My mother raised me to understand the workings of our world with one simple aphorism. "Why," she would say "does a dog lick his balls? Because he can." Indeed. In the aftermath which followed the rather favorable reviews of Peter Jackson's King Kong, countless viewers lamented Kong's seemingly endless need for CGI meanies and pseudo-cinematic digital wizardry from T-Rexs and large, man-eating monsters which resembled uncircumcized penises to an attention deficit camera which flits from building to building, enough to make David Fincher motion sick. Having not seen the film, I cannot speak to its meandering digital lavishes. I can only respond to what I had heard/read. Halfway through director Brian Singer's newest incarnation of our man of steel, Superman Returns, I leaned over to the person who accompanied me to the screening and asked "is this what King Kong was like?" I was met with a sober nod.

Much ink has already been spilt (by myself, even) on why we need a Superman. What necessitated his return? Things are bad, yes, but are we, as a people, still capable of believing in a man who descends from the sky in tights to stop falling airplanes and catch crumbling statues? After watching the film, I'm still not certain that we could. We are to understand Singer's Metropolis as a present day city, yet as an homage to the previous films and comics, (which starts with the Seventies style opening credits) our contemporaries don 50's period dress. Basically, though people yammer on their cell phones and watch plasma TV screens, everyone looks as though they've wandered out of an era which understands the modernism which yielded Superman far greater than we ever could. A less jaded time. So much so that I am hard pressed to understand Superman Returns as being a completely contemporary film. Sure there's plenty of terrorist footage on Martha Kent's television, but there's something to be said about the fact that that same television is from the 70's.

Cast in the metallic glow that has come to be Singer's trademark sheen, not a moment passes when you aren't aware of the film's artificiality. There are certainly no characters to convince you otherwise. Superman(Brandon Routh, who in a creepily overt act of cinematic narcissism, resembles Singer) looks like a fuck toy just blown in out of some WeHo workout room. Slight on charisma and heavy on coiffure, he is hardly the strapping man from the comics (a group congregated as I left the theater joked taht he should have been called Supercurl, as, having plummeted from space to land in Central Park, his body was critically wounded but his curly lock of hair was perfectly in tact). But even more deficient is Bosworth's Lois Lane. Missing all of the complexities (and masculinities) of Miss Margot Kidder, Bosworth's vacant femininities do nothing but highlight Routh's. And that's the last thing we look for in our Steely saviors.

But all of the blame cannot be solely heaped upon our leads (though more charismatic casting would have helped a great deal). The writing is dimwitted and the direction painfully tactles. Not a single shot goes by without an educated viewer knowing, full well what will come, not merely in the following scene, but the next twenty minutes. From small touches (Lane's engagement ring - to someone other than Supe - is the same color as the emerald kryptonite which debilitates Superman) to gargantuan ones (the same paper which holds news of Superman's return also informs us of a precious Gems show at the Met. Hmmmm...) the plodding obviousness of the action becomes tediously debilitating. Though not as debilitating as the Rube Goldberg-esque action sequences which encompass the film.

Taking a cue from Kong, not only must Superman save the day, he must save it from calamity after calamity after calamity within a matter of moments. A tremor shakes Metropolis. Someone falls off a roof. Superman catches him. Then a sign falls. Superman catches that. Someone drops a cigarette which ignites a broken gas main. Superman must stop the flames before it hits the supply source, in time to return to his newspaper and catch the statue which is about to crush his sweet fatherly boss (Frank Langella). The absurdity of all of this CGI mayhem never goes unnoticed. Nor is it coreographed to be as fun as any offering by the likes of Besson. Spacey's Lex Luthor is fun and his lady in crime Parker Posey's Kitty have camp fun with their roles, but you slowly watch them realize they got the short end of the stick. Greed has replaced the darker, more brooding evilness of the nineties, and so they stumble about resembling more the nouveau Riche than any real badies.

What could have been an interesting investigation in our cultural needs turned into one more excuse to blatantly flash the capabilities of our visual technologies. All of this without really shedding the shimmer of its computer fabrication process. Just going to prove, yet again, why they unearthed this icon in the first place, well aside from the box office proceeds. Because they can.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 06:45 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Though this critic yielded to the hype, might I suggest that, instead of partaking in the new doco Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man you do something a little more productive with your time. That's right! It's time to clean out that linen closet or trim those toe nails. Lian Lunson's dreary doco was insipid and poorly executed. I have no idea what the positive reviews are latching onto, as I found this money maker grating, tedious and exploitative. Exploiting you, dear reader, into spending you hard earned dough to see a concert video interspersed with extremely short snippets of Cohen being sage-y. Those moments are gems, but entirely too few-and-far-between. Instead we have to listen to Rufus Wainwright whine his way through Cohen's back catalogue, his sister squable through another and Nick Cave play lounge singer. I know it sounds tempting, but let me just say, one more time, it is anything but.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 06:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Today I saw one of the more refreshing films that I have seen in quite some time. To say that Brothers of the Head is odd is not quite correct. It certainly follows in the lineage of siamese twins movies. In this fake doco, these siamese twins, Tom and Barry, get signed to a record label as a novelty act only to rebel and become a culty Punk band. There are certainly pitfalls to the plot which is at times overtly simplistic and at others marvelously complex, but I forgive it its short comings as it is one of the more beautiful treats of cinema I have sat through in a considerable amount of time. It only helps that Director Ken Russell makes a cameo as himself. Brothers of the Head will be released in late July.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 09:41 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Today finds the release of two very different yet wonderful items for purchase. Michael Haneke's brilliant Cache (Hidden) is released on DVD. On the same day, you can find Amy Sedaris' acclaimed comedy series all in one lovely trapper keeper package. Strangers With Candy was way ahead of its time, and this release is, of course, time with the release of the film adaptation. More on that very soon.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 04:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It is with great pleasure that I report the fabulousness of The Descent which I caught last night at the Los Angeles Film Fest. It's where old school horror meets new school thrill ride and left me an anxious mess after its clinching conclusion. It follows six sporty women who spelunk into an uncharted cave. Natural calamities abound, nothing prepares them for what lies beneathe. Cause god knows, they're not alone. The Descent hits theaters August 4th and is certainly not to be missed.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 01:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I've been thinking at great length about the return of the man of steel. Why now? Why unearth (sorry) Superman at this moment in time. Our culture seems so tremendously discombobulated so as to not really be able to rely on one single "superhero." All of the successfull franchises, all of the patriarchical ones at least, have come in groups. Fantastic 4 (not that it was good, but there will be a sequel), X-Men while singled out heroes have bombed. Punisher failed miserably as did Daredevil. Of course, signing Brian Singer was a good choice. Both X-men movies have proved to be a reasonable mixture of queer sideways glances and straight action explosives. He apparently aimed to stay true to the 20th century icon while creating a contemporary spin on the myth. Hence Returns and not Begins. It's just, no one I know is all that jazzed. We've seen it a million times before. The first two slew of movies, 'Louis and Clark,' and 'Smallville.' Aren't we Supermanned out? I suppose time will tell. Does he still have enough pull to warrant the 200 million dollar price tag? I think not, though when it comes to the general public's reaction to things, I am frequently dead wrong.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 05:52 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If you live in Los Angeles, and are not fed up with film festivals by early July, the Armand Hammer Museum, one of the city's greatest, will be having a series called The Female of the Species. The all silent selection of European films will focus on films like Piccadilly (1929), starring Anna Mae Wong. I screened that title in particular last night in order to better characterize the approach taken towards the more "exotic" members of the human race (or at least that is how these films regarded them). It is a wonderful film, sustained by Wong's magnificent screen presence. Her dance, however racistly charged it was, is a powerhouse of self-control and erotic dominance. Even ethereal beauties like Louise Brooks (whose Pandora's Box is included in the line up alongside Clara Bow's It) permeate an exotic flair, though existing in the culture which yielded them. Rounding out the evenings we find the Josephene Baker silent Siren of the Tropics, Salome and (of course) Metropolis. However fun, isn't that one getting a little old. Sorry...

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 03:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It has to happen, really. Robert Altman has always been an exceptionally prolific auteur who has labored under the hit or miss strategem. Lately, there have been quite a few misses, and A Praire Home Companion is one such film. The slow narrative pull of the film becomes, at times, rather maddening, while the ensemble never quite tickles you the way they should. Sure, John C. Reilly and Woody Harrelson's naughty cowboy routine is eye-rollingly affectionate and Virginia Madsen is (as is usual) stunning to behold, but the whole, quite sadly, does not equal the sum of its parts. And in the film, these parts form a greatly jumbled mess of nostalgia which teeter infuriatingly between working and not. Eventually, as one might have expected (at least I did) it turns into a nostalgic "remember when..." with the key figures meeting for an unspoken memorial in the neighborhood diner ('why hasn't this, too closed?' one might ask themself). Nobody's really a character, more personality which leaves a great deal to be desired. Lili Tomlin lacks any depth quite like Kevin Kline's Guy Noir (a name to match the obviousness and idiocy if his written character). And Miss Lohan, just to counter assumptions, delivers a fine performance. All the actors (save Kline) are good, the script from which they work, however, well, that's another story.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 06:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last night, I watched two new release Horror/Thriller DVDs which contrasted one another quite well. By contrast, I do not mean that both brought out the other's strengths. No no no, as the first was a resilient reissue of Dario Argento's first film, The Bird With the Crystal Plumage and the second was the last lifeless offering by Wes Craven, last years one-in-a-slew-of-airplane-hijinks, Red Eye. Starring romantic comedy newbie, Rachel McAdams (fresh off The Notebook, a film I was forced to watch twice on a plane soaring to and from Paris) and hot-hotty-hotty-hot-hot Cillian Murphy (28 Days Later, Batman Begins and Breakfast on Pluto), Red Eye adds very little to the thriller genre. In fact, I might go so far as to say Flightplan is a more interesting watch than this uninspired stagger towards paycheck land. Where Murphy is always wonderful to watch for sexual purposes, it is much more fulfilling watching a constipated Jody Foster recapitulate her last few films, running around the cargo hull screaming, "Catharin...err... Julia!" There is little tension in this would-be thriller because of a precious attitude still exerted towards 9/11. If you're going to make a film with its finger on the pulse of current phobias, don't be half assed about it. And that half assed attitude is what make Red Eye plummet into dullsville. Rachel McAdams, of course, does not help. Like most contemporary actresses, she is incapable of creating a single believable moment. Craven succeeds in turning Murphy into a boy-next-door slightly off kilter. He has never looked so off in a normal way.

The film's main fault lies, however, in its marketing. The horror/thriller genre is in such a marketeering phase at the moment, it is almost groundbreaking when an R rated horror film is released which deserves its rating without being merely an unmitigated gore fest (Saw or Hostel). Red Eye is PG-13, keeping it from that boundary pushing realm that might actually scare us into the film. Nary a drop of blood is spilt (even though a character gets stabbed in the throat with a pen) and no horrifically gruesome things are stated, which, if you've got a set-up where two people sit on an airplane for half of the movie, is where the real horror should lie. But Craven is too concerned showing the world outside and cuts to the ground level action entirely too much, preventing any sort of Hitchcockian tension which may might have developed, had he stuck with our two protagonists. The film also reeks of this marketing element as it clocks in at 1 hour and 13 minutes! It leaves you waiting for the Fatal Attraction rebirth of our baddie which never comes. Instead we have the ridiculous character delivery shit that seems like the new requisite for a Hollywood-Horror ending. We don't care that Rachel McAdams has changed. Let's be honest, we want a bunch of showdowns between creepy Cillian and our screaming, flailing bimbette. The Argento's women are at times quite irritating, but it is much more delightful to have a woman crying and writhing around on the floor in anguish than an unconvincing example of girl-power getting the job done early. At least Brian Cox is there to remind us why we love him so.

The Bird With the Crystal Plumage on the other hand, is precisely what Red Eye should aspire to be. It's fun, it's tense and boy does it have a delivery. Sam is walking home one day when he witnesses a struggle between a trench-coated man and a very Argento red haired woman in a sculpture gallery. She is stabbed in the gut (in a white one-piece, no less) and writhes about on the floor screaming while Sam is trapped between two glass doors. Of course, Sam becomes entrenched in the murder plot and struggles to resolve the killer's identity. The Bird... is a taut suspense, not quite on par with Argento's masterpiece Deep Red and a different creature entirely from that Argento world infested with witches and goblins. No, here Argento's demons wear black leather gloves and full length vinyl trenchcoats, wielding meat cleavers and sacrificial daggers. One of the most harrowing elements to the film is a painting which pops up towards the middle of the film. If ever Argento found a startling image to send tremors of absolute terror down our spine, it lies here. And, of course, the secret of the film lies in the painting itself. The Bird... does certainly have its lagging moments. The midsection is so fraught with its promise to deliver that it grows slightly weary at times. Still, Argento knows precisely how to make us cling to the edge of the sofa, and it is great to feel that. It is a rare emotion to conjure these days, when the majority of scares are of the most superficial variety. Note Argento's use of red in the film. It is the most staccato element here (recall red in Roeg's Don't Look Now), along side the Morricone soundtrack which is brilliant, as always. This isn't Argento's best, but for god's sake, it is worlds better than any of the other crap out there right now. See this before you rent Saw II. I assure you, this will be SO much more fun.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 04:18 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I am going to use this post as utter promotion for the little-known filmmaker Jack Smith and his (I only hope) renaissance in the form of Mary Jordan's new documentary Jack Smith and the Destruction of Atlantis. Smith has been a tremendous influence on David Lynch, Guy Maddin, Andy Warhol, John Waters, Matthew Barney, Cindy Sherman, Nan Goldin, Tony Conrad, Robert Wilson, Susan Sontag... Need I go on? His prolific body of work is pretty inaccesible - unrentable, few books, a couple obscure CDs - yet without him, Warhol would not have made films the same way, Wilson's pacing would not be the same, Waters would not have been nearly as trashy. Jordan's film is playing the festival circuit and will be screened twice in Los Angeles at the LA Film Festival on June 25th at 9:30pm and the 30th at 10pm. Following the film, Jordan is planning on releasing a smorgasbord biography of photos, writings, recordings, films... God knows what form that will take! Until then, we have this film which is already amassing wonderful reviews. A splendid interview with the director can be found here.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 11:30 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The other night, to jog my memory, I rented Darkman and I just ahve to say, there's a reason our youth is so goddamn boring these days. I'll admit, my tastes run a tad more morbid, or as some others have described me (though not without a shudder in response) "esoteric, " than the average Joe, but when I was growing up, these comic movies were much more juicy than these bland revivals. I mean, I love what Bryan Singer is doing with the whole X-Men thing, but it's not daring like Darkman or even the first couple Batman movies.

What's more, the casting directors were a little more creative in their choices. Michael Keaton and Liam Neeson could never play heroic leads now. We need our superheroes to look like Paris Hilton with a penis and a six-pack.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 05:27 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

In Susan Sontag's 'Notes On Camp' (as some of you may know I link to at the drop of a hat), she describes the highest quality of camp as something that tries exceptionally hard at being serious and fails, abysmally. Jodie Foster's Flightplan (because, come on, this is hardly the director's movie) is one terrible film. However, if you consider its lineage, which certainly lies in the Womens' film, it turns into a perfectly hilarious, estrogen fueled comedy. Foster's Kyle (see, funny already) is on the verge of something. When the camera first hits her face, it is contorted in a petrified scowl. Subtlety is a concept entirely lost on Foster. In Kyle's world (and of course, in the main tragectory of the film, every woman's - as the Foster vehicles are certainly Femal Power empathy plays) every sideways glance from a man is a potential rape. No one is to be trusted. No one cares about anything but themself anymore. What's hilarious is to watch the estrogen fest implode on screen. Foster, who is so tightly wound through the entire movie, embody's hysteria - but it's hysteria so absurdly depicted that you start wondering if Kyle's real problem is her inability to take anything lightly. What's sad is the film would have you believe that everything is a conspiracy directly targetted at YOU. If you think you're being watched - YOU ARE! You are the center of your world, or: our main protagonist proves that she is being vinctimized by doing exactly what she would having everybody else villified for doing - being completely selff-centered. Not exactly something you want to hear from a movie that did surprisingly well in the states.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 06:22 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last night I introduced a friend to a pleasant little film called Nowhere. The film follows a handfull of angsty teens (all portrayed by vaguely recognizable actors in their late twenties) as they are slowly abducted by space aliens, brainwashed into suicide, or just fuck the night away. On an eve of a certain appocalypse - think on a personal level, as every teenagers universe is theirs and theirs alone - a figure whom everyone in Los Angeles seems to know throws one of his huge bashes which every one whose anyone will attend. The film essentially follows that day from start to its hysterically bloody finish. In truth, Nowhere is neither pleasant nor little. It is quite possibly the most sardonic film ever made, as most of the horrors that are heaped upon the film's abundant protagonists can be met with a sort of viscious laughter.

I became familiar with director Gregg Araki's work at an early age. Early enough to relate to the maudlin alienated teens that occupy his early "Teen Appocalypse Trilogy," Araki's irony was rather lost on me. Though recognizable celeb cameos induced great bouts of laughter and the crude and inventive aphorsims asked for repeated viewings (if only to repeat them later), I did not quite get the density and critical affection that Araki lavished on his teens. Teetering between ironic literalism (there is an alien who abducts, or alienates our teens) and blatant decorm (see above) the message is "it's time to die." Not a very uplifting one, but it is one which causes the hilarity that is Nowhere to be exceptionally empathetic. The characters are mortifyingly cardboard, but somehow it is better that way. This, to me, is one of the top ten movies of my teen years. It is also, however, one that only grows better with age. Many hate Araki's cinema and I do think that it is one for a certain age group at a very particular period of time, but I personally find nothing wrong with that. Keep your eyes peeled for both Ryan Phillipe and Heather Graham in early roles that cast them as just about the most unattractive characters they will ever play.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 03:50 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Mark you calendar, cause this tuesday find the release of both Valley of the Dolls and Beyond Valley of the Dolls, both of which are quintessential viewing, in my humble opinion. Apparently, the DVD's come with lovely essays and postcard poster reproductions. And it's about goddamn time, cause these puppies have not been available outside of the UK on DVD. (Of course, I had that set, yet pawned them off the moment I heard about these gems). They're not cheap ($26.99 a pop) yet not all that expensive, either. Go on. Indulge!

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 04:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Okay, so I've been getting my kicks from more action fare, as of late. I don't know if it has anything to do with life pouring down on me, but since this is not a confessionals page, that's neither here nor there. Milla Jovavich has been cooing me through the nights. I have been snuggling up with the Resident Evil movies which are rather fun, though progressively worse. The first is fun with a sufficiently gorged budget and leaves off for a promising sequel. The sequel succumbs a tad too decadently to its videogaming lineage. The ruiner is a figure (this is in Apocalypse, mind you) who mutates from the first film into a sterioded version of the Chatterteeth cenobite with a automatic machine gun and a rocket launcher. The absolute ridiculousness of this malevolent and indestructible monster wielding machine guns is like sprinkling sugar on your icing and distracts from the creepy zombiage. But Jovavich knows how to steal the scene and when she comes careening thorough the large stained-glass window of a church on a motorcycle, guns ablaze, that's fun. More fun than most things I can think of at the moment. But that's just me.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 04:33 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Neil Jordan has to be about the gayest heterosexual filmmaker the world has ever seen. From The Crying Game to Breakfast on Pluto, Jordan's universe is filled with trannies and homos - all refreshingly depicted with an acceptingly frank and appreciative eye. His film, Interview With the Vampire certainly shaped an odd end of my sexual psyche. In a declaration that may alienate some readers, I was but a wee 5th grade burgeoning homosexual when the film was released, and believe you me, seeing Tom Cruise and Brad Pitt not-quite-kiss was a treat to my would-be nubile mind. I bought Interview the other day in a $10 sale bin and watched it last night for the first time as an "adult" (if we can venture so far as to call myself that).

Oh, my god! Tom Cruise, wow... This has got to be one of the more comedic moments in good-old-Hollywood cinema, proper. Since most of my focus rests on a Camp sensibility, I think I can safely say that Tom Cruise had positively no idea what he was doing in that movie. The high camp figure of Lestat is played by the "actor" with such earnest candor that he reaches an entirely different level of camp, one of the unintentional variety. Brad Pitt, meanwhile takes his stab at brooding, Claire Danes style, by pouting his lips as quickly as you can say crucifix. And those pouting lips resemble all-too-frighteningly those of his current babyfarm counterpart. And let's not forget Kirstin Dunst in, what could be her only good job as an actor. At times, you actually believe she is a sixty year old woman/child, and her role in Louis' life is a (surprisingly) satisfyingly complex one. Oddly, hers is the most compelling figure of the film. Certainly not the positively laughable performance phonetically-cue-carded by Antonio Banderas who looks like he's got last year's Lagerfeld Shag boot on his head. He, more than any other actor, gays it up to the max. I suppose it was to allow his character some intrigue, but he arrives too little to late in the narrative to allow any interest other than as a Lestat comparative.

The movie at large is fun, dull atmospheric smut. So in a sense, it succeeded in replicating Anne Rice's pulp novel. Jordan's direction is clunky and quite odd, but not necessarily in a bad way. His women more frequently than not resemble Dill from The Crying Game (including Thandie Newton in a non-bodily fluid excreting role). And the apparent homosexuality of the Vampires is pretty unoriginal. Many people have written about the parallel between the two -It's in his kiss!:Vampirism as Homosexuality, Homosexuality as Vampirism from The Culture of Queers by Richard Dyer, for instance. Though, in keeping with Jordan's ouvre, they are presented in a much more respectful way than, say, the Count's son, Herbert from Fearless Vampire Killers or Pardon Me But Your Teeth Are In My Neck. Instead, you have a converse universe where there is nothing apparently wrong with the sexual bond between two male Vampires, perhaps because they are apparently evil to begin with, but the movie never becomes that black and white, thankfully. Instead, the characters are far more significant when united, than isolated. Louis is the heterosexual here, but still, the object of his desires is a 10 year old girl (perpetually, true... but still)which certainly connotes a certain air of perversity. The aesthetic of the film is still very beautiful when it's not explicitly spelling STUDIO SHOOT. Even the outdated graphic effects read more graphically juicy than these alternate universies created in post-production CGI studios of today. File this one under guilty pleasures with very few actual redeeming qualities. But, come on... we're talking about a Tom Cruise vehicle here folks. To quote Lauren Becall, "When you talk about a great actor, you're not talking about Tom Cruise."

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 07:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

What does one expect from a Bruce Campbell vehicle? Campbell, who secured a steady base of cult admirers with his efforts in Sam Raimi's first slew of C-quality gore fests known as the Evil Dead trilogy, is no stranger to tongue (firmly rooted) in cheek. 2002's Bubba Ho-Tep is certainly no exception. The film follows two senile conspiracy theorists who believe they are Elvis and (a black) JFK, respectively. As if that wasn't strange enough, they must save their retirement home from a centuries old mummy who has been stealing its inhabitant's souls by sucking them through their assholes. Ass jokes abound, what surprises is this film's compassion towards its thwarted protagonists. Both are reckognized for the kodgers they in fact are and does not valourized them in any way. In fact, as the film draws to a close, you are never really certain there is a mummy, that these two fogies are not merely striking at the dark. You want to believe that there is a mummy and that Ossie Davis is JFK, but the sad probability that this is all for naught causes an inspired tension with a surpisingly empathetic tinge. Everything else is, of course, plastic bugs on strings and bad Halloween costumes with lots of fake smoke. Give the Campbell fans what they want. But director Don Coscarelli decides to do a tad more than, and though it doesn't make the film good, it does defy typical genre expectations in quite a good way.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 01:04 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Like a coked up David Fincher or someone who learned subtlety from Sharon Stone, the (not really) newest native language film to flow from the pen of Luc Besson, District B-13, is a predictably good time with a tad too much purpose in its intent. Don't get me wrong, I will sing till the cows come home when it comes to the Transporter movies. I love me some stupid action. But to actually attempt at moral musings on genocide is a bit too much to ask of an action audience, particularly when it comes to the kind of spectacles that gloss over every opportune moment of Besson's canon.

In this case, the story doesn't work as well as some of his prior creations (Sadly underused here is Besson's absolutely fetishistic adoration of speedy automobiles). Too much exposition leads into a story about as flawed as stories come - which is all near coincidental if those pulse-racing moments of action mayhem deliver. The good news is, for the most part they do, and there's a bizarre amount of homosocial activity going on. Yet, the amount of cause to the film just leaves a taste of ulterior motives that sober the intoxicated glee of something like Transporter 2. In the final act, a poor plot decision cripples the dramatic tension leaving the rest of a film a let rather than come down. Thank god for the French and their Bad musical taste, because, without Da. Octopuss' trashy meth-like score, I don't think the film would have been nearly as good.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 05:11 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Amy and the gang are back for Strangers With Candy: The Movie! The nice thing is it looks as though they had full "artistic" freedom as Paul Dinello served as director. The entire cast is reassembled with a whole slew of celeb extras. We're talking Matthew Broderick, Sarah Jessica Parker, (academy award winner) Phillip Seymore Hoffman, Ian Holm, Dan Hedaya, Alison Janney and Todd Oldham (as the woodshop teacher). Early buzz is quite flattering. The film will receive a limited released in late June (though I already have preview tix, so you'll be hearing about it here first). Of course, as a tie in, the entire series will be reissued in a delightful trapper keeperbox set. Oh happy day.

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 10:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The Los Angeles film festival schedule has been posted (and though I have a bad tendency to focus on Music, here) on June 24th, there will be an evening at the LOVELY outdoor John Anson Ford Amphitheater where a screening of Lian Lunson's Leonard Cohen: I'm Your Man is preceded by a performance by Martha Wainwright (whom I have positively no opinion of) and a rare appearance by Monsieur Cohen himself. The film features performances by Nick Cave, Rufus Wainwright and Antony of Antony and the Johnsons, to name a few. This delightful little evening is a steal at $10! Just keeping you informed...

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 12:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

For anyone who hasn't had the pleasure (as most people have not), might I recommend the Thai film Tropical Malady which I watched again last night. I would say (without trying to sound too snobby) that this one is for serious film buffs only. The majesty and delerious visual delight that I find in the film, though shared by cinefile friends (and the jury at Cannes), many non film freaks do not find the same pleasures. Give it a try. Few films have left me as wonderfully bewildered at the site I had just beheld as this. It's hard to find in stores, but can be easily rented through Netflix

Posted by Bradford Nordeen at 01:17 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)