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 54. This is essentially Whit Stillman's Last Days of
Disco and Paul Thomas Anderson's Boogie Nights mixed
together and mildly dumbed down. It tells the story of Shane (played
in Greek-god-with-a-lobotomy style by Ryanne Phillippe), a beautiful
New Jersey boy who comes to the big city and finds happiness in
the drug-crazed party atmosphere of legendary discotheque Studio
54. While we're treated to endless images of tasty men cavorting
shirtless in the club of dreams, the movie lacks substance beyond
the free play of manly nipples. Mike Meyers is particularly awful
as Steve Rubell, Studio 54's Quaalude-loving impresario, hamming
it up like a drunker, gayer version of Austin Powers. Director
Mark Christopher may have meant to make a downbeat, moralizing
film, but in failing at that he at least makes something that
shows how much fun the New York club scene was. 54 manages to
capture the ambiance of the disco scene in a way that other films
have not, making it a lightly pleasant nostalgia piece that casts
an unwittingly kind and loving glance at that magical era that
brought us Donna Summers, the herpes epidemic, and glittery spandex
posing straps. --DiGiovanna
BLADE. Wesley Snipes plays the comic-book hero come-to-life
in this silly but satisfying morality tale teaching us the important
lesson that being a bloodsucking vampire is bad, but ruthlessly
slaughtering vampires is good. The pouting and posing suckheads
in this movies make it look like pure, decadent fun to be undead--the
blood-soaked rave scene alone is enough to make anyone want to
bare their neck to the fangs. Yet Blade is cooler than all of
them--a creature born of a newly bitten pregnant woman, so that
he ends up half-human, half vampire. He can withstand sunlight
and garlic, but has the thirst for human blood. His self-appointed
mission to kill the undead legions requires him to wear heavy
leather gear and carry a lot of big guns. Also, he must wear sunglasses
at all times. Why ask why? Blade is like an expensive non-stick
pan; it's all about surface, but sometimes a good surface is all
you need. --Richter
COUSIN BETTE. Pre-20th-century period pieces can be frightening
propositions: boring, slow-paced films about weak aristocratic
women who faint at the mention of Heathcliff. Don't let that too-often-true
generalization keep you from Cousin Bette, though. It's
kind of like Terminator set in mid-19th-century France,
as Bette (Jessica Lange) methodically plans the demise of those
around her. Her family degrades her and consistently contributes
to her rather skewed sense of self, but rather than throwing herself
into a river she devises a plan of revenge that would make Alexis
Colby proud. Bette's especially refreshing in that she doesn't
need to use sex to get what she wants; she uses other people and
their desires to achieve her goals instead. Elisabeth Shue and
her bare ass co-star as her confidants and key elements in her
schemes and provide moments of cheeky (sorry) humor. Really, the
only offense in the whole film is a multitude of bad hair. So
set your VCR to tape Melrose Place this week, and go to
the Loft for two hours of backstabbing melodrama and sweet sisterly
justice. --Higgins
DANCEWITHME. In this piece that appears to have been penned
by a standardized script-writing computer, a beautiful Cuban youth
comes to America to find his father, the girl of his dreams, and
a career as a celebrated ballroom dancer. I wonder if he will
succeed?! The editing is perhaps the most atrocious I've ever
seen in a big-budget production. One phone conversation is doubled
in length by the fact that director Randa Haines can't seem to
cut away from the last speaker fast enough, alternately leaving
Vanessa Williams and male lead Chayanne standing there with strained
"can we cut now?" expressions on their faces for several
seconds after they speak each line. Even worse is the cinematography:
The dance scenes are all shot in close-up. This travesty made
me want to ask Haines if the word "duh" meant anything
to her. All she had to do was rent any Gene Kelly or Fred Astaire
movie to see how to shoot people dancing. Here's a clue: Include
their feet in the shot; and while you're at it, why not include
the rest of their bodies? Other than the fact that it successfully
creates the illusion of movement through the rapid succession
of still images, this film is a complete and utter waste of time.
--DiGiovanna
PI. A New York mathematician searches for a number that,
when placed in a formula, can effectively predict the ebb and
flow of the stock market. In the process, he may just be discovering
the secret to life and God--by way of Wall Street, Hebrew scripture,
spiral patterns, and the ancient game of Go. Darren Aronofsky
produced this audaciously premised first feature on the tiniest
of budgets, but he gets the most out of his settings by using
gritty black-and-white photography, smart editing and high-contrast
lighting. And dig that techno music soundtrack! In addition to
technical savvy, Aronofsky also proves himself a first-rate director
of ideas, effectively communicating the kinds of connective concepts
that might be more at home in a book like The Tao of Physics
than on the screen. It's too bad, then, that Aronofsky decided
to reduce Pi's second half to a neat little plot. He throws
ideas on the back burner and instead opts for chase scenes and
insanity. Consequently, lead actor Sean Gullette, whose hand shakes
even more violently than that of Tom Hanks in Saving Private
Ryan, totally freaks out. Then the Robert DeNiro Rules take
over: If there is hair, you must shave it; if there is a mirror,
you must punch it; if there is a drill, you must use it on your
skull; and so on. It's a silly finale for an otherwise stimulating
film.
--Woodruff
WHY DO FOOLS FALL IN LOVE. This bio-pic about Frankie Lymon,
doo-wop heartthrob of 1950's pop group "Frankie Lymon and
the Teenagers," is so oddly intriguing that it overcomes
many of its faults, including a penchant for melodrama and some
goof-ball acting by Lela Rochon and Vivica Fox. The story of a
teen idol's fall from fame and his marriages to three different
women is framed by a courtroom sequence wherein the three wives
fight over his estate. Told in flashbacks that start from the
witness stand, Lymon's life is a compelling oddity, charting what
happens to someone who must outlive his brief flirtation with
celebrity. Larenz Tate's performance as Frankie has a get-under-your-skin
quality that's perfect for both his overly-optimistic early years
and nostalgic, junkie decline; and Paul Mazursky does his usual
stand-up job as the paradigmatically sleazy record executive.
Worth a look, though perhaps not the two hours that it asks for.
--DiGiovanna
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