WinterMaiden

Small spoiler: a quotation from near the end of the film.

I first saw this film when I was about 12, on a late-night movie series, a year or two after it came out. Years later I got a chance to record it, and I cling to the fading video tape and will do so until someone brings it out on DVD. I loved it then; I love it when I watched it again tonight. It is one of my half-dozen favorite films ever.

Note that I don't say one of the best films ever. It's not in that class, despite the talent in front of the camera (Michael Jayston, Mia Farrow, Topol) and behind it (Peter Shaffer, Carol Reed, John Barry). To boost it too high is to risk disappointing the viewers who eventually find their way to this film, because it isn't a masterpiece. And, as a few naysayers have said, it IS predictable. (Or, at least, it can only go in one of a very limited number of directions.) But it is sensitive, charming, literate, well-acted, and beautiful to look at. It is a celebration of taking joy in life's small moments. And, I might add, a celebration of free-spirits that doesn't try to make us admire labored wackiness. For what it is--slight, conventional in structure, a typical one-act play--it is a beautiful little character piece.

The joys of this film are threefold: It is a valentine to pre-punk London, with gorgeous photography helped along by John Barry's lovely (if repetitive) music. The dialog, from Peter Shaffer's one-act play, is both witty and poignant. Why not have a movie that is mostly talk, if the talk is this good? And the actors doing that talking are up to the challenge. Even Michael Jayston is good, although something of a weak link because he is the sole element of the movie somewhat lacking in charm. (He has a mouth like the slit in a letter-box.) Mia Farrow is luminous: skinny and odd, sure, but definitely a "glorious girl," bright, dreamy, and sensitive.

But the movie is really Topol's. Looking a bit like Ringo Starr, his Anglo-Greek Julian Christopherou is at first glance, as Farrow's character describes him, "a goofy little man in a white raincoat." By the end of the movie he has revealed so many facets to himself that many women will think him a model of romance. I would run away with him in an instant.

I'm 50 years old, and since I was 12 I have been influenced in my view of life by a passage of dialog near the end of this movie: "Beware: there is no sin in the world more unpardonable than denying you were pleased when pleasure touched you. . . I gave you joy. Not eternal joy or even joy for a month. But immediate particular bright little minutes of joy--which is all we ever get or should expect." And that's exactly what this movie gives: immediate particular bright little minutes of joy.

There is little of praise I can add to what others have said. I would like to address the comments of those who don't like the film because they find Louise unworthy of their admiration or sympathy. (There are two threads on the board that raise the same objection, and one quotes a review that calls her a "dick.")

Do you feel sympathy for Humbert Humbert? Or for Emma Bovary? Or for Anna Karenina? Or for the Vicomte de Valmont?

People are certainly free not to like the directing style of Max Ophuls or the performance styles of his actors. But in the negative reactions to this film, and especially to the character of Louise, I detect a strong whiff of anachronistic response, and an inability to see the film in the context of its time and place, not to mention the characters in the context of their society. It also seems to me that many people have a sort of high school notion that you have to find a character admirable in order to feel sorry for her. Or, for that matter, that you have to feel sympathy for a character in order to be moved by her story.

The irony of "Madame de. . ." is that it turns out that the character with the deepest and most constant emotions is the General, who has concealed the depth of his feelings for Louise because it is not the fashion to be in love with one's own wife. He follows the rules; he has mistresses; he doesn't mind Louise's lovers too much as long she too follows the rules. He can't handle it when she strays outside the lines, and it is HIS behavior, not hers, that finally ruins them all.

The art of "Madame de..." is that the lush setting and sense of a society that lives on ersatz emotion prepares us to be caught up in the ecstasy of Louise's immolation as the emotions become real. That doesn't mean that the Baron is really the Romeo to her Juliet, or that (artistically speaking) he needs to be. In her review of "The Story of Adèle H.," Pauline Kael comments on what a pathetically inadequate object of obsession Lt. Pinson constitutes. Indeed, late in the film, when Adèle passes him on the street, she doesn't even notice him. The Baron is also a rather bland love object, and it is true that we have little sense of how far their affair has progressed, or if he would even want Louise to leave her husband for him. (That is not, after all, how the game is played.) In the Garbo "Camille," Robert Taylor's Armand is utterly unworthy of her, and I've never seen a version of "Anna Karenina" where the Vronsky seemed worth ruining oneself over--or who, for that matter, really seemed to WANT Anna to leave her husband for him.

Louise's tragedy is that her understanding of the game, of which she is a typically petty and only somewhat skilled player (she has, after all, already skirted the edge of ruin by falling deeply into debt), does not prepare her for actual love. Once there she tries to behave well, but events spiral out of the control of all the characters once they are outside of the predictable game. We don't even have to see a redemption in the completeness with which she gives herself up to her love, or her making herself ill over it; her behavior is by and large selfish and unconcerned with the feelings of anyone other than herself. If not a redemption she does have a kind of saving grace: she doesn't ask for pity or understanding (although she does ask for forgiveness), and she does achieve a kind of understanding of herself when she admits near the end that she is hopelessly vain.

What makes "Madame de. . ." a great film, though, is how we see the General, Louise, and even the bland Baron become human as they step outside the rules of the game, and the way in which the art of Ophuls prepares us for the exaltation of Louise's destruction. You don't have to pity her to be moved by the emotion of it. You may even find a dreadful comedy in it, as one does with Humbert. Humbert knows how unworthy he is as a figure of tragedy; Valmont realizes with a bitter sense of irony that he has destroyed himself with his own clever pettiness. Louise lacks those levels of insight, as well as their degree of villainy, but her lack of credentials to be a great heroine is itself moving. At the end, when she finally destroys herself, it seems to be, at last, in her first more-or-less-selfless gesture-- ambiguous, though, as everything in Ophuls is.

Perhaps Renoir (the allusion to him above being deliberate) could have made these characters more sympathetic, or made us feel more tenderness for unsympathetic characters. (Renoir could make us feel tenderness for a rock.) But Ophuls is not as purely focused on the human heart as Renoir; he always sees the absurd social animal, as well. I think it is more appropriate with Ophuls to have that distancing, as we have when we read "Madame Bovary."

Well, holy moly, people, what do you expect? It's Erskine Caldwell. For those of you who know only the greatest hits from the literature of the 1920s to the 1960s, Caldwell's books "Tobacco Road" and "God's Little Acre" put white trash misbehavior on the map and helped determine the way Yankees saw white Southerners: depraved, ignorant, and crazy, and the stereotypes haven't necessarily changed.

I enjoyed seeing Gail O'Grady and Jennifer Morrison hamming it up as just the sort of depraved, ignorant, and crazy Southerners you expect from Hollywood. I didn't see the movie from the beginning, and can only assume from the bluesy chords on the soundtrack that the movie is set in the Delta, although that's not really Caldwell country. But, of course, where this sort of movie is considered, I wouldn't be surprised to see hillbillies, Cajuns, and the Florida Everglades all in the same film.

As for the portrayal of Christians-- Every character and character type in the movie was so broadly drawn that it was tempting to see it as tongue-in-cheek parody. Definitely a movie that is so bad it's fun.

Yes, the South is different. But isn't it sad that the song "Sweet Home Alabama," which was written in the first place to object to sweeping generalizations about demon-Southerners (all Southerners being white, of course, in this anti-Southern view) is now gracing a movie that cozies right up to Southern stereotypes? (And for those objecting to the sentiments of the song, perhaps you should learn a little bit more about Lynyrd Skynard and Neil Young, and what that song actually said about their attitudes--and how Young responded. What Skynard meant by the song and how SOME of their audience have interpreted it over the years are two different things, just like Springsteen's "Born in the USA" has been used for political purposes that are the opposite of the song's sentiments.)

For people who think every white Southerner's favorite evening wear is a white sheet with burning cross as accessory, they can gloat over the stupid hicks in this film. For people who want to fantasize that we can still live in Mayberry, they can groove on how pretty it all is. (Mostly.) People see what they expect to see. (Except black folks, who'd better not expect to see black folks living in the Alabama of THIS movie.) Reese Witherspoon herself, a well-bred Episcopalian débutante from Nashville, is a negation of Southern stereotypes, and an example of the Southerners we never see as characters in movies.

Meanwhile the movie itself is so innocuous that it dissolves while you're watching it. I've been sitting through the unending USA Network commercials for their showing of the flick, and getting the impression that the only reason they're showing it is to piggyback on the popularity of Dr. McDreamy.

I suppose there are worse ways to spend an evening. But don't imagine that you're seeing anything to do with the actual South. Or actual human beings.

One of my favorite movies, "The Winslow Boy" is a perfect showcase for the talents of that great doomed actor, Robert Donat. The actor's lovely melancholy and the character's passion shine through the glacial composure of the upper class barrister, and Donat is beautifully matched by Margaret Leighton. Recognizing in each other their own integrity and passion for the point of social justice involved in the case, Donat and Leighton ever so delicately find their way to an unspoken understanding. It is the British banked-fires school at its best, spoiled in the 1999 version by Rebecca Pidgeon's snotty performance.

Here, though, as good as Leighton and Cedric Hardwicke are, the star is clearly Robert Donat, bringing his own exhausted pallor and haunting voice to a number of impassioned speeches and deliciously witty one-liners.

SOME SPOILERS: As some other reviewers have commented, this movie is like grand opera. That does not bother me at all--it is what I expect from Bollywood musicals of the grand, traditional type. (Better grand opera than fifth-rate-MTV cheeze.) I also wasn't especially bothered by some of the implausibility of the plot: I did think SRK's Veer was a bit too doddering for a man who is theoretically only in his early fifties, 22 years in prison or not. On the other hand, it didn't bother me that Saamiya knew his name. He had given his interrogators his name before he decided on silence, and presumably that name was in his files.

What some might consider a major, major flaw (or at least deeply disappointing) is the basic premise. After Veer sacrifices himself to save Zaara's honor, she throws her honor away. What is Veer's sacrifice for, if she doesn't marry and have children, if her family is destroyed anyway? But--whether intentional or not--this is what makes the movie interesting to me, because the pointless sacrifice is mutual.

"Veer-Zaara" is like a Bollywood version of the old O. Henry story, "The Gift of the Magi," which focuses on a young married couple who are very much in love. They are poor, and have only two possessions of value: she has her long, lovely hair and he has a beautiful pocket watch. Each wishes to surprise the other with a Christmas present that will reflect the depth of their love for one another. So what do they do? She sells her lovely hair to buy him a chain for his watch, and he sells his watch to buy her an ornamental comb for her hair. The mutual sacrifices cancel each other out, and are meant to ironically underline the over-the-top foolishness of their love for each other.

How much more pointless is it that Veer sacrifices 22 years of his life to save the honor of Zaara and her family, while Zaara sacrifices her honor and family in order to live Veer's life? I think the pointlessness of the sacrifice (that they cancel each other out) is deliberate, though, because we see it through the eyes of Saamiya, who says, "What century do these people live in? Are they human beings pretending to be gods or gods disguised as human beings?" It is up to each viewer to decide whether the sacrifices of Veer and Zaara are noble and romantic, or foolishly romantic.

The only problem I have with the basic premise is that Veer's choice is presented as either/or: Either he explains what he is really doing in Lahore and ruins Zaara, or he sacrifices himself. But what if he had said that Zaara's mother had sent for him, because she wanted to meet the man who had saved her daughter's life? Ideally, the screenplay would have allowed for such a choice, and found a way to close the door on it. This was not a great flaw for me, though, because Veer is not behaving like an intelligent young man capable of outwitting his captors. He has, after all, come to Pakistan in a state of mind where he is ready and willing, and even eager, to immolate himself on the altar of love.

The movie itself is beautifully filmed. There isn't much going on apart from the love story, but sometimes a grand over-the-top romance is worth watching. I did not find SRK embarrassing, as I sometimes did in "Kal Ho Naa Ho." He was very good, as was Zinta as a slightly spoiled girl who begins showing her actual determination and nobility of spirit and as soon as she is tested by her nanny's death. And I found all the cast up to their roles, especially Rani Mukherji. I didn't even know, when I first saw the film, that Amitabh Bachchan and Hema Malini were going to be in it. How delighted I was when I saw that they were! And how cleverly their roles in the film were designed: they are living the happy ending that Veer and Zaara will step into after they return to the village.

It makes me sad when I watch a Bollyshow on TV, and the presenters say that "Swades" was a dud--at least at the box office. What do audiences want from Shah Rukh Khan? Bollywood fans criticize him for being over the top and hammy, and then stay away in droves when he gives the sort of beautifully nuanced, introspective, and quietly impassioned performance that he delivers in "Swades".

"Swades" is the sort of film that Jean Renoir, perhaps the greatest filmmaker of all time, would make if he were alive and making Bollywood films. Ditto Satyajit Ray. It gives us village India as seen from the outside by a thoroughly Americanized ex-patriot, a young man who is at first scared to drink the water and condescending towards the "little" lives and foolish ambitions of the locals. Gradually, of course, he is drawn into their problems, and rediscovers his identity as an Indian. What is most graceful (and Renoir-like) about this film, is that we are allowed to laugh at both young Mohan and the unsophisticated villagers, even as we grow to know and love them. That kind of tenderness and humanity, something that transcends notions of political correctness and national identity, is very rare in movies from any country.

I could have done without the love story--as I could also have done without the love triangle in "Lagaan". Love interest seems to be a requirement in Bollywood, though (as it used to be in Hollywood, which once put a woman in "Moby Dick"!), and I can live with it. "Swades" is such a quiet, introspective sort of film, and so realistic, that I also was a bit jarred when the musical numbers came bouncing in. On repeated viewings, however, the numbers serve the film well, and they are in themselves quite beautiful.

"Swades" is a film to treasure, and I certainly hope that no one involved (especially SRK) regards it as a failure.

Anyone who loves blues and Dixieland would want to check out this film for the music alone. Seeing Billie Holliday and Louis Armstrong on the screen together must have made it worth the price of admission for audiences at the time. Reviewers are right that most of the acting is on the bland side, and there's a weird time warp with musicians playing their 30-years-younger selves. (It's like Paul McCartney in 1998 playing himself during his Beatles days.) But the film has a surprising amount of atmosphere, and some enjoyable surprises: There are no villains, for one thing-- All of the characters are surprisingly likable. For another, all of the women are strong-willed decisive characters who know what they want--even the cuddly blonde who plays the female lead. Considering the era, when Rosie the Riveter was relentlessly being herded back to hearth and home and told to be a good little housewife, and when almost the only strong female characters in American films were the evil seductresses of film noir, it's nice to see a nice girl who has a career, makes her own choices, and makes the first move when she's interested in a man. Also, while it may be sad to see Billie Holliday in a maid's uniform, it's good to be able to see her at all, and it's very good that those white characters attracted to Dixieland treat the black characters with respect. I also liked the scene where the heroine sang a Dixieland encore at a classical concert. Some of the audience walked out, and some stayed to enjoy and applaud--a realistic and unshowy way to stage the scene.

But it's the music, of course, that you'll remember from this film. There are some great numbers, and they are given their full (deserved( attention, without silly distractions.

Like many others I found this version not merely bland, but nearly unwatchable. The original film version certainly had its flaws, but this version made me appreciate it still more: the original avoids lousing up the musical numbers, avoids being sugary-silly, and avoids taking its own nostalgia too seriously.

Harold Hill, older brother to Elmer Gantry, is a classic American character, and Robert Preston's performance is one of the great musical comedy performances of the twentieth century. He put his own stamp on the role, but that doesn't mean that no one else can play it. Anyone who has ever seen Matthew Broderick in "Ladyhawk" knows how brilliant he could have been as Harold Hill, completely reconceiving it and putting his own stamp on it. But he seems to still be staggering under his load of Leo Bloom angst from "The Producers", and gives one of the most depressed and joyless performances I've ever seen in a musical. No, he could never have done it with the macho grace and gleeful energy that Preston brought to it, but he could have given the role his own sweet slippery charm. As it is, Broderick just really doesn't bring anything to the party, and with a missing-in-action Harold Hill, this "Music Man" is dead on the screen and hardly anything else that happens matters.

Initially I had a mixed reaction to Kristin Chenoweth as Marian, and she made me appreciate Shirley Jones's storybook beauty, warmth, strength, and simplicity all the more. It also bothered me at first that Mrs. Paroo (the delightful Debra Monk) was sexier than Miss Paroo. But Chenoweth is always in there pitching, and has an engaging personality of her own, giving Marian a kind of loopy idealism. Victor Garber, whom I seem to recall has played Harold Hill very successfully on stage, is a bizarrely sinister mayor, and watching Molly Shannon as the mayor's wife, one would never guess that she is a gifted and assured comedian. Paul Ford and Hermione Gingold brought their own comic eccentricity to these roles in the earlier film, and Gingold especially (who played Mrs. Shinn as a gargoyle lady-bountiful) is especially hard to replace. I agree with the reviewer who thought Dan Aykroyd would have made a good mayor. Among the actors (apart from Chenoweth), only Patrick McKenna, as the vengeful anvil salesman, and David Arron Baker, as Marcellus, seem to have the stylized qualities required of musical theater or any energy at all.

"The Music Man" is doomed as soon as Disney gets its hands on it anyway, since it lampoons its own idealized view of the past. There are many other things wrong with this version, but one I will single out is the well-meant insertion of middle class African Americans (and even a random Asian kid) into c1910 River City, Iowa. Not that Middle America of that era was lily white, but it wasn't the "It's a Small World" exhibit, either. Disney even makes one of the biddies (the prosperous married ladies who run the town's social life) a roly-poly black woman who manages to be a racist stereotype and a PC token at one and the same time.

For those who love the first film version--which is not a great film at all, but is a great adapted play--it is always interesting to see a new interpretation, even if this one fails. But for new viewers, there is no need to see this film just because it's current, when the DVD is available, with lots of extra features, and they enjoy first experiencing Robert Preston in all his glory. He seems to be having the time of his life conning these small-town cornshuckers, and he carries you right along with him.

To really appreciate "The Music Man" you have to understand that it is not merely a nostalgia-fest, but a playful and rather cynical take on post turn-of-the-twentieth-century middle America. Like "How to Succeed in Business," "The Music Man" gives us a view of a very particular kind of Americana, and does so in a surprisingly witty way--as if the sharpsters at the center of these plays had told the stories themselves. Where the movie succeeds is in catching this tone nearly perfectly, and not getting in the way of Meredith Willson's complex and idiosyncratic musical numbers. And also in not getting in the way of Robert Preston, who could be a dramatic actor of great power and subtlety, but who here gives the performance of his life--and one of the great musical comedy performances of the twentieth century--as the gleefully dishonest traveling salesman. His performance had not gone stale, despite the long sojourn on Broadway, and because of Preston's long experience as a movie actor, he was able to adapt it perfectly to that medium.

There are those who would have liked to have seen the Broadway Marian repeat her role, but Shirley Jones is perfect in her own way, with her warm, golden storybook beauty and her down-to-earth sanity. Hermione Gingold is also a standout as the mayor's wife, a sort of gargoyle lady bountiful.

This film has many flaws. It is not a great MOVIE musical, but it is a very good adaptation of a great musical. And it allows us to enjoy Robert Preston's "Ya Got Trouble" and "Marian the Librarian" forever.

Like many others here I first saw this film as a small child on TV, in the inferior pan-and-scan version. In fact, until today it was the only version I had ever seen. Despite that, it is one of my all-time favorites. Certainly, as someone who hated the film suggested, the awe and delight with which we watched this film in childhood has continued to inform our sense of the film---but that's not a bad thing.

"Journey to the Center of the Earth" has several things going for it: First of all, the combination of location work (in Carlsbad Caverns) and matte paintings is dazzling for the period--not dazzling for the technology of the period, but as a work of imagination. The colors, the sense of light and dark, of space and shapes, of ever new worlds being revealed, is sheer bliss for a child, who feels as if it is being led deeper and deeper into an Aladdin's cave, and can create a sense of awe and wonder in an adult, as well. There is an oddly satisfying magic to watching the characters leaping from one giant mushroom head to the next, and making a raft of the stalks. The brilliant score adds to the strange beauty of this created world.

Those who object to the silliness of the film, or its campiness, or its slowness, I think are not quite getting it. It is old-fashioned storytelling that gives us a clear sense of formalized life above ground before taking us below. Most of the characters are indeed merely serviceable, but the most important ones are well-drawn and well-acted. Pat Boone is not especially believable as the supposedly Scottish juvenile lead, but he is engaging and animated, and his formality and earnestness are reasonably in period. The ever great James Mason and the luscious Arlene Dahl succeed in a fantastic tightrope-walking act, playing their roles very straight and yet making them deeply comic. Mason gives just the right weight to lines like "We can't take a WOMAN along!", and Dahl, as the most charming, intelligent, and self-possessed of Victorian ladies, is thoroughly believable when she proclaims that "I may have been a disturbance to men, but never a burden." One of the film's most amusing aspects is the way in which the characters maintain the Victorian proprieties even miles below the surface of the earth. Believe me, these filmmakers knew exactly what they were doing.

And isn't it nice that we don't have to watch the layers of civilization cruelly stripped from the Victorians as they descend to the realms below! "Journey to the Center of the Earth" is a family film in the best sense: one that can create a sense of wonder and even exaltation in small children, setting the imagination on fire, and one in which adults can find new layers of entertainment as they become older and more discerning viewers. Who cares if iguanas are cast as the dinosaurs? Or if there aren't actually dinosaurs and caves and oceans at the center of the earth? Like a magic lantern show, this film has its own reality and its own loopy rapture.

Those least likely to enjoy this film might be those seeing it for the first time at the cynical and demanding ages of 12-17, if they are ignorant of films of the past, and expect every fantasy they see to be a George Lucas or Peter Jackson CGI extravaganza.

"The Faculty" is one of the new breed of movies that not only references its sources, but cites them--in this case, by title AND author, and it gets extra points for mentioning the original written versions rather than film adaptations. For what it is, it is very well done. The screenplay is lively, the direction snazzy, the young actors are attractive, and the older ones seem to be having a good time playing both dysfunctional teachers and suddenly self-realized pod-people. Now, if only the film had credited the film from which it borrowed the let's-see-who's-an-alien scene: "John Carpenter's The Thing," also the source of the tentacled head. But you have to forgive Williamson and Rodriguez, especially when they provide their confession in the text: "So this is where you borrow your supplies?" "I prefer to think of it as stealing."

SEMI-SPOILERS

This movie is rather like an ingenious and convoluted (or, at least, convoluted) episode of "The Twilight Zone." Nothing terribly original, but it is extremely well-executed. Very conveniently, just about everything one might complain of can be taken as part of the grand scheme. Is Cameron Crowe, with his over-fondness for old rock music, putting too much of it on the soundtrack, and making his hero's life seem like a sentimental fantasy? Ah, but his hero's life IS a sentimental fantasy.

After a number of movies like "Mulholland Dr." that basically just screw with our heads and then leave us on our own to figure it out, "Vanilla Sky" has a very coherent explanation at the end. Unfortunately, this means that although you may not leave the theater in a semi-annoyed state, you may well leave with a feeling of "So what?"

"Vanilla Sky" really only starts getting interesting if we assume that the mind-f**k is open-ended, and that the explanation we are given at the end is actually yet another layer of what is really going on. (Of course, all such movies leave themselves open to the interpretation that the entire plot is an illusion.) There are a number of clues that this is the case, most of which can be brought under the umbrella of the statement "This is all too good to be true." When you start thinking along these lines, it then becomes rather interesting to go back and reevaluate the characters that are presented at the end as the silent friend, the frightened father figure, the loyal employee, and the benevolent dwarves. And the words "Open your eyes." Too good, indeed. . .

SPOILERS

Viewers have noted similarities between this film and Rosemary's Baby. Well, duh--it is essentially a remake, but with the threat of aliens rather than devils. All of the cast is good, and it is especially amusing to see Joe Morton after his crack up. Perhaps too much effort is made to explain the aliens' purpose, especially since that purpose doesn't make a whole lot of sense. And without all those entertaining old people from Rosemary's Baby, we breathe a great sigh of relief when earthy Blair Brown shows up--this is a very underpopulated movie. But what this film is about is what Rosemary's Baby was about: justifiable female paranoia. Here "The Astronaut's Wife" succeeds, and in very nineties terms. The minor flaws (such as our not feeling the wife's isolation very intensely, since we haven't seen her as anything BUT isolated) don't matter much. But where it misses out is on two counts: It replaces the everyday qualities that gave Polanski's masterpiece its subversive punch with an arid elegance. And it makes the husband a victim rather than a betrayer, thus removing some of the original plot's feminist underpinnings. Johnny Depp may not always score with his choices, but they are invariably interesting. This film, with its strong performances and striking visual qualities, is certainly worth a look.

Those who want a rip-off of "Rosemary's Baby" (as reviewers have called this film) would do better to see "The Astronaut's Wife," although neither film, in fact, has "Rosemary"'s innovative every-day-ness. What "Lost Souls" has going for it is its dark sense of style, its plot (young man is brought to realize he may become the vessel for Satan's return to earth), and its ambiguous ending, which leaves open the possibility that all these people are delusional. This may not add up to much for most people and I don't think I'll find it especially memorable myself, but it is the details that made the film for me: the way in which Ryder insinuates herself into Chaplin's life, the slightly-amused-at-himself way that Chaplin searches around his bed for a pentacle (a gag with a big pay-off later), and the confusion (especially in Ryder's character) between vision and reality. It's not an occult thriller for the ages, but it's definitely worth seeing--especially if you appreciate variations on a theme in a genre film, and aren't insistent on seeing something Totally and Completely New.

Only Kastore (among imdb reviewers) appears to have noticed Ryder's wedding ring. Did whoever was symbolized by that ring go through what the kid here goes through with Ryder? When he tells the kid to repeat "I want to die," after him, Ryder says it like he wants to die himself. Is this a bizarrely drawn out case of suicide by cop? Or is the film more metaphoric than that? The mayhem Ryder causes in this film is performed so affectlessly that it seems almost inappropriate to refer to it as evil. Ryder is more like a force of nature, impersonal and devastating.

This certainly isn't some cruddy little exploitation picture. It has style and atmosphere, and three fine performances from its leads. Those reviewers who have pointed out that movie violence has moved far beyond "The Hitcher" are right, but it is the anomic quality of the violence that is most disturbing here, not its actual degree of grisliness. The average viewer may find this difficult to deal with.

The most unsettling thing about this movie is that Rutger Hauer brings to it his special talent for giving psychos a quality of soft-spoken tenderness. This injects a great deal more dimension into the developing relationship/duel between him and Howell, and makes the encounter in the diner perhaps the key scene in the film.

Those who complain that "The Others" is too slow should get off the ADD merry-go-round and relearn the ability to adjust to the tempo of a good story. This is the film that the vile re-make of "The Haunting" ought to have been, made with cinematic style, emotional resonance, psychological depth, and restraint: no gore, no flashbacks or flashforwards or dream sequences, and almost no special effects. It doesn't need them. It is unusual for a ghost story in being both an elegant exercise and an emotional ordeal.

Rutger Hauer's movies tend to be better than one would expect from genre pieces, often because of a special feel for atmosphere and quirk. Deadlock was one of the first movies to feature the newer, heavier Hauer, who uses his heft to the advantage of his characterization, creating a slightly ridiculous figure (who goes from a ludicrous pony-tail for his duel-to-the-death to a sort of swami outfit to something that looks like it ought to be upholstering a chair in a whorehouse) who is not quite up to the circumstances he finds himself in, but perseveres anyway. Smart, but hardly a criminal mastermind, his Frank is teamed with an especially charming Mimi Rogers. Hardly surprising that they go from insults to clinches, but it is appealing that the main thing keeping them apart (their abysmal track records in romance) is what, thanks to empathy, helps bridge the differences between them. The sci-fi gimmick here is really beside the point. What counts is the presence of several skillful actors and their deftly drawn characters. Stephen Tobolowsky is especially amusing, and he has the movie's best line: "You nonconformists are all alike."

I saw an advance screening of "Nurse Betty" last night. Since I enjoyed the film hugely, I'll deal with my quibbles first. Neil LaBute is clearly an actors' director, and does best with longer, sustained scenes. Something about the pace of this film is a bit off: the cross-cutting doesn't flow very naturally, and the editing leaves a few not-so-funny lines dangling. Perhaps it is an underwritten film, with the wealth of incident and the skill of the actors concealing somewhat sketchy roles. Chris Rock doesn't have enough to do, and Renee Zellweger's adorability practically implodes on itself. (One Meg Ryan is quite enough!) However, a very difficult and fanciful concept is worked out with some ingenuity and generosity, and in an easy-going manner that doesn't seem to be trying to knock us out with how outrageous it all is. This picture has been somewhat misleadingly labeled a "road picture," with Betty on the go and the hitmen played by Morgan Freeman and Chris Rock in hot pursuit. In fact, Betty reaches Los Angeles quite quickly, while the hitmen's pursuit is amusingly protracted. But they are all definitely on a journey of sorts, although it probably doesn't do to think about it too hard (journeys in search of dreams, lost ideals, etc.). Zellweger, for all her cuteness, manages not to be cloying, adding the saving grace of matter-of-factness to her performance. Her Betty is so bent on her delusion that she simply gazes straight through reality. (The easily embarrassed may find this film excruciating!) Greg Kinnear is as good as one would expect in a role cut from the same cloth as his parts in "Sabrina" and "Mystery Men," laying on charm and smarm indiscriminately. A number of actors do excellently in small roles, especially the women, and most especially a bartender in a lonely Arizona saloon. Best of all, I'm quite happy to say, is Morgan Freeman, who plays the sort of role he's done before, but gets to play all sorts of angles and feelings that we've never seen from him on-screen. He is not well-served by a couple of road-side scenes in which he is required to be irascible at too great length. But those tired of Freeman's recent run of father figures will be pleased by his sinister demeanor here. (He's a father figure in this film too, but in a most perverse way.) And, as it turns out, his Charlie is as much an escapist as Betty Sizemore--gallant and ridiculous and ultimately discombobulated by his confused feelings for the Betty of his imagination: he prepares to go kill her as if he were preparing to propose marriage, and his furtive application of aftershave is perhaps his best moment in the film. If he is made to state the theme of the film a little too explicitly at the end, and forced to go through too many sudden changes of heart, he's earned enough good will by then to make it okay. The hardest thing to do in movies these days is end them properly. The climax of this one is tricky, with slapstick in one room and an intimate confrontation in another, but LaBute pulls it off. More difficult is the wind-up, but it goes by fast. The comedy in this film is character-driven and a bit cock-eyed, so think Coens rather than sitcom. Be prepared also for some fairly graphic violence at the beginning and the end. The violence is not gratuitous, however, as it places us firmly in the world that both Betty and Charlie are recoiling from. One final quibble, or perhaps a question: At the end, isn't Betty still living someone else's dream? And is this a miscalculation, or is it meant as irony?

I saw an advance screening of "Nurse Betty" last night. Since I enjoyed the film hugely, I'll deal with my quibbles first. Neil LaBute is clearly an actors' director, and does best with longer, sustained scenes. Something about the pace of this film is a bit off: the cross-cutting doesn't flow very naturally, and the editing leaves a few not-so-funny lines dangling. Perhaps it is an underwritten film, with the wealth of incident and the skill of the actors concealing somewhat sketchy roles. Chris Rock doesn't have enough to do, and Renee Zellweger's adorability practically implodes on itself. (One Meg Ryan is quite enough!) However, a very difficult and fanciful concept is worked out with some ingenuity and generosity, and in an easy-going manner that doesn't seem to be trying to knock us out with how outrageous it all is. This picture has been somewhat misleadingly labeled a "road picture," with Betty on the go and the hitmen played by Morgan Freeman and Chris Rock in hot pursuit. In fact, Betty reaches Los Angeles quite quickly, while the hitmen's pursuit is amusingly protracted. But they are all definitely on a journey of sorts, although it probably doesn't do to think about it too hard (journeys in search of dreams, lost ideals, etc.). Zellweger, for all her cuteness, manages not to be cloying, adding the saving grace of matter-of-factness to her performance. Her Betty is so bent on her delusion that she simply gazes straight through reality. (The easily embarrassed may find this film excruciating!) Greg Kinnear is as good as one would expect in a role cut from the same cloth as his parts in "Sabrina" and "Mystery Men," laying on charm and smarm indiscriminately. A number of actors do excellently in small roles, especially the women, and most especially a bartender in a lonely Arizona saloon. Best of all, I'm quite happy to say, is Morgan Freeman, who plays the sort of role he's done before, but gets to play all sorts of angles and feelings that we've never seen from him on-screen. He is not well-served by a couple of road-side scenes in which he is required to be irascible at too great length. But those tired of Freeman's recent run of father figures will be pleased by his sinister demeanor here. (He's a father figure in this film too, but in a most perverse way.) And, as it turns out, his Charlie is as much an escapist as Betty Sizemore--gallant and ridiculous and ultimately discombobulated by his confused feelings for the Betty of his imagination: he prepares to go kill her as if he were preparing to propose marriage, and his furtive application of aftershave is perhaps his best moment in the film. If he is made to state the theme of the film a little too explicitly at the end, and forced to go through too many sudden changes of heart, he's earned enough good will by then to make it okay. The hardest thing to do in movies these days is end them properly. The climax of this one is tricky, with slapstick in one room and an intimate confrontation in another, but LaBute pulls it off. More difficult is the wind-up, but it goes by fast. The comedy in this film is character-driven and a bit cock-eyed, so think Coens rather than sitcom. Be prepared also for some fairly graphic violence at the beginning and the end. The violence is not gratuitous, however, as it places us firmly in the world that both Betty and Charlie are recoiling from. One final quibble, or perhaps a question: At the end, isn't Betty still living someone else's dream? And is this a miscalculation, or is it meant as irony?