Reviews

Marilyn Jones plays an aspiring dancer reduced to stripping at a nightclub in Baltimore's famous Redlight District in this gritty thriller. When originally released, this film, shot in vivid neon-absorbing Super 16mm by Erich Roland, offered a nearly documentary-like presentation of the seedy nightclubs and their denizens. Now, however, it serves more as a historical document. In one of the subplots of the film, a venal developer, played by Academy-Award nominee Howard Rollins, Jr., tries to close down "The Block" to build an office complex. Soon after the movie's release, in a case of life imitating art, the city of Baltimore managed to tear down a portion of it to build an office complex. The film also serves historical document in regard to Marilyn Jones' performances. They show the history of striptease in reverse, starting with the modern, more functional, striptease of today and then hearkens back to the classic tease of Burlesque dancing of the type exemplified by Blaze Starr, who makes also makes an appearance in this film. (No, she doesn't get nude!) The plot itself is, in a sense, a subtle retelling of Victor Hugo's "The Hunchback of Notre Dame" with Marilyn Jones' stripper as Esmeralda, David Caltrider's obsessed detective as Frollo, and Michael Gabel's simple-minded handyman as Quasimodo. This film offers much more than meets the eyes. Check it out if you get the chance!

The last week in the life of the great American poet and master of the macabre, Edgar Allan Poe, is illustrated in this fascinating independent film. Anyone who has studied the details of Poe's death knows what a contentious and controversial subject it has become. There are many theories for his demise ranging from alcohol and drug abuse to assault and even rabies! Interestingly, writer/director Mark Redfield, who also provides a compelling performance as the doomed poet himself, gives the first explanation to Rufus Griswold, a newspaper editor and enemy of Poe's whose lurid and mean-spirited obituary did much to destroy the man's reputation for nearly a century. The rest of the film, which could more accurately described as a fevered dream-within-a-dream than a straight forward biography, ultimately gives a more rounded and plausible explanation for Poe's untimely demise. The film also offers Poe's life as a template of the universal struggle of the artist to fund his work and reach his audience.

The film features an intriguing mix of color and black and white images, and a moody and effective score by Jennifer Rouse, who also plays the wife of the last doctor to treat Poe. Kevin Shinnick gives a fine performance as Poe's last doctor, and George Stover, a veteran of many John Waters and Don Dohler films, gives perhaps his best performance as twin brothers Poe seeks out as investors.

Well worth checking out!

Hamilton is a quiet meditation on life in a quiet northeast Baltimore neighborhood -- a world away from the grim hustle and bustle of the world that make up Baltimore's cinematic alter-ego "The Wire." There is no real plot, just a situation. An unwed mother waits for her baby's father to live up to his responsibilities. The boy's mother is waiting for the same thing. That's about it. No action. Not much talking. Not much emotion. Just the awkward silence before decisions are made. The film doesn't linger long enough to reveal what decisions are ultimately made. It doesn't even work too hard to explain the actual relationships between all of the characters, it only reveals their connectedness. The film is practically silent, but works lyrically toward a gentle poetry through its images. This is definitely not a film for all tastes. If you expect something, you will probably be disappointed, but if you expect nothing, you might be surprised.

Cory McAbee plays Samuel Curtis an astronaut on a mission. His mission is to take a cat to a bar on an asteroid to trade it for the clone of a woman and then to take the clone to Jupiter and trade it for the boy who once saw a woman's breast, and then take him.... Ah, don't worry about the rest. It doesn't matter, because in this movie, as is usually the case in life itself, the destination isn't as important as the journey.

This ingenious black and white musical gem restored my waning faith in independent film. Over the years, independent film, of the Sundance variety, has become too pious, too bland, too self-important and too formulaic. (How many times can you watch a group of quirky misfits and loners form themselves into an impromptu family? Okay, okay, there's an element of that here too, but the setting and the execution make it fresh and diverting.) Writer/Director McAbee populates the film with unique and interesting characters, and he doesn't care if they are really relevant to the resolution of the story. Take, for example, Tom Aldredge, who tells the "Hertz DoNut" joke. It doesn't go anywhere -- literally -- not even all the way to the punchline, but it is hilarious. The film careens from one amusing episode after another. From the "Hey Boy" showdown in the mens room, to everything Lee Vinsky has to say, to the Woman With The Vagina Made of Glass. Not everything works completely, but I found myself either laughing, or with a goofy smile on my face throughout.

I can't help but think that had this film been released in a more adventuresome cinematic time like the mid-80s, this film would have been a massive cult hit and McAbee would be hailed as the next David Lynch or Jim Jarmusch. I had the good fortune to see this film at a screening in DC that featured a Q&A with the director after-wards. He seemed to take the film's -- how can I put this discreetly -- lack of success in stride. I didn't. It's a shame to see such an original and entertaining film limp out onto the market with so little exposure. I hope this film finds it's market. It's too cool to dwell in obscurity.

You owe it to yourself to see it.

Werner Herzog examines the life and death of self-proclaimed Grizzly bear researcher and protector Timothy Treadwell in this fascinating documentary. I had never heard of Timothy Treadwell until he made the news by being eaten by a grizzly bear. The news story I read made the most of the irony of concerning Treadwell's death, and, to be honest, I sought out this film hoping that it would serve as a punch line to what I considered to be the worst, most simplistic aspects of the environmental movement. In a sense, "Grizzly Man" was exactly that, but it was also something more: a penetrating examination of a sad, mentally-unbalanced man desperate to find meaning for his own life. It is easy to make fun of Treadwell, but I couldn't help but feel sorry for a man who felt so disconnected to his society, and indeed, his own species, that he felt the need to become something else. Sadly, nature didn't prove as kind and serene as he imagined.

Herzog was an excellent choice to bring together the various aspects of Treadwell's personality. I understand his admiration for Treadwell as a filmmaker, based on some of the amazing images Treadwell captured, but Herzog's world-weary cynicism proved a perfect counter point to Treadwell's naive view of nature. Normally, I don't like to hear the filmmaker narrate a documentary. I prefer documentaries where the subjects and the footage manage to tell their own story. However, I enjoyed Herzog's narration. I felt it accented the material perfectly.

Herzog is a remarkable filmmaker. What other documentary filmmaker would recommend that an interviewee destroy film, as Herzog did to the woman who had Treadwell's last tape, which captured his death. Herzog displayed excellent judgment by not using the material. To actually hear Treadwell and his companion being killed and eaten by the bear would have so disrupted the tone of the piece that it would have been impossible to maintain a balanced viewpoint of Treadwell's life and "accomplishments." Treadwell deserves to be defined as much by what he did with his life than merely by his death itself.

The DVD disappointed me in one aspect. I was hoping that there would be a director's commentary so that Herzog could answer a question I was curious about: What percentage of Treadwell's footage featured him talking, as opposed to footage of the bears alone? I think the answer to that question would reveal once and for all whether this crusade was ever really about the bears, or simply Treadwell himself.

Two cowboys find romance one summer on Brokeback Mountain and spend the next twenty years trying to recapture it. This film, directed by Ang Lee, is certainly the most highly-acclaimed film of 2005 and will certainly be as big a winner at the Academy Awards as it was at the Golden Globes. However, is it, as some claim, the greatest love story ever told? The answer is a resounding no, and let me tell you why.

I have three problems with the film, which are the story, the acting, and the film-making. Let me deal with them in reverse order. This film is horribly paced. It takes way too long to get started, and once it finally does it moves at a glacial pace. This is becoming more and more of a problem with films today. When I was growing up, if a film was two-and-half or three hours long, it was a given that it would be good because the studios wouldn't put out a film that long unless it dealt with epic events or themes which couldn't be contained in a mere two hours. Nowadays excessive length simply seems to be a sign that the filmmakers didn't find the story. Now, I look at long films with a bit of dread. Loved the scenery, Ang, but let's get on with it. The make-up department was also a problem. It did an abysmal job of aging Ledger, Gyllenhaal, and Anne Hathaway. When Ledger sits down with his daughter at the end, they seem more like brother and sister! The make-up definitely took me out of the movie.

Next, the acting. One major problem: Heath Ledger. He does to "Brokeback Mountain" exactly what he did to "A Knight's Tale," "The Four Feathers," "The Order" and "The Brothers Grimm." And that ain't pretty. He doesn't have the charisma necessary to be a movie star, or the talent necessary to be an actor. He makes Keanu Reeves look like Lawrence Olivier. Here, with the monosyllabic Ennis, Health tries the less is more school of acting which has served men like John Wayne and Clint Eastwood so well, except that he exaggerates his less to the point that his less is much more than more. He struck me as utterly false with each of his little gestures or guttural pronouncements. I like Jake Gyllenhaal better, but he seemed a little awkward here. Whether that was intentional or a result of uncertainness of his behalf as an actor, it seemed to suit the character. However, poor Jake was not able to generate any romantic chemistry with Heath Ledger. (That's no crime, I haven't seen an actress able to do it either!)

The story. This is not a great love story. Great love stories are tales of sacrifice. No one sacrifices anything in this film. Wait a second, let me correct that, both Ennis and Jack are willing to sacrifice the love and respect and trust of their spouses and their children in a vain attempt to periodically recapture a magic moment in their youths, but neither of the men is willing to sacrifice anything for the other. This is not "Casablanca" love, this is "Citizen Kane" love – love on your own terms. Granted, the men face formidable obstacles to their "love," but in a great love story, the lovers overcome their obstacles or die trying. Romeo didn't walk away from Juliet because his family didn't approve. He died instead. Geez. Come on. Men certainly lived together in 1963, albeit less openly than now. They've been doing it for thousands of years. Ennis loved the life he openly projected more than he loved Jack or he wouldn't have made the choices he did. And Jack… Did he even love Ennis at all? Despite his much stated desire for them to settle on a ranch together, it seemed his commitment to Ennis was little more than skin deep. His attitude was clearly revealed when he admits he was with other men because he only got what he needed from Ennis three or four times a year and he needed it more. What was he referring too? Love? I think not. Ennis loved him year round in his own way. What Jack only got three or four times a year was sex. That's a very adolescent view of love. I assume Annie Proulx managed to bring more depth to their relationship in the book than Ang Lee managed to do in this movie.

This film was an examination of selfishness. Unwilling to make a commitment to their "true" loves, they dissipated their passion in unfruitful unions which deprived their partners and children to the attention and love they deserved. Didn't their spouses or children deserve better? Granted, many homosexual men marry for appearances, or in a misguided attempt to deny their sexuality, but that doesn't make them heroes or martyrs. I would have a preferred to see a movie about the two old homosexual ranchers Ennis heard about in his youth who were murdered by their judgmental neighbors. Those guys sounded like real men who really loved each other and were willing to sacrifice for each other. There was potential for a great love story there. But not here.

I found myself withholding judgment on this film until the very last scene. I was hoping that in one of the final scenes with his daughter Ennis would reveal something of himself that would make his life something more than a lie. I was hoping he would do something courageous worthy of his love for either Jack or his daughter, but he didn't.

A disappointment.

An aging band of western outlaws take one last job, stealing guns from the U.S. Army for a Mexican general, in this masterful western about the end of the west. This film is director Sam Peckinpah's true classic. It is a perfect mix of director, script, timing, and ultimately, casting. Since this is a film about men, Peckinpah's trademarked misogyny is less pronounced than many of his other films, and he never had a better canvas for his explicit yet poetic violence. It is, in some ways, an exploration of the nature of violence, and how it is handed from one generation to another – as symbolized by the American children who replay the violent bank robbery in the bloody street, and the young Mexican boy who joyfully watches the battle at the side of the Mexican general Mapache.

The script is wonderfully understated. It's truest and most brilliant moment comes when William Holden's character makes his suicidal decision to rescue his tortured comrade. He simply says, "Let's go." No speeches. No explanations. There is a certain grandeur in the simplicity of that moment. The timing of the film was important in two ways. This film was one of the first to be edited with tape rather than glue, and that innovation in and of itself made it much easier to edit. That, in no small part, can be credited for the frenetic cutting of the gun battles. The editing of this film was tremendously influential. Also, the film was relevant in terms of theme during the Vietnam era. Many saw this violent tale of armed Americans interfering in a third world civil war highly-symbolic of America's bloody loss of innocence. Still, despite any real or implied meaning, the film would be irrelevant if it didn't work. And it does – thanks in no small part to the excellent cast led by William Holden.

William Holden is truly stunning as Bishop Pike, the aging, disillusioned leader of the gang. He is a great actor, too little acknowledged today, and this is one of his very best performances. His character reminds me more of a film noir detective than a normal western character. Like a film noir anti-hero, (imagine, in comparison, Bogart in "The Maltese Falcon,") Pike lives outside society's corrupt morality yet maintains an inner dignity and superiority by living by his own ironclad code of conduct. There's only one problem: Pike really doesn't live by his code. He readily speaks of it, but he really only uses it to maintain a hold over his unruly bunch. Despite the code, he is willing to sacrifice member after member, even his old friend Sykes, in the shabby name of self-preservation. Pike, more intelligent than the other members of his gang, realizes his life is lie. His decision to rescue gang member Angel, or die trying, is a true moment of redemption that gives the ensuing orgy of violence meaning.

The rest of the cast is very good too. Ernest Borgnine gives an excellent performance as Dutch, the conscience of the group. Ben Johnson and Warren Oates are excellent as the rowdy Gorsch brothers. Robert Ryan is also very good as a former outlaw compelled by the railroad to bring Pike back face down over a saddle.

This is one of the truly great westerns. There would not be another truly great one until 1992's "Unforgiven." One complaint. The DVD only features the "director's cut." The theatrical version of the film was superior. None of the restored scenes were truly needed. They only slowed down the narrative.

Two couples, Jude Law and Natalie Portman and Clive Owen and Julia Roberts, play mixed-doubles in this supposedly honest and adult drama. After a long summer of teenage-fare at the movies, I, like many others, start to get a hunger for adult fare and themes. This should have been just what the doctor ordered. But it wasn't. Although I was impressed by both Natalie Portman and Clive Owen, I found myself groaning inwardly throughout this entire film. I didn't believe it for a second. For a film that was supposedly challenging and startling, I found it utterly predictable. I found myself saying the lines before the characters. (Granted, there was an occasional insightful turn of a phrase, but, overall, I was under whelmed by the script.) Now predictability isn't necessarily a bad thing. I knew how "Downfall" was going to end but I was at the edge of my seat anyway. My problem is that I didn't buy the characters and the way they talked to each other. All I saw was the artifice, and not the artifice the characters presented to shield themselves, but instead the artifice of the actors themselves and the writer. Despite some forceful performances, it struck me as phony. This film is little more than a throwback to the "deep" relationship films of the late-60s and early-70s. Had this film been released instead of "Carnal Knowledge" or "Bob & Carol and Ted & Alice," even I'd probably be calling it a masterpiece. That's part of the problem. It seemed to speak to that society, not ours. The obvious comparison is with Kubrick's "Eyes Wide Shut." It covers some of the same emotional territory, and was also a product of past sensibilities, but I found that film challenging. Why? Mainly because the narrative took me places I didn't expect to go. The central themes about fidelity and trust were, frankly speaking, trite. However, that film's vivid characters and suddenly turn to mystery and the macabre kept me on my toes. I predicted every plot turn on this film and got bored waiting for the characters to catch up to me. I wish I could have shared the rapture many of the reviewers here felt when they saw this film, but it just didn't work for me.

Tracey Ullman plays a sexually repressed Baltimore housewife who becomes a sexual revolutionary after receiving a head injury in this film by the auteur of bad taste, John Waters. First, a minor disclaimer: I am a Baltimoron. I live in the same neighborhood depicted in the film, and I can verify that the sexual revolution did indeed begin here. (Maybe verify is too strong a word. People say it did, but I'm personally still waiting.) Needless to say, I have a soft spot in my critical heart for John Waters. That said, however, I do not care for all of his films. I enjoyed the mainstream "Pecker," but I hated "Cecil B. Demented." (I saw that film play to stone silence at Baltimore's most famous Indy theater The Charles – where Waters is featured in an amusing no-smoking spot. If a Waters film can't get a laugh there, it is in deep trouble.) This is Waters' best movie in a long time. It is a throwback in spirit, if not reality, to the bold and zany work of his youth. Granted, most of the laughs are generated by reciting "lists" of "perversions" rather than doing anything cinematic with the "perversions" themselves as Waters might have done in the past. Speaking for the past, the repressive morality shown in the film also seems like something out of the past too. This sexual revolution is not against anything relevant in today's world or environment -- only an idealized morality of the fifties. The libertine sexual freedom that the film advocates also seems out of place in our current post-AIDS world. These points, of course, only matter if you look at the film as something more than an extremely broad satire. Is there a purpose beyond the trite theme of tolerance? I guess I'll have to wait for the commentary track on the DVD. (Waters' commentary tracks are often more fun than the films.) Still, I must confess I found myself snickering, if not laughing, throughout. I particularly applaud the bold performance by Tracey Ullman. She was certainly not afraid to throw herself entirely in the role. I can't imagine Meryl Streep picking up a bottle with her "undercarriage." Johnny Knoxville also showed some promise as an actor in the role of a sexual guru. The soundtrack was consistently amusing too, and I enjoyed the montages of old film clips used during the changes from being repressed to free. This film is certainly not for everyone, but fans of Mr. Waters should embrace this return to the spirit of his earlier work.

"Talking to Strangers" is a unique film consisting of nine incidents each told in a single continuous take on a single roll of film. The only link between the segments is the presence of actor Ken Gruz, a somewhat slight but nonetheless likable performer. Technically-speaking, this low-budget film shot in Baltimore, Maryland, is nothing short of a tour de force. Writer/Director Rob Tregenza moves his camera with smooth and assured inventiveness. However, the narrative structure, and I use that term loosely, leaves something to be desired. If there is a thematic or narrative connection between the individuals segments, I must confess it was completely lost on me. That said, some of the segments were very interesting. My favorite was the scene between Ken Gruz and a priest played by Henry Strozier. However, some of the segments reeked of self- indulgence for its own sake, particularly the final one with Mr. Gruz painting a studio. Still I must give this film its due as a stylistic precursor to what Richard Linklater later accomplished more successfully in "Slacker."

I'll never forget when I first saw "The Matrix." It was a free sneak preview screening. The price was right for me, because all I knew about the film was that it starred Keanu Reeves, and that had long ceased being an enticement for me to plunk down cold hard cash at the box office. I had no expectations about the film and, much to my surprise, it blew me away. It was thrilling and inventive; filled with mystery and portents. And Keanu Reeves was surprising good. For the most part all the script asked him to do was act bewildered, and he does bewilderment well. All and all, it was one of the best science fiction films I had seen at the movies in a long time-- and remains so until this day. Despite the fact that when you analyze the film logically, it doesn't make much sense. But who cared? It isn't like the film makers had to weave a comprehensive logical world view from the basic setup of the movie. No, they wouldn't have to do that unless they decided to stretch the film out into a trilogy. (Shouldn't be too hard, they must've thought. George Lucas did it, and was doing it again.)

I anxiously awaited the sequel. I saw it with a large group of equally-psyched friends and acquaintances on its opening weekend. Everyone hated it. Except me. They thought it was too talky, but, I found the free will versus determinism, chance versus purpose, debate interesting. They also thought the action set-pieces were too overblown and self-indulgent to be enjoyed. I disagreed. I thought the set-pieces were some of the best I have seen in years. Still, the criticism of my friends rang true in places. Yes, the actual Zion was disappointing, perhaps even ridiculous, compared to the place we imagined in the first film, and, yes, the conflict between Neo and Smith was considerably less compelling in an environment where neither of them could really kill the other. (Freddy vs. Jason, anyone?) However, I kept hope alive. "Reloaded" was only the middle film of the trilogy. The stopgap. The last one had to be better. (Then again... The second film of the original Star Wars trilogy was the best, and, furthermore, the middle film of the Godfather trilogy was arguably the best too.)

Thus came "The Matrix Revolutions." Missed it at the theaters. I wanted to see it, but I like to go to the movies with other people and no one I knew would see it! Bought the DVD the first day it came out. Anxiously put it into the machine, and discovered, to my surprise, it was freaking terrible. I can't think of a single good thing to say about it. Why did I hate it? Let me count the ways...

Neo and Trinity. The romance worked better in the first film than the second. Not surprising since romance is often more exciting to watch in its initial bloom of growth and longing than in its day-to-day application. In the first film, we watched Neo and Trinity get to know each other, and we learned about them ourselves in the process. We wanted them to get to get together, and they did. In the second film, they are together. So what? Where's the growth and sense of discovery? The third film simply takes their already static relationship and deifies it into a symbol of all love. They have stopped being people we can identify with. Yawn.

The pace. Nothing happens for the first hour or so. Stupid problems are created only to be dismissed simplistically. Take, for example, the trainman. Neo can't beat him and as a result could be trapped forever in limbo between the machine world and the matrix. One could easily make a compelling movie about this problem alone, but they don't bother here. It is simply a diversion to let the film makers position the rest of the pieces in the game. Look how ridiculously easy it is for Trinity and Morpheus to get him out. After a perfunctory battle shamelessly and lifelessly rehashed from the first film, they meet up with the great villain, the Frenchman, who waxes philosophically like a blowhard for what seems to be an eternity before Trinity simply puts a gun to his head. I suppose this was supposed to be a comic moment along the lines of Indiana Jones just shooting the sword-wielding Arab, but, if that was the case, why not just get it over with quicker. Then the Frenchman disappears from the movie. The second movie went to great lengths to set him up, but now he's simply dismissed from the film. Then again, I suppose he was lucky. I had still had over an hour to go.

The action set-pieces. The machine attack on Zion had all the thrills of a great video game. However, even the most exciting video game gets boring to watch when you know you're not going to have a turn at the controls. I didn't give a darn about any of the characters involved. Unlike the characters lovingly established in the first movie, the battle for Zion was being fought by a group of one-dimensional stereotypes established in the second film. It was all special effects without heart. However, it was not anywhere as ridiculous as the final battle between Neo and Smith. I found their midair battles nothing short of laughable. This is the battle I waited almost six hours for? Give me a freaking break!

I remember all the criticism of the first two Star War prequels. Sure, those films had their problems. There was too much Jar-Jar in the first one and too much Hayden Christensen in the second one, but they remained entertaining to a degree at their core, particularly on DVD when one can skip a chapter here and there. That cannot be said of "Matrix Revolutions." Despite the millions of dollars spent, and the work of so many talented craftspeople, the film simply cannot even hold my attention.

Everything that has a beginning has an end.

Thank God we reached it.

"The Passion of the Christ" is one of those rare films, like Oliver Stone's "JFK," were the reviews tend to reveal more about the reviewers than the film itself. Many people seem to be praising or rejecting this film strictly in light of their personal prejudices concerning the person of Jesus. I suppose that is unavoidable. As a Christian, I generally found myself in agreement with Gibson's viewpoint, but I believe I could still look objectively at the film as a film -- religious beliefs notwithstanding.

For example, yes, I hated Martin Scorsese's "The Last Temptation of Christ," which I disagreed with theologically. However, I had just as many theological problems with "Jesus Christ Superstar" but I enjoy that film immensely. I have probably watched JCS many times more than I have watched Franco Zeffirelli's "Jesus of Nazareth," which is probably the best overall, and most theologically-sound, film about the life of Christ. However, any of the films mentioned above are more interesting to watch than the high-minded but dour "Greatest Story Ever Told" which seemed to last longer than Christ's actual ministry on Earth.

So how does "The Passion of the Christ" fit into the equation? Is it successful? Does it work as a film? Objectively, I believe the answer must be yes. Technically, the film is flawless. "The Passion" was shot beautifully by Caleb Deschanel, one of the masters of the craft. The sets and costumes were impressive. The acting was uniformly professional, if not excellent. (It is hard to truly evaluate performance in a foreign language.) More importantly, the structure of film itself was simple and skillfully executed. Granted, the film does have a limited scope, dealing only with the passion in light of the opening scriptural quote from Isaiah about how we would be healed by the Messiah's wounds. The quote was essentially a thesis statement which Gibson rarely swerved from. He wanted to show those wounds and he did so in great detail. I believe Gibson was successful. "The Passion" was a beautiful and moving, albeit brutal, film.

Many complain the film doesn't spend enough time dealing with the teachings or life of Christ, and that, based strictly on the information shown in the film, one would have to wonder why Jesus' death was even worth showing. Good point, however, I think it'd be safe to say that pretty much everyone, regardless of their religious affiliation or lack thereof, knows at least some of the basic outline of the story. How much background is really needed? Plus, remember Gibson's thesis. This film isn't about the teachings of Christ. It's about the purpose of his incarnation: His sacrificial death. The source material for the film, the Bible, makes it clear that Jesus' primary purpose wasn't to teach us how live better, but instead take away the sins of the world with his death. In that light, I don't think it was outlandish to finally see a film dealing strictly with that subject. People didn't complain that James Cameron spent too much time in "Titanic" showing the ship sink. If anything, they complained Cameron waited too long before letting the ship to hit the iceberg. I can understand that. The story of the Titanic is pointless without the iceberg, just as the story of Jesus is pointless without the cross.

But did it have to be so violent? Probably not. If I were Mel Gibson, I would have toned down the violence to get a PG-13 rating, and hence, a larger potential audience. Sadly, for those offended by the violence, Mel didn't call and ask my opinion. It's just as well he didn't! Since the purpose of the film was to illustrate the suffering of Christ, toning down the violence would limit its effectiveness. Still, despite its artistry, I would not recommend this film to children.

Normally, I don't respond to previous reviews posted on this website, but there have been so many strange opinions that I can't resist making a few comments. Despite all the controversy before the film's release, it seems only a very few people here actually found the film anti-semitic. However, I was amused by one reviewer who said Mel didn't have one good thing to say about a single Jew in the entire film. Huh? What about Jesus? Wasn't Jesus a Jew? Mel seemed to display some admiration for him. Others complained that the film showed only hate, and not the positive qualities of Christianity like love. Hmmm. I think those reviewers might've missed the whole point of the film. Wasn't it Jesus himself who said there was no greater love than to lay down one's life for one's friends? The film had love. Lots of it.

I was also somewhat dismayed by the shoddy scholarship of some of the people discussing the historical accuracy of "The Passion of the Christ." Whether Jesus is the Son of God is indeed a matter of faith. However, other aspects of the debate fall within the realm of fact. There have been those here who claimed the gospels were written long after the events, and that they have been changed periodically by church officials over the centuries to suit their needs. Both charges are nonsense. Take, for example, the Magdalen Papyrus, a fragment of the gospel of Matthew, which has been dated to roughly A.D. 60. That easily puts the gospel within the eyewitness range. Skeptics and believers alike generally agree that the last gospel to be written was the Gospel of John. I have read some books which dated it as late as the third century, but that is a hard position to maintain when a fragment of the Gospel of John found in the Egyptian hinderlands, the John Ryland MS, was dated to A.D. 130. Since it probably took some time for the Gospel to find itself in such a remote location, it is safe to assume the Gospel was written a number of years earlier. As for the claim that the Gospels have been changed periodically over the years, I must ask you to present your evidence. Give us the before and after passages. Over five thousand Greek manuscripts have been found. Granted, there is some variance, but the vast bulk of differences are as trivial as alternate spellings of words. No manuscript has been found with any change which suggested the slightest revision of doctrine. Reject Christ as Lord if you so desire, but don't tell me the Bible isn't textually reliable. The book has stood the test of time.

F. Scott Fitzgerald once said there were no second acts in American lives. If that were true, we would not have "Wonderland" because, as nasty and brutal as those real-life murders were, they would have been quickly forgotten if they hadn't involved a unique American celebrity stumbling through the shabby second act of his life.

I don't believe I ever saw a John Holmes movie. Granted, one might have been playing at a bachelor party somewhere in my presence, but I never actively sought one out. Still, I knew he was the Elvis of pornography, and, back when the murders actually occurred, I wondered how someone as famous, and supposedly as successful, as John Holmes could have become involved in something as tawdry and ugly as the Wonderland murders. That question brought me to "Wonderland," and was ultimately left unanswered by the film.

This Rashomonesque film recounts the events from various untrustworthy perspectives, and that is part of the problem. After a brief introduction, John Holmes, played by the normally-intense Val Kilmer, is pushed aside by the film makers to establish the perspective of David Lind, played by Dylan McDermott, a surviving member of the doomed drug-dealing gang based at the Wonderland apartment. This is a mistake. Holmes is our hook, yet writer/director James Cox put up a wall, Lind's perspective, between us and him. This is harmful because, although Lind does reflect one aspect of the Holmes' character, he didn't know Holmes during his heyday and can offer no real insight into Holmes' subsequent decline. This also, sadly, is true of the second act of the film where we get Holmes' untrustworthy but unilluminating take on the grisly events. Still, the problem ultimately isn't the structure. The problem comes from Cox's intense focus on the crime itself.

Sorry, but I didn't find the Wonderland murders inherently interesting. If you live in a big city, as I do, you'll see your fair share of drug-related massacres plastered over the newspapers. The film would have been better served if they focused on its sole hook: John Holmes, porn star. It isn't enough to say that Holmes did what he did because he was a drug addict focused only on getting his next fix. That insight can't sustain a feature-length movie. (Plus, Kilmer didn't play him with desperate eyes of an addict willing to do anything to get his next fix.) I was disappointed. I wanted to know if the same psychological need that drove Holmes to success in the shady world of pornography also fueled his compulsive drug addiction. Or were drugs an escape from a shameful onscreen persona? Did he value his career, or even his relationships, strongly enough to realize what he was sacrificing when he became an addict? These questions are not too much to ask of the main character in a major motion picture. Fortunately, the DVD included an excellent documentary which told the story better.

Two detectives assigned to watch twenty-one security camera tapes of a violent but seemingly open-and-shut jewel heist discover that seeing isn't necessarily believing in this fresh and unique film recently placed in evidence at the DC Independent Film Festival. Sounds like an open-and-shut movie? Not so. This movie has a hook: We never see the detectives. We only hear their running commentary as we watch the tapes along with them. Everything we see is as new to them as it is to us which gives the audience a chance to figure out the crime before them.

"Replay" is a movie where perspective is everything, and the film makers boldly maintain that perspective even if it means letting the movie screen go completely blue, like a home VCR, while the detectives change tapes. They replay some tapes. They slow things down. They speed things up. They sometimes pause a frame to talk about what they are seeing or make a phone call. In a sense, this is the very antithesis of a "motion picture." Yet it works, and not just in some theoretical realm. This film is spared the fate of being an esoteric art house novelty by its wicked sense of humor. The unseen detectives, played by Fisher Stevens and Michael Buscemi, are often very funny -- flailing both the innocent and the guilty, the living and the dead, with their dispassionate, black humor.

Strangely, however, this black humor is symptomatic of either the film's greatest failing or greatest success depending on your point of view. A film's success is usually predicated on the audience's emotional response to the characters, but in "Replay" it is hard to bond emotionally with the characters you see on the screen. I found my normal emotional response, even to the most horrific events, filtered through the dispassionate perspective of the detectives. Real life homicide detectives arrive at the scene of a crime after the violence. They don't see the passion, just the bloody aftermath. Nothing they can do will bring the victims back to life. Their job is to simply put the pieces together and assign blame. That's what they -- and we -- do here. We don't love the people we watch scurrying about the home and office . We don't hate them either. We just study them, hoping that they will give up their secrets. Many police procedurals let you see the world from the detective's perspective, but this film lets you experience it.

Did I solve the crime before the detectives? I'm not saying, but it ultimately doesn't matter. The journey was as entertaining as the destination.

Hill House has stood for ninety years and might stand ninety more. Silence laid steadily against the wood and stone of Hill House, and, whatever walked there, walked alone....

Between those words from the opening voice over to the chilling recapitulation 110 minutes later lies the best ghost story ever filmed. The film, based on the novel by Shirley Jackson, is a masterpiece of understatement which eschews blood and gore for atmosphere, character and a palatable sense of dread.

University professor, Dr. John Markway, played by Richard Johnson, goes to Hill House, an eerie New England mansion with a dark history, to prove the existence of the supernatural. He stacks the deck by bringing two women, Eleanor Lance, Julie Harris, and Theodora, Claire Bloom, both of whom have had proven supernatural experiences, to act as a catalyst. They are accompanied by Luke Sanderson, Russ Tamblyn, the skeptical nephew of the owner, who will one day own Hill House. In the end, the catalysts work too well and Markway's experiment ends in tragedy.

Like all the best horror films, "The Haunting" delves deeper than the monsters. While the men provide overview and analysis, the film is essentially about the two women, both of whom are misfits in the society of their day. While outerly-confident and worldly, Theodora's subtle lesbianism places her outside of society's norms. Eleanor, who spent almost her life caring for an invalid mother, finds herself in a hopeless position. With no husband and no meaningful job skills, she finds herself reduced to sleeping on the sofa in her younger sister's living room. She needs an escape.

"The Haunting" is ultimately the story of Eleanor's slow disintegration and eventual escape. Her sister and brother-in-law treat her like a child, and, in many ways, Eleanor is a child; emotionally-arrested at age she started caring for her mother. Like a child she wears her feelings on her sleeve, flying from one emotional extreme to another. One moment, Theodora is the girlhood friend she never had, the next moment, she lashes out at her hateful bitterness. She mistakes Markway's kindness for romantic interest, and when Markway's wife arrives, Eleanor strikes back cruelly by sending her to the cold, dark heart of the house with ultimately tragic results.

Eleanor, who desperately seeks love and acceptance, quickly becomes the focus of the attention of the entity lurking in the house. She responds in equal parts terror and desire. She knows the force in the house is evil, but she so needs to be needed, that she can't leave at any cost. This battle drives her to the brink of madness. All she needs is someone, or something, to give her a little push over the edge.

But what is that thing? Hard to say. The film makers never show it, almost leaving open the interpretation that the haunting isn't real -- or at least only a projection of Eleanor's troubled mind. All we see are doors opening, slamming and bending, but what really chills the inhabitants of Hill House are the sounds: the banging, the footsteps, and the low voices.

This approach could have backfired in the hands of less skilled film makers, but Robert Wise and his first-rate team knew their business. The writing, cinematography, production design and editing are flawless. The score, although somewhat dated and heavy-handed in places, is usually very effective as well. Wise gave this story, which normally would have been considered B- movie material, the same consideration and dignity he gave to his more prestigious projects like "West Side Story" and "The Sound of Music." Bravo.

"The Haunting" was ripped-off in 1973 by the Richard Matheson-penned opus "The Legend of Hell House." That film, with an almost identical plot, gives the audience all the thrills one normally expects in a haunted house film. It is an entertaining horror film, although not quite in the same league as this film. "The Haunting" was officially remade in 1999 with Jan De Bont at the helm. That monstrosity should be avoided at all costs. Stick with the original. You won't be disappointed.

Stu Shepard is a press agent. By definition that means he is a liar. One day Stu tells one lie too many, and, as he stands in a phone booth, he finds himself at the mercy of a vicious but sardonic sniper who demands the truth from him.

"Phone Booth" is an absolutely terrific thriller. I was intrigued by the concept when I first heard about it: a film set almost entirely within the confines of a phone booth! Frankly, having little respect for director Joel Schumacher after his bloated Batman sequels and mindless Grisham adaptations, I didn't expect much, but I was pleasantly surprised. With every plot twist, I was on the edge of my seat wondering how the film makers were going to resolve the escalating situation without violating the internal perspective of the film. Schumacher and company always did so with great panache, but this film is more than a esoteric experiment in film making technique. It is a fast-paced, suspenseful thriller.

While much of the success of the film rests firmly on the shoulders of Colin Farrell, who plays wonderfully against the disembodied voice of Kiefer Sutherland, the real star of the movie is screenwriter Larry Cohen. Cohen, a crafty old veteran from the B-movie world, deserved an Oscar nomination for this inventive script which was so old that it was actually offered to Alfred Hitchcock. (I wish he would have tackled it!) Bravo, Mr. Cohen. Maybe it's time for me to start checking out your "Maniac Cop" films.

I recently flipped through my long list of capsule reviews and saw I had foolishly called "Shadows and Fog" Woody Allen's worst film. I made the same silly mistake with "Deconstructing Harry." I did the same thing again with "Celebrity." However, I feel relatively safe in proclaiming once and for all time that "Hollywood Ending," a pathetically unfunny farce about the movie business, is the Woodman's worst film. If only for his sake, I pray I won't be proven wrong again. Woody Allen's decline has been astounding, but perhaps not without precedent. Woody always said Bob Hope was one of his main influences, and I can certainly see parallels between his career and Bob Hope's career. The funny Bob Hope of the 1940s and 1950s, who made wonderful films like "My Favorite Blonde," slowly decayed into a sad self-parody by the 1960s while making duds like "I'll Take Sweden." I think that's what we're seeing here with Woody. I remember when I anxiously looked forward to seeing the new Woody Allen film. Now, when I bother to go, I find myself squirming embarrassingly in my seat. Sad to say, but after "Hollywood Ending," I doubt I will see another one of his films in the theater again. Ironically, the main problem with Woody's recent films are the scripts. They appear to be little more than unpolished and unrealized rough drafts. The structure is sloppy. The characters are unfocused. And, most importantly, the gags simply aren't funny. Also, he has to stop casting young beautiful women as his girlfriends. It just makes him look pathetic. Yo, Woody, word to the wise: Don't you remember how Bob Hope used to look standing beside Brooke Shields? She didn't make him look virile, she just made him look old.