CHARLOTTE FILM SOCIETY SECOND WEEK SERIES This month's offerings begin this Friday at the Manor and continue the following Friday at Movies at Birkdale. Call 414-2355 for more info.
* ABERDEEN A successful businesswoman (Lena Headey), upon learning that her mother (Charlotte Rampling) is ill, agrees to go fetch her father (Stellan Skarsgard), a down-and-out drunk, and transport him from Norway to Aberdeen (Scotland, not South Dakota). This intermittently interesting "road movie" gets most of its gas from Skarsgard, who provides us with one of the most believable (read: hopeless and disgusting) portrayals of a career alcoholic ever put on screen. 1/2
* LEFT LUGGAGE A sincere look at religious mores competes with hoary melodramatic devices in this passable drama about a nonreligious Jewish college student (Laura Fraser) who accepts a job as nanny for a Hasidic family whose members include an overbearing father (Jeroen Krabbe, also making his directorial debut), a sympathetic mother (Isabella Rossellini), and a mute 4-year-old boy (Adam Monty). 1/2
* THE KING IS ALIVE After finding themselves stranded in an African desert, a group of tourists (including ones played by Jennifer Jason Leigh and Bruce Davison) perform King Lear in a futile effort to pass the time. (Unscreened)
* THE WIDE BLUE ROAD (LA GRANDE STRADA AZZURRA) This 1957 import, a late entry in the Italian neo-realist movement, casts Yves Montand as a wily fisherman whose capitalist ventures set him apart from the rest of his village's population. (Unscreened)
DOMESTIC DISTURBANCE Outside of family films, the general rule regarding a movie that runs less than 90 minutes is that the studio initially deemed it such a lost cause, they butchered it in the editing room in order to make some sense out of it, and dumped it into the marketplace to fend for itself. Given that this one clocks in at 88 minutes and arrives missing at least one scene featured in the trailer, it's safe to say this John Travolta vehicle (filmed in Wilmington) fell into that camp, although I imagine director Harold Becker would insist he was just trying to make a trim and efficient thriller. Certainly, there's no excess fat on this puppy, but there's also nothing we haven't seen before, from the ordinary joe who must stand alone to the villainous outsider threatening to rip a family apart to the ineffectual cops who show up only after all the heavy stuff has gone down. In fact, this is schematically so similar to movies like The Hand That Rocks the Cradle, Unlawful Entry and The River Wild that the only thing missing is the moment when the family's golden retriever attacks the bad guy just as he's getting ready to shoot the hero. Travolta is appealing as the divorced dad who believes his son (Matt O'Leary) when the latter tells him he witnessed his new stepdad (Vince Vaughn) murder another man, and Steve Buscemi steals the film in his brief scenes as the victim. But Vaughn's character is clearly up to no good, Teri Polo's mom is too slow on the uptake to earn much sympathy, and the climax is simply ludicrous. 1/2
CURRENT RELEASES
BANDITS Director Barry Levinson's latest film tries hard to be a quirky comedy (God, does it try), but the funniest moment in this criminally overlong picture turns out to be a purely unintentional one. Kate Wheeler (Cate Blanchett), a bored housewife who has hooked up with a pair of bank robbers known as "The Sleepover Bandits," is stunned when she hears one of the crooks (Bruce Willis) mouth the words of the chorus from Bonnie Tyler's "Total Eclipse of the Heart." "You know that song!" she bleats, as if that omnipresent smash single were some obscure Gregorian chant and they were the only two people in the world familiar with it. Grab your chuckles where you can, because Bandits is such a complete mess, even the prospect of seeing Willis and Billy Bob Thornton mix it up fails to stir anything in the audience besides contempt. Like a squeaky axle that won't quiet down over the course of a 500-mile road trip, this grates on the nerves almost from the start, when we realize that Thornton's hypochondriac character is going to spend the entire 125-minute running time whining about his various ailments. Blanchett fares no better as the bargain basement screwball heroine in love with both men, and, for that matter, neither does Jane Fonda's son Troy Garity as the gang's thick-witted driver. Amazingly, even though he's cast opposite Thornton, Blanchett and a Fonda heir, it's Willis who comes out on top: Playing it closer to the vest, he at least provides a respite from all the mannered acting smothering the rest of the picture. 1/2
FROM HELL Known for their contemporary urban dramas Menace II Society and Dead Presidents, The Hughes Brothers (aka Allen and Albert Hughes) have returned with a thriller set in 1888 London focusing on Jack the Ripper. It's admirable when any artist is able to break the shackles of preconceived notions, but for those still requiring some sort of connective tissue, it's fairly obvious that From Hell is no different from its predecessors in that they all deal with the poverty, violence and drugs that are readily found on the mean city streets. In fact, what makes this more than just a slasher flick with a pedigree is its insistence on presenting its sordid tale at ground level, exploring the social chasm that existed between the upper and lower classes as much as recreating the killer's grisly handiwork. This may not possess the macabre sense of showmanship that made Sleepy Hollow such a kinky kick (both films, incidentally, star Johnny Depp as a detective investigating bizarre murders), but on its own terms, it's an effective thriller that's densely plotted and well-paced. And as Depp's character becomes more immersed in his investigation, we become more immersed in the period world that the Hughes and their crew have created. Between Martin Childs' sets, Kym Barrett's costumes, and Peter Deming's mood-setting cinematography, this exudes authenticity right down to the last cobblestone. Well, OK: The Marilyn Manson song that plays over the closing credits may not exactly conjure images of 1888 London, but that's a small concession I'm willing to make.
HEDWIG AND THE ANGRY INCH Contrary to popular belief, comparing the cinematic version of Hedwig and the Angry Inch to the legendary Rocky Horror Picture Show (as many have been prone to do) does the new film no favors. Yes, Rocky Horror may be instantly recognizable even beyond the pop culture crowd, but while it may be an excellent midnight movie, it's only so-so as a movie movie -- away from all the festivities, it provides for a rather, umm, rocky viewing experience (try watching it at home alone if you don't believe me). Hedwig, on the other hand, is a triumph no matter when or where it's shown. Billed as a "post-punk neo-glam rock musical," this adaptation of the 1998 Off-Broadway hit has enough surface kitsch to dazzle the senses, but it's also an unexpectedly poignant tale of one individual's journey toward becoming a complete person. Writer-director John Cameron Mitchell plays the role of Hedwig, a rock star wanna-be resentful not only of the botched sex change operation that left her with the titular "angry inch," but also of her former boyfriend (Michael Pitt), who stole her songs and rode them all the way to fame and fortune. Powered by catchy, soaring rock anthems modelled after the Ziggy Stardust era, Hedwig, like Moulin Rouge before it, serves as a modern reminder of the ability of music to convey emotions when mere words won't do. Yet this isn't simply a vamp'n'tramp show; instead, Mitchell's performance as Hedwig is about as fully realized as any you'll see this year. 1/2
K-PAX Watching two great actors on the order of Kevin Spacey and Jeff Bridges squander their talents on something as ghastly as K-PAX is akin to spending your savings on the purchase of a fondue restaurant and using its facilities to create nothing more than grilled cheese sandwiches. Offensively sanctimonious, flagrantly derivative and just plain dull (don't see K-PAX without NO-DOZ), this insufferable picture casts Spacey as Prot, who's sent to a hospital's mental ward after he turns up in a New York train station claiming to be from another planet (in the real-world New York, this sort of ranting can be heard on a daily basis and wouldn't even raise an eyebrow, so why the fuss here?). Prot's case comes under the supervision of Dr. Mark Powell (Bridges), who initially dismisses the patient as yet another flake but soon starts to suspect there might be some veracity to the otherworldly claims. The first half of the film plays like Patch Adams minus the bedpans on the feet, as Prot engages in a lot of "cute" behavior (like eating bananas with the peels left on) and offers guidance to his twinkly fellow patients. The second part shifts gears but doesn't get any better: It's like a nightmare version of an actor's theater workshop, as Powell uses hypnosis to learn about Prot's past. Spacey's performance is built on nothing but putrid platitudes and affected mannerisms -- frankly, I didn't think it was possible for him to ever be this bad -- while Bridges' cardboard role is far beneath this fine actor's capabilities.
THE LAST CASTLE From 1930's The Big House through 1963's The Great Escape to 1979's Escape From Alcatraz, the prison flick has provided viewers with endless hours of hard-hitting, escapist fun. But if there's a genre that has seemingly exhausted its resources and now stands ready to be put out to pasture, surely it's this one -- that is, unless somebody in Hollywood elects to make a prison flick in which the convicts are hardened criminals who really do deserve their incarceration (now wouldn't that be a novel twist?). As it stands, this disappointing drama from director Rod Lurie (The Contender) trots out the usual suspects: the noble prisoner who doesn't really deserve to be behind bars; the humorless warden whose stern tactics barely conceal a sadistic streak; the morally torn inmate who must decide before the climax where his loyalties rest; the harmless young prisoner who practically has "Story's Sacrificial Lamb" stitched across his outfit; and the rest of the compound's rapists, murderers and thieves, most of whom are presented as the kind of jovial, disciplined guys you'd be happy to invite over for a Sunday afternoon in front of the TV. For the record, the prison presented here is a military compound for disgraced soldiers, the virtuous prisoner leading the revolt is played by Robert Redford (in one of his dullest performances), and the twitchy warden is portrayed by James Gandolfini (in an atypically stilted turn).
LIFE AS A HOUSE The title is unfortunate, since it screams, "Look, Ma! I'm a metaphor!" But the wonder of Life As a House is how, with its understated approach and lack of artificial grandstanding, it gives audience members the choice of embracing its symbolic gestures or simply ignoring them outright. Certainly, the film feels a little too calculated at first -- its conflicted characters and sense of irony make it feel like a yard sale version of American Beauty -- but as the story progresses, its empathic nature and some choice performances eventually wear down all resistance to its rollicking charms. Kevin Kline stars as George Monroe, an architect who, upon learning he has cancer, decides to set things right before his time is up. He tries to establish a relationship with a troubled teenage son (Hayden Christensen) who hates him, attempts to make amends with the ex-wife (Kristin Scott Thomas) who left him, and sets about building his own seaside home. That we come to care about George, his family and his neighbors is a testament not only to the fine work by the entire cast but also to screenwriter Mark Andrus (As Good As It Gets), who, even during the more contrived sequences, keeps the emotions real (compare this to Riding In Cars With Boys, in which most characters behave as if they're in a feature-length sit-com). Christensen, incidentally, has been cast as the teenage Anakin Skywalker in the next Star Wars film, and if nothing else, this movie at least demonstrates that he can act.
MULHOLLAND DRIVE Audacious, infuriating, and the sort of divisive movie we've come to expect from one of America's most idiosyncratic filmmakers, this actually began life as a TV series pilot that was quickly shelved. Seeking to then release it theatrically, Lynch secured backing from French financiers, shot additional scenes, and headed to Cannes, where he went on to win the Best Director prize. Like Lynch's Twin Peaks, this juggles a number of characters and plotlines, though the central one concerns the efforts of an aspiring actress (Naomi Watts) to help an amnesiac (Laura Elena Harring) discover her true identity. Just as the movie reaches the point when we expect everything to come together, Lynch goes ballistic in terms of time and characterization; the result is an unnerving watch that yields no easy answers but instead forces the viewer, in Memento mode, to mentally play the entire film backward and determine what's possibly real, what's probably a dream (a Lynch obsession dating back to Eraserhead), and where this ultimately leads. As an exercise in bravura moviemaking, as well as a commentary on the very nature of cinema itself, this works quite well, but on an emotional level, it's one of Lynch's most distant pieces, with practically all the characters being moved around the sets like so many chess pieces. It's only the unexpectedly complex portrayal by Watts that adds any lasting resonance to a work that, with apologies to Winston Churchill, can best be described as "a riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma."
RIDING IN CARS WITH BOYS Director Penny Marshall, who's never met an interesting storyline she couldn't fumble (A League of Their Own excepted), applies her ham-fisted techniques to this adaptation of Beverly Donofrio's autobiography about how she escaped from her miserable lot in life by going on to, well, write her autobiography. Drew Barrymore, who ages from 15 to 35 over the course of the film, stars as Beverly, who becomes pregnant at 15 and finds her future instantly derailed. Forced to give up on her plans to attend college, she instead drops out of school, marries the simpleton (Steve Zahn) who knocked her up, and raises her son to the best of her abilities. It's not that this is a bad movie; it just never comes close to fulfilling its promise as either an inspirational human tale or a three-hanky weepie. Since most of the actors are appropriately cast -- Brittany Murphy is especially effective as Bev's best friend -- the fault rests mainly with Marshall and scripter Morgan Upton Ward, neither of whom care to offer more than a surface glimpse at the horrors that Bev had to endure most of her life (it doesn't help that the film can't stay serious for more than two minutes at a time, with dramatic scenes eventually taking a turn for the quirky or cute). In the later sequences, 28-year-old Adam Garcia is cast as 26-year-old Barrymore's son, perhaps the most egregious example of age-related miscasting since 51-year-old Ava Gardner played 59-year-old Lorne Greene's daughter in Earthquake.
TRAINING DAY What happens when an irresistible force meets an immovable object? Or, to parlay this eternal conundrum into cinematic terms, what happens when an amazingly versatile actor is forced to share screen time with a performer so immobile, he makes the monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey appear as active as a sports bar on Super Bowl Sunday? The answers vary, of course, but in this case, the happy result is that wooden Ethan Hawke was apparently inspired to raise himself out of his career-long slumber and try to keep pace with the extraordinary Denzel Washington. Indeed, the work by both actors is what keeps us watching even after the movie surrounding them falls apart. Washington is especially rivetting as Alonzo Harris, an LA narcotics officer who gives rookie Jake Hoyt (Hawke) one day to see if he has what it takes to work under his command. Jake is thrilled with the opportunity, but he soon realizes that Alonzo's methods, which usually involve bending or breaking the law, fly in the face of his own idealism. Beyond the high-caliber performances, there's a delicious ambiguity in David Ayer's screenplay that suggests Alonzo's dirty deeds might be the only way for a cop to survive on the streets. Unfortunately, somebody connected with the film soon decided that moral uncertainty in a motion picture doesn't allow that popcorn to settle comfortably in the stomach, and what started out as tantalizingly clouded eventually comes into dreary black and white focus, turning the film into a fairly routine (not to mention contrived) police shoot-'em-up. 1/2