Reviews

What's the connective tissue between Michelangelo Antonioni's youth-revolt meditation Zabriskie Point and Stanley Kramer's slapstick lollapalooza It's a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World? More than you might imagine, in Daniel Kremer's provocative essay, in which he ties together his youthful obsession with both films. The history of Death Valley in cinema, the rapid change of the 1960s, and more are brought to the fore. It's a mix of the personal - Kremer includes documentary footage of himself as a child, coping with a severe speech impediment - and the aesthetic - Kremer's observations have an understanding that reflect his own history as a filmmaker. Compelling viewing, no matter how you feel about either the Antonioni or the Kramer.

What's bound to be far more interesting than the dreadful Buttons is an article about the making of this movie: Why are Kate Winslet and Robert Redford BOTH narrating? Who snookered the venerable Angela Lansbury and Dick Van Dyke into appearing in such a ramshackle production? How are there no credited writers or producers for this film? How did a movie with such an impressive cast manage to play for one night in US theaters before disappearing to DVD and cable? Why is this film so consistently cheap-looking? Who decided to make this a musical when the songs are consistently rotten? And why does director Tim Janis give himself name-above-the-title placement on both the opening and closing credits? (Is the official title supposed to be TIM JANIS BUTTONS?)

Sheer catastrophe, and not of the so-bad-it's good variety. Don't subject yourself or your unwitting families to this disasterpiece. It's enough to ruin your Christmas.

Any number of the films we now think of as unassailable holiday classics -- Christmas in Connecticut, White Christmas, even It's a Wonderful Life -- were dismissed as corny and formulaic in their original reviews, so it's no surprise that Meet the Coopers met the same fate. But I suspect time will be kind to this one: it's warm without being gooey, the humor is sharp and observant, the ensemble is top-notch, and the soundtrack is quite lovely.

If, like me, you're a fan of the dysfunctional-family Christmas comedy (The Ref, La Bûche, A Christmas Tale), this one may well sneak up on you and enter your annual holiday rotation. If I ever get to update my holiday film guide "Have Yourself a Movie Little Christmas," this one would definitely go in.

Forget all the three-line raves this movie has received (which all seem to be suspiciously similar in tone). THE ROOM is one of those rare laugh-riots that is so fantastically inept as to border on genius. While most bad movies offer a handful of terrible scenes divided by stretches of just plain dull, writer-director-producer-star Tommy Wiseau's film offers one moment of disaster after another.

Whether it's the made-up-by-fifth-graders dialogue, the deer-in-headlights performances, or the positively icky sex scenes (love those smushed rose petals on the chubby girl's back), you'll be howling from start to finish.

This movie has already amassed a cult of people who know what to yell at the screen and when; for a movie that's being self-distributed, this rates as some kind of crap-movie miracle.

Keep an eye out for the pointless insert shots of San Francisco, which give the idea of time passing even when it doesn't: one party scene, for example, features eight of these cut-aways.

You really can't believe how terrible THE ROOM is, but at least it's entertaining, albeit in ways that the lazy-eyed, odd-bodied, English-mangling auteur never imagined. Not to be missed.

You've got to judge this movie by what its makers intended it to be. It was never supposed to be "The Hours," it's just supposed to kill an hour and a half. So, as a silly beach musical, is it any good? Yes, actually. Sure, the cinematography is sub-par, and the story's beyond hokey, but most of the numbers have lots of energy. Kelly and Justin aren't the greatest actors in the world, but they're still several notches above Mariah Carey in "Glitter." Their willingness to get through the plot with a straight face earns them major points, and, as everyone who voted for either of them on "American Idol" can attest, they're just darn likable, and that comes through here as well.

The supporting players, to one degree or another, are terrific as well, particularly Katherine Bailess as the witchy spoiled Texas girl and Brian Dietzen as the hot-guy-with-glasses-and-a-hat who we're supposed to believe is a nerd. Dietzen is no Eddie Deezen, but it will be interesting to see him in something where they're not hiding his light under a bushel.

If you liked the out-of-nowhere dance numbers that director Robert Iscove tossed into "She's All That" and "Boys and Girls," you can get with the goofy vibe here. If you already don't think you're going to like this movie, it's probably not going to win you over.

Oof! THE WIZ lasts 133 minutes, and you can feel each one of them. While things pep up for a few interludes--Nipsey Russell's two songs, Ted Ross's "Mean Old Lion," Mabel King's "Don't Nobody Bring Me No Bad News," and the wondrous "Brand New Day (Everybody Rejoice)"--this movie mainly just makes one bad move after another. Leaving aside the hiring of Joel Schumacher to write the screenplay, who thought Sidney Lumet was the right guy to make a musical? He specializes in gritty dramas, and he turns this into one ugly and depressing song-and-dance extravaganza.

Miss Ross is, yes, all wrong for the role. But even the moments when she might be able to wow us vocally are undercut by odd directorial choices. (Case in point: wouldn't "Ease On Down the Road" have been a much zippier number had it not been shot FROM THE BACK? I recently saw this movie with an audience, and you could feel the anticipation as the song began. By the end of the number, all the energy had been drained from the room.) Michael Jackson does a decent job with "You Can't Win," and it's nice to see his original face, but he's rather mewly throughout, and that gets annoying fast. And alas, Richard Pryor didn't seem to have any G-rated humor up his sleeve, so he offers little to the movie outside of stunt casting. (They could have gotten Bill Cosby and it would have made little difference.)

So while THE WIZ isn't a complete disaster, there's a lot to slog through to get to the good stuff. And Oz-as-New-York seems like a rather seedy place to visit. But then it's the pre-Giuliani Oz, after all.

As low-budget, calling-card movies go, this one is fairly heartfelt and well-produced. Sadler shows a real flair for exploring the psyche of his female teen protagonist, and he's clearly gotten the most production value possible out of a small budget. It's scruffy around the edges, perhaps, but it's a movie that makes me curious to see what the director will do next. RIDERS is certainly leaps and bounds beyond many first films whose makers have been crowned the Second Coming after one successful Sundance screening.

Once again, a Big Hollywood Star plays a mentally-challenged person, and the

result is a performance that's all look-at-me surface, nothing but tics and

cuteness. Give me Leonardo DiCaprio's sensitive work in "What's Eating Gilbert Grape" over Sean Penn's sub-"Rain Man"-nerisms any day. Also, the character

of Sam's daughter Lucy is ridiculously precocious, self-aware, and articulate for her age.

I would have given this movie a 1, except for Michelle Pfeiffer's energetic and entertaining performance, although her character gets run over by the movie's relentlessly feel-good tone by the end.

Ultimately, this movie takes a serious issue and drowns it in syrup, and only the most easily impressed will be taken in by this codswallop.

Screenwriter Charlie Kaufman received a great deal of acclaim for his "Being John Malkovich" script, but while that film contained many quirky and inventive ideas, the plot fell apart in the third act, making for an ultimately unsatisfying experience. The same can be said for his second produced script, "Human Nature," which is chock-full of good ideas but ultimately unravels. Kaufman is clever and a jokester, he's just not much of a scenarist.

On the up side, there's a lovely performance by Patricia Arquette, who's not afraid of any of the many bizarre turns her character goes through, and director Michel Gondry (who has made terrific videos for Bjork and others) does the best that he can with the script. (Although those CG mice are pretty lame once they are set free.)

Not an unalloyed success, but some elements here definitely work. Too bad they don't all come through.

Every year we get one movie like "Showgirls" or "The Lonely Lady" or "Battlefield Earth" that shines like zircon, and for 2001, it's "Glitter," Mariah Carey's eminently embarrassing star vehicle. Wandering through the film with one expression (eyes wide, mouth slightly agape -- one recalls Kathy Ireland's "dull surprise" during the MST3K screening of "Alien from L.A."), Carey has zero screen presence. At times, she looks like a Muppet version of Kathie Lee Gifford, and her performance never indicates that her character is anything more than a straw being carried by the winds of the contrived plot.

The one bright spot in this tacky mess: Ann Magnuson as a hyped-up record label P.R. person. The movie is ostensibly set in 1983 New York nightclub circles (although there's not a single grain of cocaine in the movie), but the only person who looks like they're in the right decade is Magnuson, whose hair, clunky jewelry, and shoulder pads are absolutely right-on. (As a survivor of that era, she probably dug that stuff out of her own closet.) She's also very funny and a real live wire, and easily walks away with the movie while everyone else is sleepwalking.

Carey's high-pitched musical career will no doubt continue apace (after all, the dreadful "Sincerely Yours" didn't sink Liberace's stellar career), but I can only hope that she one day develops a sense of humor about this movie, since camp aficionados will no doubt be hosting midnight screenings of this doozy until the apocalypse. Just look for the drag queens with the inexplicable stripe of silver makeup on their biceps. (See the movie, and you'll know what I mean.)

For once, the Coen brothers make a movie that is stylish (okay, they always do that) and doesn't condescend to a bunch of yokel characters (which they also almost always do). "Man Who Wasn't There" is a striking noir picture (featuring unbelievable black-and-white cinematography by Roger Deakins) that is marvelously deadpan and low-key, and features one of Billy Bob Thornton's best performances to date. (The film makes good use of his laconic presence, to say nothing of his craggy features -- he's almost a cross between Sterling Hayden and Rondo Hatton.)

Look for Tony Shalhoub's showy performance as a slick, big-city attorney to snag an Oscar nomination -- that's not necessarily a compliment, but it's the kind of big acting the Academy loves.

I haven't liked a Coen brothers effort since the glory days of "Blood Simple" and "Raising Arizona," but this is a film I would rank with those two gems.

Tim Burton can usually be relied upon for visionary, provocative entertainment, but this time all we get is "Braveheart" with baboons. This remake is consistently uninvolving and uninteresting, all the way up to the zinger surprise ending which flat out doesn't work.

Stick with Chuck Heston and the original "Planet."

Okay, so the costumes are ludicrously dated. But the most unforgivable sin of the first of the "Star Trek" movies is the soul-deadening padding. Why show 30 seconds of the ship going into warpdrive, or Kirk taking a shuttle to the Enterprise, or Spock free-falling in a space suit, when you can drag any of these sequences to three minutes or longer?

It's like the New Wave never happened!

Pass this one and go directly to "The Wrath of Khan."

A hilarious satire of contemporary education and today's coddled youth, this little-seen comedy rates as a real triumph for writer/director Anderson (whose "Positive ID" was pretty terrific, too).

Good luck finding it, though -- after some festivals, it's kind of disappeared.

Allan Carr -- who gave the world both "Grease" movies and "Can't Stop the Music" -- trampled the wonderful 1960 original with this greasy remake, featuring over-the-hill ingenues, a lamely smutty script and just generally poor taste in every possible category.

Worth watching as a jaw-dropping example of Reagan-era crassness, perhaps, but that's about it.

I haven't seen this movie in seven years, and I still have vivid memories of its awfulness. Cliched and predictable, and featuring a trio of really horrible performances (poor Annie Potts keeps a brave game face, despite the horror of the script), this is one of the most godawful flicks ever. (One character is dying, but by the end of the film you'll want to see ALL of them croak.)

Look up Ebert's review on the web, it's one of his rare "no-stars" write-ups, which the film richly deserves.

Robert Altman and Garry "Doonesbury" Trudeau teamed up to create this unforgettable look at American politics -- an ongoing series about Tanner, a fictional candidate for president, filmed against the backdrop of the real race (primaries, conventions, etc.) with real politicians playing themselves and interacting with the characters.

This one is as brilliant, funny and thought-provoking as the best of the writer and director's solo projects. All the performances are terrific -- Pamela Reed, in particular, shows why she's one of the most interesting American actresses working today.

A thinly-veiled retelling of the sordid Lana Turner / Cheryl Crane / Johnny Stompanato affair, this potboiler features a bevy of hilarious performances (Susan Hayward as a nympho sculptress leads the pack, but Bette Davis and Joey Heatherton are certainly in the running).

Worth viewing just for the scene where DeForest "Bones" Kelley calls Hayward "Sculptress! Pagan! Alleycat!"

Suicides, attempted suicides, blackmail, murder, attempted murder, adultery, paranoia -- the goings-on in this bizarre and fascinating melodrama put even MANJI to shame.

No wonder one critic calls director Kim "Douglas Sirk on acid" -- while Western audiences may laugh at some of the overheated melodrama, this potboiler nonetheless is pretty wild for 1960, and manages to be both lurid and unforgettable. (It's also got one of the great death scenes *ever* -- see for yourself!)

Hoo boy -- the only thing worse than a bad comedy is a bad comedy from the Vietnam era, especially one that was clearly made by old people who distrusted and feared the youth movement.

So on the shelf with "Skidoo" and "Smashing Time," try and stock a copy of "The Phynx," a ridiculous spy spoof featuring some very forgettable Leiber/Stoller songs (the band-in-the-movie's big hit is "What Is Your Sign?") and a whole lot of over-the-hill Hollywood notables (and Colonel Sanders!).

This movie is pretty hard to find, and it's probably just as well -- the only thing interesting about it is how obscure it is.

This was one of those movies whose presence on TV would guarantee my entire family's viewing, even if it came on in the middle of the night. David Niven is a suave fleecer of gullible women, who tries to teach novice Marlon Brando a thing or two. Ultimately, both set their sights on soap heiress Shirley Jones, and the games begin.

Brando's brief impersonation of Niven is worth the price of admission (or rental, or whatever). Superior to the pretty-good remake, "Dirty Rotten Scoundrels."

Where to begin in discussing the rococo lunacy of this ill-fated project? Would it be Tennessee Williams' overripe script ("My heart beats blood that is not my blood, but the blood of anonymous donors")? Elizabeth Taylor's screeching performance ("S*** on your mother!", she yells at a clumsy servant)? Richard Burton's near-catatonic recitation of the title, or his reading of Coleridge's "Xanadu" (which Taylor interrupts with a "HUH?")?

Director John Waters' favorite movie (he calls it "failed art" and, thus, "perfect") is a non-stop laugh riot, and since "Boom!" is not available on video, you owe it to yourself to catch it on screen on those rare opportunities when it is presented. (The LA County Museum of Art recently screened it as part of its celebration of the Noel Coward centenary -- despite the fact that Mr. Coward appears in it for about 10 minutes -- and it drew hearty laughs throughout its seemingly interminable running time.)

So loony, so overdone, so 1968, this one's a camp classic.

Almodovar has played with screwball comedy, melodrama and other film forms, but he's never brought them all together so seamlessly as in this amazing film. Funny, poignant, outrageous and heartfelt, this one-of-a-kind film combines a top-drawer-as-usual Almodovar cast with the best-yet Almodovar scripts.

Fans will note many of his recurrent themes at play here -- organ transplants, "acting" as part of daily life, transsexuality, mothers and sons, family secrets -- but "Todo sobre mi madre" always feels fresh and new.

Cutesy and pointless, there's little to recommend about this ponderous film besides the Ennio Morricone score and Clarence Williams III's performance as Jelly Roll Morton (expect that he's trapped in a dueling-pianos sequence that just seems to go on forever).

Tim Roth tries valiantly, but his performance is hampered by the fact that he has no character to play; his "1900" is more a labored metaphor than a human being, and there's little this talented actor can do with the weak script (which occasionally has painful bouts of English-as-a-second-language-itis.

But hey, I didn't like "Cinema Paradiso" either, so what do I know...