Dogs and Shoes

Matinee Idle

Teen movies rule.

Actually, they're often pretty crappy. But when they're good, and you're in the right mood, they can really hit the spot. On Saturday, to celebrate having sent my book to the printer, and to reinaugurate this Website, my friend Amy L. and I spent the afternoon planted in the sticky seats at the 68th Street Sonyplex. In a feat of reverse engineering, we acted like adults gone wild and absorbed both Mean Girls and 13 Going on 30.

Mean Girls, our first flick, surprised us by being better than we'd expected. Though witty and winningly acted, the story requires practically no explanation beyond its title: It's about high school girls who are mean to each other. Incidentally, all the people in the movie breathe, too.

Although the film flags in the middle (it's based on a self-help book), and it's predictable (it's a teen movie), Mean Girls perfectly balances genuinely funny material with overly broad comedy about things I experienced as a teenager. What's not to like?

Tina Fey--Saturday Night Live senior writer, Weekend Update co-host, and all-around hottie--wrote the screenplay. In addition, she plays a fetching, sarcastic math teacher in the movie. Which is a very nice foil to the fetching, earnest Lindsay Lohan in the lead. I also thought Tim Meadows, as the school principal, was hilarious.

Here's how Mean Girls scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 3. Unmemorable. Which is extra-disappointing because in the great tradition of teen movies, Mean Girls puts a lot of emphasis on the (sluttly) clothes. Are teenagers really allowed to dress like that?

* Dogs: 2. One brief, gross scene with a Chihuahua. I blocked it out and only remembered it when Amy reminded me afterward.

But making up for that was the male lead, who looked and acted exactly like a low-key yellow Lab. In fact, his role and his appearance were so generic, I'm sure the filmmakers could have digitally excised the equivalent performance from any old teen flick (Freaky Friday, Clueless, Sixteen Candles) and just inserted the footage here. I mean, you've seen one strenuously confused pair of dark brown eyes, you've seen 'em all.

* Cell phones: 10/10. Abused neither in the movie nor the theater.

* Do things blow up? 0. Linsday Lohan vomits at one point, but that's not really the same thing.

* Poker: 0. Strip poker would've been an obvious scene in this movie. Probably, they filmed it and then cut it because it was just too clichéd.

The soundtrack for Mean Girls is notable. Among other piquant choices, it includes The Donnas recent remix of Billy Idol's 1981 "Dancing with Myself." Like "Crimson and Clover," the Tommy James song later resung by Joan Jett, this revamped version of an oldie takes on new meaning when sung by a chick. I've been humming it for three days straight now.

After Mean Girls, we took a 15-minute break for lunch, and then settled back into the cinemuck to wait for 13 Going on 30. For a while, the only other person in our row was an older, disheveled, paunchy man slouched in his seat and looking for all the world like the bad guy in The Lovely Bones. I was comforted--delighted, even--when the row filled in with a clutch of teenage....boys. I'm still not sure what to make of them. Were they at the theater to see Kill Bill Vol 2 and they couldn't get in? Were they doing a school project on movies filmed in New York? Were they scouting Jennifer Garner for their fantasies? Whatever. They were young. An early scene in the movie--which begins in 1987--shows a video of Rick Springfield, the very sight of which made me laugh so hard, I almost gagged. The boys looked at me dumbly.

And that's part of the limited charm of 13 Going on 30. It's ostensibly for tweens, but the teen years in the movie are set when today's adults were adolescents, giving 30-something parents a short trip down impaired memory lane, while their kids wonder who that guy singing "Thriller" is. Other than the wink-wink nudge-nudge cultural references, the movie has little going for it but Garner's spirited performance (she plays a woman who wakes up one day at 30, with her last memory at 13 wishing she were older). Big, with Tom Hanks, was the same movie, better written. But 13 Going on 30 isn't bad; it's just not interesting.

Here's how 13 Going on 30 scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 4. The clothes are cute, though. Garner plays a magazine editor, and she wears some suitably snazzy outfits.

* Dogs: 6. At first, I couldn't remember there having been any canine action in the movie. But then I thought, "This is the kind of movie that probably has some scene in which a big old Saint Bernard grabs an ice cream cone out of Garner's grasp." And then I remembered: that's exactly what happens, but I think it was an Irish Setter.

* Cell phones: 7/10. The film includes a funny-esqe joke about ring tones. Nobody fielded any calls in the theater during the flick.

* Do things blow up? 0. No, they just go awry.

* Poker: 0. Nah. There is a brief discussion of Battleship, however.

During a weepy scene at the end of the movie, I swear I heard one of the boys next to us let out a sob. Or, come to think of it, maybe it was the pedophile on the end of the row. But it doesn't really matter because I felt positively redeemed after a full day of sitting on my ass, eating candy, and humming along to vintage pop tunes. The news from Iraq may be devastating, and the attitude out of Washington worse. Meantime, your apartment may be messier than a tumbled Baghdad palace. But with the right frame of mind and few hours to spare, you can escape it all. Teen movies rule.

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Die Another Day, Waste Another $10

Originally posted 2 December 2002

Movies: Die Another Day, The Quiet American, and many more!

Lately I am fielding six calls a day from friends who have seen the preview for "Maid in Manhattan" and are stunned, nauseated or both. It is obvious to everyone that casting Jennifer Lopez and Ralph Fiennes in a romantic comedy together is a colossal, gruesome mistake. What is Hollywood thinking?

The first time I saw a poster for the movie, on a bus stop at 79th and Broadway, I pulled up short and my mouth fell open, Three Stooges-style. The very idea of the movie--a blatant "Pretty Woman" remake--is revolting, and in the poster, Fiennes actually looks a little ill. If the gross, chemistry-free pairing of Fiennes and Lopez weren't bad enough, the entire plot of the movie is evident from the static print ad. Why bother to pay $10 to sit through it? This can only turn out well if Fiennes is the maid.

I'll keep dreaming.

Meantime, yesterday, at the Sony on 84th Street, I saw "Die Another Day," which might have more accurately been titled "Dayenu." It would have been enough Bond 12 installments ago. The latest version has plot gaps you could drive a hovercraft through, and it strains credulity even for a Bond flick (large holes in the side of a plummeting airplane, for example, fail to suck 007 into oblivion). But who am I to argue with Halle Berry in a string bikini?

For a detailed listing of all the ways this flick is not original, check out the movie's trivia page on IMDB.com, which lists references in "Die Another Day" to the previous 19 Bond movies. It's not clear whether all of these references are intentional or whether the movies are just so formulaic that repetition is unavoidable. Still, it made me wonder why there're writers credited for "Die Another Day." (I also pondered what kind of geeks know so much stuff about Bond movies).

Here's how "Die Another Day" scored in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 5. For a movie famously awash in product placements, there's nary a Prada loafer nor a Jimmy Choo sandal to set your heart racing.

* Dogs: 0. I guess the AKC didn't buy its way into this flick either.

* Cell phones: 5/5. One went off in the theater during the movie, but it fit right in with the onscreen technophilia. In fact, in the movie itself, cell phones are not overused, and the gadgetry has its appealing moments. But I wonder: does Ford, a major commercial sponsor of the movie, feel it got screwed on the invisible-car gimmick?

* Do things blow up? 7. In the opening scene, an entire North Korean military base is torched to smithereens by a few rounds of machine gun fire. So that's cool. And as the movie progresses, plenty of buildings, cars and other stuff get thoroughly obliterated. I'm sure this accounts for the 8 million people listed in the credits, which scroll up seven names across. But even with a crew a third the size of North Korea's actual population, and a budget possibly larger than the country's GNP, "Die Another Day" lacks a satisfying edge in most of its explosions. I could have gone for a little more detail in the mayhem.

(A couple of weeks ago, at about 3:00 in the morning on some cable channel north of ESPN, I caught "True Lies," James Cameron's 1994 action bonanza starring Jamie Lee Curtis and Arnold Schwarzenegger. It is not exactly the feminist film of the century (nor is it likely to please any Arab-American association), but man! things blow up really spectacularly in that picture.)

* Poker: 0. There's a little gambling over a fencing duel, but nobody challenges Bond to play a to-the-death game of five-card stud with a twist, no bookends, high/low.

There have been far worse Bond chapters, and although "Die Another Day" isn't winning any points for global politics, I wasn't sorry to have seen it. But it's only a few hours since I left the theater, and I can barely remember the film. Which is probably a good thing: I'm already prepared for the next one.

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I have seen 12 other films (assuming I'm not forgetting any) since I last emailed around a movie opinion. One--"Singing in the Rain," which was running at the Film Forum for its 50th anniversary--was life-changingly great (and I have seen it at least a dozen times). Several others were not bad, including:

* "The Quiet American," which I saw at the Village Sonyplex last week with Tara and Jim. I rather liked this movie, an adaptation of Graham Greene's novel of the same name. The flick features a love triangle that is thin, but the relationship between the characters played by Michael Caine and Brendan Fraser is layered and charged like a trip wire. Caine is marvelous to watch, and Fraser is better than I expected.

Jim and Tara didn't like the movie as much as I did, but we were all captivated by the Vietnamese dresses. They've got this multi-panel, slit-to-the-waist, wraparound thing going on that is *fascinating.*

After the movie, Jim pointed out (and later emailed me, in case I'd missed it the first time around) that "film is less the art of the possible as it is the necessity of illusion. Its cinematic resonance is suggestive, its vocabulary a simulacrum of context." He also noted, apropos of nothing, that Halle Berry is hot.

* "Far from Heaven." Rich and I saw this homage to post-war melodramas about two weeks ago at the Roachplex. Visually, it's gor-gee-ous, worth seeing for the cinematography and furniture alone. The story didn't wow me, but Julianne Moore did. She gives a beautifully understated performance, and Patricia Clarkson is wonderful in a supporting role. Dennis Quaid, in a gender-role reversal of the classic melodrama, is over the top with emotion.

* "Secretary." I saw this flick with Matthew and his galpal, M, at the Angelika a few weeks ago. For a movie about sadomasochism, it was a little too easy to watch. But Maggie Gylenhaal really acts her sweet ass off, and James Spader--in a role that could have been another throwaway creep part for him--is a subtle foil for her ambition. Bonus: he's looking better as he gets older.

* "Interview with the Assassin." I saw this mock documentary at the Angelika with the Chrisses recently. The movie has a number of compelling plot twists and some fine acting. Unfortunately, Chris K missed a few chunks of the film as she dashed out to vomit several times. The poor thing! Because Chris B and I thought she just had to pee a lot, however, neither of us followed her, and we didn't learn until afterwards that she had been puking her guts up. I believe this makes us among the worst husband-and-friend teams a girl could hope to see a fake documentary with. Something to keep in mind during flu season.

* "Igby Goes Down." I saw this indie when it came out, maybe by myself, um, maybe with Amy O, maybe with Rich, maybe with somebody else. Does anyone remember? Anyway, it's a little self-consciously "aren't we all 'The Graduate' meets 'Catcher in the Rye'?" and the side characters are stock stereotypes. But Kieran Culkin gives an enchanting performance, and Jeff Goldblum is terrific. Plus Amanda Peet wears some groovy shoes.

* "My Bid Fat Greek Wedding." Jonathan and I saw "Greek Wedding" sometime during the fall because it was getting hard to avoid. We were both in crummy moods that night, and this lite fare was just the antidote. The movie doesn't pretend to be serious or even very good, and it manages to be charming and funny in small ways. Nia Vardalos, the writer and star, is disarmingly straightforward as the main character. On the other hand, that John Corbett (Aidan on "Sex and the City" and Chris on "Northern Exposure") is only a slightly better actor than my dog. And his ears aren't as cute.

* "Blue Crush." Saw it in late August with Adam and Tania at a small cineplex on Long Beach Island, where we were spending a week. The theater was old--it appeared to have a bed sheet for a screen and a couple of transistor radios piping in the sound--but this movie doesn't exactly require state-of-the-art viewing conditions. It is dopey and moderate fun, and it plays like a long MTV video. In fact, the best scenes are the surfing shots set to music, and one sequence in which a dog hangs ten.

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A handful of the movies I've seen lately left me whelmed--neither sorry to have seen them, nor moved in any significant way. Included in that group are:

* "Real Women Have Curves," which I saw at the Roachplex by myself a few weeks ago. The title really drew me in, the film did not.

* "Standing in the Shadow of Motown." Marci and I saw this documentary last week at the dumpy theater on 62nd and Broadway. It's about the talented studio musicians who played on dozens of Motown hits but were little know to fans. The interviews with the old guys are interesting, but the historical stuff is handled in a clunky manner, and I didn't learn as much as I could have. Also, the film inexplicably started 20 minutes late, and the couple down the row from us shouted to each other constantly. Here's a tip: if you're deaf, don't go to the movies and yell a lot.

* "Ararat." Jonathan and I saw this, the latest from Atom Egoyan ("Sweet Hereafter," "Exotica") at the 68th Street Sonyplex last week. Interesting ideas and decent acting, both completely snowed under by a blizzard of story lines. We couldn't really tell what was going on, but we weren't sorry to have seen the movie.

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Finally, I really hated "Bowling for Columbine," which Jonathan and I saw at the 68th Sonyplex about a month ago. The movie is a documentary in which writer and director Michael Moore ("Roger and Me") attempts to investigate why gun accidents are relatively common in the United States. This is a good question to ask, but Moore's techniques are manipulative, misleading and sloppy. Indeed, he employs precisely the methods he accuses mainstream media of using to whip up fear.

For instance, Moore provides partial statistics. The movie claims 11,000 people die each year in the US from gunshot wounds. Much lower numbers for other countries flash across the screen. But without giving any stats about the countries' populations, which Moore does not, this is a useless comparison. Nonetheless, it made the audience we were watching with gasp.

More subtle but no less insidious are the videotaped interviews, which are edited out of order, with inter-cut comments from Moore, making the subjects appear to say or respond to things they may not have been aware of. In addition, Moore harasses people like Dick Clark and Charlton Heston and then sighs disingenuously as if *he* is being given a hard time. And he wears some seriously shabby white leather sneakers.

The movie's few good scenes are undermined by its overall sensibility. But does it matter? Moore is preaching to the converted, and he knows it.

Frankly, I was disgusted--and I am one of the converted.

I learned two things from this film:

1) Marilyn Manson is amazingly well spoken. He is one of the few smart, analytical voices in the movie, and he comes across as very thoughtful. Maybe it's an act, but his interview made me want to run out and buy his albums. Or vote him into the Senate.

2) Unless it is in the context of a documentary about September 11, I never want to see video of the planes slamming into the World Trade Towers again. In one segment of "Columbine," Moore shows the second plane as it hits. Seeing that familiar footage unexpectedly took my breath away, literally; afterwards, Jonathan said it made him feel as if he'd been punched.

If only the movie itself had had such a strong impact. Sadly, its politics were little better than "Die Another Day's," and it doesn't feature Halle Berry. With such dismal details, it's hard to make an argument for "Columbine."

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Administrata. Take note! The URL for my Web site has changed. It is now www.dogsandshoes.com (no longer www.sarashsmo.com). If you've got me bookmarked, now would be the perfect time to update the link.

Sunday Night Special

Originally posted 13 August 2002

Movies: XXX, Full Frontal and more!

Sunday night. It's 6000 degrees. The Yankees game ended hours ago, and the Mets are on the wrong end of a rout. The paper's been read. Dinner's over. The dog is asleep. What's a girl to do?

Grab her neighbor, tape "Sex and the City" and go see "XXX," yo.

Amy L. and I trotted over to the Sonyplex on 84th and Broadway to find out whether Vin Diesel could add some fuel to our evening. Was it worth $10, two hours and a flotilla of pre-movie ads? Let me put it this way: Vroom, vroom.

In the opening scene of "XXX" (pronounced "triple ex"), a James Bond-type character is killed. Finally! The guy has been escaping improbable on-screen deaths for 40 years. Let somebody else take a crack at it already. Enter Mr. Diesel. He's got moxie galore and a body that just won't quit. "XXX" makes the most of those assets, and it has a Tony Hawk cameo to boot.

As we know from Bond?s escapades, the hero of an action movie must live on to make a sequel (or 20). Suspense takes a holiday, and the pleasure lies all in the way the star works out of danger and slays the baddies. Where Bond partakes in a little downhill skiing and tricks the snowmobiling thugs to crash into trees, Diesel's character, Xander Cage, snowboards down a near-vertical snowfield and intentionally starts a screen-bending avalanche that he outraces while it buries his pursuers. Yahoo! Does Bond know how to trayboard down a brass banister to escape mean Russian guys with grenade launchers? I don't think so.

But of course "XXX" steals shamelessly from Bond. There're M and Q equivalents, and the babes are all Russian spies or Czech pilots or whores. There's a tricked out car and gadgets aplenty. And the plot, such as it is, is a classic Cold War scenario. In fact, the story is simple enough--and the screenplay dopey enough--that title cards and the rip-roaring soundtrack would have been truly preferable to the dialogue. But it hardly matters that Diesel and most of the other actors can't really act. They're backed up by an army of stuntpeople (one of whom died while filming the movie), and they look neither shaken nor stirred.

"XXX" refers to Xander's nickname, not to the rating of the movie, which happens to be an innocent PG-13. This is both good (most of the violence is off-screen) and bad (so is the sex); Sean Connery had steamier scenes in 1962's "Dr. No." But Xander Cage drives Corvettes off bridges *for fun.*

Here's how "XXX" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 6. Diesel wears standard-issue steel-toed black boots (and really ugly pants). The chick lead, played by Italian actress Asia Argento, gets to march around in some terrific thigh-high 4-inch (at least) stiletto-heeled black suede boots. They don't lend her cheesy Russian accent any authenticity, but if you can walk in those babies, you've got what it takes to kick ass in an international spy ring.

That might sound Bondly, but bear in mind: nearly everyone in this movie is tattooed from stem to stern. Most of the ink is not permanent, which is a good thing because one of the nasty anarchists has a dragon on his chest that caused Amy, who watches more MTV than most 14-year-olds, to utter, "Man, that is the tackiest tattoo ever." Vin's look pretty cute, though.

* Dogs: 0. A few mice sniff around a glass cage, and the movie is set in a world where everyone wears fur-collared clothing. Still, there are no wooflets in this flick.

* Cell phones: 5. Neither undue abuse in the film nor the theater. There is, however, the laptop silliness and retinal scan-type security systems that are de rigueur in action movies today.

* Do things blow up? 6.5. Things totally blow up, some even in slow motion. But this movie does not really cares about the explosions. Instead, it's focused on whether the hero survives or the villain is killed by the mayhem. Kind of disappointing, actually.

* Poker: 0. This seems like a movie in which people might play cards, but sadly, they don't. On the other hand, I didn't think even once about Texas Hold 'Em while I was watching.

"XXX" rocked our Sunday night. The outing would have been an unmitigated success had we not encountered a pair of killer (possibly Russian anarchist) cockroaches guarding the sidewalk on our way home. They were buff, and their tattoos spelled aggression. Without Vin or a pair of semi-automatic rifles for protection, we skedaddled onto the street. It was dangerous--we could have been flattened by a car peeling off West End Avenue--but we haven't been practicing our speed climbing for nothing. If traffic had materialized, we could have thrown ropes over the scaffolding in front of the Claremont apartment building and launched ourselves up the facade. I don't think James Bond woulda done that.

Here're a few other things I've seen lately, each ranked on a scale of 1 - 10:

* Sunshine State: 8.5. Marci and I saw this, the latest from John Sayles, at the Schlepperplex. Engaging premise and fantastic cast (gawd, I love Edie Falco). Like reading a satisfying book with full-fledged characters and good scenery.

* Read My Lips: 8. My neighbor Rich and I saw this French flick at the Paris Theater (quel coincidence!). It's interesting, and sexy, and different. Vive la difference and go see it.

* 13 Conversations: 6.5. Jackie and I saw this at the Schlepperplex. I liked it, she didn't. It's got a groovy non-linear thing going on, and most of the acting is very good. Alan Arkin is terrific.

* Tadpole: 6.5. I went by myself to see this slight, entertaining flick at the Schlepperplex. You know the movie isn't taking itself very seriously when it casts John Ritter in a fatherly role. Bebe Neuwirth is wicked fun.

* The Kid Stays in the Picture: 4. Rich and I saw this documentary at the Schlepperplex. It's about Hollywood producer Robert Evans, who narrates the movie by reading from his autobiography. I was seriously underwhelmed by this biopic, although some of the photographs were neat. If you go see it, stay for the credits, during which Dustin Hoffman does a biting impression of Evans that provides the film's only perspective on its subject.

* Road to Perdition: 3.5. Amy and Ilene and I saw this at the 68th Street Sonyplex. They both liked it a lot. I found it boring and sentimental, plus I didn't like the casting, except Stanley Tucci. Also, there was a horrible cell phone episode in the theater, too awful to recount. I will say, though, that the movie is visually strong, and it's not terrible in general. It just wasn't my thing.

* Full Frontal: 3. I saw this, Steven Soderbergh's latest, in D.C. with my friends Jennifer and Mat. Ooooo, it was so not good. Mystifying? Totally. Pretentious? Sure. Charmless? Absolutely. There is one good scene, in which Julia Roberts, playing a Hollywood star, makes fun of herself. It's 32 enjoyable seconds in an otherwise dreary film. I'd understand if you chose to see this simply because of its pedigree. But if you're unsure whether to go, I suggest you skip it and see its antidote: "XXX," bay-bee.

What I Did During the All-Star Break

Originally posted 10 July 2002

Movies: The Fast Runner, Men in Black II, and more

Let's ignore the obvious (I haven't written a review in six months) and get down to business (discussing shoes on the silver screen).

Earlier tonight, my friend Matthew and I met up at the Roachplex (a.k.a. Lincoln Plaza) to see "The Fast Runner," a three-hour Inuit movie. Actually, it could be called *the* three-hour Inuit movie, as it's the first feature film made in Inuktitut, the language of the Inuit, and it was made by a mostly Inuit cast and crew. "Minority Report" this is not.

"The Fast Runner" is an epic story of human interdependence and family struggle, sort of like "Ran" on ice with a much smaller cast and way fewer flags. It is set in Nanavut, a Canadian province just below the North Pole. The stunning outdoor scenes depict plains of snow and ice rolling to the horizon; the indoor scenes are filmed in igloos. It is visually glorious, and I could almost smell the snow. In fact, an hour into it, I was shivering in sympathy. Then I realized I was sitting in a room so air-conditioned I was lucky my blood wasn?t crystallizing.

Although critics have called "The Fast Runner" a knockout (LA Times) and a masterpiece (NY Times), I wasn't moved enough emotionally to give it that kind of rating. I was, however, gripped by the acting (it seemed more like a documentary than a fictional film), and I was fascinated by the Inuit culture.

I get cranky when the sidewalks in Riverside Park freeze over during the winter and there's nowhere to take the dog, so I find it hard to imagine how people live on sheets of ice. "The Fast Runner" is a primer in igloo building and hundreds of ways to skin and use seal, caribou and walrus, plus feathers. It also makes clear that living on ice involves ripping and eating a lot of animal flesh. Whatever else this flick is, it's not a vegetarian classic.

Here's How "The Fast Runner" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 7. Think Manolos. Now picture their opposite. Highly functional-looking mukluk-type footwear that perfectly complements the sealskin/polar bear clothing.

* Dogs: 9. Oh lord, dogs in opening the scene, and it doesn't disappoint after that. But these sled pullers are pretty mangy (they might have enjoyed some attention from the Snow Dogs' stylist), and you never see them eat. I spent the whole movie fretting that they never got fed. Came home and gave my dog a piece of cheese.

* Cell phones: 10. None rang during the movie (there's no reception in that theater--it's underground), and not one Inuit can be spotted sneaking a call to his or her agent during the film. During the end credits, however, there are some shots of the making of the movie, and one of the actors is seen wearing headphones presumably connected to a nifty little CD or MP3 player. I doubt, anyway, that he's listening to the broadcast of a Yankees game.

* Do things blow up? 0. Like asking whether James Bond dies during "Thunderball."

* Poker: 0. None in the movie--cards probably freeze and break in weather like that, although you might be able to fashion some interesting chips from seal bones--nor did I think about playing poker the entire time I was watching.

If three hours of subtitles doesn't appeal, you might try "Men in Black II." My friend Chris and I saw it at the Sony on 3rd & 86th the other day, and it didn't suck. It's slight rather than sly, as the original was, and it doesn't even try for cleverness, as the original did. But it's entertaining enough if there's no baseball on and you cannot stomach the latest Tom Cruise-o-rama.

(I was planning on giving "Men In Black II" a full-blown review, but honestly, I can't recall enough of it to do so. Presumably, the actors wore shoes and they used a lot of cellphones. Better than even chance that a bunch of things blew up. Probably I thought at least once, "Huh, I could be spending this 90 minutes of my life playing poker." Definitely there were dogs, most notably a talking pug. I don't much like pugs (smushy faces, labored breathing), and I usually hate dogs that appear to speak (who's all that anthropomorphizing good for?). But this sassy little guy kinda won me over. I've got new respect for pugs, if not for Hollywood.)

Last week, my neighbor Rich and I managed a double header: "Lovely & Amazing" at the Angelika and "Notorious C.H.O." at the Sunshine Landmark. I love seeing two movies in one night, and we even had a leisurely drink in between, plus we walked up to my bank afterwards and deposited a check for $75 that The New York Times paid me to write about a digital music player shaped like a yo-yo. Heaven!

Anyhoo. The bad news is that "Lovely & Amazing" is boring and annoying. It's written and directed by Nicole Holofcener, who made "Walking & Talking" (1996), and it stars Catherine Keener and Brenda Blethyn, among others. Why make a movie like this? All of the characters are unhappy and unpleasant, no fresh insight is given into their cliched conditions, and nobody grows or changes during the film. If it's gonna be that grim, take a page from Todd Solondz and at least make it gruesome, too.

"Notorious C.H.O.," on the other hand, gets two thumbs up from me (and at least one from Rich), and it doesn't even have any dogs in it. It's a concert film of Margaret Cho in Seattle last year, plus a biting cartoon short beforehand. Cho could pick her cuticles on stage and I'd find her entertaining. She's hilarious, and she has a beautifully casual way of turning taboo subjects ordinary. Although "Notorious" relies more on stereotypes than did her last concert flick, "I'm The One That I Want" (2000), it's still good for a lot of laughs and a few surprises. I've rarely felt happier or more at home than watching Cho depict frat guys on the rag ("Dude, is your second day the heaviest, too?").

So that about wraps it up. In the interest of conserving bandwidth, I'll spare you my opinions of the other 15 or 20 movies I've seen since last I wrote. Suffice it to say that none of them was in Inuktitut.

How To Lose $150 Without Really Trying

Originally posted 23 January 2002

Movies: Brotherhood of the Wolf, Harry Potter and More

Since last I wrote just six weeks ago, I have seen 15 movies. That's a prodigious and commendable input, but it means this review could get terrifyingly long. To make things easier on all of us, I have grouped the shows into several categories: Movies That Would Have Scared Me When I Was Seven; Movies I Might Have Liked When I Was 17, If I Had Been Making Out in the Back of the Theater and Blissfully Unaware of the Actual Film; Movies for the PBS/NPR Crowd; and Revivals with Rich. Some of the movies fall into more than one category; I'll leave it to you to figure out which.

--Movies That Would Have Scared Me When I Was Seven--

Embarrassingly enough, this list is headed up by "Brotherhood of the Wolf," an 18th Century French kung-fu fantasy mess that I saw on Sunday night at the 84th Street Sony with Brian and Laurie and my old movie mate Matthew. I am powerless to resist martial arts movies, and it was my idea that we go see this flick. Mea culpa. It is bad, it is gory, and there is hardly any kung fu. But the 11-year-old boys sitting behind us provided some interesting commentary: during one particularly gruesome scene a preadolescent deadpanned, "He just scalped the guy. That's not nice."

Here's how "Brotherhood" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 3. Some cool, above the knee boots (on the men).

* Dogs: 5. There are a lot of dogs in this movie, everything from a French goat-herding puffball to wolfhounds and Dobermans. And, of course, there are dozens of great-looking wolves. But a lot of wolves get slaughtered, and it's kind of upsetting. I was glad I hadn't brought my dog, Robie, to see this one.

* Cell phones: 0/10. None in the film, and none in the theater. But somebody down the row in front of us was listening to music on a Walkman the entire time. At every quiet moment in the movie, I could hear the tinny static of headphones in use. Also, this is easily the tenth time at this theater that I have seen somebody bring a toddler into an R-rated movie, and even I (with virtually no moral compass) am disturbed by such parenting.

* Do things blow up?: 0. Some rocks fell over.

* Poker: 0/-10. Some card were seen during the film, but no poker was played. I would have let a wolf chew off my left pinky toe to have been playing poker instead of watching this lupine loser.

Of course, some martial arts movies make me want to whoop with joy. "Once Upon a Time in China," the 1991 classic featuring Jet Li in his first big role, is of that ilk. Matthew and I saw it at the Film Forum a few nights ago, and it made my week. The acting is comparable to that in porn movies, the screenplay is gleefully cheesy, and the story is an afterthought. But the movie kicks all kinds of ass. From the gorgeous opening titles to the awesomely choreographed and lovingly filmed fight sequences, this baby gets ten thumbs up from me--as does Jet Li.

Less successful was "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," which I saw on my own at 84th Street last weekend. I really enjoyed the first Harry Potter book (I've been less enamored of the three sequels so far), and although the reviews have been middling, I was hopeful that the movie would add dimension to my experience of the book. No such luck. Instead, I was so bored I feared a spell had been cast on me.

Here's how "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 0. You can't see wizards' shoes because they wear floor-length robes.

* Dogs: 2. There are two dogs at Hogwarts and one of them has three heads.

* Cell phones: 0/-4. While Harry and his cohorts don't know from wireless phones, parents bringing their children to see "Harry Potter" for the fourteenth time seem to think it's okay to gab on their Nokias during the movie.

* Do things blow up?: 2. At a school full of potions and curses, not as much blows up as one might hope.

* Poker: 0/-10. Wizards play chess, not poker. Halfway through, I almost asked one seven-year-old behind me if she could be interested in a little five-card draw.

Personally, I liked "The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring" a lot more. I saw it a few weeks back at the 68th Street Sonyplex with my dogrun friends Jackie and Brett. I haven't yet checked out the book, but the movie was entertaining enough to pique my interest in reading it. For those more serious about their Middle Earth pursuits, note that my brother, a bigtime fan of the Ring series, found this film little better than the flimsy "Harry Potter" adaptation.

Best of all in Movies-That-Would-Have-Scared-Me-When-I-Was-Seven category was "Monsters, Inc.," which Brett and I went to see a few weeks ago at ye oldde 84th Street Sonyplex. This is the latest from Pixar, the studio that brought us the "Toy Story" gems and "A Bug's Life." It's 92 minutes of action, drama and laughs. And it's sweet; at the end, Brett and I both got teary. Although monsters don't wear shoes or keep dogs, this film was one of my favorites of the season. If you go, stick around for the side-splitting outtakes during the closing credits.

--Movies I Might Have Liked When I Was 17, If I Had Been Making Out in the Back of the Theater and Blissfully Unaware of the Actual Film--

Somehow, when "Kate & Leopold" came out, Jackie, Brett and my neighbor Rich and I convinced ourselves that it would be okay to spend a Saturday night seeing it at the 68th Street Sonyplex. What the hell were we thinking?

My brother points out that of all the film genres, the romantic comedy has really fallen on the worst of times. "Kate & Leopold"--at 121 excruciating minutes--is perfect fodder for this argument. The story is trite, the characters are dull, the supposed spark between Meg Ryan and Hugh Jackman made me and my three compatriots proud to be single. Even the side characters played by such skillful actors as Natasha Lyonne, Breckin Meyer and Liev Schreiber were flat as beer that's been sitting open for four days.

Here's how "Kate & Leopold" scored in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 3. I wasn't that inspired by the shoes, but in a couple of scenes Ryan wears a leather shirt that looks great on her.

* Dogs: 8. There was an Anatolian shepherd in the movie, which was adorable and not seen nearly enough. Bonus points given because Robie's best dog friend is an Anatolian, and because Jackie, Brett, Rich and I are enamored of another Anatolian in our dogrun.

* Cell phones: 0/3. I don't recall any ringing in the theater. There was only mild gadget abuse in the movie.

* Do things blow up?: 0. Nope. But there was a cool reconstruction of the Brooklyn Bridge circa 100 years ago.

* Poker: 0/-10. None in the movie. I spent most of the two-hour duration wondering if Meg Ryan would be more fun to play poker with than to watch caper around onscreen.

Little better was "A Beautiful Mind," which Rich I saw at one of the Chelseaplexes a few weeks ago. I had forgotten that it was directed by Ron Howard ("How the Grinch Stole Christmas," "Apollo 13"), and since it had gotten lots of good reviews, I went in with dangerously high expectations. I'm sure nobody will be surprised to learn that I hated this flick.

"A Beautiful Mind" is a well-lighted schmaltzfest that can't decide whether it's about the pain of mental illness, the horrors of McCarthyism, or the belief that love will triumph over all. In the hands of an Oscar-chaser like Howard, this emotional melee is guaranteed to annoy a motion picture minimalist like me. Credit where due: Russel Crowe is fine, if you like that kind of thing. And Jennifer Connelly looks incredible. But she wears a lot of espadrilles in this flick, which didn't always go well with her cute outfits.

Last week, my friend Judy and I hoofed it over the Angelika to see "What Time Is It There?" The better question might be: what time is it over? Judy truly hated this slow-moving Taiwanese film, while I was merely antsy. Each scene is shot with one unmoving camera, and while many of them were beautifully composed, they added up to nothing more than 116 minutes of time that could better have been spent playing poker or keeping up with reading on Enron.

--Movies for the PBS/NPR Crowd--

When it opened back in December, my friend Amy O and I went to see "The Royal Tenenbaums" at Lincoln Plaza. I had loved the previous movie from director Wes Anderson, "Rushmore," and I was all hot to trot for his new offering. Instead, I wound up warm to conform. That is, I liked it okay--I generally find something of value in movies about family dysfunction (to say nothing of movies with Owen Wilson), and I was entertained while watching it--but it didn't change my life or anything. There are dogs, there are shoes. I can't really remember much about any of them.

"Gosford Park" has gotten reams of good reviews, and I'm not going to buck the trend. I found this film, which I saw with Brett and Jackie at the 68th Street Sonyplexorama, to be lite, entertaining fare. I had a cough when we went to see it, and Brett conked out and snored loudly during the middle of the movie. Jackie, who was wedged between us, slunk low in her seat and tried to keep her soda slurping down to a dull roar. Possibly, other patrons were gabbing away on their cell phones throughout this flick, but I couldn't tell over the racket we were making.

Because I won my own name-this-site contest (more on that in my next review), I took myself to see "Lantana" at Lincoln Plaza last week. A tight Aussie film looking at four intertwined marriages, "Lantana" is very, very good. The acting is seamless and the storytelling is engrossing. If you haven't seen it yet, do yourself a favor and check it out.

Last weekend, Amy O and I saw "Monster's Ball" at Lincoln Plaza. A gripping drama starring Halle Berry and Billy Bob Thornton, this movie has lots to recommend it. Topping the list is Halle Berry, who takes movie acting to a new level in this film--she just about blows the screen out of the theater, she's so good. I also liked the spare screenplay and the movie's willingness to stick with small, sometimes deeply painful moments. I didn't think about playing poker the whole time I was watching it.

--Revivals with Rich--

I have had a bad cold for a few weeks now, and at its peak, I promised to stay in for a few nights. So Rich and I rented "Croupier" and camped out at my place with some Haagen Dazs and a box of Puffs Plus. "Croupier" is UK movie that came out in 1998 and got terrific reviews on this side of the pond (maybe on the other side too; how should I know?). With its casino-evocative title, I thought we'd be in for a night of fun. In fact, if we'd ignored my cold, blown off the movie and gone to Foxwoods, we might have had a chance. As it was, neither of us got much out of this flick. Still, I was glad to have seen it for its one poker scene, during which the main character, played by the sexy Clive Owen, deals a hand in which the players around the table get a straight, a flush, a full house, four of a kind, and a straight flush. Atlantic City, here we come.

On New Year's Eve, Rich and I caught a Film Forum double feature of "The Apartment" and "Some Like it Hot," both Billy Wilder movies starring Jack Lemon. The tandem was a perfect ending to 2001 and a reminder of why sitting in a dark, poorly ventilated room with a bunch of pasty, poorly ventilated strangers can be a great experience.

The House That Sony Built

Originally posted 18 June 2002

Movies: Tomb Raider, Driven, Bridget Jones, and more!

By now, you're used my disappearing for months at a time, leaving your inbox bereft of incisive opinions about the latest Hollywood crap. So I'm not going to go into the whole macarena about why this write-up has been so delayed. Actually, I will. But that's below. Meantime, here's a review.

Last night, my friend Erik and I went to see "Lara Croft: Tomb Raider" at the Sony on 3rd Avenue and 11th. We were off to a bad start when we got to our theater and discovered that 1) the screen was the size of a legal pad; and 2) the room was covered in a visible film of dried soda studded with dust and used gum. The grime was gross, but it was the screen size that really pissed me off. What's the point of paying $11.50 to see an action movie writ small? My mood was sour and my elbow bonded to the armrest as the film started.

"Tomb Raider" is based on the acclaimed video game of the same name, and it stars Angelina Jolie ("Girl, Interrupted," "Gone in Sixty Seconds") in the title role. I don't play the game, but it has a reputation for being one of the few quality video contests that has a female protagonist. So right away, I'm interested in the movie. Also, the poster for the film is inspiring: Jolie, in a shortie jumpsuit so tight you can see the outline of her belly button, stands legs apart, shoulders wide, comfortably holding a large gun at her side and looking off the page at something she's clearly about to wipe out. Her waist-length braid sways behind her, suggesting that she has just landed in this position. The movie title is emblazoned directly over her crotch. The poster has mesmerized me for weeks.

The movie, unfortunately, will not have the same effect. The opening scene--tomb-raiding heroism all the way--exemplifies one of my action-movie pet peeves: the editing is so frenetic, it's impossible to tell what's going on. And then the characters speak. And the British accents are so bad, Meryl Streep would be rolling over in her grave, if only she were dead. And then Jon Voight, Jolie's real-life father, plays Croft's dad. And it's all terribly sentimental--backed up by soggy accents and a feeble plotline and sets that could double as Disney rides. And I was obsessed with Jolie's lips, which are a disquieting gray color and look as if they've had six too many collagen injections. Afterwards, Erik said he thought for the first half-hour that "Tomb Raider" could well turn out to be the worst movie ever made.

But the movie saves itself from such ignominy. It's got little dialog--thank god. (I was thinking this was because the writers recognized that the film's appeal was not going to lie in witty repartee, but Erik more astutely noted that they probably just didn't bother to write many lines.) A few of the action scenes are filmed in exciting style, and they involve plenty of fun phallic imagery (although on the whole, the movie is surprisingly--even pleasingly--PG). The soundtrack is classic video-game electronica, amped up for the silver screen. And, in general, the production doesn't take itself too seriously.

Here's how "Tomb Raider" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

Shoes: 2. I would award this category a "1" for ugliness, but Croft keeps her nifty knife in the leg of a boot, so I'm giving credit for storage.

Dogs: 8. The last segment of the movie involves a slew of handsome sled dogs. Improves the film 11-fold.

Do things blow up?: 3. Yeah, but it's all cheesy-looking special effects. The final action scene, in which Jolie runs out of a tomb just ahead of a series of explosions, is kind of cool.

Cell phones: 8. None rang in the theater during the movie, and there is not too much fetishy gadget abuse in the film itself.

Despite the film's general silliness, and the fact that the sound cut out for about three minutes towards the beginning (which didn't influence our understanding of the story at all), I was in a pretty good mood by the end. Strong female lead, a few good action scenes, running time under 100 minutes. It's not a film classic, but it didn't offend my sensibilities or make me feel dirty for having paid to see it.

So I've got "Tomb Raider" under my belt, but the span between that and the last movie I'd seen was perhaps the longest drought of my adult life. My excuse? My friend Laurie Fitch and I have got season seats for the Yankees, a package of 41 tickets (half the 81 home games), which works out to an average of 3.4 Bronx nights per week during team homestands, for six months. Put another way, I'm attending seven games a month this summer, plus road trips to see the team in Boston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, Toronto and Flushing. It's grueling. And it nearly obviates movie going from April to September, not to mention the post-season, which engulfs October.

Herewith, then, is a round up of opinions on movies I saw before the season started or during the Yankees' early-season series out of town. Savor it; at the rate I'm going, I won't have another list this beefy until mid-winter.

* Driven. What're you going to do on Sunday afternoons in the black hole between the ballgame and "The Sopranos"? Watch Nascar racing on Fox, naturally. My neighbor Amy and I had been nurturing an interest in motor sports when Sylvester Stallone's latest movie was released in April; we went to see "Driven" the day it opened. The movie showcases a bunch of CART races (which involve those skinny, open-wheeled cars that go about 200 mph, literally), and a lot of things blow up at close range and in slow motion. Unfortunately, Sly wrote the screenplay, which shows, and the soundtrack is a terrible waste. Still, low expectations helped us enjoy this flick, which alternately prompted Amy to say, "Wow, that was fucking cool!" and "Wow, that was the worst movie scene of all time."

* Memento. I saw "Memento" in Boston with my brother, his girlfriend and his roommate. The story is told backwards, and it requires a tremendous amount of concentration to keep up with. Although flawed and ultimately confusing (it took the four of us about two hours to decide we were never going to really understand the film), I liked "Memento" for challenging me and for its very good acting.

* Bridget Jones's Diary. I read the book while in London a couple of years ago, and I thoroughly enjoyed it. Based on the corny previews, however, I was wary of the movie, certain that the spirited Bridget would be made to mush. But when offered a free ticket to a preview of the movie, I decided to go--if only to be able to complain loudly afterwards about the dismal state of romantic comedies in Hollywood these days. I was very pleasantly surprised, then, to find myself laughing out loud during the movie and just generally enjoying it. Renee Zellweger is a creditable Bridget, and Hugh Grant is marvelous as the dastardly romantic interest. There's snappy dialog and an old-movie sensibility about the love triangle. I can't comment on the much-discussed weight that Zellweger gained for this role; we were forced to sit in the second row of the theater, and everyone looked disproportionately wide from that angle.

* Blow. I saw Johnny Depp's latest by myself at the Sonyplex on 68th Street. Long, boring, sentimental: it blew. Depp was pretty good, although I found his character deeply unbelievable and his Massachusetts accent erratic. Overall effect: a young director (Ted Demme, "Beautiful Girls"), profoundly influenced by Scorcese, makes an After School Special.

* In the Mood for Love. A beautiful, poetic Chinese movie starring Tony Leung Chiu Wai, an Asian screen star, and Maggie Cheung, one of the top heroines in Hong Kong action movies, in an unusual non-martial arts role. I liked everything about the film, although I kept expecting Cheung to break out of the melancholy mode, throw a high kick at Tony and scream "Hi *ya*!"

* Taste of Others. I saw this delightful French film downtown with Erik and Stephanie and Joseph. Complicated characters, interesting situations, charming French realism, good shoes. My favorite of the movies reviewed in this opinion.

* The Gleaners and I. My neighbor Rich and I saw this Agnes Varda pic at Film Forum. It's got some provocative ideas about material use and waste, food in particular. But I'm pretty familiar with those concepts, and I found the movie a little precious. Not a waste of time, however, and a good example of personal filmmaking.

* Pollock. Uck. Ed Harris indulges his most narcissistic fantasies by playing a fantastic narcissist. I saw this one at Lincoln Plaza with Zoe, a friend from a writing class I took over the winter, and neither of us liked it much. It reveals nothing new about Pollock, creativity, alcoholism, Eastern Long Island or the intersection of those things. Marcia Gay Harden as Lee Krasner was a lot of fun to watch, however, and the cast did include a pretty cute border collie.

Okay, that's all the opinions that are fit to digitize today. I'll try to get out another SMO before the All-Star Break. Meantime, let's go Yanks!

Sarah's Eleven

Originally posted 8 December 2001

Movies: Ocean's Eleven, In the Bedroom, Tape, and more

Not to ignore the fact that I haven't written a review since late June, but we all know that the double play of baseball and terrorism has kept me off the airwaves all this time, so I'm not going belabor it. Fortunately, a downright scorching December has not kept me out of theaters lately, and I'm here to report on "Ocean's Eleven."

The original 1960 casino heist movie features rat packers Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin and Sammy Davis Jr, plus a dippy soundtrack and intermittent musical numbers from the headliners. My friend Hope and I rented it the other night and were underwhelmed. Although the movie is appealing for its period style and the actors' obvious comfort with each other, it is slow moving and unsatisfying. During lulls, Hope and I entertained ourselves watching our dogs wrestle. Afterwards, we agreed that "Ocean's Eleven" was ripe for a remake--ideally, one with a snappy, coherent screenplay.

Ta da! Steven Soderbergh steps up to the plate. The director of "Sex, Lies and Videotape," "Erin Brockovich" and "Traffic" has remade "Ocean's Eleven," and it opened yesterday. My friend Jackie and I carved two hours out of the afternoon and went to see it.

It would be disingenuous to call this film's cast "star studded." "Wall-to-wall" is more like it. With George Clooney, Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Andy Garcia, Julia Roberts, Don Cheadle, Elliott Gould, Carl Reiner and Bernie Mac, to name just a few, this version outdoes the original in its marquee power. It also bests it predecessor by being a lot more fun.

The first third of the movie, in which the eleven-man heist crew is introduced, is particularly amusing. Gould and Reiner chew up the scenery, and even Pitt--wearing a different suit and eating junk food in every scene--does a good job tossing banter as Clooney's criminal partner. In the original, Sinatra's Danny Ocean is the toughest guy on screen. In this version, Clooney plays the title character as a softer thief, but Andy Garcia is perfectly menacing as a ruthless casino owner, and his performance gives the movie its slight tension.

Unfortunately, that tension is fleeting. As the movie continues, it goes slack and gets a little confusing. Also, Julia Roberts is woefully underused in a lousy role. And I really hated the ending (the 1960 film had a much niftier wrapup). Still, the actors are good to watch, the soundtrack is cool, and you don't have to wonder whether any of the stars is going to burst into song at odd moments.

Here's how "Ocean's Eleven" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 2. Kind of lacking, especially considering the loving attention paid to Brad Pitt's clothing.

* Dogs: 3. A few dogs appear in this film, most notably racing greyhounds. I don't know much about dog racing, but a few of the weirder people in my local dogrun have greyhounds and are very committed to liberating these skinny beasts from the competitive ring.

* Cell phones: 4. Glaringly absent from the 1960 version of the movie, cell phones and laptop wizardry are used here in all the cliched ways you'd expect in a millennial movie. In the audience of about 10 people, I didn't hear any cell phones, but somebody had a watch or a beeper that went off incessantly for a *while* near the end of the movie. I was irked.

* Do things blow up? 6. A model car is smashed to smithereens in a satisfying manner.

* Poker: 10. As I've lately developed an avid interest in poker, I'm inaugurating a new category here. It works two ways: 1) would I rather have been playing poker than seeing this movie? And 2) how was poker depicted in the film? In the case of "Ocean's Eleven," the movie made me want to go enjoy a few rounds because it made the game look like so much fun; it's a tossup, however, whether the two hours I spent watching the film would have been better spent at a poker table. Depiction: I nearly choked on a butterscotch laughing during a scene in which Pitt teaches five-card draw to young movie stars playing themselves.

With its starting lineup, I doubt you'd miss "Ocean's Eleven" even if I told you it was worse than a diet powder infomercial. So go. Enjoy. Then go coral up your friends for some Texas Hold 'Em, and listen to Sinatra tunes while you lose nickels by the handful.

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Bonus poker story! This is a Web-only treat, added on December 21, 2001.

Last night, I attended a just-forming all-girls poker game. It was hosted by a friend of a friend of a friend, and I was invited on a fluke. Beforehand, I got a snippet of an email saying that many of the players were brand new, so we were going to have a teaching session. I thought: Cool, maybe I'll learn something.

The game was called for 9pm, and when I got to the King Street site at 9:30, only four of the nine (nine!) babes were there. But nobody seemed concerned; there were so many cigarettes to smoke. Anyway, I didn't really know anyone there, so I looked around the ginormous two-bedroom, two-story, converted-school apartment (the occupant of
which is a grad student at Columbia film school, and a renter), then I settled in to see about the lesson: "So we've got somebody coming to teach poker basics?" "Yeah, my downstairs neighbor was going to come up, but he couldn't make it. We heard you know how to play."

Dear reader, I was the poker expert at the table.

The chick with the chips was late, but I had brought a bag of Hershey's Kisses (with almonds), and we used them to begin teaching five-card draw to the earlycomers. It was a slow start: after three people asked if aces were worth one or thirteen, I wrote out the order of the hands (turns out I know it(!)). Also, it's difficult to really convey the rules of the game when you've got to spend a lot of time chatting about whether or not to get a tan on the holiday vacation, if we're the right age for calcium supplements, are male gynecologists acceptable, and whether you should break up with your Italian boyfriend even though your potential kids would be bilingual. I felt like Brad Pitt in "Ocean's 11."

By the time all nine foxes were around the table, it was a major battle just to keep a simple game of Texas Hold 'Em going. Side conversations! Cell phones ringing! Delivery orders being placed! Food everywhere! Wine spilling at every flop, street and river! There wasn't even a thought of trying to learn another game. But the good news is that partly through luck, and--incredibly--partly through
experience, I won the first few hands, which was cool, becase the game went late, and my winnings paid for a cab home.

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Contest! Get your thinking caps on. I need to change the URL for my Website, currently www.sarahsmo.com (which stands for Sarah's Movie Opinions). I'm looking for something more memorable or obvious. Possibilities include: www.sarahmilstein.com, www.sarahmillie.com, www.millie.com, www.goatsontoast.com. Let me know if you like any of these. Or if you suggest another URL and I use it, I'll take you out to a movie and offer you an optional guest review. Send me your most creative suggestions today!

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I've seen 11 other movies (that I remember) since last I wrote. Here're some mini reviews:

* My neighbor Rich and I saw "In the Bedroom" a couple of weeks ago. It was spare and excellent, on par with "You Can Count On Me." Go see it.

* Over Thanksgiving weekend, I saw "Tape" on a third date with a guy Jackie had set me up with. As we were waiting to go into the theater, I casually asked whether he had any seating preferences. He said, "Oh, I'll sit anywhere." I thought, "Thank god." He added, "As long as it's on the aisle." I thought, "This is our last date." Indeed, it was. But I really liked the movie, directed by Richard Linklater ("Slackers," "Dazed and Confused"), and I recommend it.

* My friend Chris and I went to see "Amelie" recently. Charming French film. Not life changing. But inventive and pleasant nonetheless.

* My friend Marty and I rarely see eye to eye on movies. Very rarely. But we saw the Coen brothers' new movie, "The Man Who Wasn't There," a few weeks back, and we both found it: visually stunning, too weird for its own good, filled with good acting. What's not to like about Frances McDormand and Tony Shalhoub? Also, Billy Bob Thorton truly seems as if he isn't there.

* Over the summer, I saw and loved: "Apocalypse Now Redux." I really liked: "The Blue Angel," "Hedwig and the Angry Inch," "The Closet." I was disappointed in "Ghost World," "Sinners in the Sun." I hated: "Sexy Beast."

This week, Laurie F. and I renewed our seats for the Yankees' 2002 season. Opening day is more than 100 days away. I'll be spending as many of them as possible at the movies. Watch your inbox for updates, and meanwhile, send me all your best URL ideas.

Sweet February

Originally posted 9 February 2001

Movies: Sweet November, Save the Last Dance, Yi Yi

When friends learned Women.com had hired me to interview Keanu Reeves in person, they freaked out. Men and women of all ages, married and single, asked me to slip him their numbers and let him know they were available and *talented.*

Personally, I was feeling less than excited about the interview because 1) it was to be conducted at the junket for Reeves's new movie, "Sweet November," which meant I'd have to spend most of a Saturday hanging around an airless mid-town hotel with a bunch of other low-rent reporters waiting to talk to the big guy; and 2) the only meaningful question I (or any of my smitten friends) could come up with was, "Are you David Geffen's boy toy?" But junkets swarm with publicists who will cut you off, if not kick you out, for asking supposedly speculative questions like that, so I was going to be limited to things like, "How do you choose your roles?" Yawn.

Then my friend Erik (who suggested I ask what kind of shoes Geffen wears around the house) pointed out that even if Reeves wasn't the most intriguing star on the planet, it would be cool to meet a major American sex symbol in person. True enough.

On the appointed Saturday, I load up my tape recorder, slip into a red skirt and black shirt, and haul a stack of magazines to the Drake Hotel. The junket starts at 9am, but I have been told to arrive a little before 3pm in order to do a one-on-one videotaped interview with Reeves; the roundtables (in which a bunch of reporters interview the movie's stars) will be held at 5pm. I arrive at 2:50 and immediately learn that the interviews are running at least an hour late. I settle into a sofa in the hospitality suite, and before I can even crack open the New Yorker, I am distracted by a reporter who looks vaguely like Dylan McDermott. He is leaning over the check-in table, glaring at the young publicists, pronouncing each word as if it were its own sentence: "I. Have. Been. Here. Since. Noon. I still haven't gotten my interview. It's not right."

The check-in table--command central at a junket--is staffed by four cheery women in their early twenties who work for Warner Brothers' publicity department. They wear chunky-heeled boots, Gap turtlenecks and pants, two in faux leather snakeskin prints that go "fweep fweep" when the women walk. They nosh on food from the spread in the corner, and they flip through Entertainment Weekly and Allure, and they chat about the junket for "Hannibal." One with short brown hair smiles and assures Dylan that he will get his interview soon; she strides out of the room to check for him. Her long-blonde-haired compatriot asks him, "Did you see 'Hannibal'? It is so gory, I can't tell you." She pops a grape into her mouth.

It's hot in the hospitality suite, and it smells like mayonnaise. There is evidence that the junket has been dragging on for hours; coats are strewn about, the garbage is full, open Diet Coke bottles sit on the window ledges. Still, the mood is upbeat. Journalists wander into the room to flirt with the publicists. Warner Brothers higher-ups, wearing headsets, swing in to get beverages and conspire good-naturedly about the backed up schedule. Uniformed Drake employees stop by to refresh the snack table and report on the progress of another junket taking place upstairs; I never discover what, in the publicists' parlance, they are "junketing" on the upper floors of the hotel.

Every now and then, one of the headset types comes in and takes a handful of reporters into the back of the hotel for their one-on-ones. The people doing these videotaped interviews are mostly television reporters, although a couple of us are from online outlets that will post video clips on their Websites. One of the major TV shows, I forget which, gets a full 20 minutes with each star; the rest of us--mostly from places you've never heard of (Long Island Cable Entertainment, College Network Broadcasts)--get five minutes apiece. Reeves, co-star Charlize Theron and supporting actor Jason Isaacs are available for the one-on-ones.

Women.com wants a profile of Reeves, and they don't especially care if I do one-on-one interviews with the other stars. But my editor had suggested I try to line up a quickie with Theron or Isaacs first, just so that I could get a sense of what's it's like to question a celeb. I do a bzillion interviews on the phone every week, and a handful in person every month, plus I attended the junket for "The End of the Affair" last year. So although I rarely speak with celebs in my work as a business writer, I feel confident that I won't need a warm up for Reeves. When I mention this to my editor, she says, "Fine. But you keep calling the movie 'Sweet September.' For god's sake, get the name right when you're interviewing Keanu."

After an hour of lurking around the hospitality suite, I get called back for my one-on-one with Reeves. What this really means is that instead of waiting in an overheated conference room, I'm now waiting in an overheated hallway outside the interview room. There are six other reporters in front of me. One is a friendly, professional woman in her 40s who looks like she's been doing this forever; apropos of nothing, she tells me that George Clooney makes everyone feel like they've got a shot. I chat up the mid-level WB publicity people and learn that the interviews have been whittled down to four minutes to save time, and tomorrow there will be an all-day junket for the international media.

A small piece of me feels sorry for the actors, who must endure ten hours of insipid, repetitive questions two days in a row, plus appearances on talk shows and extended interviews with journalists from major publications. But then I think, Reeves is making a reported $15 million for "Sweet November"; I am making $800 to spend five hours hanging around the Drake hotel conducting pallid interviews, two hours watching the crummy movie the night before, half an hour reading this month's Vanity Fair cover story on Reeves (which constituted my research), and three hours writing up the profile (which is no longer available online--devastating, I know), minus $17 roundtrip cab fare from my apartment to the hotel. All things considered, I expect my celeb to be perky for four minutes of questions.

He is not. When I get into the dim-lighted room and shake his hand, he barely smiles. He looks like he hasn't been outside in a week. His is pale and his hair is sticking out in five directions. His patience is waning. I get hooked up for sound and start in with my questions about how he chooses his roles, blah, blah, blah. He mumbles the requisite answers, getting more animated when I ask about Dogstar, his semi-successful rock band. He seems more like a guy I might have gone to high school with than a major American sex symbol. Perhaps he should get some pointers from Clooney. At one-minute intervals, a producer sitting behind Reeves and off to the side motions at me with her hands: three fingers, then two, then one, then a fist when I'm down to thirty seconds. I think this is absolutely the coolest part. I feel like I'm on "Sportsnight."

After the one-on-one, I'm sent over to the online journalists' roundtable. A dozen 20-somethings are sitting around a large rectangular table, waiting for the stars. They are talking about who's going down next on "Survivor: The Australian Outback." That conversation has been pretty much exhausted when Jason Isaacs is ushered into the room. He has a fairly small role in "Sweet Novmeber," but he plays it well. A Brit whose biggest role in Hollywood so far was as the evil commander in "The Patriot" (which I did not see), Isaacs is fun in the interview. He is energetic, and he jokes with the reporters. Without asking even a single question, I get a couple of good quotes about Keanu for my profile. After 20 minutes, Isaacs is taken away and we're told it will be a while before we get Keanu.

In contrast to the junket I attended last year, where the reporters were none too friendly, this group is chatty and collegial. A funny woman close to my age asks everyone what the worst interview they ever conducted was. Most of the assembled are regular entertainment reporters, and they attend junkets all the time, so there are plenty of juicy stories. (It is generally agreed that the press conference for "Charlie's Angels" was the weirdest industry event in recent memory, since the film's three co-stars played with each other's hair throughout the proceedings.) I ask what films everyone liked best in 2000, and we are getting into a good debate when the door pops open and a WB publicity honcho tells us to pipe down--they can barely hear themselves in the radio journos roundtable next door. Chagrinned, we switch over to whispering about upcoming movies. Somebody mentions that she's seen "Hannibal," and it was *gruesome.*

Finally, Reeves is shown in. Before he sits down, he looks around the table and nods at me and the other online reporter who did a one-on-one; I am surprised. For the group, Reeves is slightly more upbeat than he had been in the darkened video interview room, but he maintains a fairly serious demeanor and does not break into a full smile the whole time. The reporters stick to inquiries about his work and career--a sharp difference from "The End of the Affair" journos, who asked nothing but penetrating personal questions. After discussing his training schedule for "The Matrix" sequels (full days of stretching, kicking, punching, choreography, wire work) and directors he'd like work with (Werner Herzog, Lars Van Trier, Neil LaBute, the Coen Brothers), Reeves is shown out. Somebody asks him if he's looking forward to a quiet night, and he says, "Actually, I have a meeting to go to." It's tough being a major Hollywood presence.

There's another delay, then Charlize Theron walks in. Unlike Reeves, who is less impressive and less sexy in person, she is much more so. On screen, she has a generic girl-next-door look. But in person, Theron--who used to be a model--is more than six feet tall, plus three-inch heels, and she's made up for the cameras. She sparkles. She has a brilliant smile, which she flashes regularly as she kids around with the reporters, and she is engaging. She seems like she is of another species. She is only 25 years old.

I get more quotes on Reeves for my profile, then the roundtable is over, and it's time to go. For those of you who were hopeful, I'm sorry to report that I could not manage to slip Keanu any phone numbers.

As I mentioned, I had to see "Sweet November" as part of this process. There was a screening the night before the junket, and I took my friend Keith. We had a drink beforehand; we should have had four. The movie is a dopey romantic drama, and although Keith says that he heard people around him sobbing at the end, I didn't even realize the flick was supposed to be a tear-jerker. The only reason I can think "Sweet November" was made is to demonstrate that Reeves is straight.

Here's how "Sweet November" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Shoes: 7. Reeves wears some stylish ones, although Theron is pretty much clad in slippers and sneakers throughout the film. (Her shoes for the junket, however, were very appealing strappy little black sandals with spike heels. He wore battered old hiking boots with rag wool socks peeking out over the top.)

* Dogs: 5. The movie includes a couple of little toy dogs of some kind and a bunch of frouffed standard poodles. (For the final question in her roundtable session, Theron was asked about her work with PETA, and she said, "Well, I just think children and dogs come into this world defenseless," or something like that. I knocked three points off my overall score of her, but she gained 'em back when she said she had recently adopted a bunch of mutts. How can you dislike a gorgeous fellow mutt owner?)

* Cell phones: 3. Moderate use in the movie itself, none rang during the screening. (At the junket, I was surprised at the relatively few cell phones brandished by reporters and publicists. Everyone seemed to use the complimentary land-line phones provided by the Drake.)

So that was that. Here're are two more movie opinions for your reading pleasure, plus my top movie picks of 2000:

The problem with me is that I sometimes go see movies like "Save the Last Dance." Lacking any evidence that the movie will be good, I bravely attend, hoping for redemption in an overlooked screenplay or a novel plotline. I probably don't need to tell you that "Save the Last Dance," which I saw a few weeks ago at the Sony on 84th Street with Jenny, a friend from the dogrun, has neither. Julia Stiles plays a high school girl who has to move from suburban Long Island to inner-city Chicago when her mother is killed in a car accident. It's hard to be a great-looking white chick at all-black and Latino school. But with the right clothes, a sassy attitude and a vocabulary that's off the hook, you can blend right in.

The movie crams about eight major social themes into its flimsy story, worrying about everything from teenage motherhood to fake IDs. And while I went to this flick looking for dance scenes along the lines of "Fame" or "Flashdance," I got less satisfaction than I would have from a Paula Abdul video (of which there is at least one in which Keanu Reeves stars).

On the other hand, Julia Styles is a winning actress (she's also very, very good in "State and Main," which counts among its stars a certain three-named actor none of you has yet set me up with). Kerry Washington, who plays a Chicago student who befriends Stiles, has a presence that positively lights up the screen.

I don't remember enough of "Save the Last Dance" to rate it in any of my categories.

I'm also not going to rate "Yi Yi" according to the footwear and canine action, because it really doesn't lend itself to that sort of scrutiny. But I saw it at Cinema Village recently and can say with confidence that it is one of the best films to hit screens in a long while. Here's my friend Judy Wolfe's review, which I am stealing wholesale because I am wiped out after writing about "Sweet September" and because Judy really nails this one (actually, she really nails most reviews, which you can have emailed to you by writing to [email protected] ):

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If you have three hours to spare, this multi-layered cinematic treat directed and written by Taiwanese Filmmaker Edward Yang, is for you. This is a film about a middleclass family living in Taipei. It begins with a contentious wedding and ends with the collective thoughtfulness of a funeral. The Jians consist of a middle aged man, his wife, mother-in-law (who is in a coma), teenage daughter, eight-year-old son, brother-in-law, business partners, old flame and all of the other attachments that people such as you and I have, including crazy neighbors.

There is nothing extraordinary about this story, but the filmmaking is nothing short of brilliant. Conversations are heard in shadows without the outrageous close-ups that we are subjected to in most American films. The reflections of life outside of the frame, the shots through glass, the conversations merely heard through a closed door. There are many wonderful and unique ways that we are allowed to observe the action--or non-action--on the screen. This film is a remarkable achievement.

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Finally: the best celluloid expenditures of last year! Although my favorite movies of 2000 were all revivals ("Gimme Shelter," "Rififi," "Blood Simple"), there were a dozen new releases I liked a lot. These are ranked in order, from most favorite to least, and I thought the top six were really fine films.

1. You Can Count on Me (N.B. This is the movie I would most like to have written myself.)
2. Chuck and Buck
3. Yi Yi
4. Traffic
5. Crouching Tiger
6. Requiem for a Dream
7. Erin Brockovich
8. Nurse Betty
9. The Terrorist
10. Charlie's Angels
11. Timecode
12. Chicken run

Keanu Reeves wasn't in any of my faves for 2000. But with "The Matrix 2" coming out in 2002, there's still hope. Plus, Charlize Theron is going to be in a few flicks in 2001. She's a hottie, so start writing your notes now; I'll try to slip them to her at the next junket.

Torogoing

Originally posted 22 January 2001

Movies: The Pledge, Snatch, Traffic

I'm telling you, lately I cannot leave the house without seeing a movie that has Benicio Del Toro in it. This is not a bad thing: the man is so sexy, paint peels from the walls when he walks into a room. And unlike this season's other pervasive star, Helen Hunt, Del Toro has range and doesn't make you want to hang yourself from the balcony with Twizzlers every time he grimaces. Below is a rundown of the films in which I've been enjoying him.

A couple of weeks ago, my neighbor Rich and his ex-girlfriend Miranda and her friend Nicky and I went to see "Traffic" at the Sonyplex on Broadway and 68th. "Traffic" is the latest from multitalented director Steven Soderbergh ("Sex, Lies & Videotape," "Erin Brockovich"). It tells three overlapping stories about the drug trade between the US and Mexico, and it's absorbing.

I found some of the film to be bracingly realistic (the dialog among drug-addled prep school kids) and some of it a little hokey (the personal decisions of the US drug czar). But I loved the cinematography (Soderbergh shot it himself), and the acting is very, very strong. "Traffic" is Soderbergh's most powerful film since "Sex, Lies & Videotape," and the one most similar in texture to that vaunted debut.

Here's how "Traffic" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Benicio Del Toro: 11. He plays a Mexican cop. After the film, Rich had to scrape me off the floor and help me out of the theater.

* Cell phones: 8/2. Mobile phones were used with moderation in the movie, but two rang in the theater during the show.

* Dogs: 4. De rigeur drug-sniffing shepherds.

* Philip Seymour Hoffman: 0. Benicio Del Toro may be hotter than a frying latke, but I must admit that I have a fairly serious crush on that other three-named actor (technically, I'm not sure if "Del Toro" is one word or two, but you get my point).

"Traffic" deals with some gruesome subject matter, but it keeps the on-screen gore to a minimum. That's good news for us weak-stomached movie watchers, although Benicio Del Toro will make you weak in the knees. If you haven't already caught "Traffic," go see it soon.

This past Friday night, my friend Keith and I saw "Snatch" at the United Artists theater on Union Square. Directed by Guy Ritchie ("Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels;" also, he's married to Madonna), "Snatch" is a jokey jewel heist movie filmed like a music video. It's stylish, lite fare. Warning: Brad Pitt speaks.

Here's how "Snatch" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Benicio Del Toro: 9. I couldn't tell what kind of accent he was supposed to have. I didn't care.

* Cell phones: 5/10. Reasonable use in the picture; none rang in the audience.

* Dogs: 10. Several cuties, one of which rivals BDT for appeal.

* Philip Seymour Hoffman: 0. Not really his cup of tea.

"Snatch" is entertaining but wholly forgettable. I neither recommend you see it nor suggest you avoid it.

On Saturday night, my friend Amy O and I saw "The Pledge" at the Sonyplex. We were hoping for something suspenseful but not too scary, serious but not too gory. We scored. "The Pledge" is a subtle film with a deceptively simple plot: a retired detective (played with remarkable understatement by Jack Nicholson) becomes consumed with the investigation of a series of juvenile murders. The movie has the creepiness of "Silence of the Lambs" or "Dead Again," plus thought-provoking characters. Sean Penn directed the stellar cast (you cannot believe how many great actors are in this baby). I also liked the cinematography and the score.

Here's how "The Pledge" scored on a scale of 1 - 10 in my categories of analysis:

* Benicio Del Toro: 8. He has a small role as an unappetizing character. He plays it perfectly.

* Cell phones: 0/10. Cops use walkie-talkies, not cell phones. Thankfully, the audience members used neither.

* Dogs: 0. A minor disappointment.

* Philip Seymour Hoffman: 0. I understand Hoffman lives in the West Village, and he seems like an approachable guy. If you know him, or if anyone you know is acquainted with him, and you can set me up with the man, I will buy you very nice drinks and take you to the movie of your choice anytime. That's a pledge.

Sean Penn has come a long way since "Fast Times at Ridgemont High." Do yourself a favor and go see what he's up to now.

Here's what else I've seen since my last SMO:

"Before Night Falls," which I saw by myself at the Roachplex on Broadway and 63rd. I liked it a lot, but I didn't love it. A little too impressionistic for my taste, plus I was kind of confused about what was happening a lot of the time. Still, Sean Penn had a small cameo in it, and he directed Benicio Del Toro in "The Pledge," so it's all good.

"The Personals," which I saw with Erik and Stephanie last week at the Cinema Village. Taiwanese movie about a woman looking for love. Some funny moments, but without you-know-who (or you-know-who-too), the movie lacked oomph.

Well, that about wraps it up for current movie going. Pitchers and catchers report to spring training in 26 days--hopefully three more movies with Benicio Del Toro will hit (and melt) screens before then.

Season's Gratings

Originally posted 27 December 2000

Movies: Cast Away, Crouching Tiger, and More!

It's the holiday season, which means subway musicians are playing bad Christmas carols, the super and the newspaper delivery person slip "thank you" notes under the door and Hollywood releases a lot of unpleasant movies. Who am I to gum up the works? I stinted on the underground performers, but I tipped Jerzy (the world's best super) and Carla (the delivery person, whom I have never seen), and I forked over more money for movie tickets than I've put in my IRA this year. Here's what I sat through.

Last Sunday, in a moment of truly deficient judgement, my neighbor Rich and I decided to go see "What Women Want," a mess of a movie starring Mel Gibson and Helen Hunt. I can't stand Mel Gibson, and Rich can't stand Helen Hunt, so our motivations for paying to see this flick are a mystery. Your guess is as good as ours.

"What Women Want" was playing at the Sony gigaplex on 68th and Broadway, a theater that is looking, as Rich put it, "a little long in the tooth--no, make that down at the heels." Whatever, it's gross. We settled into our half-broken seats and Rich went off to kill us some popcorn. While he was gone, I witnessed an Olympic-caliber seat-saving event: one woman, using three coats, saved twelve seats in two rows. I gave her a 9.8.

The premise of "What Women Want" is that Mel, supposedly a lady killer, has an accident with a hair dryer that gives him the ability to hear women's thoughts. Helen Hunt plays an exec who beats him out for a promotion at the ad agency where he works; Hunt's role conforms to the worst Hollywood portrayals of female career babes. Nonetheless, the movie starts out relatively smart and funny, with winning performances but Marisa Tomei and Ashley Johnson. Halfway through, however, it tanks, becoming stupid, sentimental and aggressively unfunny. By the end, I was curled in a fetal position on my creaky chair, wincing uncontrollably.

As the credits rolled, I removed my hands from my cheeks and said to Rich that I'd never seen such a spectacularly miscast movie--Mel Gibson was just terrible. Rich, also in a bad way, growled, "Yeah, but I'd sleep with him before I'd sleep with that Helen Hunt. Ugh." While I was thinking, That quote goes in my review, Rich said, "Don't put that in your review." We had a little chuckle over our reenactment of the movie, but we both knew I'd wind up betraying him here.

Afterwards, we went to Saigon Grill and, over sautéed string beans, complained about "What Women Want." I think Steve Martin would have been good in the lead role; neither of us could say who would have been better than Hunt--maybe Sandra Bullock? I did manage to recall that a minor character in the movie that looked familiar is the actor who played George's girlfriend in the Seinfeld episode about faking orgasms.

"What Women Want" put us off Hollywood drek for a while, but by Friday night, we were ready to get back in the saddle and endure some more Helen Hunt. Rich wanted to see "Cast Away," and although--with the minor exception of Toy Story 2--Tom Hanks hasn't made a movie I've liked since "Big" (1988), I was intrigued by the much-hyped island scenes of his latest pic, so I agreed to go.

For various complicated reasons best left unrecounted, we decided to see "Cast Away" at the UA theater on Union Square. Big mistake. Most of the screening rooms there are constructed such that the first ten rows are on a flat floor, and the back section of seats is on a steep angle. The import of this is that if you sit in my preferred spot (fifth row, center), you can't see at all if somebody tall sits in front of you. So we were reduced to sitting about a dozen rows back--which was really far from the screen in this joint--and I was crabby. I tried munching on a Reeses' to brighten my mood, but I was so assaulted by the Coke-sponsored slide show and the piped-in music, that I just wound up nauseated on top of annoyed. So that was my state when the lights dimmed. And then there were about six commercials before the previews, which sent Rich over the edge.

Even if we had been in better moods, I don't think either of us would have liked "Cast Away" much. As you know (unless you've been stranded on an island in the Pacific for four years), it's about a FedEx exec, played by Hanks, who is the sole survivor of a cargo-plane crash and must spend four years on an uninhabited Pacific island. He is ultimately rescued and returns to his hometown of Memphis, where his former fiancée, played by Helen Hunt, has figured him for dead.

The beginning of the movie is slow, supplying facts about the relationship between Hanks and Hunt, but providing little sense of their connection. Then there's the plane crash scene, which is very well done and truly upsetting. And then the bulk of the movie follows Hanks alone on the island. It's "Survivor" meets "Titanic." Or "Gilligan's Island" meets "Perfect Storm." Or something. But it isn't terribly interesting. And it lasts a long, long, long time. By the time Hanks has grown a full beard and lost forty pounds, the audience could have done so too. Then there's a short bit when Hanks returns to civilization--including a cameo by the actual CEO of FedEx, Fred Smith--and ba-da-bing! it's over.

I would have preferred a lot less focus on the island survival skills (aided by FedEx packages that wash up on shore) and a lot more on the aftermath. And I could have done with somebody other than Hunt in the fiancée role--enough already with the concerned looks! Hanks is decent, though, and the movie--although it actually features swelling music for a *volleyball* at one point--manages to show a modicum of restraint in the sentiment department (surprising, since it was directed by Robert Zemeckis of "Forrest Gump" fame). Also, it is well filmed.

Afterwards, Rich and I went to Bar Six, where we were promptly seated at a romantic candle-lit corner table, and complained about the movie. "Cast Away," with its pretentious two-word title, aims to be an epic film that imparts wisdom about the human spirit and prioritizing family and all that crap. But it falls short, teaching nothing so much as how to heal a flesh wound with packing materials and ice-skate laces. Nonetheless (or is it, as a result?), Hanks is a shoo-in for the best-actor Oscar.

The next night, feeling we hadn't gotten our fill of FedEx product placements during "Cast Away," Rich and my friend Jennifer and I went to see "State and Main," which failed to deliver Fred Smith again, but did include some prominent and strategically placed FedEx logos. "State and Main" is latest from director/writer David Mamet ("The Untouchables," "Wag the Dog," and many others). It's the unimaginative story of a film crew that shakes up a sleepy Vermont town. Stereotypes of country folk abound, and there's pretty much no story. But the movie isn't a total loss. It features the signature Mamet dialog, some fine acting by an ensemble cast (William Macy, Sarah Jessica Parker, Julia Stiles, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Charles Durning, Rebecca Pidgeon, etc.) and a very cute Dalmatian.

We ate Junior Mints and saw the movie at the Chelsea Clearview theater on 23rd between 7th and 8th. Afterwards, on our way down the stairs (the escalator was broken), we found ourselves behind an older gentleman who was shouting to the woman he was with: "This theater is a shithouse! Total crap!" He banged on a painted column. "This isn't even real marble!" Rich and Jennifer and I had our best laugh of the night witnessing his tirade.

The next night was Christmas Eve, and I had arranged to see "O Brother, Where Art Thou," the latest Coen brothers flick, with Judy Wolfe. Judy is a good friend of Marsha Dowshen, a good friend of my mother, and she (Judy) writes movie reviews--with handy categories--that she emails around to her posse. Judy's reviews are hilarious, and if you want to have them delivered to your inbox, write to Judy directly: [email protected] (they are not archived online, but Judy is an artist, and you can check out her groovy artwork at www.judithwolfe.com). Anyway, periodically, Judy holds contests for her readers, and I won the last one! (I suggested she add "food" as a category in her reviews.) The prize for winning was getting taken to the movies by Judy (snack and drink included) and then guest writing her review. So you can read my guest review of "O Brother, Where Art Thou"--which featured no FedEx boxes but did have both Charles Durning and a minor Seinfeld actor (the guy who played the high talker)--here. Meantime, Rich came with Judy and me to see "O Brother, Where Art Thou" at the icky-sticky UA theater on Union Square, and he's guest written a review for me. Here it is:

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My eighth-grade English teacher had us believe that Homer, author of "The Odyssey," among other epic works of his day, was not only sight-impaired, but that he may have actually been a woman. He, or she, was even considered by some to have been more than one person. Hence, at thirteen, we were reading the masterpiece of a bisexual blind committee, heady stuff for a group of adolescent boys whose idea of an odyssey was to brave our way over to the girls' school across the street.

With their new film, "O Brother, Where Art Thou," the Coen brothers, a pair of overgrown adolescent boys, have done their own interpretation, albeit a loose one, of Homer's epic poem, while paying homage to Preston Sturges and his "Sullivan's Travels" in the process. The story of three men on the lam from a chain gang in the Depression-era deep South, "O Brother" is definitely an odyssey, but only in the sense that the movie is all over the place.

George Clooney, John Turturro, and Tim Blake Nelson (a college classmate of mine who never used his middle name until now--he must be going for a part in one of those teenage girl movies) make quite the trio, and Clooney makes it clear that he wouldn't be hanging around with the other two had they not been chained together. Though his contract probably stipulated that he not have the bad teeth and mental-patient haircuts of the other two, Clooney--even to an ER virgin like me--would be hard to mistake as anything less than a movie star, if only an ersatz one. He may be a low-rent Clark Gable, but that ain't bad in today's dollars.

The movie bears the trademark Coen brothers' goofiness and offbeat humor, and it wouldn't be complete without John Goodman playing one of its creepiest characters, in this case, a cyclops. In many ways, the picture feels a lot like a cartoon, most notably by the presence of what I like to call a water-pump on wheels, one of those man-powered carts that rides on train tracks. I don't know anyone who's ever seen one of those things ridden by anyone other than Wile E. Coyote or Yosemite Sam.
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After "O Brother, Where Art Thou," Rich and I stopped by Joe Junior's for a Greek salad and complained about the movie.

The next day was Christmas. Although neither Rich nor I is an observant Jew, we honored our religious tradition and went to see a movie--"An Everlasting Piece," at the Sony gigaplex. This was our fourth Hollywood pic in four days, and I was flagging. I had no tolerance for the idiots who surrounded us in the sold out theater, and I fantasized about buying Twizzlers and "inadvertently" smacking the woman next to me while gesticulating with a piece of artificially flavored strawberry rope. The commercials before the movie made me angry, and I thought all the previews looked lousy (terrif, Ben Affleck in a WWII movie!). So I wasn't in a really expansive mood when the movie started. Still, I don't think I would have liked it much.

The genius of director Barry Levinson's movies ("Diner," "Rain Man," "Wag the Dog") tends to be the intimacy with which his subject matter is treated. But I didn't get the sense Levinson has a clue about "Everlasting Piece's" main characters: a couple of toupee salesmen in Belfast during the 1980's. The guys have cute accents, but their relationship is underdeveloped, and the movie fails to make dramatic use of its own story, a sales contest between two wig companies. Fortunately, the movie has some decent acting, plus a few adorable dogs, so I wasn't completely put off by it.

Afterwards, adhering to tribal ritual, Rich and I had Chinese food, at Ollie's, across the street from the theater, and complained about the movie (actually, Rich kind of liked the flick). Ollie's isn't great, but it was a huge relief to eat food that wasn't purchased at a concession stand.

Speaking of concession-stand food, last week Rich and I saw "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" at the Roachplex, and about twenty minutes into it, Rich got up and went out to buy a cookie. From the many movies I have seen with Rich, I never deduced that he is the kind of person who could leave in the middle of film to go get a snack. I was appalled. And he should be ashamed: he missed six minutes of a really fine film.

"Crouching Tiger" is a Mandarin-language martial arts movie from director Ang Lee ("Eat Drink, Man Woman," "The Ice Storm"). It stars kung fu legend Michelle Yeoh and Hong Kong's mega-celeb Chow Yun Fat--two of my fave actors. The fight scenes were choreographed by Woo-ping Yuen, a behind-the-scenes HK superstar (and the man who created the fancy footwork in "The Matrix").

As you know, I rilly rilly like martial arts movies, and I was prepared to love "Crouching Tiger," which has washed onscreen amid a wave of positive advance press. I was not disappointed. It has characters I respect, a poignant love story, central conflict between the lead women, and awesome fighting. Chow Yun Fat was unfortunately underused. But Michelle Yeoh was outstanding, and I just had a great time watching the movie.

I also had a great time watching "A Hard Day's Night," which I saw earlier tonight at the Film Forum with Adam and Tania. The exuberant 1964 movie has been remastered (gorgeous print) and rereleased, and it's a joy to see. The only pain during a screening is that you have to refrain from singing along. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

Also at the Film Forum is "One Day in September," which I saw last week with Matthew. It's a documentary about the 1972 Munich Olympics, during which Palestinian terrorists kidnapped and killed Israeli athletes. The movie does a reasonable, if overtly partisan job, of portraying the events. I was glad to have seen it, and I learned from it, but it raised more questions than it answered.

So that's the all the reviews that are fit to print today. Stay tuned for another blitz of holiday film going, coming soon to a monitor near you. And if I can manage to pull it off, I'll include a year-end top-ten list along with the next batch of reviews. Now that'll be a nice tip!