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The Chronicles Of Riddick
Richard B. Riddick: Vin Diesel
Lord Marshal: Colm Feore
Kyra: Alexa Davalos
Vaako: Karl Urban
Dame Vaako: Thandie Newton
Aereon: Judi Dench
Toombs: Nick Chinlund
Tony Nesteravich: Chris Astoyan
Logan: Christina Cox
Directed by David Twohy
Written by David Twohy, Jim Wheat and Ken Wheat
Running time: 118 minutes.
If you can imagine "Conan the Barbarian'' transplanted to a disco-era "Battlestar Galactica'' universe, or in this
case ``Underverse,'' you have David Twohy's "The Chronicles of Riddick'' aka The Chronically Ridiculous. In the title
role in this ponderously titled waste of time is Vin Diesel, whose acting runs the gamut from A to A and whose 15 minutes
of fame were up some years ago.
If the film also seems like a 115-minute advertisement for a video game, it's because it's that, too (i.e.``The Chronicles
of Riddick: Escape from Butcher Bay''). Finally, we have here a film that makes "Van Helsing'' look almost comprehensible.
A sequel to Twohy's far superior, much leaner 2000 science-fiction thriller ``Pitch Black,'' "The Chronicles of Riddick''
begins on an icy planet that has been characteristically CGI-ed to the max. Outnumbered and outgunned, Riddick nevertheless
decimates "mercs'' who are after the bounty on his head and he arrives on the planet Helion Prime in time for a cameo
by Keith David, who played the neo-Islamic holy man in "Pitch Black,'' and the invasion of the Necromongers. Who are
the Necromongers? They appear to be fugitives from "Dune'' dressed up for Halloween.
In a voice-over by Judi Dench, who can be seen in Obi-Wan Kenobi drag slumming it in this film as a ghostlike "elemental,''
we are told that the Necromonger Lord Marshall (Colm Feore, chewing the scenery like it was a slab of Canadian bacon) is "half
alive and half something else,'' which is the way you'll feel after about an hour of this brain-numbing crap. Riddick, who
still wears a tank top and dark goggles indoors and whose eyes are a milky blue-white, may be the last remaining native of
the annihilated warrior planet Furyan, making him the last of the Furyans, if not the Mohicans. What's a really hot prison
planet called in a film written by someone as clever as Twohy? Why Crematoria, of coursica.
If this doesn't sound like the dopiest baloney in the underverse to you, you are unquestionably beyond help. Also along
for the generic, roller-coaster ride is Thandie Newton as Necro femme fatale Dame Vaako - the Lady Macbeth-like wife of beefy
hunk Vaako (Karl Urban, whose cheekbones could chop wood), the ambitious second-in-command to the Darth Vader-ish Lord Marshall.
All of the Necros live inside a gigantic mothership known as "the Basilica,'' which looks like the inside of a baroque
crypt - or Siegfried and Roy's living room. Vaako, who is assigned to "lens out and cleanse'' Riddick, which is the quaint
Necro way of saying track him down and kill him, has a team of leprous humanoid bloodhounds wearing futuristic scuba equipment.
Linus Roache of "Priest''-fame is The Purifier, who converts the conquered peoples of the cosmos to the Necro religion
when he isn't - I'm guessing - appearing on the Necro "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.'' Back on Crematoria, where the
sunrise is a nifty 700 degrees, Alexa Davalos snarls prettily as warrior woman Kyra, formerly known as Jack (please don't
ask). For wretched excess in science-fiction-movie production design, you can't do any better than aptly named Holger Gross.
The rotten music is by Graeme Revell and is unfortunately not loud enough to drown out such lines as, "It's been a long
time since I smelled beautiful.''
The monotonous Diesel is athletic enough in the lead, but typical of this sort of thing, the action scenes and special-effects
sequences are almost impossible to follow and loud enough to puncture eardrums. Moreover, the hardware, including a ludicrously
many-bladed, Conan-ready battle-axe, looks like it was made out of plastic. This is what one of those cheesey "Mortal
Kombat'' movies would be like if it had delusions of grandeur. This gruesome film is something you should pass on, or alter
the vowel as you see fit.
Catwoman
Cast: Halle Berry, Benjamin Bratt, Sharon Stone, Lambert Wilson, Frances Conroy.
Directed by: Jean-Christophe 'Pitof' Comar.
Rating: 12a
"Catwoman" is not the duffest movie ever made or even the lousiest film of the year - but with the sight of a Catwoman
outfit that appears to have been purchased used from a fancy dress shop, there was some hope that this would be one of those
legendary stinkers that is so divorced from coherence or sanity that the punter just sits there stupified and slack-jawed
wondering how the hell something that dreadful could have actually been produced and released by human beings.
To make a film like that takes a certain grand ambition, however foolhardy and misguided it might be, and that is precisely
what "Catwoman" lacks - though, to be fair, it may well go down as the first comic-book movie to get inspiration
for its fight choreography from the action scenes in "Showgirls".
This is a shame because a lot of people out there have been waiting for a film to feature Catwoman the sexy anti-hero
who was one of Batman's more memorable foes - especially after the hilariously kinky turn by Michelle Pfeiffer (in what is
still one of her best performances) in Tim Burton's criminally underrated "Batman Returns". There was talk that
Pfeiffer and Burton were going to do a spin-off film. An apparently amusing script by Daniel Waters (who wrote "Batman
Returns" and "Heathers") did the rounds but was eventually scrapped. Any of those above combinations might
have made for an intriguing film, certainly a better one than we have been given here.
In this new whack at the character, the appallingly over-rated Halle Berry stars as Patience Philips (do American parents
actually call their offspring names like that?), a meek doormat who, despite her alleged artistic genius, slaves away beneath
her widescreened Mac, creating ad copy for the Hedare Beauty cosmetic company, an evil conglomerate run by the monstrous George
Hedare (Lambert Wilson) and his estranged supermodel wife, Laurel (Sharon Stone), who is none too happy about being replaced
as the face of the company for her husband's latest face muck. Days away from launching their latest product, a beauty cream
that supposedly reverses the ageing process, it is discovered that the cosmetic has a couple of minor side effects; it causes
crippling headaches and fainting spells, it is instantly addictive and if users stop applying it, it causes their faces to
quickly decay. Patience inadvertently discovers these shocking facts and, in a moment that comes as an uncomfortably apt metaphor
for the entire experience, she is drowned by the bad guys in a vat of toxic waste and flushed out into the river.
Inexplicably, her body washes up on some convenient inlet and her body is surrounded by an army of stray cats. Under normal
circumstances, the results would be inevitable; the cats would devour her flesh, desecrate her skeleton and use her eyes as
chewy toys. However, these are special moggies and somehow the wee scratchers suss it out that Patience is a kindred spirit
and use their creepy, evil and satanic powers to bring her back to life. No problem with that but, unlike the other Catwoman
incarnations that I can recall (and I could be wrong), this revival not only brings Patience back but has somehow infused
her with all of the abilities of a cat. No joke - the bold Patience starts moving and acting like a puss; she hisses at dogs,
she eats cans of tuna by the caseful and guzzles cream in the local boozer, she hops up on all of her furniture and goes bonkers
when the mad wifie who owns these feline frisksters paps a ball of catnip in her direction. (Disappointingly, we never learn
what happens when she needs to go to the bathroom.)
Re-born, Patience decides to avenge her death and get to the bottom of why she was killed in the first place. To this
end, she dons a creatively shredded leather outfit, develops a sudden proficiency with a bullwhip (which doesn't make that
much sense seeing as how cats lack the opposable thumbs required to wield such a thing) and goes off to kick some ass - after
taking time out to break into a jewellery store to steal a gaudy necklace as an accessory. (And this is our heroine, ladies
and gentlemen.) Eventually, Catwoman becomes the suspect in a series of murders of people connected to the cosmetics company
and this brings hunky-yet-idiotic cop Tom Lone (Benjamin Bratt) into the picture. He is dating Patience (they meet - how
cute - when she is trying to save a cat from a ledge and he thinks she is trying to commit suicide) and yet seems unable to
recognise her face behind a tiny eye mask - perhaps because his gaze is aimed about 18 inches further south.
Although the prospect of seeing Halle Berry acting like a cat might sound goofy enough to launch "Catwoman"
into bad-movie Nirvana, the most shocking thing about the film is how totally bad it is. Instead of veering into outright
insanity, director Pitof (I shall resist any puns/acronyms etc.) and the gang of writers come up with the same old stupidities;
incoherent action scenes, evil villains whose diabolical plans make absolutely no sense and, in the character of Patience's
co-worker played by Alex Borstein, the single most annoying sidekick character since Rob Schneider appeared in "Judge
Dredd" and a dead ringer for the UK's dreadful TV 'person' Lisa Tarbuck (no luck hen). To be fair, there are a few moments
that flirt with lunacy. Consider the one-on-one basketball game between Berry and Bratt where her influence appears to be
less feline and more flubber. Consider the notion of a hot nightclub being located in the exact same building complex as a
top-secret chemical lab. Consider the sight of Patience attempting to discover the secret behind her powers by going to Google
and typing in "cats.women".
Much of this could have been forgiven, I suppose, if the character had been at all compelling - but that is not the case
here and most of the blame, I fear, lies squarely on Berry's shoulders. As Patience, she is simply unbelievably chronic. She
is supposed to be a shy, mousy type yet never bothers to attempt to look like anything other than a glamorous movie star with
Bee Gee teeth. As Catwoman, she is worse. She isn't tough, she isn't funny and, although attractive enough, she simply isn't
sexy - three requirements that would seem to be necessary for anyone playing the part of Catwoman. Michelle Pfeiffer had all
of these qualities in spades - so much so that a mere still photo of her that is briefly glimpsed, in the sole nod paid by
the film to its origins, is arguably the highlight of the whole thing! Berry tries so hard to prove to everyone that she is
hot stuff that the opposite effect occurs. For all of her efforts, this Catwoman feels as if she has been sprayed.
Even more disappointing than Berry, however, is Sharon Stone, who is someone that you would think would be perfectly at
home playing a sneering, sexy supervillain. Rather than being diabolical, however, she comes across as merely sad and slightly
pathetic. Instead of camping things up, perhaps the only way that she could have saved the film, she spends most of her time
under the apparent delusion that she is in a serious, thoughtful film. She isn't helped by a subplot that attempts to milk
pathos from her character's situation of being a former sex bomb who is being cruelly cast aside for the younger, hotter models.
This is no doubt meant to be read as a parallel to Stone's real-life career slide but she isn't helped in the slightest by
the almost astonishingly cruel way that Pitof has visualised her - she looks horrible and sports what may be the least flattering
hairstyle ever seen on an actress in a movie that did not have the word "Chainsaw" in the title.
As I said before, people have been waiting for years for a "Catwoman" movie; after this, they may still be waiting.
Lacking wit, visual flair (which is surprising considering that Pitof was previously a visual artist who contributed to such
dazzlers as "Delicatessen" and "City of Lost Children") or any sort of kinky kick (the final catfight
between Berry and Stone, for all of its huffing and puffing, will satisfy only the most easy-to-please, it just lies there
on the screen like a drowsy cat on a sofa.
Spartan
Cast: Val Kilmer, Derek Luke, Tia Texada, William H. Macy, Ed O'Neill, Kristen Bell
Director: David Mamet
Producers: David Bergstein, Moshe Diamant, Art Linson, Elie Samaha
Screenplay: David Mamet
Cinematography: Juan Ruiz Anchia
Music: Mark Isham
Running Length: 1:47
The story has often been told, to illustrate the Spartan code of self-discipline, stoicism and unquestioning devotion to duty,
of the boy in the ancient Greek city who, in order to conceal the theft of a fox, hid the animal in his cloak and allowed
it to gnaw him to death rather than utter a sound. The disgrace, as the account has it, would not have been in the stealing,
but in allowing the act to be detected.
From the moment of his birth, everything was organised to making each Spartan boy an exceptional and unwaveringly loyal
soldier. "For nobody was free to live as he wished, but the city was like a military camp, and they had a set way of
life and routine in the public service. They were fully convinced that they were the property not of themselves but of the
state", according to one historical account.
David Mamet's "Spartan" is a political thriller which raises questions about the Spartanesque qualities of the
training and mindset of the American soldier. The film is Mamet's ninth film as writer/director.
Known for its staccato, stylised and often mannered language, Mamet's best work includes the screenplay for his own play
'Glengarry Glen Ross' and the 1997 film 'Wag the Dog'. His films often criticise, with varying degrees of irony and insight,
American socio-cultural experience, ranging from the small-time con of the desperate salesman to the big-time con of Hollywood
and the American political establishment. Targets include institutions such as the military and intelligence apparatus - the
focus of this latest film.
Val Kilmer plays Robert Scott, a highly skilled government operative who supervises the training of an elite military
unit. Boot camp involves a gruelling psychological and physical battering (recalling the harshness of the ancient Spartan
training), culminating in gladiatorial-type processes of selection for the squad. By way of encouragement, Scott tells his
most promising protégé, Curtis (Derek Luke): 'It's all in the mind - that's where the battle is won.'
Despite its obvious implication, Scott's statement is not referring to the mind's critical capacities. On the contrary,
the soldier describes himself a 'worker bee', a mindless instrument of his superiors. 'I ain't a planner. I ain't a thinker.
I never wanted to be.'
Mamet explains: 'Scott has been told "If you stop thinking and simply follow these tasks, you will be rewarded, and
you will be accepted into this elite warrior class, but you must never question the rectitude of your superiors or the worth
of the tasks." Then he's put in a position where he has to question his assignment and redefine himself as a warrior.'
The process of redefinition takes place when Scott and Derek are summoned for a mission in league with the Secret Service,
the FBI and CIA to investigate the disappearance of the president's daughter, Laura Newton (Kristen Bell). Scott, the ultimate
automaton, stops at nothing, certainly not the murder of innocent civilians, to execute his orders and 'bring home the girl'
- thought to be in the clutches of white slave-traders in the Middle East.
Scott's wanton wasting of human lives does not accomplish the girl's rescue. The bodies of Laura and one of her Harvard
professors are found off the shore of Massachusetts, apparently the victims of a boating accident. Questioning the authenticity
of the discovery, Scott asks, 'How can you fake DNA?' 'You don't fake DNA' replies an impatient Secret Service agent. 'You
issue a press release.'
When Curtis convinces Scott that the girl is not dead, the two become involved in a rogue mission that pits them against
the most sinister and murderous government agents. As the film twists and twists again, it becomes apparent that an unruly
offspring had been considered a potential liability in an upcoming presidential election.
'Curtis represents the conscience of the hero, because he's so new to this warrior class, he keeps asking the questions
that have been eradicated from Scott's conscience. Curtis makes Scott realise that he has become what he beheld. That in his
own quest for personal power, he has put his conscience on hold to serve those whom he's elected to believe. In so doing,
he has become just like them' states Mamet,
Scott finds that he must subvert the apparatus to which he has devoted his life in order to discover the truth. The pivotal
decision of this one-man death squad sets off a chain reaction that disrupts the plans of the mother ship.
Despite the seriousness of the film's theme, the work has many weaknesses. The scenes set in Dubai are completely disconnected
from the main body of the film, in both style and content. They appear to be hastily thrown together in an otherwise carefully
constructed project. The dialogue between Scott and Laura, as she whines about her parents while both rescuer and rescued
are running for their lives, is ludicrous.
The sequence meant to shed some light on Laura's childhood (and to add much needed dimension to her character) concerns
a female Secret Service agent who filled the maternal void in the girl's early life, dominated as it was by a loveless relationship
with her biological parents. It is totally unconvincing and essentially extraneous material. In general, the 'human interest'
elements of the film are like undissolved lumps that block the narrative flow and detract from its purpose.
On the positive side, Spartan, with a flashy-dark cinematography, viscerally brings to life the atmosphere and subterfuge
of police-state operations. In the persona of Burch, the head of operations, actor Ed O'Neill creates a chilling presence
- a being without a molecule of humanity. Other characters reference loosely identifiable political figures: the Clintonesque
presidential womaniser and the alcoholic Betty Fordian First Lady. More politically focussed than these elements is the film's
message: under the present circumstances, US soldiers and the population at large are obliged to rethink their military allegiances
and patriotic prejudices.
Spartan aspires to be a very worthy story - unfortunately, the storyteller/director evinces more than an acceptable (or
healthy) fascination with the Machiavellian carryings-on of the armed forces-security apparatus, as well as its peculiar and
unpleasant 'military-speak' (The misanthropic Mamet generally exhibits this sort of 'love-hate' for the institutions or social
processes he is ostensibly criticising.) The movie's psychic pendulum swings between attraction to and paranoia about the
trappings of the capitalist state, but perhaps more significantly, I must point out that it is not the lone, expertly trained
Spartan who can defeat the authoritarian tendencies increasingly emerging within the USA (and here the filmmaker reveals the
downside of America's 'rugged individualism' albeit with a radical touch) - but the politically enlightened population. This
is a vital historic truth that Mamet apparently does not begin to grasp.
The military's culture of brutality and mindlessness has helped spawn the likes of Oklahoma City bomber Timothy McVeigh
and Washington DC sniper John Allen Muhammad. No doubt the US colonial invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan will produce other
disoriented and tragic casualties of the US war machine. But these same historic events are also creating a massive, global
opposition, not the least important of whose elements will include many soldiers of the US occupation forces and their families.
In a circuitous and inadequate manner, Mamet is responding to this state of affairs.
'What's more important to you? To hold on to your feeling of purpose, or to hold onto a sense of honour which transcends
that' the filmmaker rhetorically asked in an interview recently. Although a seriously defective work, Spartan raises some
legitimate questions.
The Terminal
Cast: Tom Hanks, Catherine Zeta-Jones, Stanley Tucci, Chi McBride, Diego Luna, Zoe Saldana, Barry Shabaka Henley
Directed by Steven Spielberg
Director Steven Spielberg and star Tom Hanks team up once again for a big screen feature. Hanks plays Viktor Navorski, a man
who is sidelined at a JFK Airport while on route from his native country of Krakosia to New York City. Because his homeland
is officially not recognised by the USA, Viktor is unable to exit the airport onto American soil. Also, since his country
is at war, he is not permitted to fly back there. He must stay at the airport until the situation changes or help arrives.
Consequently, he winds up living in the airport, sleeping in a removed section that is under construction, and finding
ways by day to take care of his hygienic and nutritional needs. On a daily basis, he tries once again, unsuccessfully, to
get the proper forms signed and authorised that will allow him entry into the US. Meanwhile, the new head of the airport,
played by Stanley Tucci, wishes Viktor would just leave, whether he's legally bound to stay or not.
Once again Steven Spielberg has put together a cinematic fable. It's a film that feels like a fantasy, but is concocted
from elements that are individually not unbelievable. The story is based on something that really happened, but here is exploited
and crafted into a work of entertainment.
While the premise may sound situation comedy-ish, Spielberg and Hanks put such a human spin on everything that it's quite
charming. Even when the situation is explored in every imaginable way, with various subplots each suitable for its own episode
of our theoretical sitcom, the narrative and themes manage to interweave almost seamlessly to create something bigger than
the sum of its parts. It's in the storytelling that this movie goes above and beyond the limitations inherent in a true story
or a sitcom. It's a story that deserves the big-screen, big-star treatment.
It should be no surprise that a film about a stranded man (Castaway, anyone?) plays around with the themes of loneliness,
fear of the unknown, and inner strength. But the movie also throws in exploration of the extended family for good measure.
Who better to make these elements work subtly but rewardingly than Spielberg behind the camera and Hanks in front of it?
Whilst I've never been his biggest fan, Tom Hanks really is good here. He hits all the right notes, and with perfect timing.
Catherine Zeta-Jones is convincing as a stewardess in the midst of re-evaluating her life. And her innately glamorous look
fits the part.
The film itself though is not without its problems. Even though all of the various plot threads add to the whole thematically,
no fewer than two of these threads are left loose at the end. A couple of these sub-stories do not end well, with the fates
of two separate characters not rewarding emotionally. I suppose one could argue that some ambiguity is a welcome change for
Spielberg, but these particular plot threads ultimately don't quite gel. Even if we're meant to feel slightly sad for the
fate of any particular character, there are ways to inspire such an emotion in an intellectually pleasing way. Here, it feels
as if there's been a mistake, or an oversight, which is jarringly in contrast to all that genuinely works well here.
John Williams' score, while appropriate and good, sounds as if it's been assembled out of whatever was left from A.I.:
Artificial Intelligence. Light and tense in the proper dosages, it nonetheless gave this reviewer a case of déjà vu.
In the final analysis, The Terminal is successful - its strengths, including Tom Hanks' convincing and confident performance,
outweigh any weaknesses.
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