Eighteenth-century teen queen Marie
Antoinette has gone down in history with a shallow saying that will
perhaps be forever linked to her. Writer-director Sofia Coppola’s
biopic of the French royal may come to most prominently be remembered
by a superficial declaration itself: It was pretty.

Coppola puts a modern spin on Marie
Antoinette, attempting to infuse the period piece with the giddy and
rebellious spirit of a kid who wants nothing but to quell her
inevitable boredom. Kirsten Dunst plays Antoinette, an Austrian
(though American-accented) princess who, at 14, was arranged to marry
the unattractive dauphin of France (Jason Schwartzman) to cement a
new alliance between the countries. Stripped of everything associated
with home – including her beloved pug, Mops – the girl is thrust
into the hushed world of Versailles. Antoinette is a bit freaked by
the crowds anxious to both greet and judge her; more so when she
discovers, for instance, that a circle of subordinates will go so far
as attend to her when she gets ready for bed and awakes. A close eye
is also kept for any proof of marital relations, ideally a pregnancy
that would result in a male heir, especially after the king (Rip
Torn) dies and Antoinette becomes queen at 19. 

The palace would wait a long time:
Because of the dauphin’s impotence, the couple didn’t consummate
their relationship for seven years – and Antoinette was blamed. The
staid prince all but ignored his wife; she was chastised whenever she
slipped from the formal behavior expected of her. Living the life of
a 80-year-old (or, in that time, 30) both inside and outside the
bedroom, Antoinette soon alleviated her personal hell by effectively
saying a big screw-you to the fam and taking comfort in dancing,
desserts, and shopping sprees. An affair with the Swedish Count
Fersen (Jamie Dornan) helped, too.

Coppola laces her vision, which was
allegedly booed at Cannes, with anachronistic touches from Chuck
Taylors underneath Antoinette’s gown to an attitudinal soundtrack
including Gang of Four’s “Natural’s Not In It” (“This heaven
gives me migraine/The problem of leisure/What to do for pleasure”)
and Bow Wow Wow’s “I Want Candy” (er, “I want candy”).
Visually, Coppola doesn’t contrast these with era-accurate details
that are flavorless: The lavish Victorian dresses pop with colors
such as violet and brick red, with similarly striking palettes
accented with gold on carriages and palace decor. (The director was
allowed to shoot in the actual Chateau de Versailles.) The sumptuous
cakes and chocolates favored by the queen are, somewhat more
bizarrely, highlighted in montages as well.

It all should add up to a tone that’s
energetic and fun, yet the two-plus-hours Marie Antoinette lies as
empty as the calories the character consumes. Time sprints forward
with little indication, and Antoinette’s demeanor seems to transition
from sad, sad, sad to carefree in a hairpin moment we never witness.
Coppola also attempts to portray the sense of loneliness that she so
elegantly captured in Lost in Translation. One shot comes close: As
Antoinette stands by herself on a large balcony, the camera pulls
away as one of her mother’s awaited letters is delivered in voiceover
(mum being Marianne Faithfull). But with no Bill Murray to express
her thoughts to, we’re forced to read Antoinette’s mind – and
though Dunst wears mournful expressions and does her best to break
down in tearless sobs, her queen’s solitary moments simply fall flat.
By the time Antoinette bankrupts the palace and must face rioters who
have been going hungry because of her indulgences – resulting,
though erroneously, in her “Let them eat cake” dismissal – you
don’t feel for her collapse because you never really enjoyed her
highs. Antoinette does, however, look awfully pretty on the way to
her beheading.

The boys in American Hardcore emote a
bit differently — and had a grubbiness that was made for radio even if
their songs weren’t. Paul Rachman’s documentary chronicles the
evolution and demise of hardcore punk in the early ’80s, a
movement that was fueled by the British and homegrown punk scene, the
election of Ronald Reagan, and the need of an outlet for kids who
"were pissed off but didn’t know why."

Hardcore was
always a response to the snooze of mainstream rock. "Journey,
the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac – they were all great bands for what
they do," says Keith Morris, formerly of Circle Jerks and
Black Flag. "But when you hear it over –and over — and
over again, you’re going to just want to…vomit. Or jump off the
nearest cliff." Not that vomiting, most likely, wasn’t a
factor in hardcore. Rachman, long a filmmaker of the underground
scene and video director for bands such as Gang Green and the
Washington-based Bad Brains, captures the fast-as-Flash pace of
the genre, opening with the Brains’ “Pay to Cum” while a
mostly black-and-white montage shows split-second stills of crushed shows and crudely decorated band posters and logos. The birth of
hardcore took the ’70s punk of such bands as the Ramones and the
Avengers and put it on crack: Songs were short, loud, and usually
indecipherable, with an emphasis instead on pushed-to-the-limit
speed. As Impact Unit’s Dicky Barrett says, "The less it was
a song, the more we loved it." Solos were forbidden,
being associated with the pop rock they were rebelling
against.

Rachman was inspired to make this movie by credited
writer Steven Blush’s book, American Hardcore: A Tribal History.
It covers, albeit a bit disjointedly, the timeline of how the
scene spread across the country: first appearing in Southern
California and later catching on in cities like D.C., Chicago,
Boston, and, naturally, New York. In between grainy,
20-plus-year-old footage of shows performed in church basements
and friends’ homes, there’s a who’s-who parade of commentators
including locals Henry Rollins, Ian MacKaye, and Bad Brains’ Paul
"H.R." Hudson as well as Gwar’s Dave Brockie and Moby
(yes,
that Moby). Each recalls the craziness of the shows, heavy on moshing
and general violence. The first time Brockie experienced hardcore,
he says, his panicked impression was, "Oh my God! People are
killing each other!" Because the performers contributing
here
made it out alive, their stories and glimpses of the chaotic shows
are pretty entertaining – as are shots of the parallel
’80s universe, all Members Only jackets and feathered
hair.

Hardcore was also rather self-inclusive, and the film
emphasizes its DIY approach. The bands put out their own records –
MacKaye talks of reproducing album covers by hand – and booked
their own shows, often squatting in abandoned buildings for
out-of-town gigs. There were no illusions about getting on the
radio ("That’s like a black guy saying,
‘I’m going to be
president of the Ku Klux Klan.’ No, you’re not!"). It was a
male-dominated world, but a few girls were part of the scene, too,
though mostly as fans or handling bookkeeping and such.

Most
everyone here agrees that hardcore punk died in the
mid-’80s. MacKaye, for one, felt that the violence associated with
it had become unacceptable. Hair metal was moving in, and
audiences were losing interest. Perhaps what’s most amusing about
Rachman’s doc is the kids-these-days! attitude of now-adult,
former rebels, ranting against unnamed artists implied to be, say,
Good Charlotte or blink-182: "None
of this shit, none of
these little fucking spoiled little fucking brats on MTV now with
their buses and all that bullshit…they’re calling that shit
punk," rails Cro-Mag’s John Joseph. "That ain’t fucking
punk."

copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com

Don’t you hate it when you’re feeling
around for your cell phone and grab a cold gray foot instead? Ghostly
body parts play a big part in The Grudge 2, Japanese writer-director
Takashi Shimizu’s reimaging of his own Ju-on: The Grudge 2. The
stories are different — with both of the American translations
co-written by Stephen Susco — but really, it doesn’t matter. In
fact, you may as well play the trailer over and over again for about
95 minutes and save your bucks.

All of the films involve a Tokyo home
in which a man murdered his wife and son. His viral rage, along with
the victims’ wraiths, lives on in the house, cursing everyone who
enters and the people with whom they come into contact. (There’s
more, but good luck piecing it together.) Sarah Michelle Gellar
played Karen, a Japan-based hospice nurse assigned to take care of a
nearly comatose woman who lived there, in the 2004 movie. Here, the
character’s sister, Aubrey (Amber Tamblyn), is sent by their mom to
bring Karen back to Chicago – and, surprise, pays the house a
visit. Other main characters include a few dim schoolgirls and a
reporter (Edison Chen) who befriends the baffled Aubrey.

Shimizu has
a solid grasp on creepy, especially with the wife, whose slow-moving,
cracked-neck figure and long, in-her-face locks – awfully similar
to another J-horror character, The Ring’s Samara – makes a chilling
visual as she pops up with her mewling blue son pretty much
everywhere. (As one pshawing audience member at a screening said,
quite seriously, “How’d they get to Chicago?”) But couldn’t the
franchise’s creator give this pair some help in the disturbing
department? (Tamblyn and Chen’s god-awful acting doesn’t count.)
Their appearances end in lame payoffs, too,  usually a  mere switch
of scene but occasionally with a character getting, say, haired to
death.

And then, just like in 2004’s version, it repeats: someone
cautiously sneaking around a corner, catching a glimpse of the spooks
or their appendages, and…standing there, mouth agape. Here’s a
crazy idea – how about running away? The script contains the
requisite dreadful horror-movie dialogue, such as Aubrey’s “I don’t
know what to believe anymore!” You’ll be looking at your watch way
before she figures it out.

copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com

Somewhere between obfuscation and
contrivance lies Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige, a movie about
magic that’s making its appearance a gasp away from the
selfsame-themed The Illusionist. Nolan and his co-writer/brother,
Jonathan Nolan, adapted a novel by Christopher Priest about two
late-19th-century London magicians, Robert Angier (Hugh Jackman) and
Alfred Borden (Christian Bale), whose    friendship turns into a
hostile rivalry after an onstage accident. Borden’s got talent,
Angier’s got charisma, and when Borden creates an illusion that
confounds even those in the biz, Angier goes a bit nuts.

Taking into
consideration its subject matter and Nolan’s time-reversing puzzler
Memento, a few huh? developments are to be expected. But unlike the
writer-director’s debut, The Prestige doesn’t offer a conclusion
that’s thought-provoking as much as dismissible. All the more so
because of some of the facile links used to go there: Fake beards are
enough to get one of the competitors picked, more than once, as the
other’s volunteer. (Pop quiz – name two things wrong with that
premise.) The dramatic turns are often predictable. (Guess what
happens after Borden shows his worried wife a trick, tells her there
are indeed ways it could go wrong, then reassures her anyway?) And
the magicians’ attempts to trounce each other are so precisely
volleyed it all becomes a big bore (excepting a pivotal love affair
that might as well have popped out of a hat).

The cast, however, is
stellar, with Jackman and Bale perfecting American and Cockney
accents, respectively, and bringing the proper amount of menace to
their roles;  in lesser parts, David Bowie is an inspired choice to
play alleged mad scientist Nikola Tesla, and Scarlett “Overexposed
My Sweet Ass” Johannson pushes her boobs higher than they’ve ever
been pushed before. The Prestige has a lovely look, too, with dapper
period costumes and a Batman Begins-richness of brown and deep gold,
courtesy of the movies’ shared cinematographer, Wally Pfister. But
like The Illusionist, its finale is a machine-gun assault of
exposition – though of a helluva more interesting intricacy –
that will vanish from your thoughts like so many coins from a magic
man’s hand.

copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com

How do you like your murder
investigations to be served up – darkly, or with generous dashes of
merriment? Infamous, or Capote No. 2, retells the story of last
year’s Oscar-winning film, about Truman Capote’s research and writing
of his “nonfiction novel” In Cold Blood. Writer-director Douglas
McGrath, working off of George Plimpton’s oral biography Truman
Capote: In Which Various Friends, Enemies, Acquaintances and
Detractors Recall His Turbulent Career, infuses his movie with the
gossipy spirit of Plimpton’s book. But the arc of both films remains
largely the same, even if their tones are as antithetic as Capote’s
true motive behind his caring visits to the incarcerated killers.

Diminutive and little-known British
actor Toby Jones plays Capote, and therefore arguably has more
success bringing the author to life than the previous biopic’s star,
Philip Seymour Hoffman. With Hoffman’s bulk and baritone disguised,
his portrayal, though Academy Award-winning, felt more like a
mimicking than an effortless slip, whereas Jones’ doesn’t require
acclimation. Here the arrogant New Yorker is decidedly more
effeminate – amusingly wearing furs and, once, a cowboy outfit that
could pass for a  Halloween costume — and McGrath places the
character more often in his usual man-about-town habitats. And
regarding Truman’s odd high pitch, Gore Vidal (Michael Panes) says in
an interview, “To anyone lucky enough to have never heard his
voice, I’d say: ‘Think of what a brussels sprout would sound like, if
a brussels sprout could talk.’” Jones channels the vegetable rather
well.

Infamous begins with scenes of
plentiful drinks and socializing, then shows a series of Truman’s
fellow revelers – Diana Vreeland (Juliet Stevenson), Slim Keith
(Hope Davis) – talking about him to an off-screen interviewer. Of
course, though when one-on-one everybody is slick Truman’s “dearest
friend,” his closest confidant is To Kill a Mockingbird author Nell
Harper Lee, with a Southern-accented Sandra Bullock taking the place
of Capote’s Catherine Keener (whose portrayal was plainer and more
sensitive). Nell is the one who accompanies Truman to small-town
Kansas, where the gruesome, baffling murder of a farming family
compels him to investigate the case for a possible article. (Their
journey, by the way, is accompanied by a bouncy score.) Once there,
Nell and Truman – who is once mistaken for a woman – have to
battle for information between stubborn police Inspector Alvin Dewey
(a quietly commanding Jeff Daniels) and Truman’s frenzied, futile
attempts to talk to pedestrians.

McGrath’s version of In Cold Blood’s
birth is affecting despite its tendency toward frivolity. After the
two murderers are caught, Truman eventually wins access to them,
becoming especially close to Perry Smith (Daniel Craig), whose
artistic nature seems to belie his vicious actions. Craig’s
performance is winning, making the criminal, despite his initial
wall, more passionate, charismatic, and all-around human than Clifton
Collins Jr.’s turn in Capote. The conviction that awaits the pair is
horrifying. And the details in visuals and dialogue do eventually
turn the mood: Kansas’ empty skyline and closeups of blue plumes of
cigarette smoke, both at once beautiful and melancholy; a neighbor’s
recounting that “it was strange going out [to the victims' home],
knowing what was waiting for us.” Yet it becomes clear that the
tragedy isn’t nearly as important to the blackening Truman as how
sensational his book will be – which, actually, makes all of the
previous high spirits and festivities an excellent setup for this
strike.

Not much fun goes on in A Guide to
Recognizing Your Saints, an autobiographical film that’s mostly set
in 1986 Queens — and worlds away from the glitz of Truman Capote’s
New York experience. First-time writer-director Dito Montiel adapted
the screenplay from his own book, and as the movie opens, a grown,
fictional Dito is doing a reading. He tells the audience he wants to
emphasize that these characters are real and express what they mean
to him. He also mentions a few people who are going to die, then
assures that he’s not really giving anything away: “A whole lotta
other shit’s going to happen first.”

And how. Montiel’s often gripping debut
is framed by the older Dito (Robert Downey Jr.), who’s been living in
California for the past 20 years, returning home when his dad, Monty
(Chazz Palminteri), becomes sick. Dito’s never visited and spoken to
his parents since he left, but his gentle mother, Flori (Dianne
Weist), begs him to come back and persuade his father to go to the
hospital. Dito’s visibly uncomfortable as he walks around his old
neighborhood and chats with a couple of friends. Then Montiel delves
into the memories, and, well, they’re not so good. Shia LaBeouf, in a
terrific, subtle performance, plays the teenage Dito, who mainly
walks the street with his troublemaking buddies. They sometimes hang
out at the chaotic but warm Montiel household, where Monty greets the
kids as if he’s one of the guys and is particularly partial to the
towering Antonio (Step Up’s Channing Tatum). Monty seems blissfully
ignorant of the reality of their daily lives – especially that
Antonio is the biggest thug of them all. Even the girls, including
Dito’s steady, Laurie (Melonie Diaz), aren’t afraid of running their
mouths and fighting whoever’s crossed them.

Visceral violence, accidental deaths,
family turbulence revenge – yet, sad to say, surprisingly no drugs
among the friends – repeat themselves throughout the film’s slight
narrative. The flashbacks of that year make up the bulk of
Recognizing Your Saints, and though their meandering presentation is
arguably a reflection of an adult’s childhood recollections, the
disjointedness is one of the movie’s weaknesses. Most egregiously,
there’s a storyline about a slightly crazy dog walker who outsources
his duties to Dito and a friend that serves only to pad out the
98-movie film. Montiel also gets arty: Some flourishes are beautiful,
like the white lights of the city and the Brooklyn Bridge against an
impenetrable night sky. Others tend toward the melodramatic, such as
dark, silent frames spliced into a scene of a shouting match so
intense an emergency ensues.

But, obviously, the heart of
Recognizing Your Saints is how all these experiences affected Dito
and made him flee clear across the country­-and Montiel’s
personal investment and the blessing of a talented cast make the
story gut-wrenching. A father’s great love is distilled into
“You’re not going anywhere, Dito” — first delivered
affectionately, but later as a threat when his son announces he’s
serious about going far, far away to start fresh. Downey, even
without a lot of screen time, skillfully exhibits the angst of an
estranged son – Monty tells Dito that, if he splits, he’ll never
speak to him again — as well as the shitty self-image that’s
resulted from both his friends and his conscience condemning him for
angrily cutting off all ties. Dito, still fucked up, can’t even
forgive himself when he sees old pals in jail or having fallen
farther into squander and misery. The tragedy of it all is that Dito
tried to make his dad understand that his friendships twisted from an
outlet for rebellious kicks to matters of life and death, only to
have him reassure that nothing bad could happen: “You’re just
kids, Dito. You’re just kids.”

copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com

“That’s the ugliest thing I ever
saw.” Would you expect someone to react to the newborn Leatherface
any other way? The Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning takes us
from the Dumpster-dwelling infancy of the future power-tooler to
1969, when the adopted, now-30-year-old Thomas Hewitt (Andrew
Bryniarski) first goes batshit. The mayhem is spurred by the closing
of the family’s rural Texas meatpacking plant – and, likely,
people’s tendency to call Tom a retard. The sawin’ is encouraged by
relative Sheriff Hoyt (evil-lapping R. Lee Ermey) after the officer
tells his family that, as God as his witness, they’ll never go hungry
in the abandoned town.

Hoyt makes stew out of the few people who are
still around when some more tender flesh happens by: handsome
youngsters Chrissie (Jordana Brewster), Bailey (Diora Baird), and
brothers Dean (Taylor Handley) and Eric (Matthew Bomer), both of whom
are allegedly on their way to Vietnam, though Dean plans on ditching.

Besides the brief backstory, there’s little to differentiate Sheldon
Turner’s “script” from a colorless, ho-hum slasher. (And  one
bizarre line — “You have a gun like a fucking girl!”
disturbingly seems tailored for a desensitized   society.) Hoyt – a
character returning not from the original, but from 2003’s remake –
is more of the villain here, with the obedient Leatherface, who spies
his eventual weapon of choice in a dramatically scored moment,
merely following suit.

Torture, shrieking, pleading, gallons of
blood…yawn. Just kill ‘em already! One hiding-under-the-table
scene, to be fair, is particularly memorable because of both its
gruesomeness and ability to suddenly make you care for the doomed
kids. And there are bits – and I mean bits – of humor throughout
the 84-minute flick, such as Hoyt’s reasoning that he should have
both of a character’s legs hacked off for “balance.” Hopefully,
too, this defense of the baby-gone-bad is meant to be a twisted
chuckle: “He ain’t a ‘tard. He’s just misunderstood.”

copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com

Jessica Simpson is not, improbably, the
most dreadful thing about Employee of the Month. That would be her
pimp daddy. Joe Simpson, the pop singer’s manager/father, helped
produce the comedy, ensuring that all of his daughter’s talents –
whoops, I mean boobs – are showcased.

Really, Jessica’s cleavage is
her only contribution to the movie, which takes place in the insular
world of Super Club, a Costco ripoff that sells everything from tubs
of hair gel to discount coffins. There’s already resentment between
Zack (Dane Cook), a lazy-but-personable box boy, and Vince (Dax
Shepard), a showoff, by-the-rules cashier who’s been named employee
of the month 17 times in a row. So when the bosomy Amy (Simpson)
transfers from another store – and is rumored to have left her
original one because of her tendency to sleep with EOTMs –  Zack
becomes more determined to crush Vince by taking over the title.

OK,
so Simpson’s character is essential to kick off the story (co-written
by the director, Greg Coolidge, Don Calame, and Chris Conroy, none of
whom have any substantial credits). But afterward, she might as well
be a blow-up doll. The movie, which, despite its throwaway looks, is
pretty funny, mostly sinks when either of the guys is around her,
leaving a big chunk of its middle a snooze. Happily, the scripters
have an Office Space/40 Year-Old Virgin sense of humor, meaning jokes
run the gamut from dirty (“You’re the balls.” You’re the balls, and the taint. You’re the whole region!” — a compliment, if you
can’t tell), to silly (“What happened to you, man? You’re like the
drummer from REO Speedwagon – no one knows who you are!”), to
subtle (two characters are named Glen Gary and Glen Ross). The sometimes-annoying Cook is likable, especially when his Zack is shown
treating his live-in grandma like gold, and Shepard is typically dry,
though he gives Vince a goofy arrogance whose suavity often comes out
all wrong. Lesser characters add more humor, such as Andy Dick’s
blind-as-hell optometrist with Coke-bottle glasses. And not one of
them had to rely on their chests.

copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com

In The Guardian, Kevin Costner’s Bull
Durham of the sea, you can snicker at oh-puhleez teacherisms such as,
“I have high hopes for this class. I have high hopes for *you*.”
Or you may choose to lower your standards a bit and enjoy Andrew
Davis’ movie for what it is: a Perfect Storm-brutal, Tough
Mentor/Stubborn Student Flick of the Season-cliche that’s better than
any Costner-Ashton Kutcher vehicle ought to be.

Maybe it’s because
Andrew Davis, director of The Fugitive and Collateral Damage, knows
that the roughest battle here isn’t between man versus man, nor man
versus himself, though both of these options are well-represented.
No, it’s Mother Nature that will bitchslap tough guys and their egos
back to the first day of kindergarten. Just like his grizzled veteran
ballplayer in Durham – and his grizzled veteran golf pro in Tin
Cup, and back to a grizzled veteran ballplayer in For Love of the
Game – Costner’s Ben Randall is, let’s say, a no-nonsense veteran
rescue swimmer with the Coast Guard. Ben is the best, naturally,
except he’s haunted by a mission that turned deadly. His superiors
command him to take a mental-health reassignment training the new
group of recruits, among which is Jake Fischer (Kutcher), who
immediately pronounces that he’s going to break all of Ben’s records.
Cue epic stare-downs, harsher-than-usual exercises, unbelievable love
affair, deep dark secrets, and triumph of the wills.

Costner’s
typecast again works just fine, and Kutcher’s dramatic chops are
improving a bit, though his stronger scenes include bits of comedy.
Writer Ron L. Brinkerhoff, whose only previous credit is 2002’s
limited-release D-Tox, is no genius with the plot details, dropping
characters and filling a good chunk of the two-plus-hour movie with
drills (and, for variety, montages of drills). But, kind of like Fear
Factor without the bull testicles, what these kids have to go through
is pretty compelling on its own: treading water for an hour, sitting
in an ice-filled pool, being dumped into the middle of the ocean
while their helicopter goes bye-bye. And the rescues themselves are
spectacular, such as a middle-of-the-night, rain-pelted shipwreck and
a tense assignment in the frigid, wind-whipped Bering Sea. When
you’re holding your breath, it’s hard to scoff.

copyright 2006 themoviebabe.com