Hey, remember when people used to make ambitious films? You go to the theater these days, and the best you can hope for is something approximating a coherent plot. Acting is a bonus. Special effects, sure. You never have the expectation of seeing interesting themes or ideas presented on the screen. Buttered movie popcorn helps mitigate the pain, but it can only go so far. It's just like that Smiths song says: "the [movies] they constantly play, they say nothing to me about my life." But every now and again, a director comes along who sweeps you off your feet and restores your faith in the medium of film. Enter Danny Boyle, master of the visual perspective, herald of the inexplicably gorgeous, and disciple of the human condition. He's the one who brought us the filthiest toilet in Scotland as the location of an ethereal swimming scene. He's the one who brought us an existential zombie movie. He's the one who made Hitchcock-style camera angles cool again. He's a revelation. He's a burning bush. He's a prophet from the creative ether, sent to save us all from the cinematic ennui that threatens to devour us.

Spider-Man 3--Ok, the critics have been pretty narrow-minded about this movie. Sure, it has some issues with evenness, but most of the specific criticisms that have been leveled against this movie are unfair and unfounded. First of all, the plot is complex, but not so convoluted that you can't follow it. Just set aside your expectations and go with the flow. Second, I don't think there are too many villains. Multiple bad guys is standard fare for comic books--if the superhero can't handle more than one villain at once, then maybe he doesn't really deserve to be a superhero. Third, there's a lot of time spent on the often-defunct friendship between Harry and Peter, and people seem to have a problem with that, as well as with the fact that most of the main characters cry at some point during the movie. Is it so terrible that Sam Raimi wants to depict genuine human relationships in all their complexity? There's still plenty of action, not to mention enough special effects to sink a battleship (that is, if special effects could, in fact, sink a battleship). I happen to think it does the audience a disservice to strip a film of its human element. If you want an example, just think of a bland, interchangeable Steven Seagal movie. Or better yet, think of the most recent Star Wars trilogy, then think about how hard you laughed at the "love scenes" between Anakin and Padme. Personally, I laughed pretty hard, because when the filmmaker doesn't care about the plausibility of his characters or their motivations, you just can't bring yourself to care about them either. And fifth, critics say that Spider-Man 3 is too ambitious. (Deep sigh.) Why shouldn't superhero movies be ambitious? Why shouldn't they strive for Wagnerian grandeur? If you want crappy vanilla superhero movies, just put on an endless loop of Daredevil and shut up.

Dystopian films and novels are not known for their subtlety. They tend to take one pet concept and hammer it home until your brain feels like it's hemorrhaging grape juice. (Technology BAD! Nuclear weapons BAD!) Alfonso Cuaron's Children of Men is a different story altogether. Based on the novel by P.D. James, it's a dystopian story that is not so much interested in the causes of humanity's predicament as in the humans themselves. It's not a manifesto or a parchment containing Martin Luther's 95 Theses. It's not one big chorus of "You'll notice this was all caused by Items 1, 2, and 3 on your Dystopian Checklist." There are explanations as to why the world has come to this, but they aren't discussed at length in the film because they don't really matter. We know there was a massive flu epidemic in 2008. We know that sometime after that women began having miscarriages and then they were no longer conceiving at all. We know that the governments of the world began to collapse (due to despair about the world's future, one would assume), except for Britain. We know that Britain managed to retain control by extricating itself from the chaos of the world, which would only be possible because it is an island and inherently defensible. We know that by 2027--the time the movie is set--there are zillions of people trying to get into this last bastion of civilization, and we know that the British government takes all of them and imprisons them in refugee facilities that are really no more than concentration camps. We don't waste time rehashing how exactly this all came to pass, how personal rights and dignities were sacrificed, how it worsened degree by degree. We accept the premise because it's credible, because we all know this is how people (and governments) react when they feel threatened. The only detail that really matters in terms of the story is that there hasn't been a child born in eighteen years, and there is a profound deficit of hope.

This past weekend was one of those glorious winter weekends where you end up doing virtually nothing and loving every minute of it. Nick and I planted ourselves in front of the television Friday night, all warm and cozy (the hot chocolate IV helped a lot), and just knitted until we couldn't knit anymore. It was beautiful. There was a parade of B-movies on the SciFi Channel, and we didn't change the station once the entire time, which was how we ended up seeing the Jeepers Creepers movies. (Pointless Aside: There is an episode of Loony Toons from 1939 with this same title. It features Porky Pig as a bumbling police officer who is called upon to investigate a haunted house. Funny stuff, but not the same premise at all.)

p>

Superman! Superman Superman Superman! Needless to say, I awaited the opening of this film with tremendous excitement. I was so excited, in fact, that I went to see it at its very first showing, even though Nick was unable to see it with me. I saw it again two days later (Nick was with me this time). And a week after that, I saw it in 3D at an IMAX theatre. Truth be told, I could watch it a dozen more times--in a row even, with my eyelids pried open Clockwork Orange-style--and I'd never ever ever be tired of it. Up till now my personal record for number of times viewing a film in the theatre has been 7 (The Matrix). With Supes, I may actually surpass that record. Thanks to this film, you see, I have ascended to the apex of Maslow's hierarchy of needs. I have now reached that sweet spot of self-actualization.

I see that ad for The Lake House, and all I can think about is that hideous chunky turtleneck Keanu Reeves is wearing. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm obsessed with it, so I just sit there and watch with the sort of grim fascination usually reserved for slasher films and presidential elections, and when at last the sweater appears—in all its hateful glory—I feel my blood run cold. That sweater is anathema to me. It's appalling, and I can't even say exactly why.

Let me begin by admitting to you that sometimes I exaggerate when it comes to my movie reviews. There, I said it. I know it's shocking, but it's much more fun to criticize movies than to praise them, and at times some of my righteous indignation is souped up a bit for effect. I'd like to assure you that this is not the case today. None of the following vitriol is in any way fabricated; this is one hundred percent pure disdain. The only reason I am dignifying this particular film with a blog mention is that I hope to prevent others from making the mistake I made. Do not see this film. If someone straps you to a chair in front of the screen and pries your eyelids open, force yourself to develop cataracts or something. Seriously. Because if you watch it, it will be the end of the pure childlike soul within you.

Warning: This blog entry is rife with movie spoilers.

I watched the movie Underworld over the weekend. Somehow I missed it while it was in the theaters, and now, of course, there is a sequel. Ordinarily, I wouldn't hesitate to plunk down money for a vampire film, but in this case there's source material to be absorbed and understood first. What if my negligence caused me to miss out on something critical in the film? Besides, there's something fundamentally blasphemous about watching a sequel before the original. It's disruptive to the natural order of things. As you will be aware, the movie industry pays close attention to market trends, so if sequels start outgrossing originals, then maybe we'll come to a time when a sequel is released to the theater before the original. This conundrum almost occurred with the spectacular success of Terminator 2, but was laid to rest again with the spectacular failures of both Matrix sequels. So anyway, this is why I decided to watch the original of Underworld before venturing to the theater and creating a rift in the space-time continuum. Because I care about the world, and because I don't want the natural flow of time getting all wonky and repeating itself. One Hitler was enough.

What if James Bond had been a cowboy instead of a spy?

Well, for starters, he would have a country twang. Every use of "Bond, James Bond" would be preceded by a hearty "Howdy, Ma'am." Rather than reporting to the good folks at MI-6, he'd be comparing notes with the head wrangler at the Lazy M Ranch. He would take his whiskey shaken not stirred. All of his cavorting and intrigue would take place on cattle drives and in saloons. It'd be fun.

—One stick of doom

The Deer Hunter was the feelgood movie of 1978.

Yes, and if you buy that one, you might just believe the advertising hype concerning The Fog, and how it's a breathtaking thriller that you simply must see. Such a claim is comical, because really, this is the sort of film you shouldn't watch unless you have been strapped to a theater chair—your eyelids pried open like Alex de Large—and the poison gas mechanism stored in your false tooth will not deploy.

In other words, it's pretty bad.

Saturday afternoon, Nick and I were feeling pretty bored. It was hot outside, and our usual industrious spirit (haha) had gone the way of the parachute pant. This is how we ended up anchored to the sofa for hours on end, watching John Carpenter's Body Bags on television.

We'd never heard of this movie, but how could we not give it a chance? After all, we're talking about John Carpenter, the man who brought us the Halloween films, Escape from L.A., Big Trouble in Little China, and—my personal favorite—They Live. This is a man with vision. True, it may be the sort of vision you'd have if you drank a bottle of Jagermeister and visited the Mutter Museum, but it's vision, nonetheless.

I'm one of the multitudes who have grown increasingly disenchanted with the Batman franchise. About the time Chris O'Donnell and Alicia Silverstone hit the set, I lost all hope for its redemption. But then the previews for Batman Begins came out and, in spite of myself, I was intrigued. So last week, on a dark and stormy night, Nick and I made our way to the theater and plunked down our eight and a half bucks. We were not disappointed. Forget the original Batman campfest. Forget the increasingly painful sequels. The new Batman is dark, like the graphic novels, and really, really good.

It should come as no surprise to any of my readers that on my last visit to the video store, I picked up the two titles with the strangest cover art I could find. This is one of my favorite methods for movie selection, although sometimes I prefer to just close my eyes and grab something random from the cult section. But the cover art method is how I ended up watching A Tale of Two Sisters, a South Korean horror film, and Acne, a black and white film about teenagers who mutate because of the oil leakage in their drinking water. I could not have found a trippier couple of films.

Rarely have I been so excited to see a film, then so disappointed to hear the reviews of it (both professional and anecdotal), then so delighted with the film itself. This is exactly the progression I experienced with Shaun of the Dead, and I have to say I'm baffled that people don't like this film. Sure, it's darker than I expected, but it's phenomenally funny, original, and just messed up enough to haunt you a bit—in a good way—mostly. Directed by Edgar Wright, Shaun of the Dead seems to be just as much about everyday trials and minutiae as it is about an epidemic of dead people who eat the living. It's like Monty Python combined with George Romero combined with The Office. (Incidentally, the film also features Lucy Davis, known to fans of The Office as receptionist Dawn Tinsley.)

The film opens with a montage of mundane city scenes, showing people standing in line, riding on the bus, and generally looking like zombies already. This sets the stage for our introduction to 29-year-old Shaun, who works as an assistant manager in an electronics store and is mercilessly ridiculed by his teenaged coworkers. He means well but just can't get his life together. He keeps forgetting to visit his mother, and his girlfriend Liz breaks up with him because he takes her to the same pub every night, even on their 3-year anniversary. Shaun needs something to jolt him out of his rut. And when you think about it, what better motivator could there be than a worldwide zombie apocalypse?

The other day, I was in a taxi with an MGM executive who just happened to leave behind a piece of paper. Curious, I took a look at it and was astonished by what I read. For your edification, I have reprinted it verbatim.

Nick got me the DVD of Blade: Trinity for my birthday because he knew how much I loved the original. So Saturday night, we sat down with some popcorn and Entenmann's donuts and settled in for some serious camp. Here's a not-so-quick rundown.

Here's the commercial for xXx: State of the Union, starring Ice Cube. Nameless government flunkie: "Can you protect the president?" Ice Cube: "There's only one way to find out." Does this strike anyone as odd? Somehow, I don't think the U.S. Secret Service would deem that an adequate response. But whatever—it's an action movie. And besides, who can pay attention to issues of logic when there is so much freaky-cool fighting going on? Just when you start to parse what the action hero said—enough to realize that the phrase, "Yeah, and you'll go get me a pizza" doesn't make a lot of sense in context—you're jolted out of your rumination by the glorious spectacle of a speedboat exploding.

In order to glean more information about this blockbuster-to-be, I interviewed a person who was intimately involved in the filming of xXx: State of the Union. For the sake of privacy (his own and his family's), he wishes to be kept anonymous. Here's what he had to say.

I've been thinking a lot lately about the movie, American Psycho. Just last Monday, my friend and I saw a gentleman in downtown KC who was the embodiment of Patrick Bateman, vice president. He didn't just resemble him; he was him. He wore a long wool coat over designer business attire, and he was wearing headphones. Remember Christian Bale at the beginning of the film, walking purposefully through his office listening to "I'm Walkin' on Sunshine"? It was just like that. You could just tell this guy lives a life of profound self-delusion.

Well, the world is in chaos, and that means it's time for us to focus on something frivolous again. Enter the 77th Annual Academy Awards! Here are my extremely well-informed predictions about the event. I would love to explain why they are well informed, but I don't want to reveal too much about my connections. There are those who would call me a Hollywood Insider. However, I'm not the kind of woman to use name dropping in order to garner the respect of my readers. You may judge for yourself. Like I was saying to John Leguizamo the other day, "you've got to stand up on your own merits, and not let other people engineer the choo-choo train of your creativity."

When someone is reading a book in a movie, it's usually a cheap way for the movie makers to invoke some of the dignity and seriousness of purpose of great literature (think Serendipity, with its gratuitous use of Love in the Time of Cholera). But when Christian Bale tosses down a copy of Dostoevsky's The Idiot at the beginning of The Machinist, it's much more legitimate. Yes, it serves as movie shorthand for madness, but it's also a clue as to how you should think of the film. Having read a boat-load of Dostoevsky, I tried to prepare myself for a long, tortuous journey in which the main character's shifting internal landscape would be all we had to go on in terms of interpreting reality. You see, Dostoevsky was always writing about insanity, particularly insanity resulting from guilt, and his characters tended to go to horrifying, unthinkable lengths to shield themselves from the consequences of whatever it is they did.

Have you ever been so cold you thought your heart would just stop beating? That your massive bodily shivering might somehow trigger an avalanche from hundreds of miles away? These were my thoughts as I walked the block and a half through the biting cold to Liberty Hall for the movie last night. Man, it was cold. But I really wanted to see this movie, so I endured it, when I might just as easily have been cuddled up at home with a mug of hot chocolate and a brand-new DVD of Aqua Teen Hunger Force. I'm not sorry I went, but the movie was not exactly what I expected.

—three sticks of doom

This holiday, I took time out from the compulsory gluttony and merriment to enjoy Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events. My friends and I had to sit a little too close to the screen, and at a slightly obtuse angle (no jokes, please), but although we considered extracting several kids from their primo seats, we chose the way of peace instead. I don't mind telling you that we would have kicked their little fifth-grade buttocks. It would have been appropriate, too, because in the world of Lemony Snicket (much like in real life), this is exactly the sort of thing grown-ups do, without reason or provocation.

Can't you just see Elrond at family gatherings? He's old, crotchety, and hard of hearing—one of those veterans who loves recounting his wartime exploits. "Did I ever tell you about the war with Sauron?" he asks, and the grandchildren roll their eyes, because they know very well what's coming. This story has been told at every holiday meal for a thousand years, and the tradition is likely to continue for another thousand.

Have you heard the one about the woman who went into a coma and didn't wake up until after German reunification? This is the clever premise for Good Bye Lenin, a film by Wolfgang Becker that is both tender and humorous, heartbreaking and romantic.

It's early 1990. Alex (Daniel Brühl), who narrates the film, explains that his mother (Katrin Saß) is a loyal member of the socialist party in East Germany. She adores Lenin, and has pretty much dedicated her life to furthering the ideals of socialism. When she sees her son being arrested at an anti-socialist protest, however, the woman has a heart attack and slips into a coma. Eight months later, she wakes up to a changed world. The doctor assures Alex and his sister that if their mother encounters anything upsetting or shocking, she will almost certainly have another heart attack and die, so Alex decides that they simply won't tell her the whole business about Erich Honecker's resignation and the Wall coming down. They will pretend that nothing has changed.

1/2—one and a half sticks of doom

Sideways fancies itself a grown-up film of the most sophisticated sort. We have middle-aged adults in romantic situations, and we have a whole lot of wine drinking, sniffing bouquets, etc. But do not be fooled into thinking this film is a late heir to The Big Chill. When you look beneath the surface, there is nothing sophisticated about Sideways. It's the cinematic equivalent of boxed wine.

—three sticks of doom

It takes a lot of guts to use a Johnny Cash song in a zombie movie, but Zack Snyder's Dawn of the Dead does it, and does it well. Imagine scenes of rampant carnage, wanton destruction, and the occasional close-up zombie glamour shot, all set against the folksy backdrop of "The Man Comes Around," Cash's famed song about the End Times. Brilliant, in my opinion. And this is just one example of the kind of detailed craftsmanship that makes this film so fun, gruesome and, ultimately, watchable.

1/2—two and a half sticks of doom

It's impossible to talk about Mean Girls without talking about Heathers. The themes are mostly the same. Teenagers live in a world of social stratification, in which the lunch table you sit at determines your status; intermingling of groups is discouraged; and there is always a clique of mean girls ruling over it all. In Heathers, they go by the eponymous moniker, "the Heathers"; in Mean Girls, it's "the Plastics." Both films feature a single outsider who infiltrates the ranks of the privileged clique, and causes havoc from within. But compared with the comically violent Heathers, Mean Girls is one big genteel catfight.

Friday night, I watched The Ladykillers, the Coen brothers' loose remake of an earlier movie with the same name. In the film, Tom Hanks portrays a refined Greek classicist who leads a band of eccentric criminals through a woefully mismanaged casino robbery. Dressed the part of a southern gentleman, he sports a white suit and a Colonel Sanders beard throughout most of the film. He has a florid, arcane way of speaking and a brand of eccentric laughter that makes him sound like he is hyperventilating. (These quirks are explained somewhat by the fact that his father was a librarian in a mental institution—an inmate, if you must know.) The movie is quite sly, keeping you on your toes from start to finish, and it's full of the kind of dark humor that can only come from delving into human iniquity. Plus, there's a lot of great gospel music to keep your spirits up between misadventures.

I'm not sure why The Ladykillers didn't catch on, even with the art theater crowd. People may have been mystified by the violence and the rather high body count, but could they have already forgotten the wood chipper of yesteryear? Surely that was much worse. Do I need to remind everyone of the stockinged foot sticking out of the top? Now that's comedy.

Start with 1 lb. of technology gone awry. Add 3/4 c. human enslavement, 1/2 c. marauding gangs, 1/4 c. people converted into food or power, 1 can of Carousel, and 1 Tablespoon constant government surveillance. Fold in two Sly Stallones. Heat mixture at 451 degrees Fahrenheit for 19.84 minutes. Sprinkle with a pinch of deadly road race, and you have Easy Baked Dystopia. For best results, use Terry Gilliam's oven.

It's official. They'll make a Broadway musical about anything. I have recently learned that The Last Starfighter—that campy, outrageously bad 1984 film—has been converted to a musical and will debut on Broadway within the next few months. It's a shame Robert Preston is dead, because he's the only one of the original cast who actually could have reprised his role from the original.

This was officially Quentin Tarantino weekend in our household. Bravo was showing Jackie Brown, followed by Pulp Fiction, and we rented Kill Bill Volumes 1 and 2. Watching Bravo's version of Jackie Brown, however, I was mystified by the repeated references to melon farmers. Every five minutes, Samuel L. Jackson was calling someone this epithet, and I inferred from his inflection that it was not a term of endearment. For instance, there's a scene in which the characters watch a video about assault weapons. Jackson's character narrates the video, and when it gets to the part about the AK-47, he says this about it: "When you absolutely, positively, gotta kill every melon farmer in the room—accept no substitutes."

As I've mentioned before, Nick and I recently went to Colorado. What I didn't mention was that we stayed in a hotel with one of those Nintendo things in the room. We scanned the menu listing the available games, and when we made it through the list, the menu continued into the adult films. For a lark, we checked out the titles and laughed at their ridiculous pictures. But after the catalog of 50 or so films had gone by and we went back to the games, a gnawing realization began to insinuate itself on my brain. Every single one of these films—whether about chesty cheerleaders, naughty nurses, or buxom beekeepers—was targeted toward white heterosexual men. What's up with that? Notice to hotel chains everywhere, not everyone in this country is a white heterosexual man. Perhaps you've never realized this? Once in a great while someone who is of another gender, race, or orientation may happen to wander into your hotel. They may be feeling lonely and seeking out a few creature comforts. But instead of solace, they will be faced with adult media that in no way represents their culture or interests. It's a travesty, is what it is.

Have you ever had a dream that you were so sure was real? Was Elvis there, but old, grizzled, and with a walker? Was there also an old black man calling himself JFK? And was there some redneck mummy starting trouble in a small Texas nursing facility? If so, then you likely weren't dreaming at all, but watching Bubba Ho-Tep, the Second Greatest Story Ever Told. (We'll let JC keep his props for the first.)

That's right, folks. Bubba Ho-Tep is my new favorite movie.

½—one and a half sticks of doom

Imagine the movie Red Dragon. Pretty good, huh? Then imagine someone integrating a convoluted plot in which Gandhi kills the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, Aaron Eckhart gobbles up aspirin with narcotic fervor, and a stony-faced Trinity is the patron saint of FBI agents. Then throw in a little Darren Aronofsky, and you've got Suspect Zero, a muddled re-telling of every serial killer movie you've ever seen.

The new Exorcist movie is going to suck. I'm sure of it, and I'll tell you why. William Friedkin will not be directing it, and William Peter Blatty will not be writing it. Renny Harlin is the director of Exorcist: The Beginning, and if his previous films are any indication (Cliffhanger, Deep Blue Sea), there will be lots of sinewy, muscled men and women who must take their clothes off for reasons of safety. In other words, this newest foray into demon possession may be a deliciously bad flick, but it definitely, absolutely, positively will not be a good one.

—four sticks of doom

Several people have mentioned to me that they don't want to see Napoleon Dynamite. "High school was hard enough the first time," they say, "and I don't want to relive it." To them I say: you must watch this film, because it's the only way to achieve any sort of catharsis. But really, this isn't a film for ex-geeks or ex-jocks or ex-anything in particular. It's no glossy, bittersweet John Hughes flick, either—the geeks at this high school don't look like John Cusack or Anthony Michael Hall (who only seemed dorky because they were so young). Nope, Director Jared Hess has Fellini's eye for weird yet engaging faces, and he has used this talent to assemble a completely believable ensemble of misfits. Napoleon himself (played by Jon Heder) has an angular face, buck teeth, and an unsettling way of speaking through his mouth and his nose at the same time. We're talking Grade A prime geek, here.

1. The Fifth Element—Bruce Willis' orange tank top with the cut-out back (P.S. This movie shares one actor in common with Blade Runner. Can you name him?)
2. Cliffhanger—John Lithgow and his hilarious British accent

—three sticks of doom

Jim Jarmusch likes the mundane. He likes those quotidian moments that happen between dramatic episodes, because that's where some of the greatest truths of human interaction are revealed. To make a film about such moments requires tremendous skill and subtlety, and lucky for us, Jarmusch has both of these attributes in spades. The problem is—to paraphrase Sigmund Freud—sometimes a mundane moment is just a mundane moment.

Coffee and Cigarettes, which Jarmusch wrote and directed, is comprised of 11 black-and-white vignettes. These vignettes are not related or necessarily sequential, but there are common themes and phrases that repeat throughout. Almost every vignette features someone who says, "Coffee and cigarettes—that's not a very healthy lunch." Another repetition occurs when RZA and GZA from the Wu-Tang Clan discuss the inherent connections between music and the practice of medicine. This comes after a bar scene in which Tom Waits informs Iggy Pop that he was late because he had to perform a tracheotomy with a ball point pen.

—three sticks of doom

A crowd is gathering around the cafe. Doc Ock’s mechanical tentacles are coiling sinuously, and he tells you you’d better bring him Spider-Man, or he’ll turn your lady friend into tasty mincemeat pie. What do you do?

—three sticks of doom

In Super Size Me, Maverick filmmaker Morgan Spurlock embarked on what he described as "every 8-year-old's dream": to eat McDonald's food every day for a month. Morning, noon, and night, the only stuff he ate was food that had been lovingly fried and processed beneath the golden arches. The rules were these:

1. He had to have every item on the menu.
2. He had to super-size every time he was asked.
3. He could only walk as much as the average person with an office job and a sedentary lifestyle (5,000 steps a day).

His girlfriend, who is a vegan chef, was appropriately horrified. Spurlock enlisted the help of three physicians, and checked in periodically to see how much damage had been done. By the end of week one, he had put on 8 pounds. Keep in mind that's more than a pound a day. But that's nothing, because by the end of the month—prepare yourself, please—he had put on a total of 25 pounds. He had also gotten to the point where his family physician became livid and told him "Stop the experiment. Stop it or your liver's going to shut down."

Well, here I am, and I've finally seen the new Harry Potter movie. My ticket stub says "Harry—Prison," which is funny right off the bat. But let's get some embarrassing business out of the way first. As you may have noticed, I've begun cranking my way through the HP books. I admit, I was an extremely reluctant reader. I distrust anything that the whole world is raving about, and I resisted for a long time. In the end I succumbed because I love literature of all sorts, and I can't resist the promise of a great read. It was also so I wouldn't feel so freakin' left out in family conversations. Just imagine if, for some unimaginable reason, you hadn't seen Star Wars, and everyone around you was chattering about it endlessly, day in and day out, from July 4th to Turkey Day. "Oh, I keep forgetting you haven't seen it," they'd say, looking as if they felt quite sorry for you. "But like I was saying, Han Solo is really the embodiment of the mythic trickster figure in ancient cultures"—and so on.

Alfonse Cuaron directed, and I was a little curious how that would turn out. The last film of his, Y Tu Mama Tambien, was thematically fun but WAY racier than anything J.K. Rowling has written (at least in Books 1 through 3—I can't speak for 4 and 5). What Cuaron did, though, was bring the vitality and energy of his other movies to an enterprise in dire need of a makeover. If he hadn't stepped in, the HP movies may have gotten stranded Friday the 13th-style (remember: there were supposed to be 13 of those puppies) and just petered out after the fourth movie. But thanks to Cuaron's infusion of life, HP is no longer slogging along in quiet desperation, sagging under the weight of its own glossy charms. No longer is the audience lying still and thinking of England. Prisoner of Azkaban has such an exuberance to it that viewers should be more than happy to forgive its minor flaws and missteps. And if the viewers are not so inclined, then they're a bunch of ungrateful gits.

(Yesterday was my birthday. Happy birthday to me!)

Westworld is an old, bad favorite of mine. Directed and written by Michael Crichton, it stars Yul Brynner as an evil cowboy robot, which really should be enough to sell the movie all by itself. (Brynner is not exactly reprising his role from The Magnificent Seven, but you can see why the casting director thought of him.) A smirking James Brolin costars, along with a dark-haired, mustachioed man whose name I have not bothered to look up. Dick Van Patten also makes an appearance, camouflaged behind a pair of thick glasses that practically scream Lambda Lambda Lambda.

½—two and one half sticks of doom

p>I saw the indie film May a week ago and was totally freaked out by it. Afterward, I said to myself, "Why would anyone make a movie like that? It's so cruel and ugly." But the movie lingered in my brain, incubated, and finally grew into one of those huge, furry monsters like in the Bugs Bunny cartoons. I couldn't exorcise it. Things started occurring to me about the themes and structure—things I was too shocked to pay attention to—and I came to the understanding that there was way more stuff going on withMay than I had given it credit for.

—Two sticks of doom

The world as seen in The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen is very much an alternate universe kind of place, full of anachronistic technology and characters drawn from turn-of-the-last-century literature. We are told at the outset that all hell is breaking loose, as hell is bound to do, and the League is the only thing capable of preventing...something really heinous from happening. Actually, I suspect the best way to describe this movie is by describing the members of the League itself, since their interactions are the most interesting thing about the movie (and since there is no plot to speak of). Here we go.

How happy is the blameless vestal's lot!
The world forgetting, by the world forgot.
Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind!
Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd.
—Alexander Pope (not Pope Alexander)

½

My favorite part of a movie is always the beginning—the opening credits, where anything can happen and the realm of possibility stretches ahead like a vast, undiscovered universe. You're like an infant at this point—utterly without knowledge, virginal, a larva without wings. You have no idea yet if you'll like the movie or hate it. You are tabula rasa. The opening credits often provide the first suggestion of the film's themes, showing images or scenes that will prove relevant later on. Some are straightforward cityscapes; some are the equivalent of abstract paintings. You might see the silhouettes of undulating Bond girls, or a hapless Woody Allen ambling down a New York street. And who could forget the visual gourmet dished up in the credits of American Psycho? Even credit sequences that don't feature a garden of ocular delights can effectively set the mood—with music. What all of these approaches have in common, though, is the ability to transport you (the viewer) to a place of eager expectation. And it's that anticipation, that childlike longing to be entertained, that makes movie-watching a soulful and spectacular experience.

With Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, I had that feeling the entire way through.

I've had a couple of freaky dreams about John Turturro recently, so I figured it was about time I went to see him in Secret Window. I knew this movie had the potential to scare the crap out of me, but I went anyway because: a) I like to be scared; and b) I didn't really believe it would be that scary. Hollywood has rarely done right by Stephen King, after all. The only truly great Stephen King adaptation was The Shining, and that was because Kubrick was a genius. The first time I watched it (age 12, I think), I was practically peeing my pants from the opening credits, when the car was driving through that incongruously sunny mountain pass and you hear the Dies Irae thundering in the background. That's the thing about The Shining—it scares you even when nothing is going on. You could be watching a fat man eat a hero sandwich and you'd be scared. And let me tell you, by the time the blood came gushing out of the elevator, I was huddled up in a little ball like a hedgehog, perfectly paralyzed with fright but unable to change the station for fear of missing what happened next. That legacy is a lot to live up to. But then, Secret Window did star the two John-Johns, both of whom typically have a knack for sniffing out great scripts, so there still was plenty of reason for optimism. I was less optimistic about the audience, which was mostly comprised of slovenly high school kids who split their time between heckling the onscreen real estate ads (to be fair, I do this, too) and spouting peculiar non sequiturs: ("Dude, if I was the first guy to get pregnant, I'd be a billionaire").

Yeah, dude. If only.

Ah, the sweet diversion of an Ed Wood, Jr film, like a comfortable pair of kinky stiletto shoes. And so we witness Orgy of the Dead. Of course, given the time this was made, there's nothing that even remotely resembles the type of orgy teenage boys were imagining when they sneaked into the local drive-through to see this. It's more an orgy in the sense of "a secret rite in the cults of ancient Greek or Roman deities, typically involving frenzied singing, dancing, and drinking." And not even that, unless your definition of dancing includes a woman awkwardly tossing her breasts around like twin propellers. So yes, there is nudity, but it's way more perplexing than it is erotic. I promise.

Well, here's the requisite Oscars blog, a bit late. This is the first time I have ever sat down and watched all four hours of this interminable ego-fest. I have to say, first, that the story of the Oscars is partly the story of the programming chosen by other stations to compete with it. Like Tom Jones, they try to seduce you away from the main attraction. USA is showing Braveheart. SciFi is showing Stargate (the movie, not the series). And the WB is showing that holy of holies, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I mean, how can you compete with the happiest, funniest, most charming movie ever made? One station is showing Star Wars: Episode 1, although I think this naked attempt to lure viewers may backfire once Jar Jar Binks appears (he's Bantha fodder).

For our first wedded Valentine's Day, Nick bought me my very own copy of Harold and Maude, the 1971 Hal Ashby film in which a young man falls in love with an octogenarian. I maintain that this is the most romantic movie ever made (although Steven Shainberg's quirky Secretary comes in a close second). Forget the sappy, weirdly jingoistic Casablanca. Forget Gone with the Wind, which is racist, sexist, and way too long. H & M is the real deal.

Paris, 1900. From the moment the show began—all sepia and grainy like an old silent film—I was charmed but wary. Would the much-touted Moulin Rouge be too self-consciously vintage? Would its preciousness disgust me? What would the sets look like? Why have I never noticed how much Ewan McGregor resembles Kenneth Branagh? (It must be the beard.) Should I go to the bathroom now, or wait until the halfway point?

Man, do I love Independence Day. Alien attack movies are always fun, but this one is the best because it has more destruction scenes than all the others put together. Will Smith is mouthy as always, Randy Quaid is in rare, redneck form, and there's enough Jeff Goldblum to muck up a lifetime of fly paper ("help me, please help me"). Data McStar-Trek is funny as that freaky Deadhead scientist, and Bill Pullman is the goofy, incorruptible president we all wish we had. And in a film like this, there is no such thing as nuanced portraits of good and evil, so when That One Guy first appears as the Secretary of Defense, he might as well be wearing an eye patch and chortling "bwoo-ha-ha-ha!"

In America, Jim Sheridan's new film, tells the story of an Irish family that moves to New York in the 80s. Just as you would imagine, they are in search of that elusive phenomenon that involves both America and the rapid-eye-movement stage of sleep (notice how I circumnavigate a certain overused phrase?). But this film goes way beyond that. It's not even really about the experience of immigration—it's about four people who just happen to be immigrants.

It's not often you run across a film that is expertly acted but entirely devoid of all meaning and substance. 21 Grams has that rare distinction. Here is the plot in a nutshell. Three people are devastated. They are devastated from the very beginning, they arc through a period of lesser devastation, and then this lesser devastation gradually resolves into—unholy, unthinkable devastation. It's like being at a funeral for two and a half hours—but not the normal kind of funeral, where the family holds it together for the sake of appearances—this is more like the kind where people scream and tear their hair out and leap into the casket. Possibly even a Viking funeral, where horses and servants are sacrificed, too, and all the carcasses go onto an enormous flaming pyre that crackles and sizzles like a smoldering volcano, and pretty soon the pyre erupts, filling the sky with clouds of ash and fire and smoke. The explosion is so massive it's visible from space.

It's been brought to my attention (by one of those treasured friends who you can count on to tell you gently but firmly that for the sake of civility you just MUST wipe that mucus from your nose) that there has been a glaring omission from my list of Greatest Terrible Films of All time, in All Possible Universes. For the sake of artistic purity, I will not be altering that list. I suspect that if I did, I would not be able to stop--I would just keep changing it and changing it, to the exclusion of every other activity in my life, until I finally collapsed from exhaustion while scratching out yet another apologia about why I've decided that Sorority Slaughter or Alien Anarchists really deserves a place on my list. But I do feel a little bad about excluding this film, so here goes. Consider it an amendment to the list, but it will be the only one, or else I would just keep adding and adding ... (see earlier discussion of compulsive descent into madness).

1. Death Race 2000, starring Sly Stallone, some other people, and yes, Grasshopper, David Carradine! I think we've all fantasized about this (driving over pedestrians for points, not David Carradine, although there's something mighty fetching about that bizarro rubber suit he's wearing...). And in case you thought the eponymous death race was just for men, there are some great women racers, too. Vive le difference!