The Brothers McMullen. Like El Mariachi, here's
another mini-budget indy film more notable for its creator's success
story than for the movie itself. Writer-director Edward Burns
made the picture for about 20 grand, yet he somehow managed to
achieve the quality level of a million-plus commercial feature.
Too bad the sappy story, which follows the doubt-riddled romantic
lives of three Irish-Catholic brothers, hits so many transparent
notes; you get the sense the film is trying to be knowing and
insightful when much of what it's saying has been recycled from
last year's men's-liberation books. What keeps the movie afloat
are its fresh lead performances, especially Mike McGlone as the
guilt-ridden nice guy and Burns himself as the cynical stud.
The Prophecy. Working from a kooky Biblical fantasy reminiscent
of The Omen or The Rapture, the story imagines the
angel Gabriel as an avaricious sort who wants to wage war in heaven
and take over that big throne in the sky. Gabriel is, of course,
played by Christopher Walken, who chews up the scenery like a
dog in a beef jerky factory. Down on earth, Gabriel has some business
to attend to, but not if detective Elias Koteas, schoolteacher
Virginia Madsen and Eric Stoltz (as the angel Simon) can help
it. The movie hints at a buildup that never comes, and fails to
entertain in all the big, important ways. However, author-director
Gergory Widen does very well with all the wry, evil bits; perhaps
somebody should hire him to do script polishes on the next Stallone,
Van Damme and Steven Seagal features.
Kids. Claims that Larry Clark's grim, documentary-style
film is an important social wake-up call have some merit, as Kids
comes closer than any other recent film to describing the empty
lives of urban teens. But it's equally tempting to dismiss the
film as exploitation: a series of sensational images with few
organizing principles to elevate the material above mere voyeurism.
Devoid of well-articulated themes or a strong narrative, the picture
often comes across as less a moral statement than an aesthetic
one. It's a series of staged photo-ops where the director seems
every bit as fascinated by his subject as repelled--the vapid
world he inhabits is a landscape fit to be photographed for its
decadent beauty.
TO WONG FOO, THANKS FOR EVERYTHING, JULIE NEWMAR Riding
on the coattails (or flowing gown, as it were) of The Adventures
of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, this Americanized transvestite
road movie proves that a little drag queen goes a long way and
a lot of drag queen is just a drag. Patrick Swayze, Wesley Snipes
and John Leguizamo deliver a few sassy one-liners, but the script
otherwise doesn't give them much to do besides talk their way
through a handful of insipid moral lessons in an all-too-phony
small town, and their lack of character-acting ability overrides
their camp appeal. Stockard Channing co-stars as a moody, contemplative
housewife; somebody forgot to tell her she was in a comedy.
National Lampoon's Senior Trip. The words "National
Lampoon" on any film are a bad sign, and this movie seems
designed to prove it. Working from an anachronistic, chaos-driven
formula that stereotypes all teens as idiotic partiers and all
adults as buffoons, the movie shoots only for the lowest gags,
and actually makes Animal House (which at least had a few
characters you could care about) seem sophisticated by comparison.
A cast of has-beens and soon-to-be-has-beens star, including Matt
Frewer (Max Headroom), Tommy Chong (of Cheech and Chong), and
Kevin McDonald (of Kids in the Hall).
Clockers. Spike Lee's adaptation of Richard Price's intricate
novel follows a young park-bench drug dealer (Mekhi Phifer) who
may or may not have been the gunman in a murder. In spite of his
overemphasis on style, Lee successfully juggles a number of characters
whose lives affect each others' like chess pieces in a microcosmic
Brooklyn neighborhood, including the wire-pulling dealer who runs
the show (Delroy Lindo) and a friendly homicide cop played (very
engagingly) by Harvey Keitel. Because the story is more a societal
character study than a mystery, don't expect the oomph of Do
the Right Thing; the film deals in texture and dialogue, not
bright action. And while it's a cut above most other movies in
drug-related black cinema, unfortunately the content doesn't reach
much deeper.
The Usual Suspects. An interesting first film from director
Bryan Singer, this combination caper film/mystery overburdens
itself with plot while letting its ensemble cast of charismatic
career criminals--Gabriel Byrne, Kevin Spacey, Stephen Baldwin,
Kevin Pollak, and Benicio Del Toro--go to waste after a potent
start. As mysteries go, this one's payoff feels inadequate, but
the movie is notable for the amount of energy it puts into its
ongoing exposition of details. And thanks to a couple of strong
key perfomances, the film's central idea stays with you: that
of a huge, fearsome mind intelligent enough to manipulate all
the other characters with precision and octopus-like simultaneity.
Something To Talk About. From the screenwriter who gave
us Thelma & Louise comes this insightful yet directionless
tale of a Southern wife (Julia Roberts) who has to re-think her
life when she learns her husband (Dennis Quaid) has been having
several affairs. Crisp direction by Lasse Hallestrom, warmly vibrant
cinematography and a handful of fun performances (by Kyra Sedgwick,
Robert Duvall and Gene Rowlands) keep the film enjoyable long
after the story has lost sight of a point. And Roberts is surprisingly
good--after years of limited performances in dumb roles, she really
seems to be blossoming.
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