by Todd Gilchrist
Rating: 2 out of 5 stars

Having spent time on the set of A Nightmare on Elm Street speaking with producers Brad Fuller and Andrew Form, the guys at Platinum Dunes who successfully spearheaded relaunches of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre, The Amityville Horror and Friday the 13th franchises, I respect and even agree with the logic that these characters are merely more contemporary versions of Dracula, the Wolf Man and Frankenstein, and therefore equally susceptible to being reinvented or revived for new audiences. I also believe that short of a producer or studio obliterating every known copy or representation of an existing character, the new version of him or it needn’t be considered a replacement for a previous one.

But that’s also logic that producers should themselves heed when contemplating a remake of one of these iconic figures, because their efforts may indeed never earn a legitimate place among the existing mythology of a series or character. In which case they should probably go in with the best of intentions and out with the least of expectations, because A Nightmare on Elm Street is no blasphemous reinvention of either Freddy or the film series. Rather, it’s a relatively pedestrian remake of the original movie that adds precisely the wrong elements to make Freddy a more fearsome monster, but in so doing offers little intrigue – much less satisfaction – to fans old or new that might otherwise drive them to demand more installments in the future.

Of the many ideas screenwriters Wesley Strick and Eric Heisserer throw kitchen-sink style into this utterly conventional remake, the only relatively new one is the concept of “micronaps,” the supposed term for a person’s inability to differentiate between dreams and reality, thereby making them especially susceptible to extremely loud jump scares. My concerns that the filmmakers would use this “scientific” explanation to justify the movie’s narrative cop-outs were well-founded: no sooner are they defined than the characters immediately shuffle through random “real” scenarios only to find themselves at Freddy’s mercy, then waking up to discover, it was all a dream! Or was it?

Meanwhile, it’s that line between reality and fantasy where director Samuel Bayer clearly focused his considerable talents as a visual stylist. Best known for helming Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” music video, he’s a virtuoso with imagery, and maximizes even the familiar rhythms of kills he recreates from the ’84 Nightmare that have since become horror staples: Kris’ death echoes Tina’s ceiling crawl, but adds a juicy shot of invisible claws carving up her chest; and later, when Nancy races through multiple worlds in order to get back to the waking one, her body explodes, immaculate and pristine, from a tidepool of blood that’s gurgling upside down. It’s these flourishes which occasionally rouse the film from being otherwise methodical and generic, and show that with time and maturity, Bayer could possibly craft something more substantive.

But, of course, in the meantime, Bayer is decidedly not capable of elevating the emotional content of the film along with the visual, and fails to present any of its ideas interestingly. The most promising story change from the original is that Freddy may or may not be a child molester rather than a child killer, and it’s that may or may not uncertainty that gives the film a dramatic urgency as these kids race to figure out how their parents, or even they themselves, may have invoked Freddy’s rage and exposed themselves to his (forgive the pun) nightmarish reign of terror.

But the way the film answers that, and moreover, the very fact that it does, eliminates what could have been a fascinating and potentially promising (meaning sequels, of course) new beginning for the character. One you tell people who somebody is and what he did, there’s not a lot of room for exploration – unless, as the directors and screenwriters of the sequels already did, Bayer and co. reboot or redefine Freddy’s mythology over and over again.

Jackie Earle Haley as Freddy

Then there’s Jackie Earle Haley as Freddy, who does his best but is stymied by make-up that feels more accurate for a burn victim but scarcely works at conveying the character’s casual malevolence. (It certainly doesn’t help that his upper lip seems entirely immobile, and although there are holes and gashes and all sorts of authentic little details, the majority of the face is almost completely inexpressive.)

Ultimately, this film’s worst offense is that it makes Freddy too dark and yet somehow too uninteresting to warrant further exploration of his universe, which literally is bound only by the limits of what its creators can dream up. That said, I’m not sure I have the energy to get too angry at the film, because it’s mostly mediocre rather than outright “bad,” and I never cared much for the series to begin with. But compared to Friday the 13th, which satisfyingly fulfilled the demands of the series’ mythology by placing attractive, scantily-clad teens in harm’s way and letting nature take its course, A Nightmare on Elm Street exploits the stylistic hallmarks of its predecessors but woefully neglects the narrative ones.

This film perfunctorily provides a scary story about a burned-up guy in a red and green sweater who kills people in their dreams, but can’t decide whether it’s paying homage to the series’ mythology, reimagining it, or simply adding another chapter to it. In short, it’s a Nightmare just like the ones we’ve seen before, which is probably why it feels more tiresome than terrifying.

by Todd Gilchrist
Rating: 4 out of 5 stars
It speaks to the general disposability of action movies that I am unable to immediately remember more than a handful released in the last decade. Ironically, I feel as if I’ve seen all of them, and yet, The Rundown time and again is my go-to choice for one of the best, thanks to its effortless condensation of ‘80s buddy movie tropes, contemporary action set-pieces, and of course the indefatigable charisma of Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson. And it was this film I immediately recalled when I sat down to watch The Losers, which, although cowritten by The Rundown’s director Peter Berg, is by no means the same movie. Rather, it takes the charm and energy and fun of Berg’s film and reboots it in a new context, creating a lighthearted adventure that counts as some of the most fun you’re likely to have at the movies this weekend – if not all year.

The film stars Jeffrey Dean Morgan (Watchmen) as Clay, the leader of a group of government operatives who already call themselves the Losers even before they are betrayed by a CIA superior named Max (Jason Patric) and forced to destroy their real identities. Roque (Idris Elba) and Cougar (Oscar Jaenada) are reasonably happy living on the lam, but Jensen (Chris Evans) and Pooch (Columbus Short)left family behind, so when a mysterious woman named Aisha (Zoe Saldana) offers them a chance to get revenge on Max and reclaim their lives, the group jumps at the chance. Unfortunately, the group soon discovers that Aisha has plans of her own, and has recruited them to help her in addition to themselves, ultimately pitting the Losers against relentless government forces – potentially turning them against each other – as the authorities close in on them.

The truth is that ensemble movies usually seem to really be about one or two stars surrounded by a bunch of supporting players. Not so in The Losers, where Evans and Short steal virtually every scene in which either of them appears, and Elba proves to be a formidable counterpart to both Morgan’s perceived leadership and Saldana’s commanding intelligence, not to mention sensuality. What’s more remarkable is that the film doesn’t simply give each character a scene of their own – a single-serving showcase of a particular actor’s talent; rather, the script by Jamie Vanderbilt gives all of them something to do at once, and then director Sylvain White effortlessly combines the various personalities on screen in order to create the most effective – be it dramatic or purely entertaining – combination of fun and suspense.

Meanwhile, as Max, Jason Patric has never been this loose, fun, or commanding as he is her, channeling Warren Beatty as he turns an empty stare into a terrifying showcase for his character’s jet-black heart. And again, it’s Vanderbilt’s script which provides so much of the raw material, and the actors’ individual contributions which strengthen the impact of everyone’s performances. But Sylvain White’s direction is what really brings these different elements together and creates something truly enjoyable. The director’s previous film was the criminally-underrated dance movie Stomp the Yard, and like with that film, he finds the visual and thematic flourishes that are often buried in such conventional storytelling formulas and fleshes them out into substantive explorations of, well, if not necessarily political or intellectual ideas, then at the very least more emotionally meaningful conflicts.

Ultimately, to say that The Losers succeeds at being entertaining without necessarily trying to be more isn’t damning the film with faint praise, it’s a statement of fact. As White continues to find his footing directorially, this is the perfect vehicle for him to expand the distinctive visual style he’s brought to his previous work, while introducing different elements of storytelling and character development that he hasn’t tackled before. For audiences, meanwhile, it’s not a frivolous, but it is featherweight, and a hell of a lot of fun. In which case, The Losers may or not become one of the few films that you remember when recalling your favorite action films, but if any of the above sounds like the type of movie you would typically enjoy, it’s worth running down at least once.

by Todd Gilchrist

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

There are certain movies that demand discussion and analysis, and others that simply are what they are. Date Night falls into the latter category: a lighthearted comedy about a New Jersey married couple whose night on the town turns into a race for their lives, there’s precious little that needs to be deconstructed once you know director Shawn Levy (A Night at the Museum, Cheaper By the Dozen) is behind the cameras, and Steve Carell and Tina Fey are in front of them. Thankfully, however, that absence of conversation also means that you’re likely to embrace the film if you like even two out of three of those component parts, and it’s why Date Night is a competent and engaging little comedy that delivers on its premise without demanding more from the audience than their enjoyment.

Not just ideally cast but magically compatible as man and wife, Carell and Fey bring real humor to the roles of Phil and Clare Foster, a couple desperately trying to maintain romance in their relationship despite the demands of work and family. After a neighboring couple announces their divorce, Phil and Clare decide to add a little spice to date night and steal the reservation of absentee diners at a posh new Manhattan restaurant. Unfortunately, they take the names of some folks who apparently are in possession of some contraband materials, and soon find themselves on the run from corrupt cops (Jimmi Simpson and Common) who were sent to retrieve them at the behest of a cutthroat mobster (Ray Liotta).

Tina Fey, Steve Carell and Mark Wahlberg in "Date Night"

With few options available and the cops closing in, Phil and Clare look for help from one of Clare’s clients, a charming, capable and shirt-deficient security expert (Mark Wahlberg), who not only offers them some unexpected assistance but helps them rekindle the excitement and romance of their marriage.

At a svelte 88 minutes, the film has not an ounce of fat on it, although an extended car chase threatens to test the tensile strength of the film’s otherwise tautly-rendered action. But otherwise Carell and Fey make the most of the material: both are obviously comfortable in the kind of observational, off-the-cuff humor that has come to define comedy in the era of Judd Apatow’s ensemble films, but even without a particularly expansive group of personalities off of which to react, Fey and Carell manage to provide terrific punch lines without indulging in scenery-chewing stardom. That Levy also keep the scenes cut down to their simplest and most effective only further helps the brevity and brilliance of their wit, elevating what could have been a tedious action-comedy into something slightly more enchanting.

Needless to say there are good date movies and bad date movies, and this one happens to be a good one because it’s frivolous and fun and but actually offers a few deeper truths about relationships. Meanwhile, Fey continues to emerge as a performer with more talents than even she seems to recognize, which may be part of her charm, while Carell offers a grounded, sincere turn that also allows him to play big without losing believability. Overall, Date Night is an undemanding movie, but it’s a perfectly good undemanding movie, which is why when you don’t discuss it, you won’t mind: when people talk about turning off their brains and just being entertained for a few hours, unlike so many stupid or insubstantial others, this is the sort of film they truly hope to see.

by Jason Dean

The hypocrisy hounds smelled blood when word began to spread last year about “Leaves in the Wind,” the 156-acre, five-dwelling development in the Sweetwater Mesa area of the Malibu hills proposed by U2 guitarist The Edge. People salivated over the suggestion that the very band that propped itself up as a paragon of social responsibility would allow one of its own destroy the ecological balance of a cozy, coastal enclave.

As rancor built among neighbors and the California Coastal Commission debated aspects of the project, LA Times columnist Steve Lopez added to the cause-célèbre quotient when he launched a couple screeds impugning the integrity of the plan. The informational website that offered extensive details on the project was “slick,” scoffed Lopez, and the PR firm handling media inquiries were “lobbying/marketing people.” But what of the actual substance of the plans and the people who created them? Project Designer Wallace Cunningham and Landscaper Pamela Burton have built world-class reputations as sustainable building professionals. All necessary permits have been granted; there’s no rule bending or circumventing going on here. Thus far, Edge (David Evans when necessary) has stayed out of the fray, his statement on the Leaves in the Wind website being his only public comment on the matter. But he did take the time to provide some thoughtful responses to questions I e-mailed to him in mid-February.

First off, I wanted to know, did he expect that local opposition would be so passionate, and has it gotten him to reconsider any aspects of the project? “I went into the project determined to set a benchmark for architectural design in the Santa Monica Mountains, and for the project and to be exemplary in every aspect. Therefore, any legitimate criticism has been welcomed,” wrote Edge. “I believed that if I could communicate my intentions that I would win people over…. I believe that most of the local opposition is softening as understanding of our blended, sustainable approach deepens. However, there is a small group of locals who are very vocal and simply want to stop all development of any kind. We are not expecting them to change their no-growth opinion.”

Therein lies the crux of the issue. Build anything new in Malibu—on public or private land—and you’re committing a sacrilege, according to a few. I ask Edge what he thinks about this. “There is a new development of houses in a similar setting to our own that recently received permits just to the east of our land, so construction is not particularly unusual,” he wrote. “An important thing to realize is that because this land has pre-existing entitlements for five, individual, salable homes, it will be built upon at some point by somebody. From looking around at all of the inorganic, unsustainable homes in the area, the question for this land is not whether it is built upon, but what will be built,” he continued.  “We have the opportunity now to do it right.”

Edge and business partner Derek Quinlan bought the Sweetwater Mesa acreage in 2006 for $9 million. Of the 156 acres that make up the five land parcels, the plan calls for each home to sit on roughly a quarter acre, with a total of 1.15 acres being utilized for the development. Originally looking for just a single-family home in the area, Edge said when he saw a brochure for the property, he realized there was vast potential to create a pocket of “sustainable, organically blended homes” that would “collectively complement the landscape” of an area that he has developed strong connections to over the years. (Not exactly a recent invader, Edge has lived in Malibu for the past decade.)

I wanted to know how Edge came to choose Burton and Cunningham as the design team, and he obliged with a thorough explanation. After initial discussions with MIT Boston professors of architecture John Fernandez and Andrew Scott to “tease out the design philosophy,” Burton’s company was chosen because of her extensive work with native plants. Edge was attracted to Cunningham’s “organic architecture based on the design theories of Frank Lloyd Wright.” Edge and his wife, Morleigh, met extensively with Cunningham, visiting other homes he had designed, meeting at the local Starbucks in Malibu, and, finally, walking the site and discussing their shared goal of building on the land while respecting it.

“What I loved about his work,” wrote Edge about Cunningham, “was that each home was totally different and site-specific. They felt in harmony with the landscape. Seeing how Wally has painstakingly studied each square foot of the Sweetwater Mesa landscape…has been very inspiring. He got to know the land so well that he gave each natural rock outcrop a name.”

Cunningham, a gentle man with an easy laugh, understands people are upset, but he believes their anger is misdirected. “When I drive [Pacific Coast Highway] in Malibu, I’m disgusted,” he tells me. “The architecture’s ugly, everything’s paved, and those people who are complaining, did it all. They built ugly houses in gray colors, no rainwater systems, no solar…they have exotic, non-native landscapes, and they’re complaining.” Cunningham’s building plans integrate with the land, using non-objective shapes for the houses. “We didn’t use right angles,” he says. “We use shapes…and colors that [look like] the mountains.” I ask Cunningham what he makes of the protests, and he empathizes for a fleeting moment. “Everybody means well. It’s a beautiful piece of property. I’m sure they all wish they would have put money together and bought it years ago. But they didn’t.” Still, Cunningham believes when all is said and done, and the vision for Leaves in the Wind becomes reality, the opposition will be won over.

I ask Cunningham about the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy’s claim that the project would bring with it “unavoidable significant adverse visual and ecological impacts,” according to a recent letter. “The Mountain Conservancy, it’s their job to say [they] don’t want anything [built].” Cunningham has already repositioned and redesigned the houses based on recommendations from the California Coastal Commission. “We took a year’s worth of work and threw it in the trash and started from scratch, and I redesigned [the houses] with their wishes in mind.”

Critics also have leveled claims that because a new water line will have to be constructed, other builders inevitably would be drawn to the area to tap into it as well. Edge was ready with an answer. “The extension of the existing water line will have very little potential for other builders to draw from it,” he replied. “The alignment was carefully designed to predominately follow already built and disturbed land. The two or three un-built parcels that conceivably could be served by the water line extension are growth-limited by difficult-to-build terrain, rather than water supply.” Clearly, this rock musician has become geologically enlightened through this whole process.

Stephen Billings, senior project manager at Pamela Burton and Company, elaborated on the process of integrating with the sensitive landscape. “We’re working with a native plant expert to help propagate plants….We want to plant small, for good root structure, have temporary irrigation for a year, then it’s survival of the fittest after that.” Billings mentioned that sophisticated drip irrigation systems that can communicate with weather satellites will be used within 100 feet of the homes to maximize efficient water use on a permanent basis. “We’re trying to reduce ecological impact by creating patches and networks of [native] plant materials,” he added. “We’re looking at how to go into this landscape and create new planting that blends in; we don’t want to create a green scar.”

I ask if there are plans to eventually widen the road or if any adjustments have been made to anticipate increased traffic. “There’s not going to be a lot of parking; they’re not going to be having big parties,” he assured me. Fair enough. But there is one final straw to grab at that even the most ardent dissenter probably had not considered. Surely, Edge’s home will be equipped with some ridiculously extravagant, state-of-the-art, recording facility that will by chance emit high frequencies causing all the furry critters in the area to turn rabid and attack the good people of Malibu in the town below. Then these meddling green builders will finally see the error of their ways. Your move, Edge. “Actually, the house will have no built-in technology. It’s going to be our family home, maybe a place for me to study, but hopefully not a work place.” No further questions, your honor.

Before Morleigh introduced him to the beauty of the Santa Monica Mountains years ago, Edge explained, “I had only ever seen L.A. from the perspective of a visiting touring musician, which was the basically the West Hollywood and Beverly Hills area. When I discovered the raw beauty of the mountains I was totally blown away. I felt I was seeing the real L.A. for the first time. From then on I have always stayed down near the coast.”

Cunningham offers a final rejoinder to those who would like to give Leaves in the Wind the proverbial rake. “We could be looking at more Taco Bells up there. We could be looking at a southern Tuscan villa,” he said. “In this case, we have something that I believe is American architecture. I like American architecture, from Thomas Jefferson to now. And I think American architecture is very different from other architecture in the world. And there is a tradition. I feel connected to John Lautner, to Frank Lloyd Wright, Schindler, Neutra—all of the gang…. Would I set out to destroy a beautiful place? I hope that’s not what people think of
my work.”

by Todd Gilchrist
Rating: 2 out of 5 stars

Although I steadfastly don’t believe in writing reviews as some sort of consumer service, the most important thing I have to say about Clash of the Titans is do not see the film in 3-D. Part of the motivation for my plea, admittedly, is to save you the extra money 3-D presentation costs; but mainly it’s because the film was not originally shot in 3-D, and it looks absolutely terrible retrofitted after the fact in 3-D. All of which is why plain-old two dimensions is more than satisfying presentation format if you’re at all interested in Clash of the Titans’ otherwise perfectly uninspiring, generic-blockbuster thrills.

Sam Worthington, a serviceable actor who still hasn’t carried any movie distinctively enough to deserve A-list stardom, plays Perseus, the bastard son of Zeus (Liam Neeson) who is raised by a hardscrabble mortal fisherman named Spyros (Pete Posthlewaite). When Hades (Ralph Fiennes) more or less inadvertently murders Spyros, Perseus vows revenge, and is granted an unexpected opportunity to carry it out when he is recruited to kill the Kraken, a monstrous beast that threatens to destroy Argos, the epicenter of mortal civilization.

Embarking on a perilous voyage that pits him against giant scorpions, supernatural gorgons, and the deformed minions of deranged gods, Perseus comes into conflict with mankind’s creators, in the process discovering what it truly means to be human.

As a former fan of the original (I loved the ’81 Clash as a kid but was bored by it as an adult), I don’t have much loyalty to the source material, but director Louis Leterrier updates it in only the most perfunctory, unsurprising ways: double the special effects, quadruple the action and half the story. Other than Perseus’ occasional rancor about being born from the loins of a God, the new Clash is a remarkably dispassionate affair, jogging uninspired from one set piece to the next, and culminating in a climactic battle that unfolds exactly as you might expect.

Sam Worthington in Clash of the Titans

That the poster and TV ads spoil the excitement of discovering his (literal) biggest foe, the Kraken, is a testament to the film’s play-it-down-the-middle appeal, but there’s not one hair out of place on this hero’s journey from start to finish, and that quickly becomes tiresome even if you just want something to accompany your latest purchase of overpriced popcorn.

But then again, there are those who will duly be satisfied by such averageness, such pedestrian obviousness, which is why everything has been sanded smooth and welded together into such a seamlessly conventional whole. (Still doesn’t explain why an actor as good as Ralph Fiennes appears to be playing his character as if he’s doing an impression of Rob Zombie re-enacting Richard Harris’ performance from Gladiator, though.)

Regardless whether your hopes were for a riveting, fantasy-filled two hours at the theater or just something to superficially pass the time until the frivolity of summer, however, there is no doubt that Clash of the Titans was originally a film made in 2-D, and it looks best in 2-D. Because if the filmmakers aren’t going to bother with creating three-dimensional characters on the page, there’s no point in watching them try to fake it on screen – especially since the ones in Clash of the Titans have all of the depth of a pop-up book.

by Jason Dean

The 82nd Annual Academy Awards’ build-up toward the crowning of Best Director and Best Picture was a see-saw battle for momentum between Team Cameron and Team Bigelow. Best Cinematography and Best Soundtrack showdowns for the two visually arresting—but very different—films set the tone as the dueling exes traded reaction shots throughout the evening. But when the dust settled, Kathryn Bigelow became the first female director to win an Oscar and The Hurt Locker (six wins, including best picture) stomped all over Hollywood’s biggest ego and the most lucrative movie ever made.

Director Kathryn Bigelow and presenter Barbara Streisand onstage

It was not James Cameron’s night. He never got any closer to the stage than his third-row seat allowed, and he was forced to grin and endure Ben Stiller’s deliciously dry blue-face parody as presenter for Best Make Up (for which Avatar was not even nominated). As Awards Season 2010 heated up, it became apparent that Avatar’s bloated technical reputation could outstrip its Oscar legitimacy. It could be that the gritty, Iraq War reality of The Hurt Locker speaks directly to our collective world-weary psyche, more so than a breathtaking, sparkly fantasy land. Or, The Academy is just plain sick of ol’ JC’s smug mug.

Starting in 2009, Best Actor and Actress nominees were introduced by their peers rather than shown in a clip from their nominated performance. Luckily, there were no moments like last year, when Adrien Brody was reduced to reciting Best Actor nom Richard Jenkins’ IMDB page, sounding suspiciously like the kid who forgot to do his homework and made some half-assed attempt to complete it five minutes before class started. Michelle Pfeiffer gave a moving introduction to Jeff Bridges in which she praised his moral character and commitment to his family and his craft. When Bridges won for his performance as a grizzled country singer in Crazy Heart, he basked in the moment with a humble appreciation that felt entirely authentic.

Sandra Bullock’s Best Actress win for The Blind Side gives the proven box office star an “Erin Brockovich” stamp of credibility.  Bullock was classy, elegant, and eloquent, though she seemed stunned to hear her name spoken, as would anyone who’s up for an award against Meryl Streep. Mo’Nique’s chilling portrayal of an evil and abusive mother in Precious rightfully earned her a Best Supporting Actress nod, and Christoph Waltz’s Best Supporting Actor win gave Inglorious Basterds its lone moment in the winner’s circle.

Co-hosts Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin during the 82nd Annual Academy Awards

As for the broadcast, the Martin/Baldwin co-host arrangement seemed ill-conceived; Steve Martin’s already hosted the show on his own. Hugh Jackman was snarked upon at last year’s Oscars for having the audacity to entertain as emcee; by comparison, this year’s cocktail banter between Steve and Alec didn’t inspire. There was a touching tribute to late filmmaker John Hughes, which was followed by a puzzling retrospective of horror movie scenes. We saw an interpretive dance number intended to represent each of the 10 Best Picture nominees. But once again, there were no musical performances from the Best Song category. James Taylor was on hand to perform The Beatles “In My Life” acoustically for the In Memoriam montage, which added a poignant touch to the annual feature that remembers those in the industry who have died in the past year.

Now that the 2010 broadcast is history, the Academy can get to work tinkering and reinventing itself for 2011. A few suggestions: One host is enough, one song is not enough, and James Cameron a safe distance away from a microphone is just right.

by Todd Gilchrist

A few years ago I would have described Tim Burton and Alice in Wonderland as a perfect pairing of director and material; even without intimate familiarity with the source material, his pedigree as a purveyor of mainstream fantasy is largely unrivaled, and there’s no doubt his visual sense could reinvigorate (if not fully reimagine) Lewis Carroll’s book for contemporary audiences. But Burton, champion of the outsider and documentarian of the underdog, somehow became a Hollywood fixture – a hit-making machine, except when he seemed to follow his heart, as he did with the beautiful box office failure Big Fish.

Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter

As a result, his efforts to stay outside of the industry’s comfort zone have felt like they’re as provocative or peculiar as the sale rack as Hot Topic; he’s tackled one conventional “weird” project after another, and with few exceptions, they’ve all failed to surpass their source material, or even show why he’s a good choice to adapt or reinvent them, except for the automatic opening-weekend returns. Sadly, Alice follows in this disappointing trend, revealing Burton at his most automatically, reliably counterculture, creating a new story out of Carroll’s mythmaking that fails to inspire interest, perhaps except as a rote exercise in mainstream weirdness.

Mia Wasikowska in Tim Burton's Alice in Wonderland

Luminous newcomer Mia Wasikowska plays Alice, who gets stuck in an unrecognizable Wonderland after tumbling down a rabbit hole while escaping a would-be suitor and a life of boredom and complacency. Soon enough, she happens upon Carroll’s cavalcade of weirdos, including the March Hare (Michael Sheen), the Cheshire Cat (Stephen Fry), Tweedles Dee and Dum (Matt Lucas), and of course, the Mad Hatter (Johnny Depp), who is shellshocked from a combination of personal trauma and sniffing too much hat glue. But when she discovers she’s a key player in a turf war between the Red Queen (Helena Bonham Carter) and the White Queen (Anne Hathaway), Alice muscles up to help her new comrades, in the process discovering a sense of direction for her life as well.

Admittedly I’m not familiar with either of the Carroll books (Alice and Through the Looking Glass) from which Burton took his inspiration, but screenwriter Linda Woolverton effectively turned them into a sort of condensed Lord of the Rings-style travelogue odyssey, a quest where Alice learns life lessons after slaying foes both physical and metaphorical. While this certainly isn’t an inherently bad thing, Burton fails to provide any reason why we should care about what happens, since Alice reminds us at every turn that it’s a dream, and there don’t seem to be any real stakes even if it wasn’t.

Helena Bonham Carter as the Red Queen

Furthermore, there’s a leaden sort of melodrama that accompanies much of the character development (the Mad Hatter’s past, etc.) and eliminates the fun and excitement of just being goofy and weird and having a frothy adventure. That said, such exuberance is at least hinted at in the performance of Carter as the Red Queen, who’s introduced to us interrogating her (literal) toadies and then turns to mouth-frothing grandstanding as she tries to keep her head while chopping of virtually everyone else’s. But Depp’s turn as the Hatter falls into scenery-chewing territory early and never returns, and with the exception of Fry’s seductively charming Cheshire Cat and Hathaway’s prissy, exasperatedly serene White Queen, the cast adds little new to the existing landscape of these characters on screen.

But this is Burton’s show, and even though he appears to be indulging every impulse he knows to create a compelling Wonderland, there’s just nothing in it to truly inspire or arouse interest. Even the film’s 3-D feels flat and dim, lending what should be a breathtaking fantasy world a melancholy, joyless air. And that’s really the difference between Burton the purveyor of spectacle and the former filmmaker who toiled meticulously making heroes out of oddballs: there’s no exuberance, either on screen or seemingly behind the camera, in rendering a universe where the least likely person in it becomes its biggest hero. As such, Alice isn’t truly terrible, but spectacularly underwhelming, and may ultimately leave you questioning where the ‘wonder’ is in Wonderland.

Rating: 1.5 out of 5 stars  1 1/2 out of 5 Stars

by Christina Ochoa Lopez

It is T minus 3 days for entertainment’s most talked about ceremony, and we all have our favorite nominees. Coming to mind are the controversial ex-spouses James Cameron and Katherine Bigelow–both heading the “Best Movie” and “Best Director” categories–sure to ruffle some feathers when the award is given, not to mention an immediate reaction shot of the losing party at the moment of the announcement.  To start off this countdown, and in anticipation of the hopefully memorable 2010 Oscar ceremony, we look back at the shocking and bizarre unexpected moments of the past…

Although the Academy Awards have been around since 1929, its only since 1952 Hollywood’s biggest night has been televised. Before that, they were  broadcast on radio, and not always the complete ceremony. Hell, before 1940, the results weren’t even in a sealed envelope. They would be printed in the next day’s newspapers. But its a good thing they televise them now, because otherwise they would rob us of great and shocking moments; from a puffed-up Sean Penn defending Jude Law to joking host Chris Rock—a moment that made Spicoli fans everywhere wonder where his sense of humor had gone. Or how about host Jerry Lewis, who had twenty minutes to kill in 1958 when the show ran early and tried to tell some jokes. In 2003, Adrien Brody gave presenter Halle Berry a long, passionate kiss after his unexpected Best Actor victory over Jack Nicholson and Daniel Day-Lewis. “I bet they didn’t tell you that was in the gift bag,” he then told a stunned Berry.

So here’s a look back at a couple of past moments that are both famous or just plain bizarre:

Jack Palance does one-armed push-ups.

Veteran character actor and perennial villain Jack Palance picked up an Oscar for spoofing his bad guy image in 1991’s “City Slickers.” While he probably deserved one for the legendary western “Shane” or little-known film noir “The Big Knife,” Palance proved that, at 72 years old, nobody was tougher. After receiving his statue, he got down on the floor of the auditorium and did one several armed push-ups. His “City Slickers” co-star (and Oscar host) Billy Crystal used Palance as fodder for his jokes all evening, giving the audience updates on the virile old man’s after-show activities: “Jack Palance has just bungee-jumped off the Hollywood sign.”

Jolie in love with her brother?

Maybe one of the most shocking moments starred a newly awarded Angelina Jolie in 1999 for her role of Lisa in “Girl, Interrupted.” A stunned and smiling Jolie stood on stage and professed her not only shock over the win but the fact that she was madly in love with her own brother. Apparently in a candid moment just before her acceptance, Angelina’s brother, James-Haven, held his sister close to him and professed his love for her as well with a then-deemed very inappropriate kiss. The result: an unclear and shocking remark that lead to unending tabloid rumors as to the exact nature of the siblings’ relationship still talked about in interviews today.

Crawford evens the score.

Joan Crawford was a notoriously competitive movie queen (ever seen “Mommie Dearest”?) whose real-life animosity for co-star Bette Davis came through in the campy psychological thriller “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?” In 1963, when Davis was nominated for Best Actress for the film and not her, Crawford wrote each of the other nominees and offered to accept the award if they were not able to attend. Sure enough, Anne Bancroft won the statue that night and wasn’t able to be there, so Crawford slithered up to the stage to bask in the glory while Davis sat in her seat and gave her the evil eye.

Brando refuses award.

The most puzzling event of any Oscar telecast was occurred in 1973 when Marlon Brando won his inevitable Best Actor award for “The Godfather.” He sent a woman who claimed her name was Sacheen Littlefeather onstage, dressed in traditional Native American garb, to refuse his award. Why? “Marlon Brando very regretfully cannot accept this very generous award … the reason for this being the treatment of American Indians today by the film industry, excuse me, and on television in movie re-runs, and also the recent happenings at Wounded Knee.” Huh? It turns out Littlefeather was really a struggling B-movie actress of largely Mexican descent named Maria Cruz. The speech caused Clint Eastwood to joke that night whether the Best Picture award should be accepted “on behalf of all the cowboys shot in John Ford westerns over the years.” Seven months later Cruz appeared, sans costume, in Playboy.

by Todd Gilchrist

The thing about zombie movies is that I really don’t care at all why people become zombies. That is the least important and, at a certain point, least interesting part of the plot of any movie featuring undead, deeply sick, ravenous, violent monsters. However, the fact that The Crazies tries to come up with that explanation – half-assed as it is – seems to be a concession to the non-horror audiences that director Breck Eisner hopes he will be drawing into theaters when the film opens this weekend. (Although technically speaking, the assailants in The Crazies are not full-fledged zombies but insane living persons, many audiences will be hard-pressed to tell the difference once they start oozing unhealthy looking fluids and shrieking with homicidal rage.)

A definite mainstream thriller that masquerades as a remake of a cult classic, The Crazies is remarkably effective as scary populist entertainment but may not make an impact with genre fanboys and girls.

Joe Anderson, Timothy Olyphant, Radha Mitchell and Danielle Panabaker

Timothy Olyphant (The Perfect Getaway) plays David Dutton, an Iowa sheriff who stumbles across a military cover-up after townspeople start to act unpredictable and violent towards one another. Enlisting his wife Judy (Radha Mitchell), a deputy named Russell (Joe Anderson) and Judy’s receptionist Becca (Danielle Panabaker), David escapes a military camp for the infected and heads out of town, hoping to get away from trigger-happy soldiers and ravenous, homicidal monsters alike, encountering both en route to supposed freedom.

Although Eisner claims to be a real genre fan, his first film was the more generously-budgeted Sahara, and it’s the crowd-pleaser in him that seems to steer this material away from its truly dark impulses towards something scary but more conventionally suspenseful. That actually isn’t a bad thing: set pieces play out more entertainingly by focusing on the characters’ emotions rather than their entrails, and the movie as a whole moves with an efficiency and fluidity that makes you enjoy even its most clichéd moments. Eisner’s ability to hone in on the immediate on screen threat and distract viewers from the real one is a gift, and even if all of the material isn’t up to the same level of sophistication, he makes most of it work, with a craftsman’s sense of style.

Unfortunately, Mitchell mismanages her character’s terror, and later, trauma, focusing the audience’s ire on her bad decisions (seriously? It doesn’t occur to her not to drink water after she determines it’s dangerous to do so?). But movies always need a good bad guy, that character we love to hate, and the movie is chock-full of ones that we can genuinely get behind, and get into being scared by their bad behavior, that her transgressions are relatively forgivable. Ultimately, The Crazies isn’t a masterpiece, but it seems bound for crossover success because it maintains a level of intensity and gore without grossing audiences out. All of which means that much like zombies themselves, it works better with less analysis or explanation, since all you want in a movie like this is to be scared, and in that capacity it does that just fine.

Rating: 3.5 out of 5 stars

by Todd Gilchrist

After spending almost two decades giving Kevin Smith the benefit of the doubt, it’s hard to refute the seemingly obvious truth that he just isn’t a good director. Not only is he not much of a visual stylist, he doesn’t have any flair for storytelling, and almost none of his films have any real dramatic momentum. That said, he occasionally has a gift for good dialogue, when he isn’t making mud pies out of poop jokes and pop culture references.

Bruce Willis and Director Kevin Smith

His new film, Cop Out, is not well made. It’s not well directed or written. It does, however, star Tracy Morgan, an actor whose on screen persona and off screen personality seem uncomfortably similar, which makes his manic, unpredictable behavior seem weird, and occasionally wonderful. Also, it features Bruce Willis, who’s done both good and bad cop roles so many times he could sleepwalk through another one, much like it looks like he’s doing here. But Smith’s latest is in fact his best in a while, because it abandons the pretense of personal vision in favor of superficial fun, paying homage to ‘80s buddy cop movies and every other kind of movie without being much of one itself. Which is fine, but the biggest point is to not look too closely, because what works about it is so much simpler than what people seem
to think doesn’t.

First of all, I have colleagues who actively hate this movie. Fair enough. But there are others who were confused by it, and that just confused me. After a recent press screening, they asked in earnest if Smith meant to make the score sound like a “bad ‘80s cop movie score” (their words, not mine). Okay, maybe they don’t know that Harold Faltermeyer is the guy who did the music for Fletch, Beverly Hills Cop and Top Gun among many other ‘80s movies. But honestly, has any movie Smith made before been deserving of any level of deeper introspection? Rife with subtext? No. We’re not talking about Paul Thomas Anderson here, whose Magnolia was lampooned in Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back. It should be safe to assume that Smith did indeed mean to make the film sound like an ‘80s cop movie. In my opinion, a good one.

Tracy Morgan and Bruce Willis in Cop Out

As for what it’s actually about, it has something to do with two doofus cops played by Morgan and Willis on the trail of a Mexican gang leader who got his hands on Willis’ character’s prized baseball card. Amazingly, the film wasn’t actually written by Smith, although you can bet that its myriad movie references were funneled into the scenes by the director’s indefatigable film knowledge. What wasn’t funneled into any part of the film, however, was energy. Even the slightest momentum to carry viewers from one scene to the next would have sufficed. Admittedly, I was in complete stitches during the scene where Tracy Morgan’s character discusses his bowel movements in minute detail while he and Willis are staking out a house, but part of what was funny was the fact that it just kept going – no breaks, no purpose, just pure Morgan madness.

Seann William Scott and Tracy Morgan

Although the very idea of Morgan repeatedly mispronouncing a character’s name manages to evoke laughter, not the least of which because it seems as likely that he actually couldn’t pronounce it as him doing so on purpose, he’s not the only bright spot in the film. Seann William Scott, a real charmer with a career that hasn’t done him a lot of favors since his Stifler days (although The Rundown is classic), manages to steal every scene in which he appears, and not just because he plays a thief. But Smith doesn’t seem to know what to do with the character, which is why when something weird happens to him towards the end of the movie, we’re not sure whether or not to laugh.

But then again, that’s Smith’s problem in general: he comes up with good characters, and occasionally, interesting scenarios, but doesn’t know what to do with them, and especially can’t tie them together. All of which makes Cop Out a successful movie, even if it isn’t a good one: because it’s superficial, it satisfies the demands of being entertaining, and doesn’t bother with the business of emotional depth or even particularly effective storytelling. Plus, he picked Harold Faltermeyer for his score, and anyone who can convince a studio to let them hire a guy whose last recognizable credit was Tango & Cash deserves the benefit of the doubt for at least a little bit longer.

Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars