest of the universe so that more matter can come into being, in new forms. This is not unlike the Kabbalistic idea of permutation of symbol, energy, and form. (See: the Sefer Yetzirah.) All of these thoughts were almost undoubtedly in Aronofsky’s mind, in one form or another, when he gave birth to this story.

The true fountain of immortality is a bittersweet potion, as flesh feeds on flesh, life feeds on life. The pain and bliss of love are the same, and some of the overwhelming potency of love comes from it’s immediacy, which is also to say, its fragility and temporality. What remains is a seed, a kernel, which floats willy-nilly from one place to the next. It is irrelevant what time period these characters exist in, as ultimately they are all merely devices for expressing and exploring those ideas which otherwise cannot be explored, cannot be expressed. As with Requiem For A Dream, The Fountain is oftentimes a dark meditation, but here at the end there is a form of redemption, and many insights into what truly matters, as we all make this journey from one shore to the next.

As such, The Fountain takes its place as a work of stunning visual poetry, and should be enjoyed as such. I’ve watched it twice so far, and was rewarded with fresh insights with each viewing. I’ll leave seeking out those delicious secrets to you. Happy hunting.

--James Curcio.

Too Clever By Half

I'd like to share a film with you that I think is, on the whole, highly underrated.  "Too clever by half," as a friend of mine put it. That film is Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang.

But before I discuss the movie directly, let me unpack the idiom. Many people seem to feel that if something is "too" clever, "too" smart, it's an affront to their common sense, an assault upon their salt-of-the-Earth dignity. I don't know if this belief carries across cultural boundaries, but it seems endemic enough in the states that it even determines the results of elections. The Republican party has made this issue a corner-stone of their assault upon the "liberal elite," a fact well recognized and explored by Sorkin's own "too clever by half" drama, The West Wing.

I'm not entirely sure when being witty became a negative, frankly I don't care. Maybe this just makes me another member of the "liberal elite." But if you're not offended by self-aware satire and snarkiness, you'll likely find Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang one of the most entertaining, funny movies you've seen.

The basic structure of the plot is based on a dense collection of noir cliches, but thanks to expert storytelling and execution, this doesn't turn the movie itself into a cliche. In fact, the techniques they employ could make it a worthwhile study on post-modernism narrative: the narrator will stop a scene mid-way, or jump back because he forgot something, or realize mid-stream he was remembering something incorrectly. (Personally, I found it too funny to be  a "study" on anything. But that's just me.)

Yet another reason this film works: that narrator is Robert Downey Jr. Though his acting skills have been well recognized, it's his understated comedic genius that keeps what could be irritating meta-commentary both pity, and often hilarious. The surprising chemistry between Robert Downey Jr. and Val Kilmer also keeps the boat afloat, with Val more than comfortable as the unwitting side-kick, "Gay" Perry.

One of the reasons this film may have lost large audiences is that on its surface it is an action noir, and though these "post-modern" elements I've mentioned are simply used to drive the movie forward, it is anything but an action noir, and the "who done it" is in the end about as important as who the best boy or grips were. (No offense to best boys, grips, or anyone else who are parts of big scary Unions. Really. Don't hurt me.)

Can you tell I love this movie? I've seen it possibly ten times now, and it still makes me laugh. If you haven't had the opportunity, do not pass go, buy it now. That is, unless if you are a salt-of-the-Earth Republican. In that case, get Talladega Nights. And storm out halfway through when you realize that it isn't actually a movie about how awesome Nascar is.

--James Curcio.

Showtime Showdown (Part 2)

Last year I wrote an article on Alterati about the lineup of shows on networks like Showtime and HBO that have taken episodic TV to a new level...

"Since the success of HBO’s Six Feet Under, many series on subscription based networks (HBO, Showtime, etc) have continued to up the ante on the theatrical and conceptual possibilities of episodic basic television. Though I do not envy the production team’s task on these projects- attempting movie-level quality at the pace of television- I have very much enjoyed the results."

(Read the full article on Alterati.)

All of the shows reviewed in the Alterati article are available for purchase through TLA, and I'll provide those links in a moment for those of you that are frightened by search boxes (I know I am.) Before then, I'd like to review a couple of other shows that have joined the fray-

True Blood

P.S. Yes. I know it's an HBO production. But "HBO and Showtime Showdown" just didn't have the same ring.

It's altogether possible that the vampire trope has reached a saturation point. (Or did that already happen in the late 90s?) While reactionary movies like 30 Days Of Night capitalize on the humanization of the vampire by taking it the other way, True Blood seems to be fully comfortable with it. Vampires are portrayed as highly sexualized creatures driven primarily by lust, and with the exception of their supernatural powers, and penchant for femoral arteries, they could easily pass for human. Without providing an actual tip-of-the-hat, True Blood seems to react to the core concept of White Wolf's Vampire: The Masquerade role-playing game: Vampires come out of "the coffin" because, thanks to the advent of a synthetic blood substitute, they don't need to be lurking monsters any longer. No more masquerade. (This provides an attempt at racial commentary, though thusfar it has been vapid at best.)

And this is also the greatest flaw in this show: cheesy, kitchy phrases like "out of the coffin," vampires that still dress like seventeen year olds at goth/industrial clubs that look like a Burning Angel promo party, a particularly humane vampire protagonist-- all of these things seem to get in the way of a show with some interesting, and often entertaining characters. I find myself wondering if the show would have been better if they got rid of the vampire "hook" altogether, though admittedly it wouldn't sell as well.

In that, we get to the next point. The hype, "viral marketing," and surrounding web extras are all painfully forced. Maybe it's because I work in this industry, or at least nibble around its edges, but it seems like the moment that viral and social networking marketing practices became institutionalized, they completely lost their point. What's "grass roots" about a the million dollar viral campaign for a multi-million dollar show?

Well, if you're like me, you'll likely find yourself wincing at quite a few things in this show- and yet, I still find myself watching it. Moreover, I find myself wanting to watch. At the end of the day- at least thusfar- this is a show that is made tolerable, if not exceptional, on account of the supporting characters: Tara Thornton, Jason Stackhouse, and Lafayette Reynolds in particular. It's fun, it's silly, and it's not at all what I'd expect out of Alan Ball.

Compared to his previous episodic series (Six Feet Under), I would call this show a painful failure. But that's only because Six Feet Under, in its best moments, reached the level of art. (I would say the same of American Beauty, though I realize I might get shouted down from the back row. Quiet down back there. You don't have posting access, alright?) True Blood is an entertaining respite, but you're not going to come away any better for having watched it.

The Tudors

On its surface, this show exists in the "loose historical adaptation vein" that Rome grew and ultimately (and mysteriously?) floundered in. However, I'm not altogether certain it couldn't be classified as historic softcore. In truth, Henry the VIII was far from a rock star, and he certainly didn't look like Jonathan Rhys Meyers (at least from the paintings I've seen), but he sure as hell was a bastard. That goes far in television these days. However, none of these are the sole reasons the show has done so well: it is well cast, well written, and well acted. For some reason it hasn't held my attention as well as some of the others, but if you enjoy literate, sexy historic drama, you simply can't go wrong with this show.

Personally, I don't enjoy rubbing my hands in anticipation of the next episode- I often wait for the season to finish and get the DVD so I can force feed myself an entire season of a show in a weekend. What can I say, I'm a glutton. So here they are:

Californication Season 1
Weeds Season 1
Weeds Season 2
Weeds Season 3
Rome Season 2
Rome Season 1
Dexter Season 1
Dexter Season 2
The Tudors Season 1

-- James Curcio.

A BRAND IS BORN

Today I’m going to give you a backstage pass in the exciting world of brand design, here at TLA.

I admit, technically this isn’t a film review. Hell, it isn’t even figuratively one- but I was told I could blog about “whatever,” so let’s see if that holds. If my posts stop, and I am later found, gnawed at by rats and cannibals in a back alley in Chinatown… well, you know what happened. Raise your glass to another patriot who died for his convictions.

For me, the process began about a week ago. I was told that we will be unveiling a new review blog, angled towards our gay male market. After much deliberation in the editorial and marketing departments, I was presented with the name of the new blog: “Homo Pop.”

Now when you’re presented with something like this as a designer, your job isn’t to make copy suggestions- it’s to “make it work.” (Project Runway can’t sue me for just saying that, right?) I’m not ashamed to admit that at first I was stumped. To the writer, and to the designer, the blank page is terrifying. You pace, think you’re nowhere, call your friends and ask for their condolences on your impending demise, appeal to higher powers that you don’t believe in, and then suddenly- you have something. Hammer it out in a flurry, and pass out in a pool of your own sick.

Well, that’s my usual process, anyhow. Don’t try it at home kids, I’m a professional. This time it was a little different. Around midnight I had a mighty hunger, a hunger so mighty that I actually walked down the block to the Chinese food place that seems to sustain itself primarily off of the “business” provided by crackheads and drifters.

While waiting in line, I blithely struck up a casual conversation with several of these crackheads about the economy, in particular the bailout and shrinking buying power of the greenback. One of the aforementioned crackheads made a brilliantly apt point: that he would love a bailout himself, in part, I would assume, to help him get some much needed fake teeth. It’s “corporate welfare,” another pointed out, while swilling an oily, paper-bag sheathed 40. (He offered me a swig. I politely declined.) These were some smart crackheads, I’ve got to tell you.

At this point I found myself staring at the wall, and my eyes drifted to an ad for popsicles and ice cream. There, in garish and awful Technicolor, was the solution to my problem. Eureka! Homo Pop. It’s a fucking popsicle.

Of course!

I pulled out my iPhone and quickly snapped a photo. This terrified several of the crackheads, and one of them asked me if I was “with the government.” (“No,” I replied ominously. “This is for… research.”)

Following this, the usual design process ensued. I won’t bore you with the details of the real meat of the design process- revisions, meetings, crying, revisions, masturbation, meetings, meanwhile my kidneys scream in pain from all the caffeine I’m force-feeding them. (Another element of my ‘creative process’: I punch them, scream “you like it, bitch!” and keep going. ) Here’s the final result:

Make sure to check out the blog when we launch it!

In case if you were just skimming this and need the cliff-notes now, here they are: new blog coming soon, a really unnecessary reference to Project Runway possibly for SEO reasons, some useless rambling about creativity, a group of surprisingly informed crackheads, and Chinese food.

Oh, if you’re wondering, the General Tso’s wasn’t bad.

--James Curcio.

Adventures in Marketing

HBO has just announced the DVD for George Wallace, a 1997 made-for-HBO movie that garnered some acclaim. Here is the original VHS art:

And here is the new DVD art:

I'm not sure what's more surprising: That Angelina Jolie's rise has been so meteoric that I can't even remember a time that she would not be on the box cover, or that Gary Sinise was ever popular enough to anchor the cover all by himself.

– David Gorgos

© TLA Entertainment Group

Shock the Bottle, Not The Monkey

And so we find ourselves in the second Dead Zone of the year - that odd period when the summer blockbusters are behind us but the winter awards season has not yet begun, and so we have but a tepid smattering of also-rans with which to amuse ourselves. It is, in other words, the perfect moment to go back and get caught up on those smaller summer hits you just haven't had time for. Like Bottle Shock, a charming festival entry that was one of the few films this summer to receive actually independent distribution.

Bottle Shock is being unfairly compared to Sideways. I can understand why people would make this comparison since they're both about wine, but it's sort of like comparing Blade Runner to The Transformers because they're both about robots. Where Sideways was a vicious little meditation on the emptiness of a culture populated by those bereft of soul, Bottle Shock is a feel-good dramady, loosely based on actual events the way I, Robot was loosely based on Isaac Asimov. The central event in this case is the Judgment of Paris, a 1976 wine tasting in France where California wines wound up taking the day.

At heart an underdog story, Bottle Shock spends a pleasant enough 110 minutes lovelingly caressing it's working class heroes in a remarkably authentic late 70s Napa Valley, the rugged wilderness that's just a quick jaunt up the interstate from San Francisco. After introducing us to our struggling band of plucky individualists (lead by an astonishingly ruddy Bill Pullman) who live on the constant edge of financial disaster, we're whisked to Paris, where one Stephen Spurrier (Alan Rickman, as usual oozing equal parts charm and smarm) wants to curry favor with the Parisian wine cartels, and conceives of a blind wine tasting to establish himself both as worldly and a slavish Francophile. By now we know how this story is going to end, even if we don't know the history, but the events that lead us to this conclusion fairly glow with craftsmanship and care.

This leads to the film's one weakness, as it can't decide what it wants to be - part road movie, part love triangle, part working-class-boy-makes good, it bounces between genres like a hyperactive Pong tournament. This tendency to lose focus is softened by the utterly grounded performances and rough-around-the-edges finish of the piece, perfectly capturing the Spartan simplicity of near-wilderness farming that California was known for prior to the age of silicon. As metaphor, however, the film wears its symbols openly and unapologetically on its sleeve. All the villains wear suits; the Napa women wear pants and are named Sam and Joe; and when our dashing young hero finally steps up to do the right thing, it's not out of a sudden epiphany of virtue so much as to avoid being perennially tagged a loser ("Did you realize that Woodstock was seven years ago?" he muses, laying flat on his back in a boxing ring).

Still, at the end of the day these are more tropes than missteps, and if the movie doesn't keep us in the grip of suspense, its lush cinematography and sweeping vistas nicely compliment the bouquet of earnest portrayals. As an exercise in the Commedia dell'Arte of Hollywood, Bottle Shock is well executed and joyful to behold. It won't expand your mind or change your life, but it's fun as a date-night film that will leave you smiling.

–Tovarich

NOTE: Since it is an independent film, Bottle Shock is playing in limited release. Check your local listings!

My Best Come-Hither Stare

If James is the cyber pimp of TLA Video, then you can think of me as a freelance prostitute who goes way back with him and won't join his stable, but maintains a friendly relationship, and we pass each other clients from time to time. In fact the metaphor works almost disturbingly well as a stereotype; I'm over-educated, bored, a bad fit for the workaday grind, and like to spend my time as I please, thank you very much. So here I am, ready willing and able to serve as the loose cannon of the TLA blog, unbeholden as I am to its corporate masters.

Which isn't to say that I'm here to stir up shit unnecessarily; even the most classless call girl knows better than to bite the hand that feeds. But as an outsider, my plan is to indulge you in the reviews of the movies that I enjoy, which may or may not tie into the larger revenue goals of TLA. Hey, they've got nine hard-typing worker bees in the column on the right, there - they can afford one dilettante with an agenda of their own.

What kind of movies are those? Well sure, we all loved the Dark Knight, but I tend to find myself wandering into the more oddball nooks and crannies. 70s exploitation classics, beaten-path-adjacent indies, the kinds of movies that no one likes to admit to seeing and even less like to admit to enjoying. Movies that we watch for hedonism rather than to appear cool. Some are stupid raunch and some will blow your mind. Many feature explosions.

–Tovarich

And before you ask: Yes, my name really is Tovarich. Yes, like really really. Yes, I know it's a word in Russian. Yes, I know what it means. No, I don't speak Russian. Yes, there is a story behind it. No, I won't tell you.

The TV Set

(2006, 87 min) Let me be upfront by saying that, though I am and remain a straight man, David Duchovny can do no wrong in my eyes. (Alright, he can do almost no wrong.) I have no particular interest in staring at his ass in the Red Shoe Diaries, but so long as the man is speaking, I’m listening.

I say this upfront because last night I watched The TV Set, and- though I felt like for some reason I shouldn’t- I really enjoyed it. And I think it wasn’t just because David was the lead. Admittedly, the humor was perhaps more lacking than it could have been, and the satire predictable, it nevertheless provided a surprisingly realistic and entertaining portrayal of why most television is an abomination. It also demonstrates what a colossal success it is when a show is actually half-decent- not because creating moving, honest media is difficult, although it is- but because the production process itself is seemingly hell-bent on mediocrity.

Knowing what I do about the film industry from the inside (I’m not just talking about TLA), I can safely say that it is amazing that films get made at all. Every step of the process is fraught with danger- unnatural dangers created by an unnatural, fear-driven industry. The same is true of television, only more-so: the industry that supports the production process is driven by fear, which drives the recycled shit sandwiches that we have all come to know and love. Sitting behind all of this is a public that glorifies escape, exonerates lazy artistry, and shies away from psychological confrontation. We get shit sandwich because it’s what the majority of us put on the menu. Don’t want it? Stop buying.

At this point you may be thinking, “thanks for all this, asshole, but I was kind of hoping for a film review, not a half-assed rant about the film and TV industry.” Well, consider it a “meta-review.” Because the film itself is an endearing, yet also half-assed rant about the film and TV industry.

If, on the other hand, you want David Duchovny to dial up the bitter and sarcastic dialogue, and throw a whole lot of gratuitous sex into the bargain, just take a pass and get Californication Season One. While watching The TV Set, I even found myself wondering if his character in this movie proved something of an inspiration for his character in the Showtime series, much as Sorkin’s The American President helped create the more polished West Wing. (“Mr. President? Since when did you become the Chief of Staff?”) But my guess is no: we may have a case of Duchovny just being Duchovny.

Thankfully, many of us like him that way.

--James Curcio.

Ghost Town

(2008, 102 min) While screenwriter David Koepp has built a solid reputation as a reliable hitmaker (Jurassic Park, Spider-Man), he has built an equally solid reputation as a director who consistently fails to live up to his ideas (The Trigger Effect, Secret Window). Even while demonstrating a rarely-seen lighter side in Ghost Town, this film winds up as weak-kneed and cliched as any other middle-of-the-road romantic comedy.

At least he had the good sense to cast three fascinating leads, even if they don't belong all in the same movie. Greg Kinnear plays the straight man, or straight ghost at least, wandering the Earth in a sort of high-concept purgatory. After a near-death experience, the insufferably antisocial dentist played by Ricky Gervais finds (much to his chagrin) that he can see these ghosts, all of whom seem to want something. Kinnear wants him to stop the pending marriage of his ex-wife (Téa Leoni), leading to the usual romantic comedy complications, of course.

Yes, you'd think that with all this fantasy floating about, that it would be used for more than setting up a series of misunderstandings and betrayals that ultimately lead to some sort of offbeat fuzzy ending. With those expectations now dashed, however, Ghost Town at least reveals itself to be an amiable timewaster. It's always a pleasure to see Leoni let loose in a screwball role, displaying talents that have been on the back burner since the days of Flirting with Disaster and "The Naked Truth." And it's oddly rewarding to see Gervais start out in his sardonic "Extras" mode and wind up believably warm and cuddly. The two together, of course, are severely lacking in chemistry, and Kinnear's usual ironic detachment isn't helped by his physical detachment to the other characters. Finally, while I won't spoil Kristen Wiig's part, which seems to have been lifted out of a whole other universe, I will plead for her to leave the stagnant SNL and become a big-screen star like she deserves.

– David Gorgos

© TLA Entertainment Group

By Way of Introduction…

Technically, my role at TLA is web designer. I’ve taken the liberty of adding “cyber pimp” to my job title, so as to give myself slightly greater leeway in terms of the tasks I can throw myself at. The way I see it, they hired me as an idea man, even if they didn’t know it yet.
So, before I get to reviewing movies for all of you, I’d like to pass one of these gems your way. It’s a new marketing incentive, and you are hearing it here first.
I want to push TLA to be the first movie distribution company to launch an ape into space. Now forget for a moment that there is no connection between film and strapping a primate to the end of a Titan missile. (Did I say strapping? Placing. Gently placing.) Also forget that it would be an incredibly expensive venture- I imagine the net cost per pound of monkey launching could be in the millions.
All of these things taken to mind, I recognize that this might be a hard sell in marketing. But American business is about taking bold steps, and more importantly, it’s about getting there first... even if it turns out there was no sensible or even sane reason that we should have taken the journey in the first place.
Just you wait. We’ll be the first to launch a monkey into space. And despite Blockbuster’s attempts to get into the space game, well. Clearly, they are outmatched. And clearly, I’m on the straight-arrow path to some lofty executive position with this idea. But until then, you’ll get movie reviews from me.
See you then.
- James Curcio.

Lessons from "Mad Men," or It Has Come to My Attention That There Is Entirely Not Enough Booze In This Office

My colleague, Mike, just brought a few ads to my office that he'd like for me to proofread. They're still sitting there on my desk. Now, if he had taken a lesson from "Mad Men", he would know exactly how to get what he wants. Mike would invite me into his office and offer me a drink, preferably scotch on the rocks. His secretary would assure our privacy while we shoot the shit about baseball (even though he's a Mets fan) and our mouths contemplate the nuances of the brown liquor. Firing up a stogie, we are relaxed with our defenses down, when he casually mentions some ads that he's working on, and would I mind taking a look? Why of course not, in fact, it would be a privilege to see a master at work. Checking the colors on "Bangkok Love Story," everything looks good, down to the typeface on the quotes and the correct British spelling on the overseas ads. Oh, what's this? An extra space between the punctuation and the end of the sentence... better take a closer look at that. Stubbing out my cigar, I say that I'll save the rest of this for our next meeting, and that it's always a pleasure to work with him. And could he maybe check out my blog when he gets a chance? Sure.

But there is no booze in this office. No smoking, either... you now must leave your office for a butt, which feels like a chore, and ensures that no work gets done on the smoking deck.

It has also come to my attention that we have no offices either. Just cubicles.

And no secretaries either. I guess in the big picture, the loss of office sexism is a good thing, but in the narrow, old-boys-club picture, you can certainly see why none of the privileged men wanted it to change.

Instead, I will have to keep watching "Mad Men", one of the few shows about the workplace that doesn't feel like work. Hard to believe that escapism can come from stressful jobs and societal expectations, but then, that may be what the elite think when they watch Clerks or High Fidelity. Season One was the best show of 2007, and season two is only getting better.

– David Gorgos

© TLA Entertainment Group

What's your favorite movie?

Roger Ebert posed this question on his blog, and for once I have an answer. I've found it very helpful in life to have stock answers for commonly asked questions. How are you? Fine. What's up with the Phillies this year? Inconsistent hitting. Why'd you become a vegetarian? I'm a finicky eater. And when someone finds out I work for a video company, people perk up and either ask "What's good right now?" or "What's your favorite movie?" Nothing is worse than watching someone hem and haw at a fairly easy question, so I have a stock answer that also usually leads to a pretty animated discussion. (Never answer Citizen Kane, Lawrence of Arabia or Gone with the Wind as the conversation will come to a crashing halt.)

The greatest movie ever made is Rear Window. Two deep characters that are impossible to not fall in love with, the sassy comic relief of Thelma Ritter, and a self-reflexive deconstruction of filmmaking and voyeurism in the film's perfect construction. Whenever this film appears on TV, I end up dropping everything and sitting down and watching it all the way through, and I can't say that about any other movie. It never gets old.

But my favorite movie is Jerry Lewis' The Ladies Man, a revelation that inevitably leads to discussion of Jerry and not the actual film. He carries a lot of cultural baggage, so I have to beg people to please, simply watch his movies. Interestingly, his essential book The Total Filmmaker outlines many tenets of comedy directing, culled from lectures he gave when teaching a film school course. While he was giving those lectures, he was directing One More Time, the nearly unwatchable sequel to Salt & Pepper, and seemingly ignoring every single lesson from his course.

But earlier in the '60s, Lewis was taking his inspiration from Frank Tashlin and producing some of the most innovative, insane and even breathtaking comedies since the silent era. The Ladies Man in particular had the innovation of "video assist," a hookup to the camera that provided a live feed that would become commonplace in just a few short years. It also boasted a massive indoor set that, in the photo above, looks like a dollhouse built to human scale complete with a functioning elevator. This set allows Lewis to set up beautiful physical comedy throughout the house unencumbered by the usual laws space and physics.

Interesting that, for me, two of the most cinematic films ever made take place almost entirely on two single sets. It's the opposite of the massive vistas that are always rewarded come Oscar time. Speaking of Oscars, despite co-hosting the ceremonies several times, Jerry Lewis has never been honored. How about throwing an award his way, perhaps the Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award for his tireless commitment to the MDA?

– David Gorgos

© TLA Entertainment Group

Tropic Thunder

(2008, 110 min) While Friedberg and Seltzer are off making yet another shallow Hollywood movie, Ben Stiller steps up to the plate and reminds us all just how funny a good parody can be. Equal parts Hearts of Darkness and Rambo, with the plot of The Three Amigos thrown in for cohesion, Tropic Thunder demonstrates remarkable maturity by Stiller, especially in his enthusiasm to let the spotlight shine on his terrific costars.

That's not to say that, as meatheaded action star Tugg Speedman, Stiller doesn't give it his all. He's remarkably ripped, and Tugg is ready to create his masterpiece: An epic Vietnam movie that will leave men cheering and women weeping. His last movie, Simple Jack, was an epic failure despite his immersive performance. As multiple-award-winning Australian actor Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey, Jr.) points out, "You went full-on retarded," and you have to only be kinda retarded like Forrest Gump to win Oscars.

Lazarus would know about great acting. He's so far into his character that he's sporting full-on blackface and won't stop talking like Shaft even when the camera is off. The joke of an American playing an Australian playing an African American is perfect enough, but the great Downey, Jr. not only pulls it off on a comic level but also an artistic level. No wonder he gets the most screen time.

The third amigo actor is Fats Portnoy (Jack Black), popular among kids but attempting his adult breakthrough despite his crippling heroin habit. Thrust into the jungle for their epic, things go so badly that they end up battling druglords and don't realize that it's not part of the script. Black has a grand time as heroin addict facing a mountainous raw supply, with typical comic demons in tow.

Remarkably, Stiller also finds plenty of time for Matthew McConaughey to satirize Jerry Maguire, playing Speedman's protective agent (complete with a kinetic Simple Jack standee in his office). Last but not least, the great (yes I said "great") Tom Cruise one-upping his performance in Magnolia as a vile, balding, fat studio head who at one point tells one of the druglords to "take a giant step back and FUCK your FACE!!!" Hollywood has plenty of room for creative vulgarity, and Cruise delivers.

No scattershot comedy is perfect, however, and there are weaknesses: Steve Coogan seems lost as the snivelling director, and Brandon T. Jackson wastes space as the moral compass, seemingly an apologia for the intentionally offensive blackface (and his closeted gay subplot doesn't ring true either). But there's so much good stuff (I didn't even get to Nick Nolte as the hypocritical inspiration for the movie, or Danny McBride as the too-eager munitions expert, or the legitimately frightening druglord played by 11-year-old Brandon Soo Hoo) that you will probably laugh harder than at any other movie this year. And seriously, look for Downey, Jr. at the Oscars this year... for real.

– David Gorgos

© TLA Entertainment Group

Then She Found Me

(2007, 100 min) Helen Hunt's feature directorial debut comes dressed in distinctively indie trappings. The cinematography is intentionally drab and action, at least in the beginning, tends to happen off-screen. It is in these opening moments that play out somewhat theatrically that the film finds its strength. But once all of the setup info is established, the film begins to slip into shapelessness and, worse, sentimentality.

Hunt's Hollywood-seasoned cast makes a valiant attempt to play down the caricatures that they've earned their livings playing up. Matthew Broderick's self-centered manchild lacks the smirking and mugging that he generally lends to similar characters. Colin Firth removes approximately one layer of restraint and adds one layer each of jealousy and rage to his Mark Darcy character from the Bridget Jones series. Bette Midler, while the most expressive character in the film, dulls her brass ever so slightly. Finally, Hunt shows up as the life-scarred, beaten-down type that she's made a career out of playing since As Good As It Gets but removes any semblance of pluck or humor. All of these acting tweaks and character modifications are designed to distinguish the film from the typical sunny romantic comedy that is so fearful of becoming. But, in reality, only two elements successfully separate it. One, at its core, the story centers more around Hunt's desire for a baby and, two, it is not remotely funny. In fact, there may be only one moment in the entire film which will cause viewers to even crack a smile.

Hunt is clearly attempting to put together a precious character study and is all restraint and no risk, but this creates a stifled atmosphere in which none of the characters are developed as well as they ought to be which leaves this film only a mood piece. A mood piece is certainly no crime against cinema, but when the mood that permeates is self-pity then viewers will certainly be excused if they want to turn away.

Even more jarring than the lack of full character development is the atrocious musical supervision. The score often resembles the background music of a self-help video and the song choices (Iron and Wine during a sex scene!) are more than a little cliché. These bad choices betray Hunt's noble attempt to keep the film sparse and render it simply maudlin.

The film is not completely unredeemable. It simply lacks any spark or commitment to its vision, but single women in their late 30s experiencing an identity crisis will most likely enjoy it.

– Daniel Reed

© TLA Entertainment Group

Sour Grapes: Appreciating Larry David's essential bridge between "Seinfeld" and "Curb"

(1998, 91 min) Barely released by Warner Brothers in 1998, it's easy to forget that Larry David wrote and directed his lone feature film between his two popular and wildly overrated TV series, "Seinfeld" and "Curb Your Enthusiasm". Yet while tackling many of the same petty gripes about humanity, the expanded format of the feature film allowed him to fully realize his vision for the first (and perhaps only) time.

Larry David's first stroke of genius was to replace Jerry Seinfeld in what is clearly a Seinfeldian role. This has been done before, most successfully by Roberto Benigni replacing the late Peter Sellers in Son of the Pink Panther (Ted Wass is a close second in Curse of the Pink Panther, substituting ace comic timing for Benigni's manic energy). Seinfeld, who didn't win a single acting Emmy, was wisely passed over in favor of Steven Weber, one of very few actors with the chops to fill the big screen... and he had a Saturn Award to prove it. Clearly, Larry David was watching the massive ratings of "Wings" every Thursday night, and knew that it was Weber, and not the "Seinfeld" coattails, that were driving the Nielsens. Pair him with the comic stylings of Craig Bierko, and even a subpar script would have been elevated; but Larry David was aiming much higher.

In Sour Grapes, he tackles nothing less than the greed of ugly Americans, and comparisons to Von Stroheim's bloated silent epic are no doubt intentional. In place of tragedy, however, David sees comedy, in the form of hilarious shouting matches and zippy one-liners like "I don't know. Roberta's out of town. I'll probably just go home and blow myself." Sick of "Seinfeld"'s everyday observational comedy, David places his characters in the unlikely fantasy world of Las Vegas, fighting over a slot machine jackpot – the unlikely events allowing the audience plenty of distance from the characters, allowing laughter to flow forth unabated by emotional connection.

Apparently, these aspirations were too much for the average moviegoer, and David has not directed a feature since. Relegated to the HBO ghetto, where a tiny audience is enough to generate "hit" status, he has continued to churn out uninspired "Curb Your Enthusiasm" episodes. Here's to wishing he decides to challenge himself, and us, again on the big screen.

– David Gorgos

© TLA Entertainment Group

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Dungeon Girl

(2008, 81 min) Ulli Lommel's Dungeon Girl isn't so much a horror film (and definitely not a torture porn) as an exploration of the relationship between captor and captive. Well not so much that as a half-baked student film from one of the worst directors of all time. It's almost as if instead of a script, Lommel puts together three half-developed ideas and then edits them together with all the glee of a sophomore film major playing with After Effects for the first time while tripping balls. Even when it comes to nudity, usually Lommel's saving grace in the other stinking piles of garbage he's hurled at the world, he falls short giving viewers hoping for skin more male nudity than female with one recurring shot of Wendi Jean Linn's buttocks and another recurring image of an anonymous woman tied up on a cross wearing rags which are sliced to reveal her naked breasts and, pehaps, a glimpse at her bush. Linn is certainly an absolutely stunning creature and the exploitative pretense is almost a work of art on its own, but Dungeon Girl fails on almost every conceivable level.

– Rick Stanko

© TLA Entertainment Group

Brain-dead packaging by Paramount

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Get Smart

(2008, 110 min) Given the history of TV-to-Movies adaptations, it would entirely reasonable for discerning viewers to dismiss this big screen remake of Mel Brooks' and Buck Henry's classic spy spoof as yet another unpalatable slice of Hollywood junk heaped onto a pile of unoriginal garbage. It would be reasonable, that is, until one remembers that Steve Carell is currently the most likable comedic actor working. His charm alone lifts Get Smart far above most of its inferior counterparts. Carell's Maxwell Smart is slightly less arrogant and slightly more self-aware than Don Adams' was, but this, if anything, simply establishes the film as its own entity and not a cheap carbon copy knockoff. Carell begins as an analyst for CONTROL who'd recently lost weight and desperately wants to be promoted to agent, a promotion that no one who isn't named Maxwell Smart thinks he is qualified for. However, KAOS strikes and strikes hard and soon enough Max is tagging along with Agent 99 (a competent Anne Hathaway) on a mission to locate the nuclear devices that the villains have stashed in Russia.

The main strength of the film (outside of Carell's unparalleled likability) is its pacing. It never gets bogged down too much in character development or over-the-top action sequences and keeps things moving at a very sharp (but never overly frenetic) clip. Adding to the fun are the consistently funny jokes. None stick out as moments of sheer, side-splitting hilarity, but very few fall flat and most provoke laugh-out-loud (but not too loud) reactions. Additionally, the action sequences, while never overdone, all entertain and few exceed the normal standards of believability expected from a Hollywood action movie. Adding supporting charm to the mix are Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, who has nearly perfected affable, acutely masculine self-mockery, and Alan Arkin who plays the put-upon chief to perfection. Even Bill Murray has an amusing cameo as the always-hiding Agent 13 that will cheer up anyone longing for the days when Murray condescended to do broad comedies.

One notable drawback is the relative lack of romantic chemistry between Carell and Hathaway. They can bicker and banter perfectly adequately, but the deeper connection between them is seldom clear. Another drawback comes when the film inexplicably resorts to using flashbacks to demonstrate what the characters are thinking. This classic cheap trick has almost never worked in any film and this one is no exception. These minor flaws don't, however, cripple what proves to be an immensely likable film that instantly leaps to near the top of Hollywood's TV recycling bin.

– Daniel Reed

© TLA Entertainment Group

The Bank Job

(2008, 110 min) Fans of hard-hitting, gritty '70s films rejoice! Hell, even the title is efficient. Now, The Bank Job doesn't exactly reinvent the wheel, but it's easy to forget that some of my favorite films from my favorite decade (including, say, Prime Cut and The Taking of Pelham One Two Three) didn't do that either. They just deliver straight-up, smart thrills and snappy dialogue in a refreshingly adult package. And if Jason Statham isn't quite the new Lee Marvin, he's just about the best we have right now.

Statham plays a lovable rogue who, acting on a tip from his sultry ex (Saffron Burrows), assembles a scrappy crew for a massive heist of safety deposit boxes. It's all based on a real story, with emphasis on the word "story." Nobody really knows what went down during the heist, and details have been embellished over the years thanks to urban legendry. But the version that longtime writing team Dick Clement and Ian La Frenais invent could hardly be more entertaining.

Renting a shop two doors down from a massive bank on Baker Street, the Statham's crew conspires to dig a tunnel into the safety deposit area over a weekend and be gone by the time anyone notices. As if that wasn't enough, the contents of the boxes present a new problem... one that goes so far up the chain, that the actual facts in the case wound up sealed by the government for decades to come. It's a procedural, a conspiracy story, even a romance of sorts, all addressed without fluff and with respect for the audience's intelligence. The only false note I can detect is a brief foray into traditional Statham superhero mode near the end, though even that is exciting enough to tempt me into giving it a pass. It's surely more fun than whatever happened in real life, the details of which may be revealed sometime around 2054.

– David Gorgos

© TLA Entertainment Group