For his 38th feature film, we find Woody Allen in a sensual mood, taking on the role of tourist in a passionate land. “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” is an aimless diversion, even for the notoriously unfocused Allen, but retains expected performance momentum, and positively sells the hell out of a lusty Spanish vacation.
“Jack Brooks: Monster Slayer” is the type of predigested cult film that’s easier to admire than actually enjoy. A polite tip of the hat to “Evil Dead” and all things “Buffy,” this horror/comedy is lacking proper oomph in both categories, resulting in a movie of commendable purpose, but lackluster realization.
I’m sympathetic to the purpose of “Henry Poole Is Here,” just not receptive to the filmmaking on display. A grossly obvious take on the draining push and pull of faith, the picture is warm to the touch, just not digestible or, ultimately, meaningful.
What Ben Stiller has achieved with “Tropic Thunder” is the cinematic equivalent of witnessing Halley’s Comet: he’s crafted a Hollywood satire about Hollywood, and it’s a triumph on nearly every level of execution and intent. It’s an industry rarity that’s worth applauding.
Didn’t we just do this with the chimps? “Fly Me to the Moon” takes budget CG animation back into the vastness of space, only now the subjects are tiny, the visual depth enormous, and the objective much more educational. The entertainment value? Debatable.
“Kabluey” introduces the world to Scott Prendergast, who assumes nearly all production roles for this quirky feature. The movie has all the ornamentation of a strident indie comedy leading with braying irony, but Prendergast doesn’t chase alternative statements, he wants to make people laugh, and “Kabluey” is one of the more inventive, invigorating productions to come out of the industry’s lonely right field.
“Frozen River” is one of those films that would be laughed out of the independent film scene if there wasn’t a mesmerizing lead performance to hold it together. The actress is Melissa Leo (“21 Grams,” “Homicide: Life on the Streets”), and her work here is stirring, haunting, and singlehandedly maintains a pitch-perfect tone of weathered anxiety the rest of “River” is all too quick to fumble.
I’ve never seen a film directed by a penis before. We came close with 1984’s “Hardbodies,” but “Hell Ride” appears to have been fully helmed by Larry Bishop’s male appendage. Congratulations, Mr. Bishop, I salute this achievement…from a safe and hygienic distance.
Jack Wrangler was an adult film superstar in a way you don’t find anymore these days. He was a phenomenon that slowly enveloped the smut culture, constructing a name for himself through whispers and uncomfortably long, held gazes. When they write that they don’t make ‘em like they used to, they’re talking exclusively about Jack Wrangler.
If The Germs were a seminal L.A. punk band who truly informed the scene with their destructive energy and subversive lyrics, then “What We Do Is Secret” is a botched representation of their seismic impression. Striving to become the definitive word on an explosion of raw musical and philosophical energy, “Secret” is mostly about lukewarm actors playing dress up, walking around in punk heritage boots they can’t stand up straight in.
David Gordon Green is a fine director capable of extracting inconceivable moments of nuanced human behavior out of his motion pictures. He’s best with characters that hold dark secrets near their aching heart, habitually fascinated with the limits of reaction and temperament. I write the above with some confidence, since it’s painfully clear Green has no business directing comedies.
The Judgment of Paris was a 1976 tasting competition that pitted the finest French wines against the latest and greatest from California. It was an event assembled to reinforce the might of the European palate, but what actually occurred during this historic tasting shook the wine industry to its core, and forever changed the reputation of American vintners.
Well, it looks like the sisterhood is growing up, since the lead characters spend most of their new adventure trying to get out of their traveling pants instead of reflecting fondly on the significance of them. It’s a PG-13 world out there, people, and the sisterhood is finally growing up. It’s a shame the sequel’s screenwriting isn’t showing the same maturity.
“Slippery Slope” recalls Trey Parker’s 1998 farce “Orgazmo,” only without the comedic vigor and frat house entertainment value. Instead, “Slope” is a wacky comedy with a foundation in intellect, asking interesting questions of feminism between scenes of thrusting and Benny Hill-style undercranking (no joke, it's really in here). The mix is uncomfortable, but not completely unpleasant.
Because a foundation formed in blood and guts does not form a respectable Hollywood legacy, Lionsgate decided to unceremoniously dump “The Midnight Meat Train” into a bare-bones release this past weekend, just so, conceivably, the studio can move on to classier, blockbustery affairs of extreme profit and Oscar gold.
“Swing Vote” is a picture of such egregious obviousness, it even seeps into the casting. Kevin Costner as an all-American, beer-swilling loser? Stanley Tucci and Nathan Lane as reptilian political advisers? Dennis Hopper and Kelsey Grammer as spineless presidential candidates? George Lopez as a Mexican-American stereotype? All that seems to be missing is Mo’Nique as a sassy African-American secretary and Patrick Warburton as a butch CG-animated field mouse.
The latest “Mummy” film, coming a full and unforgiving seven years after the last “Mummy” film, is actually not much of a film at all: it’s a deafening, blinding department store Blu-ray demo reel that’s spun wildly out of control. It takes a herculean effort to be known as the least appetizing entry in the “Mummy” franchise, but then again, a studio isn’t exactly fishing for quality when they hire Rob Cohen to direct.
The simple way to categorize the Spanish horror experience “Rec” (as in the record button on a camera) is to compare it to “Cloverfield” or George Romero’s “Diary of the Dead.” While the association is not fair to this modest production, it’s an accurate placement to describe what exactly the audience is going to witness: a demonic, barnstorming, cinema verite horror experience that pulls few punches, fears no genre taboo, and reaches for the throat with delightful intimidation.
Perhaps best known as the inspiration and co-author of the musical “Cabaret,” Christopher Isherwood was a beloved writer and critical fixture of the gay scene in Hollywood, proudly living his dream of artistic and sexual freedom. However, there was a force in his life more powerful than writing, even breathing at times: Don Bachardy.
Stephen Chow is a rare breed on the filmmaking scene. With such cult hits as “Shaolin Soccer” and “Kung Fu Hustle,” Chow has amassed a library of heavily-augmented slapstick smashes, each stranger than the next. Perhaps weary of making silly stuff for older crowds, the multi-faceted moviemaking machine turns his attention to the family mob with the cute, zany, and extremely bizarre sci-fi comedy, “CJ7.”
BRIAN ORNDORF 