Pecker: Movie, Review

Saddled with more than just an unfortunate name

Written and directed by John Waters, 87 minutes, rated R.

(Originally published 1998)

The very title of John Waters’ latest comedy offers the critic a wealth of unusual possibilities, somewhere in which is a line that must not be crossed. Still, there is that provocative title, that nagging word, and the sound of that word, that tends to cause an immediate, uncomfortable stir whenever spoken, however sheepishly, in mixed company.

Indeed, to the uninitiated, the uninformed, saying: “I saw John Waters’ ‘Pecker’ last night and I couldn’t stop laughing” appears to be in extremely bad taste, a line not merely crossed, but leaped over while ringing bells, waving flags and blowing whistles.
C’est la vie.

“Pecker” is a campy, comic delight.

In the film, Edward Furlong is Pecker, a young photographer who allegedly earned his peculiar nickname because, as a child, he pecked at his food. (Sure. And the popular strip club Hooters got its name because the place is frequented by owls.)

Pecker takes photos of everything, and since this is a John Waters’ film, everything means the bizarre: Two rats having sex in a trash can, the private parts of butch lesbian strippers, a talking statue of the Virgin Mary, and even his younger, sugar-addicted sister, Little Crissy (Laren Huilsey), who is so strung out on candy, she easily could be the poster child for Ritalin.

As Pecker sees it, art is everywhere and he gleefully snaps photos of his girlfriend Shelley (Christina Ricci), his kleptomaniacal best friend Matt (Brendan Sexton III), and deep inside The Fudge Palace, the local gay bar where his sister Tina (Martha Plimpton) works as a strict, take-no-prisoners emcee.

Eventually, of course, Pecker’s life changes as only John Waters could change it for him: A New York art dealer (Lili Taylor) happens upon Pecker’s photos, loves his work, and immediately signs him to a show at her Manhattan gallery. It’s an official stamp of approval that brands Pecker as a major new artist--but at what cost? As all of the New York art world begins clamoring for Pecker, Waters introduces his film’s true purpose: To skewer modern art and its patrons while also highlighting how fame and fortune can corrupt.

Aesthetic pretension has long been an easy target, but in Waters’ capable hands, it makes for a film that is often very funny. Indeed, “Pecker” finds its director exactly where he belongs--deep inside the toilet bowl of life he continues to plunge from Baltimore. His latest may not be as outrageous as “Pink Flamingos” or “Polyester,” but it does take risks that push it far and away from the mainstream arena he courted somewhat unsuccessfully in “Serial Mom.”

For Waters, “Pecker” is divine.

Grade: A-

Penelope: Movie Review (2008)

A Babe in pig's clothing

Directed by Mark Palansky, written by Leslie Caveny, rated PG, 90 minutes.

Mark Palansky’s “Penelope” is the movie in which Christina Ricci is saddled with the face of a pig. More specifically, the wrinkled snout and little floppy ears of a pig.

But don’t cry for Penelope just yet.

While everything else about her face suggests something of a pig hybrid, Ricci’s Penelope appears just human enough to see how beautiful Penelope would look if her wealthy family hadn’t been cursed by a witch so long ago. The good news? That curse can be lifted, though it’s going to be a struggle.

Written by Leslie Caveny, this uneven yet affable fairy tale does a few key things right, starting with getting Ricci back onto the screen in a starring role.

Audiences will see a lot more of her in the upcoming “Speed Racer” movie, which already has the fan boys buzzing and which might restart her career in a big way. But right now, in this much smaller movie, it’s swell to be reminded of how special Ricci is and how necessary it is to have her working. As any fan of “The Opposite of Sex,” “The Ice Storm,” “Pecker,” “Anything Else” and “Monster” knows, there are few others who can tap into the quirky absurd like Christina Ricci.

She’s also one of the very few people who could have played this role well, which is more difficult to pull off than it appears. To succeed, Ricci had to put on a snout every morning, face her part-pig face, and play the part straight, even while so many around her were setting the screen afire with camp.

Chief among those culprits is Catherine O’Hara as Penelope’s well-coiffed, well-meaning yet damaging mother Jessica, who is so personally humiliated by Penelope’s physical appearance, she unwittingly has harmed her daughter’s self-esteem by pushing so hard for her to break the curse. To do so, it’s imperative that Penelope meet a suitor of similar class who is willing to marry her. Trouble is, that’s proving difficult to do, especially since every man who lays eyes on her ends up throwing himself out a window.

Not so for James McAvoy’s Max, a shady gambler who initially is hired by tabloid journalist Lemon (Peter Dinklage) to trick Penelope into having a photo snapped of her face, but who nevertheless comes to feel something for her that is real and meaningful.

Too bad he blows it--and when he does, wounded Penelope decides she’s had enough. Wrapping a scarf around her face, she sets out for the first time into the outside world (in this case, London), where she comes upon a whole host of characters, including sketchy Annie, who is played with brassy slyness by one of the film’s producers, Reese Witherspoon.

Not all goes well in “Penelope.” The uneven use of accents is distracting (at the very least, shouldn’t the English-born Penelope and her mother have English accents and not American accents?), McAvoy is a greasy disconnect and the plot is a predictable, straight shot to the end.

But plenty does go well here. As you’d expect, O’Hara is a hammy, chaos-creating treat, Witherspoon is likable in a small role, and then there’s Ricci, on whom so much of the movie rests. If it didn’t sound condescending, it would be nice to say to her, “That’ll do, pig. That’ll do.” But you get the point.

In this movie, she reminds us why she matters, and why it would be nice to have more of her, please.

Grade: B-

Bette Davis: Centenary Collections

“The Bette Davis Collection, Vol. 3”
"Bette Davis Centenary Celebration Collection"

On April 5, Bette Davis would have turned 100 years old. Had she lived to see the day, she likely would have blown a bemused puff of smoke and gone about her business pretending it wasn’t important, but awaiting a grand celebration nevertheless.

This is her centenary, and with two new DVD collections just out to celebrate her work, what better time than now to honor all that Davis has given us over the course of her career, and also to reflect upon how she got there in the first place?

Born Ruth Elizabeth Davis in Lowell, Mass., on April 5, 1908, Davis made relatively quick work of joining our best, most iconic movie actors, of which there are precious few. She defied convention. As she rose up through the ranks in early 1930s Hollywood, she hardly was what those in the industry were seeking at a time when the bold curves of Jean Harlow, Carole Lombard and Mae West were commanding the screen.

And yet while Davis may not have had their overt sexuality, what she did have was something arguably more lasting and important--a sense of mischief and mystery, an indomitable spirit that could lay the world flat with a mere glance, and a fierce intelligence that often revealed itself as impatience, particularly when she knew she’d been saddled with dreck.

Much like her Yankee counterpart Katharine Hepburn, Davis became a woman Hollywood--and the world--couldn't do without.

The camera loved her, for sure, as any fan of “Ex-Lady,” “All About Eve” and “Dark Victory” will tell you. But even when she saw in the 1960s what years of heavy drinking and smoking had done to her, she wasn’t one to overlook the opportunity her faded flower offered. Accepting herself as she was, she turned herself into a grotesque in such films as “Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte” and “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane,” the latter of which won her her 10th Academy Award nomination. So, you can imagine the cocktails that flowed when that nomination was announced, and those that followed when she lost to Anne Bancroft for her work in “The Miracle Worker.”

Still, it was Davis’ seemingly bottomless talent and her staunch refusal to conform that made her a star. She was a perfectionist and could be so difficult and demanding that her boss, Jack Warner, once called her “an explosive little broad with a sharp left.” That she was completely different from anyone else didn’t hurt her career, either.

What Davis had was a vitality the screen barely could contain--a director like William Wyler, for instance, could shoot her at a distance in a crowded room, as he did in “Jezebel” and “The Little Foxes,” and still she’d be the one you’d pick out and follow. Her presence was that great, a mix of genetics and her formidable will.

In her 1962 autobiography “The Lonely Life,” she wrote about herself: “I have always been driven by some distant music--a battle hymn no doubt--for I have been at war from the beginning. I rode into the field with sword gleaming and standard flying. I was going to conquer the world.”

She wasn’t joking, and she’d be the first to tell you that she did it the hard way. But what results. When she made an entrance in her more fiery films, she seemed to have the world's throat in her hand--or at least her co-star’s. Usually both. Likewise, when she left a room, it wasn’t out of place to hear a door slamming behind her. Audiences liked it that way--so did she.

And yet there was that other side of Davis--the less-intimidating side, as seen in such movies as “Now, Voyager,” “The Old Maid” or “Mr. Skeffington”--which complicated her beyond reason, and which earned her our hearts as well as our respect and admiration. The fact that she was consistently watchable even in her bad movies gets to the core of just how transfixing a figure she was.

In Maine, where she summered as a child, she eventually came to live for several years in the 1950s with her fourth husband, the actor Gary Merrill. They lived in Cape Elizabeth at a house called “Witch-Way.” Guess who named it? The house now is gone, burned down by new owners who wanted one of those garish McMansions cluttering the coast. In doing so, they neatly abolished an important part of Maine history, as well as national history.

Of the two aforementioned DVD collections marking Davis’ birthday, Fox’s “Centenary Celebration Collection” is the best, with 1950’s quintessential “All About Eve,” 1952’s “Phone Call From a Stranger,” 1955’s “The Virgin Queen,” 1964’s “Hush…Hush, Sweet Charlotte” and 1965’s electrifying (literally) “The Nanny” included.

As for “Eve,” it’s my favorite Davis film, and my favorite movie, period. It embodies everything you love about the actress, every reason you come to her for that unique and necessary escape only a great movie and actor can provide. As many times as I’ve watched the movie, it still reveals something new with each viewing, which is the mark of a great film. The writing, the performances, the wit, the directing, the storyline and of course Davis as Margo Channing, the complicated Broadway star for whom love was difficult and career meant everything (sound familiar?), come together with such timing and ease, it’s staggering in how seamless it is. And that isn’t hyperbole.

Warner’s “Bette Davis Collection, Vol. 3” offers some of Davis’ earlier films. When compared to Fox’s collection, you could say this one features Davis’ softer side. Included are 1939’s “The Old Maid,” 1940’s “All This and Heaven Too,” 1941’s “The Great Lie,” 1942’s “In This Our Life,” 1943’s “Watch on the Rhine” and 1946’s very good “Deception.”

Taken as a whole, these collections offer invaluable insight into the savvy way Davis handled her career and especially her complex screen persona. Consider viewing both sets back-to-back over the course of a week, and then consider whether there ever has been an actress as great as Bette Davis.

Grades: “Centenary”: A; “Bette Davis Collection, Vol. 3”: B+

Original Sin: Movie, DVD Review

A tawdry scrap of soft-core porn

Written and directed by Michael Cristofer, based on the novel "Waltz Into Darkness" by Borness Woolrich, 112 minutes, rated R.

(Originally published 2001)

For fans of camp and truly bad movies, Michael Cristofer's potboiler, "Original Sin," is a treasure, a real find, one of those monolithic mediocrities that's so disastrous, it's badness is a virtue, something that transcends mere rottenness to become one of 2001's biggest jokes.

Whether the film is busy featuring Angelina Jolie naked, harried and unhappy as a conniving Havana harpy out to rip-off the world, or tossing Antonio Banderas onto the floor so he can foam at the mouth after drinking rat poison, or asking its actors to speak this sort of dialogue--"I just killed a man!" "Yes, well, I just bought a hat!"--it's impossible to take any of it seriously, so the only honest reaction is to snort with laughter.

Set in Havana, circa 1900, the film stars Jolie as Julia Russell, a hot-to-trot mail-order bride hauled to Havana to marry the wealthy Cuban coffee planter, Luis Vargas (Banderas).

Or so Vargas thinks. In spite of the fact that this Julia looks nothing like the photo he has of the real Julia, Vargas is so taken by her beauty, he decides to overlook the glaring inconsistencies and marry her anyway.

Big mistake. Before Vargas can cry "liar" and "tramp," Julia has revealed herself to be both, a woman who gleefully rakes men over the coffee grounds so she can fatten her bank account.

The best thing about the movie is that all of this takes place within the first 30 minutes, allowing director Cristofer ample time to focus on what really matters to him--Angelina Jolie's lips, which have become an institution.

Watching them open time and again to devour one of Jolie’s fingers, which she sucks on and nearly swallows in her heroic effort to please the "Emmanuelle" crowd, is one of the more curious moments in recent cinematic memory. Here we have an Academy Award-winning actress willing to sandbag her talent and plunge herself into self-parody all while fueling what's little more than a tawdry scrap of soft core porn.

If the film weren't so damn funny, that might give some people reason to pause.

Grade: F

What if they were women...

Ohnotheydidn't just posted some very funny photos of some very popular male leads if they happened to be women. The names they chose also are funny.

Check it out below:

Claire

Brenda Fraser

Mrs. DiCaprio

Jane Gyllenhaal

Georgetta Clooney

Danielle Craig

Daniela Radcliffe

Coleen Farrell

Miss Bloom


Laurie Hugh

Judy Law

Joaquina Phoenix

Jinny Depp


Tammy Cruise

Shauna Penn

Mrs. Bean

Miss Hanks

Miss Elija Wood

Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day: Movie Review (Text and Video)

It's a miracle she made it through it

Directed by Bharat Nalluri, written by David Magee and Simon Beaufoy, 92 minutes, rated PG-13.

The first third of “Miss Pettigrew Lives for a Day” is so irrepressible, there’s no keeping the damn thing down. The direction, staging and acting are so high strung, there’s every indication that its main character, a failed governess named Guinevere Pettigrew (Frances McDormand), might be found dead from exhaustion by the end of the it--right along with the rest of the characters.

Pressed to capture the tone of screwball farce, everyone involved goes out of their way to do so, straining the movie’s seams in ways that can be off-putting in the face of such excess.

And then there’s a shift.

Working from a screenplay David Magee and Simon Beaufoy based on Winifred Watson’s 1938 novel, director Bharat Nalluri eventually allows his romantic comedy to settle into itself. The over-the-top energy he favors at the start is dropped several notches, where it achieves a less stagy feel. Characters come into their own. The film never shakes the formula it courts, but it still becomes more enjoyable as it unfolds.

Set on the eve of war in 1939 London, the film follows Pettigrew, a disheveled, out-of-work mess whose luck appears to have run dry until the day she meets Delysia Lafosse (Amy Adams), an American singer and wannabe actress who is busy juggling the affections of three men in an attempt to climb to the top.

First up is Phil (Tom Payne), a wealthy young producer whose father owns the theater at which Delysia is trying to land her first major acting gig. Second is rich Nick (Mark Strong), who lends Delysia his swank apartment while he’s away on business and who owns the cabaret at which Delysia performs with her boyfriend, Michael (Lee Pace), a struggling pianist whose love for Delysia in genuine. Trouble is, Delysia is such a cheerful little climber, she doesn’t believe that love is what she needs at this point in her life. Certainly, it isn’t as important as the critical and financial success she craves.

Enter Miss Pettigrew, a moral force who knew love once and lost it. She’s so desperate for a job, she wedges herself into Delysia’s life as her social secretary and then becomes her unwitting guide to what matters in life. Over the course of one day, the two change each other profoundly, with Pettigrew gently guiding Delysia toward the one man who should matter most in her life, while Delysia ushers Pettigrew into another world--one in which high fashion matters and dramatic makeovers can take place.

It certainly does for Pettigrew, who is scrubbed from head to toe and catches the eye of lingerie designer Joe (Ciaran Hinds), whose relationship with snarky Edythe (Shirley Henderson) is on the rocks. Since Edythe isn’t about to lose Joe, and particularly because she knows a few secrets about Pettigrew, complications thicken for all as the movie mounts a climax that’s at once airy and serious.

The air belongs to Adams, whose Delysia bounces through the movie until the ramifications of her selfish behavior stop her cold. Adams is very good here, somehow making Delysia likable in spite of her willingness to repeatedly hurt Michael.

As for McDormand, it’s through her nuanced performance that Nalluri strikes his best observations about the meaning of love and friendship in middle-age. In the frenetic early scenes, when she’s asked to be a vehicle for comedic farce, she gives it her best shot and is as good as she can be given the weaker material. But it’s at the movie’s end, when she’s called upon to act and touch you with the truth, that she is at her best, stepping outside the film’s limitations and creating a better movie in the process.

Grade: B-

Coyote Ugly: Movie, DVD, Blu-ray Review (2008)

A certain knuckle-dragging charm

Directed by David McNally, written by Gina Wendkos, 101 minutes, rated PG-13.

David McNally’s “Coyote Ugly” is like “Cocktail” on estrogen, “Flashdance” on testosterone, “42nd Street” on crack.

It takes strands of each film’s genetic code and winds them around a film whose story audiences have seen countless of times before: A promising, likable upstart with doe eyes and bright teeth leaves a small town for the brighter shine--and sharper bite--of a big city.

Will she realize her dreams of becoming--in this case--a successful songwriter? Since the film is produced by Jerry Bruckheimer, the man responsible for such subtle hits as, well, “Flashdance,” it’s fair to say that audiences will know going into it that this curvaceous little pot of golden naiveté (Piper Perabo) won’t ever be able to do so until she first participates in something close to a wet T-shirt contest at a popular bar known as Coyote Ugly.

“Coyote Ugly” isn’t a bad film; even in a scene where a bunch of boozy women hoot and holler while setting flame to the top of a whisky-soaked bar, it has a certain knuckle-dragging charm. But it’s comprised of so many parts and pieces of other films, it mirrors those bothersome Olsen twins in that it has no identity of its own.

Worse, the film is like watching a patchwork of movie reruns; sitting there, you know you’ve seen all of this before--and can’t quite believe you’ve parted with money to see it all again.

Amazingly, the filmmakers seem to know this and thus pay considerable attention to dressing up the shopworn script with good cinematography, sharp editing, a smattering of late-‘80’s pop songs and a handful of fair performances.

With the exception of Tyra Banks, whose manic, hyperactive character should have been named Coyote Cleavage instead of Zoe, “Coyote Ugly” features Perabo (“The Adventures of Rocky and Bullwinkle”) as Violet, John Goodman as her doting father, Adam Garcia as her attentive boyfriend, and Maria Bello as the bar’s ballsy owner.

You've never seen such caterwauling.

Grade: C-

Rollerball: Movie, DVD Review (2002)

Roll on past it

Directed by John McTiernan, written by Larry Ferguson and John Pogue, based on the short story and screenplay by William Harrison, 98 minutes, rated PG-13.

(Originally published 2002)

John McTiernan's much-delayed thriller "Rollerball" is one of those movies you never quite forget--which is why, I suppose, we have psychotherapy, mood-enhancing prescription drugs and neighborhood bars to help us cope.

Based on the 1975 original starring James Caan and Maud Adams, this new version, from a script by Larry Ferguson and John Pogue, is determined to overlook everything that made its inspiration so prescient.

Instead of exploring why pop culture is fascinated with extreme sports, it’s only content to exploit the violence and the blood within the sport. Instead of focusing on how these sports are shaped and fueled by major corporations, it overlooks their influence in favor of featuring a string of head-banging, heavy-metal riffs.

The film stars Chris Klein as Jonathan, a fresh-faced kid from San Francisco who leaves his meaningless life in the states to become a meaningless sports star in Kazakhstan, Russia, a post-communist bloc country that’s absolutely certain its ticket to free trade rests with the game of Rollerball.

I want you to think about that for a minute. It’s a revelation that will either make you laugh or cry.

For those who haven't seen the film's trailer or television ads, the game of Rollerball is a wild cross between motorcross, lacrosse, roller derby, Polo and the World Wrestling Federation. It's so cutthroat, it could give the XFL--or figure skating, for that matter--a run for its ruble.

Running the show in Kazakhstan is the evil Petrovich (Jean Reno), a mustache-twirling, neuvo-capitalist with a perpetual sneer who's determined to turn Rollerball into a smash success. His ultimate goal is to snag a U.S. cable television deal, but in order to pull that off, Petrovich feels he must do what any soulless individual working in television management would do--he undermines his players in the name of ratings.

In this case, that means making the game as violent as possible, a shrewd business move that lifts the show's ratings to meteoric heights. Petrovich’s problem? Oddly enough, none of his players is willing to sacrifice their lives so Petrovich can get rich.

With LL Cool J as an accountant-turned-Rollerball superstar and Rebecca Romijn-Stamos as a Russian minx whose performance suggests she worked for scale and a case of Stoli, "Rollerball" takes its place beside "Battlefield Earth" as one of the worst movies Hollywood has shucked out in the past five years.

As "Roller Boogie" is my witness, they don't make them any worse than this.

Grade: F

Exactly how many lines of cocaine?

This has zip to do with movies, but it's mesmerizing. Just try to look away from it. How many people in this video lost their bets on the casting couch and ended up here? Seriously--all of them. You don't show up for anything like this without having tried like hell to make it somewhere. Anywhere. I'd bet a dozen of these people now are spritzing people at places like Macy's with perfume. It's sad...and yet entertaining.

The blonde is particularly fluid, isn't she? From a distance, she sort of looks like a young Faye Dunaway--after a night doing lines of coke on a bathroom floor. And the dude leading this choir of chaos looks as if he stumbled out of an Apple Annie movie.

Anyway, don't eat or drink 30 minutes before or after viewing it:

Dallas: Complete Eighth Season DVD Review (2008)

"Dallas: Complete Eighth Season"

Proves once again that where there’s oil, there’s drama.

The eighth season of "Dallas"features the usual doses of death, destruction, barbed tongues, backbiting, a kidnapping, kicks to the groin, and even J.R. (Larry Hagman) up to no good in a blackmail scheme that features a prostitute hilariously named Miss Cummings. Seriously.

As for Miss Ellie, Donna Reed assumes the role long played by Barbara Bel Geddes, who was out sick for most of the season.

Turns out she missed plenty.

Amid all the fireworks, the alcoholic benders and adulteries, this is the season in which Bobby and Pam fall in love again, only to have their renewed hopes and dreams dashed when Bobby bites the big one in the fiery season finale.

Pity.

Grade: B

Underworld: Movie Review, DVD Review, Blu-ray Disc Review

"Underworld: Blu-ray"

Sliding into the gutter of underwhelming movies is the Blu-ray release of "Underworld," a shallow, over-stylized movie in which Kate Beckinsale is a gun-wielding vamp out to kill a hive of werewolves.

The special effects are good and they do create a stylized mood of dread, particularly in high-definition, but the story drags like a corpse.

The movie is a gloomy confusion of underdeveloped ideas that wants to be a supernatural version of Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet (for real!), but it dies one bloody boring death along the way.

Rated R. Grade D+.

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The Producers: Movie & DVD Review (2005)

An overproduced jewel

(Originally published 2005)

Susan Stroman's "The Producers" presents a tricky balancing act for the director. It's a film that comes with something of a pedigree--Mel Brooks' 1968 original film, which is a comedic masterpiece, and Brooks' over-the-top Broadway musical, which is among the biggest hits in recent Broadway memory.

Given the comparisons that were sure to follow--and the pressures that accompanied them--this new film could have been a disaster. True enough, in the early scenes, when Stroman is still finding her way around the quirky rooms that fill Mel Brooks' mind, there is every indication that it will be a disaster. Initial scenes are awkward, the meter is off, there's the sense that the film is getting ahead of itself, the tone is wrong.

But then, without warning, the laughs start to hit, then hit harder, and then the film achieves that zenith for which it was meant--the stratosphere, where political correctness doesn't exist and camp can run amok.

As written by Brooks and Thomas Meehan, this "Producers" is two hours of increasing lunacy, with Nathan Lane and Matthew Broderick reprising the characters they played (and some might say the boisterous performances they gave) on Broadway and in London.

Lane is Max Bialystock, the down-on-his-luck producer who realizes that a major Broadway flop might be a way to achieve great wealth. He's a shameless opportunist, a con who beds little old ladies in an effort to have at their retirements, which they're more than happy to give up, but not without a sexual return on their investment.

Broderick is Leo Bloom, the jittery accountant with the security blanket at the ready whose creative number crunching is exactly what Bialystock needs to fulfill his wild new plan.

Together, they become a team, with Bialystock's idea coming down to this--once they secure the worst script possible, Bialystock will collect $2 million in financing from his elderly lady friends. When the musical shuts down after a crushing opening night, they will make off with the loot and enjoy their own retirements, presumably in some tropical paradise, far away from Broadway's Great White Way.

To achieve such a feat, they seem to be on the right track--from the crazed, pro-Nazi playwright Franz Liebkind (Will Ferrell) they purchase a musical called "Springtime for Hitler: A Gay Romp with Adolph and Eva at Berchtesgaden." Touchy subject? You could say that. Poor taste? Oh, yes.

Unwittingly helping them to complete their dream are showbiz hopeful Ulla (Uma Thurman, towering and fantastic), who hails from Sweden and takes a shine to Leo, as well as the outrageous, mincing gay couple Roger De Bris (Gary Beach) and Carmen Ghia (Roger Bart), who take the gay stereotype to a whole new level, but not without a very broad wink at the audience.

De Bris is the show's director, but when the actor playing Hitler literally breaks a leg on opening night, De Bris is cajoled into stepping in for him, which essentially means that this Hitler in this play is going to be played by a man whose inspiration is less Third Reich cum the Holocaust and more Judy Garland cum the Palace Theatre.

As such, what ensues can be hilarious, particularly in the song and dance numbers, which tap into the festering root that is Mel Brooks' brain and find there an absurdist's release. There is not one subtle moment in this film--hell, subtlety is tossed into the air and shot to the ground. The movie is pure anything-goes overkill, with Stroman embracing a sensibility that is appallingly undisciplined.

You know, just as it should be.

Grade: B+

Paparazzi: Movie & DVD Review (2004)

A shameless camp thriller

(Originally published 2004)

This shameless camp thriller comes from first-time director Paul Abascal, a former celebrity hairdresser who apparently heard one too many paparazzi horror stories from his privileged clientele while teasing and bleaching their locks.

As such, “Paparazzi” has a predictable mean streak—it’s the work of a man who likely wants to keep that clientele happy should this directing thing of his not work out.

That turns out to be the brightest move in an otherwise dumb movie. Deadly serious yet unintentionally funny, “Paparazzi” is a self-conscious, fired-up revenge fantasy that some will find difficult to sit through without offering up the occasional snort and giggle.

Written by first-time screenwriter Forrest Smith, the film exists to humiliate, taunt and then destroy the legion of photographers whose job it is to photograph celebrities. You know, those folks who must keep themselves in the public eye even though there are moments when they’d rather not be photographed, such as when they’ve put on a few pounds, go out for a night of partying, or when they’re cheating on their spouse.

Since the filmmakers have no interest in fair play or in examining the complexities of celebrity privacy, this is adolscent, tit-for-tat moviemaking, the equivalent of hair pulling. Producer Mel Gibson bankrolled this beauty, and wouldn’t you know that it follows the life of an action superstar not unlike Gibson himself.

Studly yet wholly naïve, Cole Hauser’s Bo Laramie is a family man who inexplicably becomes the hottest celebrity in Hollywood on the basis of one movie--a slim-looking action flick called “Adrenaline Force.”

At the start, Bo has a dream life that includes a beautiful wife (Robin Tunney), a cute 6-year-old son, and now sudden wealth and fame. When he gets his first taste of the paparazzi, it’s at the premiere for his latest movie, with the cameras snapping blindingly around him. Sleazeball photographer Rex Harper (Tom Sizemore) enjoys Bo’s discomfort so much, he decides to focus solely on this newcomer, thus fogoing the dozens of other, bigger Hollywood stars that could earn him more money.

When Rex and his photog cronies chase Bo and his family one evening through the streets of Hollywood, the flash of their cameras blind Bo, thus leaving him in a massive car accident reminiscent of the one that killed Diana, Princes of Wales. It’s a cheap shot and, when it happens, you can’t believe the filmmakers went there. But there you have it. That all of them near death in the car—and the paparazzi are taking photos of all of it.

What enuses is Bo’s revenge, with Bo himself realizing the great star perk. Apparently, in spite of being dogged by a detective (Dennis Farina) who thinks his Columbo, you can kill the paparazzi without behing held accountable for their deaths.

When it’s at its mincing best, the movie treats us to this sort of dialogue: “I’ve got two dead paparazzis on my hands.”

Can I get them wholesale? Probably not. Washing his own hands of this middling effort would have been a shrewd move by Abascal, whose own roots obviously have been fried a few too many times.

Grade: D

Snakes on a Plane: Movie & DVD Review (2006)

Big B-movie fear

(Originally published 2006)

One day, should the American Film Institute loosen up and offer a list of the 100 Greatest B Horror Movies ever made, David R. Ellis' "Snakes on a Plane" deserves a spot on that list.

While it's true that the movie doesn't have the unexpected spunk of, say, "Sorority Babes in the Slimeball Bowl-O-Rama" and "Hell Comes to Frogtown," or the bloody verve of "Microwave Massacre" and "Redneck Zombies," or the robust sexuality that makes "Frankenhooker" and "The Gore Gore Girls" so critical to the canon, it does have a title that is as tantalizing as one of the best movie titles ever, "Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death."

As a plus, the movie also is a blast.

The film, which Ellis based on a script by John Heffernan and Sebastian Gutierrez, has been basking in Internet blogging glory for a year. All questions about whether it would live up to expectations now can be laid to rest--the movie surpasses them.

The story starts in Honolulu, with surfer Sean Jones (Nathan Phillips) witnessing crime boss Eddie Kim (Byron Lawson) murder one of his victims with the business end of a baseball bat. Cut to a shocked Sean fleeing the scene, with Kim's men taking note and soon learning his identity. Worse for Sean is that they learn that FBI agent Neville Flynn (a marvelous Samuel L. Jackson) has convinced Sean to fly to Los Angeles to testify against Kim in another case.

Since Kim isn't about to allow that to happen, he smuggles into the belly of the plane several hundred venomous snakes, all of which are stoked into a pheromone-driven rage. The idea is that when an explosive releases the snakes from their boxes, bloody chaos will ensue as the snakes charge through the plane's crevices and begin their nasty feast.

Everybody onboard is on the menu--the germophobic rapper and his posse, the Paris Hilton-knockoff with the growling Chihuahua, two little boys who are too well-mannered for their own good, the pilots, the flight crew, dozens of others. The method of snake attack is grotesquely imaginative--men shouldn't stand too long at a urinal, couples should resist joining the mile-high club.

Since "Snakes on a Plane" plays with the conventions of the genre while also fully employing its rules, it strikes just the right tone throughout--the film nods at its pedigree and winks at itself while also casting a group of actors who take the proceedings just seriously enough to ignite the fun.

Jackson, in particular, is perfectly cast. Just as good is Julianna Margulies as the take-charge flight attendant, Clair, who could give Karen Black a run for her money when it comes to how to run a plane thrown into turmoil. Together with these snakes, the comic-book bloodshed, the camp and the dire circumstances, "Snakes on a Plane" makes the current, depressing state of air travel look downright civilized in comparison.

Grade: A-

The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift: Movie & DVD Review (2006)

Bringing back the muscle--and the camp

(Originally published 2006)

The last time we visited the “Fast and Furious” franchise, it was with John Singleton's "2 Fast 2 Furious," the location was Florida, and audiences were given a rather jarring education about exactly what it means to be too fast and too furious.

For instance, we learned that it went beyond merely having the right muscle car or, for that matter, the right muscles. Apparently, there’s a dress code involved: Miami-tramp contemporary seemed to work best for the ladies while cabana-boy casual worked for the men.

We also learned that regardless of gender, hair should be tipped, teased and tousled, as if you just hopped out of bed--preferably somebody else’s. Tattoos and implants were encouraged, as were body piercings and sun-kissed skin, the latter of which was necessary to best show off one’s bleached orthodontia.

In the series' latest offering, "The Fast and the Furious: Tokyo Drift,” the necessity of possessing an individual style still proves true, though it's with a pop Asian twist and it's never the most interesting part of the movie.

From director Justin Lin, the film is a fine, slick break in form from Singleton’s dreary, disappointing take, which tragically decided it needed to be about something meaningful, thus putting the sugar in its own gas tank.

Initially, the film appeared as if Singleton was going to continue the fun, cartoonish ride offered in the first movie, but by the film’s midpoint, he lost his way in a silly drug cartel plotline taken so seriously, the film lost the giddy spunk that made its predecessor so enjoyably dumb and over-the-top.

“Tokyo Drift” brings back the muscle, the stupidity and the camp, embracing the idea that this series should only ever be about fast cars, faster car races, fast women and lobotomized, testosterone-soaked men, with just enough menacing villains glowering in dark rooms to make things entertaining.

The plot is beautifully uncluttered--17-year-old Sean Boswell (played by 24-year old Lucas Black) can’t stay out of trouble in the States, so he’s shipped to Tokyo, where his estranged military father lives in what is best described as a hovel.

There, it doesn't take long for Sean's passion--racing fast cars and getting nailed for it--to get hooked up with an underground circuit of young men and women who "drift" dangerously through the busy streets and winding hillsides of Tokyo. Essentially, drifting is a skill that allows a driver to make impossibly tight turns, win races, look wonderfully cool while doing so, and of course, get the girl.

In this case, the girl is secretive Neela (Nathalie Kelley), whose boyfriend, DK (Brian Tee), happens to have one of the most powerful uncles in the city, yakuza boss Kamata (JJ Sonny Chiba). Since DK isn't about to give up Neela, all of this builds to a street racing war between them, with Sean's newfound friends, Han (Sung Kang) and Twinkie (Bow Wow), occasionally paying the price for their friend’s reckless pride.

As was the case with the original “Furious,” “Tokyo Drift” is essentially an homage to the hot rod films of the 1950s. It has no pretensions, which is a relief, and it courts plenty of cheap melodrama, which is a release. As such, the movie delivers precisely what its target audience wants--great-looking cars and car races first, great-looking, one-dimensional characters second--and it does it well. Very well. On those terms alone, the movie succeeds.

Grade: B

Deuces Wild: Movie & DVD Review (2002)

Not for the asthmatic

(Originally published 2002)