Reviews

A quietly elegant little movie (because it refuses to push anything) about family and the finale of the older generation, A SHORT HISTORY OF DECAY, written and directed by first-timer Michael Maren, is a beautifully rendered piece of Americana as it exists today, mid economic (and most every other kind of) decline. And yet this movie is not actually depressing. Oddly enough, it is simply too plain and too real for that. It accepts what is and must be (even if its characters have some difficulty doing so) and therefore liberates us, the audience, to look upon reality and understand it.

Mr. Maren, shown at left, is no spring chicken; his career and interests prior to filmmaking seem to have groomed him to look at life and people and events with a dry, incisive eye. Along the way in this movie, and without making any big thing of it, he quietly nails odd moments of family behavior, sibling (and spousal) rivalry, right through to that instant in which our near-hero sees an attractive woman on the beach and a moment later we realize that it's his aging mother -- mistook or maybe remembered from a much earlier time. You don't get this kind of stuff in most American independent movies, and certainly not served up as well and in such unshowy fashion.

We begin in the ever more gentrified Brooklyn, in which our slacker leading man, Nathan (the first-rate Bryan Greenberg, above), less a failed writer than one who has simply never finished anything, begins a morning dispute with his significant other, Erika (Emmanuelle Chriqui, below), a high-powered woman with a first novel about be published. How this scene ends is both funny and surprising.

An unexpected phone call regarding his parents sends Nathan down to Florida, to mom (Linda Lavin, below, right), dad (Harris Yulin, below, left) and -- eventually -- older brother (Benjamin King), where, of course, family history, along with past and present problems bubble up and spill over. Aging, Alzheimer's, stroke, money problems, love and lust jockey for position, but Maren never lets any one thing take the lead for long. He juggles character and events with consummate skill, balancing the comedy of life with its inevitable tragedy -- and shows us a lot of the interesting moments in between.

You might call the film a kind of comedy, but it's so quiet and unforced that you'll smile more readily than laugh out loud. The drama is certainly there, yet it's so unforced that it never for a moment becomes melodrama. Characters are written and acted very well by the entire ensemble cast -- which includes a lovely, radiant and savvy Kathleen Rose Perkins (below) as mom's manicurist; a hot, svelte Rebecca Dayan as the young lady Nathan meets at a local bar/restaurant; and Barbara Weetman as the smart, if slightly pushy bartender.

What is especially remarkable here is how clever are the performers, together with their writer/director, in never going too far. They behave, rather than "act." Less is more has rarely proved so enjoyable or so on-the-mark.

A kind of psychological mystery that tends toward the thriller genre that is a also finely-tuned character study that features a brilliant performance from its leading lady and--most tellingly of all--approaches how we live now and the events of 9/11/01 with an original perspective that makes that day frightening again in a whole new manner (and that's a mere portion of what you'll get), SORRY, HATERS is so shocking in so many surprising ways that I haven't stopped thinking about it for several days. It succeeds as entertainment, provocation and mind-expander, and seems to grow more powerful and mysterious the more I consider it.

Robin Wright Penn, who has helped improve movie after movie from "The Princess Bride" through "Forest Gump," "White Oleander" and "Nine Lives," reaches a new plateau here: that of taking absolute ownership of a film. She manages this despite the very fine work of the rest of the cast, which includes Sandra Oh, Josh Hamilton, Elodie Bouchez and an especially rich and beautiful performance from leading man Abdel Kechiche (who is himself writer/director of the 2005 Cesar-winning French film "L'Esquive"). The writer/director of "Sorry Haters" is Jeff Stanzler, who made the interesting "Jumpin' at the Boneyard" back in 1992, and two short films since. That this 2005 piece didn't put Stanzler on the map of big-time movie makers will remain as mysterious to me as does his movie.

I will say no more about the film, except that you might, at its conclusion, want to turn to the Special Features and watch the round-table discussion between a group that includes Tim Robbins, Mary Louise Parker and Julian Schnabel, all of whom seem as blown away by the film as was I. Certainly, for all of us, Muslims in America and a sweet phrase like "I want to give you something my parents gave me" may now resonate in quite a different manner.

If you want to spend around 45 minutes with a photographer and his male nude subjects, you could do a lot worse than LIMITES (you could rent or buy the ludicrous "Private Diary," for instance). The best part of the film is the beginning, as photographer Carlos Quiroz shoots his model Daniel, and we see how they work together (Quiroz asks, Daniel delivers), the gorgeous contours of the model's body and even the beginning of a rather studly erection.

Nothing else in the film ever quite achieves this level of beauty, art and, if you will, mild pornography. Other models are indeed attractive, Quiroz occasionally spills some beans about how he works and thinks, and there is some interesting narration that addresses art, pornography and one's idea of these. As directed by Jose Torrealba, even at its short length, the movie seems a bit padded and repetitive, but for those inclined there is plenty engage the eye and a little to alert the mind.

EXILES is a Tony Gatlif fantasy, complete with lots of music and dance, of what it might be like for a young French couple of Algerian roots, to hitch their way from France back to Algeria (for most, these days, it's the other way 'round). The two seem not to have much or any money, but then they do, but then they don't. They occasionally work to pay their way (with a rather laissez-faire attitude, I must say), screw (not always with each other), and have beaucoup psychological problems. For a couple who carries no baggage, there is way too much emotional baggage here. That's usually the mark of a young filmmaker, but as Mr. Gatlif is nearing 60, I guess we'll have to chalk it up to something else.

I call his film a fantasy because, try as I did to believe these characters and their situation, I couldn't. Or, if they ARE believable, then they are also sometimes simply too stupid to be endured: the couple sneaks aboard a ship without knowing where it's going; they haven't bothered to bone up on Algeria enough to know that certain of its borders have been closed for several years; worst of all, they have no clue that women in Muslim/Arab countries are expected to cover themselves (the year here is 2004, well past 9/11/01, and these are Frenchies, for Christ's sake: If they are not used to Algerians, who the hell IS?). On the plus side we have a lot of color, music and dance, nice cinematography (dig that succulent orange near the finale) and the gorgeous Romain Duris (most recently of "Russian Dolls" and "The Beat My Heart Skipped"). Mr. Duris, hirsute and slender, appears fully nude, front and back, in a rather lengthy shot at the film's beginning; this may be more than enough to induce some viewers to stick around. Did I mention that the film deals in fantasy?

Here's another rich and wonderful piece of movie-making from the Powell/Pressburger team--as well as a lovely little time capsule of WWII Britain: the land girls, small town England, and what real patriotism is all about (unlike the sleazy variety much of America and some of Britain are currently experiencing). Made in 1944, while the war still raged, A CANTERBURY TALE is a discovery as good as anything I've seen from this amazing film-making team. Beginning with a lovely link to Chaucer's tales, it uses a marvelous quick cut between like objects that may remind you of something Stanley Kubrick is now heralded for doing (nearly a quarter-century later!), it then moves ahead to tell the story of four people whose paths cross to a purpose.

Full of quiet surprise and a lead character (Colpeper) who is enormously problematic, the film makes you look, listen, think and feel intently. (For me, cinema can't provide much more.) As the movie seems to meander along, it is actually picking up an enormous head of steam which will--at the end--let loose a blast of patriotism, pride, beauty, sound, architecture and spirituality. Regarding the latter, I do not refer to the fact that the finale is set in a cathedral--as beautiful and symbolic as this one may be. This film rises above any stricture of creed because of the honest humanism of its creators.

This is a "war film," as it appears from the view of civilians who remain at home. Among other things, it shows that, while a civilian population in wartime must give up a great deal, the rewards can be commensurate. (Concerning Iraq, this is something Americans at home have not yet begun to learn or do.) This astonishing film stands, after more than sixty years, as one of those rewards.

Gross and ugly does not begin to describe the wretched FEED. If it took itself at all seriously, or had decided to play it "camp," or simply attempted to provide decent thrills and chills, we might forgive it its nastiness and vomit-inducing swill. I rented it because it supposedly starred Australian actor Jack Thompson, a long-time favorite of mine who, it turns out, has almost no role in the movie. (His son Patrick plays the co-lead, along with Alex O'Loughlin, who, as a blond, looks an awfully lot like Owen Wilson, without the noticeable nose.)

The movie begins as though it might hold together, but slowly comes apart until, toward the end, director Brett Leonard ("Lawnmower Man," "Virtuosity") leaves logic adrift entirely and has his hero (and us) lamely rolling around in body parts and fluids. For sheer stupidity, nothing equals the moments (several of them) when hero and villain could easily kill or at least maim each other, but simply don't. So, of course, the movie can continue on its vile way for another half hour. The questions supposedly raised here about our consumer culture and over-eating are red herrings, plot-wise, and neither pertinent nor intelligent enough to qualify as "intellect."

Yes, unhealthily fat women (and the men who go for them) exist in life and online, but this film--which equals "Hostel" and "Wolf Creek" in sheer ugliness while possessing about one-tenth the movie-making smarts of both put together--has no reason to be.

ELECTRIC SHADOWS is such a little treasure that I want to plug it in to every film lover I know. The comparison to Italy's "Cinema Paradiso" is apt in the most important way because it's all about how movies enrich the life of a child. In other ways, the film is so vastly different from writer/director Giuseppi Tornatore's lovely work, which is quintessentially Italian: big with emotions, architecture, color, performance, length and budget. In this short and seemingly simple Chinese film, lack is everywhere, from the missing father to the lives these characters lead: where they live and work, what they have to eat and how they get around (the bus in which sister escorts her baby brother is a perfect case in point).

Yet thanks to a style that is warm, honest, rich and--especially--gentle, a story full of quite awful happenings is told in such a way that whatever director/co-writer Jiang Xiao offers us, including some pretty heavy coincidence, we gratefully accept because all of it works beautifully toward her goal of celebrating film, family and friendship. Her achievement is all the more surprising because the movie--her first, and filmed, it would appear, on an awfully small budget--starts out simply and charmingly then quietly builds until it reaches a conclusion that ties everything together without a whiff of heavy-handed melodrama or overkill. In the Special Features, the director explains her purpose, how she came to film-making, and her hope to do something worthy for the major anniversary of Chinese film. I can't imagine a better gift to the country, its growing film industry, or the widening world of international film lovers. Enjoy!

One of the great humanist documentaries, Marc Levin's PROTOCOLS OF ZION explores anti-Semitism today in a manner that is fresh, exhilarating, challenging, moving, funny and tragic. (The best thing about this film is that you could substitute anti-Arab, anti-gay, anti-any minority as its subject matter, and--handled in the way Levin does it--the film would be equally effective.) It is certainly the best--the absolute best--thing I have seen about 9/11, and it's up there with the best about the Holocaust, the Israeli/Palestine conflict, Muslims, family, Mel Gibson's The Passion of You-Know-Who and lots more.

Levin leaps around like a Mexican jumping bean on a game board yet manages to keep hitting his nails on their head. He listens to people, rarely intervening, and eventually, what everyone says and believes and explains comes together into a crazy quilt of hatred and love and ideas both nonsensical and understandable. One minute you will find yourself despising all these stupid, crazy, hopeless people. But eventually and probably you will recognize them--and yourself--as part of that inexpressively sad species so loved, every last one, by all the great humanists (Jesus, for instance). Loved too, I believe, by Mr. Levin. (This review, by the way, is coming from a dyed-in-the-wool atheist.) See this wonderful film ASAP and then watch Levin's thoughtful and intelligent Q&A on the Special Features section of the DVD.

A surprise that keeps on surprising, MAIL ORDER WIFE is quite the nasty little movie, skewering the American male as few other films have managed. Taking the form of a documentary that is actually a mockumentary, it then goes one more step to land in a kind of movie-making void that's as bizarre as it is bracing. You think it's one thing, then it morphs, then morphs again--beginning with the sweetest, most humble bride (a delicious Eugenia Yuan) and finally offering up Jose Canseco and a last-minute paean to--yup--sports. If you've read the netflix or blockbuster description of this film, you probably already know too much. So just pop the DVD into your machine, sit back and fall down the rabbit hole into a very modern-day, male-flogging "Love, American Style." Whew!

One of the many happy lessons taught by THE MATADOR: don't write off a writer/director after a few less-than-gratifying films. Richard Shepard has had a career of making some small, nicely-cast movies that almost worked ("Oxygen") or didn't come close ("Mexico City") plus a lot of TV. Now, with this almost shockingly good, bizarre buddy movie, he (together with his ace cast) just about wipes the floor with most of 2005's film crop--indie or mainstream. The set-up is as improbable yet believable as you could want, due to the great chemistry between Pierce Brosnan and Gregg Kinnear. (We've long know the latter as a chameleon-like actor, infinitely better than his initial pretty-boy image indicated), but Brosnan--always acceptable and sometimes much more--is a revelation.) Hope Davis completes the trio with her splendid portrayal of "the perfect wife."

The most interesting thing about "The Matador" is that, yes, it's amoral and disturbing, but because it deals with friendship, death and the possibility of change and growth, it offers much more than your typical black comedy. It's dark, hugely funny, sometimes sad and consistently surprising. That's already better than most of what we see, but in terms of film-making technique and talent, the movie reaches ever farther. From first shot--no, first sound--to last shot (beautifully composed and partially seen in a side-view mirror), it's full of the kind of exactitude seldom encountered. The long scene at the bar as the two men start to bond is so rich in everything from need to paranoia that I should think most writers, directors and actors will sit transfixed (and maybe green with envy). Best of all, for those of us who too often think in black-and-white terms, this movie provides a healthy journey into the gray.

A wonderfully atmospheric French film, THE LAST DAY details a Christmas holiday with the family of an art student, and the beautiful young woman he encounters on a train, during which lives unravel terribly. Writer/director Rudolphe Marconi is adept at slowly piecing together the story without undue dialog or exposition. His cinematographer, editor and production designer have all contributed to his vision of a beach-side home and environs with a cold, blue palette that will have you wrapping your sweater more tightly. Gaspard Ulliel ("Strayed," "A Very Long Engagement") is compelling as the lead, and the film offers the wonderful Nicole Garcia ("Alias Betty") another strong role in which to shine. A family mystery of sorts, some of the clues may be dropped too soon (we figured things out well in advance), yet due to the fine acting, atmosphere and characterization, the film still pulled us along and left us jolted, moved and chastened. Secrets this important should never be withheld from those you claim to love.

Worthless is a word I rarely use about movies (I can find some good in just about any piece of junk), but MR. & MRS. SMITH comes as close as any film I've seen in long while. I find this particularly disheartening from a director like Doug Liman, whose past work in both independent and mainstream ("Swingers," "Go" and "The Bourne Identity") I've loved. But the worthless, pointless, unreal characters on display here are mind-blowing. Ditto the "attitude" that passes for performance from leads Jolie and Pitt.

From the first scene, one cannot help but question how these two supposedly top-of-the-line (in intelligence and skill) assassins could not know and would not bother to check into what the other does for a living--not to mention that the people they work for would wait "five, six years" before showing any concern. But then, if Liman and writer Simon Kinberg had acknowledged any of this, there would have been no movie. Know what? There shouldn't have been.

Yeah, yeah--I do realize that the film has now grossed around $300,000 worldwide. So what? We've gleefully sunk how many billions into Iraq? Money, dear viewers, can be wasted in all kinds of rotten ways.

Film lovers: Please don't pay too much attention to the Marco Devilboy review of this unusual film. I can understand someone not enjoying KISSED because it deals with a supremely unappetizing subject. But then it quietly, delicately opens up that subject (and the characters involved) and wraps the viewer in an embrace that becomes both irresistible and horrifying. The movie works. When I first saw it, it introduced me to a young actress I have since followed and never seen give a bad performance: Molly Parker. Peter Outerbridge is wonderful, too. Recalling this film now, several years after first watching it, such a rush of thoughts and feelings come back to me that I will probably have to see it once again. If you are willing to go somewhere you never imagined you would find yourself--and then deal with what you discover there--KISSED is not to missed.

With a cast this good--and diverse--and a director who may not know how (or care) to produce standard comedy effects but clearly understands how to give good performers their best chance, MERCI DOCTEUR REY will probably become one of those movies that 10 per cent of us call classic and the other 90 loathe. Count me among the 10.

A low-key paean to the delights of narcissism and diva-dom and a clever rap on the knuckles of sloppy psychotherapy, "Merci" brings together Dianne Wiest as an opera-star mom, her adorable son (Stanislas Merhar of "Dry Cleaning" fame), Jane Birkin as the titular shrink's patient, Bulle Ogier as an opera director, Simon Callow as "the man" and a great cameo from Vanessa Redgrave. (Even Jerry Hall seems at home in this illustrious company!) Writer/director Andrew Litvak has assembled a screw-ball comedy where the chuckles start small; if you're still there by film's ends (it has around four of them, but since three are hilarious, you won't mind), you may be sporting a grin as wide as your face.

The biggest gem among these actor jewels is Jane Birkin. Is there another performer who can use her gawky, horsey charm to such wonderful effect? Don't think so. The "wallflower" scene alone is worth a world of lesser movies. Merchant/Ivory-produced, the film didn't even make it into specialized release (though it appears to have been popular at certain film festivals). Thank god for DVDs!

Chutzpah has a new--perhaps permanent--definition: NOWHERE MAN, an execrable would-be drama, would-be comedy, would-be satire, would-be goof/spoof, would-be Troma-type gore fest (Lloyd Kaufman even has a small role). So many would-be's and not a single be.

The height of the chutzpah is using outtakes during the end credits to what has already been one long outtake in itself. Without these dumber-than-usual add-ons, the film would have rolled in at just 70 minutes. With them, it stretches out the insult to 80. Jumping off (and crashing) from the John and Lorena Bobitt tale, the movie plays it mostly straight (very badly) but occasionally veers into leaden satire, which is even worse. The two leads could very possibly be decent actors. But not here. Technically the movie sucks, too, which leaves it without a single redeeming feature.

Now that I rethink for a moment, I must admit my earlier mistake: The tip-top height of chutzpah is that fact that this film actually received a theatrical release. Imagine the poor schnooks who paid movie-theatre prices!

There is a real and wonderful visual artist behind HEARTLANDS, but I am not certain if it is the director--or his director of photography. This movie is so beautiful to view in terms of composition, clarity and color that I found myself trying not to blink for fear of missing something. (Even the beginning, set in a heavily "industrial" neighborhood, manages to look interesting. Then, two-thirds of the way through, there is a "grainy" section in an amusement park, and damned if THAT isn't beautiful, too!) I don't recall director Damien O'Donnell's "East is East" as being anything special visually, so perhaps the beauty is due to the photographer. Whatever: "Heartlands" is utterly lovely to look at--and more. It's that rare movie in which kindness takes a front seat, and you find yourself increasingly joyful due to the simple, caring things that one person does for another.

The main character here is a poor schlub who wife soon leaves him. Played beautifully by Michael Sheen (of the OCD-driven "Dirty Filthy Love"), this guy seems borderline feeble (particularly when he tries to tell a certain story/joke and can't begin to manage it: the writer and director go a bit too far here). But as he begins to re-order his life, he--and the movie--just gets better and better.

In its quiet and thoughtful way, this one left me feeling buoyant--on some non-drug-induced "high"--as any film I can remember in a long while. I hope it'll have the same effect on you.

Simple and straightforward as storytelling, and possessing no filmic flourishes, CUANDO TODO ESTE EN ORDEN is nonetheless a splendid movie. Tracking a fractured family that regroups after a death and drug-related problems, it grabs and maintains your interest by virtue of a worthwhile story and wonderful performances. The setting, too, is rendered both simple and exotic by its foreign soil (small-town Spain, undergoing more of the same economics problems we have here in the U.S.A.).

This is one of those movies that never mentions the social contract binding families, neighbors, businesses and government. Yet that contract--probably the most important in our lives--is here in every frame of this rich and wonderful film.

LOVE AT THE TOP--the utterly wrongheaded American title for the superb French film "Le Mouton Enrage" (which means, I think, The Rabid Sheep)-- is such an original movie, the fact that it dates back to 1974 seems all the more astounding. This film was far ahead of its time; even by today's highest standards, it accomplishes things that seem rich and new. Filmed by the hugely underrated director Michel Deville, it rather defies description in the way it combines social critique, comedy, mystery, love, sex and satire into one wholly original mix--leaving for the end a major but subtle surprise to render all that has gone before suddenly sad and more understandable. The cast is splendid, ditto the writing and theme. But it's Deville's delicious tone, keeping you constantly off-balance but enrapt, that pushes this "lost" film to a very high level indeed. (The written interview with the director on the "Special Features" section of the DVD is definitely worth reading if you have the time.)

I am not sure just what it is about TWELFTH NIGHT that makes it so difficult to mess up. Whether as movie or play, it's as close to a sure thing as Shakespeare ever wrote. I can't recall any production I have seen that didn't offer at least something worthwhile, and this new version--filmed probably for British or Scot television in 2003--boasts much more than that. Heavier on melancholy than most, it showcases a wonderful cast that's new to me (except for Parminder Nagra from "Bend It Like Beckham," Chiwetel Ejiofor from "Dirty Pretty Things" and Michael Maloney-- who makes a superb Malvolio).

Director Tim Supple (who also co-adapted) has set this in modern dress, and here the modern angle works terrifically well. Having the roles of Viola and Sebastian played by East Indians is also a smart move, adding a layer of Britain's colonial history to the mix. As well as I already know the play, I was often surprised at how Supple's visual choices uncovered new meaning to the script. And, as ever, the revealing of identities and mutual bonding at play's end moves us all over again. I think this sad and lovely version might be a good place for beginners to start--and confirmed 12th Night-lovers to continue their study.

At last. Here's a movie that does as much for the reputations of the men of Greece and Russia as "Gigli" did for the those of Mr. Affleck and Ms. Lo. FROM THE EDGE OF THE CITY details the sad and sordid lives of some young Russian émigrés who live in and around Athens and spend their time burglarizing cars, getting laid, pimping woman émigrés and prostituting themselves ("But we're not gay because we don't do, you know.... And if we do, it's only once or twice. With the same guy.") There is hardly anything here you have not seen before and better; only the Athens locale adds a little novelty--even then there's but a scene or two that's scenic. Writer/director Constantine Giannaris ("3 Steps to Heaven") offer a relatively generic 95 minutes, in which the standout moments involve how stupid, sexist and (from the looks of things) pretty much irredeemable most of these guys are. (Interestingly, the gayer the guy, the more redeemable he appears.) What really rankles is the treatment of the women. Greek and Russian males would seem to give the Italians a run for their money regarding that famous madonna/whore complex. Has life in Greece improved much for women since the time of Plato and Socrates? One has to wonder.

If I seem to be equating Russians and Greeks in this review, I apologize, but even the non-émigrés pictured here (the cab driver, for instance) are creeps. According to another review on this site, the film (a hit on its home turf) was actually submitted by Greece for an Academy Award for Best Foreign Film. What this says about the state of Greek movie-making, I hesitate to ponder.

After seeing Jim McKay's "Girls Town" and "Our Song" (both shot VERY cheaply on video), I was totally unprepared for the beauty of EVERYDAY PEOPLE. It's gorgeously shot and edited and looks like a million bucks. Considering that it's mostly about a depressed Brooklyn neighborhood, this is all the more amazing. Whether this is due to the cinematographer, to McKay's direction, or just--at last--a bigger budget via HBO, I don't know. But congrats to all concerned. The movie itself is as wonderful as anything McKay has yet done. A famous Brooklyn eating hole looks like it's going out of business to make way for gentrification, and we viewers get to meet and spend some time with the owners and waiters, their relatives and friends, and even some of the "gentrifiers." The mix is bracing. Nobody ends up hero or villain, and if the movie never reaches the heights of great tragedy, comedy or romance, it also never overdoes anything. Scenes last only as long as they need to, each performance is real and exact, and by the end I'll bet you'll have chuckled often, (almost) shed a tear or two, and certainly better understood what a changing neighborhood means to a host of different people. As simple as "Everyday People" appears to be, this kind of ensemble of people and social issues is not easy to pull off without undue soapboxing. But McKay, his cast and his crew have done it. (And Billoah Greene, who plays Samel, should be going places, FAST!)

Jacques Demy's THE YOUNG GIRLS OF ROCHEFORT is such a special treat--so bright, light and airy, full of wonderful music and dance--that it's difficult to over-rate it or not recommend it. And yet.

Demy is a cinema artist who always verged in the precious (in my opinion he rarely toppled over), and this may cause trouble for some. His "Umbrellas of Cherbourg" has always seemed to me a heavy-handed, repetitive, sentimental downer; "Young Girls" is very nearly its polar opposite. (Demy's wife, the wonderful filmmaker Agnes Varda, has overseen the reconstruction of this classic, and we owe her quite a debt!) Michel Legrand's music here is full of jazzy, astonishing riffs and lots of melody. Accompanying it are some delightful lyrics that are translated fittingly--if not precisely--into equally delightful English. Catherine Deneuve and her late sister Francoise Dorleac are wonderful in the title roles, and they're helped immensely by the likes of Danielle Darrieux, George Chakiris, Grover Dale, Gene Kelly (yes, an American in Rochefort!), Michel Piccoli and a young and exquisitely beautiful Jacques Perrin. The dancing is a joy, as well, as you'd expect from a film that offers Chakiris, Dale and Kelly. Characters sing of their lives and lost loves, and everything--from the pastel-painted city to the gorgeously coordinated costumes--is as unbelievable yet as wonderful as an enchanted dream.

I remember enjoying the film when it first appeared. Now, it seems not only of its time but ahead of that time and so special and perfect that I suspect certain of us will want to revisit it every few years, for as many as we have left. In a word: transporting.

Awful in a whole new way, ANYTHING BUT LOVE probably should be seen by movie buffs--if only as a cautionary measure that proves all that can go wrong with a "vanity" production. I am guessing a vanity production, since there is no other reason on god's green earth to cast as talent-free and not particularly attractive non-singer/actress as Isabel Gold in the leading lady role--vied for yet by the likes of "lookers" like Cameron Bancroft and Andrew McCarthy--except that she also helped write this bizarre little movie. Her singing leaves much to be desired, and yet, unbelievable as it is, all the other characters in the film think she's terrific. There are a few moments here of actual charm or humor, but VERY few. Otherwise this is a silly, sad fiasco that veers from paint-by-numbers to paint-by-wrong-numbers. You know how it is when people look at a piece of modern art and someone says, "My kid could do better than that!" Well, this is a movie, the likes of which your--or anyone's--kid might do better.