I hate what mob films have become. But I love what David Cronenberg films have. David Cronenberg has made a mob film. Uh-oh. Don't worry, though, this one turned out okay. More than okay, it's the best mob film ever made! I can only deduce this is because of the director. Where as most post-Godfather stories get caught up in the now mandatory morass of culture, family, macho sentimentality and the ethnic traits of big city gangsters (Scorsese, Coppola, Leone etc.), Cronenberg has made the most spectacularly secularized and pragmatic mafia story I've ever seen, one that deals with human suffering and moral stand offs rather than shoot outs. It's not a morality tale on par with Cronenberg's perfect-in-every-way-possible A History of Violence mind you, but a sober and obsessive look into a London-based Russian mafia family and the lives they touch (not the good kind of touching, either). There's violence --a lot-- but the film is not about violence.

     Eastern Promises is centered around one incident, the death of a pregnant immigrant and the life of her baby as seen through the eyes of a British doctor (Naomi Watts) who risks her life caring for this sought after commodity. That makes this the second film this month about protecting babies from gangsters. But Shoot 'em Up this is not. Instead, Promises eschews guns and chooses in stead to have characters cut. There's more dagger play here than in a Three Musketeers production, which is actually quite meaningful because Cronenberg, as any fan knows, has always been interested in tactile depictions of flesh and psychological sword play, so using blades in this instance allows for more impact and cringing. The mob wants the newly orphaned baby for reasons that unfold slowly and systematically as the film crosses genres to include detective elements. Add Viggo Mortensen as the brainy family hired thug who haven't earned his "stars" yet, Armin Mueller-Stahl as the head or "king" of the family and a ripe Vincent Cassell as the loose cannon son with major father issues and you have the basic floor plan of the story.

     Okay, I'll admit that, plot wise, this isn't an airtight film. The overly pure and undiluted Watts character grounds the picture with normalcy and maternity but isn't as riveting as she could, or, has been. As are the wishy-washy specifics of the pregnant victim, her incriminating journal that has fallen into the hands of Watts (now sought after by the mob), and the shallow(ish) depiction of Russian immigrants that come seek Western rather than Eastern promises in search of a better life, blah, blah, blah. Such familiar content is included here because it has to, but thankfully it doesn't take over the picture, it only establishes the chalk outline of it. Nor are these plotlines what the film is particularly interested in. Rather, Cronenberg and screenwriter Steven Knight (Dirty Pretty Things, a similar immigrant themed thriller with a far more successful thesis on immigration) are mostly fixated on the idiosyncrasies of the Russian mob and their mysterious codes of ethics. As a central character strips down and looses his identity in order to be reborn into his "new" family, Cronenberg lingers, not on the cultural ramifications but the features that come with this cult-like initiation ceremony such as the questions he is asked and the tattoos he is given. The sensual orgy scene from Eyes Wide Shut comes to mind here but this film is singularly Cronenberg. The way he views gangsters tropes are fresh and new. Details such as the criminal's life story being told on his flesh (as is the story of all of their deaths, earned in the form of scars and stab wounds) through tats or the crucial theme of homosexuality within the hyper masculine mob circle came as unexpected surprises to me. After his admission that William Hurt's mobbed up character in AHOV along with his finely manicured thugs were a closeted homosexuals (check out his amazing audio commentary for proof), I find it intriguing that such a theme has now been it in such a way that creates gripping psychological drama through the way other characters (especially the brother figure relationship) deal, or don't deal with it. The gay character, whom I wish I could credit here because he's so good in this movie (but wont because part of the joy is watching it unfold), is nuanced in a way most mob hot heads are not. This character (or characters if you really want to read into the central brother relationship) shameful lifestyle is not an excuse for the things he does but it does create all the right tension for this story as his actions are explained while never overly enunciated, which leaves a lot of room for further analysis.

     Cronenberg's vision remains as solid as ever. His slow moving but never dull aesthetic has carried over from A History of Violence and brings this film to life too as colorful spurts of neon red violence and silver metal swooshes splatter the screen when we least expect it. The central, all-nude fight set piece in particular will leave you speechless and gasping for air within the bath house steam. Cronenberg even indulges in a welcome dose of humor that colors the way we see these often ridiculous characters interact (Watt's old school Russian uncle who hates blacks and lies about being in the KGB is a hoot). In addition to humor, the filmmaker once again translates his obsession with warped flesh and tangled machinery, of random violence, biological grotesqueries and truly dark moments of passion. As another man watches to prove he's "not a fag," Viggo has a sex romp that rivals the impact of the sorta-consensual "rape" in AHOV. True to form, this is a mob film that only Cronenberg could have made and his cautious and almost scientific approach is such that I was finally, FINALLY, able to enjoy this genre for what it is. The particulars of which linger around but are always left for us to sort out as opposed the usual mob movie mentality of literally beating us over the head with motivations, pacts, rats, and betrayals. 

     I realize now that I haven't yet talked up Viggo Mortensen. I should. He's magnificent here and I hope his function as Cronenberg's muse continues because this pairing is far more successful than the Scorsese/Leo lameathon of recient years. Once again, Viggo gives a non-showy performance (of the internalized variety) that has a way of going over people's heads. It took me a couple of hours to realize how subtle his turn as a secondary gangster truly was. Viggo not only nails the Russian accent but this man's entire way of life; the solitude, the attraction to the purity of Watts' character, the peacekeeping/babysitting and genuine protectiveness of his brother figure (Vincent Casell), and the silent torment that seeps through as he justifies the crimes he witnesses. "I'm just the driver, I go straight, I go right, I go left..." he says with a resigned thud. Under a different director, the Armani suits, dark shades and slicked back hair (ahem, Scorsese) could have turned Viggo into a Terminator-style Angel of Vengeance or, worse yet, a Tormented with a Capital T Leo in The Departed, but here is something entirely different. In fact, as secrets are revealed and heads busted in, you could even view The Departed as the thematically failed counterpart to this successful mob life story. As Viggo flips his prayer beads back and forth this is one of those performances that will stay with me all year. And one of those films too.

     Shoot 'em Up does little beyond presenting its title in good fun. Imagine walking into the middle of a Jason Stathem action comedy after a couple pure liquid shots of Looney Tunes. This, of course, is ironic because Mr. Stathem is the poor man's Clive Owen. And perhaps the only thing more ironic is that the river rapid  paced Shoot 'em Up is the poor man's Crank. Touché! Shoot is a gonzo cluster-fu(n) that has to be respected in one hand and questioned in the other. Respected because it picks it's cartoony tone and hardly ever wavers in its gravity free, ultra ironic presentation. And questioned because it's so out there that it is virtually incoherent. For every inspired bit of action and slack jawed visual puns that hit their target so to speak (ex. the decision to have gunsmith Owen primary weapon be a carrot, "eat your vegetables" he says after  a vegi-impaling) two or more either feel contrived or dull such as Monica Bellucci's attempt to play a lactating prostitute that hides out in a tank because it's "safe" there or the sub-Judge Dread notion of guns that can identify one's fingerprint.

     Clive Owen plays a modern day gunslinger in this movie. With a death count well into the hundreds I don't think he misses one shot. He's the kind of guy that would bitch slap his own character from Sin City and still have time for a marathon "you know what I hate..." bitching session about drivers who don't signal. Owen's character in this movie is Jason Bourne re-imagined as a scruffy homeless slacker with all the observational repartee of Jerry Seinfeld. But this exterior wise cracking crab persona about all there is to him, and for that matter, the film (the Shoot's biggest blunder occurs when it hints at his family man turned renigade backstory). The film opens with a Leone-esq close-up of Owen's priceless green eyes, then cuts to a close-up of Owen crunching on a carrot after watching a pregnant woman run past in agony. This moment of clever nothingness is followed by a scene in which Owen saves the pregnant woman by jumping into a gunfight and shooting the bad guys while the woman shoots out a round in the form of a crying, slimy baby. Which of course he hands to the mother after shooting the umbilical chord with a well placed round (the coolest scene of the year!). By the way, all of this is aprapo of nothing. No back story and no further examination of Owen's character is necessary as this random inciting incident manages to extend past the opening to last the entire running time! "Protect the baby" is about as deep as the film gets. Protect from whom is a good question. I'm not sure... but I do know that logical criminal middleman, Hertz, (a grizzly Paul Giamatti) chases after him in between phone calls from his wife. He also chews scenery as intensely as Owen chews carrots. "My god. Do we really suck or is this guy really that good?" a hurting Hurtz says after another handful of his men get owned by Owen. This atypical casting of Giamatti as an action heal is handled with a little menace and a lot of fun and despite the plot's nonsensicality, I still loved every second of screen time between the two because, really, how often do character actors get to star in Michael Bay films?

     I'm not so much a fan of Shoot 'em Up as I am an admirer of its unlimited energy and enthusiasm. This is not an action film many people will like. Maybe that's while I like it, because I'm sick of getting what I expect, or less, from action films. In fact, why call this an action film at all? In the era of Guy Ritchie, Jason Sthathem and Shoot 'em Up we should invent a subgenre that sounds something like comaction.

    "I’m just so angry” Potter says at one point, summing up his new adventure that could more appropriately be described as his new brood session. The fifth Potter is based on what I feel to be the richest of the Rowling books. The de-emphasis on plot and invigorating attention on Potter’s burden --supernatural or otherwise-- finds the author at her most searching and deep. This open narrative vibe does comes across in Order of the Phoenix with a caveat that the film engages in the sometimes-tedious exercise of capturing (rather than reexamining) the psychological leanings of the book. While the franchise’s predictable obsession with fidelity roboticizes the impact of drama, its attempt to play up character over action should not be overlooked.

     So, then, the most noteworthy thing the film aims for is its attention on Potter the CHARACTER (something missing from Goblet) and the threat(s) against him; I speak not so much of Lord Voldemort (Ralph Finnes) and his minions but of Dolores Umbridge, a diminutive government lackey (Imelda Staunton) teaching at Hogwarts who looks like a nice old lady but is a true sadist towards those who do not follow the oblivious Ministry of Magic’s party line. As Umbridge goes over Dumbledore’s head to enact countless new school rules such as the one stating that boys and girls are not permitted to be within eight inches from one another or interrogates students for information, this character, with her ties to the establishment and serene pro-torture stance, represents a fascinating commentary on the deceptive underbelly of post 9-11 Western governments.

     Thinking back, the film has just about everything the novel does but this may be more of a problem than a praise. Like the last (and worst) outing, the story, while true to the source, feels rushed along and a little too literal for its own good at times. Newcomer David Yates’ film could alternatively be referred to as Harry Potter and the Order of the Montage because every other scene is either a training montage with Dumbledor’s Army, a studying montage related to the OWL examinations, or lackluster 3D newspaper montages that are ineffectively used to bridge scenes.

     While dry at times, the overwhelming sense of angst and, yes, anger speaks loudly through Daniel Radcliffe’s impressive tormented hero performance. As the character grows darker, Radcliffe only gets better with every turn. I only wish the father/son surrogate relationship with Sirius Black (Garry Oldman) was fleshed out more and that Michael Gambon’s Dumbledore was more effective (I love Gambon but have grown to dislike his performance in these films). Still, I’m giving the film a pass because it offers a much needed break from the tedious plot-heavy stories we’ve been slammed with on each film.

    This modestly successful hitman yarn stars Ben Kingsley as a bottled up (in more ways than one) alcoholic who must quit drinking so he can kill with "clarity." For real, here is a man who genuinely wants to get better so that he can get others dead. I was sold on the concept and excited about the fact that this is Sir Ben's first real crime picture sine the beyond-brilliant “Sexy Beast” (let’s pretend “Lucky Number Sleven” wasn't made) but what surprises me most here is director John Dahl’s ability to sustain the subversive edge of the concept he’s working with. In this story, Kingsley doesn't turn into Mr. Nice Guy so much as Mr. Sober Killer.

Even more impressive is how the tone is non-sentimental —via the central character arc— yet surprisingly tender and emotional in how it treats this man's anxieties. Yes, Kingsley plays a dysfunctional hitman and there is a lot of goofy-fun Elmore Leonard-esq action surrounding a crooked real estate agent played by Bill Pullman and a plotline involving the declining Polish mob (led by Phillip Baker Hall) squiring off against the Irish (Dennis Farina), and while these aspects are serviceable thanks to a smart script by the “Narnia” writing team Christopher Markus Stephen and McFeely as well as all the sharp performances, the film is really about how addiction gets its hold on people and has a way of killing everyone they love. With the drink functioning as a handy metaphor as the great dream killer, Kingsley’s deadpan performance is so much more than a one note comic piece. His scenes in AA with a sponsor played by Luke Wilson could have been broad and slapsticky (especially when Kingsley takes the name Alcoholics Anonymous literally by admitting to the group to being killer) but retain a serious and rather sad undercurrent thanks to Kingsley’s thousand-yard stare that relays feelings of emptiness, menace and yearning.

Also strangely compelling is the female love interest played by actress/producer Tea Leone. In what could have been a traditional heterosexual subplot involving the girlfriend not knowing what her lover does for a living, then finding out, then reuniting after he saves her, etc., Leone’s character is refreshingly atypical in how she approaches her deadly mate. She’s actually okay with what Kingsley does and, if anything, wants to seem him get back to his life’s passion. I loved the lovers montage which juxtaposed romantic walks in the park with knife throwing. Remember that moment in the hitman comedy “Grosse Pointe Blank” when the girlfriend’s father asks John Cusack what he does for a living and he says “I’m a professional killer,” to which the father says “Do you have to do postgraduate work for that?” Well, this film’s surreally casual approach to these monstrous acts is similar, and similarly clever.

Along with the recent “Kiss, Kiss Bang, Bang” and “The Matador,” “You Kill Me” offers up a wonderfully quirky alternative to the tired mainstream crime movie formula. Above all, this film proves two things: That Ben Kingsley is a master thespian no matter how many bad films he’s in and that John Dahl, whose credits include “Red Rock West,” “The Last Seduction” and “Rounders,” is an underrated director. Look, this film is far from perfect, but I give it a lot of credit for avoiding conventions. If there's one thing you can say about this film it's that it sticks to its guns.

    Michael Bay’s done it again. The director I love to hate has shot another endless car chase. But a variation within his oeuvre is the addition of fantasy on top of the usual garbage heap of highly affected pomp. The film stars a hyper teen along with a hyperactive team of mechs that exist to resist aliens from acquiring a hyperbolic death star cube that can create or destroy planets. Being that I just named “Starship Troopers” one of the fifty best American films ever, and did so with a totally straight face, one could peg me as predisposed to enjoying this genre. So why was I so bored? 

     “Transformers” stars Shia LaBeouf, a Wood Allen-in-training middle class teen who falls for a girl (Megan Fox), gets followed by a yellow Ford car commercial (hey everybody, buy a 2008 Camaro) and spends as much time arguing with his parents about household choirs as he does running from giant aliens. These robots have landed and one set seeks to enslave humanity while another seeks to save it. “Megatron must be stopped... no matter the cost!” the lifeless robo-hero Optimus Prime says with as much pizzazz as a android version of Harrison Ford.

     Except for a no-show president who, in his only scene, has a Texas accent and asks a flight attendant to “wrangle me up some ding-dongs” on Air Force One, the secretary of defense phoned in by Jon Voight, a wacky John Turturro as a secret government agent (echoes of Brent Spiner in “Independence Day” can’t be escaped), a team of nerdy computer hackers that are made up of sloppy guys and one unreasonably hot hacker chick, the Ryan Seacrest looking military man Josh Duhamel) and of course the well tanned Megan Fox (looking faker than the CGI robots), all do their part to aid the hero in his hollow quest. What’s odd is how the all characters (except for the soldiers) are more interesting than the plot in the sense that LaBeouf and his comrades provide the only real energy in this film. While the meaningless cube, underused Megatron and one annoying jive talking Transformer vies for power in an disorderly plot that is hurried along in the last hour to the point of incoherence, this is the first time since Bad Boys that Bay’s characters and dialogue is more interesting than his pyrotechnics.

     Despite his artificial (un)intelligence sensibilities, the mechanical Bay ironically cares more about his humans than the alien robots—I attribute this to the fact that he’s completely bankrupt in the imagination department and understands nerdy men into hot chicks and fast cars more than the possibility of extraterrestrial life in the universe. Just imagine for a moment what wonders Guillermo del Toro could have cooked up with this material, then watch how Bay expresses himself through his photo-opp mise en scene. Be it human on human, human on bot, human on dog, bot on bot and bot on dog (“He's leaked lubricant on me”), “Transformers” has more dialogue than a Robert Altman film. While I admire the clever human dialogue and comic situations surrounding LaBeouf’s scene stealing parents (Kevin Dunn and Julie White), the steely veneer of action figure action doesn’t take flight.

     As a fan of science fiction I’m tempted to complain more about Bay neglecting this aspect in his film but the cosmic invaders in question are so dull that I’m actually glad he didn’t. As CGI characters in a live action film the Transformers never fit in with their surroundings. The autobot chases are routine at best and the battles are all sound and noise. What also doesn’t help their assimilation into this film is their distractingly modern vernacular, “What's crackin' little bitches?” one bot screeches in what might be the lamest line of the year. Also, earth saving platitudes coming from Optimus Prime like “Freedom is the right of all sentient beings” never comes across as anything but laughable and out of touch. In fact, I often found myself chuckling as the unintentional awkwardness of these robots as if I was watching that episode of Robot Chicken where a transformer gets prostate cancer.

     While dull and meandering, this is actually a superior Bay film; which means it’s mediocre but “real” movie standards. While a “better” film than average for bay, this might actually make for a worse movie going experience because his past films have been so bad that I’ve at least enjoyed making fun lines like “I don't think I'll ever look at another sunset without thinking of you. I'll love you my whole life” in “Pearl Harbor” or Animal Cracker sex scenes in “Armageddon.” While ripe for the MST3K treatment when it comes to the robots themselves, “Transformers” is more tepid than torpid. The film goes on too long and by the end is reduced to the grinding metal sound of too many empty car chases and scenes and the ongoing irony of military men shoot metal bullets at metal robots.

   Named after a spice, but not as nice, Satoshi Kon’s “Paprika” is the biggest anime head-trip to come our way since the seminal “Akira.” Oh, and it’s also a self aware film noir that finds inspiration from a variety of sources that include the surreal circus attractions of Fellini, the film-as-keyhole philosophy of Christian Metz, the musical dreamscapes of Michelle Gondry, the “what is real” gibberish of “The Matrix” and the spooky techno-noir qualities of “Ghost in the Shell.” All of this, plus a cavalcade of dancing refrigerators, frogs and windup toys marching their way into a symbolic oblivion. Woah, indeed.  

     As dreams collide and eventually spill into reality, the metafictional aspects of the film BECOME the film. At one point a detective trying to hunt down a missing piece of hardware, Blade Runner-style, dreams that he is the star of “The Greatest Show On Earth”/”Roman Holiday” and eventually enters into a movie theater playing the films of director Satoshi Kon. In a warped nutshell, “Paprika” is about the slender psychologist Chiba, the slovenly Tokita and a diminutive Atsuko. The three are scientists performing cutting edge work on psychology and dreams. The preternaturally puffy Tokita has invented something called a DC-Mini that allows a patient’s dream to be analyzed and “fixed,” but the dreams really hit the fan when one of the prototype machines is stolen and a saboteur hacks into the dreams of others, creating a virtual nightmare in the process. After the team’s research assistant goes missing, a detective is brought in to investigate and his obsession with Chiba and her “alter ego”/“dream detective” named Paprika sparks a labyrinthine journey into a very deep and very colorful rabbit hole. 

     Anybody familiar with recent metaphysical movie going experiences such as “The Fountain” or “ Inland Empire ” knows that plot in these instances defy logic, reason and explanation. And anyone into reality bending science fiction stories also knows quite well by now that they should leave aside everyday causalities and expect the unexpected and/or unexplainable. “Science is nothing but a piece of trash next to a pathetic dream” the film’s antagonist --representing the male dominated institution-- tells the group of scientists, illustrating the film’s central preoccupation with the concept that technology literally threatens to take over our lives. Paprika and the faceless villain’s intrusion upon our dreams and unconscious fantasies creates a disturbing mood of disequilibrium that Kon’s exploits. In what could be the film’s motto, the duality of dreams vs. delusions, as caused by technology’s toll on the human consciousness, tear through the fabric of reality and create a world where fiction is able to touch the real. In an ambitious gesture, the audience, in turn, is asked to do vice versa.

     Enigmatic dialogue such as “Are your dreams in panfocus? Have you solved the mystery of why you killed yourself” as spoken by Paprika, the dream detective, to the real Detective in an empty movie theater (of course), reinforce the film’s wobbly reality and keep the viewer on their toes. After the umpteenth time a dreamer in the “Matrix”-like dream machine awakens only to realize once again that this reality is also dream, the film seems to be testing the audience. Those who throw up their hands in confusion may be thinking too hard. The film is actually very simple if you look it as an exploration of the themes mentioned in this review. In fact, the most challenging thing about this film is not so much its esoteric philosophy or jumbled plotlines but the viewer’s ability to stick with it. My only problem is that the film isn’t longer; I would have liked for Kon to spend more time outside of the dream landscapes  and elaborating upon the lucid aspects of the plot such as the male detective and Chiba’s personal lives.

     Visionary and exhilarating in the vein of “Mulholland Drive ” --a similar dream scavenger featuring parallel female protagonists—this film succeeds by avoiding all the pitfalls of a film like “The Cell.” In other words the gimmick of entering dreams becomes a point of departure rather than the entire experience. Directed by the auteur who made “Perfect Blue,” “Tokyo Godfathers” and “Millennium Actress” (he’s anime’s premiere art house filmmaker), “Paprika” is this year’s must-see anime event. It’s also anime’s first ever approximation of “8½!”

   Is there a more beloved action character to people in their twenties than John McClain? I ask as a "Die Hard" nerd who got into endless debates as to weather John could kick “Lethal Weapon” Martin Riggs’ ass in a fight (he totally could by the way) and for the added reason that I’m genuinely wondering because “Live Free or Die Hard” isn’t helping to answer my question. This film is an old school action film with new hardware... and a lot less less hair. As an action vehicle, then, “Live Free or Die Hard” is passable enough warrant a viewing for any fan of the genre; as a “Die Hard” film, however, it fails to live free and up to the gold standard established by the great John McTiernan on the first “Die Hard.” Comparisons to the original aside, the editing is efficient, the look is clean and metallic, the action sequences cruse along at a nice pace considering we're watching an old man dodge fireballs, and the film contains a great use of action physics. John dodges cars, gets hit by them, drives them through buildings and uses them to explode helicopters to great effect. “You just killed a helicopter with your car!” his sidekick observes with slack jawed wonder. “I was out of bullets” John says, cool as ever and sounding like he just stepped out of "The Last Boy Scout."

     The ho-hum plot contains the requisite amount of terrorism, deadlines with an emphasis on the "dead" part, car chases and family members held hostage (they got his daughter played by the impossibly adorable Mary Elizabeth Winstead). All of which is sanitized and watered down for the PG-13 audience and with laughable spots of bloodless kills, abrupt cuts and bad language dubbing that makes the film look like it’s airing on network television on Sunday morning. This film practically screams "Unrated DVD' at us and I find this a bit condescending to adults. Greg, the heavy, is in the hands of the talented Timothy Olyphant but the character harbors motives so thin, arbitrary and questionable that I’m surprised there wasn’t a rewrite of some sort. He’s a fully mobile ex-government employee/on-line terrorist whose cracked some sort of Armageddon code (no mention how, he just keeps saying "algorithms") and now is determined to "drop e-bombs" (he actually says that!), dismantle the nation's economy and have a capitalistic “fire sale” on the 4th of July that causes the infrastructure to implode from within. Not only is this NOT in keeping with the trapped-in-a-building (or airport) “Die Hard” vibe, but this wasn’t even a particularly great premise circa 1995 when it was done in Under Siege 2: Dark Territory and Eric Bogosian played the techno-terrorist. I say, if you're going to do a "Die Hard" movie, DO "Die Hard" not "Die Hard: With a Vengeance" and certainly not "Under Siege." Once again, though, the action is fast and fine; a lack of well-done action is not my problem with this film. Instead, my problem is located directed at the script in moments such as the revelation that Greg’s end-game is to destroy America before “outsiders” are able to. “I’m doing America a favor” he says, gritting his teeth while failing to realize that he’s not doing the film any favors. I mean, Dr. Evil is laughing at how stupid that sounds.

     Shoehorned between the ideologically confused bad guy and the government's #1 ask-no-questions soldier (the equally conservative-leaning Jack Bauer is #2 of course) is Matt Farrell (Justin Long), a counter culture hacker who got himself involved in Greg’s scheme by unknowingly cracking the code for him. Long spends the rest of the film bitching about how he’s not an action hero like John, hanging out with his “Star Wars” friend named “Warlock” (played by the check cashing Kevin Smith), and clinging to John for help, only becoming useful when in front of a computer terminal or standing next to that PC guy and making fun of him. In a language Matt Farrell and Warlock might understand, Justin Long the Jar-Jar Binks of the Die Hard-verse. Zeus he ain’t. As with the annoying Apple ads, Long has an smug air about him that is only made worse by his vapid chattyness but it could have been worse: the producers could have cast the long rumored Justin Timberlake or, egad, the “dude, you’re getting a Dell” guy.

     As for Bruce Willis, his performance is so on-target it's sick. While I feel this is a   bumps the film up a notch in my book. When I saw the ad for this film I feared that it looked like every other bad Bruce Willis action movie to come out since “Die Hard”; if given the option between living (free) or watching “Mercury Rising” or “Armageddon” I'd choose dying hard in a New York minute. While the plot almost is as lame as a “Hostage” or and a “Striking Distance” there, the actor’s appealing reprisal of John is distinct enough to yield great benefits—this is a real character here and when Willis plays John he reminds me of how good he can be! The film finds John as an older and more tired patriot who all but screams the 90s action mantra “I’m getting too old for this s…” as he's getting beaten down during the course of a day. This added handicap only makes him more likable this time around. Bruce Willis and "Die Hard" single-handedly steered the action hero archetype away from buff baboons and towards a more vulnerable every man who would rather crack wise than crack heads. This time around he’s all that but with a touch of arthritis to boot. The many cracks directed at his missing hair, technological ineptitude (I love when he covers a webcam with his hand while assuming that Greg can't hear him), estranged family and the fact that despite all that John has done, he’s still just low paid civil servant, humanize this cop more than ever. John’s unsung feats in the past should qualify the guy for superhero status except he’s been there and done that with “Unbreakable.” In this film, he’s entirely breakable and open to much scrutiny. “Seriously, when was the last time you ever turned on the radio to listen to popular music? 70's, 80's?” Long wonders along with the audience. That’s good stuff and I only wish more time was spent examining this fascinating character’s psychology at this point in his life.

     “Die Hard 4.0” (I’m going to call it that because it’s better than the actual title) is directed by Len Wiseman of "Underworld" fame and I’m going to avoid any harsh sentiments because, as with his other franchise efforts, the filmmaker does what he can to bring a tired script (Mark Bomback... more like bombakstic) to life. Stylistically, Len even takes a similar franchise sequel approach as J.J. Abrams took on the underrated “MI:3” last year. By that I mean both films take a hyper-realistic, shaky-cam verite approach to a franchise that’s past its prime and anything but realistic. The difference is that J.J. has a distinct creative vision beyond getting paid while Len helms this film in a workmanlike formation, favoring meat and potatoes set piece escapism to anything remotely challenging or franchise defining. Which, if you look at the calendar, may not be such a terrible thing after all. 

     The fact of the matter is that this film would not have been made without the “Die Hard” name. On its own, it is too derivative and aimless to warrant such a high profile release and, sidebar: last year’s similarly themed yet non-franchise running-through-the-city action film “Crank” managed to be 100x better while also being 100x smaller. After watching this uninspired but technically proficient film, I was struck with a sense of sadness that the old school action film as I knew it is long gone and as much of a relic at this point as John McClane himself. If McClane's new film can’t jump start things I can’t imagine anyone else can.

   The second Hostel is that rare horror sequel with purpose. It's not bigger and it's not better, it's just more. I consider it a companion piece, in fact, because Roth doesn’t repeat himself, he enhances himself. What made the first film pop with gruesome mystery was the unknown identity of the international killing corporation but what makes up for us knowing what's ahead for the carefree protagonists (this time, girls) is an understanding of the inner workings of this torture industry that treats human life as a commodity that can be bought, sold and slaughtered on the open marketplace. Gone also is a lot of the subtext relating American entitlement abroad but, again, in its place is an equally thought provoking commentary on globalization, the internet and the tendency of free market capitalism to exploit individuals (literally).

    While the horror victims are still the central characters (a skank Bijou Phillips, a stunning Lauren German, and a Weiner Dog Heather Matarazzo; all up to task here), Roth makes a wise decision by focusing his sights almost equally upon the individual killers or “clients” themselves. These newbies to the Eastern Europe torture Disneyland are played by theater actor Roger Bart and Richard Burgi and the duo steal the show (I was especially impressed by the ironic outcome of their entrails exploits). As the two groups approach their inevitable dance with death the film builds am amazing amount of tension and allows the audience to experience and identify with both the killers and unaware victims. Now that we know how and why the torture goes down (we even find out about the guy in charge of the whole shebang-bang), the film lets us watch and wait. As characters joke around, engage in debouched behavior and are condescending with the locals ("is he too Eastern Block?" a blitzed Bijou asks her friend), Roth is also able to make the waiting game playful instead of all-out sadistic (the diminutive gum gang from the first film are back!).

     Roth may not be a genus compared to his mentor and the producer of this film, Quentin Tarantino, but his straightforward style and modest budgets offer a refreshing departure from most American horror franchises. I like how the editing and camera work music is infused European realism. And the regional music and operatic pieces blew me away. But when Roth decides to get ambitious, it has a purpose; for example, there is a stunning montage in which stunningly normal looking men and women from across the world bid on-line for the right to "acquire" these three American characters as the film cross-cuts to the girls who are blissfully unaware that their is a bidding war going on. Roth's devotion to this genre is making him a filmmaker to watch; one of those rare Hollywood-hired directors that, three films in, is still enjoying making b-movies. He’s also the only gorno or "splat pack" director to date that has been able to turn the disturbing visual act of torture into an art form.

     Following the brilliance of “Hot Fuzz” is the cold fizz of “Reno 911: Miami.” This begs a simple question: can cop movie parodies survive in a post-“Hot Fuzz” world? This film sure can’t as it isn’t even super enough to join the “Super Troopers” clan. Instead, it lies somewhere between “Last Action Hero” and “Police Academy: Mission to Moscow.”

     Am I a fan of the Comedy Central show? Of course. Nothing goes down better at 3am then a 20-minute bout of this staccato reality comedy that is set in Reno and contains less plot than an actual episode of “Cops.” Now that they’re playing in the big leagues, however, our Reno PD friends find themselves in plotsville after they are invited to a cop convention in Miami. The crew gets kicked out and after a scuffle with “real” cops only to return to the next day to find that every cop in town has been quarantined in the wake of a “24”-esq biological attack by a "Scarface" posing Paul Rudd. “You’re the only thing standing between complete chaos and order” the Feds tells them, unaware that when the Reno PD are in charge the only thing that keeps chaos in check is their even-worse form of anarchy. From zero plot to ruling over an entire city like some “Grand Theft Auto” overlord, as you can plainly see “Reno 911: Miami” has gone all high concept on us. And this comedic wound turns to be the fatal because the essence of the show is it's documentary realism, not sensationalism.

     Speaking of sensationalism, the film opens with a glossy ode to cop movies that clutters the screen with swirling helicopters, dazzling gunplay, and a slow-mo entrance of the Reno followed by the randomness of Danny De Vito cameo. This moment is quickly followed by Deputy Junior waking up from a dream while behind the wheel. “You know you’re driving, right” Dangle tells the somniferous Junior before his car rams into a porta potty. Okay, punch lines like that (along with whale pushing and alligator slapping) had me laughing big time but what’s not as funny is the film’s constant need to remind us that this is a big feature. The more ambitious, funnier, and accessible this film tries to be the worse it comes off; normally I assume that a great half-hour comedy like “Reno 911” can’t possibly find enough material to fill a feature length but this film can’t even muster up an episode’s worth of laughs! After all, deadpan lines like “We’re in Miami. This city’s got hot Latin flavor up to its nuts” indicate the desperation and utter lack of spontaneity at play. In this respect we’re all better off skipping this dismal feature and just watch more episodes.

DVD Extras
     No less than three commentaries! The first one, however, is the only good one. Director Robert Garant (who plays Deputy Junior) and actor/writer Thomas Lennon and Kerri Kenney take us through the "Reno" process by discussing their “unfettered improv” style along with the pro-nudity/short-shorts notion that “Our general policy on the show is that vanity is the enemy of funny.” Additionally, their scene analysis and on-set stories like “boy, that g-string really did hurt” managed to be more interesting (and funny) than the actual film they are talking about.

     The other two commentaries take a different approach, they’re in-character. No doubt this was inspired by the legendary “This is Spinal Tap” commentary which is the only funny character commentary to date. Improv for a few minutes on screen is one thing but to improve an entire film is never a good idea. Apparently these kinds of commentaries are also the enemy of funny. As are the available extended scenes which, due to the nature of ten actors doing improve, amble way long. Somewhat better are the included set of public service announcements that advise patrons not to shoot in the movie theater (“I’m sure excited about X-Men 3, maybe if it’s super-cool I’ll shoot the screen”) and avoid illegal downloading. This is a bit ironic because actually paying to see this sub par comedy is the worst thing a viewer can do.

     Beneath the alluring smoke screen of F-bombs, F-ing and "I'm going to murderball you!" nerd talk is a rather conservative bourgeois comedy from writer/director Judd Apatow. Far from a counter culture filmmaker on the cutting edge of comedy, Apatow actually makes a case for WASPY soccer moms, kackies and blatant consumerism. Apatow has a brilliant comic mind but his free spirit persona is not as free and it seems. Like The Simpson’s, whose schmaltzy YUPPIE heart often spoils the sinister sense of fun, Apatow makes films “for guys,” as critics and ads love to point out, but he’s really making films for domesticated guys who love shopping as much as the boys from Entourage, who love making money as much a Gordon Gekko and strive to live the typical American life with wives, kids and the whole deal. All of which are death to the comedy that this hot new filmmaker is adapt as introducing us to, but inept at paying off.

     Look, Apatow's film is really funny. Like his 40 Year Old Virgin, the best jokes occur in the first half where the cleverly written and acted male protagonist are living an infantilized --albeit engaging-- life. That alone is enough to mildly recommend the film but as with his first film, Apatow feels the urge to rehabilitate his characters by prying open their mouths and feeding them the white (in both senses of the word) picket fence “American dream” lifestyle. His latest film centers on Ben Stone (Seth Rogen in a star making turn), who lives for the epicurean delights of food, friends, booze and bongs. In other words, the stuff that makes comedies funny. When Ben and his stoner friends sit around discussing celebrity nudity, bong etiquette and how cool it is to see Jews, for once, “kicking ass and taking names... literally taking names” in the “underrated” Munich, I was in heaven because few have a knack for quick yet real banter more than Apatow and his repertoire of actors. Ben has a dream of starting a website that documents female nudity in feature films (he hasn’t heard of Mr. Skin), and eating spaghetti on the cheep. Much like Shrek before he left the swamp (and about a smelly, too), Ben is a jovial sort who has nothing to lose and, ironically, it is this careless disposition that, as the film presses on, is the one trait he does end up loosing. That’s because one day meets a beautiful girl in a bar (Katherine Heigl) and hits it off with her. A dozen or so drinks later and, well, let’s just skip to the nine weeks later part where she’s pregnant. Alison asks Ben if he used a condom and the two engage in a semantics argument that mounts over her bedtime demand “will you just do it” being interpreted literally by Ben. This leads up to the film’s poster that plasters Seth Rogan’s buffoon-like mug with the tagline “what if this guy got you pregnant.” Where that brilliant tagline ends, so does Apatow’s brilliant comedy because the answer to that question is far from inspired because “Knocked Up” lapses into pregnant girlfriend clichés that include morning sickness, mood swings, not wanting to poke "the kid's head" during sex, feeling the baby kick, rushing to the hospital etc. My feeling is that if Hugh Grant couldn't make that funny, nobody can.  

     The supporting cast takes on a war of the sexes vibe that’s also not particularly original. Higel plays the up and coming E! Television personality who, unlike Keener in The 40 Year Old Virgin, is not well defined as a character (or actor). She’s The Female much in the same way that Rachel McAdams was in Wedding Crashers. As Alison spends her time complaining about Rogan’s lazy ways, foot-in-mouth (not to mention weed-in-mouth) tendencies, irresponsible roommates, and lack of money I found myself having a Jennifer Aniston from the Break-Up flashbacks and, folks, that’s not a good thing. As with Crashers, The Break-Up, You, Me and Dupree and you name it, here we have a very funny comedy that is set up so that all the good stuff is condemned by the female character and, by extension, the film itself. Sadly, women in these comedies are designed to be the straight men, er, women who exist to spoil the fun and make men, in Higel’s words, “grow the fuck up!” As is, it feels as if Higel, with Apatow as her proxy, is indicting what I thought was so funny and as someone who relates to the freaks and geeks stuff (pun intended) in Knocked Up more than the normative family values ego trips, I found a lot of this film to be condescending. Is there is some rule out there that requires characters to be “normal” and the social order to be upheld? Normally this sensibility is more or less what I would except from a mainstream American comedy but when a film announces itself as subversive, it takes a bit getting used to.

     The mission statement of Knocked Up and The 40 Year Old Virgin is that real-life situations and relationships are dealt with honestly while also played for R-rated laughs. I’m all for real world solutions fused with broad comedy approaches but the problem comes in when the solution (A) isn’t meant to be funny, and (B) isn’t dramatically compelling. Sorry, but when the answer to that well put tagline is they get to gather, fight, make things work, have their baby and everything turns out great after a “life moves on/I’m getting a job" montage, I’m not sold, I'm irritated.    

     Perhaps, though, I’m underselling this film. It is actually very funny. It has more great stand alone jokes than The 40 Year Old Virgin. As you can probably tell, I loved every scene with Rogen and his roommates. Jason Segel, Jay Baruchel, Jonah Hill (a new and welcome addition to the Apatow family... can't wait for Superbad), Martin Starr (stealing the show with a unabomber beard that "looks like a vagina"), and Charlyne Yi (a stoner chick so delightful in her few scenes that I wish this character could have taken Higel's place) click and compliment Rogen's noncommittal personality perfectly. In addition, Seth Rogan has finally been given a chance to showcase the range that many of us Freaks and Geeks/Undeclared fans knew he had in him. Even the domestic stuff that I disliked so much never really affected my appreciation for Rogen’s deadpan persona. Ben playing fetch with Higel’s nephews is a perfect example of this. 

     Hiegel’s sister is played by Judd Apatow’s own gentile wife, Leslie Mann and her kids are played by Apatow's kids. (rolls eyes). While Mann is quite competent in her role as the aging prize wife, her mood swings and ball busting ways are a total drag on the comedy. Perhaps Apatow is working out some issues but, dude, I'm telling you the same thing I told Mel Gibson: do that on your own time! At least the always-great Paul Rudd has a sizeable part as Hiegel’s successful (and successfully pussy whipped) brother in-law. The couple represents the miserable sit-com family who argue and try to make everyone conform to their life. And even though Rudd is given a lot of interesting stuff to do (I love his bond with Ben and how he represses his misery right before singing "Happy Birthday" to his kid), he and his wife are a little too successful at rehabilitating Ben. Rudd mentions to Seth Rogen that "married life is like Everyone Loves Raymond, except not funny” and this highlights the film’s central misstep. Which is: Everyone Loves Raymond ISN’T FUNNY EITHER! For Apatow, creator of two of the best shows in recent memory, it’s rather sad that a show like Raymond is valued. On this sad note I must end with one last thought. I’m starting to fear that the television creator and feature film screenwriter Judd Apatow (the one that I love) is being fazed out by the preppy version of Judd Apatow (Judd Hollywood?!) that I’m ambivalent about. Reject the dark site, Judd! 

“Fay Grim” is auteur Hal Hartley’s desperate attempt to recapture the success of “Henry Fool” through the guise of a thriller. The film nestles itself comfortably in Hartley’s affected indie-verse while also featuring a strange amalgamation of international intrigue and American pseudo-politics. Similar to last year’s (horrible) Steven Soderbergh “experiment” known —and just as quickly forgotten— as “Bubble,” HDNet films has released “Fay Grim” in theaters and on DVD a week apart. This is an admirable goal, one that may go down in film history books, but I can only hope that one day this pioneering production company will release something we actually want to see in theaters and/or on DVD. In its current state, you could offer me this film for free and I would have to think twice before touching it.

I would be tempted to call “Fay Grim” a straight-to-DVD quality feature but that would do a disservice to all those Steven Segal and Jean Claude Van Damme espionage films out there. As an obtusely written (I’ve always been a critic of Hartley’s dialogue) and directed (instead of blocking Hartley has his characters strike theatrical poses and there are more Dutch angels here than a drunken Terry Gilliam photo rampage) follow-up, this film makes “Henry Fool” look like “Henry Genus.” The BS reality evoked by the larger-than-life Henry in that charming, small town tale comes to life… in a film that couldn’t be more dead.

The film follows “Henry Fool’s” Fay Grim (an overextended Parker Poser, I mean Posey) as Henry’s ex-wife, burned by his mysterious ways but still pining after the slovenly cad. The plot is centered around Henry’s confessional manuscripts from the first film, but instead of an emotional launching point, the pages in Henry’s books are now loaded with McGuffin-y goodness—“Henry is larger than life now, and his confession’s a desperately sought after commodity now. The time to strike is NOW! We have GOT to get our hands on those books!” It has never been a stretch for Hartley to add touches of action and surreal fantasy to his films (the awful “Amateur” and sci-fi comedy “The Girl From Monday” come to mind) and as this “Grim” tale it is certainly no exception. But the film is too proud of its absurd twists, “Third Man”-thrills and sophomoric thesis on international politics to work as anything beyond a bemused exercise in low budget intrigue—“Henry Grim” feels more like a bunch of cocky kids playing espionage dress up in their mom’s bedroom. As characters begin to realize that Fay has been “rubbed into some sort of international espionage” conspiracy where Fool’s “psychological terrorism” is ruining her life, the fact that they must tell us as much gets under my skin. Everything in this film, right down to the plucky violin strings and persistent piano clangs in Hartley’s own musical score (the man ruins everything he touches!) is way to direct for my liking.

Playing an instigating Federal agent, Jeff Goldblum is, at least, somewhat refreshing as he checks in with Fay from time to time to cajole her into tracking the super-secret manuscript and whereabouts of Henry Lime, uh, I mean Fool. Check out the actor’s flippant reaction to a bomb threat to see how Goldblum is able to coast above the fap-happy material with a non-natural style that, somehow, partners up well with Hartley’s even less natural material. The same cannot be said of any other struggling performer in the film. Reprising another major role in Henry Fool, the film also stars an underused James Urbaniak as Simon, Fay’s brother who read the manuscript years ago but never believed its insane flights of fancy… until now! Urbaniak gets nothing from love from me these days due to the fact that he voices Dr. Venture on the Adult Swim show “Venture Brothers” but this film is testing my good will. Urbaniak’s sharp verbal tenses are rendered moot under the manic (and meaningless) plot and unlike the splendidly offbeat rhythms of “Venture,” Hartley has a way of making fast dialogue sound flat and contrived. This may be exactly what Hartley is going for but, so what, there are ways to be artificial and still be compelling (check out “Inland Empire” to see what I mean).

The film is worth a look to “Henry Fool” fans for its daring concept. Unlike that film (the only good one to the man’s name), though, “Fay Grim” burns out in a spectacular display of a director’s near sited indulgences, but at least it gave me the opportunity to watch “Henry Fool” again in a new light. One in which Henry Fool is a visionary rather than some slacker nomad. For that, and that alone, “Fay Grim” is worth seeing. In all other respects —and to paraphrase the great Mr. T— I pity the Fool.

The DVD
Format: Closed-captioned, Color, Dolby, DVD-Video, Subtitled, Widescreen, NTSC
Features
The Making of Fay Grim—Enough insightful interview footage to make this feature better than the actual film. Finally, the people in front of and behind “Fay Grim” are being real with us. As Hartley compares the film to “Henry Fool” and discusses how Fay is the “representative American” who is “unaware of how the world works,” I found myself wishing he could have made a sequel worthy of its bold concept.
Higher Definition: Fay Grim Episode—An episode from the HDNet channel show featuring Hartley and the cast. Not especially insightful if you’ve seen “The Making of Fay Grim” but worth it because we get to hear Hal Hartley call this sequel his “Empire Strikes Back” and compare Posey to Luke Skywalker. HA!
Deleted Scenes—We get two excised micro scenes here. One useless deleted scenes features Fay trying to pray but not knowing how (ha, ha) and the other, well, I saw earlier today but completely forgot so it can’t be that good, right? Being that the film is 118-minutes going on eternity, the only thing worse than two hours of Fay Grim is a version that’s two hours and one minute.

     “Seraphim Falls ” retools the western genre with an art house approach that favors its characters psychology as much as the violence they do to one another. To look at the DVD cover and theatrical poster with Liam Neeson and Pierce Brosnan standing side-by-side in a Western setting of all things is to go "wha?" But that befuddled reaction to the sight of two Irish actors playing American cowboys is exactly where the film grabs you. If you know and adore these actors as I do then you must see this film, of only to catch a glimpse of two grizzled giants chewing as much scenery as tobacco.

As one man tracks another through the snow, wilderness and eventually desert, the film becomes a frontiersmen odyssey full of lush visuals and grim violence. In the early scenes the sparseness, lack of dialogue and snow-covered simplicity gives the film a “McCabe and Mrs. Miller” sheen of coolness (literally) but as the chase continues into a purgatorial fever dream version of the West, “ Seraphim Falls ” takes an almost mythic look into the warring nature of man’s soul. Liam Neeson headlines the film as Civil War colonel who relentlessly follows a man with a mysterious past named Gideon (the fantastic Pierce Brosnan). The weakened, perpetually on-the-run Brosnin is the Western version of Richard Kimble to Neeson’s Tommy Lee Jones. When the two men meet for the first time, Gideon asks the appropriately named Carver a question that’s on everyone’s mind: “Why are you doing this?” The only answer he gets back is a growl that sounds something like “ Seraphimmmm Falls .” Hum. While the film is structured to have the viewer identify with the running man Brosnan, that answer, once uncovered, alters our allegiance and enriches the film with a good deal of substance (though it should be noted that the quick flashbacks to the inciting incident at Seraphim Falls are the film’s weakest moments). At its heart this is a Western revenge film in the vein of “Unforgiven,” “The Proposition,” and perhaps even John Ford’s “The Searchers.” The film’s addition to this impressive Western subgenre is the remarkably surreal tone the film takes in its third act. 

“Nobody can protect nobody in this world” Carver tells a young boy whom he crosses paths with along his blood soaked journey. By the end of this gritty morality tale that lesson is well learned by the boy, yes, but especially the viewer. Television director David Von Ancken (“CSI”) may be new to theatrical films but his enthusiasm for the subtleties that the cinematic form allows for is noticeable, and laudable. From the harshness of barren snow to the blistering barren desert, this is especially true in terms of the many ways the environment functions as a metaphor that mirrors the damaged psychological state of the two characters. No more is this true than in final moments when the two would eventually trade the life sustaining water for the death that is bullets in order to continue their thirst for revenge.

The DVD
An impressive behind the scenes documentary features interviews with the cast and crew. The concept that the two characters are “complicit in their own damnation” and that the “hatred is a form of salvation” is fascinating. As is the idea that water and snow threatens to kill characters at the beginning of the film yet becomes the only thing that will save them at the end (why didn’t I see that myself!). Additionally, we learn that the mystical presence in the desert at the end of the film played by Angelica Huston is revealed to represent the devil for she takes their salvation and replaces it with instruments of death, exposing man as a manifestation of war and death. It’s rare that filmmakers tell you what their symbolism stands for but this Cliff Notes doc may help anyone who didn’t understand this film the first time through. More laid back and technical/antidotal is the commentary by director David Von Ancken, Brosnan and the production designer.

     How stupid do they think we are? Very! For anyone who spent a dime on “Date Movie,” the fact that we came back in such high numbers for “Epic Movie” earlier this year proves that the audience has gotten what they deserved and will probably be rewarded with a sequel even more inane. Expect, say, “Superhero Movie” to hit theaters by early next week.

     In a culture that values the instant nostalgia of VH1’s “Best Week Ever,” the fact that “Epic Movie” cashes in on culturally relevant products and peons (Paris Hilton, Ashton Kutcher, Ryan Seacrest, etc.) is no surprise. What's surprising is what little this film does with the films it’s mocking. One can only imagine the pointed jokes that could spring from the homoerotic subtext of “Pirates of the Caribbean” beyond naming Johnny Depp’s character “Jack Swallows,” or the kid crusader religious-right bent of “Chronicles of Narnia” beyond kicking a character named Harry Beaver, or the awkwardness of “The Da Vinci Code” beyond spotting a dogs-playing-poker painting in the Louvre, or the overexposure of “Borat” beyond, well, nothing because all the film does with the Borat character is have him do exactly what he did in the movie, minus the humor and social insight.

     This film is so bad that it makes me dislike the films it’s halfway parodying. There is a connecting story thread that sees four orphans who each, I don’t know, find their way into different film worlds and must reunite by the end to save Narnia. Scenes in the splintering sections include “X-Men 3’s” Wolverine giving the mutant protagonist (whose power is sprouting chicken wings) the middle finger with his metal claw—try to forget the fact that this scene is spoofing something the real Wolverine did in the first “X-men.” Then a girl enters into Narnia but sees that’s its called Gnarnia instead. “Is it a silent G like in ‘gnome’?” she asks the goat legged creature. “No, it’s for legal purposes” the faun says. If you think that non-joke is funny than you may love how Crispin Glover, as Willy Wonca, makes sour Lemonheads out of… real heads! Another bit sees the White Witch from “Narnia,” known here as the White Bitch, who comes up with a plan to create her own island out of Kryptonite. “Yo, Bitch” her henchmen says, “that’s basically the plot of ‘Superman Returns’.” Uh huh.

     Are these even jokes? And for that matter, are the films being parodied even epics? No, but does any of this matter? This film could have been titled “Movie Movie” and it would have made just as much sense and, in turn, made just as much money. “Epic Movie” runs on the fumes of an autopilot parody that knows that just by referencing a topical film like “Borat” people will laugh. Not from the comic premise being genuinely well though out, mind you, but, rather, out of the audience simply recognizing the reference. In this respect watching the “Epic Movie” DVD feels like being test monkey in some insane experiment where we’re being flashed cue cards and expected to react to the images we recognize. Except, unlike the lab monkey, there are no treats in it for us.

     “Epic Movie” is written and directed by Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer who, if you don’t know them, are the co-writers of all bad parodies in the last decade starting with “Spy Hard” and working their way up to the Scary Movie franchise. The DVD cover quips that the duo constitutes "2 of the 6 writers of ‘Scary Movie 4’" and it’s fitting that the funniest line in the entire film is literally featured OUTSIDE the film! That “Epic Movie” adds up to only one-third of already-bad “Scary Movie 4” means that the two have made a comedy so bad that I almost wish they’d focus their talents on “Scary Movie 5.” The two are so bad at their game that a user on the IMDB message boards even pleads for the filmmakers death “ASAP.” Beyond that, what’s left to say about a film in the IMDB’s bottom fifty? How about, it should be even lower.

The DVD
Unrated Status: Well, unlike most Unrated DVD comedies the good news is that this one actually has nudity. When opening the Narnia closet door, a naked woman runs across the screen for absolutely no reason. It not funny and makes zero sense but, hey, it’s nudity. Apart from those splendid .03 seconds, the Unrated Version is worse for the simple reason that it’s seven minutes longer than the theatrical.

Special Features: In the commentary (one of the worst I’ve ever heard) filmmakers Jason Friedberg and Aaron Seltzer try so hard to be funny, and for so long, that the commentary retains an almost surreal mood. Is it possible for two well-paid comic screenwriters to try to be funny for 90-minutes without ever actually saying something funny? Yes. And not once do the two actually talk about their experience in writing, directing or producing a topical parody film. Instead, the filmmakers are desperately in search for cleverness with a stream of stuttering faux insights like “We later found out that Bryan Singer used the same technology that we pioneered for many of the sequences in ‘Superman Returns’ even he had already film them.” The two go on and on and on about, for instance, how everything in the film is CGI, or stop-motion, or animated via “jumbo crayons,” or how they filmed “Epic Movie” in zero gravity, or how all the actors are aliens, etc. After hearing this commentary I had to listened to Trey Parker and Matt Stone’s genuinely funny insights on the “South Park” and “Cannibal: The Musical” commentary just to cleanse myself.

Other features include a separate commentary track titled "Breaking Wind: An Epic Journey Into the Sounds of an Epic Movie" which randomly layers farts and belches over the farts and belches of the film proper. The feature "How Gratuitous" gives supplementary footage of the women in the film. While you watch the film all you have to do is click the Harry Beaver character when he pops up at various points. When I tried this during unrated version nude scene, my “bonus” was a slow motion clip of the same actress running around… WITH CLOTHES ON! There’s also useless interview/montage featurettes "Hot or Not: Character Turn Ons and Turn Offs", "Everyone Loves Beaver: Epic Hook-Ups", "Epic Porn – What Would Your Porno Movie Be Called?" (a feature where the actors in the movie are asked to name their own porno: “Lucy Under the Rainbow… With a Beaver, hehehe” one actress names hers—ug), "What Makes Aslo So Irresistable?" (nothing, apparently), and a short, homemade porn looking film selected from some sort of internet contest where two guys wrestle in their bedroom in what is intended to be a “Nacho Libre” send up. And, finally, there’s an alternate ending featuring Crispin Glover and outtakes that are better than the actual film because at least you get a sense that someone involved in this movie (other than the viewer) was having fun.

     For a review to go anywhere near "Waitress" it is mandatory to address one particularly depressing background detail. The film's director, writer and actress Adrienne Shelly was murdered in her New York dwelling before her film was released. That kind of puts a damper on the whole romantic comedy angle but, honestly, no more of a damper than the film imposes on itself. Due to the guilt factor, however, expect Shelly’s last film to be critic proof. Still, tragedy or not, someone's got to stand up to this film’s reign of schmaltz and… … eck, well, I might as well give it a shot but I can tell you right now that I’m not going to feel good about it.

     As a writer, Shelly has, or, had (this is so depressing), a penchant for cute sounding dialogue that overflows with a catchy verve but signifies absolutely nothing. "Waitress" is a mawkish southern fable about an unhappily married small town pie chef, Jenna, who is fearful that she is pregnant. When Jenna cringes at the mere thought of being knocked up by her loathsome husband (Jeremy Sisto), the emphatic Doctor played by Nathan Fillion detects her unease and says “Uncongradlations, you’re definitely having a baby.” She rolls her eyes, all expressive like, and says “Unthankyou.” The film is positively coated with these sing-songy verbal rhythms and I image Shelly cultivated this irritating, "Girlmore Girls"-speak cadence from Hal Hartley, king of contrived indie banter and false characters. I would go on about the writing if it weren’t for the fact that Shelly’s directing is even more busted than the script; the film’s overly vibrant but hollow scenes are reserved for expository, situational comedy purposes or glossy pie baking montages. In this respect "Waitress" isn’t a film so much as it is a presentation of comfort food vis-à-vis comforting femmes.

     An artless version of "Me and You and Everyone We Know", "Waitress" stars Felicity, er, I mean Kerry Russell as the “pie genus,” a woman whose uncanny superpower is that she can whip up a pie to suit any situation or mood. For instance, one day she makes an “I hate my husband pie” (… crickets). Day after ordinary day the affable-enough Jenna dazzles small town patrons (including Andy Griffith) wither her culinary creativity. The point being that this food muse brings untold pleasure to others while never receiving any herself. So when the chef finds her own oven full of baby batter (ew), this sparks the realization that she hates her life (which is funny because I did too, and way before she figured it out) and is in bad need of some “kick in the pants pie.” That’s not a joke, she actually makes that pie and it consists of pickles and stuff. The remainder of the film deals with Jenna as she copes with an unwanted baby on the inside and two adult babies (one, the bad boy father of her child and the other a clumsy big city savior with a sense of humor), vying for her love on the outside. Her attraction with the new Doc in town is of course a romantic movie contrivance but it does provide the film with some credibility. Because this character is played by Fillion ("Firefly," "Serenity," "Slither"), my Joss Whedon fanboy membership requires me to say something positive so here I go: Fillion plays likable character that breaths life into a stale story. I found the Doctor’s nervous energy and chemistry with Russell to be the only organic thing in this otherwise preservative filled film. But even here "Waitress" falters by distracting us with the extraneous plot detail that the Doctor also has a spouse, and one that he’s quite happy with.

     Much like the film’s own unhappily married Jenna, "Waitress" becomes a prisoner of plot and character. While the Doctor/ patient flirtation has a fair amount of charm going for it, the rest of the film feels flat as it lapses all too easily into sitcom mode and, even worse, Lifetime Original Movie territory. First off, Jenna’s chatty diner friends played by Cheryl Hines and the film’s writer/director Shelly live in perpetual stock character mode where best friends exit to be The Best Friend; i.e. characters who come in at the right moment, comfort the protagonist in the ladies room, crack a few sex jokes, and punctuate scenes with big ol’ group hugs. This is ironic considering the fact that the actual sitcom Hines stars in, "Curb Your Enthusiasm", has more energy and innovation than anything to be seen here.

     Even more distracting than her annoying gal-pals is the presence of Earl, Jenna’s husband played by "Six Feet Under’s" Sisto. Earl… even his name is wrought with distain. This character is not just the wrong guy for Jenna, but apparently the wrong guy for the film. As he yells, throws dishes, honks his car horn incessantly, takes his wife’s hard earned tips and cries like an insecure baby, Earl rings false to a point where he drags this harmless (if dopy) romantic comedy into the depths of a glum drama whenever he’s on screen. Earl is a man who abuses his pregnant wife on a regular basis for the only reason that the film doesn’t know what else to do with him (he can’t be nice after all). When Jenna tries to enter a pie baking contest behind Earl’s back, he slugs her. Earl goes as far as to verbally assault his wife as she’s GIVING BIRTH! In what world did this comic book villain come from and what the hell is he doing in this movie? Oh, but, you see Jenna stays with the monster because he drops lines like “I don’t know what I would do you ever left me” with all the finesse of Travis Bickle.

     When not engaging in trite sentiments and painful dialogue, "Waitress", I guess, is innocuous enough. I don’t dislike this film as much as I’m just not interested in anything it has to say, which, as it turns out, isn’t much. Jenna may be a one-of-a-kind vanilla-flavored wunderkind but beyond this character trait, we’ve seen her kind in a number of different, or, rather, similar films. Take "Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore", add some of the yearning of "The Good Girl", a pinch of deep Southern "Steel Magnolias" bad accents and, finally, a few "Home Fries" for the road home and, voilà, you have an instant-indie formula sure to please anyone into this kind of movie. And by looking at the poster that consists of pastel plaid tabletops, inviting pies of the non-American Pie variety and ear-to-ear smiles, you’ll know instantly if this is your kind of film—except, if it is, don’t say I didn’t warn you about the “I don’t want Earl to kill me pie” subplot. So consider this syrupy yarn the filmic equivalent to an empty calorie dessert that will go down easily for some but will probably make the rest of us sick from all the artificial sweetening.

     As outspoken as I was against Spider-Man 2 I have maintained that Spider-Man 3 will be the best of the series if only because it couldn’t possibly get worse. All the existential, what-does-it-all-mean relationship/work/saving/sitting/sniffling angst of films past, all the moping and dating and delivering pizzas, all in the past and, most notably, all leading up to a more mature, more empowered and confident superhero that doesn’t need to question why he’s Spider-Man but, rather, what he’s going to now that he is Spider-Man. By allowing his id to takeover, Spider-Man finally gets to have some fun with his powers. My god, real fun! And for most of the ride, so was I. The Faustian allure of the dark symbiote substance (also known as The Toby McGuire Personality Enhancer, or TTMPE) --a welcome new Spiderman arc-- represents the first real step forward in the series because it gives Spider-Man a shot at being proactive for once in his dreary, work-a-day life. Sure this Black Power movement comes come with a price (this is Spider-Man after all so how could it not?) but it also comes with enjoyment.

     The story deals with a black sludge entity that comes from outer space (oooookay) and attaches itself to Peter Parker, making him a real (fun) ass-hole in the process. Parallel to this is a botched series of wedding proposals to Parker’s longtime love, a continued rivalry with Harry Osborn and the Venom/Sandman’s origin stories. The cast, as usual, I’m meh about. Toby Maguire is usually so passive and laconic as Peter Parker that his portrayal usually lands somewhere between Bressonian blank slate acting and Razzie worthy detachment. Not this time though thanks to the TTMPE. Then there’s Kirsten Dunst as the resident girlfriend. A vortex of fun, this character comes close to eviscerating Parker’s confidence in an attempt to make herself feel better. Spider-Man is finally trying to gets his balls back and Mary Jane’s “This isn’t about you, it’s about ME” pettiness is spectacularly annoying. This sense of sidekick entitlement, by the way, is what ruined Superman Returns but, luckily, unlike Clark Kent, Peter Parker doesn’t listen. And when Parker (or, at least, his new suit) slugs MJ after making sexy time with his peppy lab partner (Bryce Dallas Howard in yet another amateurish performance), the theater erupted with laughter. Okay, it wasn’t the whole theater it was just the section of the theater that I was in--more specifically, the seat I was in. Whereas impotence relating to dating and loss of power issues crippled this character in the impossibly overrated Spider-Man 2, Parker just lets it all go over his head this time around by smirking, wearing his boyish hair down and saying things like “they love me” and “I guess I’ve become something of an icon” even before acquiring his suit. 

     Speaking of icons, along with Parker’s inflated ego the film also tends to preen about. This comes in the form of numerous shout-outs to previous Spidey films and a general vibe of self-awareness. “Where do all these guys come?” from Parker says, wondering about the unusually high number of villains in this film (he’s not the only one). Also front and center is the mocking of Spider-Man and MJ’s first kiss, closure on my theory that MJ was a really bad theater actress in the second Spider-Man, Peter Parker making fun of the clumsy self serving patriotism of first film by saying he grabbed a photo moment while “climbing up a flagpole,” another great Bruce Campbell cameo and my personal favorite, the return of Cake Girl. Her scene, consisting of feeding Parker oatmeal cookies (“with nuts!”), is a gem.  

     On to the villains of the piece. Seems like this franchise is in danger of falling into the same death trap that the Batman films did. The presence of three villains clutters the narrative but this actually works in favor of the film. How is this possible? Simple: more bad guys on screen equals less time we have to spend with Parker’s domestic toils. It’s such a truism that the only good thing about Spider-Man 2 was Doc Oct and while Green Goblin Jr., Sandman and Venom don’t possesses the gravitas of one Alfred Molina, they do add up to a strange but somehow compelling tri-fecta—one after another’s obsessive pursuit of Spider-Man led me to question if this was an action movie or a gang bang.

     The weakest link here is Sandman (a stiff Thomas Haden Church) who is too malleable (pun intended) for my liking. After failing to thoroughly explain HOW or WHY Flint Marco became Sandman in the first place, the film makes matters worse by attempting to get to know Marko’s sensitive side, what with the sick kid at home, mortgage payments and the killing of Parker’s uncle (yada, yada). This amounts to less time spent on the two more potentially interesting characters.

     Call me out of touch but I found James Franco as Goblin Jr. to be quite good (…in a bad sort of way). Early on Harry Osborn (James Franco) undergoes major head trauma after a particularly rough nighttime romp with Spider-Man (he, he) and he spends the rest of the time in a blessed out state of short-term-memory-loss dumbness. I loved Harry’s empty smirks, random giggling, and rousing third act actions. When a waitress ask Harry how his pie is, he croons “it’s goooood” with a stoner’s delight. And as for Venom, hum, I’m not quite sure how I feel about him in this movie. Venom has always been an interesting foe the sense that he represents Parker’s Lacianian shadow-self, an inverted symbol of a superhero. But this most interesting of villains feels a bit tacked on. A villain unto its self, however, the black TTMPE symbiote suit is entirely successful and represents the kind of Spider-Man I want to see when I go to a Spider-Man film. It makes the Spider a Man of action, enjoyment and aggression over the usual gambit of cuddling, wining and mumbling. And when Spidey ultimately sheds the suit by tearing it off and inadvertently passing it on to his newspaper rival Eddie Brock (a miscast Topher Grace), the film looses its bite which is ironic because all Venom does in this movie is bite.

     Sam Raimi directs this third Spider-Man with as much sloppiness as arrogance. It’s like he’s figured out the formula and is coasting on its success. The odd thing is that Raimi’s laidback, haphazard, self-referential approach kept things interesting for me. With the formula in place, Raimi didn’t even bother to hire a screenwriter like Michael Chabon to add dimension (and thank god for that because pretences of “dimension” ruined the first two films), he wrote the damn thing himself along with brother/Darkman screenwriter Ivan Raimi. I have a feeling that this is as good as a Raimi Spider-Man film can get and while suited wonder has finally directed himself a decent Spider-Man picture I can only hope that if there is to be a fourth film --and you know there will—Lara Ziskin and co. will shake things up by finding a new director (David Fincher was attached before Raimi and should re-attach as quickly as a symbiote suit) and maybe even a new Peter Parker and MJ. I say this half out of my dislike for the franchise and half out of my surprised enjoyment of the third film.

     In short, I like Spider-Man 3 precisely because it doesn’t try as hard as the first two. Spider-Man 3 is not trying to tell a good story or even a profound one; it is simply (…and for once…) trying only to be an enjoyable Spider-Man movie. That’s all I ever wanted.