b>NEW RELEASES
HOLLYWOOD ENDING It used to be that the annual arrival of the latest Woody Allen movie was like receiving an additional Christmas present; these days, it feels more like being asked to stay after school for detention. At its core, Hollywood Ending features an ingenious comic hook, the best one Allen’s come up with in years: Relate the adventures of a has-been director who’s suddenly struck blind just as he begins shooting his comeback picture. It’s a marvelous premise, and imagine the possibilities had Allen been blessed with this idea back in the mid-70s. Instead, this farcical motherlode is largely wasted here, with Allen recycling gags so moldy you half-expect one of those giant hooks from vaudeville to enter the frame and yank him right off the screen. The actors can’t be faulted — Tea Leoni, Treat Williams and Debra Messing all perform to the best of their limiting roles — and Allen does manage to zip off an occasional zinger that proves some of those nyuk-nyuk instincts are still operational. But even with a final denouement that’s deliciously apt, too much of Hollywood Ending feels like the work of a man who still loves the job but may no longer possess all the skills necessary to turn out top product. 
THE TRIUMPH OF LOVE In this adaptation of Marivaux’s 18th century play, it’s love at first sight when a princess (Mira Sorvino) spots the bare buttocks of a local hunk (Jay Rodan) who, alas, has grown up hating and avoiding women while being schooled by a stuffy philosopher (Ben Kingsley) and his scientist sister (Fiona Lewis). Determined to win his heart, the princess disguises herself as a man to get close to him; her plan initially succeeds, but she quickly finds herself being wooed by all three members of the household. This contains all the trappings of a classic farce, but under the direction of Claire Peploe (who co-wrote the screenplay with husband Bernardo Bertolucci and Marilyn Goldin), it proves to be unspeakably, unbearably dull, featuring reams of flatly delivered dialogue and a heroine who comes across as both shallow and dim-witted. Peploe’s decision to incorporate a few modern elements, such as a theater audience watching the shenanigans from the estate lawn or the occasional presence of an electric guitar on the otherwise period-friendly soundtrack, feels like the ultimate in creative desperation. 1/2
UNFAITHFUL, Director Adrian Lyne has clearly had sex on the brain for much of his career, turning out huff’n’puff features both good (Fatal Attraction, Lolita) and bad (9-1/2 Weeks and Indecent Proposal, the latter firmly cemented as one of the very worst films of its decade). Happily, Unfaithful rests more toward the upper end of the spectrum; based on a 1969 French film (La Femme Infidele) by Claude Chabrol, the movie sports a Continental demeanor that seems wholly appropriate. Diane Lane’s standout performance is what elevates the first half, which could easily be dismissed as a straight-to-cable soaper: A well-to-do housewife, seemingly content with her husband (Richard Gere, doing some of his best work here), her son (Erik Per Sullivan), and her home in a quaint New York suburb, unexpectedly enters into a torrid affair with a French book dealer (Olivier Martinez). Lane’s complex portrayal of a woman caught between the borders of reason and risk is simply smashing, yet eventually she’s not required to carry the picture by herself, as the second half heads off in some interesting (and not always expected) directions that ultimately lead to a wonderfully ambiguous final shot. Unfaithful is the type of movie that only works for viewers willing to put some thought into it — patrons seeking cheap thrills will probably be disappointed, but those willing to accept this as a cautionary tale about the illusion of eternal bliss will find it eerily satisfying.
CURRENT RELEASES
CHANGING LANES As first, it looks like it’ll take a few minutes to figure out who’s the good guy and who’s the bad guy: After all, both protagonists — a rising lawyer portrayed by Ben Affleck and an insurance salesman played by Samuel L. Jackson — are initially revealed to be sensitive, caring men. But wait a second: If we’re to believe the chaotic trailer and the grim poster, we’re not settling in to watch a “buddy” flick; these men are primed to be enemies, meaning that, by Hollywood standards, one of them has to earn the brunt of our contempt. Instead, this turns out to be that rare bird: a studio product that largely steers clear of black and white by adorning itself in an appealing shade of gray. A traffic accident involving both men is what sets off a chain of events that finds them constantly trying to one-up each other in a dangerous game rife with long-reaching implications. Yet as the movie progresses, there’s genuine push-pull tension not only between these two characters but also between our own constantly shifting allegiances, and the picture doesn’t squander its chance to make a point about the need for people to take responsibility for their own actions in this modern world that’s more about passing the buck of blame to the next fellow. Admittedly, the film requires a couple of leaps of logic, but for the most part, it refuses to pull its punches, and in this day and age, that qualifies as taking the road less travelled.
LIFE OR SOMETHING LIKE IT It’s tough to completely dislike any movie that paints the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction” as one of the great social equalizers of our time, and although this schizophrenic romantic comedy seemingly goes out of its way on occasion to test viewer tolerance, it features enough piquant elements to remain a half-length ahead of most of its competition. The film’s success begins and ends with Angelina Jolie, cast as an ambitious TV reporter who comes to reassess her values after a street prophet (Tony Shalhoub) informs her that she has less than a week to live. Wearing a cake-frosting-colored hairdo that works surprisingly well against her dark-toned looks and displaying a genuine aptitude for lightweight comic banter, Jolie is off-center enough to make an impression — whether she has any real range in this field remains to be seen, but for now, she’s a welcome presence. So, too, is Edward Burns, displaying his usual hangdog charm as the cameraman who loosens her up. Director Stephen Herek (the live-action 101 Dalmatians) and writers John Scott Shepherd (Joe Somebody) and Dana Stevens (City of Angels) are all too much the consummate hacks to provide the more serious sections with the import they require, but as long as the picture is siphoning its strength from the natural appeal of its protagonists, it represents a serviceable feature — or something like it. 1/2
MURDER BY NUMBERS Drawing its inspiration from the infamous Leopold & Loeb murder case (the historically challenged should take care not to confuse this pair with Lerner & Loewe or even Kate & Leopold), this fitfully entertaining thriller casts Michael Pitt (the object of affection in Hedwig and the Angry Inch) and Ryan Gosling (The Believer) as two privileged high school seniors who elect to pull off the perfect murder. At first, everything goes according to plan, including pinning the crime on their school’s janitor (Chris Penn), but the scheme threatens to unravel under the persistent sleuthing of a troubled detective (Sandra Bullock) lugging around her own set of secrets. Bullock, who’s spent the bulk of her career in comedies, initially seems miscast as the hard-bitten cop but eventually grows into the role. Regardless, her portion of the film isn’t nearly as interesting as the scenes centered around the teen killers: Pitt and Gosling are superb as completely different members of the high school set (one shy and studious, the other smarmy and outgoing) who nevertheless find common ground in their interest in exploring the criminal urge firsthand, and as long as the picture places them front and center, it avoids the standard “cop flick” trappings. 1/2
THE SCORPION KING In the ripe-cheese tradition of Conan the Barbarian, Kull the Conqueror and dozens of grade-Z sword-and-sorcery epics that invariably featured the hammy likes of Jack Palance or Richard Lynch as the sneering villain, we now get The Scorpion King, a made-on-the-run quickie meant to transform the wrestling world’s The Rock into the latest Schwarzenegger model. A prequel to last year’s The Mummy Returns (which itself was a sequel to 1999’s The Mummy), this relates the back story of the villainous character The Rock played in that blockbuster’s prologue, showing how he once was a likable anti-hero, a mercenary with a soft spot for kids, camels and comely sorceresses. In this outing, he squares off against a ruthless Russell Crowe wanna-be (Steven Brand) and a duplicitous warrior (Peter Facinelli) who looks like Christian Bale and talks like Tom Cruise. You also get a shapely co-star (Kelly Hu) who wears just enough clothing to maintain a PG-13 rating, a slumming Oscar nominee (The Green Mile‘s Michael Clarke Duncan) as a fellow fighter, special effects that are often downright laughable (dig those goofy ants), and a monolith of a leading man whose undeniable screen presence constantly wages war against his wooden line delivery. Thanks to its awareness of its own limitations, The Scorpion King is watchable enough, but you’ll be satisfied after an hour.
SPIDER-MAN Separate this long-awaited adaptation of the Marvel comic book from the cacophony of hype and it becomes apparent that this is one summer film that satisfies. Although not in the same league as the screen versions of Superman, Batman or X-Men, this one largely works because director Sam Raimi and scripter David Koepp have managed to turn their movie into a successful tightrope act between soap opera and spectacle, retaining the personal elements that made the comic book so wildly popular while also providing the requisite big-bang special effects that thankfully never overwhelm the story. The first half of the film is remarkably faithful to the origin tale, showing how nerdy teenager Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire) turns into a wall-crawling, web-swinging superhero after being bitten by a unique arachnid. The second part settles into more conventional territory, detailing Peter’s burgeoning romance with Mary Jane Watson (Kirsten Dunst) and Spidey’s ongoing battle with his arch-nemesis, The Green Goblin (Willem Dafoe). Dunst and Dafoe are well cast, though the film occasionally suffers from its erratic portrayal of Mary Jane, as well as too much Goblin gobbledygook (not to mention that the cumbersome outfit makes the Goblin look about as frightening as Count Chocula). Still, Raimi keeps the picture hopping, and Maguire is endearing as Peter Parker, the clumsy kid whose newfound powers enable him to take the necessary steps from youthful indiscretion toward adult responsibility.
THE SWEETEST THING While there are dozens of movies each year that can be called box office hits, there are only one or two that can be deemed influential — that is to say, the sort of picture that’s not only financially successful but that’s then endlessly aped by every fledgling filmmaker desperately hoping that lightning will strike twice. One obvious example is There’s Something About Mary, a critical and commercial hit whose gross-out style has since been endlessly imitated in such duds as Saving Silverman, Say It Isn’t So and now The Sweetest Thing. There are two things immediately apparent after watching this feature from the director of Cruel Intentions (Roger Kumble) and one of the writers of South Park (Nancy M. Pimental): 1) Cameron Diaz, Christina Applegate and Selma Blair clearly are all gifted comediennes; and 2) all three deserve to have their efforts showcased in a movie much better than this one. Billed as a romantic comedy, this instead proves to be about as romantic as a gas station urinal (one of which is featured prominently in this film). Ostensibly a keen analysis of what happens when a party girl (Diaz) realizes it might be that point in her life when she should stop fooling around and settle down into a long-term relationship, the film quickly chucks this promising idea in favor of lathering on a series of sight gags that are so ineptly staged by Kumble that they produce apathy rather than laughs or even disgust. 1/2
TOGETHER (TILLSAMMANS) Almost on a par with 1998’s Show Me Love, writer-director Lukas Moodysson’s small gem of a previous effort, this remarkably deft comedy-drama, set in a commune in 1975 Stockholm, initially looks as if it’s going to be a rampant attack on the perils of extreme politics: The lefties living in the crowded household are so PC that you want to throttle them, while the conservatives constantly sniffing at their door are so humorless, you want to give them a smack as well. Yet as the film progresses, hypocrisies are dealt with, conflicts are defused, and deeply committed relationships are forged — and as a result, the film soars on the strength of its own eagerness to display goodwill toward all its characters, including an abusive, alcoholic husband who discovers his inner mild, an open-minded chap who’s so absurdly accommodating that he gives all nice guys a bad name, and, most pointedly, the various children forced to put up with the adults’ nonsense. Both funny and poignant, this is probably the only film ever made in which a boy is named Tet after the 1968 Offensive, or where two kids take turns playing Chilean dictator Augusto Pinochet in a game of torture. Moodysson also gets extra points for cannily using ABBA’s “S.O.S.” and Nazareth’s “Love Hurts” so that, in the context of the film, they come off as the two most relevant pop songs ever written. 1/2
Y TU MAMA TAMBIEN To tag this Mexican import from director Alfonso Cuaron (A Little Princess) and screenwriter Carlos Cuaron the art-house equivalent of a teen sex comedy would be irresponsible and misleading — Y Tu Mama Tambien (And Your Mother Too) has more on its mind than the male orgasm. Ultimately, it begs comparison with something like Thelma & Louise more than American Pie, exploring not only the liberation (sexual and otherwise) of its leading characters but also the mythos and pathos of the landscape across which they make their life-altering journey. Gael Garcia Bernal and Diego Luna portray two of the most realistic teenagers recently seen on screen, raging bulls of hormonal overdrive whose actions always remain within the context of utter believability (in short, nobody humps a pastry in this movie). During one fateful summer, they decide to embark on a road trip to the beach with an “older” (read: late-20s) woman (Maribel Verdu) at their side, a dental assistant from Spain who’s trying to come to terms with both the failure of her marriage and the dark secret that seemingly inspires her increasingly bold actions. Sexually explicit in a manner rarely seen in American titles (MPAA goon Jack Valenti would have a heart attack if he tried to sit through this, so its studio chose to release it unrated) yet also mindful of its country’s sociopolitical breakdown, this is a mature drama that snares the viewer with seductive ease. 1/2
This article appears in May 15-21, 2002.
