Films seen - May 2001

[Pre-'96 films not included.]

THE MUMMY RETURNS (54) (dir., Stephen Sommers) Brendan Fraser, Rachel Weisz, John Hannah, Freddie Boath [Why does this have two separate villains instead of one? You might as well ask why the magic talisman reveals our heroes' destination in instalments rather than all at once (which would effectively dispense with the film's middle section), or why young Boath says "Whoa!" or "Jeez, get a room" (when the folks start getting mushy) in his high-toned British accent, or how sidekick Hannah finds a double-decker bus (presumably sans driver) which he uses as a getaway car in a nick-of-time escape. There are two villains because these things aren't supposed to make sense, and because it's become a Hollywood commonplace (with the PHANTOM MENACE Seal of Approval, no less) to have more than one climactic duel going on at the same time, and of course - a related point - because a sequel is supposed to top the original, in quantity if not in quality. This is actually slightly more effective than THE MUMMY, despite (or because of) being much less quirky - the tone wavered in the previous film but this is straight-ahead juvenile adventure, with Hannah reduced from decadent wastrel to favourite uncle and Weisz doing Mom instead of Babe ; I kept expecting someone to pun on the word "chest" (the wooden kind features heavily in the plot) but of course it would've sailed over the target audience's heads - just as Boath (not Weisz) now gets the gag about inadvertently causing a roomful of columns to topple over domino-style, because the adults are parents now, with goofiness diminished and authority to match. Lots of bangs, crashes and assorted tremors ; shots of people screaming in unison at one deadly peril or another ; constant frenetic activity, FX like a flashy Harryhausen, occasional visual felicities (liked the milky light inside the mansion), script a collection of spectacular set-pieces. Forgettable and one-dimensional, yet here's the thing : I snuck into a screening half an hour before the end, planning to bail out half an hour early at the next screening - yet in fact stayed through to the end, as though unable to tear myself away. Familiarity creates a kind of hypnosis at these blockbusters - and of course I didn't care I was seeing the climax without the build-up, and of course the stuff I was seeing for the first time was just as familiar as the half-hour I'd already seen - which is doubtless why they bring in the punters : total lack of surprise or dramatic tension acts as a drug, the film's inertia transferring itself to the viewer, sliding into a pleasant reverie that's almost (but not quite) boredom. Knowing you can leave at any time somehow impels you to stay. Strange but true...]

LAST RESORT (60) (dir., Pawel Pawlikowski) Dina Korzun, Paddy Considine, Artyom Strelnikov [Not exactly a hidden agenda, what with hulking power-station stacks in the background and a low-angle shot of a brutalist tower-block looming over our heroes, and huddled refugee faces in oppressive government offices ; the only real question is why the film pushes such an outdated vision of Britain, all bingo halls and fish-and-chips - hopefully to imply that its treatment of asylum-seekers is equally outdated, out of step with the new multicultural society (and hopefully not because the film-makers want to score easy points at the expense of straw-man targets). Highly atmospheric, both bleak and beautiful with its faded seaside resort shot mostly in magic-hour (or maybe it's just permanently grey and sepulchral) ; highly empathetic, concentrating carefully on its three main characters ; but it never makes the leap from description to behaviour, happier painting its people in sly little strokes than actually having them respond to crises, bringing on the trendy-quirky stuff - Internet-porn merchants, a Japanese (?) rendition of "Downtown" - to disguise its lack of nerve. Intelligent but desultory, as though Pawlikowski didn't want to soil his perfectly-posed subjects with even a whiff of melodrama : you want to pat him on the back and say "Go ahead, we won't think any less of you". Considine - punkish yet melancholy, a Robert Carlyle in the process of mutating into Stephen Rea - is excellent, however.]

THE TAO OF STEVE (32) (dir., Jenniphr Goodman) Donal Logue, Greer Goodman, James 'Kimo' Wills [Woody Allen can juxtapose a horny guy (viz. himself) with the names of famous philosophers ; everyone else shouldn't even try. Way too much pseudo-cultural name-dropping here. Way too much sitcom-style glibness, all those lame wisecracks about how guys do A and B and C and chicks do X and Y and Z, and if a guy goes to the opera it's only because he's looking to get laid, etc etc. Way too much jolly music and waggishly chipper montages and self-conscious riffs about a Long Island Iced Tea containing all the religions of the world. Way too much arch, straining-to-be-clever banter ("What are you doing?" "Glueing." "Okay ... What are you glueing?" "Gonna have to go with cardboard."). Way too many references to TV theme songs and Steve McQueen and "Josie and the Pussycats". Way too many cute little kindergarten kiddies. The bid for pathos at the end - when our hero learns a life lesson, and calls himself a "fat fucking pig" and looks away with a hurt look in his eyes - is the final insult. Horrid, coy, grating stuff ; wonder if Ms. Goodman is any relation to SanDeE* from L.A. STORY...]

SHAME, SHAME, SHAME (41) (dir., Zalman King) Costas Mandylor, Heidi Schanz, Valerie Perrine [Not to get too inside-jokey here, but some readers will know why I watched this and some will not (copy's already on its way, Jeff). I don't regret it, though the Playboy Channel pussyfooting does get rather tedious - all buns and no beef, so to speak. Still pretty funny, in its way. "Do you have any idea," muses social scientist Schanz, seeking funds for her sexual-fantasy research project, "how much courage it takes to stand up naked, in heels, and talk about yourself? Seriously - have any of you ever done that? I haven't. I couldn't." "It's an unusual approach," admits the Selection Committee, "but it's ... oddly moving". Naked people - in heels! - do indeed stand up and talk about themselves. Grainy childhood-trauma flashbacks interrupt a make-out session. Prurience and puritanism collide in a steaming hunk of self-important cheese. Possible best line : "I want to be sucked like a lemon after a shot of tequila". All this "and Olivia Hussey as 'The Therapist' ". Thanks bud...]

MEN OF HONOR (35) (dir., George Tillman Jr.) Cuba Gooding Jr., Robert De Niro, Charlize Theron, Aunjanue Ellis [This is our hero, fighting prejudice to become the first black man in the U.S Navy's super-elite diving school : "Why do you want this so badly?" ; "'Cause they said I couldn't have it!". This is his racist CO : "Two tablespoons of machine-oil can contaminate an entire ship's fresh-water supply. Some things just don't mix". This is his long-suffering girlfriend : "I can't do this, Carl! I can't live this life again!". This is his sadistic instructor : "You think you're better than me?". Perversely interesting for how the Navy seems to do nothing right, hassling and hindering our man at every turn, yet comes out of it smelling like a rose, the trouble caused by isolated bad apples and "pencil-pushers" (military culture - all the snap-tos and salutes - is heavily endorsed, and De Niro's character is the real Navy man, outgrowing his early racism to become a good and loyal friend) ; otherwise, as hoary and mildewed as those hopelessly square famous-composer biopics Hollywood used to make back in the 40s - clichés and half-truths justified in those days by 'Culture', these days by political correctness. I hereby nominate the scene where Gooding and De Niro square off in a bar, but - being divers - settle matters not with a fist-fight but a contest to see who can hold his breath longer, as a candidate for Silliest of the Year.]

PLAY IT TO THE BONE (58) (dir., Ron Shelton) Woody Harrelson, Antonio Banderas, Lolita Davidovich, Tom Sizemore, Lucy Liu [What you see is what you get : loose, raunchy, heartfelt in its way, but so unambitious it barely seems worth the celluloid - you could summarise its entire structure and characterisations ("Loveable losers go to Vegas ; get to Vegas ; go home") on the back of a postage-stamp. Notable for its fight climax, as stirring a valentine to the sport as Norman Mailer's dispatches from the "Rumble in the Jungle", reclaiming it from the farce it's become in the Tyson era - boxing without the money, caramaderie instead of trash-talk and the focus on the art instead of the result (winning and losing become irrelevant : the point isn't the (dramatically inevitable) decision, but our heroes' collective triumph as they strike a blow for the game). Notable also, I suppose, for its unpretentiousness, keeping things simple, stating its case then simply ending ; notable also for the Vegas-fight atmosphere (has-been celebrities in the crowd, general wolf-whistles at the girl with the card), and for Tom Sizemore standing up ever-so-slowly and taking a long deep breath before bellowing out a stream of expletives, and the roadside Greek restaurant with restrooms labelled "Zeus" and "Hera", and Harrelson looking like he could take all comers with one hand tied behind his back even as he acts like a total goofball (suggestion : he and Vincent Gallo driving each other nuts in a comic re-working of THE DEFIANT ONES). Basically, Shelton is a boxing fan, and wanted to pay tribute to the game's dishevelled days, before the money-men took over ; writing a script was an optional extra. Not much there, but it's made with love : I can see it becoming one of those films I recommend to people against my better judgment.]

THE MEXICAN (46) (dir., Gore Verbinski) Brad Pitt, Julia Roberts, James Gandolfini, Bob Balaban [Caveat : saw this in a state of near-exhaustion, though still expecting something in the low 60s (or higher) ; thought I'd found it for a while, but you only get so far on yellow filters, cantina music and a comically exaggerated Mexico, even with Pitt's nimble slapstick jollying things along. Could be auteurist trouble, since I didn't care for MOUSE HUNT either - made in the same snappy, unyielding style, featuring performances in wildly different registers - but it seemed to run out of steam even before the halfway mark, repeating itself in witless conversations goosed with pointlessly enervated set-pieces, first too little then too much plot and exactly one (1) good twist ; no wonder it resorts to everyone jumping up and down to the quirky strains of Men Without Hats. The three leads give the impression of not having been properly introduced ; Pitt does comedy, Roberts does Julia Roberts 'doing' comedy (not a pretty sight), Gandolfini looks doleful, hoping "gay hitman" won't be the extent of his character (it is). Interesting as a post-Tarantino crime movie (might be double-billed with THE WAY OF THE GUN), subverting the badass, often-homophobic world of colourful hoods and comic violence by mutating into (gasp!) a chick-flick : hitmen talk relationships, Pitt chides a fellow villain for being too "closed off", even the heist (getting hold of the titular gun) turns out to be a purely sentimental gesture. Works in the abstract, bloody tedious in this two-hour form. Minor points for tough-looking hombres settling an argument with a round of scissors-rock-paper and Bob Balaban as a ruthless bad guy (was Wallace Shawn unavailable?) ; always thought the accepted follow-up to "Do you like sex and travel?" was "Well, fuck off then!" - but maybe it wouldn't have sounded appropriate in the mouth of an Oscar-winning actress...]

MISS CONGENIALITY (48) (dir., Donald Petrie) Sandra Bullock, Michael Caine, Benjamin Bratt, Candice Bergen [Strange how good things suddenly turn up in a not-very-good movie : there's a shot / reverse-shot dialogue between Bratt and Bullock about halfway through that could have been filmed without any imagination whatsoever - but her over-the-shoulder POV is shot so that locks of her hair dance around the edge of the frame as she looks at him, just to add a pleasing little visual (we tend to forget even bland, cookie-cutter films are usually made by people who love movies). Not a lot to like, but I liked it - Caine does another of his venomous narcissists, playing nicely off Bullock's girl-next-door thing, and the fish-out-of-water plot is reliably lively. Though it does feature musical montages - aerobics to "Dancing Queen", heroine's beauty makeover to "She's A Lady" - and it does feature laboured set-up lines ("What could possibly be taking this long?" asks Caine, cueing her big entrance) ; and it does give the game away not once but twice in the first ten minutes (heroine tomboyish not because she's mean, just because she's unappreciated), and it does boast some fairly mind-boggling sexual politics - Bullock 'recovering' her femininity by learning how to walk gracefully and smile vapidly at the beauty pageant ("one of the most rewarding and liberating experiences of my life") : this being Hollywood, it's all played as a win-win situation (everyone comes out a Better Person), but the basic agenda is clear when, for instance, Bratt doesn't even notice her till she makes herself beautiful (one could easily imagine the same film with a different emphasis, so that he's always fancied her but she decides to reciprocate as she becomes a different person). Oh, and it's also bizarrely sloppy for big-studio fare, making gaffes like a glimpse of the real-life crowds watching the shoot (at the end of the 'gliding scene') and a roll-call of only seven names when the Top 10 contestants are announced. Still surprisingly likeable for a not-very-good movie. Did I mention it's not a very good movie?]

THE WIDOW OF ST. PIERRE (54) (dir., Patrice Leconte) Juliette Binoche, Daniel Auteuil, Emir Kusturica [Took about half an hour to figure out where this was going (helped by the pun in the (French) title, pointed up by little bits of wordplay scattered throughout), then twiddled my thumbs while it got there, none too delighted by yet another tale of love-to-the-death, especially one with such opaque motivations - though it's fun trying to decide if Auteuil loves his wife for being such a free spirit or (more likely) feels guilty about her childlessness, obviously a part of what drives her zeal for nurturing, whether it's planting a garden or helping a condemned man (lust for said prisoner being of course another part of this particular zeal, yet something of a non sequitur with the emphasis so firmly on the uxorious husband). Images have a bracing plainness after the flash and sizzle of GIRL ON THE BRIDGE, but the shaky-cam is an affectation amid the subdued colours and tight compositions ; not a bad film, just not a very rich one - damping down the drama seems to take up most of its energy. Anti-capital-punishment propaganda barely comes into it (I suspect critics were just looking for something - anything - to talk about) ; is Binoche's character supposed to be selfish and obnoxious, or is that just me?...]

CHILDREN OF HEAVEN (53) (dir., Majid Majidi) Amir Farrokh Hashemian, Bahare Seddiqi, Mohammad Amir Naji [Am I going soft? Though I did like THE WHITE BALLOON, which this often seems to be re-hashing (esp. when a friendly shopkeeper helps the girl retrieve her lost shoe from the gutter). Not sure what it says about me as a person, but it is nice to see people quarrelling and being cruel to each other in an Iranian movie (that's probably why SALAAM CINEMA is still my favourite, of the ones I've seen), and it's nice to see the 'other', Westernised Tehran, which we'd always known existed behind the picturesque Third World cobblers and salt-sellers ; and the scene where the girls line up in the school courtyard, chant "obedience to the Leader" and are lectured by the principal (who admonishes them to cut their fingernails every Friday) says as much about living in an authoritarian regime as THE CIRCLE does in its entirety. Looked like an embarrassing U-turn on Mr. Majidi was on the cards, but a ludicrous scene where the tyke heroes blow soap-bubbles at each other to the accompaniment of harp glissandi was a timely reminder that he did indeed follow this up with the godawful COLOUR OF HEAVEN, and he loses sight of the main objective (unforgivable in this kind of 'quest' movie) in a rambling second half - only partly redeemed by the final race and such neat touches as our shoeless hero seeing shoes everywhere - so it seems we can still file him safely under "Faux-Poetic Hack". Phew...]

SAVE THE LAST DANCE (57) (dir., Thomas Carter) Julia Stiles, Sean Patrick Thomas, Kerry Washington, Terry Kinney [Settle down, folks, it's only a teen movie - though that might be something to look forward to if they were all so well-proportioned and free of empty gloss. First thing that's different is the light, a wintry unglamorous light that seems to coat the characters instead of bouncing off them like the brash sitcom look of SHE'S ALL THAT et al., bringing a sense of naturalistic intimacy ; then comes Kinney's nicely rumpled turn as loving-but-estranged Dad, an understated, convincing picture of a ghetto high-school (stereotypes present - gang leader, teenage mother - but sympathetically treated and not allowed to overwhelm) and some unexpectedly sharp dialogue, from Washington's resentful "Look around you" speech down to the lovebird banter ("This ain't no square dance," warns Romeo en route to the hip-hop club ; "That's all right, I can dance in circles," responds Juliet tartly. "Probably around you!") ; above all there's Ms. Stiles, with whom I may be falling in love - certainly I can't remember the last time I kept my eyes fixed so intently on a heroine's face, waiting for the next moue and grimace, melancholy face-in-repose or unexpected apple-cheeked grin. Easy to forgive predictable plotting and rather clumsy ballet scenes ; not so easy to ignore appropriation (and, I suspect, emasculation) of black culture, or the suspicion it might not go down so well with a real ghetto audience : it's a guided tour through an exotic, slightly forbidden sub-culture - the Inner-City Theme Park, where everyone is fiery and sassy and transgressively sexy (it's the rare teenage film without a nerd figure, even the Urkel type turning out to be a DJ at the hottest club in the 'hood). "Hip-hop is more than a dance - it's more like an attitude," says Thomas, but even a layman like myself can tell the stuff he's listening to is watered-down, chart-friendly hip-hop, closer to Destiny's Child than a true music of the streets. Either borderline-offensive or among the year's most pleasant surprises ; charming and assured enough to convince me of the second option, but I'm keeping the first in reserve just in case.]