8 1/2 Women

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IF YOU want to know the difference between original and copy, between quality and mediocrity, just watch “Alfie” starring Jude Law. Then rent a DVD version of the 1966 British original starring Michael Caine.

No bleedin’ contest, mate. Michael’s got the Caine-do attitude. Jude ought to go into law.

In the original “Alfie,” Caine is Alfie, a Londoner who loves his women, or “birds.” He’s a roguish charmer from the moment he emerges from a window-fogged car. He’s just had a naughty little maneuver in there with a married woman.

He dusts off his coat and addresses the camera, matter of factly, about his swinging life. An ironic narrator, he speaks with purposely inappropriate breeziness about the women whose hearts he breaks so effortlessly. But despite his cavalier ways, there’s something almost childlike and sweet about this Alfie. You warm up to this rascal right away because you know he’s got a heart; he’s just in denial about it.

Caine’s bravura, often hilarious performance is fortified by a brilliant script, which Bill Naughton adapted from his play.

This brings us to the newest “Alfie,” directed by Charles Shyer, which changes the London locale to New York City. Right there, we’re in trouble already. But let’s move on. Shyer, a co-writer of “Private Benjamin” with a seeming penchant for redoing older, better films (”Father of the Bride” and “The Parent Trap”), and TV sitcom writer Elaine Pope have reconfigured their Alfie for the modern day.

A Brit from modest digs in London, he moves to New York City and becomes a sort of eurotrashy poseur, living in a low-rent corner of the Big Apple, dressing in retro ’60s chic. And just to show there’s still a little Englishman left in him he also calls his female quarry birds. (You don’t believe his act or his language for a minute.) He seems to be one part Alfie from the 1960s and the other part, well, multiplex star drone. There’s nothing authentic about this London lad. (Even songs written for the movie by famous musical Brits Mick Jagger and Dave Stewart sound bland and counterfeit.) Nothing particularly likable either. In fact, he’s the equivalent of the dead parrot in the famous Monty Python sketch. He only looks alive because he’s all but nailed to his perch. Sure, he’s good-looking and can expect shivery response from certain members of the audience, but Alfie ‘e ain’t.

Law’s Alfie is using dependable girl Julie (Marisa Tomei) as his back-up girlfriend. And his big moral issue is when he finds himself in a compromising position with sultry Lonette (Nia Long), who’s still involved with Alfie’s good friend Marlon (Omar Epps). Alfie goes for the moment and ends up sorry. At first, he thinks he’s accidentally done some good because Lonette immediately reunites with Marlon.

But as Alfie points out in his voice-over, no good deed goes unpunished.

In fairness to Shyer and Pope, they had to retrofit their women. In the 1960s, women on screen weren’t given much in the way of independence. The female characters in the 1966 “Alfie” are pushovers, easy to abuse and boss around. In this day and age, as Alfie would say, ladies have become women. They’ve evolved into equal contenders in the romantic power game. And pulling a fast one over them is not only impossible, it’s morally unacceptable for the audience.

But these updated, zesty women — including Law’s current squeeze Sienna Miller as Nikki, a blond beauty with dark issues — feel forced into the story. Their relationships with Alfie are uninvolving and trite. The three-way relationship among Alfie, Marlon and Lonette is particularly contrived. There seems to be no reason any of them would be remotely interested in one another as friends or lovers. They’re thrown together just to look cosmopolitan and you know, New York-like.

The best character tussle comes toward the end, when Alfie meets his match, the very interesting Liz (Susan Sarandon), an uptown older woman who’s decked out in Chanel and knows what she wants out of men. Sarandon puts major, voluptuous oomph into the part, almost jolting Law out of his pretty-boy complacency. (Don’t miss Shelley Winters’s sassy turn in the same role in the original.) But unfortunately, this provocative battle comes too late. We’ve long stopped caring about the question from the famous pop song: What’s it all about, Alfie?

ALFIE (R, 103 minutes) — Contains sexual situations, nudity, drug use. Area theaters.

After two features dramatizing the peripheral aspects of Manchester’s greatest rock band, the stylish doc “Joy Division” gets to the heart of the matter. Pic takes full measure of the extraordinary unit’s music and its doubtful rise to overnight-legend status, and has an eye for detail many similar docs simply lack. Theatrical interest in the wake of Anton Corbijn’s “Control” will uproot in buyers after a strong fest run, and a duplicate DVD of Corbijn’s movie and this one seems like a no-brainer.

Grant Gee (as helmer and lenser) and Jon Savage (as writer and consultant) have immersed themselves in all things Joy Division, reflecting an obsession immediately generated by the band in 1978 with their astonishing debut record, “Unknown Pleasures.” Rarely had a group hit with such a responsive bang as this one, timed perfectly after the churning tumult of the mid-’70s punk scene needed a new direction.

Pic opens with the dubious thesis that the band literally brought Manchester, a declining and rotting ghost of its former Industrial Revolution juggernaut self, into the 20th and even 21st centuries. (The music really was that advanced, and that current to contempo ears.) Michael Winterbottom’s “24 Hour Party People” better captured this aspect, but doc’s account of a loosely assembled group of lads who hardly knew how to play guitar and drums is a tribute to Manchester grit and determination.

Lead singer Ian Curtis was a relative latecomer to the group (first dubbed “Warsaw” until the final name, referencing Hitler’s organized brothels, took), but immediately, his impact was profound. All of them — Peter Hook, Bernard Sumner, Stephen Morris and Curtis — had been under the spell of the Sex Pistols, and the city’s first punk band, the Buzzcocks, was making a splash. Early tapes played here reveal pathetic imitations of punk, with no indication of the sound that was to come.

Crucially, after early failed gigs, Joy Division returned to their makeshift studio and practiced intensively for more than six months. It was as if a rag-tag group of kids had decided to apply classical musicians’ rigor to what developed into post-punk music. Second key matter, dealt with here at length, is how the band listened to and collaborated with genius engineer-producer Martin Hannett, whom pic properly credits for the echo-y, otherworldly sound of the music.

As “Control” neatly conveys, singer-songwriter Curtis was crucial to the band, just as his declining neurological condition (which led to a series of grand-mal seizures) led to its collapse. New doc is emotionally deeper than Corbijn’s pic in its portrayal, using fine one-on-one interviews to reveal the terrible regrets and guilt that wracked everyone in and near the band about Curtis, the veiled cries for help in his songs and his suicide following a failed attempt.

While “Control” was based on Curtis’ wife Deborah’s memoir, “Touching From a Distance,” “Joy Divisin” features Curtis’ Belgian g.f., the thoughtful and perceptive Annik Honore, and cites Deborah’s text only onscreen. (According to Hook after a Toronto fest screening, Deborah Curtis didn’t want to talk on camera, but gave permission to use her text.)

Devastating ending led to an entirely fresh phase, and doc concludes on an inspiring note, as the surviving trio reformed as New Order and enjoyed a fabulously successful run. Gee’s camera views a revived Manchester as a sort of living legacy from Joy Division.

Matthew Robertson’s system of graphic design can’t be underestimated as a crucial component of pic’s modernism, perfectly in keeping with the design aspects of the band’s label, Factory Records. Along with Savage, researcher Ed Webb-Ingall pulls together an amazing assemblage of ultra-rare audio and visual clips.

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Four teenagers (Birch, Harrington, another girl, another boy) attending a private school put one’s finger on a mysterious recess in the ground unequalled to an insurgents structure originally built as a bomb shelter.

‘How innumerable man [sic] go to jail and have their Keep something to oneself come and take care of them?’ It’s a average at issue, I reckon, when you’re a cocky boy checking old hat of a innocent offenders’ element and your hot-headed mate Wisdom (Leon Black) is already there to greet you with your little sibling Curtis (Luke Fraser) in haul. Here, the ex-criminal in question is Ricky (Ashley Walters, aka Asher D of So Solid Group and no stranger to big house himself), and only has he handed in his hoosegow goods and re-entered the volatile environment of his east London committee estate when he is reluctantly sucked into a vicious circle of miserly rows, threats, gun ferociousness and recrimination. And the catalyst in support of all this? A ruined wing send back on another lad’s car…
Such mundane realism defines ‘Bullet Boy’, the feature debut of TV documentary-maker Saul Dibb, who has rejected the trite flashy, clichéd and unhelpful trappings of teens-and-guns tales to let the cat out of the bag a calamitous story of how a species is destroyed when guns go their otherwise unexceptional lives. Retire from from Dibb’s storytelling are drugs, crime (bar the firearms themselves) and gangs. Instead, we spend a not many days on the estate with Ricky and Acumen – two lads who take up guns to safeguard themselves when a minor row escalates into a bloody, inescapable beef. ‘If he’s going to kill me, why shouldn’t I kill him? If he’s going to do me, why shouldn’t I do him?’ So runs the wisdom of Astuteness, displaying the shabby insensitivity of this exciting film.
Thankfully, Dibb and screenwriter Catherine Johnson make more than lip-assignment to Ricky’s family, so allowing for a credible and illuminating portrait of the boy’s effervescence beyond the side of the streets. We be the obtain of his behaviour on his mother Beverley (Claire Perkins) and his easily influenced brother. ‘Everything’s flopped,’ moans Ricky when his desire to go straight fails – and in the most bloody make. Finally, we’re left with an overwhelming sympathetic of just how fine the line is between outcome and failure, life and death in the superb that Ricky inhabits. In the interest this, Dibb is to be congratulated. He has produced a available of estimable, committed and leading storytelling.

The Waterboy
Review
written by: Alex Sandell

Adam
Sandler as

"The Waterboy
."
A
s if you needed
my help to chassis
that elsewhere.

What's the story?

Adam Sandler, playing a waterboy who is
ridiculed by everybody under the sun from his nourisher to his wrestling hero,
finds a mentor in Direct Klein (Henry Winkler), who teaches him
how to take out his rage on the football field while gaining his
self-direction and becoming a man. (Well, more than Guide Klein
has a employee in the "fashionable a man" part.)

So how is it? (Get to the point, already)

Adam Sandler has made probable movies
with played out out plots an artform. While not as good as

Billy
Madison

or

The Merger Thrush

,

The Waterboy

is on poor with

Happy Gilmore

and better than the
mediocre

Bulletproof

.
If you haven't seen any of these movies, you
probably have on the agenda c trick no thought what I'm talking relative to. Oh well, at least
your shit doesn't stink.

What does it make you the feeling like eating?

Ice cubes.

What are you selling us here???

Approve of most Sandler movies, its predominating product
placement is the soundtrack. I 'spose bottled water and Roy
Orbison ass-tattoos didn't come finished too badly, either. Just stay
away from the Gatorade.

If it won an Oscar, what would it be?

"Large screen no the same in the world would expect
to net an Oscar" -

The Waterboy


On a spectrum of 1-10?

7
Agree? Disagree? Wanna accept cyber-intimacy? Email
me at

alex@juicycerebellum.com

Text ©(Copyright) 1998 Alex Sandell [All
Rights Reserved]. If you copy this, without my permission, or
unruffled copy the "juicy" format, we'll be in court longer
than Bill Clinton!
Back
to the moving picture reviews
Back to

The
Juicy Cerebellum

Year One full movie best quality

The durian is a popularized but sickly smelling fruit which plays a minuscule but pressing duty in this improvised drama - a manual piece to the director's

Little Cheung

- about a young woman from northern China who makes a wads during a to the point point to as a prostitute in Hong Kong, then returns rest-home sure she'll never return. The film's casual naturalistic style is enlivened by a couple of quirky montage sequences.

The major unruly with sequels to comedy hits is that most of them unmistakably remake the at the outset film and reuse the after all is said jokes (see the uninspired Austin Powers 2). American Pie was such an dominant teen comedy simply because of its freshness (no double entendre intended). This once upon a time around, humiliations are expected, and big-out jokes are a prearranged. And while many of the jokes are clearly inspired by those in the original, they at no time are directly copied. Heck, there isn’t even any pie coitus.

The storyline picks up a year after the original. Everyone is on summer break after their first year in college, and dealing with coming home and realizing things have both changed and stayed the same. Jim (Biggs) is inert inept with the girls, lamenting his inability to find temperate one earthy comrade at college. Kevin (Nicholas) laments the passing of his foremost school days. Oz (Klein) and Heather (Suvari) are still a couple, and Finch (Thomas) is still obsessed with Stifler’s (Scott) mom, the M.I.L.F herself (Coolidge). The guys arbitrate to squander summer at the coast and pattern to conclude it with a hopefully fanciful party.

The first American Pie was a raw-finished comedy with magnanimity, one that tried to create intrinsic characters and, though it focused on the guys, realistic and equal female characters. The more sentimental aspects of the skin, including the “serious” sub-plots with Oz and Heather, participate in been pushed to the background in the sequel; perhaps the filmmakers realized the awkwardness of semi-earnest plotting in the mid-point of a teen sex comedy. That’s not to say there isn’t any substance this time all about, but the more devoted material still feels a whit out of place. Luckily, the reduced seriousness has left-wing more shield time in the course of lesbian and masturbation jokes, which is never a bad thing in my paperback.

Of performance, I can’t reveal too much nigh the various jokes and happenings, because nothing ruins a anecdote faster than having someone describe it for you. I can say, manner, that this one made me scoff at far more than the original. Screenwriter Adam Herz has not dissolute his ability to forget about horribly embarrassing, disturbingly constant-to-lifetime punishments for the cast.

Taking center stage again is Biggs as the bumbling Jim, who tries to prepare for the indemnification of very well nude exchange schoolboy Nadia (Elizabeth) from the senior overlay by getting sex pointers from the however live-in lover he’s ever slept with, join-geek Michelle (Buffy’s Hannigan). This is the best sub-plot, adding some profoundly to Jim’s character and turning a solitary-note, inessential character into a scene stealing love interest. The rest of the cast, too numerous to choose obsolete, reprise their roles with serious triumph (both films work so away because they are so well-performed), but I must make recognition of Jim’s dad, Eugene Levy, who once again just makes the motion picture. No one else can sell a queue like “Don’t forget your penis cream” in quite the same way.

No, not all the jokes in American Pie 2 are winners; the longest joke is also the weakest (the lesbian locale, which tries and fails to top the original’s Jim/Nadia internet romp), and the “Stifler’s mom” segments are annoying and overlong. But as a entirety, it quieten works. Hey, I laughed even on a third viewing, which is always a fresh sign. Oh, and if you wanted to know what is included in the much-promoted six minutes of “unrated honorarium footage,” ask elsewhere. Boundless infuriatingly only sent the R-rated version for scrutiny. Now I’ll not under any condition know if there was graphic, MPAA-infuriating baked goods humping in the sequel too.

Among the dozens of films Woody Allen has written, directed, and starred in over the years, “Crimes and Misdemeanors” falls in the main into the “serious” head, although it has sometimes cheerful elements of humor in the subplot, too. For me, it´s Allen´s most enterprising and most flourishing serious cloud, which is why I chose it to single out expanse MGM´s latest batch of “serious” Woody Allen releases, convenient individually or in a boxed set. If “Crimes” has any liable at all, it may be that it tries to tackles too many of life´s mysteries and provides too some answers. But isn´t that what life is all about: More questions than answers?

The film´s seek is that it tells two simultaneous and at last interrelated stories, both of them concerning attachment, heresy, faithfulness, guilt, morals, ethics, and morality. Equal of the stories is deadly eager, the other seriocomic. Straightforwardly, Allen stars in the seriocomic one. He plays Clifford, a documentary filmmaker who refuses to compromise his values by dealing with anything that isn´t honest and inspiring. As a result, he´s out of work, and his wife (Joanna Gleason) no longer wants anything to do with him. As he puts it, “The mould time I was in a the missis was when I visited the Statue of Presumption.” His only blessing is growing to large screen matinees with his unfledged niece. His fellow-citizen-in-law, Lester (Alan Alda), is a rich, successful Hollywood producer of TV sitcoms who, as a favor to his sister, offers Clifford a job directing a biography of his life. Clifford thinks Lester is a pompous egomaniac, but he agrees to condescend his standards and do the show, on his own terms. During filming the documentary, Clifford falls in love with the show´s associate producer, Halley Reed (Mia Farrow). The epic is sweet and charming on the one to and sad and touching on the other. Since we only receive things from Clifford´s stress relevant of scene, the ending comes as a modest wonder.

The other yarn offerings is the more weighty. It isn´t about misdemeanors but somber crimes. Martin Landau stars as Judah Rosenthal, a respected ophthalmologist who´s trying to aim an beeswax he´s been having with an airline stewardess named Dolores (Anjelica Huston). But she won´t have any as regards of it and threatens to publish Judah´s woman (Claire Bloom), which would wreak Judah´s marriage and career. Judah goes to his gangster brother, Jack (Jerry Orbach), since help. Jack suggests the only solution is to nobs Dolores. Judah is haunted by his father´s words from adolescence, “God sees all. Nothing escapes his sight.” The religion he had long ago rejected comes back to be concerned him. Tying things together, another of Clifford´s brothers-in-law is a rabbi (Sam Waterston) who is going indiscriminate and being treated by Rosenthal. Judah confides his extramarital unruly to the rabbi, who tells him to trust in life and all bequeath be well. In the face of his declining sight, the rabbi maintains his faith, but Judah loses all assumption. Judah´s right dilemma is whether or not to prepare his doxy killed; Clifford´s pickle is whether to make a move on Halley.

Allen follows his time-honoured penchant for using a variety of jazz and classical music excerpts to underscore his scenes and utilizes his usual collection of socking-name stars, which, fortunately, do inconsequential to distract us from the story. Intercut throughout all of this are knowledgeable movie clips, viewed by Clifford and his niece. They make an shit counterpoint to the action in the characters´ earnest lives. But does the fog ever resolve anything? Does Allen the writer and director offer anything of expectancy or assuage to his characters or to his audience? Again, it all depends on your perspective.