modestly budgeted youth pic is a poor man's and partially musicalized
Rebel without a Cause with a touch of The Warriors thrown in. Rebellious
newcomer James Spader is the James Dean character and saucy gang moll
Kim Richards is the Natalie Wood character.
They go through social and romantic hell for each other and, in the
process, a large slice of suburban LA and uncomprehending parenthood
embellish a story that is deceptively compelling despite, in this
case, a distracting mix of comedy and music. Latter, which includes
on-screen appearances by the LA band Jack Mack and Heart Attack and
rocker Jim Carroll, gives the production a socking sound.
The on-screen music, however, lurches the film off balance, especially
combined with unexpected and dramatically jarring numbers by the two
stars (Spader materializing as a balladeer in a country club and Richards
whirling into an aerodynamic disco dancer).
Robert Downey is a fresh surprise in a nice sidekick role, and Olivia
Barash and Catya Sassoon (the daughter of Vidal Sassoon) lend able
-- Variety Staff
in Pink is a rather intelligent (if not terribly original) look at
Like scores of leading ladies before her, Molly Ringwald is the proverbial
pretty girl from the wrong side of the tracks, called to a motherless
life with down-on-his-luck dad (Harry Dean Stanton) and the misfortune
to have to attend high school where the rich kids lord it over the
That's enough to make any young lady insecure, even before the wealthy
nice guy (Andrew McCarthy) asks her to the senior prom. Teased by
his rich pals for slumming, McCarthy is also a bundle of uncertainties.
Moving predictably, none of this is unique drama. In the end, the
wrong guy still gets the girl, which is a lesson youngsters might
as well learn early.
Mannequin is as stiff and spiritless as its title suggests.
A mannequin (Kim Cattrall) is the latest reincarnation of an Egyptian
princess who has known Christopher Columbus and Michelangelo in her
journey through time. He's an aspiring artist working as a model maker
(Andrew McCarthy) and creator of a mannequin which has the likeness
of a woman he could easily love # if only she were real.
Night work makes strange bedfellows of McCarthy and Hollywood (Meshach
Taylor), the flamboyant near-transvestite who dresses the store windows,
and of McCarthy and Emmy (Cattrall), his mannequin. She comes alive
when they're alone together, but reverts back to her cold self if anyone
McCarthy and Cattrall certainly are an attractive couple # when she's
alive # but they don't get to do much more than kiss and dance around
the store after hours. Comic development is given over to the secondary
characters (Taylor, James Spader and the night watchman, G.W. Bailey).
1987: Nomination: Best Song ('Nothing's Gonna Stop Us Now')
it's possible, Less Than Zero is even more specious and shallow than
the Bret Easton Ellis book it is based on. There's a story somewhere
tracking the dissipated lifestyles of the super-rich, super-hip kids
and their LA haunts.
Drugs take over Julian (Robert Downey Jr), Clay (Andrew McCarthy)
avoids the scene by attending an eastern college, and his g.f. Blair
(Jami Gertz) loses her identity, which was never much to begin with.
This is where they are at the beginning of the film - and pretty much
where they are at the end.
Perhaps this wasn't the best subject matter for British director Marek
Kanievska (Another Country) to make his American debut. The feel for
this distinctly Southern California story escapes him.
Only Downey elicits the kind of sympathy to distinguish this drama
from a photojournalist essay of the kind that might run in Vanity
Fair. Of the secondary roles, James Spader as Downey's pusher is terrifically
smarmy. Unfortunately, this sick relationship doesn't become involving
until the last third of the film, when Downey really begins to fall
apart and is forced into male whoring to pay his drug debts. Visually
the picture is a treat.
A transparent and one-dimensional parable about a power-devouring female
careerist and the unwanted bundle of joy that turns her obsessive fast-track
life in Gotham upside down. Constructed almost entirely upon facile
and familiar media cliches about 'parenting' and the super-yuppie set,
Baby Boom has the superficiality of a project inspired by a lame New
York magazine cover story and sketched out on a cocktail napkin at Spago's.
J.C. Wiatt (Diane Keaton) is a dressed-for-success management consultant
whose steamroller ambition has earned this workaholic the proudly flaunted
nickname, 'Tiger Lady'. She lives in trendy high-rise splendor with
bland investment banker Steven Buchner (Harold Ramis), to whom she reluctantly
allots a four-minute slot for lovemaking before returning to late-night
Suddenly, J.C. learns that a cousin has died together with her husband
in an accident in England. J.C. is intrigued to learn that she's inherited
something from this misfortune but, to her considerable shock, this
turns out to be a precious apple-cheeked 12-month old girl, Elizabeth
(Kristina and Michelle Kennedy).
Baby Boom tries to be a lot funnier than it actually is, and handsome
production design and cinematography do little to compensate for its
annoying over-reliance on cornball action montages and a dreadfully
saccharine soundtrack score.
Lies, and Videotape
This is a sexy, nuanced, beautifully controlled examination of how
a quartet of people are defined by their erotic impulses and inhibitions.
Imaginatively presented opening intercuts the embarrassed therapy
confessions of young wife Andie MacDowell with the impending arrival
in town of James Spader, a mysterious stranger type who was a college
chum of MacDowell's handsome husband (Peter Gallagher).
Given MacDowell's admissions that she and Gallagher are no longer
having sex, it would seem that Spader is walking into a potentially
He drops a bombshell by revealing that he is impotent, seemingly scratching
any developments on that end. Meanwhile Gallagher has been conducting
a secret affair with his wife's sexy wild sister (Laura San Giacomo).
Pic is absorbing and titillating because nearly every conversation
is about sex and aspects of these attractive people's relationships.
Several steamy scenes between Gallagher and San Giacomo, and some
extremely frank videotapes featuring women speaking about their sex
lives, turn the temperature up even more.
Lensed on location in Baton Rouge, La, for $1.2 million, production
1989: Nomination: Best Original Screenplay
Charles Highway is a 19-year-old with no money problems who maps out
his sexual conquests via his desktop. He meets beautiful American
Rachel Noyce, also 19. It's love at first sight, but she already has
After a bit of frustration, he sends her a funny love message on videotape,
and she comes around. They have a steamy, passionate affair, of which
he tires all too soon. They part. End of story.
The basic material is as old as the hills, but Martin Amis, who wrote
the original novel some 15 years earlier, explored it in fresh directions.
Director Damian Harris isn't able to capture the book's special charms,
and resorts to having his young hero address the camera to keep the
viewer in the picture. Unfortunately, Dexter Fletcher is rather too
self-conscious here, and makes Charles a less than endearing hero.
On the other hand, lone Skye seizes her chances as Rachel and gives
a glowingly sensual performance. Their lengthy loves scenes together,
often in a bathtub, are certainly steamy.
Outstanding performances by Susan Sarandon and James Spader, working
from a relentlessly witty script, make White Palace one of the best
films of its kind since The Graduate (1967).
Sarandon is Nora, a 43-year-old fast-food worker who gets involved
with a 27-year-old advertising exec - the same sort of character Spader
played in Pretty in Pink, now mellowed and matured. Both have experienced
terrible loss - Max (Spader) is a widower; Nora's child has died -
and they share a magnetic sexual attraction.
Their Odd Couple differences, however, include class, religion and
hygiene (he's a buttoned-down neat freak; she's a gregarious slob)
in addition to the Mrs Robinson-esque age discrepancy.
The ferocity that director Luis Mandoki brings to the pair's early
love scenes helps establish how two people can fall into lust and
worry about love later.
Raunchy yet vulnerable, Sarandon carefully avoids the cliches that
might have been associated with Nora. Spader continues to establish
himself as star material, especially when it comes to playing self-conscious
Bad Influence proves a reasonably taut, suspenseful thriller that
provides its share of twists before straying into silliness. Rob Lowe
doesn't really project enough menace or charisma to pull off his role
as Alex, a baby-faced psycho who slowly leads Michael (James Spader)
through a liberating fantasy that ultimately turns into a yuppie nightmare.
Director and writer seem to draw their inspiration most closely from
Alfred Hitchcock's Strangers on a Train - a chance meeting between
a regular guy and an outwardly normal stranger whose hidden darkness
ultimately leads to fatal complications.
Foremost, however, the film is about Michael's seduction by Alex's
free wheeling attitude, only to find that the rewards don't come cheap.
Spader delivers a terrific performance, and some of the scenes have
tremendous impact, especially when - via video - he discovers the
depth of Alex's depravity, as fantasy turns into fatal distraction.
Director Curtis Hanson and writer David Koepp create a continued sense
of tension and invest many scenes with much-needed humor.
True Colors represents a cloyingly schematic attempt to portray the
political and moral bankruptcy of the 1980s in a neat little package.
Pic condemns but doesn't begin to analyze the corrupted values of
the Reagan years, leaving one feeling soiled but unenlightened.
Paired off at law school at the U of Virginia in 1983, James Spader
is a rich boy with the daughter of US senator Richard Widmark as a
girlfriend, while John Cusack is pretender, a social climber whose
lower-class roots are quickly exposed.
Cusack, a bluffer and something of a charmer, resolves to be elected
to Congress within 10 years. He launches a political career based
upon trickery, blackmail and betrayal, and receives backing from interests
represented by oily developer Mandy Patinkin.
Personal relationships fall by the wayside like roadkill. Having scooped
Spader's g.f. (Imogen Stubbs) out from under him, Cusack then loses
her when he stupidly threatens her powerful father.
Cusack does what he can, but the character is simply weighed down
with too much symbolic baggage. Yet again playing a privileged preppie
type, Spader is likable but suffers from his character being pushed
to the side mid-stream.
Storyville has a little trouble getting its story straight. A teeming
cesspool of illicit sex, murder, suicide, family intrigue and political
chicanery in exotic Louisiana, this would-be Chinatown is so overloaded
with outrageous implausibilities that the temptation is very strong
to consider it all a joke.
In his first big-screen direction, Mark Frost, a key force behind
Hill Street Blues and David Lynch's partner on Twin Peaks for TV,
has taken an Australian novel [Juryman by Frank Galbally and Robert
Macklin] and relocated it in New Orleans, where just about anything
James Spader plays Cray Fowler, a callow, good-looking kid trying
to carry his rich, corrupt family's tradition of political service
into a third generation. Encouraged by family patriarch Clifford Fowler
(Jason Robards) in the old-boy-network school, Cray is divorcing his
wife and seeking the support of black voters.
Cray is crazy enough to run off with the enticing Lee (Charlotte Lewis),
a Vietnamese woman he's barely met. He is obliged to fight her maniacal
father, who mysteriously winds up dead. When Lee is charged with the
murder, Cray astoundingly offers his services as defense attorney.
Opposing him will be a prosecutor (Joanne Whalley-Kilmer) who's his
Cray does so many apparently stupid things, and the many jaw-dropping
loopholes and long-shots in the first half make the film systematically
unconvincing. Whalley-Kilmer and Lewis are attractive in functional
parts, and Robards serves up an old-school blowhard to a fare-thee-well.
A sort of political "This Is Spinal Tap," "Bob Roberts"
is both a stimulating social satire and, for thinking people, a depressing
commentary on the devolution of the American political system. Caustic
docudrama about a wealthy crypto-fascist folk singer who runs for
the U.S. Senate displays the impressive multiple talents of Tim Robbins
as director, writer, actor, singer and songwriter. Unusual distribution
collaboration of Paramount and Miramax guarantees that plenty of muscle
will be put behind the domestic release, and paralleling of the actual
fall election campaign is another plus. But film's form and content
both mitigate against more than moderate B.O. breakout.
Despite its fresh observations, pic has plenty of antecedents, from
"A Face in the Crowd" and "Privilege" to "The
Candidate" and "Tanner '88." Most of the points about
the manipulation and idiocy of the media, the importance of superficial
appearances and pious down-home values in elections, and government
lies and conspiracies have been made before, but Robbins is relentless
and uncompromising in pursuit of his ideas about the depths of cynicism,
corruption and deceit involved in public life today.
Robbins plays a very plausible character, a self-assured, highly successful
singer who attempts to ride his popularity into public office. Castigated
as yuppie scum by his detractors, Roberts has secured his niche as
an anti-1960s folk artist who blames the country's ills on liberals
and the social programs of the Great Society.
Roberts' aim is to unseat longtime Pennsylvania Sen. Brickley Paiste.
In a brilliant bit of casting, this man of refined sensibility and
elegant reason is portrayed by Gore Vidal, and the fact that Vidal
himself is known to stand for most of the values his opponent is attacking
adds immeasurably to the angst of the situation.
Entire film is framed as a British TV documentary being prepared on
Roberts' campaign. Docu team not only charts Roberts' progress in
the weeks leading up to the 1990 election, being held against the
backdrop of the Desert Shield buildup, but depicts the inane TV coverage
of the race -- including sexual slander of Sen. Paiste and charges
brought against Roberts' campaign adviser and former CIA operative
Lukas Hart III (the always incisive Alan Rickman).
Dogging Roberts' heels on the campaign trail is one Bugs Raplin, a
disheveled black journalist for an underground rag called "Troubled
Times." Passionately yelling his allegations that Roberts' fortune
is tied up in drug money, funds siphoned from public housing projects,
the savings-and-loan scandal and the like , Bugs is the kind of unpresentable
kook the establishment can easily dismiss, but he ultimately becomes
involved in Roberts' political and personal fate in a surprising and
Many of the absurd trappings of the campaign process are here -- the
sound bites, appearances at beauty pageants, empty slogans, twisted
ideological meanings, mad schedules, technological overload, officious
managers -- as well as the unusual element of Roberts' singing gigs.
Tunes penned by David Robbins and Tim Robbins effectively convey the
candidate's reactionary attitudes, and latter performs them with easy
At least for some viewers, one problem will be spending all this time
with someone the filmmakers clearly intend to be loathsome and representative
of an unsavory component in American politics. That the film so successfully
states many truths about current conditions makes it a sorrowful spectacle
Another drawback is that the docu format--which is re-created somewhat
erratically--exposes only public, rather than private, moments, resulting
in a relatively one-dimensional experience, one that runs a bit long
on that. While all the points are legitimate and sharply scored, most
of them are relatively familiar, and there is an element of preaching
to the converted that will make pic a favorite of liberals and a turn-off
Still, political filmmaking in America is rare enough, so Robbins'
work is a very welcome addition to the landscape of a crazy, unpredictable
election year. Although Roberts seems based on no recognizable politician,
there are eerie reverberations of H. Ross Perot in multimillionaire
Roberts' self-financed campaign and self-characterization as a rebel
outsider intent on shaking up Washington.
Robbins is spookily dead-on projecting the candidate's bland confidence
and homogenized middle-American personality. Since they aren't playing
full-blooded characters, performers down the line must quickly assert
impressions, and most successfully do so.
Perhaps taking a cue form "The Player," Robbins has cast
a healthy number of w.k. thesps to enact cameos, most numerously as
cute, superficial and dumb TV newscasters. Largest of these roles
goes to Rickman, who is ferociously good in a part that mostly has
him issuing heated denials of major misdeeds.
Technical team has created a kind of elevated TV look that doesn't
precisely match how TV docus look but creates a good enough impression.
Music of Chance
An outstanding cast, a coolly confident style and quirky literary
material turn The Music of Chance into an auspicious feature debut
for documentary filmmaker Philip Haas. But it's ultimately more of
an intellectual tease.
Based on a tome by w.k. New York writer Paul Auster, story will be
called Kafkaesque because a hapless duo are caught in a mystifying,
virtually inescapable web. Yet, the piece has a thoroughly American
Mandy Patinkin, zipping along a rural highway in his new red BMW,
offers a lift to a bloodied drifter (James Spader). Spader convinces
him to put up $10,000 for a poker game with two rich pushovers.
The pair proceed to the splendid country estate of Charles Durning
and Joel Gray. After initial success, Spader's luck turns and he and
Patinkin are forced to agree to work off their debt by reconstructing
a medieval stone wall, a job estimated to take 50 days. Intrigue involving
delays, hidden agendas, escape attempts and possible murder envelop
the drudgery and command involvement.
But the denouement is too pat and O. Henry-ish and the characters,
too, are shallow constructs
An overly abstract mystery about the difficulty of really knowing
another person, "Dream Lover" is too rarefied for a popular
thriller and too hokey for an art film. Directorial debut of notable
screenwriter Nicholas Kazan displays more of an awareness of film's
visual possibilities than a flair for them, and while there are any
number of interesting ideas bouncing around here, pic falls between
stools both artistically and commercially. Gramercy release, which
bowed at the Cleveland Film Festival Saturday, will have a tough sled
theatrically, although prospects on cable and vid are somewhat brighter.
Bearing no relation to Alan J. Pakula's 1986 Kristy McNichol starrer
of the same name, this Propaganda production slowly generates a moderate
amount of interest through the setup but never develops much of what
can pass for a plot.
Despite a disastrous first encounter, young divorced L.A. architect
Ray (James Spader) manages to quickly win the favor of fashion model-gorgeous
Lena (Madchen Amick). Receptive as she is to his attentions, she warns
him that "I'm just a regular screwed-up person," and recognizes
that men tend to believe that they know her because they see their
fantasies realized in her lovely face and stunning body.
They marry and have kids, but after awhile Ray begins to imagine that
his wife might not be true to -- or truly with -- him. He catches
Lena in some lies, and his suspicions that she may not be who she
claims are confirmed when he tracks down her parents in rural Texas
and brings them back to California for a confrontation.
Lena plausibly responds that she had to reinvent herself to escape
her dismal past, but Ray's jealousy grows by leaps and bounds. The
stakes mount quickly thereafter through accusations and admissions
of indiscretions, betrayals and overt manipulations, all leading up
to legal proceedings and a climactic murder in a loony bin.
On their first date, Lena suggests that getting to know someone is
akin to peeling an onion, and it's true that one never knows how much
of her personality has been revealed and how much more remains to
be discovered. But without dramatic adornment or terrific surprises,
the character striptease, along with Ray's ever-escalating frustration,
isn't enough to compel unstinting viewer interest.
Lena decidedly falls into the femme fatale category, but Kazan is
operating far from neo-noir territory. Rather, he adopts a bright,
modern, highly stylized look that emphasizes designer settings, expensive
threads, lateral tracking shots, unusual editing devices and a preponderance
of close-ups that combine to create an abstract, distanced ambiance.
Idea was no doubt to fashion a kind of dream world for Ray to inhabit
with his dream woman, which makes the film interesting to watch but
also involves a considerable sacrifice of believability.
A related problem is that, even after being together for some years,
Ray and Lena still seem like strangers to a great degree, so that
their relationship hardly feels real. Unfortunately, the more the
onion is peeled, the less of it there is, leaving the picture with
little sense of conviction or substance by the end.
After his rewardingly offbeat outing in "The Music of Chance,"
Spader retreats here to handsome-but-bewildered yuppie territory,
to somewhat diminishing returns. Rather like Christopher Walken, his
smooth good looks work best when he's playing edgier or threatening
Fully looking the part of most men's fantasies, "Twin Peaks"
vet Amick does a creditable job with a role whose motivations are
probably too convoluted to make sense of.
Kazan pulls off some effective scenes, notably one in Texas in which
Ray meets his wife's low-life ex-boyfriend, nicely played by William
Shockley. Visual appointments, including lensing by Jean-Yves Escoffier
("Les Amants du Pont Neuf") and Richard Hoover's production
design, are both arty and artful.
"Wolf" is a decidedly upscale horror film, a tony werewolf
movie in which a full roster of fancy talents tries to mate with unavoidably
hoary, not to say hairy, material. Offspring of this union is less
ungainly than might have been feared, but is also less than entirely
convincing, an intriguing thriller more enjoyable for its humor and
sophistication than for its scare quotient. Classy production's artistic
schizophrenia mirrors the perplexing marketing challenge facing Columbia.
The studio must convince the horror/special-effects crowd to attend
a Jack Nicholson/Michelle Pfeiffer/Mike Nichols picture and persuade
the filmmakers' fans to see a genre pic. Best guess is that film will
attract a portion of the audience that went for the studio's previous
lavish, prestige shocker, "Bram Stoker's Dracula," but far
from all of it, making recoupment of its reportedly $ 70 million-plus
production cost a dicey matter.
Clearly, no expense has been spared in outfitting this project, which
bears comparison to such perennials as "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,""Beauty
and the Beast" and many mangier monster epics turned out over
But no matter how snazzy the trappings, when you get down to it, this
is still, at heart, a werewolf picture, the story of a man who starts
growing an abnormal amount of hair, developing acute senses of smell,
sight and hearing, and roving out under the full mooningly learns
courtesy of his acute new sniffing abilities, prompts him to seek
solace with Laura, to whom he confesses what happened to him and with
whom he eventually starts an affair. On a nocturnal outing, Will attacks
a deer, and the ante is upped on each successive night as he is increasingly
dominated by the aggressive animal growing inside him.
No doubt highly mindful of the audience's suspension-of-disbelief
mechanism, the filmmakers have carefully charted Will's transformation,
having chosen an intelligent, skeptical man as their subject and retaining
rationality as far as possible. The strong humor injected into the
proceedings, at least through the second act, also helps keep one
on the film's side.
But as Will's attacks become increasingly savage, the story becomes
channeled into a more conventional format, and fact that the Will-Laura
relationship has no resonance delivers the picture a body blow that
may not knock it out but puts it on the ropes.
Laura is presented as a bad little rich girl whose life is mostly
devoted to defying Daddy while still enjoying his money. Despite their
convergence at this time and place, she and Will inhabit different
wavelengths, and nothing that happens between them develops any particular
rooting interest for the viewer.
Ultimate revelation that "Wolf" is supposed to be a transcendent
romance almost seems like an afterthought, and one that's hardly prepared
for by the treatment of the story up until then.
Script by Jim Harrison and Wesley Strick, which bears no relation
to Harrison's novel "Wolf," tries hard to make this shaggy
story play plausibly as a modern piece, but still can't avoid such
tired devices as full-moon fever and the Middle European expert who
explains lycanthropy to Will and even gives him an amulet to try to
keep the wolf in him at bay.
A sensible intelligence has been applied to the characterizations.
Unlike the case in his previous, over-the-top horror outing, "The
Shining," Nicholson begins his performance in a low key and cranks
it up only by degrees. Except for the nocturnal moments when the wolf
takes over, the actor holds the line firmly in order to create a tension
between his will to normalcy and his helpless transformation into
By contrast, Pfeiffer's Laura comes across as very hard and brittle.
It's not a rewarding role and, given the grandly romantic goal the
film fails to achieve, her character needs more shading and generosity
Spader is back playing the sort of loathsome yuppie he excelled at
earlier in his career, and doing it just as well as before. Nelligan
has little to do as the unfaithful wife, while some of the other supporting
perfs, notably those of Eileen Atkins and David Hyde Pierce as Will's
loyal publishing underlings, are dead perfect in the venerable Nichols
New York locations and elaborate soundstage sets are accompanied by
fine use of L.A.'s Bradbury Building as the home of the book firm.
Rick Baker, who knows his werewolves (numerous credits include "An
American Werewolf in London" and "Greystoke"), has
once again done ace special makeup effects, and brief scenes in which
people run and jump in wolflike fashion are highly effective. Other
tech credits represent the best that money can buy.
"Stargate" has one of those plots that naturally causes
people to roll their eyes. Commercial prospects for this curiously
unabsorbing yarn border on the dire.
What this juvenile adventure has in spades is special effects and
picturesque locations. What it lacks is an emotional link to make
the Saturday afternoon he-man posturing palatable, or at least bearable.
Its core appeal is to pre-teens, and considering its mammoth budget
($ 60 million-$ 70 million), half-price tickets won't be enough to
part the enveloping sea of red ink.
The setup occurs in Giza, Egypt, circa 1928. An archaeological expedition
unearths a giant ring inscribed with hieroglyphs of unknown origin
and meaning. We're promptly propelled into the present, where Egyptologist
Dr. Daniel Jackson (James Spader) is telling a learned, if disbelieving,
crowd that the pyramids could not possibly have been built by man.
Only one listener stays behind, offering him the job of translating
an ancient stone lodged in a secret and remote military complex. It
is, of course, the piece seen at the beginning. Never mind how it
was transported across the ocean or its whereabouts for most of this
Suffice it to say that the symbols turn out to be a map rather than
a language. The ring is a portal to another dimension -- an entrance
to the land of the true builders of one of the seven wonders. Are
your eyes spinning yet?
Breaking the impenetrable code leads to a military probe commanded
by former basket case Col. Jack O'Neil (Kurt Russell). Jackson tags
along as interpreter and on the other side discovers something akin
to "Lawrence of Arabia" outtakes with a pinch of "The
Ten Commandments" and a dash of the "Star Wars" trilogy.
The inhabitants of this world are biblical-style slaves, the ruler
a galactic hermaphrodite (Jaye Davidson). It's all downhill from there.
The oppressed workers, with the help of the soldiers and scientist,
rise up to quell the evil oppressor. It's pretty standard, predictable
Director Roland Emmerich pushes the obvious plot buttons, turns up
the florid score and injects appropriate panoramas. It's a textbook
scenario that creaks with age and whose lack of originality cannot
be obscured with visual craft.
Pic should be more visceral. But every time the story gets perilously
close to an emotional moment, the focus shifts abruptly to some corny
bit of action. O'Neil never truly confronts the dark past of a dead
son, and Jackson's budding relationship with a slave (Mili Avital)
is chaste beyond belief.
The acting challenge is simply to keep a straight face and not look
like a total imbecile. It's arguable that anyone succeeds at the task.
And despite the ever-present, state-of-the-art technology, there's
hardly a single indelible image in the course of two hours. One walks
away uncertain whether there is a film called "Stargate,"
or if it was merely a dream composed of badly remembered movie cliches.
Although the ostensible subject of the picture is the erotic appeal
of car crashes and how a surrender to their influence can effect "the
reshaping of the human body by modern technology," pic is loaded,
first and foremost, with sex that is initially rather compelling in
its weirdness but which finally becomes borderline laughable. Cronenberg
is a master of creating and sustaining a mood of insinuating cool
and dark allure, but while the director remains firmly behind the
wheel for the first hour or so, he cracks up toward the end with sequences
that send the film and the audience into a ditch.
Cronenberg lays his cards on the table in the opening scene, which
has gorgeous blonde Catherine Ballard (Deborah Unger) becoming turned
on by flesh-to-metal contact before being approached from behind by
a man. At the same time, her husband, James (James Spader), has sex
with a woman at work, and the follow-up relating of their experiences
to each other estab-
lishes a heady world of rarefied complicity and the urge to explore
A bad auto accident puts a banged-up James in the hospital with a
severely broken leg, and kills the man in the other car. The dead
man's wife, Helen Remington (Holly Hunter), suffers only moderate
injuries, although their shared experience leads them, when they meet
later, into a spontaneous and very hot sexual relationship.
A strange scientific researcher from the hospital, Vaughan (Elias
Koteas), provides their entry into the nether world of the automotive
One night, James and Helen attend a kinky event hosted by Vaughan
-- a restaging of James Dean's death in a horrible car crash. Vaughan,
impersonating Dean's German mechanic, rides in an open Porsche along
with a stuntman portraying the actor, while another man drives the
car that will hit the Dean car. All ride without seat belts or any
other protection in a desire to duplicate the accident precisely.
After the re-enactment, James and Helen join the others at the stuntman's
home, where they meet Gabrielle (Rosanna Arquette), a foxy lady whose
damaged leg in no way interferes with her sexual appetite.
A sort of group grope ensues, and it becomes clear that these folks
are way, way out there when they discuss their next project, a re-creation
of Jayne Mansfield's fatal car wreck.
Vaughan, who drives around in a black 1963 Lincoln convertible in
homage to JFK, is the prime mover of the group, the pathfinder who
believes in pushing the envelope of danger and sex to arrive at a
new physical, psychological and sexual plateau.
A veritable sexaholic, James keeps things going with Catherine, Helen
and Gabrielle, and his new link with Vaughan leads to their having
their wounds tattooed, followed by a bout of nasty sex.
James ultimately draws his wife into the violent circle in an attempt
to restore their marriage, but pic takes an abrupt detour into a nearly
risible lesbian encounter unmotivated by anything other than a desire
to complete the circle of sexual links, then concludes on a quasi-redemptive
note that just doesn't cut it.
Still, the mood is gripping for a while, established by the highly
specific sexual interests and the actors' hushed, deliberate way of
speaking, which rarely rises above a whisper.
Although they are defined exclusively in terms of their erotic obsessions,
the characters become more intriguing once they are initiated into
the auto club , in that they become fearless about pursuing their
interests. But any grander psychological or philosophical territory
Characters also lack any meaning or connection with one another except
in their pushing of sexual limits. Before long, it becomes clear that
nearly every encounter is meant to lead to sexual coupling, whereupon
it's on to the next meeting, in which a fresh assault on a physical
frailty or damaged spot will build to an identical result.
Sex scenes are clear about what's going on, even if below-the-belt
nudity is only fleeting. Virtually every linkup is a rear entry, which
creates the unwanted impression of a running gag after the first few
This goes uncommented-upon, so it remains a mystery whether this sexual
approach is intended as a parallel to the many scenes of cars ramming
others from behind. Nothing here is remotely a turn-on from an audience
Set largely at night in Toronto, impeccably composed pic is dominated
by blues, grays and purples, which accentuate the feeling of utter
cool. Technically, film is superb, with the machine-tooled precision
of Cronenberg's craftsmanship creating its own steely pleasure.
Gleaming lensing by Peter Suschitzky, ultra-tight editing by Ronald
Sanders and Howard Shore's metallic score contribute mightily to sustaining
the intensely muted tone.
Thesps work within narrow parameters, although they gamely go wherever
their director wants them to. Spaderis fine as the young man exploring
the outer limits, and Koteas projects a subtle sense of being rather
further over the edge.
Hunter also gets in the proper mood, although her character mysteriously
disappears from the action in the middle going, only to resurface
strangely toward the end. Of all the thesps, Unger, as the eyes-wide-open
wife, perhaps most perfectly personifies the film's prevailing sense
of composure and daring.
It remains highly questionable whether Ballard's "Crash"
was an appropriate or adaptable book for the screen, not for cinematic
reasons, since the result is highly visual and frostily sensual, but
because its concerns are so peculiar, remote and, to the great majority
of people, off-putting.
The boundaries being pushed here just aren't of great relevance or
Days in the Valley
"2 Days in the Valley" will rank high on any list of films
containing the greatest number of scenes in which people are threatened
at gunpoint. Marked by a wearying amount of hostile and antisocial
behavior by its criminal and civilian characters alike, writer-director
John Herzfeld's debut outing features a measure of unexpected humor
and some good character work by the ensemble cast. Pic does offer
some entertainment value for mainstream audiences, but B.O. fate of
this sub-Altmanesque mosaic will depend upon how sated the public
feels at the moment with incessant gun-waving and bloodletting, with
modest returns the likely bet.
Using Hollywood's favorite poster boys for the '90s, hit men, as the
central figures in this study of suburban malaise and hostility, pic
lands some effective, unexpected shots here and there, but is not
deeply eccentric or muscular enough to score any decisive blows. Nor
does it pull back from its characters to offer anything resembling
a critique of society or commentary on why nearly everyone the film
encounters in the San Fernando Valley is so thoroughly unhappy or
The hired killers in question are Lee (James Spader) and Dosmo (Danny
Aiello) , the former a slick sicko of the new school, the latter a
lowlife Italian mensch whose profession doesn't preclude his having
a heart. Lee has engaged the has-been to help kill Roy (Peter Horton),
ex-hubby of Olympic skier Becky (Teri Hatcher), with the intention
of then knocking off Dosmo, making it look as though he committed
the murder, then taking off with blonde g.f. Helga (Charlize Theron)
and a $ 30,000 stash.
But Dosmo gets away, only to invade the lives of arrogant British
art dealer Allan (Greg Cruttwell) and his beleaguered assistant, Susan
(Glenne Headly). The disheveled Dosmo and the mousy Susan quickly
recognize one another as soul mates , and Dosmo is moved to cook a
good pasta repast for his hostages, while brandishing a gun, of course.
Other important characters who are eventually brought into the violent
swirl of events are Allan's sister, nurse Audrey (Marsha Mason), whose
skills come in handy when the blood starts flowing; suicidal washed-up
director Teddy (Paul Mazursky) and vice cops Alvin (Jeff Daniels)
and Wes (Eric Stoltz), first seen at odds over the merits of busting
an Asian massage parlor.
Herzfeld's dovetailing of story strands and heretofore unrelated characters
is smooth and unforced, and their sudden combustion makes for a number
of lively , surprising scenes. Dosmo's persistent revulsion over the
whiny art dealer's self-centered complaining, and his growing affection
for the sweet Susan, provide some delight, and Teddy's about-face
triggered by adverse circumstances offers satisfaction as well. Connoisseurs
of female brawls have a doozy in store here, as Hatcher and Theron,
both gorgeous and in great shape, go at each other as if they really
mean it in a wild sequence.
Unfortunately, the film's modest pleasures don't add up to anything
more than that. At this stage in the violence-as-a-way-of-life cycle,
it is reasonable to require something different in the way of point
of view or comedic slant. Herzfeld, a vet TV writer-director, succeeds
in establishing and sustaining an offbeat tone of loony amorality,
but it's not terribly appealing.
To the director's credit, the actors all seem responsive to his touch,
giving performances that are lively and flavorsome, if not deep or
unlike anything each of them has done before. Aiello's wayward paisano
and Headly's late-blooming flower hold particular appeal, while Mazursky
and Austin Pendleton, the latter in a one-scene appearance, enact
an exchange of comic career abasement that will particularly amuse
Stylistically, film is proficient but unexceptional. There is plenty
of blood for a semi-comedy, and a scene involving Stoltz's response
to an Oriental massage is quite risque for a Hollywood pic.
-- Todd McCarthy
A wonderfully written and performed comic crime meller, "Keys
to Tulsa" might seem on paper to be one more unneeded, late-in-the-cycle
Tarantino retread. But this distinctively tasty dish adroitly mixes
its genre ingredients with fresh takes on class grudges, Great Plains
lifestyles, generational and family strains and life stasis in a way
that makes it a satisfying meal unto itself. It may be difficult for
Gramercy to distinguish this entry from the numerous other seriocomic
thrillers of the past couple of years, and pic lacks the edge and
style that would have made it a must-see for hip young viewers, so
strong reviews and word of mouth are necessary to help it break out
of the pack.
Based on a novel by Brian Fair Berkey, Harley Peyton's outstanding
screenplay encompasses the social strata of the titular Oklahoma city
from top to bottom, from the country club set and those whose roots
go back generations, to the trailer trash, strippers and hustlers
willing to do just about anything for a buck.
Front and center, however, are some ne'er-do-well offspring of prominent
families, progeny from privileged backgrounds who have generally failed
to uphold the good names and traditions of their ancestors. The most
conspicuous slacker is Richter Boudreau (Eric Stoltz), the son of
much-married socialite Cynthia (Mary Tyler Moore), a man of no backbone
and less discipline who is reduced to working as --- of all things
--- a film critic for the local paper.
Even there, however, he can't meet his deadlines, as he spends too
much time in failed attempts at seduction (as in the opening scene
with hot date Cameron Diaz) or easily being lured into time-wasting
boozing and drug-snorting with the likes of his sexy former high school
flame Vicky (Deborah Kara Unger), her criminal, perennially high husband,
Ronnie (James Spader), and her brutish animal of a brother, Keith
(Michael Rooker), Richter's longtime best friend who now seems to
be on the brink of snapping in some violent way.
Although these kids mostly live in modest circumstances, they often
have the use of vacant family mansions wherein a fair amount of the
action takes place, and the early going is dominated by intriguing
scenes that neatly pinpoint the sources of potential conflict among
the supposed intimates: Richter could easily become interested again
in Vicky, who now has a baby and is increasingly impatient with her
dangerous husband; the paranoid Keith is suspicious that Vicky, with
the help of others, might be trying to trip him up legally to grab
their inheritance all for herself; and Ronnie is cornering Richter
into helping set the trap for a blackmail scheme that will put him
on easy street.
At a seedy club, Ronnie introduces Richter to Cherry (Joanna Going),
a spaced-out stripper who has witnessed the recent murder of her friend
and fellow exotic dancer. There is every reason to think that the
culprit might be the unstable Keith, and when Richter is prevailed
upon to give the scared young woman temporary sanctuary until the
blackmail plot can be put into motion, he illogically does so at the
suspect's family manse in Keith's absence, taking advantage of the
situation to start an affair with the quicksilver Cherry.
Richter's overriding problem is that he's a pushover, a pliable lad
agreeable to anything anyone proposes to him, which in this scenario
can only be something bad. Richter's unprincipled, path-of-least-resistance
approach to life produces setback after setback: His newly remarried
mother decides to deprive him of the grand family home he expected
to inherit, he's fired for missing too many deadlines, he's told by
the lordly city patriarch (James Coburn) --- whose daughter Richter
wronged --- to get out of town, and he's surprised and photographed
in a very compromising position with Vicky by Keith, who is thus armed
with blackmail ammo of his own if he needs it.
Richter's only ace in the hole is that nearly everyone around him
is even more of a loser than he is, which gives him the chance to
come out on top if, for once, he uses his brains and applies himself.
Denouement is bracingly satisfying and amusing in the bargain.
A resume of the action doesn't begin to suggest the screwy humor that
energizes the proceedings at nearly every turn, from the desperate
way Richter tolerates his friend Keith's noxious rantings to the beyond-caring
efforts of a drunken Cherry to pull up her sagging bodice at Richter's
mother's formal wedding party. The mixed moods aren't as bold or entirely
captivating as they were in "Pulp Fiction" or even "Get
Shorty," but the blend is nonetheless fun and shrewdly judged.
Peyton's beautifully constructed script nails the shifting motivations
and subtext of every scene and provides spiky dialogue to boot. The
colorfully eclectic cast also delivers in spades, with Stoltz holding
his own as "the black sheep son of a black sheep" while
watching several of his co-stars run away with thesping honors in
some dazzling turns.
Rooker creates a genuine sense of anything-goes danger as the gun-toting
heir apparent, with Unger nicely complementing him as his sister,
a lackadaisical good-time girl now confronting some of life's more
serious challenges. Going delightfully pulls out all the stops in
bouncing off the walls as the changeable stripper, while, best of
all, the cast-against-type Spader, newly beefed-up and sporting black
hair, gives a complex and vibrant reading of a smart tough guy stuck
in the small time by his addictions.
Although debuting director Leslie Greif, a vet film and TV producer
and former music biz personal manager, succeeds in delivering the
blended tonalities of the pieces, pic does come up short in the visual
department. Helmer applies only an average amount of stylistic dynamism
to a story that could have used plenty, and atmospherics are anemic.
Sharper lensing and soundtrack also could have nudged the film onto
a higher level.
Pic was actually shot in Texas rather than in Oklahoma, although presumably
only locals will be able to notice.
-- Todd McCarthy
An interesting, if unoriginal, idea that floats around in a largely
undramatic sea, "Driftwood" is "Damage" without
the star-power or production values. This low-key drama about a female
wacko who holds a shipwrecked man prisoner in her remote dwelling
sports a well-meaning perf from James Spader but lacks the shapeliness
in script and direction needed to make it work theatrically. Pic sank
with all hands on its single-screen London release.
Spader is first seen washed up on a rocky shore from some disaster
that's never explained. French woodcarver Sarah (Anne Brochet), who
lives alone in an isolated shack, hauls him indoors, strips him naked
and tends his fractured leg. When he comes round, with a convenient
case of amnesia, she tells him they're the only people on a remote
island off the west coast of Ireland, whither a supply boat comes
only every two months.
The audience (but not Spader) soon learns that her elevator doesn't
quite stop at the top floor. They're actually on the mainland; behind
a mountain ridge is a town from which she gets supplies from a leering
local (Barry McGovern); and in her workshop, she has regular arguments
with the ghost of her dead mother (Anna Massey).
Spader's suspicions start to be aroused by Sarah's sudden mood shifts,
plus a letter from a boyfriend she denies having. Gradually, however,
he starts to reciprocate her sexual passion, and at the 50-minute
mark, as winter looms, they finally get it on. But the idyll is short:
As Spader makes ever more determined efforts to leave and rediscover
his identity, Sarah goes to ever more extreme ends to prevent him
Richard Waring's screenplay, originally set in Scotland, was acquired
by Irish producer Mary Breen-Farrelly in 1991 and turned over to helmer
Ronan O'Leary to adapt two years later. The bare bones of a potentially
involving two-hander are there --- and the movie does occasionally
have its moments --- but the dialogue between the two principals is
not sufficiently involving to carry the pic, as it stands, over some
of its melodramatic ingredients and unbelievable developments.
Spader (who took the assignment immediately after "Stargate")
does his best with a role that's underwritten and makes him out to
be extremely slow on the uptake. Brochet ("Tous les matins du
monde") is OK in her sudden swings from loving to loony but isn't
up to the demands of fleshing out a foggily written character. The
supports play it more like some Grand Guignol horror flick, with McGovern
over-the-top as a leering groceries supplier and Massey virtually
encoring her mad ghost in last year's Canadian-set backwoods drama
"Sweet Angel Mine."
Tech credits on the $5.5 million production (shot in spring 1995)
are fine, with Billy Williams' lensing of the Ardmore Studios interiors
and Irish exteriors bringing some flavor to the pic, though the much-talked-about
progression toward winter is not always clear on the screen.
-- Derek Elley
The current situation in the overlapping worlds of health insurance
and medical care could certainly warrant a little stinging satire,
but the jabs in "Critical Care" don't even puncture the
skin. A sadly anemic and uncharacteristically unenergetic addition
to Sidney Lumet's career, this Live Entertainment release, which world-preemed
Oct. 9 as the opener for the Chicago Film Festival, would flat-line
commercially even with extensive artificial life support.
Unscintillating first screenplay by vet TV producer Steven S. Schwartz
clearly aims for the vaunted realm of Paddy Chayevsky's trenchant
and outrageous "The Hospital" and "Network," the
latter of which was famously directed by Lumet. The old capitalistic
hobgoblins of greed and selfishness are hauled out one more time as
the factors that make doctors forget that their first responsibility
should be their patients' well-being, rather than self-interest or
an institutional bottom line.
Set in a gleaming, state-of-the-art intensive care unit, the low activity
level and hushed tones of which contrast markedly with the frantic
hubbub associated with most urban hospitals, frail tale centers upon
the fate of wealthy old Mr. Potter. His manipulative, blond model
daughter, Felicia (Kyra Sedgwick), sees no point in unnaturally prolonging
her comatose father's life, but his other daughter, the Bible-thumping
Connie (Margo Martindale), wants to keep the old man alive at all
costs, which run to $ 112,800 per month.
Caught in the middle of this squabble is Dr. Werner Ernst (James Spader),
a second-year resident who works the ICU with head nurse Stella (Helen
Mirren). An attractive ladies' man susceptible to Felicia's flirting,
the doc lets his professional ethics drop along with his pants when,
on the point of bedding Felicia, he admits that old man Potter is
in a "persistent vegetative state" and backs up her position
for pulling the plug on Dad. When it turns out that Felicia has taped
all this on her secret bedroom video camera, Werner finds himself
in a career-threatening compromising position.
As the case, which threatens to go to court with Werner as a subpoenaed
witness, drags through the hospital bureaucracy, pic sidetracks with
some odd scenes designed to amplify the themes comically but which
mainly lay a large nest of eggs. Most embarrassing are the hallucinations
of a grievously ill young man (Jeffrey Wright), in which Wallace Shawn
turns up as the Devil's henchman spouting a stream of very poor dialogue.
More prominent are some sessions Werner puts in with the crankily
opinionated Dr. Butz (Albert Brooks in old-age makeup that makes him
look like a cross between Mark Twain and Claude Rains). A pioneer
in the critical care field who has now been kicked upstairs (and,
it would seem, into another hospital, based on the musty look of his
office) due to his drinking and mental lapses, Butz serves as the
comic mouthpiece for the medical field's most venal attitudes: Treat
only those patients with gobs of insurance, he rails, and always maximize
revenue. When Werner complains that attorneys are breathing down his
neck over the Potter case, Butz retorts, "When the lawyers start
crawling all over you, that's when you know you're a doctor."
But that's as good as it gets, and remainder of the film is devoted
to Werner, upon discovering the sisters' ulterior motives for their
attitudes about Dad's fate, setting things right on that score, and
reawakening to the responsibilities of his calling. Scarcely an idea
or an attitude in the film is surprising or bracingly insightful,
as it reflexively underlines received notions about the evil corporate
mind-set and the need for personal moral righteousness.
Beginning with the almost morgue-like silence of the opening scenes,
a weird, depopulated quietude pervades most of the picture, a mood
further enlarged by Philip Rosenberg's space-station-like production
design of the ICU and David Watkin's icily precise lensing. This arid,
airless environment is about the least conducive imaginable for satire,
and it also seems to have sapped Lumet's customary vigor as a director.
Performances from the talented cast range from just OK (Spader, Mirren,
Brooks) to the overdrawn (Sedgwick, Shawn). Pic was shot in Canada,
almost entirely in studio. Production values are crisp.
-- Todd McCarthy
A standard-issue intergalactic actioner, "Supernova" appears
headed for a deep-space rendezvous with audience indifference. Pic
was directed by Walter Hill, who removed his name after the proverbial
creative differences ("Thomas Lee" perhaps aims to avoid
the blatancy of "Alan Smithee"); editing was reportedly
completed by the likewise uncredited Francis Coppola. Whatever the
appropriate divvying of credit or blame, pic is an embarrassment to
no one, but neither is it a feather in any cap. Expertly mounted and
bolstered by solid perfs from a strong cast, it nevertheless seems
too lacking in any special edge of distinction to reach beyond the
Very much in the post-"Alien" vein of dark, downbeat outer-space
dramas in which earthlings with three-day beards battle a shape-shifting
alien intruder, tale kicks off in the early 22nd century aboard a
small, medical-rescue spaceship. Attention centers on co-pilot Nick
Vanzant, who has recently emerged from rehab and is played by a newly
bulked-up, deep-voiced and dark-haired James Spader.
The other crew members are Capt. A.J. Marley (Robert Forster), gruff
medical officer Kaela Evers (Angela Bassett), engineer Benj (Wilson
Cruz), medical tech Yerzy (Lou Diamond Phillips) and paramedic Danika
One small novelty here is the understated paralleling of cosmic energies
and sexual interplay. Yerzy and Danika are getting it on as tale opens,
and Nick and Kaela soon taste the pleasures of zero-gravity whoopee.
Crew members doff their clothes whenever the spaceship's "dimension-jumping,"
which adds to the slightly randy atmosphere.
After this thematic foreplay, crew and ship dimension-jump to what
seems to be a standard rescue situation but soon grows strange and
perilous. At the site, the only person they find alive is an odd young
man named Karl (Peter Facinelli) , who has lost all his colleagues
after what seems like the outer-space equivalent of a falling-out
over shares in an Internet startup.
In reality, of course, Karl is more lethal than bereft. Endowed with
powers from the ninth dimension, the interloper makes love to Danika,
then starts picking off crew members, growing more youthful and muscular
as he does.
The battle from there is energetic but thoroughly predictable in its
shape and outcome, which leaves pic feeling competent but programmatic.
Still, vivid perfs and polished tech credits deserve kudos. In particular,
Lloyd Ahern's lensing compellingly renders outer-space environments
that look painstakingly authentic.
Despite game efforts by cast-against-type Keanu Reeves and aggressive
visual vamping by freshman director Joe Charbanic, "The Watcher"
emerges as a formulaic thriller that plays more like direct-to-video
fare than a megaplex-worthy feature. Lack of similar product in current
marketplace could work to pic's advantage, and fair-to-good opening
weekend B.O. is a distinct possibility. More likely, however, "Watcher"
won't attract many viewers until it reaches vidstore shelves.
Top-billed James Spader is competent but less than compelling in the
hackneyed role of Joel Campbell, a burnt-out FBI agent suffering a
mental meltdown while tracking serial killers in Los Angeles. During
his last investigation, he was unable to catch psycho David Allen
Griffin (Reeves) during a frantic foot chase. Worse, Campbell also
failed to save the wacko's latest target -- Campbell's married lover
-- from a fiery demise. Prematurely retired on a disability claim,
Campbell moved to Chicago to wallow in grungy obscurity.
Trouble is, Griffin has developed a perverse fondness for his would-be
captor. So the psycho traces Campbell to Chicago and announces his
intention to resume their cat-and-mouse game. Not surprisingly, Campbell
isn't eager to play. Even less surprisingly, Griffin isn't the kind
of guy who takes rejection very well.
As the dual of wits commences, writers David Elliot and Clay Ayers
introduce the one distinctive wrinkle of their by-the-numbers script.
To give his pursuer a sporting chance, Griffin establishes a macabre
game plan: Hours before each murder, he sends Campbell a photo of
his next intended victim -- an attractive young woman, of course --
and challenges the newly reactivated FBI agent to find her before
she meets an untimely demise. The trick is, Griffin carefully chooses
women who are sufficiently nondescript to remain unnoticed among the
millions in the Windy City. Despite multi-media exposure of the photos,
Campbell fails twice to find a victim before deadline.
Charbanic, a veteran of musicvideos, employs a variety of show-offy
visual stunts in a desperate attempt to generate suspense. He switches
back and forth between grainy video and assorted film stocks, and
relies heavily on jump cuts, slo-mo and p.o.v. shots. Vet lenser Michael
Chapman ("Taxi Driver," "Raging Bull") and editor
Richard Nord work overtime to ensure "Watcher" is, if nothing
else, slick and swift. (Ric Waite is ambiguously credited as "additional
director of photography.")
Unfortunately, Charbanic often sacrifices narrative clarity and moment-to-moment
continuity for the sake of achieving his flashy effects. Pic abounds
in sudden actions and jolting images that aren't explained until long
afterward. (Campbell's tragic back-story isn't entirely clear until
the final reel of the pic.) But the pretentious obfuscation can't
freshen the generic cops-and-killers plot. It doesn't help at all
that "Watcher" borrows freely, and obviously, from pics
as diverse as "Seven," "Manhunter," "The
Mean Season," "In the Line of Fire" and "No Way
to Treat a Lady."
Reeves deserves credit for tackling an offbeat role. But his performance
seldom rises above the level of a good try, even when he's straining
for darkly comical effects by bringing a mockingly gee-whiz quality
to his line readings. (Truth to tell, the actor occasionally sounds
like a recent immigrant with an unsteady grasp of English.) There's
a potentially fascinating plot development -- Griffin becomes peevishly
jealous of the bond Campbell develops with a compassionate shrink
played by Marisa Tomei -- but Reeves does disappointingly little with
this element of the killer's twisted psyche.
Spader is aptly haunted in appearance, and stares at photographs with
convincing intensity, but he brings only technical proficiency to
a character that needs more colors, more depth. Tomei is stuck with
some of the pic's worst dialogue -- "How do you feel about his
following you to Chicago? Is it a vendetta?" -- in a role that
calls for only two expressions: sympathetic concern and mortal terror.
Character actor Chris Ellis makes a strong impression with his scene-stealing
work as Hollis, a hard-boiled Chicago cop who develops a respectful
working partnership with Campbell. Early on, Ellis has a terrific
scene in which Hollis calmly converses via cell phone with the FBI
agent while chasing, then rousting, a perp. Unfortunately, Ellis is
progressively less prominent as the pic winds on, suggesting that
his character was greatly diminished in the editing room. Even so,
he fares better than Ernie Hudson, whose part as an FBI chief is little
more than a fleeting cameo.
Fiery explosions during pic's melodramatic climax are spectacularly
cheesy. Other tech credits are solid.
A very tricky sort of love story is put across with some skillful high-wire
walking in "Secretary." In this considerable expansion of
Mary Gaitskill's short yarn about a boss-secretary relationship that
evolves into a mutually satisfying S&M matchup, the filmmakers are
deeply interested in getting to the psychological roots of the characters,
and the picture's relative success in doing so makes the outre goings-on
here not only dramatically palatable but emotionally plausible. Touchy
theme and cloistered nature of the piece relegate this well-acted picture
to a specialized realm even within the specialized market for domestic
art films, but this winner of a Special Jury Prize for "originality"
at Sundance deserves a shot at catching on with that sliver of the theatrical
audience that would respond to it before heading off into cable- and
A significant advance from Steven Shainberg's first feature, the murky
and inert 1996 Jim Thompson adaptation "Hit Me," new pic benefits
from having been worked out with great care and insight from the point
of view of the title character's highly particular psychological makeup.
For this, one should presumably credit not only the director and Gaitskill
but scenarist Erin Cressida Wilson, a playwright who, in adapting the
story with Shainberg's guidance, displays the sort of attention to character
detail that is much more common in writing for the stage than in most
An opening glimpse of a young woman gracefully tending to office chores
while handcuffed to a portable workout bar serves as the tantalizing
teaser to a tale that properly begins six months earlier when Lee Holloway
(Maggie Gyllenhaal) is checked out of a mental institution. Surrounded
by her undoubtedly abusive alcoholic father (Stephen McHattie) and infantalizing
mother (Lesley Ann Warren), Lee retreats into old habits, which involve
extremes repped by girlish accessories on the one hand and self-inflicted
pain/pleasure (such as putting a hot tea kettle to her thigh) on the
But determined in her naive way to strike out on her own, the semi-gawky,
semi-attractive Lee takes a secretarial job with E. Edward Grey (James
Spader), an eccentric, grimly serious attorney who warns Lee that her
work will be dull. She doesn't mind, nor does she protest when he gives
her some demeaning chores, such as sifting through the Dumpster for
some missing documents. No, this is the start of Lee's new life, and
While the behavioral and psychological underpinnings are being established
by the script and actors, Shainberg works to set the action apart from
absolute reality by stylizing the settings. With exteriors lensed on
anonymous Southern California locations to avoid any specific sense
of place, pic is dominated by Edward's weirdly painted and decorated
rooms, which are unlike any legal offices heretofore seen either in
the movies or in life. Amy Danger's provocative production design is
initially helpful in setting the off-kilter feeling of unease, but with
time it comes to seem calculatedly oppressive and finally over-art directed
to a distracting degree.
To further foster the notion that she's putting her life on a track
toward normalcy, Lee takes up with an old friend from high school, Peter
(Jeremy Davies), a hippieish, ineffectual nice guy who would love to
marry Lee. She doesn't discourage him but is clearly far more fascinated
by the man at the office who is so demanding of her.
"Secretary" becomes a movie the late Kenneth Tynan would have
loved 50 minutes in. After having become increasingly critical of Lee
for her sloppy work habits, Edward pushes to a new level of punishment
one day when he makes her bend over a desk and slowly spanks her --
but hard -- as she reads a letter aloud. Next time round, she willingly
consents to getting down on all fours and being saddled.
But Lee is thrown for a loop when the ever-unpredictable Edward abruptly
calls a halt to the games, throwing her professional life into doubt
and her personal life into chaos; so profoundly moved by someone having
discovered her secret source of satisfaction, and so utterly frustrated
at her sudden lack of access to its sole provider, Lee tries spanking
herself, to no avail, and even tries to instruct Peter in the fine art,
although he's no better at this than he is in regular lovemaking.
Third-act build-up to Lee's all-out attempt to connect with the inscrutable
Edward is unduly protracted (whole film could stand a bit of a trim),
but it ultimately pays off in a way that is resonant, distinctively
romantic and very gratifying from the point of view of the main characters.
By the end, Lee has taken a long journey from a total lack of self-awareness
to deep satisfaction, and on a road that is unusual to say the least.
Film's interest lies in this psycho/sexual awakening, and anyone seeking
kinky bondage kicks will leave needing to find relief elsewhere. In
a very demanding role demanding a vast emotional range from clueless
innocent to confident role player and emotional adventurer, Gyllenhaal
is outstanding in the way she reveals how Lee slowly accumulates the
knowledge to realize what she wants and gathers the courage to get it.
Spader's Edward has elements of some of the thesp's other weirdo roles,
and for most of the time the character is meant to be unreachable and
unfathomable, but the precision and controlled intensity with which
the actor puts over the key breakthrough scenes is crucial to maintaining
the film's conviction. Supporting perfs are one-dimensionally serviceable,
and behind-the-scenes contributions are solid.
-- Todd McCarthy