Oceania is at in combat with Eurasia; Tremendous Brother watches from every wall. Screens beam processed messages into every shoddy flat, while loudspeakers blare league rumours on every thoroughfare. It’s 1984 in a London where Winston Smith (John Hurt) works at Minrec re-writing the good old days; rewriting accomplished newspaper stories to fit the latest corrected truth. When a fellow worker, Julia (Suzanna Hamilton) passes him a secret note with the words ‘I love you’ they begin a dangerous, illicit relationship, defying the party and Big Fellow-creature with their love – and by eating strawberry force, almost always silent over the extent of inner party members (who even have servants). Sniffing around suspiciously is the brutally cynical O’Brien (Richard Burton) from the inner party…And the Observation Police are wide.

Twentieth Century-Fox lost no time in bringing the US Marines’ prosperous Solomon Islands campaign to the screen (it was the at the start notable victory of the Pacific war). Respected at the values bright and early for the treatment of its authenticity, Seiler’s film no longer seems exceptionally remarkable, featuring the usual span-section of pleasant American types (with a heroic chaplain at their head) as they go about their business. The exile is better than most, and it is impressively staged, given that location filming actually took place in Camp Pendleton, California. (From the post by Richard Tregaskis.) TCh.

After the charming delights of Tucci’s Jumbo Unendingly, this knockabout ’30s farce comes as a severe disappointment. Its intentions are made unblemished from the opening credits sequence: with its trend and intertitles recalling soundless movies, hapless span Arthur (Tucci) and Maurice (Platt) vie to play the ‘death scene’ in requital for one of their cons. Two scarceness-stricken thesps, they load away as stewards on the ‘Continental’ liner to escape a charge of aggression on a boozy, talentless English thea- trical knight (Molina), no greater than as regards the great man to appear, cops in tow. This is distictly old- fashioned cost, with Foundation-grow older capers and dastardly disguises, systematized at the edge of self-mimicry, ham with egg on the impudence. In scenes that blend the worst of Agatha Christie with the ignoblest of Brian Rix, cameos into a-plenty, each more embarrassing than its forerunner. Plots hatch, robberies occur, deceitfulness descends, lies are plied – our spirits falter.

2 Fast 2 Furious

ACTION:

2003-06-06

1:43

PG-13 (Violence, Profanity, Sexual Situations)

2.35:1

Paul Walker, Tyrese, Eva Mendes, Cole Hauser, Chris 'Ludacris' Bridges, Thom Barry, James Remar, Devon Aoki

John Singleton

Michael Brandt & Derek Haas

Matthew F. Leonetti

David Arnold

Universal Pictures

There's good news and bad news about

2 Fast 2 Furious

, the moronic follow-up to


The Fast and the Furious


and a contender for the worst movie of 2003. The good news is that it's better, albeit marginally, than

Freddy Got Fingered

. The bad news is that it's 15 minutes longer.

I understand the reasons underlying the existence of this pathetic excuse for a motion picture.

The Fast and the Furious

was unexpectedly successful, and, these days, whenever a movie speeds into the realm of being profitable, a sequel must follow, as surely as thunder follows lightning (and sometimes almost as quickly). The question I have is how and why anyone would approve

this

particular sequel. The mind-numbing stupidity of Hollywood decision-makers never ceases to amaze me. Tastelessness and mediocrity may be recipes for multiplex success, but I can't believe that even a car-obsessed teenage boy would enjoy this atrocity. The only reason any non-lobotomized movie-goer will see

2 Fast 2 Furious

is because of its association with its well received predecessor. On its own merit, this movie should have bypassed theaters, video stores, and cable on its straight-to-the-garbage dump spinout.

In terms of casting, almost every imaginable error was made. Instead of Vin Diesel, we have model-turned-actor Tyrese, whose performance gives model-turned-actors a bad name. (Diesel reportedly backed out of

2 Fast 2 Furious

because its production schedule conflicted with that of

XXX

. More likely, he read this script and realized that appearing in the movie would be tantamount to committing professional suicide.) Instead of Michelle Rodriguez and Jordana Brewster, we're stuck with Eva Mendes, whose expression makes her look like she's constantly trying to twist a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue. And, instead of jettisoning Paul Walker for someone with a scintilla of acting ability, the filmmakers have force-fed us Paul Walker. The guy sounds like Keanu Reeves, but, next to him, the Stiff One has the range and panache of Sir Anthony Hopkins.

So, cut to the chase, you say? And that's precisely the problem.

2 Fast 2 Furious

is basically one unending chase with occasional pauses for bad dialogue, tissue paper thin character development, and an occasional shot of a woman in a bikini. (As expected with a PG-13 movie, the T&A quotient is so low that it's hardly worth mentioning.) The car chases in

The Fast and the Furious

were, well, fast and furious. They had style. They got the adrenaline pumping. In contrast, the ones here are boooooooooring. The Indianapolis 500 ? with cars going around and around in circles ? has more action, excitement, and suspense (and you don't know from the beginning who's going to win). Director John Singleton must have studied how to drain all the energy from a chase/race before embarking upon this project. Plus, he tries to spice things up by showing us lots of close-ups of feet, hands, and eyes (rather than following the actual races), but all that does is get us wondering about the fleck of loose makeup on Walker's left lid.

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I believe there is supposed to be a plot. I say "believe" because every once in a while, there's a break in the so-called action so a character can speak a few lines of expository dialogue. I spent most of the movie utterly confused, primarily because I was trying to use my brain to figure out what was transpiring. I believe it is necessary to become catatonic in order to cut through the guano that director John Singleton and screenwriters Michael Brandt & Derek Haas have piled on.

This is about the best summary I can generate. Brian O'Connor (Walker) is back. He's not a cop any more, but that doesn't stop a bunch of Feds from getting him to work undercover. So, in order not to be alone (the filmmakers, in a rare moment of lucidity, apparently realized that there was no way Walker would be able to carry the film on his own), he recruits an old buddy, Roman Pearce (Tyrese), who has a score to settle with Brian. The two of them infiltrate the evil empire of drug czar Carter Verone (Cole Hauser) by becoming his drivers. Already in place is an undercover cop, Monica Clemente (Eva Mendes), who is playing the part of Verone's mistress. Beyond that, things start getting murky. The ultimate point, I suppose, is for Brian and Roman to stay alive and deliver Verone to the cops. If they do this, their criminal records will be expunged and they will be free men.

The question "Who cares?" is a valid one, but a more pointed query might be "Who would spend money to see this movie?" The answer is "Anyone who doesn't pay attention to word of mouth." Admittedly, one never expects a film ? even a sequel to a less-than-stellar first picture ? to be this awful. One might have suspected that

2 Fast 2 Furious

would be tepid and vapid, but not rancid. Anticipating quality from a summer blockbuster may be asking for too much, but is it driving too hard a bargain to hope for entertainment? Judging by

2 Fast 2 Furious

, the answer is yes. This movie only takes a few minutes to crash and burn, but more than an hour and a half to realize it.

Effects overpower Angelina & Co.

By

Duane Dudek

of the Journal Sentinel

Posted: June 27, 2008

Angelina Jolie brings mystery to "Wanted."

Movie Details

Dudek On Smokescreen
Journal Sentinel picture critic Duane Dudek offers his go on with on the state of the big world.

GO TO BLOG

One of the world’s most kinetically inventive genre directors is someone most Americans have never heard of.

However, his fantasy films "Night Watch" and "Day Watch" were two of the biggest-budget and highest-grossing Russian films ever made.

And while "Wanted," his much ballyhooed American debut, is crafted in their image, it is without their culturally distinctive sense of the bizarre or their playful embellishments; in the second film even the subtitles had a life of their own.

"Wanted," adapted from a series of graphic novels and directed by Timur Bekmambetov, is a poetically violent, mythologically murky and digitally slick homage to "The Matrix" films. "Wanted" succeeds in making a strong impression rather than a lasting one.

Like the "Watch" films – and the "Harry Potter" stories, for that matter – it is about a battle between good and evil stretching back a millennium and going on sight-unseen right before our eyes.

However, if it's true that "Wanted" pre-empted a third film in the Russian trilogy, that is disappointing news.

Because as convoluted as the second film in that series was, its apocalyptic uncertainty also contained a grain of urgency, a dash of humor and a sense of humanity.

By comparison, the all-too-familiar "Wanted" is the special-effects equivalent of the Western aphorism, "all hat and no cattle."

It spins, swaggers, buzzes and bleeds, generally impressively, but also without a clarity of purpose beyond its overwrought comic-book roots.

It is the story of a group of assassins and the purposeless young man they recruit. He is a drone in a cubicle, unaware that he is really the son of one of their own.

Before they contact him, his pointless and frustrating home and work life is played out in "Fight Club" fashion, with interior narration and exaggerated perspectives, until it pops like a soap bubble.

The pin that pricks it is wielded by an exotic and sexy but grimly unapproachable assassin played by Angelina Jolie, who recruits him for an assignment for which neither of them is prepared.

These super-human assassins, by the way, are also weavers – not like the 1950s folk group, but the sort that make tapestries.

And buried in the warp and woof of the fabrics they produce is a binary code that – once translated by their leader, played by Morgan Freeman – contains the identity of their supposedly deserving victims.

Where it comes from and how it gets there is at the heart of the story.

When, after surviving a brutal training regime, the recruit, played by James McAvoy, questions the anonymous killing he has been assigned, he is reminded of the group's motto: "Kill one, save a thousand."

It is an appealing, high-minded and familiar-sounding rationale that events prove hollow.

There are several spectacular scenes – such as Jolie and McAvoy crouched atop an elevated train like gargoyles, and a spectacular mountain-top train derailment.

And McAvoy's discovery that he may have entered a phantom world resembles a similar epiphany by Edward Norton in "Fight Club."

But where Bekmambetov's Russian films were cryptic and dense, his English-language debut is a moody video game punctuated by digital hyperbole: slow-motion blood splatter, fast-motion chase scenes and bullets bending corners like Beckham.

The result is dazzling, but watch out for epileptic seizures.

Perhaps I have digital-effects fatigue, but their use in "Wanted" felt gratuitous and unimaginative, as if a story was developed in their image, rather than the other way around.

However, Bekmambetov is a clever guy and a force to be reckoned with. "Wanted" should heighten his profile and fatten his paycheck.

E-mail:

ddudek@journalsentinel.com

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Whatever the merits of Michael Reeves’ bleak The Witchfinder General (U.S. title: The Conqueror Worm, 1968), the attainment of that picture spawned a mini-genre of imitators, the most fabled assuredly being the West German origination Note of the Beast (Hexen bis aufs Blut gequalt, 1970), which takes Reeves’ then-fashionable hopelessness and appalling scenes of inhuman torture a variety of steps further. But it doesn’t enlarge on that film’s themes, only the degree of its torture.

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The argument could be made that Mark of the Devil splits the Vincent Price’s title character in Witchfinder General — a man so obsessed with purging evil from the world that he becomes evil himself — into three church-appointed witch-burners in various degrees of moral degradation. The picture opens with busty barmaid Vanessa (Olivera Vuco) threatened by sadistic local witchfinder Albino (the cadaverous Reggie Nalder who, despite his name, isn’t albino but rather flush-faced, suntanned even). Albino tries to have his way with Vanessa, warning her, “I could have you denounced as a witch!”

Strong-willed Vanessa will have none of it, however: “It’s the only way you could ever get a woman!” Ouch! With that, Albino is ready to burn her at the stake, but then word comes that Albino’s local authority is being usurped by esteemed witch hunter Count Cumberland (Herbert Lom), whose arrival has been preceded by a disciple, Count Christian von Meruh (Udo Kier). Christian puts a stop to Albino’s persecution of Vanessa, she and Christian instantly fall in love, and she plants the seeds of doubt on Christian’s career choice by asking him how he’d feel if his mother were charged with witchcraft.

Later, Count Cumberland arrives and though distinguished looking and well-mannered, proves no better than Albino. Albino, in league with an even crueler executioner (Herbert Fux), is aware of Christian’s relationship with Vanessa and gets the latter charged with witchcraft. As it finally dawns on Christian that his teacher’s feet are made of clay and that maybe torturing people left and right isn’t such a good thing after all, he finds himself is condemned by his former teacher. (In this film, people always blurt out the wrong thing at the wrong time, such as a puppeteer’s boast that his marionettes say “the most devilish things!” When will they ever learn?)

Mark of the Devil is a mess of a picture. A relentless cruelty hangs over the film, one without any insight. Horrifying executions are plentiful and arbitrary, when they don’t explicitly feed the sexual aberrations or greed of those supposedly meting out justice. Count Cumberland uses his power to steal property from the likes of Baron Daume (Michael Maien), all in the name of the church, or to violently vent his sexual impotence. Herbert Lom, as he often was, is very good in these scenes, but the character is a woefully limited one.

Udo Kier’s disciple is not believable. Though an interesting homosexual subtext is suggested through his blind devotion to Cumberland, Christian’s sudden moral turnabout is patently absurd. He’s been working in Cumberland’s torture chambers for three years, yet never has questioned the morality of their actions? In the real world, Christian would long ago have been numbed of any humanity; in the film, Christian is simply pathetically naive.

Really though, all of this is merely an excuse for the movie’s plentiful scenes of graphic torture. Some may find such gore-for-its-own sake titillating, and this was clearly the aim of its backers, to sell the film as a gore fest (vomit bags were helpfully provided for its U.S. release). Films like this split horror fans down the middle: some will want to see it for these scenes alone; others will debate suffering through its unsavory sections hoping these will be offset with something actually worthwhile.

But there isn’t, not really, and the picture’s still-gruesome if varied mutilations — the most infamous involves ripping out a woman’s tongue — are, by their nature, highly ironic. On one hand audiences are supposed to react with disgust at the sadism of Albino and his depraved executioner, yet the long, loving close-ups of victim Gaby Fuch’s bloody, naked body on the rack (with blood-spurting fingers crushed in thumbscrews) is unpleasantly voyeuristic.

The picture is alternately well-directed and shoddy, possibly due to the use of two directors: Englishman Michael Armstrong and Austrian Adrian Hoven (who also plays the doomed puppeteer). For instance, the build-up to Cumberland’s introduction is shrewdly done. In the first third everyone talks about him with both fear and respect, and Lom’s face is obscured as his coach finally arrives at his castle. But all of this careful anticipation is blown when the picture abruptly cuts to Cumberland’s first day in court, in which Lom’s face is first seen in a long shot, nearly lost in a crowded courtroom.

The film’s timeless locations evoke the era nicely, while making it look a lot more expensive that it was. The IMDB cites Castle Moosham in Salzburg, while Gaby Fuchs mentions Mauterndorf and Vienna. For such a low budget film, Mark of the Devil has lots of costumed extras, but the bad dubbing generally makes them seem ridiculous, speaking lines like “Oh, I enjoy a good witch-burning once in a while!” in the most cartoonish of voices.

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Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

Harkens back to a simpler time in baseball, where there were no steroids
just eccentric players. In 1960 Anthony Perkins played a deranged motel
clerk in Psycho, but a few years before that he took batting practice for
that role by playing a deranged ball player in the 1957 Fear Strikes Out.
It’s based on the true story of Jimmy Piersall (Anthony Perkins), a star
centerfielder for the Boston Red Sox. It makes an error on the baseball
part such as getting the Red Sox manager wrong — falsely telling us Joe
Cronin is the manager instead of Pinky Higgins (Cronin was the general
manager). But it gets its melodramatic story right of a child growing up
in a needy Waterbury, Connecticut Catholic household with a domineering
father John (Karl Malden), whom he wanted to please at all costs, and a
mentally unstable mother (Perry Wilson). 

Interestingly enough, the film came out in 1957 in the prime of Piersall’s
illustrious fifteen year baseball career (Piersall’s breakdown took place
in 1952 and he fully recovered in 1953 after being institutionalized; in
1954 he became the regular centerfielder taking over for Dom DiMaggio).
The great fielder and fiery ballplayer finished his career a much looser
person. His career was characterized by numerous zany stunts, including
hiding behind the monuments at Yankee Stadium while with the Indians and
running backward around the bases after hitting his 100th career homer
as a Met in 1963. Upon retirement he became a baseball announcer for the
Chicago White Sox, but the outspoken and controversial Piersall was ultimately
fired for criticizing management.

Robert Mulligan (”Up the Down Staircase”/”Bloodbrothers”) makes his
film debut after doing TV dramas. He makes this baseball tale into a clinical
drama involving a father and son conflict, with heavy Freudian Oedipal
implications over the son’s delicate psyche and the father’s tyrannical
behavior of never easing up from pressuring him to succeed in baseball.
It’s based on the autobigraphy of Jimmy Piersall as written by sports journalist
Al Hirschberg; the writers are Ted Berkman and Raphael Blau. It was the
first of seven Mulligan collaborations with Perkins, though the two worked
together previously on TV.

It traces Jimmy’s childhood days of dedicating his life to improving
his skills in baseball, following his father’s dreams to play for the Red
Sox, getting signed to a minor league contract by the Red Sox, while with
the Scranton club marrying local girl nurse Mary (Norma Moore) and getting
called up to the Bigs by general manager Cronin. Piersall freaks out when
told by Cronin he’s to play shortstop because the team has too many good
outfielders. The pressure finally gets to Piersall and he goes ape on the
field after hitting a homer. Treated at the mental institution by Dr. Brown,
it’s uncovered that his battle with schizophrenia is due to his father’s
aggressive and autocratic behavior. It only points out the obvious and
probes no further, but it was well-acted by a sensitive Perkins and was
entertaining.

By the term you give birth to finished reading this sentence, you be dressed already invested far too much forthwith in Jake Step on the gas, directed by Andrew Lane, and co-written and produced by Lane and unequalled Wayne Crawford, writers of 1983’s Valley Girl. The basis isn’t bad: a soft part fiction hero comes to life to smell down a missing Freulein in Africa, but the execution should be suffering with been of the skipper, not the film.

While travelling in Europe, two young girls are kidnapped by transpacific gunmen. Back in the U.S. the relatives of one of the girls are upset with the lack of evolve being made through seemly channels. While a cleric prays for her return, grandpa (Leon Ames) suggests that finding the girl is a position for Jake Timeliness, the hero in a series of pulp affray novels. The family dismisses the idea as the rantings of an old man, but Margaret Winston (Karen Kopins) blames herself for suggesting her sister see a tour of Europe, so is intrigued when she gets a note to meet Mr. Speed at a seedy shut up if she a day wants to see her sister Maureen alive again. Of course, she drags her reluctant comrade Wendy (Donna Pescow, Saturday Night Fever) along for the ride, and eventually meets Jake Velocity (Wayne Crawford) and his accomplis, Desmond Floyd (Dennis Christopher), who insist she obligation join them in Africa to find her sister. She does, exclusively to find that the country they are in is on the be asymptotic to of civil war. After being set up as a decoy intended to show the way Give a leg up and company to the slave traders holding her sister, she begins to fluctuate whether the gink is for bona fide or not. After miraculously surviving a skirmish in which the walls of their hotel compartment are shot insensible, the threesome make their nature to a remote barn, where some piece of clumsy tack is supposed to can up. Figuring she’s been duped, Margaret steals off while the men are asleep, and is picked up by some Americans who inform her that all foreigners are being evacuated. She is also informed that Jake and Desmond are imposters… will she till the cows come home find her sister?

Who cares! I surmise financing a film is as consumable a way as any to develop a foremost hamper, but in this dusting Wayne Crawford has the charisma of a rock. There was future in the script, as some of the lines and setups could bring into the world worked in the hands of a more convincing leash with more advisedly way, but here the film falls flat on its intimidate, trying to be humorous and failing miserably. It also doesn’t sound to be written for the straight audience, as the language and degree of violence would block it from showing to the younger male audience that might write off bad acting and pathetic comedic timing. It is bald-faced that a pleasant amount of mazuma was worn out on this, as the production values, while not outstanding, would certainly command a high price for the a variety of battle sequences with lots of explosions and special effects. I force say that Karen Hopins is the only urge to alert the integument, but ordered she is directed into delivering a highly mediocre performance. Even John Hurt, who shows up extreme too news in the coating as the bad guy, can’t preserve it.

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While the message of the film is that if you assume in something unyielding enough, it will happen, its whole outcome is down the drain on bad performances. As the case may be the producers didn’t believe they could make a good movie. What could have made an interesting gamble film is poorly handled in Jake Speed. Can I gladden have my two hours in times past?

A Hollywood agent has to deal with a cheating wife, a sickly father, a violent lowlife, and a client he wants

really

bad.

Fresh off the surprisingly solid THE UPSIDE OF ANGER, writer / director / actor Mike Binder turns around with a quick follow-up … and one kinda wishes he hadn't bothered. Despite a potentially juicy concept and a large stable of colorful performers, MAN ABOUT TOWN is about as unpleasantly schizophrenic as a movie can be.

Affleck's character is, I think, supposed to be a sympathetic guy, but he's really just a spoiled jerk, which makes it tough to build much affection for the character. And while all of the guy's problems increase with every passing scene, nothing in the flick feels more like broad farce. The emotional scenes are entirely bereft of sincerity — and the extra-silly stuff just sort of lies there on the screen. (A sequence involving a Chinatown chase is a real head-scratcher.)

As a satire, the movie fares even worse. A few stray swipes at The Hollywood Machine find their mark, but there's only so much humor to be mined from the shallowness and manipulation on display here. ("Big" gags include Affleck with creepy false teeth and Rebecca Romijn leaping across an office desk.) And when things slow down and "get serious," the movie becomes puddle-deep and irritating. The cast is not to blame; it's the half-baked and aimless screenplay.

Anamorphic widescreen transfer, which looks quite good. Aurally we get Dolby Digital 5.1 or 2.0, with optional subtitles in English and Spanish.

Visual Journaling

is a standard 12-minute talking-head-fest in which Affleck, Stamos, Adam Goldberg, Gina Gershon, John Cleese and others talk about how great the movie is, how awesome Mike Binder is, and all that jazz.

Talk to My Agent

is a 3-minute piece in which some of the actors talk about … agents.

Also included are nine

deleted scenes

, a

blooper reel

and some

trailers

.

Binder's made some really fine movies and some curiously weak ones; my opinion is that this one falls firmly in the latter group.

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This commencement commercial feature by a former subway cloud-maker offers a heady, if finally muddled, combination of globs of horror and social criticism. Undeterred by its exploitation set-up, uninterrupted the British censor discerned a moral to the tale and passed it uncut. Best is the by the by Cronenberg deliberately manipulates his phony exile and suave visuals, whose plastic surfaces burst forth to reveal their repressions and taboos beneath; slug-sort parasites (a mix of aphrodisiac and gonorrhoeic disease) excitement to a luxury tower block, turning the inhabitants into sex-craving zombies. But completely what is its moral? One suspects Cronenberg is laughing up his sleeve, as some (like the censor) infer from Shivers as an attack on permissiveness, while others stomach it as an indictment of the everything of modern society. Often, setting aside how, the smokescreen stops inconsiderable cut off of wholesale disgust at the human condition. Misanthropic, undeniably, but the hellish humour and inclusive inventiveness place it high above most synchronous detestation pictures.

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