(Almost) 12 Angry (Or Jealous) Men (and Women): The Characters of David Fincher (Part I)

I'm compiling my top ten of 2010, looking at the last year in film, and, just to spoil the suspense a bit, my top film of the year is going to be David Fincher's THE SOCIAL NETWORK.

It's a work of genius. Yes, genius. It's subtle and restrained, haunting and unforgettable. The final frame of the film is simultaneously hopeful and pathetic, funny and touching, taking the mundane and making it beautifully human and resonant. I haven't seen anything like it in years, and I'll be spoiled if I see something that approaches it next year.

I think the highest compliment I can bestow upon the film is that I've been reviewing the past work of it's key creative personnel ever since I watched it. Screenwriter Aaron Sorkin's SPORTS NIGHT and THE WEST WING have been my go-to TV shows as of late (sorry, THE VAMPIRE DIARIES), I've been absorbed in composer Trent Reznor's oddly-uplifting "Ghosts" in between bumping the new Kanye, and I've been watching a lot of David Fincher movies.

And not writing about them. In the words of Talib Kweli, one of Kanye's musical mentors, "They say I'm back - but I ain't go nowhere, though - I've been here the whole time. Where you been? You back." Regardless of who left who, who killed who, and who forgot their surprisingly juvenile Blogspot password, the fact is the blog is back.

To celebrate, I've decided to take a ridiculously long look at Fincher's films, and write a little essay about how he uses anger and jealousy in his lead characters.

ANGRY PERSON #1: ELLEN RIPLEY (ALIEN3)

Much has been made of ALIEN3 and it's troubled production history. I don't think Fincher even considers it "his" film any more. But we'd have to assume something drew him to the project to begin with (aside from getting out of the music video world on a huge Hollywood sequel, that is). I'm going to focus mainly on protagonists, so let's look at what happens to Ripley in ALIEN3.

Right off the bat, Fincher kills off Newt, the adorable orphan moppet from ALIENS, in a clear attempt to up the stakes. One of the most interesting things about ALIENS is the Ripley-Newt dynamic, and the depiction of Ripley as a mother. In fact, I would posit that ALIENS is the great female empowerment film of the 1980s, one in which a woman can kick ass and hold her own with the boys without using her sexuality as a bargaining chip. Cameron's Ripley was a badass who could sacrifice life while being incredibly maternal at the same time. Without Newt around, Ripley loses an element that made her so fascinating in the earlier film.

And this isn't the only thing Fincher takes away from the character - he shaves her head and outfits her in the same drab wardrobe as the rest of the all-male cast, stripping her of her sexuality. Fincher (and writer Vincent Ward) seem to be determined to get to the base humanity of Ripley, to the point of completely removing her femininity. Of course, the climax of the film makes it clear that they haven't forgotten that Ripley is a woman - the abortionist overtones of Ripley's death are an interesting and warped counterpoint to ALIENS' defense and indeed, celebration, of motherhood.

But what do we learn about Ripley by the end of ALIEN3? The answer is not much. We find out that she is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to protect the world. We pretty much already knew that. We also see that she's pretty pissed off about this phallic alien who keeps fucking up her life. We can get that, too. That's about it.

One of the (many) problems with ALIEN3 is that you get the sense that Fincher is a lot more interested in the convicts on the planet than with Ripley, but since the story has to be about Ripley, he's never really sure what to do with her. He'd rather be talking about, y'know, jail, and society and stuff. He never taps into the rage we expect to see from Ripley about Newt or Hicks' death, and he never plays her anger off against the anger of the convicts in a particularly interesting way.

Let's be honest: ALIEN3 is clearly a product of eight or nine different interests, and it's a confusingly beautiful mess because of it. Fincher can't be criticized for a lot of that. But Fincher's handling of his female leads is a disturbingly weak spot in my opinion, and one that we'll check back in on as we go.

ANGRY PERSONAGES #2 AND #3: DAVID MILLS AND JOHN DOE (SE7EN)

Another fair criticism of Fincher's work is that he can sometimes paint with too broad a brush, making his characters archetypes instead of real people. Nowhere is that more prevalent than in SE7EN (or, as the sane would type it, SEVEN - thanks for inventing l33tsp3ak, Mr. Fincher). I'd make the argument that this film needs that sort of mythic touch - it is, after all, a moral parable. The characters need to be representative, at least on one level, rather than individuals.

But there's no denying that Brad Pitt occasionally plays it a bit big. His Detective David Mills, or, perhaps more accurately, Wrath, is a man consumed by barely-contained rage, and Pitt likes to play up the explosion and underplay the smolder. I generally like Pitt, and I think he's become a fine actor, but I think he's a little out of his league here. Contrasted with Morgan Freeman, Pitt's performance seems obvious and a little showy - which, in an amusing way, actually enhances the rookie-veteran dynamic between the two.

Mills is perhaps the most fascinating character in Fincher's filmography, and possibly the most telling as well. The fact that character and creator share a first name may be coincidence, but the astounding physical similarities seem more than a bit planned. Watching behind-the-scenes footage of SE7EN and determining who is Pitt and who is Fincher (hint: Fincher's the one who isn't Brad Pitt) is probably the only EPK that can function as a drinking game (aside from the always-popular EPK drinking game of "Take A Shot Every Time Someone Says, 'It was a pleasure working with ...'"). It's clear that Fincher sees a lot of himself in the character, and with the pivotal decision of the climax resting entirely on Mills' shoulders, the audience is placed in his shoes for much of the film.

What truly elevates SE7EN though, is how uncomfortably close we get to John Doe, the killer played with menacing calm by Kevin Spacey. Doe does some truly horrifying things in the film, but when he speaks, it's with disturbing rationality. His philosophy is one without forgiveness, a merciless indictment of his fellow man, but one that is logically derived from it's biblical source. What's even more notable is how little time Doe truly has with the audience - a little over twenty minutes. This is some of the most awkward twenty minutes in modern cinema (excluding, of course, watching SCARY MOVIE with your dad).

Fincher very deliberately puts the cop car divider between the audience and Doe for the entire drive out to the desert (when Doe gets his big speeches and the majority of his screen time), almost as if to emphasize the difference between the emotional gap between what Doe has done and what Fincher's asking us to do: sympathize with the villain. Doe has crafted this morality play, and in that sense, one can see how Fincher would relate to him as well: they're co-directors of this charming pastiche of death and sin.

But what makes Doe disturbingly relatable to the audience is how he has cast himself: as Envy. He isn't above his own moral judgments. He deserves to die for his sins as well. And jealousy, much more than wrath, is a wholly relatable sin. In fact, in Part II of my review of Fincher's characters, I'll make the argument that he often uses jealousy as a tool to make his villains more sympathetic and his heroes more human.

Come back soon when we'll take a look at THE GAME, FIGHT CLUB, and PANIC ROOM. And next time I'll bring the grimy beats out the dungeon.

I'd Rather Have Pie

SPEED RACER and Why You're Never Too Old for Halloween

Film criticism can be, as Kriss Kross would put it, whickity-whickity-whack. I think there's a valid place for commentary and dialogue, but assigning a numerical value to a film's quality? Why not assign foods (THE DARK KNIGHT was clearly a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios) or holidays (VALENTINE'S DAY = Remembrance Day) to a film?

With that atrociously half-hearted segue, I'd like to posit that SPEED RACER is clearly the Halloween of movies. It's a big, fun kid's movie all dressed up in bright colours and running on pure sugar. There are no less than three scenes about the joy of candy. If you can handle the head rush from the compositing and overwhelming visual palette, you'll find a film about the joys of family and coming home. It's almost exactly like the joy of abandoning the cold of those October nights, emptying the pillowcases, and sorting the candy into chocolate and gummy bowls.

The majority of the Wachowski's last film is rooted in childlike joy and innocence, but the finale is downright orgasmic, a stunning ten minutes of film that sweeps you up in an emotional swell and release the likes of which I've rarely seen. So on second thought, it's like what Halloween becomes: where it's less about some house handing out full-size Twix bars and more about finding a hot Spock to lose your hobbit cloak with (so to speak). Or maybe it's both at once, a combination of Halloweens past and present.

Waking up the next morning, cookie crumbs down the front of your shirt, chocolate smeared on your fingertips, and a used condom hanging over your wastebasket, you might be inclined to feel a little shame. And I think that's what must have happened to the numerous critics who destroyed the film with merciless reviews upon it's release. Many of them derided the film as juvenile, frenetic, and only appealing to 12 year-olds, sounding like jilted lovers bemoaning a lack of commitment. The critics doth protest too much, methinks.

Now, I can admit to myself that I'm a cinematic slut. And while SPEED RACER didn't make me that way, I can enjoy our two hours together. I can even overlook that monkey.

Ten More Intriguing Questions Than "Who Is SALT?"

Columbia Pictures chose to market their summer would-be blockbuster SALT with the tagline, "Who Is Salt?" in some sort of attempt to virally intrigue me into a search for the source of Gandhi's power. There was also the ill-advised "Day X Exists", which of course contained the implied question, "How many shoulders can one tagline shrug?" But much like an e-mail telling me about those stamps I ordered, simply ignoring these questions seemed much easier. In that spirit, I humbly present these ten questions, which I feel would do a much better job at intriguing me (or at least offend me) into watching SALT:

1) Why has Chiwetel Ejiofor continued to not change his name?

2) Wouldn't Burt Blackwell be a much better name for him?

3) No?

4) Would you greenlight a pitch that consisted of the words "THE MANCHURIAN CANDIDATE meets Bruce Willis' THE JACKAL"? Then fuck you, pal.

5) Is it possible that Philip Noyce, the once-great director of fare like THE QUIET AMERICAN and CLEAR AND PRESENT DANGER, but is now the guy you call when you're the pilot of TRU CALLING, reached an all-new career low?

6) And if so, is it possible to get lower?

7) Has an actor ever slept throughout the entirety of a film shoot, as Liev Schreiber appears to be in every single frame of SALT?

8) If so, why doesn't he look healthier?

9) Was he not eating or something?

10) I mean, dude looks like a skeleton. Couldn't we have put an IV in him while he was hibernating or whatever?

Marketing firms, I am available on a consultation basis. Holla at ya boi.

A Tale of Three ROBIN HOODs

The title of this blog is, as you may observe, Tony Scott's Only Fan. As such, I find myself obligated to follow a sort of self-mandated mission statement of sorts, which consists of the following three general guidelines:

1) Acknowledge Tony Scott's awesomeness at all times.

2) Work in as many references to Tony's extended filmography as humanly possible.

3) Viciously attack Ridley Scott as an overrated hack, so that one day in the distant future someone will say, "Oh, Tony Scott's brother?" when discussing the director of ALIEN, BLADE RUNNER, and 1492: CONQUEST OF PARADISE.

Which brings us to ROBIN HOOD, Ridley's regrettable attempt to work once again in the historical film genre. To adequately present my disdain for the film, I give you the following compare-and-contrast chart between Ridley's ROBIN HOOD, the 1973 Disney take, and Mel Brooks' ROBIN HOOD: MEN IN TIGHTS.

	Robin Hood (‘73)	Men In Tights	Robin Hood (‘10)
Portrayal of Robin Hood	Precocious fox with a death wish – the clear winner	Cary Elwes – mostly reacting to things and grimacing.	Russell Crowe, mumbling and generally unkempt
Historical Accuracy	Who gives a fuck when it’s this entertaining? Plus there’s that whole minstrel rooster thing to add a subjective cop-out	Dave Chappelle playing a man with rights, freedoms	Who gives a fuck when it’s this boring?
Soundtrack	“Oo-de-lally, oo-de-lally, golly what a day”	Mel Brooks-written raps	Marc Streitenfeld doing a passable Hans Zimmer impression
Most Memorable Line	“It appears that I now have an outlaw for an inlaw”	“King illegal forest to pig wild kill in it a is!”	“Rise and rise, until lambs become lions”
Most Disturbing Moment	Cross-dressing bear stuffs money into bra, encourages cat-calls.	Cross-dressing Robert Downey Jr. lookalike moving fake breast around on chest.	When I paid $4.50 to see this, then another $3 in late fees.
Maid Marion	A fox who plays badminton – TOO SOON.	Is Peggy from THE MASK.	Cate Blanchett, since it is in her contract to play these roles.
Merry Men	Very few to be seen, other than a bunch of kids that tag along and are given lethal weapons by Robin.	Chorus line drunkards – probably the most accurate portrayal.	Not really any to be seen, unless you want to count that kid wearing a rabbit on his face.
Coherent Political Philosophy?	Borderline anarchist – Robin appears to like King Richard, but despise most of the principles of government	None on evidence.	Main belief appears to be “Everyone can unite against the French”, but there’s also some token equality-of-men stuff.
Burning Castles?	Hells yes!	Sadly, no.	Does a drawbridge count?
Bryan Adams?	No	Nope	No, but there is that dude from Great Big Sea.
Most Badass Moment of Archery	Splitting one arrow with another	Sadly misguided attempt at missile defence commentary combined with an attempt to explain where The Wave came from.	Ummm… he shoots a guy in the back? OH, BUT IN SLOW MOTION.
The Bottom Line	Gets the Robin Hood mythos	The best jokes are from other Mel Brooks movies	Is not, in fact, the Robin Hood mythos and tells a story no one wants to see.

Opinion Stated As Fact: Tony Scott Makes CITIZEN KANE Better

Here's the obligatory "CITIZEN KANE is awesome" post on a film blog. In my defence, it did take me over four months to get here, but I will try to get this out of the way as quickly as possible.

Similar to my RAGING BULL post a while ago, I think the easiest way to do this is just to post a few pictures of how beautiful this film is:

I could go into a whole thing about depth of field and American mythmaking, but the truth is, all of those reasons are secondary to why CITIZEN KANE is a classic.

CITIZEN KANE is a classic because it fucks with the most powerful man in the world and gets away with it. It would be like if next week's HAWAII FIVE-O was about Scott Caan, that cunning investigator of human nature, opening a cold case about a missing kid, only to realize that the kid became a drug runner, fled the island, and grew up to become the President of the United States. That's crazy, possibly litigious (although Rupert Murdoch, that Kane of our times, is looking into it), and would never be allowed to happen. But somehow CITIZEN KANE did happen.

And RKO 281, a made-for-HBO movie, makes the story of how CITIZEN KANE came to be extremely compelling. Liev Schreiber plays Orson Welles, and unlike his recent performance in SALT, he appears to be awake during almost all of the scenes of the film. He turns in an actual performance that appears to bring depth and emotion to a human character. His Welles is alternately proud, brilliant, self-conscious, and obsessed with his legacy. It's actually fairly impressive work for any actor, but for Liev, it's particularly surprising.

James Cromwell is on the flipside of this coin as William Randolph Hearst, the publishing magnate that the character of Kane was supposedly based on, and the man who tried to destroy the film. It's quite a sympathetic portrayal, which is surprising, given the power and influence he wielded. John Malkovich turns in a great performance as the similarly-surnamed Herman Mankiewicz, the forgotten man in all of CITIZEN KANE's greatness, and Roy Scheider shows up as the studio boss of RKO. All in all, it's a swell cast. The script moves along at a nice pace and things never feel too biopic-y.

Oh, and did I mention that Tony Scott was an Executive Producer on this? That's how he makes arguably the greatest film of all time even better.

A TSOF Exclusive: The Secret of Michael Bay (THE ROCK Review)

First off, let me apologize for the lengthy time between reviews. You may have heard that I was absolutely swamped at work, but that was just misinformation I spread to keep the hounds off my tail. Secretly, I've been working on a piece of investigative journalism so explosive it might blow the lid off the Internet. That's right: a lidless Internet. Imagine.

For years, Michael Bay has been a favourite whipping boy of the lidded Net, with his cocaine-fuelled, spatially-confusing, character-less messes like BAD BOYS, PEARL HARBOR, and THE ISLAND. But there was always one film that could seemingly redeem Mr. Bay from any of these disasters: THE ROCK.

THE ROCK may well be a masterpiece (or at least the folks at Criterion seem to think so), but one was forced to wonder how a man who could construct moments like this could also be responsible for dreck like this. Thanks to my sources in the greater Cali area, I present you with damning proof of how THE ROCK was possible, and perhaps why he has never risen to such heights again:

THE EXPENDABLES befuddles the mind

Once upon a time, Sylvester Stallone was nominated for an Academy Award for screenwriting.

This is a scene from THE EXPENDABLES.

Reconcile those two facts, and get back to me. I'm still working on it.

$20,000 Worth of Film Theory Classes Finally Pay Off: My Combined Review of STEP UP 3D and PIRANHA 3D

I don't mind putting words in the mouths of dead men, even if it's a little dangerous, but I feel pretty safe in saying that if Marshall McLuhan was alive today, he'd be losing his shit over PIRANHA 3D. And be tweeting things like "OMGz, @STEP UP 3D ttly rocked my wrld!"

Well, I don't know if he'd be tweeting. The man who once wrote a whole book essentially about how lightbulbs are awesome would probably deplore the 140-character limit. But he'd definitely be buying multiple $20 tickets and gushing to his friends about how his new favourite form of representation was no longer 40-watt tungsten, but 3D film.

Let's back up a minute and let me drop a little media theory knowledge on y'all, just to make sure we're on the same page. McLuhan is known most famously for his declaration that "the medium is the message", a theory that postulates that the specific qualities of a form of representation is what is actually imparted to its audience, rather than any message embodied in the representation. The content is not actually what is being passed on to the viewer - it's the way through which we experience it. This means that supposedly corrupting TV shows are actually the same as such wholesome fare as SEVENTH HEAVEN - they're really imparting the same social programming on the viewer, because we are forced to experience it through the same way.

So if the medium is the message, than PIRANHA 3D and STEP UP 3D are saying the exact same thing: sit down, shut up, and look at these tits wobbling in your face. This is what you came here for.

PIRANHA 3D is pure entertainment, a film that is not concerned with trifling matters like gravity or the relationship between oxygen and the human brain. If it gets in the way of entertaining you, then it can go to hell. That's why there's a three-minute naked underwater ballet scene, Christopher Lloyd shouting every line in his best Doc Brown voice, and Jerry O'Connell screaming "They ate my dick! They ate my dick!" There's no delusions of grandeur here, no attempt to portray some sort of human truth, just a never-ending drive to put crazier and crazier things on screen.

This may be even more true for STEP UP 3D, whose quest for pure entertainment leads it to completely disregard any attempt at coherent storytelling in favour of moving as quickly as possible from jaw-dropping dance number to jaw-dropping laser-emitting-TRON-suit dance number. I'm pretty sure I heard the line, "You and your trust fund can't stop us!" at one point, and while some might see this as lazy scripting, it's actually an attempt to just move to the next viscerally thrilling spin move as quickly as possible. With this line, there's no need for me to see the trust fund kid doing something evil, I already know he's evil because he has been identified as a trust fund kid. Done. Now show me somebody fly through the air while grabbing their crotch. Then show me two people doing it. Then show me a whole crew of people doing it while lasers shoot off their backs and directly into my eyeballs.

The form of 3D is something that has been debated for quite a while now. Some filmmakers are trying to convince us that 3D can be used to accentuate storytelling, draw an audience deeper into the world. CORALINE is a fine modern example of this. These are usually the same crowds that bemoan shots of yo-yos flying towards the camera as "gimmicky" and "trite".

Here's a newsflash, bitches: 3D is a gimmick.

If you want to tell a story in a visual medium, we've got this awesome thing called two-dimensional films. Make one of those. But if I want to see a piranha eat Jerry O'Connell's dick, you better believe I want that dick floating towards me, eighty feet tall and inches from my face. Only then will I truly feel the horror of what's happening. And if you're making a horny-teens-on-spring-break movie, you better believe I'd like those wet t-shirt contests right in front of my eyes while Eli Roth calls breasts "Danny Devitos" in the rear channel speakers. If you're making a movie about the human body in motion, then you should absolutely use all the dimensions available to you. And if you're smart, you'll give me only the barest framework of a story to hang your dance choreography on. I don't give a shit about your story - I'm here for the experience.

The medium is the message. And 3D is telling us how visceral we are.

THE LAST LOVECRAFT: a perfect excuse to work in a bunch of fish puns

This year's Toronto After Dark festival played host to a variety of crazy movies, most notably THE HUMAN CENTIPEDE. And while I was nowhere near brave enough to enter a world of terrifying German surgery, I did score some free passes to the opening night film, THE LAST LOVECRAFT.

For the first few minutes, I was terribly worried that this was going to be an overwrought RELIC HUNTER episode, complete with hooded villains, questionable effects work, and middle-aged actors trying way too hard to justify their lifetime of shitty work (and the word "relic" being thrown around way, way too often). And while elements of The Carrere Effect remained throughout the entirety of the film, its charm ultimately won me over.

The basic setup is that the fiction of H.P. Lovecraft was actually a warning of real dangers, and that a group of nerds, including the last descendant of Lovecraft, have to band together to save the world from Cthulhu, the sea-dwelling Megatron of Lovecraftian fiction. With this kind of material and this kind of a budget, there's bound to be some problems with the film. The baddies in the film are all clearly wearing masks, and some of the effects work is, well, fishy, but the script knows what its strengths are and plays to them, principally keeping the dynamic between the nerds front and center.

The other key is that THE LAST LOVECRAFT never takes itself too seriously. While it isn't an outright comedy, the film's tongue is never too far from its cheek (although, really, how far could a tongue get from its corresponding cheek?) Anyway, there's quite a few laughs thrown into the proceedings, which helps when the film gets dragged down by it's plot.

THE LAST LOVECRAFT just picked up a distribution deal, so there's a chance that you might see it in a DVD bargain bin sometime soon. If it's a $5 and Under bin, I'd say go ahead and pick it up. There's enough there for you to enjoy, and like the 2003 Florida Marlins, it just might surprise you.

Review: Fin.

DINER is one of my all-time favourites

When you press play on the DINER DVD, you're subjected to a five-minute introduction to the film by the cast and crew. It's incredibly smug and arrogant, a boast of the film's timelessness and quality. The first time I watched the film, I almost turned it off right after Steve Guttenberg, that fine purveyor of quality products, guaranteed me that I would love the film.

But if you manage to make it past this incredibly crass piece of promotional fluff, you'll find a wonderful piece of personal filmmaking that backs up all its talk. DINER is an exceptional film, something that feels so true to its characters that they cease to be characters. The basic set-up is that it's the last week of the 1950's as a group of old friends re-unite for their friend's wedding on New Year's Eve.

Barry Levinson's script is impeccably crafted, witty and personal and seeped in period details that makes me feel nostalgic for an era that I wasn't even remotely close to alive for. The film is saturated with a love for the innocence of the fifties, and a faint feeling of dread for the coming turbulence of the sixties hangs over everything. I think what makes the film so accessible is that it's actually about the past, about the memories that make us who we are, a theme Levinson further explored in the great LIBERTY HEIGHTS. Levinson is able to tap in to our fondness for the past, and DINER feels like hearing your grandfather tell you How It Really Was.

I watch DINER at least once a year, and I always see new things in it, and relate to it differently as I mature. My relationships with the characters are always in flux, and I see pieces of myself and my friends in the dynamics of the film. What never changes is my love for the dialogue-heavy script, which revels in the art of conversation, basks in the power of words.

The cast of DINER is the other great strength of the film, bringing a depth and realism to the characters that isn't necessarily on the page. Kevin Bacon gives the best non-Paul Veerhoven performance of his career as the troubled alcoholic fuck-up Fenwick, a loyal friend whose simmering anger belies his goof personality. Tim Daly (yes, the ill-advised remake of The Fugitive's Tim Daly) brings a lot of the heart to the film, as Billy, the friend whose ambition has taken him away from home, but is back for the wedding and another purpose. Daniel Stern is a revelation, playing a man-child trapped in marriage and avoiding any ... y'know, Daniel Stern-ness. Guttenberg's persona has never been utilized better than in this film. Paul Reiser is hilarious. And it's amazing to see what Mickey Rourke can do with a role when he's actually trying.

I'm curious if any of the ladies out there share my love of DINER. The most memorable scenes of the film exist in a strange sexual ethics zone, and how the men relate to it individually. For me, so much of the film's power is in it's depiction of male friendships, in the things that are said and unsaid, what is public and what is left private. I think it's a pitch-perfect depiction of the boundaries of those friendships, and it hits me in a deeply personal way.

But I want to hit that DVD intro in the balls.

THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION OF LITTLE DIZZLE vs. Lil' Dizzy

I had a day off yesterday. This is what I did with it.

BLACK DYNAMITE and the Trial of Mike Myers

I think we can all agree that, in general, the genre of spoof film is in a tired state. The Scary Movie series (the definition of tired). Meet the Spartans (yes, that is THE WIRE and Wu-Tang alum Method Man). Not Another _____ Movie (which is one of the first series to start the trend of having the title mimic your reaction to finding out about it). Not since I watched a massive load of ejaculate plaster Anna Faris to a ceiling while sitting next to my dad have I felt so ashamed to watch a spoof. And we all know who to blame. It may not be pleasant to turn on one of our own, but it's something we have to do. Mr. Michael Meyers, please step to the stand.

Mr. Myers, you have been called here today to be judged. Not so much for what you've done, but more for what you haven't done. But we'll get to that in a moment.

But first, let me set the scene of the crime: the summer of 1997. A muggy summer, the kind of heat that gets into a man's soul; makes him crazy, drives him to the dark, lonely corners of his mind. Not to say your intentions were anything but pure when you released AUSTIN POWERS: INTERNATIONAL MAN OF MYSTERY into the world that fateful summer, but as we have so often seen in our history, the noblest of intentions have a way of twisting us, perverting us from what we started as.

Now, I'll admit it: I liked your spoof. You distilled the essence of Bondian intrigues and combined it with terrifying puns, Seth Green at his wise-assiest, and Elizabeth Hurley. In my defense, I was eleven years old. I had just finished writing a James Bond movie with my brother where the main villain had swords for arms and was called Dangerhands (still awesome, IMHO) But I'm not on trial here, Myers, you are!

No one could really blame you when you released the sequel. I mean, you hadn't touched on the outrageousness of hollowed-out volcano bases and midget henchmen yet. So I got it. The commentary wasn't complete yet. But there were also a few, um, troubling inclusions. I don't know what the fuck Fat Bastard was supposed to comment on, but every single time I think of him I want to strap you to the electric chair myself and throw the switch.

But the third one ... well, to be honest. I don't remember much about the third one. Whether it was through the rarely-heard-about benefits of some sort of post-traumatic stress disorder, or a conscious attempt on my part to subjugate the memories of the film through sheer willpower, everything about those ninety minutes remains gauzy. I do remember you co-opted cameos from Steven Spielberg, Tom Cruise, and Britney Spears, in the sure-fire mark of a tapped-out well of ideas. Oh God, Beyoncé was in it too, wasn't she? Jesus Christ, the memories are coming back...

The less mentioned about The Love Guru, the better. For everyone. That list looks like the goddamned docket for a Nuremberg courtroom in 1945.

Mr. Myers, the charges are simple: you ruined the spoof film. And you have not apologized.

So when I see hilarious scenes like this in a movie like BLACK DYNAMITE, there's a sour after-taste. I want to think about Zucker-Abrams-Zucker and the awesomeness of a spoof film with a point and story of it's own, but I can't help but flash back to this kind of shit.

Mr. Myers, all you have to do is apologize. And then maybe we'll get into reparations. In the meantime, we'll always have Mel Brooks.

If I say INSOMNIA is nowhere near Robin Williams' worst film, am I actually saying anything?

Do you ever have those moments where memory plays tricks on you? Where you change the shape of a room or the color of a car? Or maybe the end of a movie?

I've done it twice now - a few years ago, I could have sworn CASABLANCA's last shot of Ingrid Bergman was of her looking tearfully out an airplane window at Humphrey Bogart, but then I saw Alfred Hitchcock's NOTORIOUS again and realized I had added a shot from that film into my memory of CASABLANCA. And I just realized I did it with INSOMNIA, too.

My recollections of INSOMNIA were very fuzzy, but I hadn't realized just how fuzzy they were until Nicky Katt showed up and started making with the awesome (as he so often does). For years, I had operated under the assumption that the conclusion of the film was a nicely tied bow that linked two separate cases together under Robin Williams' guilt.

Turns out, that completely doesn't happen. At all. There isn't even a second case. So either there was some sort of unfortunate BLOOD WORK-related crossed-wire-in-my-mind thing, or I'm a fucking idiot.

It's still not a great film, or even a good one, really, but it's nowhere near the travesty I remember it being. Hilary Swank is given a pretty thankless role and she does very little with it, but Pacino has some nice moments here that, again, I didn't remember. He plays a nicely understated guilt through most of the film that is especially effective when you compare it against his more standard scream-loudly-and-wave-my-arms approach. The examination of a cop under investigation by internal affairs feels real and well-researched, as does the actual detective work in the film.

The real problem with the film is, sadly, Williams. Now, I love HOOK as much as the next man. I do not love THE FINAL CUT or ONE HOUR PHOTO. He's just not well-suited to playing creepy. There's too much cultural baggage for him to shake. He's the goddamn Genie, for Christ's sake. But even if we purposely deprived a child of such classics as ALADDIN, JUMANJI, and MRS. DOUBTFIRE in some sort of cruel social experiment, that poor, damaged child still wouldn't believe Robin Williams as a credible foil to Pacino. From the very first moment Williams comes on screen, we know what the end game will be. Williams might weaken Pacino, chip away at him, but in the end, there is no doubt about who the winner will be. The film steadily trails off from the point his character is introduced, which is unfortunate, as his relationship to Pacino is really the film's raison d'être.

Has anyone seen the Swedish original? Is it worth checking out? If it is, there might be a better option than just trying to forget this version - or imagine a version where Jeff Daniels plays the Williams role.

BABIES is the Justin Bieber of movies

Do you remember where you were when you first heard of Justin Bieber?

My memory is particularly vivid, because it's also when I realized the world was not the one I used to know. When Usher came in to that eleven year-old's party and gave him props, I realized a torch was perhaps literally (given Usher's history of STDs) being passed, and that I belonged to those who no longer carried the torch (or gonorrhea).

So away with our destroyers (of sexual virtue)! They have no place within our tween world. But this new world carries with it disturbing questions and moral quagmires of its own. Like is Justin Bieber actually a robot? And what is he hiding behind those bangs?

All of this brings me to BABIES, which is terrifyingly hypnotic in much the same way Bieber is. You're never really sure if you're watching because you're fascinated by what's happening, or wondering why you're fascinated by what's happening.

The tagline for the film is "Everybody loves babies", which has to stand as one of the laziest advertising attempts I've ever seen. I was worried this was going to be the film equivalent of an eating-Rolo-ice-cream-out-of-the-tub YouTube cute binge, complete with kittens, orphans, and ridiculously adorable renditions of "Tomorrow".

And while BABIES doesn't have any hits from the Annie soundtrack, it does coast an awful lot on the cuteness of babies doing baby stuff. But there's also some really interesting stuff about competition, survival, and the essence of humanity in there - but I might be reading too much into it. The film is like a fascinating semiotic exercise, where you're constantly debating the meaning of every little gesture and look.

Which brings me back to Bieber. I'm never really sure if I'm looking at a savvy scruple-less media manipulator or an innocent dreamboat, but I do know I'm watching.

Fascinated.

MYSTERY TEAM is the future of cinema (kinda)

Yeah, yeah, yeah, INCEPTION is mind-blowing. AVATAR will keep us fucking around with 3D for the next decade or so. But when we're talking about the future of cinema, any serious discussion will have to include MYSTERY TEAM.

The brainchild of Derrick Comedy, an online comedy troupe who have brought us such viral classics as Girls Are Not To Be Trusted, Bro Rape, and this hilariously crass send-up of the National Spelling Bee, MYSTERY TEAM is a charming film with no budget and a ton of very, very funny ideas. The basic hook is a team of kid detectives have grown up without ever leaving the whole kid detective-thing behind. They don't swear. They charge a dime for a case. But when a murder case falls in their lap, the kids have to solve the case, get the girl, and maybe grow up a little bit.

If I were Peter Travers, I would paraphrase the EPK synopsis like I just did, and then say things like "MYSTERY TEAM is fall-down funny!" and "deliciously warped!", but I'm not trying to get on a box, so fuck that guy.

But MYSTERY TEAM is truly fall-down funny, and marks the emergence of a true talent with Donald Glover. This kid is blowing up - he's written, starred in, or scored three of the funniest network shows in recent memory, he's self-producing and releasing killer hip-hop albums ("I can Say Anything, call me John Cusack / keep my dick wetter than the bottom of a cruise ship"), and he recently launched a Spider-Man petition that cleverly got people talking about the role of race in comic books - not bad for a guy who probably has to put up with every third person he meets asking him for PREDATOR 2 merch.

But here, Glover is just part of a devastating ensemble that completely gets the material (probably because most of them helped write it). The film is playing with the conventions of all those Encyclopedia Brown-Hardy Boys-Nancy Drew novels of our childhood, and combining them with coke dealers, strip clubs, and horrifying diarrhea jokes. The result is something that's, well, deliciously warped, that feels almost infinitely re-watchable.

The real drawbacks of the film are with it's obvious budget (or lack thereof), which occasionally gives the film a cheap feel. Which brings me back to that whole "future of cinema" thing. In a world where the Old Spice guy is getting an NBC show and The Whitest Kids U Know are on basic cable, we've all become casting directors, with the web as our version of headshots, and YouTube as our generation's casting couch.

And we've done a hell of a job with MYSTERY TEAM. Now we just need to get them some money.

CRANK had too much to drank

Five minutes into CRANK, it was so blatantly clear that I was dealing with a wannabe DOMINO clone that I began to wonder how I could write this review. I mean, how could I express how bored I was with most of CRANK, but defend DOMINO, my favourite film of the last decade? Everything was so similar, from the over-saturated visual style to the zany side characters to the attempt to make the story seem like a half-remembered nightmare through a cracked mirror of regret, that I felt helpless to like one and not the other.

To conquer these problems, I came up with the following proof:

Using the universally-accepted equation that:

TEENAGE MUTANT NINJA TURTLES II: THE SECRET OF THE OOZE > everything

we might then surmise that:

dudes (or mutated amphibians) with handheld weapons > other dudes/mutated amphibians/Power Rangers

but a more accurate surmise would be that:

nunchucks > everything.

Observation: The film DOMINO has several scenes with nunchucks.

Observation Two: The film CRANK has zero scenes with nunchucks.

Conclusion: I drew it:

A Deliriously Infatuated Love Letter to THE MUMMY (1999)

Dearest THE MUMMY (1999):

Oh, how I missed you. It had been too long since I saw your Egyptologist-melting, fortune-hunter-dissolving, scarab-beetle-eating beauty.

I still remember our first time - the Erin Mills Town Centre Cineplex, long since closed down and turned into an Old Navy, on Canada Day, 1999. I'll be honest, I only remember it was July 1 because we had to go to a family event afterward, but it was still special because of you. I don't remember what we ate that day, or what set of directions my family argued about to make conversation (although it probably went something like this: "Who takes the 407? What are you, some sort of a Spanish consortium economic booster?"). No, my memories of that day are all about you - of Brendan Fraser shooting two pistols and makin' with the quips, of Rachel Weisz's stunning eyes and deadpan comic timing, of your stunning effects. It was new, it was beautiful, and it was scary.

Yeah, I'll admit it, you scared me. But I think what we shared that day would make anyone a little scared. You got inside me, THE MUMMY (1999). You changed me. I know this might be a little surprising to you. I know I tried to play it cool, treat you like I treated any other film. Or did you see right through my charade? Did you see how I got a little obsessive, daydreaming about you that whole summer, playing your video game and listening to your score?

Now, I probably should have realized that summer lovin' couldn't last. But I didn't see GREASE for another two years. We were both young, THE MUMMY (1999). Let's not pretend we were smarter than we were. Admittedly, our relationship soured at times. There was that sequel that barely deserved your name, and that time the man who played your titular character turned in the laziest guest spot in ALIAS' notorious history of lazy guest spots. Then there was that sorta-prequel with that guy from THE TOOTH FAIRY and then, of course, the infamous VAN HELSING "break". Oded Fehr did RESIDENT EVIL 2. And then there was that final sequel. I think I lost you, THE MUMMY (1999). I think I lost what I loved about you.

I know it's a cliché, THE MUMMY (1999), but I think those tough times might have just made us stronger. Because when I saw you the other day, I saw you. I mean, really saw you. I saw the obvious green screen work, and the horrifying beginnings of CGI animation. I saw the questionable ethnic stereotypes and the way you basically steal things from much better movies.

And I don't care.

Those aren't ugly green fuzzy halos around your actors' heads: they're love-green-screen-lines. You're not a pale imitation of others: you're full of homages to other classic beauties, and you make it your own. And if someone said that your effects weren't hot, I'd say they're cute.

I hope you can forgive me for ignoring you on my shelf for so long, THE MUMMY (1999). I know I've forgiven you for the six hours of MUMMY-related films I've been forced to sit through, and the considerably longer amount of time it's taken to remove any tainted memories those films have left in my mind about your purity.

So, since no love letter is complete without some bad poetry, I'd like to present you with some lines from one of our great poets, who can truly express my feelings. Hear Cassie's words, THE MUMMY (1999), and try to ignore the strip-club favourite undertones:

It's me and you, now

I've been waiting

Think I wanna make that move, now

Baby, tell me if you like it.

It's me and you, now

I've been waiting.

Death Is Only The Beginning,

Brandon

THE KING OF KONG may, one day, make a great documentary

What makes a great documentary? Is it the question of access, of gaining interviews with all the principal players? Is it how close the documentarian can get to their subjects, a question of intimacy? Or one of scope, examining all the facets of a subject? I think THE KING OF KONG: A FISTFUL OF QUARTERS shows that what separates the good from the great is the ending.

Like Brian Cox (as Robert McKee in the brilliant ADAPTATION) would say, "Wow them in the end, and you've got a hit. You can have flaws, problems, but wow them in the end." The problem with THE KING OF KONG is that the film doesn't have an ending. I mean, it ends, but it doesn't conclude. The story is still ongoing, still in need of documentation, and by no means does the story feel like it's over.

It's pretty straight-up quest movie, as the innocent everyman Steve Wiebe fights to achieve supremacy in the world of Donkey Kong and beat the smug and conceited world champion, Billy Mitchell. There's several twists and turns presented in the film, as Wiebe comes at the throne several times and thinks he wins, only to not be recognized, or be disqualified, or have Mitchell snatch the title right back.

The first half of the film is great, character-driven stuff, as we're presented with the cause of the conflict and the backstory of the main two guys, but as the film goes on, it becomes more obsessive about documenting the events and the scores. And while that may be interesting in that it seems to mirror Wiebe's character as his life becomes increasingly about beating Mitchell and nothing else, I definitely felt like the movie was losing focus.

My favourite documentary is HOOP DREAMS, a film that took over a decade to film and edit. It must have been infinitely infuriating for the filmmakers to film for years, never knowing when the film would be fit to be finished. They managed to find an ending to that film that was narratively satisfying, while still allowing for the main characters' stories to progress. I hope this movie is re-edited in ten years, allowing for a clearer perspective of what was truly important to the story of these two men.

Until then, THE KING OF KONG will merely be a good doc, not a great one.