As usual, I am faced with the prospect of assessing a film which was created long before I was born, and viewed long after it was meant to be. Once upon a time, my powers of observation would have retched at the prospect, but lately they adore it. The beast called Motionus Picturinus has the lifespan of those underwater creatures that thrive in darkness and feed on passing detritus. We get caught in their tentacles by accident and either respond or don’t. We either get eaten, or we don’t. I will not be eaten by most motion pictures. I have been eaten by Lucrezia Borgia. [I have fallen in love with two names from this film: that of the actress and her role: Edwige, a French name, which if said properly may be spoken for centuries in one breath; and Lucrèce, that alluring alteration of Lucrezia into the tongue of a people of rippling words.] When the film begins, one gets the impression almost immediately that the film is different from most films of this era. Aside from its country of origin, it was filmed in 1935, and cinema is still young. Talkies are younger, and the audiences (passive aggressive ...

You need three things for a modern movie: hot chicks, hot edits, and a wimpy white collar male to prove a nietzschean theory. That's all. Stir in a pot of hard rock and cool, and you're finished. Now, I’m not one to complain about male fantasies on film — — okay, I am — — but I can enjoy them as much as the next guy, since I’m pretty sure I’m lucky enough to have fantasized about the precise things that are found in Wanted — — and with much the same cast (James McAvoy excluded: but don’t let that fool you: he’s really good in this movie). The pleasant surprise in this film was its sense of humor and cuddly quirkiness — — all of disappeared about 45 minutes into it when the plot turned on its own surprises and got real mad. This movie proves the old adage that should have been handed down centuries ago: testosterone almost always trumps the hero's sense of humor. Achilles wasn’t funny. Boris the Strong Man wasn’t funny. Rambo wasn’t funny. Most wrestlers aren’t funny. Arnold is funny. But he gets his testosterone from his diet and coy European heritage. Those ...

I don’t know which is worse. Steve Coogan with tears in his eyes or Steve Coogan with an American accent in his mouth. Of all the places he had to start acting all serious, it was this one. Hamlet 2. It seems to want to lambast all the high school achievement movies we’ve been bonked with over the last couple decades, and succeeds for the first two-thirds of the movie — — but then, out of nowhere, it forgets itself. Instead, it wants to show scenes of Hamlet 2 (which in all honesty, should have been the movie: we could have had our generation’s Rocky Horror Picture Show). But no — — this movie wants to feel good at the end — — it wants to triumph, just like our boy — — I’m sorry, but movies don’t have the right to want anything. But I do. I love Steve Coogan, and I watch him because I want to watch Steve Coogan. He’s a product of brilliant self-developing. He’s a product of England. He’s a walking character flaw. He’s the truest asshole on any screen. This movie was a good opportunity for him to try something new. But the ...

Ensemble casts were the toast of Hollywood and The Women typecasts its dozen super-actresses precisely — — which sounds redundant, but it’s not — — nor is this a bad thing, either. I'm inclined to be relieved at typecasting, since less work is required of me from an already non-taxing medium. The Women is film of a play about high-society wives and divorcées (and their frequent oscillations as either one or the other) — — it centers on Mrs. Stephen Haines (Norma Shearer), whose happy marriage quickly plunges into uncertain divorce when her closest friends (Rosalind Russell, among others) lovingly tattle on her husband for being infidelitous with small-society cat Joan Crawford. Midway through the film, Ms. Shearer has left for Reno, promised land of the unwed weaker sex, accompanied by a larger cast of Women with equally poignant wisdoms and follies. In Act III, the docile, broken-hearted Shearer has a chance to be feisty against her nemesis and the audience is treated to verbal cat-fighting and feminine solidarity rarely seen in a good film. Unfortunately, the direction of George Cukor never broke away from the foot-light delivery or diaphanous epiphanies common to stage productions. It also seems very proud ...

She has an erotic fixation with chinese calligraphy written on her naked body — — my god, I need an erotic side — — or an erotic better half — — watching Our Lady of the Inkwell seek out pleasure as a quest is mesmerizing — — such beauty, such need — — I’m pretty convinced anymore that eros needs not only delay, but disaster in order to flourish into an art of the flesh — — Men can learn lessons in seeing themselves in each (or at least one) of the “lovers” she takes who is too consumed with their own need to fuck to see the real thing before their eyes — — beauty isn’t just for wrecking with a quick fuck, it’s for gently consuming in order to be consumed by it, two lovers entwined as snakes, a tail in the mouth, a mouth on the tail, until each dissolves in the other’s belly, satisfying as satisfaction destroys all past, present and future — — ruin this, and the time for revenge comes nigh — — the director, Peter Greenaway, goes even farther as the links between writing, sex, books and death become blurred, each a minor variation on the same ...

Call it a sequel to Mulholland Drive, call it a meditation on grief, call it a haphazard piece of non-linear brutality — — whatever you call it, call it and give it up, because this exhausting film will prick your senses and leave you on edge until you dull the million memes with liquor or blind love. David Lynch makes non-sequiturs feel like colloquialisms and the truth always feels like a wretched sum when in his ken. “A woman in trouble” he says, and we say, “actually, no, she’s a woman in David Lynch trouble.” Which is why we watch him. The world always feels full of fucking bunnies after a David Lynch film. My world is now full of fucking bunnies. Chock full.[caption id="" align="alignright" width="140" caption="Inland Empire, directed by David Lynch"][/caption]

Ah, puberty. Here’s some advice: when in war, and you’re being occupied, try not to come of age, especially if you think the bad guys might win. You will be scarred or seriously maimed. Or, if you're lucky, just plain dead. Which would be nice. Coming of age is tough enough when the enemy is just another boy. Also, if you just have to come of age in horrible circumstances, don't dwell on fairy tales — — their outlook is grim and their love is vacuous. The girl in this movie didn’t follow my advice at all, and what great fun we’ve had as a result. She not only dwells on fairy tales, but in them, and her hope gets all entangled in pretty little fictions that hurt her skin. The movie becomes a fairy tale out of deference to her wishes and like all good fairytales, the film is not for the weak of heart. Its brutality is softened only by our precious girl, but not very much. Luckily, it seduces you into wonder while simultaneously shaving the back of your neck.[caption id="" align="alignright" width="140" caption="Pan's Labyrinth, directed by Guillermo Del Toro"][/caption]

The masculine ego untamed by conscience needs both a friendly playground populated with willing young women and a good bludgeoning to keep its hands off my sister. This was a surprisingly good film given the synopsis, relentlessly detailing the curse on Woman that leaves her always longing for her husband, even when he’s in the next room ignoring her. Luckily for the accursèd sex, Alfie's typical brushing off eventually wears on his body — — strike one for the egoist. This is as near a film comes to being about Narcissism as we're going to get, but stops just short — — Michael Caine smoothly makes mortality seem like a real threat in a role that Oscar Wilde would have at least admired, even if he would have hated the dialogue.

Narrative is a dangerous river and a movie shouldn’t risk it’s life it if it’s unwilling to go all the way — — and I don’t say that to be trite with metaphor — — no, I know better than that — — trifle with metaphor and you’ll find yourself ready for a tropic ass reaming — — So many things are left unsaid in this film, so much praise for our hero is left unsung, that I feel like the narrative beat the filmmakers and good for them for submitting to it — — the film suffers not the least, the viewer suffers something awful — — great acting, great editing, and a fantastic grave-sized dread — — [caption id="" align="alignright" width="140" caption="Deliverance, with Burt Reynolds and Jon Voight"][/caption]

There is a curious parallel in this film — — Marilyn Monroe is to men’s eyes as Rachmaninoff's Piano Concerto No. 2 in C Minor is to women’s sensitive parts (whatever those are): the victim gets all shivery and quivery and goose-pimply and it left open to darker things. In The Seven Year Itch, Rachmaninoff was soon replaced with chopsticks but Monroe is never replaced for men. This is the film in which she shines — — not because of the dialogue (or the monologues, which almost make it resemble an unfunny version of Hamlet), but because of her being — — she is the naive, vacuous objet de sex-art we've all come to fantasize about but never get to see in action. The pathetic Everyman who falls for her while his wife is away for the summer does well to feel paranoid, since her seeming innocence is all a man needs to be ensnared. While the film would have been more interesting had an affair actually taken place (my one complaint: guilt for real mistakes is funnier than paranoia for perceived ones), the film isn't too bad. But it's not that good, either. Nor is it the best example ...

Few movies before the 1970s present themselves with more discomfort to the 21st century eye than ones with an Elizabethan setting. The silent era pulled them off gracefully — — not so the rest. Full of garish colors and lots of "acting", they clang about with the ardor of a grown child’s playtime, gracelessly dressed by the imagination of an adult who thinks he's being artistic or imaginative. Even Olivier wasn't 100% successful (good morning, sunny Richard III). But films with this handicap still deserve a chance — —I gave this a chance — — Bette Davis and Errol Flynn play at royal love, and it isn't a pretty sight. The queen is old and vindictive — — the Earl of Essex is spoiled. But the second half of the film is fascinating: their selfish behaviour is crowing blood, both from the heart and the body. The actors kill the faux-Shakespearian air with a smothering sensibility. It isn't the best film of its type, but it shows that even an Elizabethan film from old Hollywood should be given a chance. You might feel like you watched something great. You didn't.[caption id="" align="alignright" width="140" caption="The Private Lives of Elizabeth and ...

An entertaining film that showcases the grand spectacles of the Follies while at the same time counterpointing them with delightful, subtle performances, particularly by French actress Luise Rainer---watch her eyes and how they lead her every corporal movement---it is the birth of line in physical movement, which I would love to see employed just once by an actress today, since there is an untapped erotic appeal in this motion---the only other film in which I’ve seen this technique is Double Suicide, but for very different purposes. Ziegfeld himself, played by the great William Powell, is dapper and brilliant, an unbeatable entertainer with a wholesome love for pretty girls. The set pieces will make your jaw drop---you’ll wish that theatre on this scale was still alive.[caption id="" align="alignright" width="140" caption="The Great Ziegfield, starring Willaim Powell"][/caption]

Lethargic yet stimulating (rainy yet warm) Antonioni film about a mod British photographer who believes he's inadvertently photographed a murder — — He never would have seen it had he not obsessively blown up his print, which would have left us with a film much like other Antonioni films — — in fact, this movie is jumping all over the place with the more energy than I've ever seen from Antonioni — — and it's in English — — his sense of humor gets to run around the yard for a bit too: of particular charm is the ennui-laden rock concert, the only overt indication that the world has changed at all from the day this movie hit the streets — — About as unlike from other Antonionies (La Notte, L'Avventura, Red Desert) as my heart is from a stone.[caption id="" align="alignright" width="140" caption="Blow-Up, directed by Michelangelo Antonioni"][/caption]

[caption id="" align="alignright" width="140" caption="New Rose Hotel, directed by Abel Ferrara, starring Christopher Walken and Willem Dafoe"][/caption]Sometimes you watch a film for its actors, sometimes for its style, and even sometimes for its compelling story — — you watch this film for the first two — — Christopher Walken and Willem Dafoe do what they do and Daria Argento does her thing even better and more deliciously — — This tale of big-time corporate crime and seduction operates on a level of quiet that is in paradoxical contrast to the bombast of Walken’s lead — — Machiavelli might have been proud for the first half, but would have disapproved of the weakness and blindness at the end of the story (which was drawn out for 20 minutes longer than necessary, emphasizing the same weakness to which Machiavelli himself was prone). Tales of big business crime can go either way, and this one goes the best way — — straight to hell.

Not quite as dead-on as other films in its genre, but a much better character study than you'll ever find in most — — which genre, you ask? Why, the Stuck In the Circles of Time's Hell genre, of course... The haunting-ish score gets the job done when the leads and story need a pathos-laden boost to their pathos-lacking lives, but it's the supporting performances of the family members that make the film stick. A good film for the self-conscious teenager or misunderstood artist or lonely churchgoer who doesn’t think god gives a shit: in short, the sensitives of the world