Movie Review

(In French, In theaters, June 2001) Interesting but not overwhelming French-Canadian film dealing with pre-marriage jitters in a young couple due to wed in Niagara Falls. Not exceptional, but reasonably good as a romantic comedy—though its typical French-Canadianisms might not travel very well. The lead actors are wonderful, and there are a few interesting script/directing meta-fictional tricks that add to the fun.

(On VHS, June 2001) For commercial reasons, the short-film category never makes it in theaters, but when you can depend on Scorsese, Allen and Copolla to deliver a short film each, well, suddenly a theater short-film anthology doesn’t feel so weird after all. It’s a fair assessment to say that there’s probably a story for you in the three, whatever your tastes are. The first film, Scorsese “Love’s Lessons”, is undoubtedly the most artistic, the most ambitious and also the longest. It’s the type of film that suggests a deeper meaning, whether there’s one or not. After that, we’re off to Copolla’s “Life without Sophie”, a charming tale that somehow seemed to constantly refer to another story. Not a whole lot of substance, but certainly the most romantic tale of the three. We end with what will either be your favorite or your worst short film, Woody Allen’s “Oedipal Wreck”, which takes the concept of the all-seeing mom to its logical extreme. You’ll howl or you’ll grit your teeth.

(In theaters, June 2001) At its worst, this film features a bland romance, trite situations and a cliché music-group-film structure that will leave you indifferent. At its best, however, we get roughly the equivalent of a live-action Simpsons episode, with clever sight gags, off-the-wall plot developments, meta-fictional jokes and a subversive anti-commercialistic message that will make you blink twice in audacity. Unfortunately, not everything gels together: While the film preaches a rejection of labels and trends, it pushes so many brand names -in an unabashed in-your-face fashion- that the joke sours to the point where we’re never too sure if they mean it or not. There is a place for fake (even parodic) brands, and this film was it. Fortunately, I’m such an easily-swayed guy that the three lead actresses alone were enough to make me rush out to buy the soundtrack.

(In theaters, June 2001) Ay. Hard to know where to begin with this one. Was it the fact that David Spade’s brand of sarcasm was nowhere to be found? Or maybe the lack of funny material? The inane plot development that wouldn’t impress a twelve-year-old? The preachy sugary ending tagged on as an afterthought? The moronic romance? The anecdotal structure that’s a sorry excuse for plot development? The flat performance by Dennis Miller? The awful bad-guy character played by Kid Rock? The fact that I didn’t really laugh once? No! No! I know! It’s the total waste of Christopher Walken, and the false promise of his scenes, which momentarily lift this film in not-so-bad territory, only to kill us later as the rest of the film sinks to ever-lower levels of rot! There we go!

(On VHS, June 2001) Well, it had been a while since I’d seen this one, at it does hold up quite well fifteen years later. There are a few weak moments, and some special effects are showing their age, but the central premise and the sharply-defined protagonists more than make up for it. (I couldn’t stand Rick Moranis, though. Now that’s a name we’re not missing in this bold new millennium.) Oh, and Sigourney Weaver; oooh, aaah! Bill Murray is in top form, while Dan Aykroyd suddenly look very very young… In any case, the dialogue is fine, the pacing moves decently (at the regrettable exception of the Keymaster subplot) and the result is a fine film that can still compete with the best of them. Though the theme song… well… sounds really old and tired.

(On VHS, June 2001) Hey, it’s Terry Gilliam, so it’s got to be good on a visual level, right? Maybe, if you squint real hard and get a mild brain seizure from the added pressure. The story of a fallen shock DJ and a wacko homeless person, The Fisher King might work on some quasi-mythic level, but most of the film is painful in that inimitable “here are miserable people and we’re going to rub your noses in their pathetic lives” fashion. There is an excruciatingly painful date sequence that will make you grit your teeth. There are two appearances by gratuitously violent men who serve no other purpose than to artlessly advance the plot through violent beatings. A whopper of a coincidence drives the story. Well, maybe I’m being too harsh; Mercedes Ruehl is wonderful, Jeff Bridges as cool as usual, there’s a good scene inside Grand Central Station and a happy ending. But it might not be worth it unless you really, really want to see the film.

(In theaters, June 2001) We live in an amazing age, where cutting-edge effects can be produced cheaply and inserted in a film that is so slight. Oh, don’t worry; you’ll laugh, giggle and smile during most of Evolution, but trust me, it will leave an empty feeling in your head soon afterward. The problem is how easy the film feels. No effort seems to have been put in the script, the acting nor the direction. (The special effects people worked until they fell asleep over their workstations, though.) All the jokes are obvious and laboriously set-up. A large splattering of vulgar humor covers the film like an oily sheen, making it less than commendable for family audiences while there was no real reason to go gross-out on us. At least the actors look as if they’re having fun; David Duchovny gets to crack a few smiles, Seann William Scott still looks like a sympathetic doofus (Dude, where’s your car? Oh, right; blown away by a meteor) and Julianne Moore’s character is an excellent antidote for everyone who hated her in Magnolia or Boogie Nights. One of the film’s few bright spot is a cameo by Sarah Silverman—though her site makes reference to another deleted scene. There’s a good action scene inside a mall. On the other hand, you’ll shake you head at the sorry science exhibited here. Oh well. There’s enough eye-candy here to make it worth a cheap rental at the very least.

(On VHS, June 2001) You’ve got to admire Spike Lee for the way he gradually cranks up the tension in a mixed-race neighborhood over the duration of this film. On the other hand, there isn’t all that much to like in the way the tension is unleashed, giving a particularly confused impression by the time the credits roll. After a particularly pointless title sequence, a rather large cast of characters (including a small role by a young Martin Lawrence) is progressively introduced and put in relation with one another. Of course, faults run across race lines, and the sweltering weather doesn’t help one bit. It all has to blow over sooner or later, and this is when the film doesn’t make as much sense. One characters makes what seems to be a completely rash decision for no good reason, which precipitates the unavoidable conclusion. The epilogue doesn’t help, almost bending itself out of shape to avoid laying blame to anyone. But, her, what do I know about Brooklyn neighborhoods? I’m just a white guy from the suburbs.

(In theaters, May 2001) For an actor, the worst that can happen is to be upstaged by animals, kids or character actors. For Martin Lawrence, this happens with a unnerving frequency, which isn’t surprising given his almost total lack of screen presence. In What’s The Worst That Could Happen?, Lawrence once again takes on a role that he’s ill-prepared to fill. In this case, that of an expect cat burglar whose skill is only matched by smarminess. With Lawrence, we get all the smarminess, but no real idea of the skill. The script isn’t much help, starting with a gag-inducing romance that’s reason enough to walk out. But stick with the film long enough and gems will appear. No, said gem isn’t Danny DeVito, who turns in a completely routine neurotic billionaire performance. No, said gems are the various supporting characters, all of whom are more interesting than protagonist and antagonist. Headlined by the always-excellent William Fichner as a flamboyant police inspector, you’ll reach for the smaller characters like a drowning man to a lifesaver jacket, because the rest of the film remains tedious and obvious, not to mention not-that-funny. (The deaf-language translation of the swearing is a typical example, sucking off considerable energy from two otherwise good scenes.) The conclusion is highly problematic, trying to patch a happy-happy ending on the film at the expense of everything else. The worst that could happen would be for you to waste your money on this film when so many other better ones exist.

(On TV, May 2001) I hated Michael Crichton’s novel Sphere so much that I threw my copy against the wall after finishing it. Unfortunately, my television is too expensive to repeat the experience after seeing the adaptation. Not only does this mess of a film repeat the worst features of the novel, but it adds several brand-new terrible things that will grate on your nerves as the film evolves. Granted, the setup is intriguing; an underwater relic is discovered, which proves to be an American space ship from the future. Ooh, aah. A terrific cast of characters is assembled, here played by actors who should have read the script before they signed on. Then the trouble begins; they find sort of an alien which might or might not try to kill them all (but you know it’ll do just that) Then the script moves in Star Trek: The Motion Picture territory, with amazing leaps of logic that not only come from nowhere, but also make no sense at all in retrospect. Samuel L. Jackson’s “explanation” on how they’ll all die is a perfect example of this, made even worse by an utter lack of self-doubt. In Michael Crichton’s universe, gifted people just get it right the first time around, with no critical auto-examination. The film gets worse and worse after that, once the true plot dynamics get going. As with anything involving omnipotence and dream logic, the plot starts to unravel rapidly, eventually devolving in an ending that essentially means “it was all a dream”. Oy. The only worthwhile thing here is Dustin Hoffman, oddly solid all throughout despite some seriously brain-damaged lines. Avoid, people, avoid.