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Christopher Null founded Filmcritic.com in 1995.
Here's a documentation of ownership that says it all. Bertrand Morane (Charles Denner, upon whom the obscure is partly/sort of based) loves women, and he'll jeopardize elan vital and limb lawful to flourish a look at a woman's shins. This semi-classic François Truffaut blear is small more than a series of 'relationships' of Bertrand's, as seen in flashback from his funeral and from stem to stern the lyricism of his autobiography. The queer thing isn't just how desperate Bertrand is — he's also kind of friendly and falsely irresistable. The ending is classic: From his annihilation bed, he reaches for the nurse, only to retire to his underlying demise. It's a quirky film more, articulately, not quite love, and not truly relationships, but what passed for them in 1970s France.
Aka
L'Homme qui aimait les femmes
.
A splendid opening during the credits, with Lester displaying his dazzling skills in perfectly timed slapstick, sets the tone for the most irreverent of the series so far. Here our superhero undergoes a psychotic cancellation and turns into a right sleazo as he comes up against a megalomaniac tycoon (Vaughn in fine form) who is using computer wizard Pryor as an accomplice in his attempts to take over the world and put an end to Superman. Unfortunately the pacy temperament of the opening half lief dwindles to a weak climax, and Pryor hams shamelessly, yet again proving that he’s best in serious parts or as a stance-up gyves. Enjoyable, regardless.
Anyone who saw “South Park: Bigger, Longer and Uncut” knows that Trey Parker and Matt Stone revel in milking every ounce out of an “R” rating, as well as bludgeoning jokes into the base. It’s no surprise, then, that “Team America: Men Police” goes the adventitious mile to piss at leisure everybody — which includes gleefully destroying famed Hollywood liberals, really and figuratively. All told, the inventive visual bits and merry songs don’t wholly offset during the divers reclining or beyond-for-the-topmost spells. Still, in an vote edible ripe for spoof, pic could tender a Old hat to youthful cynics staggering to rakish one on its pungency.
The MPAA has certainly done its part to help market the film: The tussle to avoid an “NC-17″ rating for sex involving genitalia-free puppets generated plenty of publicity. The truth is it’s hard to imagine the debated scene being much more acrobatic than it is, but that won’t prevent the unrated DVD from being a hot commodity.
Always fond of toppling sacred cows, Parker and Stone score big points for the sheer audacity of tackling the war on terror using two-foot-tall puppets that resemble the marionettes on “Thunderbirds” — and they manage to spoof the conventions of Bruckheimer-produced action yarns in the process.
Still, the challenge of mixing political satire with being as lewd and crude as possible represents a balancing act that the duo has never fully mastered. In “South Park,” they create enough genuinely funny moments to obscure (especially for a core audience that appreciates immaturity) creative deficiencies and a commitment to excess that’s more apparent here.
“Team America” certainly opens well, as the elite terrorism-fighting unit housed in Mt. Rushmore goes after a gang of bad guys in Paris, destroying global landmarks with an appalling lack of concern. The face-off includes a riotous martial arts fight where the puppets (whose strings are always visible) bounce around a lot but never really strike each other.
With one of their number lost in that operation, the group recruits an actor named Gary (currently starring in “Lease: The Musical”) to infiltrate the terrorist organization. At the same time, however, this move unsettles relationships on the team.
Blood and Bone movie best quality
Meanwhile, North Korean dictator Kim Jong Il (like Gary voiced by Parker, in a manner that won’t win many friends among Asian-American groups) plots his own diabolical scheme. His quest for global domination hinges on manipulating the Film Actors Guild (an acronym that’s funny, maybe, the first three times, but not the next three dozen) to lobby for peace, with Alec Baldwin, Tim Robbins and Martin Sheen among those not-so-gently lampooned.
Clearly, Parker and Stone (who wrote the script with Pam Brady, another “South Park” producer) have soaked in the action genre, yet much of their parody hews so closely to the real thing that the pic goes relatively long stretches without laughs.
Periodically, the songs come to the rescue. As in the “South Park” feature, the songs deliver the movie’s biggest highlights. Atop the song list sits the stirring, embarrassingly catchy anthem “America, F**k Yeah,” which repeats in much the way the theme of the old “He-Man” animated series was trotted out each time the protagonist underwent his superheroic metamorphosis.
Inasmuch as they occasionally speak through “South Park’s” Cartman character, whose memorable phrases include “Democrats piss me off,” it shouldn’t come as a shock that the left fares a bit worse than the right here, though a climactic speech skewers both. And while seeing Michael Moore obliterated doubtless will amuse more than just the filmmaker’s harshest detractors, it’s reasonable to ask how many stars (or marionette imitations of them) have to be torn asunder before the audience gets the point.
At a more fundamental level, “Team America” is a true technical achievement, recreating a dizzying array of sets and costumes at one-third scale and clearly having plenty of fun doing so — down to using housecats as stand-ins for terrifying panthers.
In a sense, Parker and Stone’s latest foray unwittingly provides the perfect metaphor for their work: While there are moments to like, they invariably come with strings attached.
A genuinely collaborative movie, aiming to parcel out with the body politic of the West German nation in the months between the Schleyer kidnapping and the Baader-Meinhof deaths in Stammheim Slammer. The result centres on paranoia rather than on terrorism as such. Fassbinder brings the issues squarely back current in, showing himself arguing with his maw and taking out his aggressions on his recent boyfriend Armin. At its best, the cover argues that it’s ridiculous to have a ‘coherent’ left wing position on terrorism.
Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz
Fred Coe (“Me, Natalie”) nearly completely destroys this topical
urban comedy with his mechanical direction; it’s given some new life in
the cutting room by editor Ralph Rosenblum, but not enough to save it from
its smugness, flat visuals and staginess. The patchy nonconformist comedy
is based on the Broadway play by Herb Gardner, that also starred Jason
Robards.
The carefree comical Manhattanite Murray Burns (Jason Robards) quit
his job five months ago as head writer on the children’s TV show Chuckles
the Chipmunk and has been unemployed since, choosing not to enter the rat
race again. The bachelor Murray, who for the last seven years has been
caring for his sister’s born out of wedlock brainy twelve year old son
Nick (Barry Gordon), whom he has never legally adopted after the child
was dumped on his doorsteps, has bonded with the kid in a warm way. Nick
attends a special school for the gifted, and his curiosity is encouraged
by his lively uncle.
Not answering letters sent by the New York City Child Welfare Board
prompts a home visit one day from the officious social worker case team
of the psychologist Dr. Sandra Markowitz (Barbara Harris) and senior case
worker Albert Amundson (William Daniels). The team has a differing opinion
on Murray as a caretaker–Albert takes a negative view of Murray as a parent
and walks out in disgust when Sandy disagrees and continues the visit alone.
It culminates in Sandy and Murray falling in love, and Albert getting Murray
declared an unfit parent. Murray, under the urging of Nick, asks his responsible
brother Arnold (Martin Balsam), a theater agent, for a job. When Murray
can’t get work, he decides to swallow his pride to see his former boss,
Leo (Gene Saks), who plays Chuckles the Chipmunk. Leo is patronizing to
Murray and treats Nick with contempt, but Murray still takes the job in
order to keep Nick. The kid feels rotten that his lovable uncle compromised
his principles and urges him not to take the job. It ends on the defeatist
note of Murray joining the work force and rushing off to work with the
crowds of people he recently mocked. The film’s message is that compromise
is sometimes necessary on the way to maturity. At least, Robard’s exuberant
performance helps keep the flavor of the play intact.
A series of vignettes, made with actors and musicians (some of whom are well known) who answer at a provender in only café or another, smoke cigarettes over coffee, and talk about nothing in particular as we do. The conversations sometimes blurred on the union itself, other times on distant subjects and occasionally on the badness that smoking does to salubrity. And now, it’s all far the nature of fame itself.
Jim the “perv” and Michelle the “nympho” from past “Pies” must been going together for three years and Jim thinks it’s piercing time to ally together in unholy wedlock. The lovebirds (Jason Biggs and Alyson Hannigan) cannot risk the crass and crazy Stifler (Seann William Scott) spoiling their big day and so decide not to invite him. And Jim’s Dad (Eugene Levy) is still giving well-meaning but clueless advice to his son and future daughter -in-law. When Michelle’s amazing blonde sister Cadence (January Jones) breezes in and takes an immediate flicker to the supercilious Finch (Eddie Kaye Thomas), Stifler decides that he’s got to be the chameleon fake to be proper warm-hearted to woo her away from Finch and worm his way to the wedding.
The Terminal: Comedy-drama. Starring Tom Hanks, Stanley Tucci and
Catherine Zeta-Jones. Directed by Steven Spielberg. (PG-13. 130 minutes. At
Bay Area theaters.)
I’m not in love with “The Terminal,” but I liked every minute in it.
Other films are like empty containers; this one’s full. It’s full of invention,
full of moments, full of business, full of the nuances of human interaction,
full of feeling. Perhaps it takes a picture about confinement to fully
demonstrate how much Spielberg has always been about the journey, not the
destination. With mediocre filmmakers, the whole movie is contained in the
climax. With great filmmakers, the whole movie is happening every second.
Tom Hanks gets his best role in several years as Viktor, a visitor from a
small Eastern European nation who arrives at New York’s JFK airport only to
find out that his passport is invalid, following a sudden coup in his country.
He can’t go home, but without a valid passport he can’t enter the United
States, either. To make matters worse, he doesn’t understand English, so when
his plight is explained to him, he can only nod. He’s set loose in the
international airport to improvise a life for himself.
Descriptions of “The Terminal” have made it sound gimmicky. What needs to
be realized is that despite an undertone of whimsicality and the subtle comedy
of Hanks’ playing, Viktor’s situation carries significant emotional weight.
Certainly anyone who has ever been to a foreign country without knowing the
language can immediately sympathize with Viktor’s self-consciousness and near-
panic every time he has to ask anyone for anything. (Likewise, Viktor’s wild-
eyed freak-out at seeing his country in flames on CNN without being able to
understand the newscast brought me right back to my 2001 vacation, finding out
about Sept. 11 on Italian television.) It’s a feeling of complete dislocation
and vulnerability.
Yet gradually he gets the hang of it. Think of “The Terminal” as a less
somber, less unintentionally ridiculous and more visually stimulating version
of Robert Zemeckis’ “Cast Away,” with Hanks once again figuring out how to
eat, where to sleep and how to amuse himself in an inhospitable environment.
Along with Spielberg, screenwriters Jeff Nathanson, Sacha Gervasi and Andrew
Niccol somehow found a way to create a sense of forward motion, through what
easily could have seemed like a succession of disparate incidents. The
audience is even able to believe in and track the progress of Viktor’s English-
language immersion.
Viktor meets a lot of people. Most significantly, he meets a flight
attendant, played by Catherine Zeta-Jones, who takes an interest in Viktor,
whom she assumes to be another frequent traveler. As played by Jones, who is
even more beautiful than usual here, the flight attendant is like the female
fantasy from countless 1970s films — a warm, neurotic, available, troubled
woman who, above all, is unaccountably attracted to the humble hero. The
romance is appealing, but it also exists on the movie’s fault line, the one
between truth and fable.
It’s a strange thing to realize: Spielberg never adequately accounts for
why Viktor must stay in that airport for months. Instead, he uses his
cinematic fairy dust to make us stop asking the question. As you may have read,
there’s a fellow in France who has lived in de Gaulle airport for 15 years.
In his case, he just refuses to leave. Spielberg eschews that possibility —
that would make Viktor a little nutty.
Instead he puts the blame on the authorities, represented in this case by
Stanley Tucci, as the frazzled head of airport security. But Spielberg won’t
go too far with that, either, because he wants to keep everybody within the
realm of cuddly.
It’s something of a problem that Spielberg is uninterested in an honest
examination of the very situation he presents. He’s not interested in why a
guy would live in an airport. Nor is he interested in why another guy would
force a guy to live in an airport.
You know what Spielberg is interested in? He’s interested in making “E.T.
” all over again, because E.T. is precisely what Viktor turns into — a wise,
kind, benevolent alien who eventually has to go home, but in the meantime is
all about sharing the love.
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Well, so what? “E.T.” was a good picture, too.
Anyway, someone’s got to make Spielberg movies, and it might as well be
Spielberg.
– Advisory: Some mild ribald humor.
E-mail Mick LaSalle at mlasalle@sfchronicle.com.
Tamahori promised a harder, sexier Bond for Brosnan’s fourth outing, and in the pre-credit string at least, his glaze looks as if it capability disencumber. Rumbled when an operation at the North Korean base of inseparable Colonel Moon goes awry, Ties is thrown in gaol, beaten up and tortured for 14 months, the passing of time denoted by copious plaits growth. Thereafter, ‘Bond 20′ softens into playful, self-consciously flagrant pastiche, utter with a issue of gags at the expense of previous films. The plat is the usual post-Moore geo-political blather. But what makes this the beat Bond in years is the surefootedness of Brosnan’s accomplishment, as well as Tamahori’s fanboy insistence on covering all bases. Good things: spiky, resourceful Connection girls Apprehensiveness (Berry) and Miranda Frost (Pike); the icy lair of base hat Gustav Graves (Stephens); the gratuitous exotic locations; and John Cleese, whose sharp-tongued Q makes the film probably the funniest Treaty since Moore hung up his eyebrows. Problems: uncertain pacing means it ends three-quarters through, with the last 20 minutes feeling same a postscript; Bond’s invisible motor vehicle (a gadget too far); ticklish CGI chore on too many of the engagement sequences; and Madonna’s remote-controlled cameo.