'Tropic Thunder': It Features a Child Firing a Bazooka

"Tropic Thunder" was scheduled to start at 7:25 p.m., but I walked in around 7:27, just in time to catch the last 20 seconds of the "Max Payne" trailer. A video game movie trailer, no matter how short, is a depressing way to kick off a theatrical experience.

A few minutes later, I thought we as a country were fucked. A rapper was advertising a drink called Booty Sweat with women showing their skin and enough horrid dancing to kill my hope for today's wayward youth. Why didn't these vicious bastards show off the product before the trailers?, I thought. Then I heard the rapper's name: Al Pacino. What the hell. He commenced to jabber on and on about how he loved "Pussy." I laughed, I had been duped, and this kind of outrage set the tone for the following 100+ minutes.

I had been introduced to the fictional actor Alpa Cino, played by actor/comedian Brandon T. Jackson, someone I hope to see more of. Three more trailers presented the other "stars" of the "movie" (this metatextual drivel is confusing here but straightforward when you see it): Tug Speedman (Ben Stiller), Jeff Portnoy (Jack Black), and Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey Jr.).

That was the biggest surprise: four trailers being the actual beginning of the film. The second biggest surprise, occurring as I recovered from laughing so much throughout "Tropic Thunder," was revealed with the first closing credit: "Directed by Ben Stiller." In contrast to my initial reaction to the Booty Sweat trailer, I felt hope after that credit. If Stiller, utterly flaccid after the terrible "The Heartbreak Kid," can direct a reasonably intelligent comedy, we can fix the education system. We can.

(I don't feel like I need to write anything else but will confirm that Downey Jr. is a freak. He nails playing an Australian actor playing a black man. Downey's role called for him to satirize method acting by method acting, and this accomplishment solidifies him as one of the best actors in the world. It is highly unlikely Downey will get an Oscar nomination for this performance, but I would slap my grandmother if it would get him a nod.)

'The Lives of Others': A Bald Man Can Smile

As a friend said to me recently, it is hard to get excited about watching a two and a half hour movie involving the Stasi. After finishing "The Lives of Others," the debut of German director Florian Henckel von Donnersmarck, it is hard to get excited about writing this entry, but I have not been updating as often as I promised and this is the only film I have seen this week.

"The Lives of Others" is a great and unsettling movie, but the material is very dull on paper. So why in God's name did I watch it? Because "Pan's Labyrinth" lost Best Foreign Language Film to it, and I wanted to see whether the Academy blundered as usual or if "The Lives of Others" had any merit.

It took me a long time to sit down and watch the movie, much less pick it up. Reading the plot description on its DVD case in a rental store brought up a troubling question: what poor bastard had to watch the movie in order to write this description? The last thing I wanted was to end up like that writer, too bored to do his job anymore.

I also do not want you to end up like me. I almost did not put the DVD in my player because some people were stubborn enough to mention the story, virtually impossible to render into interesting language. Another futile attempt would torture you and me and give this movie an even smaller pool of potential viewers.

Perhaps the best approach here is to casually remark on a few seemingly random pieces of fascination within "The Lives of Others." A fat bald politician pulls down his embarrassing underwear to force himself on a writer's insecure girlfriend. A bald play director commits suicide and inspires an article that tangles the collective panties of the East Germany government. And the Main Bald Man finally smiles after frowning so much.

The bottom line is baldies drive the story of "The Lives of Others," and you will not find a more enticing comment than that.

'El Topo,' or When Confusion Is Delightful

Here to be divulged is my reaction after seeing Alejandro Jodorowsky's 1970 film "El Topo" the first time. Notwithstanding my love for spoilers evident from previous entries, I serve you by withholding details (hence, no wikipedia link for the movie itself). I was delighted to be confused. I will say this much. Both for its protagonist and whoever watches it, a large part of "El Topo" is not finding the way, not stumbling near understanding, being blinded by the sun.

A thought followed after watching the film. That "El Topo" was David Lynch before David Lynch. But having recovered from confoundment, I am not sure I can agree with myself.

With his trademark abstractness, Lynch utilizes not knowing for mood. This can be frightening as anyone with "Inland Empire," Lynch's most abstract film, checked off his or her to-see list will attest.

Jodorowsky has another mind game. Not to say mood does not come into play during "El Topo," but the film does not feed as heavily on it as Lynch's pictures. "El Topo" affects you more after you watch it than it does during its two hours.

The confusion inherent in much of Lynch's work gets me talking. Hey there, were you freaked out, did bunnies doing the family sitcom show up in your nightmares? I simply look back at the experience.

After "El Topo," I am looking at the future. What is coming. What I may not ever understand.

And one other thing. A concern of mine and many others I assume: is "El Topo" a western? Not really, but any genre should be proud of being confused with it.

'The X-Files: I Want to Believe' But Cannot

To be honest, I feel slightly foolish for writing about, of all films, “X-Files: I Want to Believe.” Considering the pleading title and disastrous latter seasons of the 1990s television show, this essay demonstrates I must have really wanted to believe in something for no good reason other than a careless and fun leap of faith.

“I Want to Believe” could have been a witty and intelligent mystery. It is witty a few times, maybe even touching a couple of times, but mainly left me wondering why I had attempted to be a believer.

The film does not fall prey to the traditional flaws of many summer blockbusters. It is not filled with gratuitous and poorly conceived special effects. It is not trying to be bigger than what it should or can be. It is not a badly acted spree of stupid writing. But “I Want to Believe” cannot ultimately stand due to its shortsighted reliance on director/writer Chris Carter’s solid visuals and the chemistry between David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson.

With the exception of Fox Mulder (Duchovny) and Dana Scully (Anderson), the characters can be cut in half with scissors. Billy Connolly plays a psychic and former Catholic priest and boy molester and that description and a scene where he cries blood are about as interesting as he gets. His character is written as a penitent paranormal talent, but Connolly’s performance is guiltless scruffy hair notwithstanding. Two FBI agents played by Amanda Peet and Xzibit move the plot along like robots. Skinner, a main character from the television show, makes an unsurprising and pointless appearance. No one but those familiar with the show could know why he is there.

The story offers a mystery, but the unraveling is clockwork because everyone can follow a psychic. The disturbing revelation is that a group has kidnapped a woman with the goal to remove her head and sew the head of a man on her body. This idea might fascinate you for a few minutes as it involves decapitation and surgery and identity, but its execution is only for the sake of that brief fascination. Which is usually fine within the body of a 50-minute television program. In the theater the flippant scene sets off a gigantic so what.

Admittedly, the subplot detailing Scully’s struggle to cure a deathly ill boy with a risky procedure raises an admirable discussion about faith.

Just read the above line as a small compliment. Proselytized I am not.

'The Dark Knight': Villain, My Hero

The status quo of "The Dark Knight" is pandemonium. The opening heist sequence sets the tone for director Christopher Nolan's anti-comic book film in which the Joker meticulously kills his henchmen and avoids police in a school bus. It is the Joker's plan to destroy all plans. That is all. A scarred past? He tells a mob leader his father gave him the quasi Glasgow smile. We learn the story is unreliable, simply a device to make us think we can figure him out. Money? He claims at first if he is good at something not to do it for free but later burns a pyramid of money. Does he just want to kill Batman? Of course not. Batman completes him he adoringly quips.

Heath Ledger is the unequivocal lifeblood of this film. Without him Nolan could not have transcended the expectation of hero defeating villain. For all the positive traits of "Batman Begins" and the praise it received for reviving the Batman franchise, you realize how immature it really was. Nolan built a limited foundation in "Begins" and obliterates it here and digs into the dark hoping to reach Hell.

Ledger is unrecognizable. No trace of Cesar Romero, Jack Nicholson, or Mark Hamill, all great interpreters of Joker. Ledger interprets nothing. I believe he drove himself insane. I would call the performance inspiring if I could shake the scares. Some have compared Ledger's power to Marlon Brando. I call that and raise you Daniel Day-Lewis, who weeped on Oprah after Ledger died.

Day-Lewis indeed commanded the audience to react in a number of ways during the screening of "There Will Be Blood" I attended. Unbelievable to observe a similar charisma only months later and in of all things a movie based on mainstream comic book characters. But it surely happened. Ledger repulsed everyone around me and seconds later had them laughing.

Because Ledger was so bereft of anything holy or just, I tear down my character to say he was my hero during "The Dark Knight." I knew those feelings would be gone--the anticipation of glorified destruction, the inhuman glee, the life I sucked from death on the screen--without Ledger, the unstoppable force.

They are gone now and I want to go back to "The Dark Knight."

Film Binge

Weeks ago I viewed “The Pianist” and “La Dolce Vita” and “Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid” and “Manhattan" and “The Big Sleep” and “The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance” and “The Incredibles” and “The Grapes of Wrath” not in that particular order but day by day for the first time each and every one and I was indeed bloated but altogether different from the aftermath of a drinking binge where pleasure is soon forgotten and the foundation for more liver destruction is laid.

Share your film binges here but do not stumble about too much. Check back in a day or so for words on “The Dark Knight” and such.

An Unfortunate Dispute Between Directors Abel Ferrara and Werner Herzog

They are very different filmmakers. Abel Ferrara is known as a master of trash cinema, often utilizing sex and violence to illustrate the depravity of his characters and settings. Werner Herzog is known as a quirky documentarian, recently directing two of his most accessible films, "Grizzly Man" and "Rescue Dawn" (the latter being a fictional film based on Herzog's previous documentary, "Little Dieter Needs to Fly").

"Bad Lieutenant" is the conflict. Ferrara directed the 1992 original with Harvey Keitel starring as a perverse cop finally seeking redemption by investigating the rape of a nun. The film was obviously personal for Ferrara, and he held nothing back. "Bad Lieutenant" was rated NC-17 for theaters, and five minutes were cut from the theatrical cut so that Blockbuster would carry it.

Ferrara's comments on everyone involved in Herzog's planned remake of "Bad Lieutenant" were blunt: "I hope they're all in the same streetcar, and it blows up." Ferrara also said he would fight to stop the remake from happening.

Herzog was then interviewed by Defamer.com. Among his responses to Ferrara's anger:

"Let him fight. He thinks I'm doing a remake."

"It [Herzog's film] has nothing to with his [Ferrara's] film. But let him rave and rant; it's good music in the background."

"I've never seen a film by him. I have no idea who he is. Is he Italian? Is he French? Who is he?"

"Maybe I could invite him to act in a movie. Except I don't know what he looks like."

As an admirer of both filmmakers, I am disappointed if these words are true. But honestly, I understand Ferrara's position more than Herzog's.

Here is a common promotional image of Ferrara's film. Pay special attention to the font style of the title. Now glance at a poster (scroll down to first image in article) of Herzog's film used at this year's Cannes Film Festival.

I understand Herzog when he says he is not doing a remake. If he is telling the truth, he has not seen Ferrara's version. Instead of New York, Herzog is taking the story to New Orleans. Plus, Nicolas Cage will star in Herzog's picture, and he has little in common with Keitel as a performer.

But look at the posters again. If Herzog is not filming a remake, why are the title fonts of the posters so similar? Why is he filming a penis scene with Cage? Is he not aware Keitel's penis was shown in the original? Herzog keeps saying this is not a remake, but it bears obvious similarities with the original.

Herzog claims he does not understand the passion behind Ferrara's frustration. It is puzzling a director like Herzog, who has given us so much work about people and their creative obsessions, cannot understand why Ferrara would be upset over a movie with the same name as his own starring Cage, who has performed in mainstream remakes in the past ("Gone in Sixty Seconds" and "The Wicker Man").

Admittedly, Ferrara went too far wishing death on everyone involved in Herzog's film, but as far I know, he has not specifically attacked Herzog.

Apparently, the title of Herzog's film has been expanded to "Bad Lieutenant: Port of Call New Orleans." This is a right step for Herzog. Still, I doubt Ferrara will be satisfied.

Of course, knowing the controversial Ferrara and witty Herzog, this fight could be a hoax. If not, an unfortunate and unnecessary dispute between two gifted artists.