Reviews

The makers of `Seabiscuit' were advantaged with a great story and a great cast, yet failed to find the magic that ought to have arisen from this film.

A movie about a horse, or any animal, suffers the handicap of its main character being unable to deliver dialogue (unless it's Mister Ed), but the writers have woven this story into the fabric of the Great Depression, and of the human lives that were adversely affected. Despite a great start, however, the characterization dries up after about an hour, and the film devolves into exactly what the producers and director should have been trying desperately to avoid, namely, showing us a bunch of people watching a horse race.

`Seabiscuit' is about twenty to thirty minutes too long. Part of the problem is that there are two climaxes, and far too much time is spent dramatizing the first, which is actually the least important because it strays from the film's main theme, uttered both by Jeff Bridges' and Chris Cooper's characters: (paraphrasing) `You don't throw away a life just because it's a little bit broken.' At least five to ten minutes can easily be cut there.

The racing sequences could also be pared down by eliminating some of those close-ups of the main characters. These also weaken those scenes by taking the audience's attention away from the horse.

I'd also like to see a little bit less of some of the characters, especially William H. Macy's `Tick Tock McGlaughlin' (Who provides needed comic relief, to a point) and Elizabeth Banks' `Marcela Howard,' not that I found fault with Ms. Banks' performance. A romantic triangle involving her character and those of Mr. Bridges' and Tobey Maguire's is intimated, but never developed. This is another distraction that director Gary Ross should have eliminated.

And why did they bother casting an actor to play young `Red Pollard'? Tobey Maguire looks young enough to pass for fifteen, given proper lighting, so the presence of the other actor, who looks nothing like Mr. Maguire, added an element of confusion.

Chris Cooper gives a fine performance as `Tom Smith,' Seabiscuit's trainer. When the subject is horses, he gives one the confidence that he knows exactly what he's talking about. I enjoyed his low-key handling of the role, and he elevated his energy in a timely fashion.

The remainder of the cast performed with wonderful restraint. Given this sort of movie, where the horse is the focal point, I think it's pretty hard to qualify for an acting Oscar because the roles simply aren't juicy enough. It must be a sore temptation to burst out and show audiences what you can do, but this group of actors held the line very well.

Real-life jockey Gary Stevens, as `George Woolf', gave a likeable performance, but I'd also have preferred seeing a little bit less of him; nothing to do with his acting, more with the pacing of the film.

The story of Seabiscuit is an amazing sports legend (some of the audience actually cheered when the hero won a race), but `Seabiscuit' doesn't get to the finish line ahead of the competition. The film editing crew certainly won't have to worry about who to thank at the Oscar presentations next year, but at least the director left us with a classic closing shot, of Seabiscuit seeing the finish line with no other horses in front of him, as the screen fades to black.

`Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl' tries hard to be a Monty Python-esque farce, and also aspires towards the fantasy and horror element, but winds up falling flat, probably because it tries too hard, and ends up somewhere in between.

There is actually quite a bit to like about this film (provided you manage to stay awake), the story, for one. The problem here is that the sound is so poorly mixed that it's often difficult to understand the dialogue, so that only near the end does the plot become clear. As a result, quite a bit of suspense is lost. This would have fared better as a silent film with subtitles (They're going to love it in France).

Geoffrey Rush, as `Captain Barbossa' stands out in a cast that includes both Johnny Depp and Jonathan Pryce. He alone, among the three "name" actors in the cast, seems to be completely comfortable in his character's skin. He was able to traipse the none-too-fine line (under Gore Verbinski's direction) between satire and drama that both Depp and Pryce seemed at a loss to navigate.

I am a great Johnny Depp fan, but as much as I've admired his work in every single film in which he's appeared (especially `Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas'), I have to conclude from this effort that he's simply not the swashbuckling type. As much as it pains me to say, `Pirates...' would have fared better with an overblown ham like Tom Cruise than an artist like Johnny Depp. I could see Cruise (assuming that Verbinski could properly direct him) standing on the deck of a sinking vessel, striking a GQ pose, and uttering some daft speech in a way that would better conform to the spirit of the movie. Depp, on the other hand, appears almost groveling whenever he delivers a comic line. As a measure of how comfortable he was in the shoes of `Jack Sparrow', one only has to observe his ghastly eye makeup and beaded strands of beard.

Pryce made a valiant effort (considering the direction), but the best he could achieve was a mad scramble to keep his character real, and ended up only looking winded, like a marathon runner who'd been going in the wrong direction.

I liked the acting of Orlando Bloom, Keira Knightley, and Jack Davenport. Bloom came off as a pragmatically chivalrous hero, and played the action, dramatic and comic scenes with equal dash and enthusiasm. He actually brought out the best from Depp, especially in the sword-fight sequence in the blacksmith's barn. Knightley is a dark-eyed beauty who gave us a wonderfully not-so-helpless damsel in distress, played with vigor and intelligence. Davenport, as the commodore and swain of Knightley's `Elizabeth Swann', stayed fully within his character, with an uneasy frumpiness that accurately depicted the paradox of a youthful man given great responsibility. He would have been a perfect foil if only someone could have come up with a well-timed punch line.

Despite its high points, this is not a film I'd find easy to recommend. The promotional excerpts are better than the final product, and promise far more, especially from Johnny Depp, than is actually delivered. I saw `Pirates...' with my wife, and she summed up her impressions concisely with a single letter, oft-repeated:

Z-z-z-z-z-z-z...

A lot of movies strive to strike a balance between entertainment and morality. "Blow" is a parable about the dangers of drug abuse from the real-life story of a narcotic trafficker who was just too nice a guy to get involved in such a dirty business. At the same time it is an engaging film with a believable and well-told story. Johnny Depp, who has built his career playing the anti-hero, stars as George Jung. Depp's performance weaves the viewer in and out of the highs and lows, the rewards and the risks, of George Jung's chosen path in life. He is one of my favorite actors, especially for his portrayal of Hunter S. Thompson, a well-known anti-hero, in the film version of Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas." I always find myself rooting for Depp's characters, even though they almost always lose in the end. And as much as we like George Jung as Depp portrays him, we know that he will lose. The last vision from the film is a photograph of the real-life George Jung, looking as if he was already dead, doomed to prison until the year 2015. No caption was necessary. "This is your mind on drugs." Ray Liotta basically plays Henry Hill's father from "Goodfellas," in a supporting role. This film is not particularly uplifting and the ending is very depressing. Still, I think it makes its point very powerfully, and for that reason, I rated it an eight.

"The Mummy Returns" seems so intent on avoiding boredom that it goes in the other direction and simply crushes the viewer with action and detail. I think the movie also operates on the premise that the audience is stupid. Almost all of the important scenes to come are set up by someone opening with "It is written ... " so that we know how the heroes are going to slip the noose even before the danger presents itself. At least the writers saw how overdone the dialogue was getting and gave John Hannah the line, "Where is it written?" But I think the movie is too long and that it could have benefitted from rewriting and editing more than from cute cover-ups. I am impressed by Arnold Vosloo, the South African actor who portrays Im-Ho-Tep. He has a strong screen presence. I think that since the writers created an even more super-duper villain in the Scorpion King that Im-Ho-Tep might have evolved into a good guy at the end, as occurred in "The Terminator" series. That opportunity is even presented, but slavishly passed over in favor of an incredulous, three-way fight scene at the end. This movie is hokey, littered with too much glitter and written by formula. It reminds me of those commercials where people "stop trying" but still expect to be paid. If anyone has to see this, at least wait until it comes on cable so you can tape it. Then you can pause the tape for bathroom breaks. Some of the external reviews were more entertaining than the movie itself.

I went to see this movie because of Sean Connery, and I was not disappointed. Connery's greatest attribute as an actor is magnetism. Whatever the role, Connery fills the screen like few others. He has a knack for magnifying the strengths of the characters he plays so that we, the audience, instantly believe in him, not as the everyday man, but as the hero that each of us aspires to be. The indestructible secret agent, James Bond, was not a challenge for Connery; perhaps that is one of the reasons why he eventually chose to abandon the role. William Forrester is a flawed hero. A gifted writer who recluses himself from the world, Forrester is a fearful man. James Bond would probably not have much patience with him. But with a pen in his hand or sitting behind a typewriter, Connery transforms Forrester into a man of strength and purpose. The wall into Forrester's little kingdom is literally broken down by an inner city youth named Jamal. Jamal is a young man of great contradictions. He has talents both for basketball and for writing; sort of like Magic Johnson and Ernest Hemingway together inside one body. His writing ability, however, is liable to be wasted but for his serendipitous introduction to Forrester and the unlikely friendship that blossoms thereafter. Newcomer Rob Brown, as Jamal, meshes with Connery on screen. He has his own particular magnetism which is never dwarfed by Connery's. His performance as Jamal is mostly understated, but never obsequious. He plays the young man as quiet, but confident, although with a certain degree of fatalism. After all, he's black and he lives in the Bronx projects. What chance does he really have to fulfill his enormous potential? "Finding Forrester" is a movie about soaring above the restrictions of one's environment. Director Gus Van Sant's opening montage introduces that theme, as we soar above the tenement buildings, streets and asphalt playgrounds of Jamal's neighborhood, getting a bird's-eye view of the surroundings; a favorite device of Alfred Hitchcock. Illustrative of the struggles facing both Jamal and Forrester, the camera comes to rest on Jamal, so closely that the pores on his skin can almost be counted, and at that moment we realize that we are no longer riding on the back of a bird, but on that of a fly. A second theme is that of the prodigy, a young person blessed with the skills of a virtuoso, previously addressed in "Searching For Bobby Fischer," and in "Amadeus," the deservedly acclaimed saga of the composer Mozart. F. Murray Abraham co-stars as Professor Crawford, who is very much a character styled after Salieri, the part for which Abraham won his Best Actor Oscar in "Amadeus." For Sean Connery fans this film is another in a long line of "must-sees." Aspiring writers may even find it inspiring.

I wonder if the makers of "What Women Want" are asking their audience or are presuming to tell them what the fairer sex desires. The movie begins promisingly as a modern screwball comedy with Mel Gibson playing Cary Grant. Here's a guy who an average dude would figure knew all the answers, but when he actually gets the info firsthand, thanks to an electrical conduit to the Twilight Zone, he doesn't know exactly what to do with it. But here's a guy who thinks fast and talks faster so eventually he's able to take advantage of his "gift." One problem with this movie is that it tries to get too politically correct in the sense that Mel/Cary gets spread too thin, not only as the hunk every babe craves, but also as a father becoming newly acquainted with his responsibility as a parent. This is wonderful family counseling, but it makes for anemic cinema. This provides the demarcation between what could have been an okay screwball misadventure into a romantic "chick flick." Not that there's anything necessarily wrong with that, except that in this case the film changes gears with an audible "clunk" that will get most guys to sniffing for a smoking transmission and most gals for the nearest pit stop. I like Gibson's comedic presence very much and I think the first part of the film came off very well. There were some moments of genuine, side-splitting levity, especially when Gibson experimented with some women's products in the supposed privacy of his home. Then that other part of the film started. One other problem is the lack of chemistry between Gibson and Helen Hunt. Gibson gives and gives during their scenes together, but Hunt somehow finds it difficult to take. We never do figure out exactly what it is that women want, but on second thought, maybe we're just better off not knowing.

Was he God? Or was he Satan? Whoever Dustin Hoffman's character was supposed to be, he saved "The Messenger" from a cliche ending. Joan's agony of faith as her execution neared became the most interesting part of the film thanks to the shadowy personage who visits her in her dungeon. The games-playing in these scenes, which Hoffman and Milla Jovavich enact so well, makes them prime material for student actors. Then there is the portrayal of the opposite voices of Joan's conscience ... God and Satan ... that few actors could have carried off so powerfully as Dustin Hoffman. These scenes are truly memorable. Much of the rest of the film is confusing. I had a hard time understanding who were the French and who were the English in those battle scenes. There was a nightmarish quality to the depiction of Joan's visions, which conforms to the film maker's image of Joan as a possibly demented young woman. From what is known or suspected about the historical Joan of Arc, I think the producers and the director of "The Messenger" have presented us with no more or less true a Joan than can be expected from events that occurred 570 years ago. They are within their prerogative to make her the "Mad Maid of Orleans" if they choose and at that they have been successful. At the finish, however, as Joan is burning at the stake, they relent somewhat by flashing the Cross as, ostensibly, the last thing that Joan sees on this Earth. Does this establish that Dustin Hoffman's character is God after all, or is the Cross simply one more freakish image thrown at a dying and tortured mind?

"Final Destination" is fast-paced and definitely not boring, but these are the best comments I can make about the picture. I didn't think it was scary because I didn't care about the characters. Yes, it was shocking at times, thanks to decent special effects, but the plot feels manufactured to the point that each new accident began to seem more humorous than tragic. The ending is artificial. It's hard to say anything about the acting because the scripting is so one-dimensional. All in all, I'd say that the young cast did about as well as they could with the material they were given.

It's difficult to distance "Jackie Brown" from the earlier works of director Quentin Tarantino. Compared to "Pulp Fiction" and "Reservoir Dogs" it falls down at least a couple of pegs. Tarantino's characters usually live in the criminal fringe of society, but most can evoke some sympathy from an audience. This was not true of "Jackie Brown" at least not for me. In the title role, Pam Grier gives us very little outside of attitude ... she might be in trouble, but she's not taking anyone's guff ... and I didn't feel that was enough. I don't think you can base a quality film on someone whose only obvious attribute is that she can vamp through an airport like Tina Turner (who, by the way, would have been a better fit for the character). Robert Forster, as the bail bondsman, gave an excellent performance. He validated Grier's character by subtly playing off her affected sassiness. Forster gave the audience a character to cheer for. Samuel L. Jackson made a terrific villain, but I couldn't stand that little braid he had growing off his chin (was that supposed to be a beard?). Robert Deniro showed, once again, why he is one of the best-paid stars in Hollywood. He played the part of a basically useless thug, a man without a conscience or charm, but made him funny and charming, in a brutish kind of way. Deniro made the character interesting, even though it was only a small part. They should show clips of "Jackie Brown" in Acting 101 classes for Deniro's performance alone. It is too bad, for the sake of this film as a whole, that Deniro's character was such a small part. Two of the best scenes in this movie are between Deniro and Jackson, in a panel truck, and between Deniro and Bridget Fonda, in a parking lot. "Jackie Brown" gets bogged down in the scenes between Grier and Michael Keaton and Michael Bowen, as two narcotics policemen. The ordinarily likeable Keaton is out of his element here, trying to play a tough but well-meaning cop. He isn't able to establish any chemistry between himself and Grier. As the hero, Forster did a much better job of that, and Jackson as well, as the anti-hero. Fonda is believable as Jackson's "blonde surfer girl". You see flashes of Quentin Tarantino's magic touch in "Jackie Brown" but mostly this film is remarkable only for a few very special acting performances amidst some questionable casting choices.

"He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man." This quote from Dr. Samuel Johnson is found as a preface to both the movie, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and the novel of the same name by Hunter S. Thompson, from which it was adapted. Having previously read the novel no fewer than eight times, I think I finally understand the full scope of what Dr. Thompson meant to say, and I have this film and director Terry Gilliam to thank. There have been numerous historical eras that can be described as painful. Surely the time of the undeclared war in Viet Nam was one of these. On the advice of Timothy Leary, a lot of the young people in this country dropped out of the mainstream. Many became part of the drug culture. It was a combination of the horror of this war, driven by the military industrial complex and paid for with the blood of thousands of American youths, and the convenient, but dangerous escape route offered by drug gurus like Dr. Leary that gave birth to a warped concept of the American Dream. In Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Raoul Duke (the personification of Thompson himself) and his companion, known as Dr. Gonzo, set out to find the American Dream, or at least to determine what became of it. They are Hope and Crosby in the most bizarre "road" movie ever made. They take Dr. Johnson's warning as advice and make beasts of themselves. Two men from two of the more civilized professions, one a journalist and the other an attorney, ignore most of the known rules of polite society and leave a path littered with the assaulted sensibilities of those who have grown comfortable living in the shell of this once great country and strewn with the remains of whatever corporate property they consciously or unconsciously choose to destroy. The genius of Hunter S. Thompson is that he is able to project so dire an image in an amazingly entertaining format. The novel sweeps the reader along with the clownish antics of its two main characters but never lets go of its central message. The genius of Terry Gilliam lies in his ability to clarify that message while retaining every drop of humor. Once before, in Where the Buffalo Roam, the works of Hunter S. Thompson were assayed for the screen. That attempt was disappointing largely because of casting. Bill Murray is a very funny man but a mediocre actor. He was able to imitate Thompson but could not portray him. Johnny Depp, conversely, gives us the all externals and all the internals of a brilliant, complex and highly eccentric individual. Depp conveys to the audience Thompson's deep disappointment in the American Dream which he ultimately discovers in a all-night restaurant north of Las Vegas and leads us through the metamorphosis of a search into an escape. Johnny Depp is simply one of the finest actors, if not the best, working today. Peter Boyle is another terrific actor, yet as a Dr. Gonzo-like character in Where the Buffalo Roam was unable to play the part as written. I would instinctively blame the direction in that case. In Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, Gilliam made the brilliant casting choice of Benicio Del Toro as Dr. Gonzo. Del Toro, with Gilliam's direction, brings out the menace in his character. Here is a person who could really hurt someone. In Depp's character we appreciate the disillusionment of many Americans with our government in 1971, but Del Toro shows us the anger that relents only with the recognition that he is among friends. This is a terrific movie, not only for its own merits, but also for the many celebrity cameos, including Thompson himself. I think that movie-goers will gain more enjoyment from Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas if they read the book first.

I found two benchmarks for Deep Blue Sea. At times it was The Poseidon Adventure - but with sharks - and at others it was Frankenstein - but with sharks. My greatest criticism of the movie concerns willing supsension of disbelief. No one who has ever dropped a fishing line into the water (and that includes most of us, I'd wager) would do other than shake their head violently to "no" or laugh out loud when fed a tale about a 45-foot long mako shark. No one has ever sighted (much less caught) a great white shark that size, and any fisherman can tell you that a mako is the great white's runt cousin. That would be the greatest "fish that got away" story ever told. In this case, it is a "fish no one could get away from" story. Part of the fun of Deep Blue Sea, for myself at least, was tagging the victims before something put the bite on them. Mostly I was right, but not always. The human would-be fish food spent most of the film doing the Poseidon Adventure stroke up and away from danger. And as advertised, these were smart fish, courtesy of a Dr. Frankenstein experiment gone wrong. So there you have it. It's not much on concept, but Deep Blue Sea does provide plenty of excitement. Samuel L. Jackson, the most recognizable name amongst the cast, goes mostly wasted, but Saffron Burrows looks great in her underwear. As a glib action hero, Richard Jane is heroic and resourceful enough. He bears a faint resemblance to Kevin Costner and he sounds a bit like Mel Gibson. I'm uncertain whether those attributes help or hinder. LL Cool J probably gives the best performance of the entire cast. He's funny but he doesn't distance himself from his predicament. In other words, he seems natural enough. It's an entertaining movie.

Mystery, Alaska is a bit of Northern Exposure and a bit of Slap Shot. It is the equal of neither, but nonetheless emerges as a somewhat funny and somewhat touching film. The hook is hockey. Fans of the frozen sport are more likely to give Mystery, Alaska a chance. Hockey purists might actually rate this movie ahead of Slap Shot because there is more of a focus on the skills needed to play the game. The average movie-goer will prefer Slap Shot for its sheer entertainment value and the star power of Paul Newman. Mystery, Alaska tells a better story and also presents a more realistic view of the sport of ice hockey, but Slap Shot wins the overall comparison because of its madcap depiction of life in the minor leagues, including the memorable characters of the violent, bespectacled Hanson brothers. Along with its subdued treatment of hockey, Mystery, Alaska provides a glimpse of life in a small town where ice and snow are the norm. It doesn't stack up to Northern Exposure in that regard, but Mystery has its share of oddball characters, in particular Skank Marden (Ron Eldard) the town Romeo, just enough to keep things interesting. Russell Crowe stars as John Biebe, an over the hill hockey player. He is showing that he has more dimension than a mere action star, as displayed not only here, but also in L.A. Confidential and Gladiator. The rest of the cast, led by Mary MacCormack, Hank Azaria, Burt Reynolds, Colm Meany and Lolita Davidovitch makes up a believable ensemble. The one drawback to this type of film is the predictability of its ending, but it could have done worse by devolving into one of those sickening "stand up and cheer" films. To its credit, Mystery, Alaska ends as it began, believably. This one, particular small town gets to return to normal after its fifteen minutes of fame. This is not a great film, but most patrons will not find their entertainment dollar too poorly spent, while hockey fans will want to see it again.

The Green Mile is the finest screen adaptation to date of a Stephen King novel. King, the master of horror, has always been a moralist at heart. The struggle between good and evil permeates his works. At times he has gotten a bit heavy-handed with that theme (The Stand), but not in The Green Mile. This story, told from the viewpoint of a Louisiana deathhouse guard (Tom Hanks) in 1935, blends the supernatural with morality so delicately as to season it to reality. We don't have to strain in order to suspend our disbelief. It is easy to believe in miracles. Most people, even murderers, are basically good. The real horror, more so than vampires and werewolves, is the fear and the hatred inspired by the very few truly evil people who live amongst us. As John Coffey (note the initials), Michael Clarke Duncan is a wonder. The sheer size of the man (he must be bigger than Shaquille O'Neal) is our first, awesome impression, but his abilities as a performer might dwarf his physical stature. He is a gifted actor, who unfortunately might, because of his physical dimensions, not find enough roles that suit him. Duncan plays the opposites of anger and gentleness so effectively that he can frighten in one moment and soothe in practically the next breath. This is to take nothing away from Tom Hanks, who has the knack of always convincing me that no one but he could assay his character as effectively. He is seamless in his portrayals and The Green Mile is just one more example of his talent. The scenes with Duncan and Hanks together are the highlights of this film. The work of the supporting cast and of director Frank Darabont should also be noted. This is as fine a movie as I've seen in a long time.

Being John Malkovich is like Alice in Wonderland in reverse. A puppeteer (John Cusack) discovers a tunnel that leads from his own bizarre existence into the comparatively tranquil world inside the head of actor John Malkovich. This is a daring and brilliant movie. It may seem disordered, like thousands of little lights flashing at their own whim, but is tied together by its main theme and becomes the burst of a single firework, delighting the senses. That theme is control, control of the puppeteer working the strings that give his wooden dolls movement, control of his own life, which is quickly eluding him, and control of the world he craves through monopolization of the secret tunnel. It is the story of a singularly unique love triangle. Because it occurs inside John Malkovich's head, perhaps it could even be termed a love quadrangle. Director Spike Jonze deserves enormous credit for this achievement. He has molded some marvelous individual talents, including Cameron Diaz, Orson Bean and Charlie Sheen, into an excellent ensemble. Being John Malkovich must have been a pure joy in which to perform. This film contains perhaps the funniest single moment in movie history.

The battle scene in Gladiator presents the dichotomy of the human butchery below and the serenity of the sky above. That image becomes the theme of the film itself. Like all worthy films, Gladiator is a love story. Love being a complex emotion with two faces, it is the character of the cruel and cowardly emperor Commodus that truly stitches this movie together. As Commodus, I found that Joaquin Phoenix gave a performance comparable (if not exceeding) that of no greater a portrayer of cinematic villainy than Christopher Plummer. Plummer, the most noted Iago, Shakespeare's ultimate bad guy, of the 20th Century, also assayed the part of Commodus in The Fall of the Roman Empire (1964). In that, lesser, film Plummer's Commodus provides the common foe that enables the love connection between Sophia Loren and Steven Boyd to shine. In Gladiator, Phoenix's brooding depiction of a man balanced on the edge of insanity lends his victim the pedestal of greatness, and in turn propels Gladiator above other Ancient Roman era epics, with the exception of Ben-Hur. It is love that sends Commodus over the edge, not love of a woman, but love of himself, when he finds that he can't truly kill his father, the emperor Marcus Aurelius, whose spirit carries on in the person of the betrayed general and eventual gladiator Maximus (Russell Crowe). The battle scene and the scenes of gladiatorial combat are not cheap gore. They underscore the inherent brutality of that place and that time in history. There is blood, but just enough to make the point intended. Another theme in Ancient Roman costume epics has been the birth and fruition of Christianity, most notably in Ben-Hur and The Robe. This is touched into the canvas of Gladiator with a fine brush, as if Seurat had painted the scene, but it never comes forefront, almost thankfully. Like the sky above the battle scene, it is simply there, in the love of Maximus for his absent wife and son. There are some noted actors who contribute to Gladiator: Richard Harris as Marcus Aurelius; the late Oliver Reed; and Derek Jacobi (who has had plenty of experience in a toga as the star of the I, Claudius series). Gladiator is a worthwhile and uplifting film, well-acted and well-directed. It does not succeed to the top of its genre, but very nearly so.

This movie is an old friend. I have seen it countless times since childhood and remain fascinated by both the highly original story and the sometimes whacky element of humor which softens a classic horror tale.

When comparing movies in the werewolf genre, one has to refer to "The Wolfman", which starred Lon Chaney, Jr. and Claude Raines. It is, I think, the humor of "Werewolf of London" that sets it apart. Spring Byington probably makes the film with her "Aunt Ettie" with excellent support from the "Mrs. Whack" and "Mrs. Montcaster" (I cannot remember the names of the actresses).

Also, the werewolves, as played by Henry Hull and Warner Oland, are more frightening than that of Lon Chaney because the makeup tends to reveal more of the human character in their faces. Thus does Oland's revelation to Hull that "A werewolf is neither man nor wolf, but a satanic creature with the worst qualities of both," nicely set the tone for what is to follow.