Reviews

I am a film student. I not only enjoy the cinematic masterpieces lauded by virtually everyone (Citizen Kane or Dr. Strangelove, for example), but I also like to treat myself to a campy B-movie now and then (Crinoline Head, by the Troma Team, is a fave), as well as to the typical gross-out fare made so famous by the Farrelly and Zucker brothers teams (Road Trip, with Tom Green, turned out to be a winner for this particular genre, for example). Although a scholar, I still know that silliness and penis jokes can have their place.

Eurotrip, ostensibly inspired by the National Lampoon movies (once their own genre, now dulled by years of copy cat films and weak-hearted efforts), doesn't reach the heights or the lows of any of its filmic mentors. I was reminded, oddly enough, of a Bible verse. "Since you are neither hot nor cold, I spit you out of my mouth." Ditto for this movie.

The Troma Team, for example, makes movies that are so bad, it's easy to enjoy their crappiness. In fact, the makers obviously intended for the result to be bad. On the flip side, the Farrelly and Zucker teams have provided childish humor in a spectrum so broad and well-formed that virtually anyone can find something to laugh at. My 94 year old fundamentalist Granny still giggles at the "drinking problem" portrayed in Airplane!

But Eurotrip reaches no heights, nor does it plumb any depths. Instead, the entire film seems crafted around four key jokes:

1. A rock song lip-synced by Matt Damon 2. An elaborate set-up about the Pope dying 3. A nude beach bit 4. A scene involving a dominatrix and a three pronged dildo

There are some passable one-liners and a few humorous takes by the leads, but the whole film is essentially washed down by a premise that is constructed of nothing but lame jokes connected by weak editing and camera work. The story is nothing but a vehicle for the author's four big knee-slappers, and the rest seems, quite seriously, made up.

It's like listening to a compulsive liar construct an elaborate and contradictory story. It may be entertaining at points, but in the end its mostly just confusing, dull, and senseless. If you really want to watch the movie that Eurotrip wishes it were, pick up Road Trip or National Lampoon's European Vacation. These films may also be silly, stupid, and childish, but at least they're better at it.

People either absolutely love or absolutely hate this movie. That says more about the people than the movie. The movie says enough for itself. Or, rather, it doesn't say a lot, it just says the same thing, over and over again, a lot of times. Let me clarify...

The good reviews rave about "dumb kids getting what they deserve" and "snooping where they shouldn't." These reviewers say that the murderous family is simply "more interesting" than the "idiot teenagers" that were slaughtered. There are comments on irony, and sarcasm, and "black comedy."

I am not arguing that there aren't certain elements which are darkly funny. There are. But a) they aren't strong enough to warrant an entire movie, and b) those elements are outweighed and overshadowed by the film's dominating attitude of hate, cruelty, and self-indulgent violence. This is a movie made by someone who watched "Faces of Death I through XXIV" and was disappointed.

One reviewer says that you just have to "get it." That's fine. Ever heard a joke that lasted an hour? At the end, when no one laughs, the teller says, "It's funny. You just have to get it."

Oh, I get it. And you can have it back.

If Rob Zombie had condensed this into a ten minute short, it wouldn't be bad for the purpose it serves, but this monstrosity is, instead, a grotesque anthem for creative death and murderous glee. The family isn't "interesting." The family is just as one-dimensional as the stupid teenagers. The kids didn't blindly wander where they didn't belong. Captain Spaulding, et. al. were part of an elaborate trap to ensnare locals and passers-by. This movie was an excuse to showcase Rob Zombie's macabre and nimble imagination, which, it seems, is purely obsessed with violence and hatred, specifically toward young, preppy teens (primarily cheerleader-types) and cops and stupid old people. Hate and violence. That's about it.

Which is why whether or not you give this movie a 10 or 1 says more about you than it says about the movie.

Julia Roberts is like the vanilla ice cream of movies. Everyone pretty much likes her more or less, and for a dessert, she'll do in a pinch.

And I don't mean that literally.

Of course, vanilla ice cream isn't really all that memorable, and, I'll admit, there are a few memorable Roberts moments. But despite these fleeting moments (think Thelma and Louise or Steel Magnolias) there is one thing you cannot deny about Ms. Roberts: she is the same in every movie.

There are many subtle variations, I'll give her that, but when you boil it down to its essential elements, Julia's performances coast by on a few melancholy looks, a few shy smiles, and a lower lip that juts in the cutest way. If you think about the movies Julia has shined in, they are typically the films with intense plots. But when you stop to imagine her in some of her more shallow films, the parallels are impossible to ignore. Her latest film Erin Brockovitch is such a film.

Don't get me wrong. It's entertaining. But it's formulaic. A cinematic experience made with a cookie-cutter plot. The story: Julia is brash young unwed mother of three Erin Brockovitch who manages to score a job filing forms at a small-time law firm. Erin's take-no-sass attitude and foul-mouthed pluckiness soon take her far, and she ends up with a raise and a new car. This woman with no traditional schooling beyond a few years of high school manages to bring together some 600+ members of a big chemical scandal, memorize all of their families, diseases, phone numbers, and life histories, and does it in this no-nonsense, down-to-earth, sassy way.

They win the lawsuit and the big mean corporation has to pay up 300+ million dollars to the working man. Hip hip hooray!

I didn't ruin the movie for you. It's not a surprise. This movie floats on the same emotive capacities that all based-on-a-true-story enterprises bank on. Because of that, its basic story is only interesting as something off of which to bounce Erin's personality. Which is entertaining enough, although I don't know if I would call it good theatre.

With a storyline with about as much subtlety as a Three Stooges movie, Erin Brockovitch's basic accomplishments fall in the same vein as the Stooges. Just as no one ever watched Curly to see a well-constructed plot, so Erin Brockovitch's exploits become an excuse just to watch her act all tough and in-your-face with everyone.

Vanilla isn't the best flavor, that's true, but it's a fail safe. Likewise, I wouldn't recommend Erin Brockovitch to anybody with uncompromising and discriminating tastes; but anyone looking for basic, well-commercialized entertainment and prepackaged humor should come with a spoon and a bib. Erin serves it up piping hot.

And she won't take none of your lip, neither.

If you really want to scare someone, don't tell them another "guy with a hook" campfire story. Skip the urban legends and cheesy ghost story fare. Because what really scares people is real life.

Go through the list of every possible way to die in any given situation. Mention how easy it is for a plane engine to fail, or a car to break an essential part. Comment on the plethora of common household items that, if they were to be involved in just the right coincidences, might result in your death.

If you really want to scare someone, take them to Final Destination.

The lead character, a high schooler named Alex Browning, is waiting on-board an international flight to Paris along with almost 40 of his classmates. During the wait, Alex has a premonition that the plane is going to blow up. He ditches the flight, taking several classmates and a teacher with him in the broil his panic incites. These precious few have their lives changed when, sure enough, the airplane explodes just after claiming the skies.

The premise: those people were supposed to die, and now Death is simply getting caught up on his list. This means there is no killer, there is no hockey-masked looney with a rubber knife. There is a slight breeze, a brief, anamolous shadow, and then, you're dead.

The craftsmanship here is excellent. The deaths are all very disturbing, all very real, and all very brutal, and the effect is nauseatingly refreshing. We don't see hysterical people running up the stairs to escape a never-tired creep, or jabbing meat thermometers into supernatural critters. We see a pattern of easily explained, perfectly normal, lethally designed events that not only cause death, but also adapt to the victim's movements. No matter where they go, death is at their heels, following them in the endless coincidences. And it's all the more terrifying because it's supposed to happen, and there's no one to fight. The most any of the characters can hope for is that Alex will predict it and, perhaps, intervene in time. Needless to say, Alex's track record for saving his friends drops drastically post-plane crash.

The acting, though excellent, is a bit forced at points, and there are parts of the movie created solely to pad the film. A cringe-worthy expository interlude with a cheesy mortician and some repetitive dialogue are the only weak links in the show, however. The very concept of the flick is so interesting that it laminates all the duller moments.

The premise is, of course, self-destructive. Death can't die so no matter how many times the characters manage to cheat the traps that seem to be laid for them, sooner or later, the chain of events will be set in motion all over again. It doesn't end until they die. This type of problem might have crippled most horror movies, but Final Destination cleverly eludes the chance of a weak and long-overdue ending by cashing in on the repetitive "tag-you're-dead" quality of the plot. It ends with the understanding that it hasn't ended.

Not for the squeamish of heart, this movie is a landmark in the horror movie genre. Although it's not going to win any Oscars anytime soon, this well-timed and moodily constructed film does exactly what movies are intended to do: it entertains. It reveals the possibility that villains are all well and good, but the true horror lies in real death, in a murderer that exists in every inanimate object you come across.

Oooh. Scary, huh?

There are a lot of reasons why I went to see The Ninth Gate. Perhaps top on the list is because the director, Roman Polanski, is the man responsible for the highly disturbing, yet artistically sound Rosemary's Baby. But it's also because of the movie's subject matter, i.e. Beelzebub, the Lord of the Flies, Lucifer, and Mr. Boogedyman…whatever you choose to call him. Satan.

You can take a look at the past, oh, twenty-five years, and it's amazing how Satan's popularity fluctuates in pop culture. With movies like Dracula, Rosemary's Baby, Prophecy I & II, and End of Days forming the backdrop of our modern experience, it seems like today's society finds the subject fascinating, if not "cool." Satan movies are all the rage. So I went to The Ninth Gate to see if the subject matter gets the same distressing treatment found in End of Days-to see if Polanski didn't sacrifice plausibility for pizzazz.

He did.

The flick follows book dealer/con artist Dean Corso as he attempts to verify the authenticity of a book for book collector/Satan-lover Boris Balkan (who is also filthy rich). The book is called The Ninth Gate, and it was supposedly written by the devil, who even drew the cute little pictures found in the pages. The theory is that if you get all the pictures together and speak some rudimentary Latin, the Dark Angel himself will pop up and shoot the breeze with you for a while. In a twist of what I suppose is irony, the motto of the book found on the title page reads: "Thus let the light shine." That nutty Satan! He's all into irony.

What is redeeming about this film? Two things. The tone, for one, is good. Polanski didn't rush himself, and so he reproduces the same eerily hushed quality found in Rosemary's Baby. Johnny Depp, playing Corso, delivers a well-measured performance in sync with the movie's atmosphere. Unfortunately the tone of the movie demands substance. This film has none. It relies so much on the weight of its subject matter that the audience members are left essentially clueless on some basic plot points.

A lot of reviewers are going to harp on the "artistic integrity" of this film, and to its credit, the cinematography and editing are excellent. But good timing and restraint are not workable substitutes for a decent story. Depp's character starts the movie with the type of noncommittal attitude necessary for the plot, but by the end, his indifference is reflected by the audience. Polanski mistook confusion for art. When there's not a strong story to guide the mood, even the best craftsmanship becomes meandering nonsense (see Eyes Wide Shut).

However, even with the mish-mash of supernatural gumbo, even with the unfortunate and undecipherable ending, and even with the cartoonish side characters more fitting for a Sandman comic book, the movie at least doesn' t TOTALLY glorify Satanism. I'm all for dissing the devil's fan club. Most worshippers of the devil, it seems to say, are self-indulgent whiners who just need an excuse to hold orgies. What a burn.

But that's one brief, fleeting moment in the film. It's an instance of inflated self-awareness that loses steam fast. Polanski gets his jabs in on the devil's followers, but the conclusion of the film makes him seem sympathetic toward the devil himself. As if his acceptance of Satan wasn't enough to distance the movie from the typical non-evil-promoting viewer, that very acceptance is so clouded in distraction and "artistic integrity" that the only thing getting burned when the credits roll is the audience.

Garry Shandling is an unattractive man who looks as if he is suffering from a perpetual state of constipation, and, can you believe it?, he still manages to be enjoyable (and even loveable, of all things) in his latest movie, What Planet Are You From? Despite a clunky title and an unlikely leading man (even Shandling himself seems stunned by the reality of it), this movie manages to just barely pull off a decent performance.

The premise seems much more suited to an hour and a half of repetitive penis jokes (and, in some ways, it gets close to that): Shandling plays Harold Anderson, an alien from a planet inhabited by impotent, super-intelligent men bent on universal domination. Led by a stiff-lipped Ben Kingsley (whose neck seems to have disappeared) this race of uber-men has lost all semblances of emotion, let alone sexuality. In their quest for universal rulership, they have chosen Earth as their next target. Their goal? To impregnate a human woman and begin populating the world with "their kind."

Of the millions of available aliens, Shandling is chosen as their ambassador, and after being fitted with an artificial and somewhat dysfunctional penis (it hums when erect), he travels to Earth in a glowing white ball and immediately begins incorporating the lessons he learned about the delicate art of female seduction. For instance, he has an endless bevy of "nice footwear" and "nice perfume" remarks, including some slang: "Kitty likes to scratch!"

Sounds like a one-hour one-liner, huh?

Fortunately, it's not. It's safe to say the movie would have fallen flat on its alien face if it weren't for the stellar performance of Annette Benning as the one woman who finally falls for the bumbling alien's "charms." She manages to take this ludicrous premise and bring a touching dose of reality to it, giving a normally crass idea a glimmer of merit. She is what diversifies Shandling's occasionally monotonous character, and it is through her eyes that the film sheds its hokiness and becomes a real movie.

Co-stars John Goodman and Greg Kinnear, to their credit, do a great job as well, both of them displaying an untypical amount of restraint. As far-fetched as it seems, it is the undertones and quiet moments in this film that render it watchable. Likewise, those moments are what keep the joke from getting old. Director Mike Nichols (who gave us such gems as Catch-22 and The Graduate) has combined the quiet soul of his Regarding Henry with the flamboyant ditziness of his The Birdcage to come up with something truly remarkable: a Garry Shandling movie that works.

It certainly has its flaws, like most flicks, and many times the plot seems to stop and start just like Harold's malfunctioning member. However, although the jokes reach levels the man from Nantucket would be proud of, they mostly act as reminders that, no matter how much we poke fun at sex and marriage, most of the jokes are true. What Planet Are You From? has its out-there moments, but it still hits close to home.

Reindeer Games is an action movie, of this there can be no doubt.

It makes no bones about its intent, showing the audience gored and flaming men in Santa suits in the first thirty seconds of film. Obviously, with landmarks like these, its going to be a rocky trip, and, judging by the gaping hole in the jolly belly of one unfortunate Kringle, it's a journey with a not-so-happy ending.

Ben Affleck is the Rudolph in our little story, guiding the plot. The metaphor is hard to miss, as his character, a car thief just getting out on parole, is called "Rudy." Rudy's cell-mate, Nick (alaus, perhaps?), has had a five month "relationship" via the post office with a lovely girl named Ashley (played with flat-faced pluck by Charlize Theron). Once he gets out of the slammer, Nick will finally get to meet the girl in the pictures, and Ashley will finally get to see what Nick looks like.

But, alas, Nick is stabbed with a shiv before he leaves, and its up to the lonely and (I'm guessing here) sexually frustrated Rudy to approach her under the guise of his late cellmate. Ashley and Rudy hit it off and consummate their relationship. Of course, things go downhill from there.

Since the late Nick once worked in a casino, he is wanted by several thugs to lead a heist on his former place of employment. Heading off our gang of rowdy ragamuffins is Gary Sinise as the extremely unattractive head bad guy, Gabriel. Sinise plays his part with sneering extravagance; his performance is one-note, and although it's a decent note, it drags the speed of the movie down. With a body twice as big as his head (obviously he bulked up for the role) Sinise never really achieves a believably threatening level of villainry. Because his menace is only partially convincing, the movie only partially works. What is lacking is the following:

Our protagonist, Rudy, mentions a number of times that he is not Nick. He'll say he's not Nick, his life will be threatened, and then he'll say he is Nick. This sequence happens about four to five to seventeen times in the movie. Gabriel is either an idiot, or he's an idiot. Although screenwriter Kruger has given us an element of suspense by adding confusion as to how much Rudy does and doesn't know about Nick and his past, he also succeeds in aggravating the plot with the continuous frictional contrivance that is Rudy's inability to make up his mind about his identity. Because Rudy changes courses so often, Gabriel's own threats against his life are called into question, and since Rudy can't die (at least not until the end, if at all), Gabriel must pretend to believe Rudy's pleas that he IS Nick, and the audience must shift about in their seats some more.

There is no skimming here of the good ole' elements of all traditional action movies: every element is present and accounted for right down to the cheesy bad-guy-reveals-his-plot-right-before-leaving-the-hero-in-an-easily-escapabl e-death-trap scene. Don't look for unexpected twists or turns, but just for blaring guns, hallway running shots, and plenty of sex. It is a Frankenheimer film.

In a lot of ways, Reindeer Games wants to be more than it is. The craft of the filming and the clarity of the cinematography aren't weak by any means, but the movie essentially fumbles most critically where its plot is the thickest. In the end, you're left watching a movie that, while eminently entertaining on the most superficial of levels, is still just another excuse to watch guys shooting each other. Instead of a story that runs away with you, Games just seems to be toying around.

A new sci-fi thriller was released this past Friday. It stars nobody famous, was directed by David Twohy (who is responsible for some pretty major flops, like G. I. Jane, The Arrival, Waterworld, Critters 2 and Terminal Velocity), and was written by the brothers Wheat, Jim and Ken, who have also spent most of their time penning some pretty dreary stuff (Birds II, The Fly II, and Nightmare on Elm Street 4). Aside from the fact that Twohy once directed The Fugitive, this movie has nothing going for it right out of the starting block.

It's called Pitch Black. And, as my dad always says, "This movie will eat your lunch." That means its good, for those of you who don't speak the language of my dad.

Let's talk plot. Taking place in the distant future, a space ship is carrying some passengers to an unnamed planet. Among the denizens is a dangerous convict, who is our narrator. For no explained reason, the ship's hull is punctured full of holes, causing an understandable and intense crash, depositing the surviving members of the group on a large deserted planet that has three suns. Unfortunately, a major solar eclipse is on the verge of occurring, and the planet just happens to be infested with a horrifying race of aliens that can only live in the dark. Needless to say, the aliens begin feasting on the poor survivors like they're Human McNuggets. Pass the popcorn!

Perhaps the most admirable trait of the movie is its patience. It jumps into the story with just enough exposition to keep it sensible, but it doesn't rush anywhere from there, doesn't make any excuses, and doesn't explain itself any more than it has to. Each element of the story (including the nicely designed and unobtrusive sub-plots) achieves a mythical quality within the confines of the well-measured story. Of course, the cinematography helps. The first half of the movie, establishing the mood and situation, is almost over-exposed, glaring a hot white. The three suns (one of which is a silver blue) shine beautifully on the shimmering and humming planet, and everyone's faces become bleached masks. And then, suddenly, it's dark.

There's nothing devouring about the film. It certainly doesn't swallow the audience whole, the way Aliens did. But it does provide a context and a story that, in its own element, is believable and suspenseful, the way Alien did. Sure, Pitch Black has its cheesy moments, but it's the type of cheese you don't regret, and most of it provides a welcome relief from the constant swarthy forms rushing by in the darkness. Balanced out by moments of intense creepiness, the cheese helps keep the movie from falling into total self-importance.

But what makes the flick (despite nicely underplayed acting all around) is the visually enchanting tricks the director opted to add. The convict narrator spent most of his life in a prison with almost no lighting. Upon his release (i.e. breakout) he got a doctor to give him night vision. (C'mon, it's the future) At many points the movie adopts his point of view, which is simultaneously gorgeous and chilling. Add to that the alien point of view (which is an array of crystalline shards, intended to represent the way they "see" things in a manner similar to bats: via echoes), and you have a flick well worth just watching, if not experiencing.

It's hard to know who'll like it and who won't, but I don't hesitate to say this is a good movie. Playing out like a live action version of Myst plus Doom, this show has its weak points and its strong points, its silly moments and its strong moments, but doesn't disappoint. And although some of it may be gross, some of it disturbing, and some of it a little dopey, it's an engaging story without a predictable resolution, tuned to an almost perfect pitch.

Get it? "Pitch?" Pitch Black? Just go see the movie, for crying out loud.

Do you know anyone who actually enjoys watching Faces of Death?

Do you know anyone who thinks Christina Ricci or Angelina Jolie or Rose McGowen really have their fingers on the pulse of the modern female sensibility and truly speak to their generation with the dark and musky words of wisdom that only self-important and gothic young women can impart?

Do you know anyone who enjoys swallowing rusty bits of metal?

Show him/her The Doom Generation. I'm sure they'll get a kick out of it.

I do not know what inspired the producers of this film to make it, but they have committed a grievous crime against humanity. Playing out like the fever dream of a psychotic inmate on death row, this movie attempts to cleverly and darkly walk the edge of the modern teenager's condition, speaking to the heart of the confused and pimply masses across the nation with it's total lack of coherent sense and its indulgence on pointless sex and excessive violence. Toss in a few "dude"s and "far out"s and you have yourself a sort of Gen-Xer's version of Dazed and Confused.

The problem is, and I'm sorry to be the one to say this, that no matter what generation you are, if you're a teenager, you're really not all that different from most other teenagers. Most pubescent citizens are very predictable: hate authority, rebel at all costs, no one really knows me, life is falling down all around me, I'm all alone, etc. ad nauseum. Like the Simpsons say, "Making teenager's depressed is like shooting fish in a barrel."

And this movie has the audacity to think that impressing teenagers is just as easy.

With the reckless abandon of a Manson murder spree, this flick goes from scene to scene as if it were being made up on the spot and improvised without halting. I have been to third grade Christmas pageants with better acting. I have witnessed better dialogue at the monkey cage in the zoo. I have heard a more meaningful and well-thought out story from the lips of drunken football player. Someone wasn't playing their cards right, because if they were, this script would have been buried alongside the dangerous man who wrote it.

Many people might like this movie for its reckless attitude towards such things as "decency" and "common sense" and "a plot." Such people might find the violence humourous in its cartoonish excessiveness, or might see the inane dialogue as funny on the basis of its stupidity. I myself know the joys that watching a bad B-movie can bring (see such gems as the Reanimator or Buckaroo Banzai); but this movie will never bring me joy. Watching this film is like locking tongues with Loci, evil god of strife and discord on the seventh platform of hell.

My only concern is that some of you might want to rent this movie just so you can see how horrible it is. Normally that would be my reaction, too. But NO! RUN! FAR FAR AWAY! Picket your local distributor if this movie graces its shelves.

What's disappointing about The Beach isn't the cinematography, which is great, or the plot, which is okay, or the acting, which is good. It's the trailer. Have you seen this thing? It makes the movie out to be some fast-paced, thrill-a-minute, will they make it out alive fright-fest. And it is absolutely none of those things.

The movie is about American traveller named Richard. Played very well by Leonardo DiCaprio, Richard stumbles across a map that reveals the location of some perfect little island, a paradise, if you will, and being an impetuous and free-willed young man, Richard decides to go there, accompanied by a young French couple that he has only just met.

On this island are two things: 1) enough marjuana to keep all of Ann Arbor busy for a few months, and 2) drug dealers. Barely escaping the drug dealers, our protagonists manage to find the other half of the island, which is populated by kind and reserved people who have decided to reject the outside world and create a perfect little society on this gorgeous island that virtually nobody else knows about.

This community has a long-standing pact with the kind-hearted drug dealers. They co-exist in peace as long as they tell nobody else about the island. Everybody's happy.

The plot doesn't have much going for it, other than it is a vehicle for some pretty heavy sociological/philosophical messages. But despite the scanty use of conflict in the film, the movie as a whole is fairly entertaining. Directed by Danny Boyle, The Beach has a lot of the same sort of stuff that can be found in Boyle's other works. It has the same gritty sound and speed as Trainspotting, but it also has the confusing and out-of-place weirdism of A Life Less Ordinary. In fact, even though I give this movie a cozy two thumbs up, there are three problems with it that may bother more discriminating viewers.

1. A forced love story. Anyone who knows movies knows that all producers want some sort of love interest in their movie. It gets the attention of the female viewership. In many cases, this is pulled off without a hitch. In the case of The Beach, it is almost as if they made the entire movie and then, as a second-thought, realized they needed some kissin', and so they dumped in a horribly contrived and emotionally weak romance between Leo and the young French lady. 2. An unnecessary soul-quest, a la Jim Morrison in Oliver Stone's The Doors. At some point, Leo goes crazy for fifteen or twenty minutes as he wanders about the jungle. This has absolutely no bearing on the rest of the film. It's like a commercial for insanity. 3. The final moral of the movie is imparted by the kindhearted ring-leader of the drug dealers, who doesn't just vocalize the moral, but delivers it Solomon-style: with this obscure and insightful test of the hidden resort leader's faith. Although this is plausible in Danny Boyle's world, I doubt the drug dealer's would have imparted anything to the head-strong island citizens other than a volley of bullets. But, then again, I'm not an expert on drug dealers.

Scream 3 is a good film. Not great, but good.

It certainly has a lot to live up to. The original Scream, when it was first released, was a refreshing departure from the belabored and formulaic cesspool to which horror movies had long since relegated themselves. Mixing an array of tongue-in-cheek self-referential in-jokes with legitimate terror, the first installment of this multi-million dollar franchise revived a genre that had long since been condemned to movie history, buried alive by such cinematic c**p as Critters 3 and Leprechaun 4: In Space. Never heard of those? Not surprised.

Unfortunately, the sequel, and even the third installment to some extent, threatened to collapse in upon itself. Part of the charm of Scream was the way it mixed a clever hook (a horror movie that knows it's a horror movie) with some very simple, but plausibly disturbing murders and motives (or lack thereof). Cashing in on the success of its predecessor, the makers of Scream 2 hastily jammed together a conglomeration of dying college students with some shaky logic, resulting in mediocre fare. Although it has some great scenes (with the intro being one of the best and most ironic murder scenes out of all three installments), the second of the series seemed a bit too blood-happy. "See here?" the makers seemed to be saying. "We're doing it again! Isn't it great?" And we smiled and said, "Sorta."

Well, Scream 3 is a winner. In fact, the worst that can be said for the flick is that its irony is often a bit forced, and it occasionally succumbs to the very cliches that it seems to mock. Although it doesn't reach the crystal clear tones of the original, it takes the same old cast to some impressive heights. The film is set on the set of Stab 3, a movie within the movie that is a fictional fictionalization of the actual murders in Screams 1 and 2, which are fictional to us, but not to the fictional makers of the Stab movies. Following me? Therefore, there are pretty much two of every cast member. Courtney Cox, for example, plays Gale Weathers, while Parker Posey plays an actress playing Gale Weathers. It's pretty cute.

This gives the cast some artistic license, which adds to the humor and the tension of the script. With the performances by Posey and David Arquette (as the somewhat annoying Deputy Riley) by far the best of the cast, Scream 3 boasts not only some believable fear, but it also has plot twists that aren't ludicrous for once. Written by Ehren Kruger (the man responsible for the fabulous film Arlington Road), this final bow by the Scream movies is done gracefully and, thank God, unpredictably.

Of course, there are some hitches. The killer, for instance, takes two ice picks to the neck, one to the chest, a nicely carved and varnished Victorian table to the skull, and several vases to face, and he/she still comes off with barely a bruise. Ah, but do we care? Not that much, really. Although some of the movie trips a bit over moments of unnecessary complexity and melodrama, those moments are few and fleeting. And although it can be said that the movie itself is not quite as substantial as the first, it is certainly a fitting and satisfying close to a franchise that never took itself too seriously to begin with.

There are some people out there who might like Girl, Interrupted, the latest Winona Ryder movie. Those people, most of them women, will identify with the soul-paralyzing apathy of the lead character, Susanna (Ryder). Her descent into an emotionally barren life of empty drudgery is actually based on the autobiography of Susanna Kaysen; her book chronicles the days of her life in the 60's. Being a true story, very little happens, as most real people lead brain-bleedingly dull lives. Aside from some angst-ridden whining by Susanna, and her occasional "adventurous" tryst with bad-girl antagonist Lisa, this movie still has the same dull heartbeat as many of its doped-up and drooling extras.

Add to the fact that Lisa, the crazy, wild, exhilarating rebel inmate, is played by Angelina "inflate lips to 40 psi" Jolie, who is not one of my favorite actresses, as some of you know.

Ryder did a good job. With a role as self-indulgent as any lead character is in a drama about an emotional journey to self-acceptance, Winona still managed to keep the character fresh without dabbling in any pandering. Jolie, though. Let me tell you.

Writers like to create crazy characters, by crazy I mean they do all the things we all want to do but don't, and so we don't think they're crazy, but cool and reckless and lonely and wild and sassy. Hence, we are supposed to like the crazy character, learn a little bit about ourselves, and go home happy. Jolie's portrayal fails on all three counts, despite fitting the Hollywood stereotype to a T. Enacting out her cool, textbook version of insane, Jolie sucks all the life out of this film from the word go. Not that there's much to begin with.

The first quarter of the movie is interesting to watch, only insomuch as it seems to be highly derivative of Vonnegut. Susanna seems to be "unstuck in time" as it were, and events in her life are depicted out of proper context. The suggestion is that Susanna is drifting back and forth between different events. She's the new millennium's Billy Pilgrim, except this version is written by Nora Ephron.

Well, not really, but that's what it seems like.

The poignancy of the story, its heart and strength, is lost in dull, poetic self-absorption. It's akin to reading a romantically jilted younger sister's diary; there's so much angst, so much pain, and you really do want to feel sorry for her. But then you get to an original poem and the first line is "Darkness fills my empty heart," and you guffaw out loud. Admit it. You do.

Of all the things going for this film--beautiful cinematography, some decent acting, rich subject matter, and even Whoopi Goldberg (turning in an excellent performance as Nurse Valerie)--it is anchored down by an immovable plot and mindless meandering. It would make a good Lifetime original miniseries, but not much more.

And plus there's ol' fish lips Jolie.

There is very little of redeeming value in this movie. The plot-line, a translation of the book of Revelations so loose its laughable, is made even more unbearable by clunky and melodramatic dialogue. Although Arnold Schwarzenegger does some of the best character work in his career here, it is muddled by lopsided drama and action which just plain isn't. The pace of the show, despite the multiple and gratuitous violence, still never surpasses a struggling limp, and the movie is forced to rely on stunning special effects (I'll admit, they're good) and some big names (Gabriel Byrne and Kevin Pollack) to boost viewership. Byrne's performance as Satan seems phoned-in, and the spiritual struggle of Arnold--which could have saved the show, were it better written--is lost in a deluge of dramatic explosions, dopey double-crosses, and flammable demon pee, only to be revived at the last moment in a sort of "oops, almost forgot" by the directors, writers, and, unfortunately, Arnold himself.