Reviews

I first saw Rocky in the theater when I was a little kid back in the 1976 and remember liking it, though being a bit bored during the whole Adrian romantic subplot. If it inspired me to want to be a boxer, which it no doubt did for many young boys of that era, it soon got swamped in my imagination by more kid-friendly fodder like Star Wars, War Games, and Raiders of the Lost Ark.

Like all classic movies it's easy to take Rocky for granted. But watching it again this weekend I was reminded that it is an extraordinary film. Never mind that Stallone has not come close to repeating its success (artistically) since then and his name has long ago become a punch line. His screenplay for Rocky is exquisite, and his performance unforgettable. It's no wonder that critics compared him to a young Marlon Brando. And in fact, Rocky has much in common with Brando's similarly iconic Terry Malloy in On The Waterfront. A couple of boxing bums wrestling with redemption.

It's funny how unreliable memory can be. For the last, oh, 30 years or so, I've been operating on the assumption that, of course, Rocky won his first epic fight with Apollo Creed by knocking him out in the last round. So I was shocked to discover that it actually ends in a split decision. I was also amazed that Rocky is in reality a gritty, soulful, kitchen-sink drama bookended by two boxing bouts which has more in common with Paddy Chayevsky's Marty, for instance, than other underdog sports films such as director John Avildsen's later The Karate Kid.

There are so many smart, pitch-perfect, gutsy little choices in Stallone's screenplay where he pours honest emotion and breathes real life into scenes instead of following some stale formula. The long take of him staring slack-jawed at the picture in the mirror of himself as a boy. No words, just the soul-searching look on his face and the silent eloquence of his sorry apartment all around him. Another long take of him dragging himself out of bed before dawn, cracking precisely six raw eggs into a glass and gulping it down. (Is that really healthy? Doesn't matter. You buy it because it's sold so well.) Then willing his tired bones out the door and lumbering around Philadelphia in what passes for a morning jog. The pet-shop scenes where he babbles like a lovestruck schoolboy at the virtually unresponsive Adrian. Huffing after ice-skating Adrian in the otherwise empty rink in his loafers, the ill-tempered owner counting down the lousy 10 minutes he grants them off-screen as Rocky desperately attempts to make a connection with her. (It would have been so easy to have Rocky lusting after some beautiful blonde, or perhaps trying to reform a sexy stripper or hooker, but, no, he chooses mousy, introverted Adrian. I didn't get it when I was a kid, but I get it now. They match. They "fill each other's gaps.") Another long, quiet take of Rocky alone in the giant empty arena the night before the fight. (Note to screenwriters everywhere: don't be afraid of strategically placed long takes, even wordless ones – they can accomplish just as much as dialogue, often more).

But the most extraordinary scene is between Rocky and grizzled, miserable old trainer Mick in Rocky's apartment. Mick finds out Rocky is getting the chance to fight Apollo, knows he's been a bastard to Rocky all these years, but pathetically tries to make nice so he can share a bit of the limelight as Rocky's trainer. Rocky resents the hell out of the two-faced little front runner for it, but grudgingly hears the old man out. He bites his tongue, tries to hold his emotions in check, until Mick gets the message that he's not wanted and exits. And then Rocky erupts in an electrifying tirade, unleashing all the hurt feelings and blows to his pride he's kept inside for years in the now empty apartment while Mick listens meekly at the bottom of the stairs. But it doesn't end there, lamely and predictably, with the underdog more determined than ever to go it alone. If Rocky is going to have a shot, any shot at all, with Creed, he knows he NEEDS Mick. Pride be damned. He races after Mick and catches up to him at the end of the street in a beautiful, silent, unbroken long shot. An arm around the shoulder. A handshake. I've done my venting. All is forgiven. Let's roll.

Rocky also boasts perhaps the second most memorable film theme music by Bill Conti, right behind John Williams' score for Jaws, and fine supporting performances from Talia Shire, Burgess Meredith, Burt Young, Carl Weathers, and Joe Spinnell, not to mention inspired direction from Avildsen. So Stallone didn't quite become the next Brando. How's the old saying go? Better to have been compared to Brando once than to have never been compared to Brando at all. Rocky remains Stallone's shining hour.

What has happened to critical thinking if an alarmingly slight, paper-thin, numbingly predictable, cliché-ridden movie like "In Good Company" gets glowing reviews and a collective rating of 7.1? Before I go any further, yes, I realize this comment will be spitefully rated as not "useful" because I don't agree with the majority, but I think I'll go ahead and contribute my two cents just the same.

It's mystifying what went wrong because it seems to have a lot going for it: it was made by the folks behind the excellent "About a Boy," it boasts what would seem to be a very topical, timely premise of a 26-year-old hot shot not only replacing the 50-something old pro as boss, but also secretly dating his daughter, and it stars fine young actors Scarlet Johannson and Topher Grace, and rugged, reliable Dennis Quaid.

But where "About a Boy" explored its subject matter, "In Good Company" skates over it, where "AAB" spurned clichés, "IGC" clings to them, and where "AAB" developed its characters, "IGC" stunts their growth.

You want clichés? Where do I start? Let's see – how about Selma Blair as Grace's bored, bitchy wife who wants out of the marriage less than 20 minutes into the film even though her golden boy husband has just gotten a major promotion and is "being groomed"? If you're going to make the wife that two-dimensionally detestable – a shamefully transparent script-writing device to make the lead more sympathetic – at least make her early exit funny or interesting or memorable. But Blair isn't even granted that – she just acts like a zombie in her first scene, then packs her suitcases in the second, perfunctorily delivers the news that she doesn't love him anymore in a dismally unimaginative scene, and walks out the door. A smart film would have given the wife some humanity, some hint of a reason why these two people were attracted to each other in the first place, but this isn't a smart film, and so she's unceremoniously dumped from the story, having served her ignominious purpose, never to be heard from again. (And you get the feeling that Blair the actress couldn't be more thankful)

You've got the two-dimensional, soulless corporate sleaze bag who fires people with glee, insults Quaid to his face, kisses up to the head honcho, and even recruits a ringer for the company basketball game. Gee, do you think he represents what Grace is on the road to becoming if he doesn't wise up?

There's another throwaway scene early on where Quaid's youngest daughter gets a phone call from a boy, Quaid picks up the extension and tells the boy that if he ever offers alcohol or weed to his daughter, he'll hunt him down and have him neutered.

Are there people out there who actually find this funny? That's like a bad line from some third-rate sitcom.

Later, Quaid takes it upon himself to tell two longtime coworkers that they've been fired, though it's actually Grace's responsibility. Here, I'm expecting the movie to perhaps redeem itself, to think of some inventive way or angle to approach this pivotal moment and break out of its narrative straitjacket. But no, more clichés. A grave Quaid tells them they're being let go, says he's really sorry, gets chewed out by the angry coworker who storms out, and is made to feel guilty by the other. Can you say "boring"?

And yet, the reviewer for the San Fran Chronicle gushes that the movie boasts an unusually literate script for a Hollywood film! Oh, yeah, Grace repeatedly telling Johannson how beautiful she is and her replying "thank you" is literate dialog? Or the two of them meeting for dinner and Johannson dully informing him that she has a class at 3:00? Or the obligatory restaurant confrontation scene where Quaid finds out they've been seeing each other and slugs Grace? But not before we get that golden, quotable line from Grace that has so seldom been uttered in the history of the cinema, "It's not what it looks like. Let me explain."

Earlier, the morning after being seduced by Quaid's daughter, Grace runs into Quaid and acts nervous and jumpy around him. Could have and should have been a funny moment but it isn't because it seems like Grace is winging the lines and the lines aren't funny. There are quite a few moments like this throughout the film where the tone is flip and lighthearted, and you keep waiting for a funny punch line that never comes. It's almost as if director and writer Weitz thinks that by stripping all of the best jokes out of the film, he'll be more likely to be considered a serious film maker.

And that brings me to the problem at the root of the film. Grace and Johannson. They never connect as a couple, primarily because Johannson's character is embarrassingly underwritten. There's almost less to her than there is to the movie. She's growing into her beauty, attends NYU, loves her dad but cherishes her newfound independence and is studying creative writing – and that's ALL we ever get to know about her. She has no quirks, no edges, and when she breaks up with Grace, we wonder why, because there seems to be absolutely nothing else going on in her life. She seems to only exist to have Grace fall in love with her. Couldn't she do her creative writing while Grace is admiring and commenting on her great beauty and just look up every so often and say thanks?

I won't even go into the hopelessly anticlimactic ending which unfolds with all the drama of a shrug. If you're interested in seeing a good movie about the workplace, try "Patterns" or "Clockwatchers." "In Good Company" is a limp sitcom pilot masquerading as a feature film.

I've postponed seeing this film for quite a while for obvious reasons: it's arguably the most hated film ever made, perhaps even more than "Battlefield Earth." But last night morbid curiosity finally got the best of me and I caught it on Encore.

And amazingly, astonishingly, against all odds, it's not that bad. It isn't great, it isn't even quite good, but on a scale of 1 to 10, I'd give it a 6. It's okay. It held my interest from start to finish and even had some intriguing elements that far less notorious failures have lacked.

What surprised me most was how heartfelt and engaging it was, thanks mainly to one of Ben Affleck's best performances. Turns out he's got a real flair for comedy; his half-baked Robert DeNiro impersonation is a hoot, and I have no doubt is quite intentional. The movie is built around his baffled/flummoxed/bemused/exasperated reactions to his ill-tempered boss, gorgeous lesbian watchdog, and handicapped hostage, and they're all quite believable and funny. Naturally, given the amount of vitriol that was directed at the film, I assumed that Affleck just phoned in his performance (as he's been known to do) but that's far, far from the case. He carries this film the way Tom Cruise carried "Rain Man." Of course, "Gigli" is not "Rain Man," but it's not Affleck's fault.

"Gigli" is, remarkably, a genuinely and quite intentionally funny film at times, more so than the obvious and desperate "Bringing Down the House," for instance. Affleck half-heartedly reading the toilet paper packaging in lieu of a bedtime story to pacify his child-like hostage is hysterical. So is the latter's "Baywatch" obsession and his antics with Affleck's cell phone and his "who's on first?" routine with Affleck's boiling crime boss.

Justin Bartha, as the mentally handicapped hostage, is no Dustin Hoffman, to be sure, and at times his performance makes you cringe because his level of retardation seems to fluctuate depending on the scene -- but he gets laughs. Jennifer Lopez really struggles with some of her line readings (particularly in her scene with Al Pacino; how is this the same actress who was so impressive playing a similar character in "Out of Sight"?) but she looks amazing and she gives off the necessary sexual spark to make the romantic comedy elements work.

But if only director Martin Brest had revised his script before shooting, to iron out the film's three principle flaws. One, it's so weak the way Lopez' character is introduced; I guess that's something many viewers just couldn't get past. She's clearly no tougher than Affleck is, so why is she there again? It might have been interesting if Affleck's boss had had a secret soft side, recognized his underling's loneliness and sent Lopez to try to kill two birds with one stone: "cure" Lopez of her homosexuality and play cupid. But he has no soft side; he's a two-dimensional monster, and it never makes a great deal of sense.

Second, the plot is much too thin. Christopher Walken shows up for one scene and then vanishes, never to be heard from again! This film obviously NEEDS him to stick around and keep the heat on our heroes, in addition to Affleck's boss. How a filmmaker as experienced as Martin Brest could have failed to recognize that is beyond me. I can only speculate that the studio wanted to max out the Bennifer angle and stuff in as many scenes featuring the two of them as possible, even at the expense of our greatest living character actor, not to mention the demands of the story.

Third, the film is 30 minutes too long and badly edited. There are a number of scenes that just stretch on two, three or four beats longer than they should, particularly that scene where Lopez scares off those punks with her interminable eye-gouging monologue. I'd heard that the dialogue in "Gigli" was just atrocious, but I didn't really think it was that bad, just long-winded. Had the film been edited down to a compact 90 minutes, I have little doubt that it would have received a more favorable response. There's just enough material here for a good movie, but Brest spreads it too thin.

The most interesting thing about "Gigli" is that it's kind of a tender-hearted crime flick. It's more interested in the feelings and the emotions of its characters than the violence they engage in, or refuse to engage in. The sudden killing towards the end of the film is as jarring as anything I've seen because it comes out of nowhere, and Affleck and Lopez seem authentically horrified at what they've witnessed; in most crime films, the leads would feign disinterest and play it cool - not here.

I really bought that Bartha brought out the big brother, father figure in Affleck and Lopez his sensitive, caring, feminine side. Clearly he's not cut out for his line of work, and that's what his two companions help him to realize. That is not an insignificant thing. Would that less reviled films boasted such a satisfying character arc.

So why does this film have a microscopic 2.2 rating at IMDb? Perhaps people are reviewing Affleck's and Lopez' over-publicized, failed romance instead of the film - beats the heck out of me.

Contains spoiler!!! I'm not referring to the makers of the film, but to the army of critics who have made it sound like another Plan 9 From Outer Space.

What is their problem? And what is motivating this inexplicable, over-the-top hostility towards M. Night Shyamalan?

Uh, hello? The dude makes GOOD films.

I went to see The Village this afternoon, despite all the negative buzz, bracing myself for something REALLY bad, like Bats, or The Haunting, or even Battlefield Earth.

But not only is there nothing terribly wrong with the film, it is, in fact, an absorbing, suspenseful, carefully made, expertly directed Mystery/Thriller/Romance - yes, a bit self-consciously arty at times and with Shyamalan's characteristic hiccups of awkward-sounding dialogue - but a more-than-satisfactory movie-going experience and far better than the typical summer flick, with a standout performance from newcomer Bryce Dallas Howard, and able support from veterans William Hurt (who for once brings his "A" game) Sigourney Weaver, and Adrien Brody.

It also delivers the director's trademark twist ending, one that I, for one, did NOT see coming. To all the geniuses who like to boast that they - SPOILERS! - knew all along that the story actually takes place in the present day and not in the late 1800s, I have two words for you: you're lying.

Because Shyamalan presents his films partly as puzzles to be solved, a segment of the audience who fancy themselves great intellects enter the theater not in the typical relaxed movie-going mode of simply wanting to be entertained, but with arms crossed, feeling challenged to "crack" the film, prove they're smarter than it; in essence, wanting desperately to beat Shyamalan as if he were not a filmmaker but an opponent at Chess. Therefore, they're guarded, closed off, emotionally inaccessible and unlikely to enjoy themselves, regardless of how good the movie might be (and in fact is).

The film is only a cheat from the standpoint that Shyamalan is associated with the supernatural, and when the explanation in this case is a rather prosaic one - uncomfortably close to the unmasking of the monster at the end of an episode of Scooby Doo - it is a bit of a letdown. If studies show that over half the population believes in ghosts (or aliens) then I'd estimate that the other half WANTS to believe in them. And that is why The Sixth Sense and Signs were such huge hits - in them, Shyamalan confirms those beliefs, validates them by making the supernatural world seem not ridiculous and far-fetched as most do, but tantalizingly realistic.

It also doesn't help that the marketing of the film is so misleading, priming one to expect a spooky spine-tingler with chills aplenty (something like The Others) which, despite a few well-placed jolts, The Village most certainly is not. It is, of course, primarily a love story, with Shyamalan, I believe, having been inspired by Wuthering Heights. But, while the well-liked Spider-Man 2 is a love story disguised as action-adventure, it's a convincing disguise, the movie suffering from no shortage of action and excitement.

The Village's disguise is not nearly so effective, its marketing the equivalent of slapping a splashy Stephen King dust jacket over a copy of The Age of Innocence.

One can also question the casting of Joaquin Phoenix, a dour, somewhat charmless, far-from-handsome actor in the crucial role of Lucius, the strange, silent, sensitive young man consumed with a secret love for the free-spirited Ivy and a desire to venture into the forbidden woods. I think much of the negative reaction to the film can be explained by a subconscious desire on the part of most men and women for a more accessible, likable, and, well, better-looking actor to play that particular part. Had Orlando Bloom, for instance, been cast, I firmly believe general reaction to the film would have been much more favorable.

Phoenix does finally come alive in that vividly acted porch scene where he suddenly declares his love for Ivy. And that was the scene that got me, the centerpiece of the film, where it "clicks" into place, reveals itself for what it is and makes no apologies for it. Lucius and Ivy belong together. You can see it in their eyes, and it is impossible for me to dislike a film that is able to capture such honesty of emotion. The essence of successful film-making is the ability to create the illusion that two people are in love. It does not happen often.

So how to explain the critics' wildly inaccurate evaluation of the film, as well as their seeming hatred of Shyamalan? I can only guess that it has something to do with Shyamalan's films having a certain overly delicate "goody-goody" quality which makes them easy targets - I really don't know. I do know that, unlike some, I don't go into any movie determined to "crack" them, or even enjoy them, but I always go in determined to give them a chance.

Great subject matter, director, and cast somehow adds up to a truly abysmal film, told in that flat, semi-documentary style that was so popular around the time this film was made. (And hello, this is NOT a film-noir!) The lackluster, overly complicated, over-populated story has no arc, no focus point, little excitement, and staggers from one scene to the next with no discernible purpose, other than as a valentine to the supposed and highly doubtful cooperation between the American and Mexican governments on the issue of illegal immigration.

The scene that made me HATE this film is when Montalban and Mitchell make a daring escape from their captors, race to presumably save Montalban's injured partner from being murdered by a goon with a gun driving a piece of farm machinery, Montalban says something like, "quick - we must try to save him," but instead of doing so they lie on their stomachs and watch in agony for about 5 (!) minutes of screen time as the machine bears down on Murphy and FINALLY runs him over (or so we assume - the machine simply stops, another goon detects the presence of the two "rescuers" and shoots at them as they run off again.) Scene over. The whole thing is so horribly filmed and utterly anticlimatic. There's nothing worse than a protagonist (ostensibly, Montalban, though he's off screen for over half the film) who doesn't even try. Jeez, Ricardo, do SOMETHING!

I know it's Anthony Mann, but hell, not ALL of his films are classics, people. How bad does an old movie have to be around here to get anything lower than a 6 rating?

Hard to dislike any film with a character named Chloroform. Takes a while to get going and in fact, feels a bit meandering and even pointless for much of its running time, but the viewer needs to have a little patience. It dawdles its way to a surprisingly potent payoff. Jacques Tourneur's strengths as a director were in subtly establishing mood and atmosphere with a clean, crisp visual technique, primarily in spooky thrillers. He employs those skills to good effect here in, of all places, a small town western setting. His America is still in the awkward early stages of forming its cultural and spiritual identity. Lazy days followed by lawless nights. Chapel hymns compete with bar room fights. Tradition and progress keep bumping into each other, trading dirty looks.

If anything, it needs a bit more running time to develop all the relationships. It tends to skimp. And Tourneur was maybe not so gifted working with actors. James Mitchell as the progressive, practical new doctor in town seems somewhat ill-at-ease. Joel McCrea as the take charge parson is understated as always, but never hogs the spotlight and seems to have a great respect for The Story. Acting honors go to the fabulous Juano Hernandez as Uncle Famous, a peaceful black man who refuses to give in to racial intimidation in his own easy-going way.

And that ending packs a wallop. Won't soon forget the truly haunting image of those two blank sheets of paper (thought to be Uncle Famous' Will) being swept along in the wind. It may not be Uncle Famous' after all, but as McCrea states with utter conviction, "It's God's Will."