Author: BO

These days, sci-fi conventions are big business, held in cavernous convention centers where the proudly geeky pay big bucks to come within slapping distance of their television and movie heroes. And let’s not forget the merchandise, with rows and rows of dealers selling everything they can get their hands on. Conventions have become a machine of commerce and promotion, but it wasn’t always this way. Zip back to the 1970s, and these gatherings displayed sincerity and passion, stitched together by individuals who adored “Star Trek” and wanted to share their particular interests with others.

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A few years back, I was pushed into seeing the “High School Musical” movies, and, boy howdy, I wasn’t looking forward to the assured sensorial punishment. The trilogy turned out to be a charming, jaunty experience, teeming with happy feet and fresh-faced young talent, kicking up a Disney Channel-approved storm that, while outrageously broad, provided the essentials in terms of tween melodrama. While Vanessa Hudgens is out there appearing in awful movies (“Beastly,” “Sucker Punch”) and Zac Efron looks to butch up in indie cinema, Ashley Tisdale is perfectly content to continue on with her own starring vehicle, once again taking command of Sharpay as she looks to make her mark on the Great White Way.

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The box art for “Blood Out” trumpets the participation of Val Kilmer, Curtis “50 Cent” Jackson, and Vinnie Jones, though these men are hardly in the film. The true star is actor Luke Goss, who’s built a career for himself as a poor man’s Jason Statham, accepting roles as a buzz-cut bruiser in a myriad of DTV product, working hard to look cool in motion pictures that are nearly comedic in their ineptitude — the highly ludicrous “Blood Out” being the latest to join his career hall of shame.

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While Michael J. Fox was thrust into the media spotlight when “Back to the Future” blew up the box office in the summer of 1985, it wasn’t his only picture released during the season. Shot before “Future” and released shortly afterwards to capitalize on its massive success, “Teen Wolf” was a decidedly low-tech teen comedy, less about dazzling Spielbergian pace and time travel, and more about hairy teens and pubescent allegory. Despite the inexcusable lack of a DeLorean, “Teen Wolf” is a modest, digestible comedy, guided by a perfectly itchy Fox performance as the titular beast.

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In 2000, Mark Hogancamp was beaten senseless outside of a bar by a group of brutes. The resulting brain injury wiped his mind clean, forcing the 38-year-old man to relearn basic functions, rebuilding his life after an extended hospital stay. Instead of feeding into an understandable rage over what was lost, Mark reclaimed what was left of his life through a curious hobby: photographs of 1/6-scale dolls engaged in a large-scale WWII recreation that reflects Mark’s own dreams of community support, filling his vast emotional needs.

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Imagine “Inception.” Now imagine “Inception” with a C-list cast, obscure locations, and a visual effects effort similar to a PBS production from the 1980s. “The Speed of Thought” is yet another indie film too ambitious for its own good, constructing a psychological thriller without a proper budget, rendering the feature awkward and downright silly at times, despite an intriguing concept.

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Writer/director Shana Feste aims to pattern her latest film, “Country Strong,” after the tragic love songs of the enduring musical genre. What she comes up with is far more clunky and unimaginative, scripting an intolerable Lifetime Movie-style excursion into the gloomy recesses of fame, making a complete fool out of a confident actress. “Country Strong” is excruciating to watch at times; a wholly embarrassing enterprise that renders country music insufferable, keeps Gwyneth Paltrow in an irritating state of teary distress, and makes one long for the same numbing cell of bottle-clutching isolation that alcoholism gifts to the lead character.

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In a day and age when so many filmmakers lean on camp to pay tribute to the monster movies of old, “Monster Beach Party A-Go-Go” plays surprisingly straight. A valentine to the creature features of the 1960s, the film has an unexpectedly low-key presence, content to tinker with a few traditions and tug at some goofy genre habits, but refuses to squeal, accepting the challenge of recreating beach party horror with refreshing semi-seriousness.

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“Heartless” exists purely in visual terms. It’s an art project not meant to be understood or interpreted, but merely gawked at, with the filmmaker in question, Philip Ridley, creating a swirling, vicious depiction of grief and madness, heading in abstract directions that are easily appreciated but rarely satisfying. It’s a wicked film with convincing nightmarish imagery, but there’s no story here to cling to, making this abyss of torment rather easy to disregard.

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In 2003, Sofia Coppola wrote and directed the indie smash, “Lost in Translation.” An ode to pains of attraction and the loneliness of fame, the picture hit commanding emotional and stylistic chords as it established an enchanting sense of fading melancholy. “Somewhere” is an aesthetic cousin, again traveling through the glittery void with famous people sinking deeper than they realize, finding salvation in companionship and unspoken affections. As to be expected with a director essentially repeating herself, the results are considerably less poignant, with Coppola forgoing the challenge of developing emotional bonds to wallow in a tedious world of Hollywood superficiality.

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One has to accept “The Resident” as it is, otherwise there’s just no fun to be had. A mindless horror/chiller that preys upon numerous single lady fears, the picture is generally well crafted and supplies a few satisfying jolts. Logic and editing aren’t the movie’s best friends, but accepted as a modest creep-out with a few semi-salacious touches and “The Resident” delivers the icks and scares, permitting star Hilary Swank a chance to relax her intense method approach and explore her lung power.

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“I Love You Phillip Morris” is a tricky film to decipher. Garnering unnecessary attention for its homosexual content, the picture is actually more of a fleet-footed con artist valentine, paying reverence to a master of deception, Steven Jay Russell. A comedic excursion into the limits of personal freedom and the miracle of love, the picture is a skilled effort of constant surprise, led wonderfully by Jim Carrey, who gives a blessedly respectful performance that mingles pleasingly with laughs and shock.

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