Can you believe that people in Kansas City actually had a petition asking the Chiefs not to let Johnson pass Priest Holmes’s record?  This card has fallen in value quite a bit over the years.  I was at the Penn State game when he set the rushing record.

Pictures

Click on individual images for original size.

Format: Demo
Year: 2003
Label: Self-released
Country: Chile
Genre: Black/Death/Thrash Metal
Official Website

01. Only Under Sound
02. Smoked My Soul
03. Legacy of Sect (Bonus Track)

Download

ERIC
man Hey!
This year was full
of good times, and better
moments.  Clash of the Titans
and Mobile Home!!  Haha… Boy
Oh boy.  What can I say when words
have become superficial between us?
I’m just joking… but seriously.  This was a nice
year.  Rockin it at Suzzie’s, Pants fallin at Geesh’s.
Rockin acoust in the back of the Ranger, the many
crazy antics at Dave’s. I hear you calling, calling for me out
in the night.  But alas, as most things do, this has come to an end.
2 years down, 2 more to go.  Righteous Brother!  Rock!  Well,
it’s time to say goodbye.  Rock over London, Rock on Chicago…

Kohl’s –
That’s more like it.  -Bill a Reuben

*I attempted to maintain the signatures original format, as Bill went for a triangle shape in his paragraph form. Click here for more info on my yearbook project.

Iniziamo oggi a ripercorrere le stagioni dell’era Della Valle, cominciando, naturalmente, dalla stagione 2002/2003 quella della “Rinascita” Viola…

Partite giocate:  38

Coppa Italia:  4 (1 pareggio e 3 sconfitte)

Campionato di C2: partite 34 (20 vinte, 10 pareggiate e 4 sconfitte)

Miglior goleador stagionale:  Riganò con 30 reti

There has been a lot of lists running around the web about the best movies from 2000-2009. The sad fact of the matter is that none of the lists have been truly correct. I am a movie aficionado, so making this list will not only be a walk in the park for me, but it will also provide you with the movies that actually were the best from this period. It gives me great honor to present to you the top 30 best movies from 2000-2009…

1. Mar adentro (2004) Director: Alejandro Amenábar
2. Sideways (2004) Director: Alexander Payne
3. Match Point (2005) Director: Woody Allen
4. The Pianist (2002) Director: Roman Polanski
5. There Will Be Blood (2007) Director: Paul Thomas Anderson
6. Le Fabuleux Destin d’Amélie Poulain (2001) Director: Jean-Pierre Jeunet
7. American Psycho (2000) Director: Mary Harron
8. A Beautiful Mind (2001) Director: Ron Howard
9. Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World (2003) Director: Peter Weir
10. Adaptation (2002) Director: Spike Jonze
11. Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon (2000) Director: Ang Lee
12. Donnie Darko (2001) Director: Richard Kelly
13. Lost in Translation (2003) Director: Sofia Coppola
14. Juno (2007) Director: Jason Reitman
15. Y Tu Mamá También (2001) Director: Alfonso Cuarón
16. Casino Royale (2006) Director: Martin Campbell
17. The Departed (2006) Director: Martin Scorsese
18. El laberinto del fauno (2006) Director: Guillermo del Toro
19. A History of Violence (2005) Director: David Cronenberg
20. Superbad (2007) Director: Greg Mottola
21. Babel (2006) Director: Alejandro González Iñárritu
22. Dogville (2003) Director: Lars von Trier
23. In Good Company (2004) Director: Paul Weitz
24. Wedding Crashers (2005) Director: David Dobkin
25. Grizzly Man (2005) Director: Werner Herzog
26. The Aviator (2004) Director: Martin Scorsese
27. Old School (2003) Director: Todd Philips
28. The Curious Case of Benjamin Button (2008) Director: David Fincher
29. The Dark Knight (2008) Director: Christopher Nolan
30. Up (2009) Director: Pete Docter, Bob Peterson

THE TRAILERS FOR THE TOP 3 BEST MOVIES OF 2000-2009

Debut date: 2003.7.1

Price (価格): ¥1,575 (税込)

Content (容量): 50g

全成分: 水、グリセリン、ヒアルロン酸Na、ジメチコン、ステアリン酸、ステアリン酸PEG－15グリセリル、ベヘニルアルコール、ステアレス－3、カルボマー、ステアロイルグルタミン酸Na、ステアリルアルコール、水酸化Na、フェノキシエタノール、メチルパラベン、プロピルパラベン

Ingredient List: Water,, glycerin,, sodium hyaluronate,, dimethicone,, stearic acid,, PEG-15 glyceryl stearate,, bnhenyl alcohol,, steareth-3,, carbomer,, sodium stearoyl glutamate,, stearyl alcohol,, sodium hydroxide,, phenoxethanol,, methylparaben,, propylparaben,,,,,,,,,

Debut date: 2003.7.1

Price (価格): ¥1,260(税込)

Content (容量): 180ml (volume increased from 150ml in 2009) — ミニサイズ(mini size) 50ml/¥451

全成分: 水、グリセリン、エタノール、ヒアルロン酸Na、イソステアリン酸 PEG－20ソルビタン、クエン酸Na、カルボマー、ヒドロキシエチルセルロース、フェノキシエタノール、メチルパラベン

Ingredient List: Water,, glycerin,, alcohol,, sodium hyaluronate,, PEG-20 sorbitan isostearate,, sodium citrate,, carbomer,, hydroxyethylcellulose,, phenoxyethanol,, methylparaben,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

il cinese, l’Amica, l’obesa, l’innamorato, la mezza tedesca, l’attore, la corsa, il musone, la barista

No, non è la lista di nove dei prossimi abitanti della casa del Grande Fratello 10, bensì la lista dei nove coinquilini che ho avuto nella mia esistenza. Persone con cui spesso ho condiviso molto più che le spese di casa, altre con cui non ho condiviso proprio nulla, altre ancora con cui non avrei mai voluto avere a che fare.

Han era sicuramente una personcina curiosa. Avete presente lo stereotipo del cinesino perfettino, nervosetto, veloce e curioso? Lo stereotipo del cinesino simpatico come una crosta anale? Ecco Han!

Dall’ottobre del 2003 al febbraio del 2004, abbiamo condiviso casa a Lancaster, Inghilterra, quando ero in Erasmus e al numero 8 di Ridge Street.

Durante una festicciola arrivò il padrone di casa con quest’omino bizzarro che voleva una camera. Non ricordo se già vivevo con l’Amica oppure non ancora. Ma ricordo con sicurezza che io e l’Amica lo abbiamo deriso senza tregua e senza pietà. Ecco perché.

Porello, si sforzava di essere più occidentale possibile, più giovane possibile, ma combatteva ineluttabilmente contro mulini a vento. Aveva un età indefinita, dai trenta ai cinquant’anni, insegnava inglese in Cina. Ma quando scoprimmo (io e l’altra coinquilina, l’Amica) che aveva 48 anni, e quando lui disse, riferito a sua moglie: “HE is my wife” capimmo che era sempre stato un vecchio, probabilmente anche da giovane, e che insegnava agli studenti cinesi delle basi di inglese sbagliate.

Insomma, ha perso subito credibilità, aveva un futuro nella politica italiana però…

Insieme all’età scoprimmo anche il suo vero nome. Frugando in una cartellina di documenti lasciata in salotto,scoprimmo anche che si chiamava Deshun, Han era il suo cognome. Al punto restammo di stucco e ci inventammo una storia bizzarra per rivelargli che conoscevamo il suo segreto. Abboccò a quell’improbabile scusa (che suonava tipo che in sogno ci era apparsa Mila Azuki che ci aveva rivelato l’arcano) e ci spiegò che si faceva chiamare per cognome, perché per noi era più facile pronunciare Han piuttosto che Deshun. HAN con la acca aspirata e la velocità di pronuncia era effettivamente più semplice di Deshun che si pronuncia Desciùn e che non rischi di pronunciare male confondendolo con una parola omografa che però significa “vassoio” o “cavaturaccioli”.

Certe volte mi sorprendo a pensare a cosa sta facendo quel piccolo principe Made in China, avrei sempre voluto conoscere la sua famiglia, ad esempio suo figlio, che si chiamava Biao che non ho mai capito come si pronunciava come nome proprio, perché a seconda dell’accento invece che chiamare il figlio del mio coinquilino, potevi vederti arrivare:

飑

biāo

uragano; ciclone

鳔

biào

vescica natatoria

膘

biāo

carne grassa; grassa

裱

biǎo

montare; incorniciare

标

biāo

1. segno; indicazione; marchio 2. mettere le etichctte; indecare (prezzi, ecc. )

表

biǎo

1. esteriore; apparente 2. parentela tra i figli di un fratello e una sorella 3. esprimere; manifestare; esternare 4. modello; esempio 5. lista; elenco; modulo 6. strumento di misura 7. orologio

Personaggino…

Una volta che ero in preda alla malinconia, scrissi e bruciai una lettera nel piccolo barbecue del piccolo cortiletto dietro casa (in Inghilterra tutte le case hanno un piccolo cortiletto dietro casa). Quanto fumo può fare una lettera bruciata? Tanto quanto basta affinché un cinese di mezza età che si lava i denti in bagno al piano di sopra corra giù con lo spazzolino in bocca a gridare “fire! fire! (al fuoco! al fuoco!) per aver visto un po’ di fumo dalla finestra. Mi ci vollero bei cinque minuti a calmarlo e mi guardava come se avesse quattro anni e io gli spiegavo che Babbo Natale non esiste, se ne facesse una ragione.

Passò quattro mesi a congelarsi le chiappe nel nord Inghilterra, chiuso in cameretta a fare chilometri di essay per il suo master, vestendo i suoi pigiamini che prevedevano panta collant marroni invece che pantaloni, bevendo acqua calda perché fa bene al corpo ed esclamando senza posa “uoztubidàn” (ossia what’s to be done) in ogni occasione. Doveva sempre chiedere “Why?” come un bambino di quattro anni. E quando dico sempre, intendo SEMPRE. Quattro mesi così, a bere acqua calda  e a fare i compiti, poi l’hanno rispedito in Ciaina perché non aveva il permesso di soggiorno in regola. Non ha manco potuto prendersi il suo master. Ha sprecato quattro mesi, lontano dalla famiglia e a farsi bonariamente prendere per culo da noi due. Lo adoravamo Deshun! Era il nostro tamagochi, era la mascotte perfetta. Chissà che casini sta combinando in Ciaina, chissà se ha imparato i pronomi personali, chissà se è tornato a Lancaster a prendersi il master per cui ha versato litri di inchiostro, chissà cosa pensava di me e dell’Amica.

Ovunque tu sia, Deshun Han, mi manchi…

Jaquette française

Milo, Kida et leur équipe vont faire le tour du monde et devront affronter des personnages légendaires. Tout au long de ce voyage, Kida va découvrir le pouvoir du cristal atlante et devra décider s’il est bien sage de le partager avec le reste du monde…

Les énigmes de l’Atlantide est un téléfilm sorti directement sur le marché de la vidéo, faisant suite au film d’animation Atlantide, l’empire perdu, sorti en 2001. C’est en fait une compilation des trois premiers épisodes de la série TV qui devait sortir à la suite du film, mais qui a été abandonnée, le film n’ayant pas eu le succès escompté.

La limite entre les 3 histoires est malheureusement trop marquée, et font des énigmes de l’Atlantide un téléfilm bancal. Les trois histoires n’ont pas de rapport entre elles et n’ont pas assez de lien avec le thème de l’Atlantide. Les scénaristes ont tenté de lier les trois épisodes par une introduction, des transitions et une conclusion, mais ces artifices ne trompent pas le spectateur.

Affiche américaine

L’animation est exécrable: elle était au départ conçue pour la télévision et non comme une suite “Direct-to-video” ou une suite pour le cinéma. Le dessin et les décors sont cependant soignés.

Au niveau du scénario, les trois histoires sont bonnes, mais n’ont plus de lien avec le film d’origine, ni avec le thème éponyme. Cependant, l’humour reste présent.

Les énigmes de l’Atlantide est donc un téléfilm inégal en raison des bizarreries qui entourent sa conception.

Ma note:

For the last hour, I’ve been watching videos of Will Young from 2002 and realising that “I still get that sentimental feeeeeeling” when it comes to him. I loved him and actually, I’m not ashamed to say that I still do! I don’t care!

Even after 7 years, I can still remember release dates and what I recorded on video. I have a plastic wallet full of magazine cuttings. I even have 2 mini posters on my wall after all these years! I listen to his “From Now On” (released on the 7th of October 2002) album and I still feel the same way when I hear it.

I saw him at London Arena on the 3rd of October 2002 and at the Regents Street lights on the 14th of November 2002 where he sang “You and I” and “Winter Wonderland”

Seeing some of those videos was a strange experience tbh. It was almost as if it wasn’t 7 years ago that I recorded them! I still remember it. Especially the T4 interviews with Simon Amstell and Miquita! They were on tv when Light My Fire was released (27th of May 2002). I still remember waking up that muggy May morning when it premiered on GMTV and I think there was an interview too.

As people who know me know, “Friday’s Child” is my favourite song and it was a weird coincidence when the woman played it at my birthday! The “Friday’s Child” album is good too and it reminds me of Xmas 2003.

Now this:

LOL!

For a while now I’ve been living in 2002. From Angel to Will to the stormy night in Selsey. I guess I was happy in 2001-2005. I had two different eras happen at once and sadly, they’re both over now. They say that you learn and grow up and I guess that’s true. Everybody has their own life now and although that’s all in my past now, somehow, it’s shaped my future. I’ll never be able to look at certain things and not think of things that remind me of them again but that’s a good thing. I’m not bitter about those eras, in fact, it’s the complete opposite.

OMG KAYLEGH! I think it’s started for her! It’s 00:58 and she’s told me that she’s “actually having a baby”!!! Ooooh! How exciting!!! IT BEGINS! Funny how I was just talking about eras and maybe a new one is about to start????

Edit @ 01:56:
No news yet from Kayleigh! Fingers crossed though! =D

Hank

The end came quickly to Hank.  The strains of  “Frankie Goes to Hollywood” on his i-Pod drowned out the approach of four ghouls until it was too late.  Although Hank kept himself in good shape, one infected nibble was all that it took.  This meant that “Relax” was the last song that Hank ever heard.  The rest of the album fell on dead ears.

Work those glutes Hank

Hank is a ridiculous miniature.

Hank was assembled and painted as part of the big batch of zombies prepared for Heroclix in 2003.  At the time I had lots of bits of GW kits lying around, with nearly enough zombie parts left over from the Sin Eaters to adequately zombify the other kits.  Nearly, but not quite…

 Some of the kit parts were perfectly suitable for use right away (the legs in combat pants from the Catachan sprues springs to mind).  Others, such as poor old Hanks torso from the Chaos Marauder sprue… somewhat less so.

Explaining Hanks ludicrous attire in a modern context is pretty difficult.  I took the cheap way out.

One Saturday night in 2003, I found myself terminally bored due to the fact that Squall didn’t want to go to Dennys. My plans shot (not for Saturday, but rather for the entire weekend), I weighed my alternatives. When you’re a 23-year-old guy from the suburbs who doesn’t drink, smoke, or enjoy driving to places that require the consumption of Pennsylvania’s ever-expensive gas, your options are rather limited. I could always sit at home on my computer watching illegally-downloaded, horrible quality episodes of “The Simpsons” while using AOL Instant Messenger to converse with morbidly obese women (or men…or 13-year-old boys) posing as supermodels, but I decided against it. After wallowing in deep thought over my multitude of choices for the better part of 12 seconds, I settled for a visit to the Lagoon.

The Lagoon was a nightclub in my hometown that believes it can attract area residents away from downtown Philadelphia’s extensive array of much hipper nightspots that are not named after swamps. (For the record, it has since changed its name.) It does this by offering not only a dance floor and bar areas, but also a game room, outdoor deck, restaurant, and adjacent hotel. While these additional amenities are indeed attractive, the club as a whole nevertheless fails to produce decent-looking patrons. In fact, many Lagoon club-goers look like they crawled out of an actual lagoon, as evidenced by the fact that many of them happen to be local town residents. While my suburban town is middle-class, it rests on an island populated with restaurants, bars, factories, etc. that create a populace teeming with overweight, middle-aged chain-smoking alcoholics who would think nothing of showing up to a formal wedding in torn jeans and a barely-fitting T-shirt bought at a New Jersey shore town bar. So, you may ask, why would I choose this locale to spend hours of my time and dollars of my money over downtown Philly’s hotspots full of people closer to my own age?

Free parking.

Satisfied? Let’s move on quickly, primarily because the column is more than halfway completed without any mention whatsoever of why I chose to write it in the first place. So there I was in the Lagoon, pushing my way through the sea of beer bellies and sipping my favorite mixed drink (Coca-Cola syrup mixed with seltzer water), when all of a sudden, I came across a guy I knew from high school, “John”. John and I exchanged the obligatory handshakes, “How have you been?” greetings, and all the other cliched sayings two people exchange when they haven’t seen each other for more than two weeks. That’s when he hit me with a curve ball I was not expecting whatsoever.

“Hey, you remember Sarah?”
“Sarah,” short for “not her real name”, was John’s sister, who graduated high school with me back in 1998. I of course remembered the girl and was expecting Jeff to place in front of me the exact same short-haired brunette that had been “Sarah” to me for the four-year prison sentence I called high school. Instead, the girl he pulled into my line of sight was a tall, long-haired blond female with Sarah’s face and a supermodel’s body.

She was HOT.

In many cases since my late 1990s escape from the hallways and rubber cheesesteaks of high school, the people I ran into, especially girls, had all deteriorated into hideous-looking, female-resembling ghouls that appeared to have swallowed oil tankers. No matter how attractive I may have found them in high school, today they looked as pleasing to my eye as, say, Carrot Top. In my then-six years of running into fellow graduates, I must admit that it gave my 123-pound self endless pleasure upon seeing bitchy girls (meaning those who refused to date/talk/look at me) turn into, well, typical Lagoon customers. Sarah, who has always been nice to me and who was also reasonably attractive in high school, was one hot-looking exception. It was truly an amazing part of the night, having run into a teenage-years confidant who pretty much said “piss off” to the law of gravity.

With her muscular brother John standing there, I of course did not hit on Sarah; she and I just exchanged a hug and brief “How have you been?” statements before separating once again for what may be another six years.

And I’m sure she will still be hot.

One Saturday night in 2003, I found myself terminally bored due to the fact that Squall didn’t want to go to Dennys. My plans shot (not for Saturday, but rather for the entire weekend), I weighed my alternatives. When you’re a 23-year-old guy from the suburbs who doesn’t drink, smoke, or enjoy driving to places that require the consumption of Pennsylvania’s ever-expensive gas, your options are rather limited. I could always sit at home on my computer watching illegally-downloaded, horrible quality episodes of “The Simpsons” while using AOL Instant Messenger to converse with morbidly obese women (or men…or 13-year-old boys) posing as supermodels, but I decided against it. After wallowing in deep thought over my multitude of choices for the better part of 12 seconds, I settled for a visit to the Lagoon.

The Lagoon was a nightclub in my hometown that believes it can attract area residents away from downtown Philadelphia’s extensive array of much hipper nightspots that are not named after swamps. (For the record, it has since changed its name.) It does this by offering not only a dance floor and bar areas, but also a game room, outdoor deck, restaurant, and adjacent hotel. While these additional amenities are indeed attractive, the club as a whole nevertheless fails to produce decent-looking patrons. In fact, many Lagoon club-goers look like they crawled out of an actual lagoon, as evidenced by the fact that many of them happen to be local town residents. While my suburban town is middle-class, it rests on an island populated with restaurants, bars, factories, etc. that create a populace teeming with overweight, middle-aged chain-smoking alcoholics who would think nothing of showing up to a formal wedding in torn jeans and a barely-fitting T-shirt bought at a New Jersey shore town bar. So, you may ask, why would I choose this locale to spend hours of my time and dollars of my money over downtown Philly’s hotspots full of people closer to my own age?

Free parking.

Satisfied? Let’s move on quickly, primarily because the column is more than halfway completed without any mention whatsoever of why I chose to write it in the first place. So there I was in the Lagoon, pushing my way through the sea of beer bellies and sipping my favorite mixed drink (Coca-Cola syrup mixed with seltzer water), when all of a sudden, I came across a guy I knew from high school, “John”. John and I exchanged the obligatory handshakes, “How have you been?” greetings, and all the other cliched sayings two people exchange when they haven’t seen each other for more than two weeks. That’s when he hit me with a curve ball I was not expecting whatsoever.

“Hey, you remember Sarah?”
“Sarah,” short for “not her real name”, was John’s sister, who graduated high school with me back in 1998. I of course remembered the girl and was expecting Jeff to place in front of me the exact same short-haired brunette that had been “Sarah” to me for the four-year prison sentence I called high school. Instead, the girl he pulled into my line of sight was a tall, long-haired blond female with Sarah’s face and a supermodel’s body.

She was HOT.

In many cases since my late 1990s escape from the hallways and rubber cheesesteaks of high school, the people I ran into, especially girls, had all deteriorated into hideous-looking, female-resembling ghouls that appeared to have swallowed oil tankers. No matter how attractive I may have found them in high school, today they looked as pleasing to my eye as, say, Carrot Top. In my then-six years of running into fellow graduates, I must admit that it gave my 123-pound self endless pleasure upon seeing bitchy girls (meaning those who refused to date/talk/look at me) turn into, well, typical Lagoon customers. Sarah, who has always been nice to me and who was also reasonably attractive in high school, was one hot-looking exception. It was truly an amazing part of the night, having run into a teenage-years confidant who pretty much said “piss off” to the law of gravity.

With her muscular brother John standing there, I of course did not hit on Sarah; she and I just exchanged a hug and brief “How have you been?” statements before separating once again for what may be another six years.

And I’m sure she will still be hot.

Willard
Directed by Glen Morgan
grade: B-

A perfect vehicle for Glover, an actor I’ve sorely missed. The opening ten minutes or so are almost Lynchian (with Glover being called without introduction by his aging – to put it lightly – mother to the duty of the basement rats), and they open into a story line that’s unfortunately not milked hard enough for its flights of fancy, instead grounding the film in the same cinematic transcendence of television that we came to expect from The X-Files (Glen Morgan was a former writer on the show). Simplistic to a fault – most notably leaving Harring with nothing to do but stand around and look gorgeous – Willard could have done with more Tim Burton/Matilda (read: arty) shocks than the obvious leaning it has towards complete and utter camp. There are genuinely disturbing moments (Glover instructing the rats to “Tear it!”, “Tear it!” in several scene is particularly chilling), and a solid, thankless performance by Ermey – whose role is closer to his role as a DI in Full Metal Jacket than he’s been in forever (or at least since he reprised it in The Frighteners). All in all, a superb choice for a Friday night at the run-down local theater, where unforgiving packs of teenagers roam free. Loudly.

The Core
Directed by Jon Amiel
grade: B

Best popcorn movie since Signs. Every character does pretty much one variation on their idiosyncracy before they predictably overcome their faults – no matter how villainous. The beauty lies in the cast – hiring Eckhart, Swank, Tucci, Lindo, Woodard, Karyo, Qualls, Greenwood and Jenkins pays off big time, allowing these actors, a number of them somewhat distinguished, to look like they’re having a good time. The feeling rubs off on the audience in ways I couldn’t have begun to expect and, in this context, can’t begin to explain. Everything scientific is so hypothetical, the special effects play as if found in a Cracker Jack box (alongside their Christian Apocalypse Thriller prototypes), and all the excitement feels so purposefully disposable, so undeniably fun, you can’t help but cheer as things get dumber and dumber as this “team” gets closer and closer to the center of the earth. If Bruckheimer’s disaster film was a Mercedes, surely Amiel’s is a Kia.

Dude. I’ll take the Kia.

Winged Migration
Directed by Jacques Perrin
grade: B

Hypnotic, often photographically superior to National Geographic by a country mile, but rarely structured with any coherence. More like a wondrous festival of raw birdy footage; Albeit, the scenario of Perrin’s filmed world is taken from the rods and cones of childrens eyes; His thrilling cinematography bears the same youngsters’ wonder felt flowing out of his 1996 masterwork Microcosmos. Here, the drama of the bird world feels a little more like a reach, with the music, though pretty, relied on to do most of the stretching. Eventually, what stays with us is the curiousity of the level shots that seem to stay parallel with the birds, and the sheer vastness, in one scene, of penguins. Too often, the photography seems to be numbing us with similarities and repetitions, as if either showing off the chops of these frames or, worse, lumping too much of the material together to discern (which results in an eventual zone out, as if your mind is sending an auto-response to the film that’s trying to interact with it).

Spellbound
Directed by Jeff Blitz
grade: B

So suspenseful, so funny, so full of little bits of luck, but it never taps into the spelling bee subculture it seems to be feeling around for. The xylophone/synthesizer music mix is somehow obviously beneath the film and telling these American Heartland Stories is rarely more than a mask for out-and-out hilarity at the expense (?) of the trusting subject. Still, it’s just plain gripping. It looks like mud, for some reason [explained by producer as amateur-itis], which just further enunciates the sentiment that the raw, natural drama of watching as someone scramble – in their mind – to make the pieces fit and choose the right letters is not as ho-hum as you’d expect and, Jesus, quite the contrary: Like most great documentaries, the art of it isn’t in the filmmaking or even the editing, but instead, is in the choice of subject and participants.

Dark Blue [video]
Directed by Ron Shelton
grade: C-

I’d say it were an intriguing idea, perhaps even launch into a tyrade wherein I accuse the studio of dressing up and beating to death a terrific premise (originally penned by the almighty James Ellroy) – if only the whole thing didn’t feel like it were melded together using successful characters, themes and incidents from other, better films. (Kind of like the subplot in L.A. Confidential – the novel, mind – where the guy builds a sort of Frankenstein from little bits of dead people). Doesn’t help that Kurt Russell (every casting agent’s 5th choice after B-actors and unknowns) leads an almost universally miscast set of actors (Rhames is off the hook) and, for some reason, is directed by Ron Shelton. (I kept waiting for the L.A. Riots to become a sporty metaphor for a long dormant love, and for someone to win the big game, or burn down the biggest store, or, you know, something that would warrant the necessity of Shelton’s presence here). Patience turns out to be our primary reaction to most of this cold, cartoonish film; It continually drag its feet in cornering the actual Event and drawing from it a tangible parallel to the personal story of police corruption on the force. Mostly, though, its Russell playing Corrupt Cop/Wet Behind the Ears Cop with Dash Minock (acting as aptly as he’s named), a parlor trick that echoes far too specifically co-writer David Ayer’s previous success with Denzel Washington and Ethan Hawke in Training Day (This is so blatantly obvious, it’s likely even that folks who haven’t seen that film will be having L.A. deja vu). Plot pieces/themes range from spot-on concurrent with L.A. Confidential, to somewhere in the pool of The Corruptor and Snake Eyes (obsession over a massacre that’s merely the last in a string of cover-ups leading to a marginally larger conspiracy; older cop being set up and choosing redemption; the good cop being punished even after doing the right thing, respectively). When we finally get to the riots, they’re merely a wash of scattershot looting and video game-looking crooks banging on Kurt Russell’s car – which is fitting: Dark Blue is so stale that it leaves a disturbed, sick feeling in you without actually making any clear points about corruption, racism or any of the umpteen other modern, social troubles it bites off without chewing . If they were going to take such a loss on this one, perhaps MGM/UA (in association with Intermedia, the same lunkheads who brought us the vastly superior, similarly over-the-top 15 Minutes) could’ve just let Ellroy pen the script and direct the damn thing himself. At least his characters would’ve sounded somewhat cool.

Bulletproof Monk
Directed by Paul Hunter
grade: C

It’s a Jackie Chan movie without Jackie Chan (pause to let sink in); Ultimately, the American star (Sean William Scott) is leaps and bounds more charming than his Asian sensai-of-sorts (Chow Yun-Fat, whose broken English gives him a dud charge that’s – for sure – not his fault); And – sweet Jesus – it’s one of the definitive examples of why models really oughta stick to lookin’ pretty (though you gotta admit, the chick fight between sleepy-faced James King and sexy-for-pushing-forty Allison Doody doesn’t exactly require a Master’s in method acting from Juliard on either count). Still reeling that the villain had a device that could extrapolate and – via computer – analyze his prisoners’ minds. It’s something I’ve come to expect, though, in this off-shoot genre of the buddy comedy and the kung fu larf – - – though I didn’t expect that there would still be room to make the villain a Nazi whose fake secret-service henchman are scouring the earth for a scroll which has the power to grant ever lasting life. If this weren’t based upon a comic book – and if it weren’t halfway entertaining – I’d certainly begin the preceedings on an inquiry of my own: Is this an aborted script for Indiana Jones IV that somebody desperately didn’t want to see go to waste?

The Good Thief
Directed by Neil Jordan
grade: B+

A rather good heist film (prime feature is how successful it is, much like Ocean’s Eleven, at distracting the audience with sleight-of-hand); Nolte is absolutely smashing, rattling off the philosophy of gambling with smooth, world-weary charm – the kind we go to the movies to see; Supporting cast is particularly good, and Jordan’s clearly having a ball; Only complaint is that the whole thing seems to dispose of itself – a side effect, I think, of how wonderfully overboard Jordan goes to ensure that we see Nolte’s thief as good at heart (which is sabotaged by the watchful eye of morality, one that doesn’t exactly keep in the company of an assorted gallery of rogues – some cartoonish (a trans-sexual body builder), some just wierd (twin security guards), none given nearly as much judgement as Nolte, who seems to be proving his worth in every other scene (that it is disguised, mostly, with wit and vigor, is a terrific lemonade-from-life’s-lemons portrait); Ralph Fiennes’ uncredited cameo as a vicious art dealer almost exempts him from “the list” he found himself on, here in my head, after appearing in Maid in Manhattan (which – damn it – I’m going to end up seeing, if my wife has her way).

X2: X-Men United
Directed by Bryan Singer
grade: B

Characters feel more fun – the cleverness of each and every unique move or talent squeezed guiltily – yet satisfyingly – for a very quick-paced romp in Hollywood’s “safe blockbuster” garden. Film delivers its twisty formulas with the kind of crackling energy that was missing in much of the first film (on the other hand, this one never reaches the surprisingly dignified/subtle drama of the first film’s opening act). It turns out, these movies should probably have Ian McKellan’s Magneto as their main character instead of Hugh Jackman’s moody Wolverine (just to – if you’ll pardon the irony – lighten things the fuck up). Still, valiantly exasperating time at the movie house.

The Matrix Reloaded
Directed by Andy and Larry Wachowski
grade: D

Remember in the first film when you could follow what was going on? Wasn’t that something? That courtesy is anything but extended here in the current installment of mega-mainstream dystopia. Set largely in the Battlefield Earth-approved caves and corroded sewers of the (machine run?!) city of Zion , The Matrix Reloaded devotes a lot of wasted time trying (in earnest) to ground the emotional connections of its popular characters, but ultimately presents the formerly badass heroes and villains as a group of clones actively failing Human Attributes 101 (Man that was corn-y; Mercy!). While it flounders in the techno-Prehistoria of the not-too-distant-future, we sit in nerve-wracking suspense, waiting with bated breath for those terrific jolts of techno-kung-fu-slow-mo-Ka-Blooey! (To little avail, alas, as endless scenes of reiteration and bewildering references to plot points both foreign and arcane are a flat-out chore to sit through, and almost entirely dominate the first couple of reels). Any true delight in these Pyrotechnical bruise sessions is fleeting; A more fitting example of the action genre’s assimilation of the video game culture into itself would be hard to find; So thoroughly does the film’s heavily digitized aggression choreography leave the viewer feeling impatient, we almost get the sensation that we’re waiting for a controller-dominant buddy to pass the joystick so we can have a go at it. To make matters worse, the filmmakers have also burrowed rather deeply into another popular cinematic parallel: The music video. Obviously, I could draw a corresponding line from the slow-motion sex/fight/dream/extended dance sequences’ snappy editing to the more fitting equivalent, i.e. the (M)TV-esque lack of direction given to the actors. The stilted, dissatisfying flavor in most of the performances is just one in an exceedingly long list of liabilities that can be written off to the twin directors, who’ve never been all that interested in their thespians – Bound included (And for the record, I said thespians). The greater issue at hand is how tedious the already established characters appear as written, constantly spewing lines of dialogue that sound nearly identical (in word and form) to those in the first film; Worse still are the characterizations which ride the same all-quippy-all-declarative-(all-laughable) vociferousness that defined Morpheous, Trinity, Neo and Agent Smith four years (and some change) ago. (The new free-minders (and mind controllers), of which there are a boatload, all seem to ape the woodenness of the principles, as if climbing on the don’t-upstage-the-expensive-slash-precious-slash-did I mention expensive?-backgrounds bandwagon). What’s unnerving about these derivative automatons is how their matched by the replacement of the formerly awe aspiring world – in classic sequel form – with a completely new environment that would qualify as anachronistic (to the first film, that is) if it weren’t so consistently bloated with alternating drab and posh settings, each with its own, independent context. So, instead of grounding itself, it becomes horribly episodic; With each sequence, you’ll grow increasingly eager for the climactic (and ironically rejuvenating) fourteen minute highway chase which provides the film’s sole fresh morsel. (I’m including the exhausting dry hump of both the “Neo vs. 100 Agent Smiths’ fight” and the “Stairwell/mixed weapons battle”, which fall under the aforementioned Playstation Burnout category). But these rather small observations are tiny, drop-in-the-bucket quibbles which barely begin to think of registering in the shadow of the film’s primary, driving defect, namely, its casual, progressively looming incoherence. Clearly structured as an epic (but released as barely half of one), The Matrix Reloaded moves very…very…slowly (to…say…the…least.) Even more discomforting is the way the Wachowski’s have arranged most of the scenes in the film in an almost arbitrary manner (I make comparison to BS Johnson’s experimental novel The Unfortunates, which comes complete with bound sections of printed material which are meant to be read in random order). By the end, I was so confused with the rambling, seemingly rule less universe that is The Matrix (and had, with such tenacity, given up trying to sort it out) that, in the end, I couldn’t help but voice an in-a-nutshell retort to the a whining audience, who were confoundingly tortured by the inevitably preposterous cliffhanger. How did they comprehend its wobbly chain of events? How could they have possibly understood enough of this film to cull even a smidgen of trepidation? I didn’t forget to study! I watched the first film just the day before!

[Ad note: It is now official. A film is no longer needed, only a marketing campaign. The Matrix Reloaded proves, without question, that a studio need not have a stellar hand as long as its poker face is intact. As ever: Over saturate, Create awareness, Saturate further, Open on a billion screens and Commence saturation. A quality experience is not necessary. Warner Bro$. in association with Village Road$how and Joel $ilver thank you for playing.]

Down With Love
Directed by Peyton Reed
grade: B

Occasionally mega-satisfying, always giddily bawdified battle-of-the-sexes type fluff; It’s often more send-up than recreation of Doris Day-recognized period larfs. Both principles utilize their maximum charm range – McGregor on an ever improving slant as far as the obligatory comparison with achingly similar roles-to-date, while Zelwegger seems to be treading just below progression; It’s Hyde Pierce who steals the show, though, creating a joltingly fresh riff on the neurotically bumbling-square-as-best-friend role, subsequently leaving the bare minimum in breathing room when he and McGregor begin volleying the rapid fire quips at one another. Big second act “revelation” notwithstanding (it seems to sit there, dead on the screen, even if you know there’s a great deal of running time remaining), Reed’s film is ultimately a triumph of clever plotting, too, alternately evoking the grand old tradition of the screwball comedy (though Down With Love’s flat slapstick and blunt period reference sometimes ring clumbsily modern), and the ludicrously simple resolution of the most complicated of muddles which we associate with the guilty snack of the forthcoming sitcom boom. A perfect antidote to the loud, bloated zilch that’s no doubt playing in the auditoriums on both sides – and directly across – from it.

Stone Reader
Directed by Mark Moskowitz
grade: B

Effortlessly charming, if occasionally minus a speck of artistry (both aspects courtesy of Moskowitz, himself an extremely outgoing political ad director); Moskowitz’s incidental participation – unlike the forced necessity of showmen like Nick Broomfield and Michael Moore – reminded me of the casual Ross McElwee, the director of 1993’s Time Indefinite, a movie about a slightly more profound search.What I liked more than its occasionally fudged, carefully exhaustive long lost tome hunt, was the feeling that Moskowitz and his unending parade of literary critics, authors and creative writing teachers were equal to something more than their sum or their parts – that is, the genuine passion for the specific books they exhibit and their unselfish interest in promoting the fetish they so deliciously indulge themselves. Case in point (and big relief for the guy who was struggling to remember title after title, hoping to retain even one or two): The end credits contain a list of all the books discussed and (or) pictured in the film. Stone Reader never blossoms into anything more than a (sometimes too long) commercial for the benefits of a healthy reading habit, but it’s open dialogue with us – the audience – makes it far too engaging to feel condescended by (though you’ll feel poorly read to say the least); I won’t comment on the central force of the film – namely, the search for The Stones of Summer scribe Dow Mossman – because the actual journey is much like a good novel and ruining the ending is something I’ve found gets your punched in the face sometimes.

Bruce Almighty
Directed by Tom Shadyac
grade: C

When will Tom Shadyac stop the hurting? Inherently forgettable from the first frame to the last, with funny bits occasionally fudged for “momentum”. It’s an even more shamelessly crafted delivery device for Carrey’s one-man laugh-in than Liar, Liar. Bruce Almighty has the same paltry fixings at center (precious little attention or care is given to the central story line), probably wrought in an (admittedly founded) expectation that any sort of narrative would take a back seat to the movie’s obvious (and usually worthwhile) selling point: Namely, Jim Carrey’s explosive diarrhea of creative jokesterism. Because of our secure confidence that sappiness is on the way – and boy howdy it is – we are distracted from the comedy, thereby tainting the film’s sole pleasure. Even when Carrey is so unbelievably, irrevocably on (and it happens big time in his flip-out-on-live-TV scene), the movie is still never more than paradox: How are decent, hardworking cynics like ourselves supposed to howl with laughter at a film that mixes gross out humor with not-so-subtle Christian undertones? Burping and farting in church aren’t among the least funny things I’ve encountered – but they don’t rank very high if you’re over fourteen.

The Recruit [video]
Directed by Roger Donaldson
grade: C-

While The Great Al Pacino quick pimps his grizzled bark, it’s all the steel wool eyed Farrell can do to not look embarrassed for him. Twists itself dizzy without ever leaving the ground. I think my biggest problem with it was how much effort went in to displaying the filmmakers’ research on the CIA and how little time was spent cooking up a story we’d ever – in a million years – believe. Our suspicion makes the CIA of the film seem ankle deep, leaving plenty of room for the focus to shift to a cat and mouse/tag-you’re-it/red herring/tete-a-tete/thrill-a-minute/is-it-or-isn’t-it?/con game that’s not worth the secret files its constantly sorta-but-not-really following. (So, it’s wishy-washy.) Another entry in the recent rise of CIA-themed “thrillers” (The Bourne Identity, Bad Company), all films with good meaning “dumb entertainment” value, the best of which is Spy Game (which is not a good sign). I think we had more luck with the FBI, movie dudes.

Love Liza[video]
Directed by Todd Luiso
grade: D+

Love Liza is quintessentially idie – which is another way to say that it’s really rather bad. Laughing at a film that fails so miserably to blend its corroded bleakness-as-healing with off-the-wall, black “humor” is practically a no-brainer. An unwavering good sport, Philip Seymour Hoffman looks like he regrets being cast in this film, as if it were part of some sort of plea bargained community service. And given that, it’s a miracle that he’s actually quite good in it, too; The same cannot be said for his counterpart, Kathy Bates, who comes off of her superb turn in About Schmidt with what appears to be a heavy dose of non-direction (she’s playing what appears to be a borderline non-character, at that). Luiso doesn’t seem to know where he’s steering the film – and its a safe bet that if we asked him about that, he would tell us “that [it's] the characters steer the film” (bad idea). But, if you were in the market for a film that, for a stretch of thirty minutes (at least), contains nothing more than Hoffman moping around his house, huffing gasoline – you’re found your match. I’m going to go back to the hunt for substance.

Finding Nemo
Directed by Andrew Stanton
grade: B

Finding Nemo opens with another Bambi-esque death which provides the foundation for a brilliant sense of self-parody, in which it appears to be mocking the very idea of grafting suburban culture onto an underwater world. Unfortunately, the long odyssey which follows gives way to a disappointingl, Pixar-for-the-course sorta vibe: No shrill surprises, no hoops of fire, just the mere presence of consistent – if monotonously unceremonious – quality. It dawns on you, as the startlingly familiar journey of two fish (on a rescue mission to boot) unfolds, that the smoothly elapsing narrative is starting – after four films – to play  more like a bunch of empty boxes carefully being filled with check marks; It retainins the recognizable elements which were successful in the past. Neither the spring-loaded, neverending charm of the Toy Story movies or the out-and-out inventiveness of Monsters, Inc. lingers on Finding Nemo, whose place in the categorically impressive features from the Disney-based animation studio stands closer to the safe, child-friendly (not child-at-heart) perkiness of A Bug’s Life - itself the weakest entry in the running. Brooks’ and Degeneres’ banter keeps the spark snapping in the sagging love-handles of about the same ten bloated minutes that should’ve been trimmed, mid-movie, from Monsters, Inc (somewhere between one too many similar bumps in the road – and the inevitable impossibility we cherish as the heroes put their strife safely behind them. Inevitably, then, we abandon hope that a new spin on the genre could be in the cards, and we start looking for the bizarre. Lo and behold, then, the best sequences take place in a dentist’s office, where the title character has been transplanted to a soothing, exotic fish aquarium, which turns out to be a segue for his real purpose: The rough gripped plastic bag, held (and shaken) by the dentist’s niece, who is known to Nemo’s tank buddies as “a fish killer”. Not bad, exactly – but you can see the wheels spinning in place far too often.

The Man Without a Past
Written and Directed by Aki Kaurismaki
grade: B

The quietest farce you may ever see; Kaurismaki’s direction is spot-on, and the film feels like a vision heavily influenced by Yasushiro Ozu, while Markku Peltola’s performance feels like a funnier, more tobacco-obsessed Takeshi Kitano. Looks more Technicolor than even Far From Heaven did, but the old-fashioned flavor doesn’t end there. We giddily watch as the main character pursues a romance with a Salvation Army worker, turns a religious band on to rockability and rediscovers his career as a welder. There’s a very relaxed simplicity to every event in the film, which we notice right away, as scenes that would ordinarily – in other films – take long set-ups and extra lines, are often cranked out through one, wordless camera angle. The Man Without a Past is clever – but mostly, it’s snare drum tight: It’s a film that eschews filler. Kaurismaki is clearly dedicated to the power of mise-en-scene – which makes it an added bonus that his dryly funny dialogue, even as subjugated by subtitles, works terrifically – better than any foreign film in recent memory.

Spider
Written and Directed by David Cronenberg
grade: B-

A Butcher Boy retread, purported to be scraped from the inside of a deranged mind but which, instead, finds its methodic schizophrenia profile usurped by its own structure, and blasted by irritatingly slight lift-the-veil storytelling. This leaves the film to play as if weighted by substance pre-packaged to be dismissed merely as a nutsy fever dream. The vastness Cronenberg and Fiennes invest in Mr. Cleg make the so-called crescendo of the piece unattainable practically by definition. I love the nuts and bolts of the potent central performance, but the exhilaration and transforming quality of it make it so overbearing, it eventually undermines its own end. (However – I defy audiences not to carry out of the theater with them the urgent need to behave with a fabricated, nervous tic). Fiennes is never anything less than completely and utterly stunning, always just south of unbearably bizarre, effortlessly eliciting pity for the most mundane of actions. It’s probably Cronenberg’s biggest success to date with an ensemble of actors; The entire cast, thick with lip smacking, cockney east end brogues – Gabriel Byrne, Miranda Richardson, Lynn Redgrave and John Neville (among others) – demonstrate the exact energy of the director’s usual peculiarities, sometimes in ways that (thank God) surmount the material (“Brilliant. It couldn’t have gone anywhere else. Just brilliant,” Neville says as Fiennes carefully fits a piece into a jigsaw puzzle.) Performances recommend it, to be sure, as long as you don’t inflate your expectations with Amy Taubin’s “ten best ever” hot air.

I take hard objection to the film’s celebration of characters whose actions are just absolutely reprehensible and completely in contempt of what I perceive to be a reasonable understanding of capital punishment, but on the other hand, few movies have the right to be this entertaining (in a slick, political thriller context, mind), and I’d be lying if I didn’t plead absolute guilt to having been thinking about the damn movie since I watched it. Guilt.

[I'll just come right out and say it: Laura Linney killing herself to help Kevin Spacey get executed (for her murder) so he can prove to the Governor of Texas that he knows at least one innocent person who was executed could play better if it were a sick joke. Instead, the film is absolutely nothing if not entirely grave. Once more, to support abolishing the death penalty (where people are killed) by killing oneself and allowing oneself to be executed (respectively), these two down-on-their-luck, liberal whiners achieve little more than the ultimate prank: Killing themselves in the name of ceasing to kill people. This doesn't make a lick of sense. The twisty mechanics of the storyline may keep us interested (and the strangely brutal nature to nearly every event in the film certainly keeps the film feeling like a edgy, politically charged crime drama) - - - but, honestly, we're talking some shrill hokum, here, gang.]

[And in case you're wondering - Yes - I'm completely and utterly against the death penalty (as the mixed-up genius who wrote this film blatantly pretends to be). I hold with Nick Broomfield: "The violence of taking a life remains the same whether it is legally sanctioned or not. It introduces murder into our vocabulary of behavior".]

The most un-self conscious Intacto gets is when, as it begins to divulge its own unique rules, it squarely, brilliantly, eschews batting it’s eye (In other words, the exposition is all story – but its up to you to spot just how in the hell any of it could possibly (under any circumstances whatsoever) make logical sense). I feel dirty writing anything that might betray its particulars; Relishing in this exotic world’s masterful weave is pretty much all the fun – and my gosh, what fun it is (what’s especially refreshing is that this world seems ripe for a supremely dumb metaphor that it never offends us by stating). Yeah, the not-so-great idea to include the cop subplot never really washes off – but it also never sells the concept (as a whole) out. (Which is not to say that Intacto – a film of varying intellectual rigor – is merely an art project; On the contrary – the film actually seems more grounded (if we separate it into film and exercise) in the style and pace of a studio picture. But I could scarcely add insult to injury if I were to point out that none of this really matters as you’re viewing it – as long as you steel yourself to: a) read nothing about the film’s premise; b) watch it in one viewing; and c) (for the love of God) pay attention.

[Don't read this until you've seen the film: Or, if you were Charles Odell, you'd put it thusly: "Pretty much coasts on its terrific premise -- luck actually behaves like an RPG stat, and can be transferred between people -- but fails to realize the material's emotional potential. Screams 'remake me'."]

Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas
Directed by Tim Johnson and Patrick Gilmore
grade: C-

Instead of attempting to upstage Ray Harryhausen’s work on the three existing Sinbad pictures (with our new and improved regime of computer enhanced digital effects), Dreamworks has, instead, worked up a lame vision wherein an anachronistic, cliché spewing Sinbad is made to prove that he is good at heart, while falling for a shrill, strong willed heroine who is about as likable as the (surprisingly few) snarling beasts the title character finds himself battling. Embracing one of the true failings of Jason and the Argonauts (another Harryhausen work), Sinbad is framed around Eris, the Goddess of Chaos, whose job, seemingly, is to meddle in the affairs of mortals. In Jason and the Argonauts, the Gods and Goddesses were goofy and seemed in violation of the brazen adventuring spirit of the rest of the picture. The trouble here is that Eris’s powers are relatively inconsistent and largely undefined, as are her motives (or, more clearly, lack thereof), which remain surprisingly abstract for a movie aimed at the youth. It’s as if Eris is, for lack of a better description, following a script. Nevertheless, she can’t possibly distract us from the lack of chemistry – or interest – the two stars (Brad Pitt and Catherine Zeta-Jones) bring to the film. Both seem to be hammering the same note over and over: Pitt, in a permanent state of aborted boasting; Zeta-Jones, stuck in a stubborn diva fit so befitting her, I can only doubt sheer coincidence is dictating her animated form’s similarity to her physical one. Selected set pieces retain purpose (the alluring Sirens, made of water, are nifty), and Pfeiffer’s voice work as Eris is better than anything she’s done on screen since One Fine Day (which is more of a comparative victory than anything else). A certain air of deflated energy and adventure permeates throughout. Sinbad is at least time-consuming, which does not – to state the obvious – infer that it’s by any means entertaining.

Remember folks, Suzuki’s Branded to Kill was once a lowly studio script before he transformed it into a crazed, stylistic fever dream (by all accounts). A heroic accomplishment to say the least – - even if you haven’t seen that film (which I haven’t). Pistol Opera, a loose remake of Suzuki’s aforementioned first landing on the map, is the same sort of jumbled mash note, only this time it seems to be striving to be that lowly studio picture. In a move that’s no large feat, Suzuki suddenly changes gears in the third act, turning the whole mediocre fantasy into a shaky delivery device for spectacularly outlandish visual stylization. Gorgeous compositions replete with terrifically vibrant color schemes and more-complicated-than-your-first-glance-might-lead-you-to-believe staging beg a certain amount of deserved attention, if not recognition (pieces of it look fuckin’ cool). But, alas, the whole thing isn’t much more than what it seems, felt especially in the actors – who can’t seem to bring any sort of jolt to their dull characters (pawns, all of them), and who rain on Suzuki’s peripheral battle between camp and moral depth. At its center, the celluloid representation of this mental struggle is, at the very least, good for a rather long head scratch – - if that’s your thing, of course. (It isn’t.)

[And was I the only one wondering if the main character's younger sister was, perhaps, a bit too young to be entirely naked?]

Lost in La Mancha [video]
Directed by Keith Fulton and Louis Pepe
grade: B-

The good news is that Fulton and Pepe dispense with the sub-Monty Python animated hi-jinks approximately twenty minutes into the film. The bad news is that their film is a frustrating effort that captures a great number of people getting frustrated. Artistically, like many documentaries about other films, Lost in La Mancha itself is little more than a DVD extra – a feature length gag reel for a film called The Man Who Killed Don Quixote; It might do right by itself if it were to switch titles and, in doing so, be a touch more forthright about its motives: Namely, to raise funding to finish the film that Gilliam himself  – a rabid perfectionist at one moment, an efficient do-or-die man the next – is prevented from completing by one horrible stroke of luck after another (among them weather and the health of a key player). Certainly not (by a long shot) in the same sport as films like Hearts of Darkness: A Filmmaker’s Apocalypse or Burden of Dreams, Lost in La Mancha is, all the same, shamelessly entertaining; Watching the nuts and bolts of a film production begins to take on a reality show flavor that occupies one end of a spectrum whose converse is some gorgeous, undeniably Gilliam footage sure to make your salivate for Quixote. Unfortunately, Lost in La Mancha’s tale of mad genius is too much the front loaded cart: Not only do we know that Quixote won’t leave the ground, but we watch in horror as Gilliam’s First Assistant Director misses key signs such as a warning that a location may be shared with NATO jets (whose noise ruins at least two days of shooting), and training the extras in rehearsal (one more day). As the project spirals further and further from reach, Gilliam refuses to fire him – - even as the AD repeatedly takes up his cross and plays the martyr like a rejected middle school-er. (I’d almost like to see the AD’s reaction to the sequence where Gilliam and his producers discuss, quite casually, letting him go). As I watched, I felt almost completely consumed by hindsight, suggesting that the film was not made for me, or an audience, but rather for future investors, who could go on to become part of film lore.

Hulk
Directed by Ang Lee
grade: C+

Much like its title pissant, the fairly modest open-and-shut tale of Bruce Banner’s transformation from repressed weenie to gimungous jade super-weenie is elongated to seemingly no end; Hulk is often too much the epic, ever-full of its own twisted humanity and constantly promising greatness while rarely delivering a fraction of such. Bana’s performance as the likeably scarred Bruce seems strangled by pretense (everyone tiptoes on glass far too long about the obvious as if it were some Big Secret) – and also by Ang Lee’s befuddling insistence on cranking up the wait-for-it suspense of the green one’s first visit (Too bad the ads already prepped us to be thoroughly disappointed). Connelly is a terrifically blank heroine, spending a great deal of her screen time being the dainty yin to military gruff papa Sam Elliot’s raging yang. Nolte is just plain creepy (but he still seems way out of place here). So while the story is of little interest and the effects are of less interest still, Digi-Hulk (who looks like a big green baby and was mockingly referred to as Shrek 2 at family gatherings) seems forever incompatible with Bruce Banner, making it difficult to swallow the two-are-one hook – which seems strange given the continual effort by the screenwriters to paint them as peas in a pod. They may have missed the boat almost entirely, but Lee still manages to provide the sole, untainted triumph of the film, telling the story using moving panels, some of which can be seen in the background when he cuts from one to the other – a masterful visual element that seems to breath with the style of a comic book like no other Marvel-approved film (Spider-Man included). Wasted revelation – the editing, I mean – and sad that it doesn’t eventually take over and, you know, make this film even remotely electrifying.

Phone Booth [video]
Directed by Joel Schumacher
grade: B

Gives the giddy thrill of being caught up in a film stunt without actually stooping to the level a film stunt about a guy trapped in a phone booth probably would. A teenage girl-ready, pop-Dog Day Afternoon with none of the depth but twice the head games. Sutherland’s obviously separately recorded voice-over is often too book-on-tape to be believable in the same context as the kinetic shock-therapy fueling Ferrell’s mind-blowing performance. But the more plausibility issues arise, the more devil-may-care Phone Booth becomes, desperately losing its footing – trying to stay one move ahead of itself. It’s easy enough to spot exactly where the progression will lead to (hint: the film doesn’t turn into an anti-phone tirade), but harder to shake the feeling that somehow its headed there without a net. For better or worse (and there’s a fair amount of both), you’re strapped in with nearly the same intensity I recall from the singular, unbroken thrills of The Blair Witch Project. In that way – I suppose it is a stunt, after all. But it sure doesn’t feel like one.

Pirates of the Caribbean: Curse of the Black Pearl
Directed by Gore Verbinski
grade: C+

It sure seems like all poor Johnny Depp can do not to announce that he, himself, is pretty much the only thing keeping a late evening audience from drifting into a comparatively more realistic world placed squarely in the dreams they’ll have as they doze through perhaps the longest movie ever (alright – I’m exaggerating – but it sure feels like forever and a day when you’re watching it). No one has yet heeded my progressively loudening call to arms – obviously – as Gore Verbinski seems to still be making movies for people who fancy breaking down weekend box office results in order to find their place within the cycle that is commerce-as-art. Pirates of the Caribbean is good-hearted enough, but it seems to be jabbing us in the ribs the whole time it’s playing, as if to say, “You don’t really buy this world, do you?” (It doesn’t help that it feels as if initially birthed as a family film and, instead, awkwardly flipped into a PG-13 template; Wasn’t there a time, long ago, when a family film had the better chance of scoring at the box office?) Set ostensibly in an animatronic-sprited Disneyland version of the Caribbean, the few lighthearted nudges to the ride that inspired the title (Depp telling fellow inmates, at one point, “You can wave that bone at him forever – the dog is never going to move”) seem like precious few in the face of the henpecked story of a cursed rabble of undead pirates who seek the last of a treasure that will supposedly turn them back to mortals. Opening as every other film this summer has (with a flashback), Pirates makes a major chore of mapping out each main characters’ place in the curse; Sad to report, when he’s not on screen with Jonathan Pryce (playing the serious guy who seems perpetually apologetic for his state), Orlando Bloom is pretty much the most embarrassing, saddening thing about the film. It’s reasonably clear from the moment he steps up as a watered down Aladdin-type, that he’s not up to being the leading man, the romantic hero or, uh, anyone who’s not an elf. In his favor, Verbinski seems to take a sick pleasure in looking the other way as Bloom is constantly used him as a stepping stone for Depp’s hilarious, unruly antics – which is a good thing for all of us. Johnny Depp is one of a very few American actors who can still upstage just about everyone in the cast without making it look as if he’s doing so. Case in point: Geoffrey Rush’s failed, scenery-chewing as Barbossa, the old salt,  who just keeps – inexplicably – giving Depp chance after chance to make the character – and the actor – look significantly more hollow each time around.

[Why the C+ and not the straight C (for a movie that's certainly deserving of the pungent odor of the latter)? Probably because, try as you may, try as you might, you can't separate Depp's hammy showboating from the proceedings and, gee gosh golly, he's in it enough to make Pirates at least half entertaining. Bruckheimer theatrics aside - and a complete score that I think Bruckheimer himself has pounded out - Pirates is a hell of a throwaway, never burdening you with its memory for more than a few minutes once you're streetside.]

Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines
Directed by Jonathan Mostow
grade: B

Mostow returns to the successful formula previously honed in Breakdown (and inexplicably abandoned in U-571); Here, resources like the well-known characters and an obvious-headed storyline are nicely cast aside in the spirit of priming the momentum – and scrapping any and all exposition surplus, allowing it to leak out in as few lines as possible. It’s a classical model of great action filmmaking and from start to finish it never stops being, in the best way possible, utterly preposterous. It’s an incredibly expensive-looking, yet sparely written film (the narrative, as it connects to the previous installments, is as simply put and uncharacteristically unimportant as it could possibly be yet it allows for the maximum in action sequences that seem to have a new energy; Mostow was obviously born to construct death-defying thrills). And somehow all the characters – Stahl, Schwarzenegger, Danes – seem contained by the reverence Mostow and his writers have invested in the film; The Terminator films assimilated into the culture and here, it feels as if everyone involved took great pains not to leave this second sequel looking like a stray black sheep.

Laurel Canyon [video]
Directed by Lisa Cholodenko
grade: C+

Though the lifestyle and world of the title gulch is entertaining (and the film contains a whopper of a cool performance by Alessandro Nivola) – Laurel Canyon eventually starts alternating slick revelations with trashy soap-opera payoffs, giving a muddy, disappointing feel to an otherwise perfect opportunity to make with the chortle. Cholodenko is trying way too hard to make a profound mountain from a basic indie-style molehill (there seems to be a dismissively light, Lisa Holofcener touch to rather strong material). The paparazzi fanclub actors who populate this romp of thirtysomethings being tortured to death by their fidelity woes – Nivola, Kate Beckinsale, Christian Bale and Natascha McElone – all have a strange, against-type fire in their eyes, as they play, respectively, naughty, naughty, naughty and, uh, naughty. And unless you were among the rather, ahem, small but decidedly brilliant minority who held High Art out to be one of the great, modern love stories – as I did – you’ll probably have no trouble warming to Laurel Canyon’s immediately digestible contents.

Seabiscuit
Directed by Gary Ross
grade: C

Manipulative at every turn (and holy horseshoes are there a ton of turns), I couldn’t help wondering: Is it really the right thing to do, finish the story and start another one ’stead of rolling the end credits like you’re supposed to? Wasn’t the story of the horse’s rise from nothing to something therapeutic enough for his owner, trainer and jockey? Do we really need to watch the jockey, and the horse (each clipped at the knee) struggle, ascending back to par? Even before he becomes the stepping stone to a lump-in-the-throat (thank you, Mr. Ansen), there is something distractingly hollow about Maguire’s fiestiness, but it’s not really to do with him – the character, as written, occupies roughly half a dimension (though he’s not alone – and it’s the level of talent in the film that eventually makes it bearable in spots).The thrill of the races is exciting – but Seabiscuit seems so much more preoccupied by it’s own, ailing variation on The Hours structure (dear god don’t let this become a trend) wherein three people all have similar experiences (okay, three people and one horse) – - – only to learn from the experiences and each other and so on and so forth until the strings and horns usher us all, eight bucks lighter, into a weepy chorus of tissue puppets. (Oh wait, did I mention William H. Macy’s zany-ass cameo? Bang-up stuff, that).

xx/xy [video]
Directed by Austin Chick
grade: B-

Alright, I’d watch Mark Ruffalo read the dictionary (and at one point in, in desperate search for the definition of “rife”, he does) – but this sloppy moral tale of a bare midriff magazine ad posing as a “relationship study” caters just a bit too much to the audience’s hunger for hot, fantasy sex on film to be anything close to the honesty it seems to believe it has re-discovered. The confrontation on the pier between Ruffalo and his present day girlfriend – Claire (it’s a family name) – is just about the silliest fucking thing I’ve seen on film this year. (Still, hot fantasy sex is hot fantasy sex, after all).

Bend it like Beckham
Directed by Gurinder Chadha
grade: B-

[I don't mean to be the worst reviewer of all time, but from now on, all culture clash films not named Late Marriage are prevented from earning anything higher than a B.]

Charming enough, I suppose – and the lead actresses are both, in their own right, balls of fire – but, please, it’s just hard not to acknowledge that you’re watching the billioneth spin on an already rather rote theme.

Irreversible [video]
Directed by Gaspar Noe
grade: A

Let’s start it off totally wrong here: By now, you’ve heard to-death of Irreversible’s notorious violence (and rightfully so, as I’m sure Noe certainly guards his claim as one of the most sadistic and, uh, brilliant filmmakers of our time – or any time for that matter). Never meant to be a shock-fest merely for its content (or should I say, not merely content to be a shock-fest), instead Noe uses the camerawork and a variety of other audience-pummeling visual snares to create unapologetic extremes of suspense, and of character. He also tells the story backwards, spiraling from degradation to innocence, channeling a purity from the most compelete and utter of tragic inevitabilities. He also deconstructs these characters, showing flaws of their own – and flaws they cannot help – drawing the conclusion that there is no conclusion (time sees everything die in the end is its worldview; the more cerebral version being that of the slender thread we hang our happiness on, often completely unaware that we aren’t really in control). In the process, what emerges is an unmistakably cold, but deft and artful, attack by a director on the viewer’s natural instinct followed by an even more sinister splash of water. Cassel and Bellucci are absolutely terrific in the film (they were married when it was made); They make the casual erupt with such vitality, improvising so well that, at one point, Cassel actually covers a blunder – which is, in itself, a dazzling save. Nonchalance is a strange thing to find in such a calculating motion picture, easily the rudest, most stinging – puzzle, or otherwise – movie I’ve seen. If this one doesn’t garner a physical reaction, check your pulse. (Note: I’ve never seen Salo).

[Also, I really, really, really, really want to watch Irreversible again - but, seriously, I don't ever want to watch Irreversible again.]

Daredevil [video]
Directed by Mark Steven Johnson
grade: D+

Probably not a great idea to watch Spider-Man a night later. If anything, having seen Daredevil only made me appreciate the web slinger’s comic fluff all the more; Mark Steven Johnson removes none of the goopiness from his Simon Birch heavy-hand, giving us a bunch of characters who babble on in soap operatic tones, barely able to navigate through the half-story he’s cooked up. Only Colin Farrell’s performance seems to make a ripple (big shock there, right?), with Michael Clarke Duncan’s Kingpin far too overwrought, Ben Affleck’s Daredevil ridiculously wimpy and Jennifer Garner’s Elektra defined (sorry) by her cleavage. Throw in the homogenized likes of cred-diminishing Joe Pantaliano and Jon Favreau and you’ve got yourself a half-assed attempt at something that really, as ever, would be much less painful if it had used its whole ass.

Old School [video]
Directed by Todd Phillips
grade: B

Powered by hyper-hilarious, improvisatory performances by Vince Vaughn and Will Ferrell, let me just point out that this film is actually even a little bit better than Phillips previous gross-out opus Road Trip, mostly due to the unending thrill we get watching these two idiots’ delivery. And here’s my applause for keeping the fucker under 90 minutes.

The Hunted [video]
Directed by William Friedkin
grade: B-

The chances it takes make it worthwhile – but its sad to be faced with a movie that, if it had gone even further with these chances, could have been something truly special. The clipped, rare dialogue is certainly of great benefit – but everytime an action scene crops up that doesn’t feature knife-happy Del Toro going  mano-a-mano with Jones, the film loses its great charm: The clumsy, strangely paced rumble of Friedkin relishing his actors, as they get into each other’s personal space. Most of it feels oddly abstract – probably because of what is left unstated. Good for it. Whenever it’s divulging its information, it seems to be firing it out as quickly as possible, as not to embarrass itself. If it had been a quiet fever dream of sorts, who knows – it might have even attained the rank of suspenseful. Alright, let’s not start saying shit we can’t exactly take back.)

[By the way, who made Tommy Lee Jones into a 97 year old man? Why did someone steal this confused old man's bus pass? Who was behind the denial of a senior citizen's discount?]
 

Spun [video]
Directed by Jonas Åkerlund
grade: B-

Spun, with it’s 70s-emulatin’, overexposed film stock and folksy soundtrack, is at times sweepingly happy, though it’s never long before being permeated with heavy doses of melancholy (and infinite sadness). It eventually falls on its side, heavy with a vision that purports to – yes, for the thousandeth time – duplicate the mixed up world of drug addicts (this time speed freaks); Instead, Spun seems to be exploiting drug addiction as a means for all sorts of cinematic whirligigs and eye poppers. That it is never boring means that – not in vain – it actually seems to carry on with the attitude that it is somehow proud to be using a social issue as a stepping stone to excite an audience. Liked all the crazy, tripped-out imagery, the scattershot editing, the use of the opening chords of Donovan’s “Hurdy-Gurdy Man” as the film’s theme in two scenes. Like that it turns out to have been based upon three days in the life of its’ creator (who chauffered a Methamphetamine cook around in 1995). Not sure I like how it is flat-out incapable of sustaining a solid tone for more than thirty seconds; It’s scarcely able to fuse the goofy laughs with the emotional baggage its dragging along. You just have to laugh when it begs you to take it seriously – but while it’s in its’ kill-two-birds-and-get-stoned groove, Spun kicks itself into some interesting spots, and makes the past tense of its’ title seem almost foolhardy.

All the Real Girls [video]
Directed by David Gordon Green
grade: A-

More direct in scaring up its honest tidbits, most of them found dropping from characters’ mouths as they philosophize in fits of utterly terrific improvisation; It’s often therapeutic – and uniquely universal in its own little way. Green seems to have tightened his focal point since George Washington, which is both good and (very rarely) bad. Whereas his debut was a circumnavigated homage to Terence Malick’s hazy, tone poem storytelling, All the Real Girls is far more concerned with its characters and how they communicate the emotional tumbles of their existence without the shackles of convention. The film makes marvelous use of its free flowing narrative, itself an exercise in fantastic, vital writing; Green teases information so thoroughly and so vibrantly, he astoundingly makes the film’s off-the-cuff dialogue bouts meld with its cohesive sketches of personality. Paul Schneider and Zooey Deschanel are both rapturous – but so is the rest of the supporting cast – from Schneider’s goofy, hollow headed cronies to Deschanel’s towheaded little brother to Schneider’s mom and uncle to the various supporting players that seem to breath and snarl with the restless aches of small-town life (like George Washington, Green and his cinematographer have no trouble finding the utmost beauty in some of the most dilapidated of vistas; I can’t remember the last time a film evoked the Autumn weather with an earthy radiance so overpowering that I could practically taste it in my nostrils). Sadly, the wondrous dialogue that all appears to have been simultaneously made up and carefully considered for inclusion, sometimes seems to leak out moments of oddly sour sap; Green so deftly handles the huge hurdle he creates for himself in the final thirty minutes, it’s almost hard not to feel a touch cheated by Schneider and Deschanel’s use of lines that feel forever hatched from the wrap-up on any given sitcom (“I can’t even talk to you anymore!” belongs nowhere near a great film like this one – - or does it?) What I’ve neglected to mention is that All the Real Girls has a ton of genuine laughs in it as well. Schneider’s friend Mustache, an over friendly, under mannered dork practically steals at least half a dozen scenes. (Watch the deleted scenes on the DVD – - this ham had a good number of his most gut busting – if entirely superfluous – scenes axed).

He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not [video]
Directed by Laetitia Colombani
grade: B-

Not to get painfully mathematical but, honestly, without a warning one might, quite rightfully in fact, slam one’s thumb into the stop button just about anywhere in the vibrant crayola-thon of this film’s inimitably cute first act. Here’s a tip: Don’t. While the first act appears to wear a sagging label bearing the generic brand of garden variety obsessive love, the film actually turns out to be a terrific bout of filmmaking, a painstakingly mounted exercise in perspective askew and, sadly, a botched whole whose third act becomes the greedy spoil sport of its parts. Observe. Audrey Tatou plays a girl in love with a cardiologist; The part must have read to the actress as an obvious chance to keep her dimple-cheeked adorableness intact while indulging a borderline spoofy dark side. The whole twisted affair is written off to a disorder called erotomania, which I won’t bother describing (you’ll get it – - and if you don’t, there’s a pair of steel rimmed glasses with a psychologist attached to them explaining it over swoony music in the last ten). The most satisfying thing about the film is the way the second act complements the first – even when you know what’s going on, it’s still a joy to watch the film deceive your assumptions. The criticism has been enacted that the film considers the audience to be rife with dimwittedness (else how could we miss clue after clue in that simplistic shake of a first act). What’s really obvious, though, is the way it all wraps up; He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not goes way overboard with itself in the last act, giving the drive back over a severe case of the deeply implausible. If you thought ignoring your instincts was hard when they’re right, wait until you start second guessing their quite valid cry of “yeahrightsure” as the cardiologist has his “Kobayashi” moment.

The Secret Lives of Dentists
Directed by Alan Rudolph
grade: B-

The outright statement of metaphor between care of teeth and care of marriage gets it out of the way. Not having to think about it while you ingest the daily grind of a husband (Campbell Scott, in typically top form) who knows his wife (Hope Davis, also in typically top form) is cheating on him is a plus, (though trying to figure out just why these characters do what they do is impossibly overcomplicated for something so simple and, eventually, so carefully laid out: Scott doesn’t want the “hassle” of divorce). The extended sequence wherein the flu goes through this family of five is probably the least exciting part of the film, but it’s also the only set of moments that seem to flow with the rhythm of actual family life, and therefore prove a point beyond the collection of familiar “marriage” moments (I kept thinking, this movie probably works best for cinephiles who aren’t married either as a deterrent or simply because the only experience they have is with their parents or their friends marriage; This should key you in to which group you belong and, accordingly, how the film may affect you). The Secret Lives of Dentists is a better film when its not making any serious observations but is, instead, merely being funny (Denis Leary’s declaration of “The World’s Greatest Dentist” to a roomful of theater patrons is the film’s high point). Rudolph doesn’t necessarily blow it – the whole thing is proficient at worst – but he never really exceeds the original voice-over’s goal: To prove that, like good dental hygiene, marriage requires constant attention. Is it just me, or am I incapable of accepting a movie that wears its non-epiphany status on its sleeve like Dorothy Parker’s broken heart?

[Am I the only one who thought dressing the fake alter-ego Denis Leary up exactly like Tyler Durden couldn't have been a worse idea?]

The Italian Job
Directed by F. Gary Gray
grade: B

In washing the practically grim taste of The Secret Lives of Dentists out of my mouth, I readily submit that I enjoyed The Italian Job, for the most part, as an escape from the somber weight of that film. On the opposing face of that coin, you have to admire a film that’s practically without a discernable style of its own, but nevertheless manages to stay completely straight-faced as it proceeds to pile the unreal upon the undoable, neatly stacking them among rows and rows of the absolutely impossible. Never, I mean not once during its unfolding, does The Italian Job even consider stopping long enough to examine how intricate it’s not – and how beautifully convenient it is. Edward Norton stomps around, thoroughly annoyed to have been given birth to (and, by all reports, for having to lower himself to do this contractually-bound summer throwaway) and, for once, doesn’t walk away with the film. That alone has to be worth, uh, something.. Everyone on the “team” seems to be having a grand old time – albeit, they’re not exactly larger-than-life. The heist has a simulated overkill feel to it. That pretty much defines the film’s attitude: There isn’t a spontaneous moment to be found, but you can barely see the ground from your supremely over-the-top vantage point. (Oh, and I liked that feeling, by the way.)

[Two notes of interest: Special Oscar goes to: Mark Bridges, who designed the costumes that Charlize Theron wears; Though I don't exactly agree, I like the Imdb's User Comment post on the front page for this film: "Ouch! The Mark Wahlberg's acting is hurting my head!"]

The Shape of Things [video]
Directed by Neil LaBute
grade: B-

LaBute fashioned this film (first a play with the identical cast in London) as an answer to the vile reception that befell his first film, In the Company of Men. And unlike its model, when The Shape of Things is over, you’re not suddenly overcome with disgust or prompted to think really deeply. What it fills you with – besides a great joy that LaBute has re-embraced his inner nihilist – is the sense that an issue like Our Social Preoccupation with Vanity and How The Media Doesn’t Exactly Help Matters is almost too broad and too unconquerable to be pigeonholed into this sly tale of boy-meets-grad-student, grad-student-molds-boy, audience-goes-through-the-motions-of-being-shocked. Don’t get me wrong – LaBute’s is a fine film (not far from filmed theater but fine), and one worth allowing yourself to be provoked by, noteworthy on a far more actor-oriented level than its predecessors, or than its overbearing scheme would suggest – but there’s something untimely about it, something that feels dated in the commentary on pretension among post-college aged kids, something cushioned about its coldness. I’ve said it to far too many people to count, but I stand by it: Paul Rudd deserves the praise. He’s been in the grey zone know as pre-phone book territory far too long (which gets its name from my frequent, orgasmic chant of submission that I (yes, I) would watch said actor rattle off page after page of my local yellow pages if that were the only way to see them perform).  He is hereby upgraded. Rachel Weisz, whom I neglect to mention below in my Confidence review (she’s actually got a presence here, rather than a persona cobbled together with various pieces of various femmes fatale in that film, but I digress), matches him step for step; The film’s central storyline is offset by one that’s slightly more comedic and often, much easier to believe, wherein Gretchen Mol is having second thoughts about her upcoming marriage (the kind of nuptual that could easily save time in skipping the actual ceremony and getting to the ugly divorce already) to Frederick Weller, whose uncanny reaction to a petty sculpture vandalism (standing as an act of artistic freedom or, more accurately, freeing the art) turns into the most vividly uncomfortable scene in a film that is pretty much all about escalating to a wrenching climax. This squabble over the validity in defacing a statue turns ferocious, and speaks volumes more than anything the central focus manages to cook up.

Confidence [video]
Directed by James Foley
grade: C+

I was planning on saddling up my high horse to venture out (into uncharted waters, mind) in search of an ear that could stand a long justification of Edward Burns’ seemingly lone shade of character. I don’t like the guy – but at least he’s not directing. Here, his commanding way, rendered persistent either consciously or by sheer sleepwalking automation is, for my money, right on the money. He never stops professionalizing the con game, barely able to sneak a few breaths in between scamming. Most of the rest of the cast is a blur; Too many c(r)ooks syndrome is in full force. The big deal here would obviously be if one were to consider Dustin Hoffman’s three scenes equal to a character (hint: they’re not), but there’s no cause to fret – dude’s so uncommonly bizarre (even for a guy who seems to be aiming in that general direction with each and every role of late), it’s almost fun to watch what unnecessary, “out there” thing he’ll blather on about next. The con is completely irrelevant as far as I’m concerned, and the film makes that clear from the first moment, when it begins with a thoroughly antiquated voice-over narration explaining what a con is, followed by your standard red herring wherein the hero appears to be precious seconds from being done in, only to make with the long and involved flashback detailing his route to said “done in” point. Certainly not of the fresh quality it obviously fashions itself worth brandishing. Feeling all the threads come together isn’t as satisfying as it should be because it’s entirely based upon two really obvious things. If you haven’t figured them out by the time the film “reveals” them, I feel a deep sense of pity in my heart for me if I should ever have to discuss movies with you ever again.

This is probably one of the best cards to come out of SPx baseball in a long time.  I think many collectors would agree that SPx baseball has fallen off the wagon a bit, but this is one of its better cards.  To this day, this card still sells for over $200.00.  Back in 2003 these were selling for a lot more, but thats understandable because Matsui was new to American baseball.  Being MVP of the ‘09 World Series can’t hurt the demand for these cards either.

Days Away was a five piece progressive rock band based in Langhorne, Pennsylvania, formed in 1998. – from wikipedia

makes sense to listen to this stuff since i like good old war so much.

http://www.mediafire.com/?94emmjxzgnn

http://www.mediafire.com/?afnxdf304mm

http://www.megaupload.com/?d=1W6E2YRS

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DVDRip – WRD

Director: Kazuki Omori
Genre: Action | Comedy
Plot Outline: At the turn of the 20th Century amongst tension between China and Japan, a Japanese swindler in Shanghai plans to profit by selling weapons. He steals arms from the Japanese military and sells them to the rich Chinese.
IMDB url: http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0328500/

ABI | eabolivia.com
La Paz, 12 nov.- El gobierno boliviano consideró una buena señal la decisión de la Corte Federal del Distrito Sur de Florida que falló como procedente una demanda presentada por familiares de las víctimas de la masacre de octubre negro para que el ex presidente Gonzalo Sánchez de Lozada sea juzgado por delitos de lesa humanidad en esa ciudad y abogó por su extradición para que responda en Bolivia por las muertes de la represión que ordenó antes de huir a ese país.

El portavoz presidencial, Iván Canelas, dijo que al gobierno boliviano “le parece bien” esa decisión del juez estadounidense que incluye también al ex ministro de Defensa, Carlos Sánchez Berzaín.

Ambos fueron demandados en ese juzgado por Eloy Rojas Madani y Etelvina Ramos Madani, cuya hija de ocho años murió en el dormitorio de la señora Madani, víctima de un disparo que penetró por la ventana del dormitorio, según el periódico Cambio…. Ver:

Format: Demo
Year: 2003
Label: Self-released
Country: Russia
Genre: Hard’n'Heavy
Official Website

01. Время Ждёт
02. Поделен Мир
03. Прощальный Блюз

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