drqshadow-reviews

Most prime-era Jackie Chan movies rightly file the story as a secondary concern, nothing more than a vehicle to carry us from one insane, prop-stuffed fighting arena to the next. That's not really the case for Police Story, which dwells on the flat, watery plot beats, playing them for bad humor while audiences thirst for the fisticuffs. Chan plays a rookie cop who cuffs a fleeing drug lord and must then protect the villain's personal secretary until she's ready to testify at the ensuing trial. Wacky hijinx ensue, including a misunderstanding with the girlfriend, a comedy of errors in the courtroom and no less than five(!) instances of birthday cake to the face. Every last moment drowns in corny, overbearing music, although I don't know if that's such a bad thing considering the quality of acting, and after the big shanty town bust, a wildly destructive set piece that opens the film, the action is limited at best.

That last factor is redeemed somewhat by the climactic fight scene in a shopping mall, where brawling gangsters are hurled through so many merchandise displays, I'm sure Hong Kong experienced a glass shortage in ensuing years. This extended slice of action is almost good enough to make the plot's nonsense worthwhile, culminating in an epic stunt (a six-story pole slide through string lights and a gimmicked pagoda) that's so flashy, it would find a home in every one of the star's highlight reels from this point forward. True to form, that leap also nearly killed him: tight deadlines, a lack of rehearsals and a bad landing left Jackie with two damaged vertebrae and a dislocated pelvis. Charged with adrenaline, he still leapt straight to his feet and resumed pummeling the enemy at the bottom.

It goes without saying that, if you're watching a martial arts movie for the narrative, you're probably doing it wrong. That there's so much of it in Police Story, then, is a cardinal sin. Finite as they are, its fight scenes are great! Why won't it quit goofing around and get on with them? In the future, I'll skip the movie and just watch the mall fight on YouTube.

A trio of trashy go-go dancers raise hell in the California desert, popping pills, abusing sports cars and starting fights. The blonde is only there to have a good time, steadily downing gulps of liquor and breaking into spontaneous dance, but the others are bonafide black widows, hungry for their next gullible mate. Worst of all is the ringleader, Varla, a spicy vixen whose morals hang lower than her cleavage. Under her direction, the gang murders an unfortunate motor enthusiast and kidnaps his infantile girlfriend before happening across an old, disabled man who sits on a hidden fortune. He and his two grown sons welcome the unexpected visitors, but their hands are hardly clean, either, and a race soon commences to the grimy bottom of the barrel.

It's sex and drink and violence, then more sex and violence, from the self-anointed king of the smutty '60s exploitation bomb, Russ Meyer. The writer/director/producer got his start shooting centerfolds for Playboy before moving into low-budget feature films like this one, which often shouted from the marquees using ample exclamation and titillated from the poster rows using ample bosom. Meyer pulled his starlets from familiar talent pools - Susan Bernard, who plays the abductee in this picture, would go on to be Miss December '66 - and constructed most shots as if he were framing his next two-page spread. The name of the day was shock value, and whether it took blood or skin to get there, Meyer was always game.

He also leaned on his girls to bring a little piece of themselves to the production. And while that was certainly the case for star Tura Satana, who plays the conniving Varla (her Wikipedia bio is quite the ride), that cocky, self-assured toughness feels forced and fake on the screen. All three women spit their lines like testy cats and strut across the sand like they own it. I'm not sure what seems more artificially inflated: their attitudes or their outrageously pushed-up chests. At the time, there was probably a shred of empowerment in these roles - after all, they more than hold their own in the action scenes - but in a modern light they look downright comical.

Faster, Pussycat works as soft erotica, and as a relic of campy shock cinema, but not much else. I'd love to hear what Joel, Crow and Tom Servo had to say about this one. It seems tailor-made for their brand of comedy.

An extraterrestrial menace, once thought neutralized, returns to Earth and threatens the entire planet. Predictably, this draws the interest of the Men in Black, but as the case is so old, none of the current agents know how to handle it. Cue the mothballed Agent K (Tommy Lee Jones), who's collected from a mind-wiped retirement and reunited with his old suit, gizmos and memories. K's return sits well with Agent J (Will Smith), as he's been struggling to train a suitable replacement since his mentor's untimely departure at the end of the first film.

Harmless but toothless, MiB2 replays the hits but lacks the careful balance and memorable secondary charms that made the original so effective. Running short on fun little bits like the opening confrontation at the Mexican border or the baby delivery scene, the sequel is more flat and businesslike. As K is now secure in his role as an unflappable field agent, the film misses his dazzled rookie's perspective; someone to gape and goggle at all the weird shapes and colors wriggling under the noses of oblivious New Yorkers. Rosario Dawson's character is a flimsy effort to replicate that. She plays an adorably doe-eyed pizza waitress who witnesses an alien hold-up, but after a flirty first encounter with the agency, she's shuffled off screen and forgotten until the climax.

No one should've expected a villainous performance on par with Vincent D'Onofrio's man-skinned cockroach, but Lara Flynn Boyle's tentacled space queen is still a major step down. She's all unwarranted arrogance and cold sex appeal, a stuffy foil who waves unconvincing green CG appendages in lieu of a more distinct personality. I'm not sure Famke Janssen would've been better in the role, as originally cast, but she can't have been much worse. The best thing I can say about Boyle is that she adequately fills out the skimpy lingerie she's inherited from the wardrobe department.

Comparisons to a franchise's first outing are rarely favorable to the sequel. Such is the case, across the board, for Men in Black II. Most of the best jokes fall before the law of diminishing returns, a long preamble hinders Jones and Smith's efforts to recapture the magic of their first pairing, and the light primary storyline is a case more befitting of the Saturday morning cartoon files than the big screen. Call it fair but forgettable.

Set in the days of ravenous bandits, bloodthirsty bounty hunters and aggressively superstitious villagers, A Chinese Ghost Story traces the steps of the one truly humble, honest man in the country: a feeble wandering debt collector. His modesty is so unusual that it sweeps the resident spirit of a haunted temple completely off her feet. Where she typically uses sex appeal to tempt bolder men to a grisly demise, the demure warm-heartedness of this new arrival is something different. Soon united by a strange sort of almost-love, the pair clash with her (literally) ghoulish family, confront a tentacled would-be suitor and rush to return her urn to its proper burial plot so she can find redemption in reincarnation.

Subtitle viewers beware: this mile-a-minute script doesn't give us much time to lift eyes from the bottom of the screen. A lot of that is nonsense - our featured characters share a penchant for aimless rambling or nervous singing - but, if you're like me, the threat of missing something important is impossible to ignore. We gain temporary respite during the wuxia-inspired action scenes, spontaneous floating fights which flash metallic glints and soft waves of fabric (not to mention decapitated heads) at regular intervals. Our protagonist is no warrior, though, which means much of our interest lies in escaping those battlefields, not dominating them. And then, naturally, it's straight back to the long-winded vocal essays.

Both the story and the effects borrow liberally from The Evil Dead. There's a supernatural entity in the basement, a breed of wrinkled, stumbling undead to fight... we even clash with a few evil, clutching trees. A Chinese Ghost Story is more clearly out for laughs, though, at least in comparison to Evil Dead's first chapter, and in that respect it's rather graceless. Most jokes drag on for too long, especially in the exhausting first two acts. Fortunately, it rebounds in time for the bonkers final scenes set in the creeping gloom of the underworld. There, our senses are assaulted by an assortment of clever horror extremes: biting, floating heads, swords of fire and a hundred-foot tongue monster. It can feel like work to reach that payoff, but at least the effort isn't a total waste.

One solitary man chooses to spend his golden years in the Alaskan wilds, busying himself with personal expeditions and construction projects in a cozy, hand-made, lakeside cabin. That's the story of Dick Proenneke, a retired technician whose first seasons in the tundra were documented in the initial volume of this self-produced documentary. He's just stepped out of semi-hibernation at the start of Part II, watching the snow melt and his beloved bears emerge from their dens, but that doesn't mean he's idle. With his trusty telephoto lens and 8mm camera along for company, he immediately sets out to build a nine-foot-tall storage cache for food security, then hefts a canoe and hikes to a new corner of the land.

Even in his early 50s, Dick's an inspiration. He may not look it, but the man is a physical machine, proudly tromping a dozen miles through rough terrain or splitting an entire building's worth of lumber using nothing more than a sturdy axe and the devil's persistence. As if that weren't enough, he also serves as his own cameraman and director, with a narrative track pulled directly from his exhaustively detailed journals. This footage derives from the late '60s, so it's hardly a sterling HD visual experience, but the knowledge that Dick was out there alone - setting up the tripod, checking the exposure, paddling past, circling back and collecting the equipment - makes it hypnotic in a different way. His thoughts and observations are everything one might expect, too, all reflective and appreciative of the free life he so savors. Confident and capable, he's nonetheless even-tempered and open-hearted. A woodworking naturalist who's cut from the same cloth as Bob Ross.

If you've got to watch one such documentary before you die, I'd recommend the first chapter. By the time Part II rolls around, Dick has already finished building his cabin and found his niche in the wild. While both make for a soothing, relaxing experience, this episode is more casual and less challenging, with smaller projects and similar views.

Alfred Hitchcock's first American production may have been a frustrating experience for the director, but that hardship produced his most professionally-lauded work. Hitch did not get along with hands-on producer David O. Selznick, but history looks fondly upon the big boss and there's little question his imperious oversight kept Rebecca on the path to a Best Picture Oscar; Selznick's second in a row after Gone With the Wind. Steel sharpens steel, as they say, and the fact that neither of these guys liked taking orders probably ensured that only the best ideas won out in the end.

Subsequently, Rebecca isn't as overtly mysterious as Hitchcock's later, more popular work, but that's not to say it lacks for suspense. Instead, the twists and turns arrive with nuance, more dramatic for their implications than their big, shiny spotlight moments of revelation. We get one or two of those, too, but they're well-earned and hit harder for the restraint. The story, of a quiet, cheerful young woman who's swept up in a whirlwind romance and marries into great wealth, kept me constantly guessing. Though dapper and easygoing, not to mention the master of a palatial estate, her new beau is also a widower, and the shadow of his ex-wife's influence looms over the mansion like a sticky storm cloud. The new bride quickly realizes that the head maid has judged her insufficient by comparison, but her real concern (and ours, by proxy) is how she stands in the eyes of her husband. His evaluation seems to ebb and flow by the minute, as we all begin to work out the tangled web of unspoken truths and boldly-proclaimed lies that still define their faded marriage.

From plotting to acting to direction and artistry, this one's a true work of art. So much so that I mourn the boxy 1.33:1 aspect ratio that was standard at the time, for robbing us of that much more Hitchcockian cinematography. I noticed a few era-specific production quirks - particularly the obvious projected backgrounds behind driving scenes, and even some of the walking scenes - but despite those minor niggles, it's a magnificent story, expertly executed for the screen, and a well-deserving award winner.

Produced to celebrate the twentieth anniversary of the Russian revolution, the silent epic Battleship Potemkin serves as both a historical drama and a passionate example of Soviet-friendly propaganda. Originally plotted to depict several key moments in the 1905 uprising, the state (which funded this production) demanded a tight deadline and the film was subsequently cut down to just one symbolic episode. In that, a crew of mistreated sailors bristle at the wormy meat they're provided and, when superiors ignore their complaints, stage an uprising that ignites a fire in the hearts and minds of civilians watching from the shore.

From a filmmaking perspective, there's a lot to admire here. Utilizing a huge cast of extras, director Sergei Eisenstein brings us an abundance of expertly-composed panoramas, dazzling in their size and scope. Teems of people march to join the protest, clenching their fists and raging against the oppression like an angry human sea. Potemkin's use of montage was revolutionary for the time, and its heavy reliance upon manipulative visual storytelling remains potent today. It's also an ambitious example of the limitations inherent in silent film. Melodrama abounds; a flood of overly romantic body language and postured patriotic proclamations dominate the screen. Its depiction of the mutiny at sea is long, over-edited and confusing, desperate for a narrative guiding light amidst all the chaos. The same can be said for the famous Odessa Steps sequence, a powerful and historically significant act which depicts a bloody massacre by the military. One could argue that the disorientation evident in these scenes is intentional, an accurate depiction of pandemonium in a threatened crowd. I'd agree, but that doesn't make it any easier to follow. I don't think clarity needed to be discarded in order to enable the vision.

My takeaway is this: Battleship Potemkin is an essential film when viewed through the context of cinematic achievement. It raises the bar for emotional heft in the format, manages some staggering vistas that surely hit the marks its Soviet bosses were looking for, and delivers one especially dynamic scene which has stood the test of time. I can't argue the artistry, but its storytelling is simplistic, cryptic and vague. The blame for that can't be lain at the feet of this era. Chaplin, Keaton and Lloyd had already published masterworks by 1925, telling brighter, more lucid stories in a much lighter genre, and they didn't need the dozen pages of dialogue cards Potemkin uses to do so. It may be important in a historical sense, and the story behind its production and distribution is fascinating, but I've lost count of how many times this one's put me to sleep.

This dated, sensationalistic morality play warns against the dangers of chasing one's heart (or other sensitive bits) into a bad situation. We meet Bart when he's still a youngster, arrested for smash-and-grabbing a handgun from a hardware store, then briskly follow him through reform school and the Army into early adulthood. He's not such a bad seed, really, just easily misled, and that character flaw draws the attention of a beautiful, pistol-spinning carnival starlet. When Bart bests her in a shooting match, she spies opportunity and turns on the charm. Shortly thereafter, the fresh newlyweds pull the first in a series of audacious hold-ups, reliving Bonnie and Clyde's most romantic notions while pursuing lawmen sniff their trail and zero in.

As evidenced by their breakneck race to the altar, there isn't much time for magic with this particular pair of star-crossed lovers. Bart is smitten like a puppy, drug out of his comfort zone by the constant threat of desertion, while lust and convenience seem to suffice for Laurie, his girl. Embracing her soon-to-be beau outside a late night justice of the peace, she seems positively bored by the prospect of matrimony. The two do a lot of on-screen canoodling, but the stiff body language and flat expressions make their purported passion less than convincing. They even look nonplussed while pulling a job, all but yawning while threatening the life of a white-faced convenience store clerk in a cheap montage. Let's try it once more with feeling, eh guys?

Gun Crazy is best remembered for the fantastic no-cut, single-camera bank robbery in the second act, primarily for its dazzling technique, but also because it's the one scene where the headline duo acts like a recognizable pair of human beings. In that long, captivating shot, they chatter nervously, shark for a prime parking space, spot trouble, provide a distraction and race away amidst a sweaty clatter of flaring sirens. It lasts less than three and a half minutes, but tells us everything we need to know about Bart, Laurie, their demeanor and their partnership. By comparison, the rest of the picture looks positively silly.

Under a heavy set of liver-spotted prosthetics, Woody Harrelson portrays the 36th President. Once an effective Senate majority leader, Lyndon Johnson was wrangled into a toothless role as Kennedy's strategic running mate in 1961. Soon derided by the cabinet and dismissed by the President, he was effectively neutered by the promotion until an assassin's bullet catapulted him into the country's most powerful position. LBJ examines the Texas politician's backroom deals, his personal uncertainties, his rocky relationship with the Kennedy brothers and his determination to see his predecessor's signature civil rights legislation through to the finish line.

Plenty of meat on the bone for a good political biography there, especially as Johnson had such a notoriously colorful personality, but this one comes up short. Harrelson is a total mismatch for the leading role, all southern drawl and no charismatic magnetism, but he's not even the film's worst fit. Richard Jenkins plays JFK like a bad imitation on open mic night, his characteristic Boston accent faked in all the worst ways, while Michael Stahl-David's depiction of a young Bobby Kennedy looks and acts like a cocky James Franco. Johnson's private disagreements with RFK are well-documented, and that icy tension fuels most of this dramatization, but Bobby's character in LBJ is awfully one-sided. In short, he's a total dick. A raging, manipulative foil for Johnson's well-intentioned good ol' boy. Animosity is usually a two-way street, but we never see anything like that from Lyndon.

I'm not entirely convinced this wasn't a simple Funny or Die sketch that spiraled way out of control. Johnson's famous leaked phone call with a tailor shop (the one where he belches and rambles on about his bunghole) is here in its entirety, as is a riotous scene in which he dictates bureaucratic business from the toilet. Those certainly lend some extra tread to his character's rough edges, not to mention lightening the narrative, but both scenes linger, awkwardly, to the point of obsession. An entertaining film, no doubt about it, but not for the reasons that I suspect director Rob Reiner intended.

In losing his wife, a Polish expat is also stripped of his dignity. Shamed for his impotence before a divorce court, he's summarily evicted from his Paris home, ousted from his post at a high-end hair salon, disassociated from his bank account and deprived of his passport. While living as a vagrant in a nearby subway station, fate introduces him to an amiable businessman who takes pity and finds a way to send him back to his motherland. There, he intends to set things right: pulling himself up by his bootstraps and seeking a twisted measure of revenge against the woman he holds responsible.

Roger Ebert called White an "anti-comedy," but I don't see much humor here. He likewise labeled its 1993 counterpart, Blue, an anti-tragedy, and while that story ultimately becomes uplifting, it does supply a boatload of tragic circumstances to underscore the point. Maybe Ebert was just stretching to find a unifying theme for the trilogy. I haven't yet watched the third entry, Red, but while the first two chapters are similar in many ways, they're antithetical in others. Where Blue was about growth through introspection, weathering an intense personal storm to find peace, White documents a more spiteful alternative. Here, our protagonist soaks up all manner of undeserved pain and dishonor, then uses it to fuel a burning, vindictive fire. He grows, too, but in unhealthier directions. The trauma deadens his nerves, nudging him towards greed and self-gratification at others' expense. That many of his targets probably deserve the abuse is beside the point: he's been willingly corrupted by his hardship.

It's a bleak and somber story, filmed in bleak and somber tones. The frigid, wintery climates of France and Poland feel stark and bare; dreary settings for the film's unhappy, borderline-hostile, subject matter. Curious that a film named for the essence of light could produce something so dirty and dark.

Buster Keaton's first feature as an MGM player is often cited as a sort of departure point for his career. With the benefit of hindsight, we can see that the 32-year-old comedian's best work was already behind him and a cloudy, unhappy future lay in store. The famous do-it-(all)-yourself work ethic that served him so well as an independent was deemed unfit for the rigors of big studio life, and that, paired with the looming advent of sound pictures, would lead the silent star to wilt and wither.

Although the quality of his films plummets from this point, The Cameraman still functions as a faded example of the comic's best values. For the only time, the studio (and co-director Edward Sedgwick, who would become a lifelong friend) allowed him to throw away the script and film as he saw fit, improvising his way around a few basic plot threads to arrive at the finish line in his own characteristic fashion. He plays a sad sack photographer, selling portraits for ten cents a pop, who finds love twice in the same day. Enamored with a lovely lass, he follows her back to her gig as receptionist for a big-time newsreel operation and falls head-over-heels for the moviemaking equipment. The very next day, he gets to know them both, leading the girl on an ill-fated date while learning the ins and outs of the camera through trial-and-error.

Keaton's comic inventions are funny, but lighter than in his prior works, with more than a few recycled gags posed in a slightly new context. He's much less physical here than in, say, One Week or The General, and many scenes are dissected by uncharacteristic cuts that unseat the tempo. It feels like he's bowing to pressure from above, pressing hard in certain areas while making concessions in others, straining to prove himself in front of the new boss, which flattens his most interesting wrinkles. He finds a great partner in the second act - a small, fabulously expressive monkey who perches on his shoulder and also learns to operate the camera - but his relationship with the girl lacks sweetness and his depiction of city life makes every passing pedestrian seem downright hostile.

Even before finishing his first film under the new banner, Keaton seemed a little lost. That makes The Cameraman amusing, but sad, for a number of different reasons.

An American skeptic is thrust into a prime role at a psychiatrists' convention when the keynote speaker runs afoul of a local Satanic cult and turns up dead. Together with the deceased's lovely niece, the new guy picks up where the last one left off and presses the case to its breaking point. Secure in his cynicism, he's bound and determined to denounce the occult as nothing more than mumbo-jumbo for the gullible, even as he's pursued by all manner of metaphysical phenomena and strange, violent weather patterns.

Given its age, I was surprised and impressed by Curse of the Demon's restraint. Many of its ballyhooed death curses and evil schemes are paid out slightly off-camera or in near-darkness, leaving audiences' imaginations to fill in the blanks. Especially effective is the big, roiling, billowing ball of smoke that rushes over the horizon in a pair of key nighttime scenes. Contrasted by dense shadows, the cloud's creeping mass makes for an eerie, powerful sight even seventy years later. That effect isn't lost when a flame-wrapped demon materializes in its midst... so long as the shot remains long. Of course, times being what they were (with eager executives allegedly forcing the issue over the director's objections), we do zoom in tight for a pair of extreme close-ups on the beast, and then the illusion falters. This devil looks like a taxidermy disaster.

Still, the plot makes a good, steady sizzle and I enjoyed the confirmation that not everyone in this era was mindlessly dialed into the Bible as a literal document. That Curse of the Demon's disbeliever is ultimately disproven makes for an unwelcome turn, but until that moment he speaks loudly and confidently and his many scholarly peers seem to agree, if only cautiously. Although it sometimes tests the limits of plausibility, this is far less chintzy and campy than a majority of the era's genre films and the special effects (mostly) make good use of the black and white film stock. Not bad, really.

Brendan Fraser, Steve Buscemi and baby Adam Sandler play a trio of daft wannabe rockstars, frustrated by their metal band's lack of recognition, who barge into an L. A. radio station and hold the staff hostage until their demo tape is transmitted to the masses. A long line of technical mishaps cause the ordeal to drag on, but media coverage of the event draws a crowd and, if not for the reasons they intended, the group does inevitably earn their elusive fifteen minutes of fame.

It's wild that a film so loaded with star power can also feel so flat and underachieving. In addition to the three well-known leads, Airheads includes sizable parts for Chris Farley, Michael McKean, Michael Richards and Judd Nelson, though only McKean's character really plays to his strengths. The rest are just familiar faces jammed into a string of stiff, sterile, dressed-up supporting roles. No room to incorporate any of their characteristic charms or unique capabilities. Farley doesn't even get the chance to work any physical comedy. What's the point? At least McKean's lame station manager, complete with wimpy little ponytail and slimy, unbuttoned silk shirt, gets ample opportunity to offend.

Airheads can't decide if it wants to be a mean-spirited satire (like McKean's far preceding Spinal Tap) or an easy, one-note comedy (akin to Dumb and Dumber from the same year). Instead, it tries to do both and adequately accomplishes neither. The punchlines are too flat and rudimentary for the former, but the script's tone is too disdainful for the latter. Apart from poor Ernie Hudson, who works a shift as the weary police officer in charge of the scene, every cast member is painted with the same brush. Too shallow, or stupid, or out-of-touch to be truly sympathetic. It's a film that proudly boasts its contempt for all corners of society: the clueless kids trying to work a hustle, their idiotic prospective fanbase, the arrogant DJ who isn't as big a deal as he thinks, the deceptive poseur working the back office, the insecure SWAT guy in need of anger management... the list is exhaustive. A grumpy, irritable picture that hates everything, including itself, it's not near as much fun as it could've been.

Even more than The Lion King, this is everything I picture when I think about Disney's early '90s renaissance. Following the lessons and experiences of The Little Mermaid and Beauty and the Beast, Aladdin finds each of the studio's departments running at peak capacity. The artwork is picture-perfect, expertly exaggerated and densely detailed but also smooth and fluid in action. A catchy soundtrack suits the unique flavor of the Arabian culture, at once hearty, catchy and exotic without feeling manufactured or exploitative (neither of which were a given in Disney's previous efforts). And, highlighted - but not always dominated - by a typically high-energy performance from Robin Williams, the voice acting is unanimously excellent. It's an A+ production across the board, one with no weak points or hesitations.

What struck me in this viewing was the abundance of rich, vibrant colors. Whether setting a scene or enhancing a particularly important plot development, the palette does its job with aplomb. As a sun-drenched desert film, one would expect a flush of shimmering yellows and oranges, and those tones do appropriately dominate its many daylight scenes. At night, though, a deeper, cooler range settles in, to equally potent result. A set of overnight developments outside the Cave of Wonders are especially magical, due in large part to these color choices. That spooky, panther-themed cavern would've been gorgeous even without such a powerful set of blue and purple tints - a marvelous display of imagination - but the dense, confident colors push it from just another cool movie visual into an unforgettable memory. Aladdin is well-stocked with such moments.

The plot is quintessential Disney, for all that entails. Light and effectively humorous, with a strong foil, a lovable lead and (a studio specialty) all manner of loud, colorful supporting players. That Aladdin himself is so pure and simple was a necessity. If his character had been any more complicated, his personal arc more involved than "get over yourself and tell the truth," he'd have been lost in the wash. With Williams's Genie running at roughly three punchlines per second, there's just no room for that kind of competition. As it stands, even poor Gilbert Gottfried is outshined by Williams's light. Probably the first and last time he's ever been the second-noisiest guy in a scene.

There's a reason so many kids from my generation owned a copy of this one on VHS. It's a legitimate era-defining film, a feel-good family classic that also serves as a magnificent display of cinematic artisanship. As I now enter middle age and share the same adventure with my own kids, I'm pleased to report it still meets my lofty expectations.

From the mind of Makoto Shinkai (Your Name, Weathering with You) comes this compilation of three melancholy, intertwined short films. Drawing their collective title from the speed of cherry blossoms on a gentle breeze, they depict the coming-of-age (and romantic hangups) of a shy, deep-spirited Tokyo boy. In the first story, he embarks upon a long, snowy train voyage to air his feelings for an intense grade-school crush. Though delayed by weather, that fateful meeting goes better than hoped: a perfect, bite-sized consummation of the heart. The second and third chapters inspect the reverberations of that rendezvous; how it altered his personality and colored his amorous ideals into adulthood. In short, his love life hit a crescendo during adolescence, and he's been chasing that same high ever since.

Apart from the abrupt karaoke interlude near its ending (where did that come from?), we spend much of this film confined within its protagonists' confused, lovesick, teenaged heads. Like many kids of a certain age, they take everything hyper-seriously. Each infatuation is potent and star-crossed, especially those that don't end happily. Poetry and symbolism can be found in everything. I remember feeling the same way at the same age, filling binders with meaningful sketches and pensive thoughts. Now that I'm older, maybe not much wiser but certainly a little more seasoned, I can think of a billion things I'd rather do than revisit them. Our protagonist seems stunted, still harping for that missed connection fifteen years after the fact and well into his career. And while he does finally seem to reach a sort of inner peace by the end, it's too late for the poisoned relationships already in his wake.

In depicting a teen with his head in the clouds, this film often follows suit. Though gorgeously rendered, many of its compositions stand frozen in time, content to isolate a pretty detail and then gaze, appreciatively, for many a wordless moment. Its prose may lean too far into the realm of the navel-gaze, but the message is still familiar and valid. Lovely, but too self-absorbed.

A run-of-the-mill late '50s western that pairs frequent collaborators Budd Boetticher (director) and Randolph Scott (leading man) for more tangles amongst the tumbleweeds. By the time of this, their fifth such partnership, the duo had worked this particular genre down to a science. Their mutual comfort level is obvious, but so is their fatigue. Even when staring down the twin barrels of a loaded shotgun, nobody seems all that fiery or excited in Ride Lonesome; it's just another day at the office. Punch in, pull a few triggers, punch back out again. How are the wife and kids?

Showing his age, the 61-year-old Scott plays an experienced bounty hunter who grumpily collects a posse of rivals and companions on his way to deliver a fugitive murderer in Santa Cruz. Whilst bickering amongst themselves, the group is troubled by a tribe of Mescalero natives and pursued by their target's dastardly brother. Racing through the desert, the old man's unwanted ride-alongs barter for the bounty, but despite being given several chances to pull one over on each other, the unlikely squad sticks together. No matter how shady their stories might seem, nobody's here to stab backs.

Not a bad film, but also not a compelling one, Ride Lonesome does what it sets out to do with little flair or passion for the gig. A few interesting footnotes speckle the cast list - this was James Coburn's feature film debut, and pre-stardom Lee Van Cleef appears in a very small villainous role - but those parts are limited. If you're looking for a quick-hit cowboy flick, this'll do the trick. It weighs in at a scant seventy-odd minutes and there's plenty of nice desert scenery (including costar Karen Steele's persistent, hilariously out-of-place bullet bra) but I expect I'll forget all about it in a few months' time.

Far beneath the ocean surface, a nuclear-armed American sub encounters an impossible bogey, loses power, smashes into a cliff face and descends to a watery grave. This naturally alarms the military, which barges in to take command of a nearby underwater mining and exploration rig, enlisting its divers to help rescue survivors and account for the warheads. Inside the cramped headquarters, human tensions escalate while the mysterious creatures that caused the whole mess try to establish contact.

All that gung-ho soldier crap feels like a sideshow and is almost treated as such; silly macho action fare that writer/director James Cameron tolerated so he could get to the adventurous bits. The science crew's disgust at being diverted from exciting discoveries to deal with this drama certainly mirrored my own, and of course, Cameron's infatuation with diving, and unknown depths, is well-documented. There's a palpable sense of yearning any time the plot's more mysterious aspects creep in. That's when The Abyss is at its most inspired, toying with curious scientific advances like breathable liquids or gaping in wonder at the delicate, glowing alien wildlife that sometimes darts through the scenery. The suspense surrounding a crazed Navy SEAL and a hot-wired nuke just seems tired and redundant by comparison. It's a shame the story's balance tilts so heavily in that direction.

So the action bits are a little stale and the primary plot threads are over-familiar. Not necessarily dull, nor poorly executed, but brainless. The good bits are sufficient compensation. Ed Harris delivers a strong performance in the lead, especially during an intense resuscitation scene that effectively puts us all through the wringer together. The extraterrestrials' flirty attempts at communication are also very well done and, despite their age, the special effects have held up shockingly well. Maybe a bit longer than it needs to be, but it held my attention (and tickled my imagination) throughout. Cameron really knows how to toe the line between enlightenment and entertainment.

Based on the stage adaptation, not the Bram Stoker novel, this campy dash of Halloween spookery spends very little time in the Count's creepy Transylvania abode. Instead, after handling the requisite introductions (and gaining control over a lowly realtor), Dracula boards a ship bound for London and commences nibbling aristocratic necks in merry old England. There, after a brief flight of frolic, he bites off more than he can chew in pursuit of a lovely neighboring heiress and is soon revealed / chased by an old professor with a familiar surname.

It's a curious production, filmed like a silent picture, that leans on its dark, moody cinematography to lend color and atmosphere where the script lacks. The man responsible, Karl Freund, was only a few years removed from Fritz Lang's Metropolis and would go on to further influence the Universal monster scene as director of 1934's The Mummy. Legend holds that he served as unofficial co-director of this film, too, taking the reins during Tod Browning's uncharacteristic absences during production. No matter the messy details, his visual language is one of this film's strongest assets, all dense and dark and flooded with pulpy ink tones. He really nailed the target.

Bela Lugosi is another boon, although he isn't given much to do beyond speaking in an exotic accent and striking an attractive figure. Though he wasn't the studio's first choice, Lugosi's familiarity with the role (as star of the aforementioned theatrical production) made him an easy plug-and-play casting and he did everything in his power to own the opportunity. It's a shame he wasn't given more meat to chew; Browning seemed perfectly happy in relegating him to a string of intensely awkward, lingering, wordless close-ups.

Beyond the factors of curiosity and influence, the heart of Hollywood's very first vampire movie is awfully thin and silly. At once a film that's ahead of its time and behind the curve, it's loaded with cryptic, rambling dialogue, narrow plot developments and quaint special effects, particularly the omnipresent lifeless, dangling bats. It borrows liberally from 1922's Nosferatu and the ending is deeply anticlimactic, allegedly due to a set of eleventh-hour studio edicts. But hey, it still looks great and there's no arguing with its legacy. Thousands of monster movies owe a large part of their identity to the work Browning, Freund and company put in with Dracula. Watch one of those instead.

Hired by a corrupt American oil company to transport volatile chemicals across dangerous terrain, four men risk life and limb in pursuit of a rich payday. The job's much too risky for the refinery's usual, unionized employees, but these louts are just desperate enough to throw caution to the wind and wager everything on their own driving skills. They've had their fill of kicking around a dusty, barren, South American nowhere town, waiting for work to materialize, and the mere thought of a big score has them spending the money before they've left the garage.

The first act takes a while to find its footing, but once the rubber hits the road this is a master class in compounding suspense. Splitting time behind the wheel in two large, under-prepared equipment trucks, the men are soon at each other's throats, stressed by the trying conditions and ever-present threat of mortal disaster. They weren't exactly friendly before this endeavor, starting fights and waving weapons in a bar the night before, and the smothering anxiety only serves to fan those flames. Together, they're forced to wind around a steep, jagged mountain road, cross a field of divots at high speed and slide through a lake of spilled oil, doing their best to cooperate (and often failing at that) while remaining hyper-aware of their payload's touchy nature. The jerrycans of nitroglycerin that line their beds are so fickle, even a bad bounce could blow them all to kingdom come.

You just know that, eventually, something's going wrong. It's tough not to nibble a fingernail as the twin teams navigate one obstacle after another, balanced precariously on the metaphorical tightrope. When disaster finally strikes, the film doesn't knock our socks off. It focuses on the shockwave over the shock and awe, a whisper of rushing air that sweeps crumbled tobacco from a half-rolled cigarette and then departs, like spirits headed into the afterlife. It seemed destined that only one truck would finish this adventure - the oil company suspected as much - but the real question is, can the survivors still find a way to band together and overcome? And, if so, at what cost?

In modern-day Indonesia, a British documentarian gains access to several high-ranking members of the death squads that purged their nation of communism during the late 1960s. Over a million accused lost their lives in this genocide, many sent to a speedy demise on the back of fabricated evidence, and fifty years later, the executioners show little remorse. More the opposite: in recalling their hands-on role in the murders, the old gangsters beam with pride, freely share the secrets of their methods (a garrote, for example, means less cleanup) and boast of their quadruple-digit kill counts. Filmmakers loosened these lips by promising artistic freedom in a cinematic retelling of their old handiwork, but it doesn't seem like the killers needed much convincing. They're thrilled by the opportunity to shout their guilt to the world and can't (or won't) accept the possibility that they'll be seen as anything less than the honorable, patriotic heroes they are in their own minds.

It's a surreal experience, watching these men speak so openly about such loathsome acts while toying with their grandchildren and flaunting their collections of tacky crystal tchotchkes. Their audacity is baffling, but also hypnotizing. Doubly so when the conversation spans months and we begin to spot blemishes in that front of self-assuredness. As production of their own fantastical, self-directed short film concludes, we see the flicker of guilt blossom into a full-blown crisis of conscience for at least one participant. This doesn't keep him from gleefully cheering the absurd, colorful, playful song and dance number he's helped create as commemoration of his life's work. The same short meta-film climaxes with an executed man expressing gratitude for his own murder.

The Act of Killing is a genuinely shocking film; a rarity in the modern climate. Its bare depictions of self-deception are haunting, especially when contrasted with the fleeting occasions its subjects are finally, truly honest with themselves. I didn't enjoy this and I don't even know if I'm glad I watched it. An important document, but not a pleasant watch, it's one you'll absorb in stunned silence and soon try to forget. While it falls short on technical and cinematic levels, its sources are incredible and its message cuts deep. Just don't be misled by the cover art. This is some dark, dark material.

Will Ferrell carries his usual assortment of zany costars and ad-libbed punchlines to the NASCAR track. As the titular Ricky Bobby, a redneck racing hero, Ferrell dominates the competition until a slimy French F-1 star joins up and injects a bit of chaos into his perfect world. Making matters worse, Ricky's longtime running buddy spots opportunity in his pal's breakdown and chooses that moment to move in on his wife, his fortune and his coveted lead racing position.

The plot is as narrow and rudimentary as any of Ferrell's joints, par for the course at this stage, but Talladega Nights' real sizzle is in its rapid-fire stupidity and ridiculous cast of supporting players. This is actually Ferrell's first pairing with John C. Reilly, but their chemistry is so easy and natural that it feels like they've been working together for years. Sacha Baron Cohen is equally well-suited as the despicable Frenchman Jean Girard, an arrogant fish out of water who dares to bring his husband(!!!) to the racers' favorite watering hole. Michael Clarke Duncan delivers hilarity of a slightly different sort in his straight role as Ricky's oft-frustrated crew chief. And newcomers Houston Tumlin and Grayson Russell, who play the driver's spoiled, obnoxious young sons, Walker and Texas Ranger, might just be the best of the bunch. They definitely get some of the best lines.

Nobody should be surprised by what we have here. It's a bunch of improv comedians doing improv comedy together, wearing silly brand-stamped jumpsuits and trying their hardest not to break character while the cameras are rolling. Nothing really means anything, the announcers even say as much after the climactic race, but it made me laugh. Often. That's plenty good enough for a relaxed Friday night.

When a young boy loses his father to WWII, a lonely Sicilian projectionist grudgingly accepts the film-obsessed kid as his assistant. Childless, the older man relates to his new protégée like a son before a nitrate explosion leaves him blind and thrusts the boy into a full-time position behind the curtain. The resulting fire also destroys the town's little theater, but a local lottery winner recognizes its importance to the community and rebuilds, taking the opportunity to cut out the censor-happy cleric who's been trimming romantic content for religious reasons.

This entire story is wrapped in a golden air of fond remembrance, which should come as little surprise since it's basically the love-letter autobiography of writer/director Giuseppe Tornatore. He even filmed Cinema Paradiso in the same village that inspired it. That makes for a very intimate, revealing narrative, but also a highly idealized one. Its plot doesn't lack drama or heartache, but Tornatore chooses not to chase those trickier conflicts. He prefers the scent of rose-tinted nostalgia. The result is a very warm, sentimental experience, but also a rather loose, passive one. It's almost like a confessional, a sort of "here's why I am the way that I am" that concedes his limitations as a man while also asserting their importance to his development as an auteur. The closing montage makes for a beautiful, memorable farewell, but it was blatantly telegraphed more than a hundred minutes prior.

A passion project for director (and reticent star) Jacques Tati, who exhausted his network of financial benefactors and most of his personal fortune to see it through, PlayTime is a difficult film to categorize. It's both a comedy and a commentary, pondering the necessity of cutting-edge comforts by mocking and discrediting them. Tati stars as Monsieur Tulot, a Chaplin-esque character who wanders into a sleek new commercial mega-center seeking... something? Maybe a job? We're never really sure, and it isn't important anyway. In pursuit of a supervisor, Tulot grows hopelessly lost in the vast, glass-and-steel confines of the corporate maze. After the better part of a day, he finds his way back out to the street, only to round a corner and re-enter through the residential and entertainment gates. These areas, too, are modern to a fault. Big ideas accomplished as part of some larger, grander plan, but completely dysfunctional in a day-to-day sense.

While much bubbles under the surface, particularly the director's feelings about a then-recent remodel of downtown Paris, the film employs an extraordinarily light touch. Its plot is simple and fleeting; dialogue a mere afterthought. Most of its focus is dedicated to an onion skin of recurring visual gags that interlace, interact and compound one another. Like an orchestra, revisiting old melodies in a new context, the humor swells and fades. We explore it from fresh angles, enjoy it in different ways, find its influence everywhere. The lack of up-front, traditional storytelling belies the wealth of detail in most every background. Sometimes there are half a dozen funny bits going on at once, and none are front-and-center. A fabulously funny picture, but you'll need to seek out almost every laugh.

As Tati had full control of the set, he was afforded unusual levels of creative control. This empowered him to insist upon 70mm film stock and to indulge his pickier compositional habits. The end result is a film that looks astonishingly sharp and vibrant, even half a century later. Of course, this nearly cost him everything, as his production ran far over budget and was not immediately well-received. In retrospect, though, what does history really remember? The films that came in on-time and met the investors' estimates, or those that best captured the creator's vision? I have no doubts where this one falls. You can't afford to miss the long, chaotic scene inside a club on opening night.

Fletcher Reede, a scummy lawyer and unreliable father, catches a dose of humility when his young son uses a birthday wish to momentarily halt his fibbing ways. Thanks to a mystical plot device, dad can't tell a lie for twenty-four hours, which is bad timing as he already has a lucrative court date on the books and his estranged wife is entertaining the idea of taking the kid and leaving town. Selfish though he may be, Reede does love the little tyke and would be heartbroken to fade out of his life.

The practical rules of this curse are a little hazy. Not only must the victim speak with complete honesty, he also can't shut up or control his most basic physical urges. Any time somebody asks a question, usually of the transparent setup variety, he spits a frank opinion and then goggles, bashfully, like a misbehaving child who's about to catch the rod. Though obnoxious, this blunt mechanic works to emphasize the film's only major strength: an adlib-happy Jim Carrey in the prime of his comedic career. Or maybe just a hair past his prime. Either way, Liar Liar serves as an effective vehicle for Carrey's unique brand of contortionist charisma and far over-the-top vocalizations. These alone elevate a thin comedy, which would've otherwise made for bargain basement straight-to-video fodder, into something a few steps higher. Good enough to draw nine digits at the box office, anyway.

So it's Carrey as the magnetically overbearing sort, a role he'd already played countless times but hadn't totally worn out, trying to make things right with a cute youngster while wearing an expensive suit. Cary Elwes is here, too, but he gets very little to work with as the stiff nice guy trying to make a move on the ex. Not great, but also not a complete waste of time.

Riding coattails with a dozen camera-toting kids at the cultural event that would define a generation. During the build-up, Woodstock was expected to be a pretty big deal, but nobody dared imagine how big. At its peak, nearly half a million people gathered to share in this unique moment, abandoning their stalled cars, casting chain link fences aside and flooding the grounds in what would soon transition into a no-cost three-day event. All the while, cameras captured the arriving spectators' buzzing enthusiasm, the organizers' nervous spur-of-the-moment decision making and the artists' drug-hazed, sleep-deprived performances.

Those scraps and snippets are presented without commentary or narration; a breathing snapshot of the people and tunes that epitomized this long, spiritually-charged weekend. We don't even get titles or introductions beyond the stage announcements; a blending of civilian chit-chat and celebrity sound byte that grants a certain degree of shared humility to all. You never know if that greasy, scrappy kid eyeballing the camera is going to grab a guitar and hop up on stage as a part of the next performance. We've barely finished listening to one such hazy-eyed youngster pontificate about his love life when Jerry Garcia stops by to roll a joint and tune his guitar.

The slice-of-life bits provide great context and essential breaks between songs, but music is the film's main focus. Jimi Hendrix gets the heaviest play with five featured cuts, while most others are relegated to a single tune. Big names like CCR, The Band and The Grateful Dead don't appear at all, by request, as they were unhappy with their performances. My personal standouts include Richie Havens, Joe Cocker, Sly and the Family Stone and Arlo Guthrie. Hendrix is such a virtuoso, he plays most of his set with eyes closed and mouth agape, lost in a sort of supernaturally orgasmic trance. The Who own the stage like a genuine big-league rock band, but represent a drastic departure from the more subdued, folksy flavor of preceding acts. Carlos Santana was allegedly so high on mescaline, he thought the neck of his guitar was a serpent. It was a pretty wild gig, but the caliber of music is all over the board. I hope to never hear another Sha-Na-Na song as long as I live.

Getting through this documentary, especially the four-hour director's cut, is a marathon. As was the festival itself, from all indications. Kudos to the fans for maintaining a friendly outlook through traffic jams, schedule delays and torrential downpours. And props to the film crew for not only enduring the same, but effectively capturing the event's overwhelmingly positive, hopeful character.