Reviews

Must be nice to be a cult figure adored for playing eccentrics, and they call you and offer you money to appear in a film and they are afraid to not let you do whatever you want -- and so you don't even bother to create a character, find a personal connection, demand a script that is actually a script -- you just show up day after day and breeze through repetitively and mindlessly because your character is a cypher. (Not for nothing, but a self-identified straight actor presenting a tired, lazy cliche stereotype of an effeminate homosexual, neglecting to investigate the human being behind it -- that's just boring and ignorant, and not a little bit ugly.) Why is there a barely developed script? Because the writer and director were both assistants to Stanley Kubrick, and Stanley Kubrick is who the main character in this film impersonates -- and Stanley Kubrick's former assistants don't feel the need to provide much context or depth in this film, because apparently they assume the audience have the same automatic engagement with the subject as if they had all spent time immersed in the great man's sphere, thus they decided a fully imagined script would be superfluous, or something. I imagine they had a good laugh making this film, because it reminded them of that crazy time in their rarefied world, none of which they share with the audience. The real narcissists, the real delusionals in this movie are its creators . . .

The *highly* under-rated George Maharis, as Buz, rhapsodizes, in thrilling detail, about old movies, as he tries to inspire frumpy little nice-guy Sorrell Booke to man up and meet his fantasy telephone lover. Sterling Silliphant took television writing seriously. All that and old Chicago locations -- and wicked jokes: "The gas station attendant says 'you haven't lived until you've seen Wisconsin' . . ."

Sterling Silliphant's teleplay for this episode soars with the angels. Young men pursuing a vision of freedom and authenticity, and the other young men who are jealous of them, but then envy them, and the young women who love them and study them to learn who they might capture them, Innovative stuff for 1962. "Look for me under the sun -- I'll be there . . ."

Stentorian, declamatory speaking in place of acting, in that old-timey Cecil B. DeMille style. The story feels ridiculously contrived in order to make dramatic what was likely more a business-like affair. Chuck Heston at his most violently limited, makes much of painting the famous ceiling while lying on his back and the paint falling in his eyes, blinding him, and in his mouth, choking him: but it's all a lie -- historically, Michelangelo painted only while standing. This 20-ton movie plods along repetitively, endlessly. Alex North's grandiose score does not help. The sets and costumes are lovely, as is the photography -- a good film to project silently on a wall when giving a party perhaps . . .

Stagey, precious, sententious, pointless. Something about an effeminate college boy dealing with his maybe-gay gruff cowboy step uncle, his alcoholic mother, and his ineffectual stepfather on a ranch in the 1920s. Ho-hum. An earnest tone is indicated throughout, with a sledgehammer, apparently in an attempt to conceal the fact there is nothing of substance here -- like THE LIGHTHOUSE. Perhaps the writer-director is so impressed by men that she believes merely tossing them into the frame and telling them never to smile or laugh is enough, while stating in the dialog a significant homosexual subtext that is not evident in the behaviors of the actors, and barely existent in the plot. This is lazy film making: little texture, relationships not developed, ideas not developed, no character arcs, static -- these people are like somber cartoons . . .

Masterful efforts by DeNiro and Hoffman make this worth a watch; Joel Schumacher however never found a workable tone for his script or direction. To say it's like TAXI DRIVER meets LA CAGE AUX FOLLES is to make it sound better than it is, but you get the idea. Howlingly false premises, behaviors, dialog -- a lot of cringe-worthy moments -- the script has the odor of something lying in a drawer for 30 years. Cameos by real-life New York girls de jour from the era . . .

Annoying mess of a "comedy" about printing and stealing currency from the US Bureau of Engraving. You stay with it for skilled performers so good in other things, hoping for a moment or two -- but they are completely done in by an unfunny, repetitive script, and a novice director who seems overwhelmed. The general silly tone is not sufficiently engaging to obscure the completely implausible story. And it looks cheap, like a 1960s made-for-tv movie -- all minimal stock sets and flat lighting.

Soap opera of fraught interracial affair between out gay and closeted gay in hetero marriage. Not terrible, the leads are pretty, some good moments, but oh my it just goes on and on and on repetitively in familiar territory. I don't for a moment believe there is any passion here -- even the betrayed parties seem like they'll be fine after a stiff drink. The script meanders, and it looks like everybody was afraid to bring any scale to the thing; acting is not just "looking natural" -- you've got to take us someplace, show us things . . .

Unwatchable, pointless pastiche of pop music, old movies, nostalgia for a fantasy of fin de siècle decadence, and very very bad college "experimental" theater. It's a frantic attempt to be outrageous and trippy to gain attention without coming up with anything original, merely regurgitating a stream of consciousness brew of well-worn cultural references in the gaudy atmosphere of 1900 Paris. The novelty of present/past anachronistic juxtapositioning ceases to engage after the first few minutes. The very good actors are directed to carry on like demented puppets -- one is embarrassed for them. It is as if the director watched a bunch of Ken Russell movies and decided "the excess is great -- who needs the substance?" That this film should be "documented" as wildly successful at the box office reminds us that Hollywood's accounting practices are famously creative . . .

A very good movie with very good performers and a very good director. The quintessential backstage musical for our time, even though its time is thirty years ago, when the author/composer created this autobiographical musical about struggling to create a musical. That talented fellow, Jonathan Larson, famously went on to write RENT and famously died suddenly just before it opened. Here this curmudgeon will commit a sacrilege: the songs while competently made are beyond banal -- generic Broadway pop. Sondheim mentored Larson, and gave his seal of approval, so what do I know . . .

Screaming is not acting. Screaming louder is not better acting. Switching abruptly between screaming and an indication of quiet introspection is not great acting. Throwing in anything that pops into your head is not the art of building a character that gives anything affecting to an audience. This is embarrassing exhibitionism in place of acting technique. Regarding the script: it's a benighted attempt at sensationalism; the hoary old "blurred lines between criminals, police, clergy" thing has been around for centuries -- these filmmakers think they discovered it, and that they need not bring anything fresh to the table. Because the acting is so bad you can't even call it acting, and the script so inept, not once do we suspend our disbelief. We never really care about any of the characters, and the extreme violence is pointless and unearned. Juxtaposing unearned extreme violence with the sound of choirboys singing is hacky, not edgy. Rough crime fighter in drag seducing bad guy, then pulling off the wig and grimacing before beating him was done a lot better five years earlier in the Indian film BAAZI, but the concept was thoroughly unconvincing in that movie too -- in both cases it smacked of a desperate attempt to be trendy and outrageous . . .

A decision was made to remove all of Wilde's literary style and replace it with cinematic thrills. Why they would be mutually exclusive in anybody's mind is beyond me. Gone are the epigrams, the wit, the charm, the mystery. This one is about a young heir possessed by Satan, literally, end of story. Yeah the transfiguring painting thing is there, the forever young thing is there, the life of decadence thing is there -- in fact a lot of the plot is there -- and the actors are able enough, even accomplished. But it is a pulp fiction vulgarization they have been paid to waste their talents on here. A pity, as the production values are substantial . . .

Unsentimental and smart portrayal of what happens in your upper middle class suburb when your alpha bff and high school swim teammate gets wasted one night and goes down on you, and you're pretty much ok with it but he can't deal with it. No maudlin cliches here, no soft core exploitation. The boys (20-ish performers playing 16 - 17) are preternaturally beautiful and very good actors, and that is enough -- intelligent suggestions of sex, locker room nudity, etc keep us in the story, and serve to evoke in us a sense of the reality of lust and sexual tension better than any literal exhibition of their flesh, or graphic erotic simulations ever could -- while at the same time the film is not at all coy about the fact that it is about the vagaries of adolescent attraction, both physical and emotional. It's kind of like an extended DeGrassi episode minus the lovable stupidity, and with a high degree of realism. This is evolved, aware film making -- not epic in scale like BROKEBACK, it only plays a few notes, but plays them very well. The actors never fail us -- the leads as well as those playing the parents and siblings, who thankfully are fully realized and have their own individual character arcs. Josh Wiggins in the lead, suggests a mix of young DiCaprio and young Matt Damon in looks, skill, vulnerability and honesty. Darren Mann as his troubled friend alternately broods and explodes like a young Brando. The two convey a deep, unexamined connection, fueling the action of the piece. A seasoned Kyle MacLachlan as an estranged gay dad mines subtle acting gold from an almost too-saintly deus ex machina voice of reason role. Everybody is good in this, without exception. All that and a comic nonbinary pal struggling to find the perfect prosthetic to stuff in their pants . . .

Amateurish attempt at a genre horror movie ignoring the fascinating true story it claims to tell, about everybody's favorite real-life 1950s gruesome ghoul Ed Gein. That the writer/director has his north woods Wisconsin characters speaking in phony southern accents speaks to the general level of competence on display . . .

This is like bad community theater: what doughy suburbanites at brunch imagine despair and madness to be. The script is virtually nonexistent, the acting cartoonishly bad. Some believe if an actor has been around long enough, is grizzled and gruff enough, then the fact he neglected to ever set his ego-for-twelve aside long enough to acquire technique might be overlooked. There is something about life that makes it worth observing well -- all involved in this film have never figured that out.

Somewhere in all the footage I am certain there is a fine performance by Andy Serkis as Punk Rock progenitor Ian Dury -- a tour de force performance in fact -- but this film needed a good sculpting. Jumping around in time is great if in the end it manages to inform -- in this case it merely confuses. Is a tumultuous film required to describe a tumultuous life ?-- or do they cancel each other out? Sometimes it's hard to tell what year we're in, who is who, and who is this one to that one -- all while teasing us with disjointed snippets from what is likely a fascinating biography. All that creates obstacles to enjoying the film. Persistent gimmicky style over substance becomes frustrating, tedious, annoying . . .

Satirical sketch comedy, certainly dated now -- obviously -- but seems not to have been terribly fresh even in the context of its time. The pace is often plodding, the performances broadly amateurish, the writing not all that sharp. Saturday Night Live had already been bashing bad television and bad movies for over a year when this film came out, and was actually funny then. The trio of young creators famously went on to rule Hollywood, and hooray for them -- but this seminal (heh) work is best left to scholars and sycophants . . .

Theater is not a museum piece. These productions purport to give us the plays "as written" without directorial interpretation -- and the result is deadly dull. Meant to clarify the literature for students, it is more likely to put them off Shakespeare for life. Hard to watch, the eyes glaze over -- competent actors doing a shallow, predictable, insufficiently imagined provincial stage performance: a lot of empty shouting and presentational hackery -- nobody's cup of tea. Aimed low, and missed . . .

Walter Matthau had a remarkable career for someone with zero acting ability and less comedic skill. Forced line readings, mugging, one note played over and over -- whoever found this funny? A comedy about insurance fraud has great potential -- but not with this oppressive lead weight. All that, and a quaint script that has a laying-in-the-bottom-of-a-drawer-for-30-years smell to it . . .

Writer/director Richard Linklater's bit of genius this film: real-life small-town tragedy, told documentary style. At least half the content comprises interviews with picaresque "townspeople", the rest is Jack Black and Shirley MacClaine bearing gifts: MacClaine as a sadistic old heiress, Black as the chubby middle-aged closeted gay assistant mortician/community theater star/church choir soloist she molds into her personal servant. The tone is darkly comic; everybody involved gets it, and understands it's Texas so no need to overplay the painfully well-observed script. Wicked comedy -- as if WAITING FOR GUFFMAN and PSYCHO mated . . .

Dalton Trumbo's script wastes no time: boy who likes guns meets girl who likes guns. Mayhem ensues. A classic remarkable for many things, the absence of rear-screen projection in car scenes for one -- the actors do their own driving, the camera and cameraman crunched in the back seat. The dialogue in some scenes is improvised. The leads have an achingly convincing chemistry. Peggy Cummins is a doll-like psychotic beauty, John Dall is her sexy full-lipped love slave, but who otherwise is a decent all-American boy sort. A lot of yummy subtexts going on here. Dall's virile gay vibe had just been exploited by Hitchcock in ROPE; here his lithe frame spends a lot of time sewn tight in a buckskin sharpshooter's suit. Great photography, lighting, editing. Made in 1950 but feels quite modern. From Wikipedia: "In an interview with Danny Peary, director Joseph H. Lewis revealed his instructions to actors John Dall and Peggy Cummins:

I told John, "Your c***'s never been so hard", and I told Peggy, "You're a female dog in heat, and you want him. But don't let him have it in a hurry. Keep him waiting." That's exactly how I talked to them and I turned them loose. I didn't have to give them more directions."

An expensive trifle wherein multiple James Bonds frolic about, as conceived by several writers and directors. Meant to be a spy movie spoof/"sex romp" spoof: it's full of attempts at non sequitur humor, most of it quaint sexual innuendo -- basically Bennie Hill, without the subtlety. Armies of glamorous young women signalling constant availability to older, paunchy guys. The swinging 60s music works hard to tell us where to laugh. So many late 1960s "comedies" appear to have been made after use of weed and LSD became de rigueur among the creative classes -- bits that cracked up writers and directors under the influence then are ponderous and inexplicable to us today. The film's main value is as an artifact of its era (see SKIDOO and MYRA BRECKENRIDGE). The first 35 minutes or so with David Niven falls flat and makes no sense -- best skip to the parts with Woody Allen and Peter Sellers. Really expensive studio production, back when they had to build real sets. Might be useful projected on a wall at a party, without sound, in the background . . .

Forced attempt at comedy. Zero effort made to create believable characters or situations, hence nothing is funny. Interesting concept: man wakes up on his wedding day on the floor of an elevator, naked, as the doors open; then he exits out into the world and proceeds to be humiliated for his lack of clothes. As in GROUNDHOG DAY, the scenario repeats over and over in a loop. Obvious birth metaphor here, and other Freudian possibilities -- all missed for the frenzied slapstick. It's essential for the character to be embarrassed by his public nudity -- but here it feels like the filmmakers are embarrassed about it as well, and can't even begin to find the comedic pathos in the plight of their protagonist. Much energy is spent coyly covering up the man bits shot to shot -- didn't Mike Meyers parody that in an Austin Powers movie sufficiently enough to push filmmakers to figure out a better way? The star lacks the acting technique required to find specific moments and ways to register what is going on with him -- the only way to mine real laughs from his situation. One gets the feeling watching this film that it is a faint copy of an original movie -- maybe something even funny or artistic -- but having seen it, the creators of this knock-off missed everything of value: lo and behold, a search shows NAKED is an American version of a Swedish film made some years before. Not seen it myself, but assume it is better than the copy -- at least watchable.

The writer/director/producer/star of this interminable hour and a half has not figured out the answer to that question, perhaps has never contemplated the question. One wonders what he sees when he watches a good movie, or what he thinks when he reads a good book. We do have an idea what he sees when he observes the real world: his own surface reflection. If only this film were 10% worse, it could at least be laughable. There is one shot that shows the star at possibly his only good angle -- if only he'd had a good director to make that happen more often, especially since the camera is on the star 90% of the time. Youngish gay guy falling in love with younger straight guy who may be up for reciprocating is potentially compelling subject matter. But you need an insightful script to tell that old story, you need skilled actors, you need a competent director, you need a heart and soul.

Some home movies are more interesting than others. A successful film actor -- talented, trained, self-aware -- charmed with good hair, good teeth, good looks . . . And charm -- will likely make better home movies than most, especially with an expert team to assemble and edit decades and miles of video recorded painstakingly to document his entire time on earth. Here a 1980s Hollywood heartthrob at 60, tells his story in a sensible, intelligent, illuminating way -- mostly through the mellifluous voice of his son: the actor himself croaks while pushing a button on his throat as a result of two tracheotomies. The story speaks of a career in a milieu where sanity and intelligence are perhaps not the best equipment -- and the yearning to break free and return to the stage. The problem with watching actors talk about themselves or reading what they write, is that depth for an actor is in performance, and that the problems of an actor tend to adhere to familiar trends: the lack of respect, control, stability -- and being branded "difficult" when all you are doing is the job you were trained for and getting paid for. At least Val Kilmer is humble about all that, and is concise and often funny about his golden problems, and sincere about life's real tragedies. Seems like a nice guy, but I'll never meet him, so about half this movie engages, the rest feels like none of my business. The movie begins and ends with glimpses of Brando being silly af.