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The Glass Menagerie (1973 TV Movie)
Speed kills, and Miles doesn't limp
16 November 2006
Warning: Spoilers
It's easy to see why Tennessee Williams himself preferred this version to the 1950 version, in which Gertrude Lawrence portrays Amanda Wingfield as a harridan caricature, often for laughs -- against Williams's own stage direction that "there is much to admire" in Amanda. This is definitely a step up, not least because of the divine Katharine Hepburn, who inhabits the role completely and is convincingly crushed after the Gentleman Caller leaves.

However, like another commenter, I'm amazed at the Emmy wins and nominations piled on this version. If you're looking for a really, really speedy (in every sense of the term) version of The Glass Menagerie, this would be it. Someone seems to have made Miss Hepburn's coffee with about eight shots of espresso to the cup; she plays the role at 45 rpm, with gusts up to 78. Although she's got the accent nailed (e.g. the pronunciation of "boy"), no true Mississippian would speak that fast. The result, too often, is complete unintelligibility, unfortunately in a few pivotal scenes where Miss Hepburn and Sam Waterston, two New Englanders, attempt to impersonate a Mississippi belle and her (presumably) St. Louis-born son.

And speaking of stimulant drugs and garbled lines: Michael Moriarty alternates between a curiously bland affect and jumping around freakishly in his scene with Laura. He, too, speaks so rapidly you begin to suspect he's on speed, or has been threatened with death by ABC studio execs if he runs over a certain time limit. Conversing with Laura is supposed to be like pulling teeth, yet within minutes he's actually hoisted her into the air, kissed her while she's up there, and then allowed her to slide erotically down his chest! That must have been some exciting yearbook photo.

I just don't buy Joanna Miles in this role. Yes, as another commenter noted, she looks like she could be Hepburn's daughter, and the director accentuates this by having them dress similarly and strike near-identical postures in several scenes. But Miles is too normal, too merely shy instead of truly hampered in interacting with the world. Karen Allen, opposite Joanne Woodward as Amanda, does a much better job of portraying Laura's inability to cope. Also, there is a profound flaw in Miles's performance: she doesn't limp. Even slightly. This isn't a PC complaint; it simply makes every line of dialogue about her shame over her old leg brace, or Amanda's diatribe about never using the word "crippled," seem absolutely ridiculous, and ruins our suspension of disbelief.

Waterston really comes out the best here, but his Tom is more hangdog than fierce, and the only way we know that he writes is because of the scene, whose staging is obviously left over from the live version (much like Hepburn's pointing to the portrait of her children's father in the first act on the words "your father," as if they'd be likely to forget who that guy in the photo was), in which Amanda disrupts him. Little is made of the difference between Tom and Jim, which is a much bigger scene in other settings of this play. Waterston gives a brave try at the "Killer Wingfield" speech, but it's still not a patch on Malkovich's.

Summary? Go for the 1987 version unless you're a Hepburn (or Williams) completist, or just enjoy watching actors talk like auctioneers.
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Cracker (2006 TV Movie)
Not as bad as all that; just not the golden age
1 November 2006
Warning: Spoilers
When this was over, I stared at my husband and said, "Fitz cracked him in an hour! What happened?" We are used to the longer, more psychologically involved (Fitz is, after all, a psychologist) stories of the golden age. Sadly, that's what's wrong here: McGovern still hasn't returned to form handling these characters. It has nothing to do with left-winginess -- the comments on here from some right-wingers are hysterical; if showing realistic "collateral damage" of war -- like post-traumatic stress and, yes, sometimes violence arising from that -- is somehow unpatriotic, I guess I'm not a true American patriot. Oops.

Poor Barbara Flynn is completely wasted as Judith. If I were her, I'd bugger off back to Australia too, only I'd have done it within the first half-hour. The obligatory feisty female police officer does a nice job, but is, as many have noted, no match for Penhaligon -- although it's understandable that Penhaligon might not want to keep working at a nick at which so many personally traumatic events occurred. Richard Coyle just goes around staring intensely and losing his temper every so often, but even in those moments, he never has the intensity of "Ninth Doctor" DCI Bilborough (hmm, maybe Steven Moffat needs to have a go writing for Coyle again?) or DCI Wise. We don't know any of these characters, and in this brief hour, are given no reason to care about any of them except as bodies filling out suits and being nowhere near as brilliant as Fitz.

And the good Doctor Fitzgerald himself? Yes, convincingly older, but someone seems to have told Coltrane to stop being outrageous, and that's bad. In the end, the silly bugger of a murderer practically walks in and surrenders to him. This just isn't golden-age Cracker, anymore than even, say, Revenge of the Sith is golden-age Star Wars. It's a bone thrown to the fans, and I didn't find it completely satisfied me.
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I shouldn't have liked this...
28 December 2005
Warning: Spoilers
SPOILERS! BIG ONES!

I was definitely not the target audience for this movie in any way. I'm not from England; I'm not a man, and particularly not one with girlfriend problems; and I don't like horror movies generally, so all of the little homages to those sailed right over my head like a Dire Straits album flung by a desperate slacker. Not only that, since the US only gets Britcoms in small doses, I had no idea who Simon Pegg was; the only cast members I'd heard of were Bill Nighy of "Kiss Me Kate," and Peter Serafinowicz, whom I knew only as the (sexy) voice of (mega-sexy) Darth Maul.

So I shouldn't have liked this movie at all. But I really did. Bill Nighy's turn as the stepfather who ironically becomes most human just as he's about to turn into a zombie is magnificent, as is the much-discussed bit where Debbie instructs the little group in how to act like zombies to escape detection -- a moment that reminded me pleasantly of Buffy the Vampire Slayer and her "Scooby Gang." Much has been said about the film's social commentary, which includes the annoying -- and, at the door of the Winchester, potentially lethal -- ubiquity of cell phones. But beyond that, the movie works by not taking itself too seriously, yet at the same time showing real heart -- mostly in brief flashes, like the deaths of Philip and Barbara, but most so at the end: it takes a truly devoted friend to keep his zombified, "bitey" best mate tied up with a PlayStation in his shed (which Liz apparently doesn't mind, even though she couldn't stand Ed as a human).

Yes, it drags in places; David's crush on Liz is so obvious that it really doesn't need explication at such length in the pub, for example. And our hero and heroine are saved not by their own actions, but by a massive deus ex machina. But the movie's humor of the ordinary (Barbara, seeing Shaun's cricket bat: "Is that for the jumble?") makes a lovely background for the surreal events that unfold.

Thanks to seeing this movie randomly on cable, I'll now be looking up "Spaced," probably "Black Book," and other series that contributed cast members. Will I seek out the original Romero movies, or other horror movies given nods here? Probably not. David's death was much more gory -- and drawn out -- than even his whiny character deserved, and was about as much gore as I really needed to see. But I enjoyed "Shaun of the Dead," even when I clearly shouldn't have, and I'm glad to have stumbled, zombie-fashion, across it.
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1/10
Mothership Connection? Not so much
19 December 2005
Warning: Spoilers
**Possible spoilers** A significant number of the comments already posted here say quite defensively that this movie isn't meant to be Shakespeare, that it's just a Big Dumb Action Flick (hereinafter BDAF), that, in effect, if you just stop thinking, this is a really fantastic movie that showcases all-American values, goddamnit.

If you want to see a BDAF, though, there are so many that are done so much better... and ID4 steals from most of them. And if you want to showcase American values, there are so many that are so much better than segregation. Yeah, the Dynamic Duo here is half Will Smith (and describing the plot sounds like the setup for a bad joke: "A Jew and a black guy walk into a spaceship..."), but the love stories -- a massive weak point, and that's saying something, because this baby is rife with weak points -- are neatly segregated: Will Smith with Vivica Fox, Jeff Goldblum with the red-haired shiksa. There was no way we were going to get a "Space Monsters' Ball" scenario with Fox playing the careerist ex-wife and what's-her-name playing the stripper. (The Hispanic kids only get screen time at all because their dad is Randy Quaid.) A white guy entertains Smith by making fun of Jesse Jackson (mercifully, the character bites it shortly after), and there is a tasteless joke about violent Los Angelenos; on what planet is that supposed to be funny?

When I watch a BDAF, I expect certain things from it, and one of those is good directorial judgment about which characters get screen time. In a BDAF about aliens, we paid good money (actually, I watched this on cable, but you take my point) to SEE THE FRICKIN' ALIENS. The ones that get the most time on screen are dead! The only live one we see (other than the incredibly stupid ones in the mothership) gets punched in the head, then awakens conveniently right in the middle of an autopsy at Area 51 (of course), where Brent Spiner reveals that these guys don't look like Alien-Predator hybrids at all; the Alien-Predator thingo is just a "bio-mechanical suit" (H.R. Giger would cry) covering up a much more boring alien inside. Actually, Spiner's brief performance was the one thing about the film I can say without reservation I liked. After all, geeks have spent many years dressing up and pretending to be Spiner; it's only fair that Spiner should return the favor by dressing up as a geek. (Question: If the alien is communicating by resonating the late Dr. Okun's throat, where is the deep, booming voice coming from? Dr. Okun doesn't sound like that alive... oh, never mind.)

I'd also like a BDAF to be a bit less, well, homogenized. Even the dog that outruns the tunnel fire is the most boring and domestic breed in existence: the yellow Lab, a staple of minivan and SUV commercials. Bill Pullman is suitably bland, if too young and brain-dead for the part. Even the Token Gay is played by the safest, cuddliest gay guy in US entertainment: Harvey Fierstein, who has been assimilated by the mainstream-culture Borg in much the same way as Smith himself.

Throw in a bit of product placement for Coke and Apple (although the laptop does appear to be running a very specialized Linux interface, one with helpful dialogs like "Uploading Virus"), and you've got a completely forgettable movie. At least, I hope to heck it's forgettable. I would hate it if my brain actually bothered to store this.

Of the many things wrong with this movie, though, perhaps the most disturbing on a bent-reality level is how much Jeff Goldblum, in rumpled hair and nerd glasses, resembles a young Allen Ginsberg. That's just wrong. In the ex-wife relationship-confrontation scene, I expected him to burst out earnestly with, "I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked" etc. It couldn't possibly be sillier than the actual dialogue.
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Catwoman (2004)
...and that's where the resemblance ends
24 November 2005
Warning: Spoilers
SPOILERS ALL THROUGH! A woman is out for revenge on whoever left her dead. In one scene, Patience Phillips is shown wearing a yellow tracksuit. In another, she wears leather while driving a motorcycle. In many of the fight scenes, people's punches and kicks make audible whooshing sounds, and they run up walls, in clear homage to Hong Kong wuxia movies. The best fight in the movie is woman-woman -- or should I say a "catfight?" And Sharon Stone's fight double is Zoe Bell, who so adeptly doubled for Uma Thurman in both volumes of "Kill Bill." However, there any resemblance to the Tarantino movies ends.

Tarantino, for example, knows how to edit a fight sequence. Pitof does not. Nor, for that matter, sex scenes, nor scenes of extremely elite cops computer-comparing lip prints. (I'm sorry. I am a woman. I have worn lipstick. And you would have to press VERY carefully, and fairly slowly, to create a print as perfect as that allegedly left on Benjamin Britton's cheek.) He could do with some help framing shots that are not about "OMG sexy leading lady!" as well. In fact, the only sequence I can fairly call well-composed is that in which Patience, having been pushed off an indoor balcony by Ophelia and having landed safely and noiselessly on all fours (I have cats, too, and even cats go thud when they jump to a surface below them), stares at a shower of pictures of previous Catwomen (yes, yes, including Michelle Pfeiffer), and is framed perfectly as Ophelia calls down to her from above. Yet even that is spoiled by Pitof's cinematographic ADHD.

Uma Thurman was also costumed with a certain practicality, and, well. What the HELL are those things wrapped across Halle's middle? Suspenders to hold up her falling-down, well-ventilated pants? Must the back straps on the bra part look like tribal tattoos from last century? The contrast in the final fight sequence (literally a "boss fight") between Halle in black and Stone in off-white is nice, but about as subtle as a cat who jumps on the newspaper you're reading.

I agree with those who have said that the music utterly sucks; that the crappy CGI almost qualifies this as a direct-to-Xbox release (the only time in my life, dear reader, that I have thought Jar Jar Binks was better than a comparable element in a different movie); that the dialogue is so bad one suspects George Lucas was brought in as a script doctor; and that the female-empowerment theme doesn't entirely cohere -- one commenter mentioned this Catwoman as a positive role model for her daughters, but I wonder if she really wants them thieving jewelry or having wild, back-clawing sex on the first date. I also agree that the Patience-saves-the-kid sequence on the Ferris wheel is gratuitous and works too hard to build audience sympathy for the heroine -- Halle should be doing that. Too often, she doesn't. Even as Patience rather than Catwoman, she has none of the hurt and vulnerability that underlay Michelle Pfeiffer's performance.

Not that this movie is 100% crap. If you approach it with the same level of expectation you would the aforementioned chop-socky genre, and forget the Batman continuity altogether, you can distract yourself with it for a little while. It's just that things like having a former model with a surname pronounced "head-air," who is married to a man with a godawful Eurotrash accent who is the least menacing evil conspirator on screen... the damn cats, especially the one with the stinky magic breath, are more menacing than the former Merovingian. So, come to think of it, is Sharon Stone's deservedly maligned haircut. So all in all, I'm glad I saw this one on cable.
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2/10
Attack of the Alien Dune Trek Clones
30 October 2005
Warning: Spoilers
SPOILERS AHEAD! Consider yourself warned!

Seriously, is there any science fiction film of the last thirty years, down to and including the Flash Gordon movie with the nifty Queen soundtrack, not ripped off by this one? Even Independence Day gets ripped off in a scene where hovering spaceships menace a planet.

With a nearly Lucas-caliber disregard for physics (news flash: human bodies at 700 degrees Fahrenheit, whether in the direct rays of the sun or not, would vaporize before you could say "This planet is named WHAT?"); a main character who is the walking, beefy definition of a Gary Stu (look it up) to the extent that he can tame giant, spiky rats just by staring them in the CGI-balls; a Lady Macbeth who shares a closet with the Borg Queen; dialogue very possibly stolen from a group of 12-year-olds playing ninja; and an ending that deserves catcalls of disbelief, this movie is saved -- even if, like the annoying Kyra, who you KNOW would get splatted in the first ten minutes of the movie if the Aliens were involved, it subsequently dies again -- only by the few minutes of Dame Judi Dench lowering herself to appear in it. And even then, her character is still saddled with a name ("Aereon") that would go much better on a car.

Thandie Newton's performance deserves special mention, because it helps you understand why the movie version of Beloved was such a flop. Her Dame Vaako is going straight to Star Trek supporting-cast hell, right along with Lwaxanna Troi. Karl Urban, who looked like a Harley dude in the LotR trilogy, fits in a bit better here, because people aren't expected to make sense.

One defender of this "movie" asks its critics what they themselves have ever created, particularly in film. I reply: You don't have to be a cordon-bleu chef to figure out when there's a rat in your hamburger. Especially a giant, spiky one that cuddles with Vin Diesel.
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4/10
Crouching Thighs, Not-so-Hidden Butt
4 September 2005
Warning: Spoilers
SPOILERS AHEAD! You have been warned!

Much of what I could say about this movie has already been said by other reviewers, with some minor exceptions.

Story elements -- for example, turning the group of captive women into magic temptresses with poisonous breath -- get introduced and then dropped, or brought back for a few seconds' cameo at best (the poisonous women turn out quite pathetic, achieving only one kill among them). Also, if you've seen this movie and watched the scene where the entire backstory is explained via scroll, you will know what I mean when I say: whatever happened to the dog? The reincarnated princess gets her father's lightsaber, I mean her predecessor's flute, but the dog puts in no reappearance as a dog or as a human (unless I missed something very subtle about either Hiroyuki Sanada's or Sonny Chiba's characters)... and he was, shall we say, rather important to the original princess. And although the tragic female ribbon dancer/swordfighter (far classier than her descendant, O-Ren Ishii) gets relatively little screen time, it's still more than the later additions to the group get in terms of character development or backstory, which is practically none. Chiba doesn't even get one line of clichéd surprise that two of the crystal-holders are a woman and a young boy. I can only conclude that the movie was written and edited under the same sort of chemical influence required to fully enjoy it.

I also believe that Sanada must have had a clause in his contract requiring his thighs to be on display at all times. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.) Indeed, in one scene he falls to the ground unconscious, and Chiba slings him over his shoulder and carries him toward the camera. Sanada's butt and thighs occupy the center of shot for a surprisingly long time before the director cuts away. So there are indeed redeeming moments in this movie. (Another is when the group has defeated the giant centipede demon, which had approached them disguised as an old woman, and one of the samurai astutely remarks, "THAT wasn't your mother!") A sidenote: as much as the movie borrows from Lucas, which is quite a lot, he seems to have borrowed back from it for aspects of the Star Wars prequel trilogy. The demon matriarch's headgear wouldn't look a bit out of place on Queen Amidala in "The Phantom Menace," and Lucas does the dropped-story-element (midichlorians, anyone?) and underdeveloped-character (wuxia master Ray Park as Darth Maul; the assorted villains -- Jango Fett, Count Dooku, General Grievous; most of the Jedi Council) routines like a master.

One point for having Sonny Chiba in it (there are other elements in this movie that show up in "Kill Bill," in whose first volume Chiba has a small honorific role). One point for Hiroyuki Sanada's butt. One point for strong female characters. One point for the interesting sociological fact that apparently, evil undead demon clans have no incest taboos. (It is, however, a mystery to me why the matriarch is attracted to her son, who is sort of the medieval Japanese Jame Gumb.) Minus several million for the soundtrack. I found myself devoutly hoping that the writer and singer of those godawful pop ballads would be crushed in the destruction of the castle.
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2/10
A Fistful of Dahlias, or No Stereotype Left Unturned
29 April 2005
Warning: Spoilers
You know, although I love the Lady Chablis a very great deal (when I'm not busy hating her for wearing tailored skirt suits so much better than I do), you know something is dreadfully wrong with a movie when it has Kevin Spacey and Jude Law in the cast, and Chablis is the one whose performance everybody remembers.

It is impossible to pour enough vitriol on the "acting" of John Cusack in the ostensible lead, although others have given it a brave try. His character is alleged to be from New York, but talks nothing like a New Yorker, and worse, is bemused by everything. (This does make it convenient for Cusack, who thus has to wear only one facial expression for most of the movie.) He is first bemused by a man walking an invisible dog -- when in the streets of his character's alleged hometown, people hold conversations with entire invisible people daily -- by the guy in the diner (pretty "fly" for a white guy), and then by the concept that a zillionaire, especially in the South, would keep loaded weapons in the house. Then, he completely misses the Lady's reference to her hormone shots, and thus gets to be bemused by her revelation, with which his line, "She's a he?", bludgeons us over the head. I have been to New York, and I can tell you that no true New Yorker would be even MILDLY startled that somebody born into a male-sexed body can make an attractive and convincing female. (Technical note: Chablis isn't pre-op, she's non-op. The book makes it quite clear that although her sex and gender don't match, she has no desire to undergo expensive, risky, and painful sex reassignment surgery.) When Cusack discovers his book in Spacey's library, you're not so much surprised that Spacey owns the book as you are surprised that Cusack's halfwit character could write an entire book all by himself.

So, let's see. What stereotypes and clichés do we have, in just the first hour?

1. Southerners, when not merely eccentric, are outright freakish. (However, unlike Boo Radley or Karl Childers from "Sling Blade," the guy who commits the murder can at least keep up a veneer of non-freakdom.)

2. Fat black women, when not feeding hordes of white people, are practicing voodoo.

3. All trans gendered women are entertainers, and have potty mouths. (Sorry, Chablis. This one is at least in part your fault.)

4. Anybody from north of the Mason-Dixon Line is going to be completely stunned to discover that Southerners can be eccentric and freakish; apparently they've never had to sit through any movies like this one.

I can't go on. You shouldn't, either. You should read the book, which actually treats all of its characters as fully human, and doesn't labor under the necessity of casting the director's daughter. I will admit, however, that had I not done so, I wouldn't have come on here and read the unintentionally hilarious review by the gentleman who complains that the cast and crew are full of liberals (in a Hollywood movie? Shocking!) who seek to "normalize" homosexuality (call me crazy, but I don't think Spacey's character is ever intended to be seen as the most normal guy on the planet), and then rants on in the next paragraph about how the movie lacks "climax," and therefore he's "frustrated" and "unfulfilled." Any Freudian implications in this are left as an exercise for the reader.
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