Sunday, January 1 1995
Everyone in the film can see that pairing a 48-year-old womanizer with a 22-year-old girl dying from a sketchy illness 'of the heart' is lame, not to mention derivative, unpleasant, and pathetic.
For a man who has no identity, Shaw (Wesley Snipes) sure has plenty of attitude.
Maybe in the deceptive world of fame (or almost-fame), this is the best version of intimacy available, although it's easier to attribute it to the characters' superficiality, and maybe a certain starry-eyed idealism on Cameron Crowe's part.
Back in 1990, some years after Prizzi's Honor won Anjelica Huston all kinds of accolades and publicity, I saw her for a minute, in person. I was standing on line at an American Express office in Cannes, during the Film Festival for which she was serving as an official jury member"
There are no songs in the latest Disney animated feature, 'Atlantis: The Lost Empire', but there are lots of explosions.
American Movie avoids the dishonesty and self-importance of most traditional documentaries by selecting a subject so genuine, specific, and original - and so flawed - that no matter what segment of the whole we're seeing, it seems very real and very very human.
What distinguishes Across 110th Street's bloodletting from that in other Hollywood films of the time is its unsparing inescapability and its matter-of-factness -- these qualities give the work its moral charge.
Oliver Stone's movies usually seem more complicated than they are. Partly this comes from his evolving style, from the curiously romantic realism of Platoon, to the assaultive ding-battiness of Natural Born Killers, to the debased lunacy of U-Turn. But mostly it comes from his obsession with a single theme: brutality. Or more precisely, how brutality becomes morality.
Ground control to potential audiences of the The American Astronaut: be prepared for a series of impenetrable in-jokes, ridiculous special effects, and grating outbreaks into song.
The nuclear family has never looked so perverse.
'All the Pretty Horses'... offers Penelope Cruz as the repeatedly slow-motioned, flowing-haired object of desire for would-be riders. As Alejandra, Cruz is less a character than an irresistible image, the Marlboro Man's wet dream -- she rides horses, swims naked, and pouts adorably when she's mad at her daddy.
Perhaps more importantly, it offers a welcome antidote to Hollywoody visions of Mexico, revealing an urban Mexico that is neither sanitized nor demonized: for all the death in it, this place feels utterly immediate and alive.
Iñárritu's film has a badly broken heart sputtering beneath all the style, which is something Tarantino hasn't really had the guts to go for yet.
Whatever you think about Oliver Stone as a director, you can't deny his firm grasp on this country's interests. From Vietnam to JFK to serial killers, Stone's pictures have always depicted major subjects of national fascination. With his latest release, Any Given Sunday, Stone looks to go his previous films one better by focusing on the most popular sport in America.
For most of Adrenaline Drive's 90-odd minutes, you're not aware of time passing or the fact that your shoes do not fit as well as they could.
All unruly hair, puny limbs, and wide eyes, Marvin's another one of Rob Schneider's pathetic, unmanly bumblers, lacking the 'animal' instinct that apparently makes a real man.
Truly, Julia Roberts leads a charmed life.