"White Dog"

It must have seemed like a great idea to all concerned back in 1981. Paramount Pictures wanted a “'Jaws’ with paws” horror film; teen star Kristy McNichol was looking for a project that would help her make the transition to adult roles; director Samuel Fuller (“Shock Corridor,” “The Naked Kiss”) needed a big hit to continue his comeback. But what they found was a movie that was ultimately too hot to handle.

The sad story behind “White Dog” illustrates how a misunderstood message movie sparked a controversy that derailed careers.

It’s amazing something as potentially incendiary as “White Dog” was even put into production by a major studio, but, as with so many things, it was all in the timing. “Dog,” based on a semi-autobiographical book by Romain Gary, had been on the back-burner at the studio since the mid-1970s when it was supposed to be directed by Roman Polanski. With potential strikes by the Writers’ Guild and the Directors’ Guild on the horizon, Paramount executives were anxious to stockpile as many pictures as possible and rushed “Dog” in front of the cameras.

Curtis Hanson (later to direct “L.A. Confidential” and “8 Mile”) collaborated with Fuller on a screenplay about a young actress, Julie Sawyer (McNichol), who saves an injured German shepherd, only to discover she’s been caring for a “white dog,” an animal trained by racists to kill African-Americans. Although Julie is advised to have the dog destroyed, she insists on taking him to Keys (Paul Winfield), a black trainer who thinks he can change the dog’s programming, using B.F. Skinner-style behavior modification techniques.

Keys runs an animal refuge called Noah’s Ark with his elderly partner, Carruthers (Burl Ives). “Can’t nobody unlearn a dog,” Carruthers insists, but Keys is certain he can complete his mission in five weeks. Winfield skillfully navigates the rivers of emotion flowing through Keys, who is clearly no stranger to prejudice and persecution; in Keys’ confrontations with the dog, editor Bernard Gribble cuts back and forth between the frenzied eyes of the snarling animal and the glacial glare of Keys, daring us to guess which one is ultimately more dangerous.

There are a few freakishly funny moments in “White Dog,” including a bizarre, possibly ad-libbed line from a police officer as he arrests a man who assaulted Julie (“Same damn rapist I nailed last year!”) and some weird walks down Memory Lane from Carruthers, who detests America’s obsession with technology and hurls syringes at an R2D2 dart board. It’s also easy to chuckle at the fuzzy tops, pastel-colored pants and Olivia Newton-John headbands in Julie’s oh-so-early-‘80s wardrobe.

But even when McNichol’s clothes are comical, the sincerity in her performance demands she be taken seriously. At the time “Dog” was filmed, McNichol was at the peak of her career, having just wrapped up a four-season run in ABC’s acclaimed series “Family” that brought her two best supporting actress Emmys. She’d had a surprise box office hit with the summer camp comedy “Little Darlings” in 1980 and had just completed filming “Only When I Laugh” with Marsha Mason. Although Julie may not be a complex or particularly fascinating character, McNichol gives her an impressive balance of vulnerability and volatility. When Julie finally erupts, it’s not a showy, “polish up that Oscar for me” tantrum: She sputters and repeats herself and gets caught up in loops of anger, just like a normal person in an emotionally charged situation. Honesty and straightforwardness were always McNichol's trademarks, and they are very much in evidence here.

Fuller was not a director given to pulling punches, and he builds the intensity to an almost uncomfortable level in some scenes. Far from being an enjoyably scary monster movie, this is a chiller that truly shakes you up, its foreboding mood constantly accentuated by Ennio Morricone’s gripping score (permeated with quietly churning pianos and strings that sound like muted sirens) and the outstanding cinematography of Bruce Surtee.

“White Dog” is ripe with unsettling images and offbeat directorial choices. In one sequence, the dog attacks a victim in an empty church. Although Fuller does not spare us from the anguished screams of the man being mauled, the camera drifts away from the violence and settles on a stained glass window depicting, of all people, St. Francis of Assisi. Similarly, when Keys pulls a gun on the dog during a standoff, the camera moves in not on the barrel of the revolver, but on Keys’ finger caressing the trigger. It’s not the weapon that will possibly kill this creature, Fuller is telling us, it’s the fury of the man who is wielding it.

For Fuller and company, the trouble began even before the cameras rolled. After the NAACP voiced concerns about the material, a representative was invited to supervise the filming; apparently, that wasn’t enough to calm the organization. “When you train a white dog to kill black folks, that gives the KKK and other white supremacist organizations ideas,” said Willis Edwards, then-president of the NAACP’s Beverly Hills/Hollywood chapter.

But if Edwards had bothered to wait until the film was completed, he might have seen that “White Dog” is an indictment, not an endorsement, of such practices. The screenplay attacks the sick minds responsible for turning the dog into what one character calls “a four-legged time bomb”; instead of being intrigued by the situation, the filmmakers are repulsed. One of the most terrifying moments occurs when Keys explains to Julie how racists can teach a dog to “attack black skin,” as he puts it: Hire an African-American wino or junkie to beat the dog regularly until it learns its horrible lesson.

Rumblings about a possible NAACP boycott led Paramount to nix a nationwide release of “Dog” in the spring of 1982. There are no signs the studio even bothered to make up marketing materials for it, such as posters or a trailer. Ultimately, the movie played a one-week test run in Detroit before being quietly shuttled off to the late-night cable TV graveyard. The film cost $7 million to produce and brought in less than $50,000 during its brief run.

The bad buzz around the film tarnished McNichol’s reputation (and her subsequent appearance in the campy Australian musical “The Pirate Movie” didn’t help a bit); a disgusted Fuller left America altogether, spending his remaining years in France.

Neither of them had any reason to be ashamed. "Dog" is a hard-hitting horror film with a staunchly anti-racist theme, and it’s exceptionally well played by Winfield and McNichol. Even without the controversy, it’s unlikely “White Dog” would ever have become a box office hit. But it remains one of the most disturbing films of its day, a movie that goes straight for the jugular — just like its namesake.

'Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps'

"Greed is good," Wall Street wizard Gordon Gekko famously proclaimed in director Oliver Stone's 1987 hit "Wall Street." The statement was meant to be alarming but, in the rush-rush, help-yourself climate of the late 1980s, plenty of people agreed with him.
Twenty-three years later, in the era of "too big to fail," we've all seen the catastrophic after-effects of that philosophy, and "Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps" finds Gekko, once again portrayed by Michael Douglas, serving as more of a Cassandra than a cheerleader. He's served a lengthy stretch in prison ("the best thing that ever happened to me," he insists) and written a book titled "Is Greed Good?" that's he's actively promoting.
But while "Money" is quick to condemn the amorality and excesses of the modern "masters of the universe" -- the villain, predictably, is a fat cat with a George W. Bush smirk who gets his kicks destroying competitors for fun and profit -- it also teases us with flashy labels (Moet Champagne and Johnnie Walker Blue Label get prominent placement) and a blinding array of bling: A scene at a charity ball functions as little more than an excuse for Rodrigo Prieto's camera to drool over the dangling diamond earrings and knockout necklaces draped on a parade of over-primped trophy wives. Similarly, a superfluous motorcycle race through the woods amounts to little more than a commercial for Ducati bikes. Greed may no longer be good, but it's still pretty glamorous.
Unsurprisingly, the there's-more-to-life-than-your-bank-balance message of "Money" ends up muddled. At the end of the original, we could believe trader Bud Fox (Charlie Sheen) had learned something about loyalty and the dangers of taking the easy way to the top. The conclusion of "Money" is harder to buy, partly because it depends on a half-hearted twist and partly because even screenwriters Allen Loeb and Stephen Schiff don't seem to believe their own contrivances.
While Stone's film is often flashy and sometimes funny, it's just as frequently frustrating, since the most engaging characters keep getting dumped out of the story or squeezed into the sidelines. Mystifyingly, that includes Gekko, who pops in occasionally to make a speech or pitch a plan and then vanishes for entire reels.
That gives us ample opportunity to get acquainted with Jake Moore (Shia LaBeouf), an investment bank hotshot who makes millions, but kindly sends a chunk of each check to his buddy who's working on an ambitious alternative energy project. Moore is also living with Gekko's estranged daughter, Winnie (Carey Mulligan), who operates a left-wing online news outlet that she describes as "non-profit"; to Moore and his cronies, that's practically a four-letter word.
Winnie hasn't spoken to her dad in years and has no interest in mending the broken family ties, but Moore meets with Gekko in secret and becomes convinced the old snake has finally shed his slimy skin. For his part, Gekko sees a bit of himself in Moore's take-charge spirit and his ability to stay a step ahead of his enemies, which include Gekko's old nemesis, Bretton James (James Brolin), a loathsome wheeler-dealer who makes Gekko seem like a Sunday school teacher.
Yet despite the admiring looks Gekko throws in Moore's direction, Moore is not another Gekko and LaBeouf is certainly no match for Douglas. "Money" requires LaBeouf to do a considerable amount of heavy lifting, and he simply isn't up to the task. While he reads his lines more or less convincingly, his acting is all on the surface; when you look into his eyes, you don't see a driven financial genius or a passionate boyfriend -- you see a performer waiting for his next cue and trying to remember the right line and reaction. Putting him up against emotional powerhouses like Douglas, Mulligan and Frank Langella (who plays Moore's worn-down mentor) is reminiscent of the old "Don Adams' Screen Test" show, in which starry-eyed amateurs got their chance to play scenes opposite seasoned pros.
Imagine visiting your favorite steakhouse and being served one tantalizing cube of Kobe beef every 20 minutes or so while the waiter kept bringing breadsticks and water: That's what it feels like when Michael Douglas is reduced to Special Guest Star status in a Shia LaBeouf movie.
Still, a little Gekko is better than none at all, and Douglas provides a believable portrait of a lion in winter, sorting through the fragments of his turbulent past and trying to figure out his next move. The strongest scene in the movie has nothing to do with business at all. It's a riveting, splendidly played conversation/confrontation between Winnie and Gekko, in which both of them try to express their anger and regrets while still, cautiously, reaching out to one another. The rest of "Money" is eye-appealing, but this is the only moment that actually stirs the emotions.

"Green Zone"

There was a time when movies were promoted as being "torn from today's headlines." Although director Paul Greengrass' "Green Zone" can't exactly make that claim, the story it covers remains unresolved, giving the film both a touch of timeliness and a bit of a lingering sting as well. Set in Baghdad in 2003 and 2004, it's compelling and somewhat suspenseful; on the downside, it also leaves you with that sinking feeling of just having found an old bill you forgot to pay.

Read the full review here.

"Remember Me"

“Remember Me” is a tearjerker that won’t make you cry. It will, however, make you groan and squirm and possibly snore as it painstakingly details the lackluster love story of a bitter rich-kid-turned-rebel and a sunny social-worker-to-be brought together by police brutality. That may sound a bit peculiar but, as Al Jolson once said, you ain’t heard nothin’ yet.

Read the full review here.

"Alice in Wonderland"

Although it may be called “Alice in Wonderland,” director Tim Burton and screenwriter Linda Woolverton (“The Lion King”) have taken substantial liberties with Lewis Carroll’s original stories, a decision that may infuriate purists but one that actually turns out to be somewhat shrewd.

Considering how many times filmmakers have put “Alice” in front of the cameras, it’s surprising how few of the adaptations have worked. The major obstacle is the scattershot structure of Carroll’s “Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland” and “Through the Looking-Glass”: They’re primarily collections of whimsical anecdotes that don’t necessarily coalesce into a plot. So many screen versions of “Alice” have turned into little more than fanciful variety shows, with Alice meandering from one crazy character to the next.

Read the full review here.

"Brooklyn's Finest"

"One-Adam-12. One-Adam-12, see the multiple plotline pile-up at the corner of Desperation and Heartache."

Officers Reed and Malloy never got that call, but then again they were both far too wholesome to be involved in any of the seamy shenanigans that trip up the top cops in the ironically titled "Brooklyn's Finest."

Robbing gangsters, cavorting with drug dealers, partying with prostitutes and double-crossing friends are all in a day's work for Eddie Dugan (Richard Gere), Sal Procida (Ethan Hawke) and Clarence "Tango" Butler (Don Cheadle), each of whom has enough moral conflicts and sordid secrets to fill a squad car.

Read the full review here.

"Me and Orson Welles"

Ten years ago, Winona Ryder produced and starred in "Girl, Interrupted," in which she'd play a bright young woman struggling with mental illness and institutionalization. Although she earned an Oscar nomination as Daniel Day-Lewis' quietly calculating bride in "The Age of Innocence," Ryder was still best-known as the winsome ingenue of "Mermaids," "Edward Scissorhands" and "Little Women." Here was her chance to finally dazzle critics and fans in a mature, challenging role.

But then she made one fatal mistake: She cast a semi-unknown named Angelina Jolie as a fellow patient. And once audiences got a look at Jolie, Ryder's star vehicle was officially hijacked. Jolie won a best supporting actress Oscar, a Golden Globe and a Screen Actors Guild award for her electrifying performance; hopefully, she remembered to send Ryder -- who got some favorable reviews for her performance and little else -- a lovely bouquet and a kind thank-you note.

Read the full review here.

"Cop Out"

Let's see: There's a world-weary older white cop with a fast-talking, hyperactive black partner, and they're chasing down bad guys. The soundtrack is studded with old-school classics such as The System's "Don't Disturb This Groove," Run-DMC's "King of Rock" and the Beastie Boys' "No Sleep 'Til Brooklyn."

And who's the man behind those squishy-sounding synthesizers driving the action? None other than Harold Faltermeyer, creator of the legendary "Axel F" theme from "Beverly Hills Cop." Why, he hasn't scored a movie since the days when Bruce Willis was starring in Seagram's Golden Wine Cooler commercials.

Yes, despite its contemporary setting, everything about "Cop Out" reeks of the early 1980s. But although director Kevin Smith would love to turn Willis and Tracy Morgan into Nick Nolte and Eddie Murphy, this is not "48 Hrs." -- although frequently "Cop Out" does feel like it's about 48 hours long.

Read the full review.

"Shutter Island"

“Seen any walking nightmares lately, marshal?” a woman asks deputy marshal Teddy Daniels (Leonardo DiCaprio) late in director Martin Scorsese's "Shutter Island." She’s a psychiatrist, although she might as well be a psychic: Daniels has been prowling around the creepy corridors of the Ashecliffe Hospital for the Criminally Insane, and he’s witnessed enough scary sights to fill a month’s worth of bad dreams.

It’s 1954, and psychiatric hospitals are not far from the dismal days of ice baths, crudely administered electro-shock treatments and other atrocities. In Ashecliffe’s Ward C, patients are still stripped naked and locked up in filthy, dark cells where their bodies rot and their minds deteriorate. The conditions in Ashecliffe’s other buildings are slightly better, although nobody’s going to mistake it for a country-club prison.

Adapted from Dennis Lehane’s novel, “Shutter” is a freak show with artsy pretensions.

Read the full review here.

"Edge of Darkness"

"Payback," "Conspiracy Theory," "Ransom," "Lethal Weapon, Parts 1-4": They're all included in the Mel Gibson mash-up known as "Edge of Darkness." It's probably too late for Warner Bros. to change that title to "Mel's Greatest Hits," which is pretty much what "Edge" turns out to be.

But have you ever had the bad luck to pick up one of those greatest hits collections that turns out to be mostly mediocre re-recordings of favorite tunes? Unfortunately, "Edge" is like that, too.

Read the full review here.

"Yor, the Hunter from the Future" (1983)

An incredibly dim-witted caveman-meets-super-science picture, this Turkish-made foolishness is absolutely astounding in its total disregard for logic, continuity and credibility. At least "Yor" provides plenty of unintentional laughs. The atrociously dubbed dialogue permits the primates to mouth such zingers as "Sink your teeth into this!" and "Your jealousy burns you like the fire." The prehistoric monsters are frightening as only papier-mache creations can be; when a comrade warns Yor about the approaching "creature of the night," he should have added, "You might get tangled up in his wires!"

A booming disco theme adds the final straw that breaks the dinosaur's back. It might have passed muster on Saturday morning television, but served up on the big screen this Turkish turkey is hard to digest.

"Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!" (1990)

Director-writer Pedro Almodovar scored a major hit last year with his hilarious "Women On The Verge Of A Nervous Breakdown," one of the rare foreign-language films to make a splash in mainstream houses. "Women" was a manic romp about a TV star driven to near-distraction by a misguided affair, a tame topic easy for the mass audience to take. For his encore, "Tie Me Up! Tie Me Down!," Almodovar has tackled a variation on John Fowles' "The Collector," hardly anyone's favorite book. Even more provocative is his decision to make his story of a mentally disturbed man who kidnaps a woman and "teaches" her to love into what is essentially a romantic comedy. Perhaps its greatest truth comes from two of its characters watching a movie in production: one notes that the film is more a love story than a horror story. Replies the movie's director, "Sometimes the two are indistinguishable."

It would probably be much more difficult were it not for Almodovar's dazzling leads, Victoria Abril (one of Europe's hottest stars) and Antonio Banderas, both of whom manage to be not only funny, but also stunningly attractive while doing unattractive things. Banderas plays Ricky, recently sprung from an asylum and nursing a domestic fantasy involving ex-porn star Marina Orsorio (Abril), who's now trying for a career in legit cinema. Ricky follows her from the set of her latest picture, traps her in her apartment, and bombards her with a mix of kindness and dominance. The personality evolutions that follow won't surprise anyone, but Almodovar gives the story the same splashiness employed in "Women," with electric colors and creative camera angles putting a chic sheen on what could have been sordid.

Enjoyable as much of "Tie Me Up!" is (and many of the scenes involving the vivacious Loles Leon as Marina's meddling sister are amusing), you can't help but wonder how it could be misconstrued by real-life Rickys; at a time when the terrorism of stars by demented fans is front-page news, this story comes off as irresponsible, almost a fairy tale for voyeurs. Almodovar's style is seductive, but his message is extremely questionable.

"Sweet Dreams" (1985)

"Sweet Dreams" is the very Hollywoodsy biography of country music legend Patsy Cline, a rowdy good-time gal who managed to lead a turbulent life while rising to stardom via such hits as "Crazy," "She's Got You" and "Walking After Midnight."

Jessica Lange plays Cline and gives her friskiest, most intriguing performance to date. She's matched by Ed Harris as Cline's second husband Charlie Dick, whose love for his spouse could not always override the call of the bar. There's a volatile chemistry between the actors, whether they're flirting (which they do a lot of) or feuding (which they do a lot more of).

But Lange and Harris have to fight against a choppy screenplay that zooms through the last seven years of Cline's brief career, giving us only fleeting glimpses of her domestic troubles -- when she sang about cheating men and honky tonk nights, she knew what she was speaking of -- and her bumpy road to the top of the charts.

In "Coal Miner's Daughter," Beverly D'Angelo played Cline and sang with her own voice; Lange is dubbed with Cline's original vocal tracks and lip-synchs convincingly. To some viewers this may seem like an actress taking the easy way out. Perhaps so, but it also enables those of us who aren't students of country music to hear that magnificent alto in all its glory.

There's an uncomfortably high gloss to almost everything in the movie, from the Army barracks to the lowdown bars where Cline got her start to the lower-middle-class home of Cline's mom (the superb Ann Wedgewood), and that hardly helps to lend credibility to a story that frequently seems to wobble on the edge of fiction. "Sweet Dreams" ultimately short-changes its colorful subject, although not for lack of trying on the part of Lange, Harris and Wedgewood.

"Strapless" (1990)

If you've seen either "Plenty" or "Wetherby," two previous works by writer-director David Hare, you can sense he's drawn to self-possessed women harboring inner storms. In "Plenty," his heroine is a former spy with an unquenchable thirst for thrills in the post-WWII world. "Wetherby" is built around a schoolteacher whose guilt and sexual repression drive her to murder. Both pieces offer sterling roles for the lead actress (Meryl Streep in "Plenty"; Vanessa Redgrave in "Wetherby"), and "Strapless" continues Hare's salute to fascinating, challenging women.

Blair Brown, in a performance that demonstrates how little of her talent is seen in the weekly "Days and Nights of Molly Dodd," plays Lillian Hemple, an American doctor working in a British hospital. Reserved and aloof, Lillian is a marked contrast to her sister Amy (Bridget Fonda), a playgirl who will go to any lengths for a good time. On vacation, Lillian meets Raymond (Bruno Ganz), a seemingly wealthy businessman whose immediate interest in her both frightens and intrigues her. "I like the early part" of relationships, she says, noting that she loses enthusiasm in the long run.

She's lying, but it's exactly what Raymond wants to hear. Acting on impulse for the first time in her life, Lillian allows Raymond to talk her into a quickie marriage, an arrangement that leads to personal disaster.

Hare's scripts have never been easily accessible, and although "Strapless" is slightly more in the mainstream than either "Plenty" or "Wetherby," it's no crowd-pleaser. It is, however, a good deal more insightful and thought-provoking than anything else currently on view. The situations will ring true to anyone who has ever placed their faith in the wrong person or wrote off someone who later made a surprising comeback.

There are no martyrs or villains at work here, just characters with strengths and weaknesses that the audience must judge. Lillian is a gifted physician from a medical standpoint, but she's not willing to take a human interest in her patients; Amy seems to be nothing more than a dizzy bon vivant, but finally shows she has more determination and strength than her "serious" sister; what Raymond does is not in any way admirable, but it seems almost forgivable, since he acts out of self-preservation. If the central metaphor is not terribly strong (Amy creates strapless dresses; Raymond leaves Lillian "strapped"), the performances are. Brown downplays her usual charm to emphasize Lillian's self-motivation, and we feel empathy rather than pity when Lillian begins to realize the gravity of her mistake. Hardly a sex symbol, Ganz still projects an air of sensuality that makes him a convincing seducer.

Fonda, taking the smallest of the three leads, shows her work in "Scandal" and "Shag" only hinted at what she can do; her combustible combination of beauty, comic timing and an ability to find the bottom line in her characters make her one of the top discoveries of the past few years.

"The Sound of Music" (1965; reviewed for 1990 revival)

Laugh if you like, but very few films can hold a candle to "The Sound of Music" when it comes to enduring popularity. A mammoth success upon its original release (it was the top-grossing film of 1965, 1966 and 1967!), it has retained a huge cult following. Unfortunately, there's a whole generation that has seen this Best Picture winner only on TV, where, in most cases, a full half-hour is trimmed; it was even reported a few years back that one money-hungry station owner managed to squeeze this three-hour picture comfortably into a two-hour slot... by cutting all the musical numbers!

"The Sound of Music" has become a symbol of different things to different people. To some, it is the finest in wholesome "family entertainment," the kind of film "they don't make anymore." To others, it's the epitome of Hollywood sentimentality, an unbearable wallow in syrup and sanctimony. Most have at least a grudging respect for it; many others will pretend to think nothing of it, yet never miss a showing. At any rate, the picture certainly has won enough fans worldwide to deserve the 25th anniversary reissue that Twentieth-Century Fox is giving it, and the beautiful new prints currently in circulation offer the opportunity to see every minute of "Music" in sumptuous Cinemascope and Dolby Surround.

Since my only viewing of the picture in a "theatrical" setting was at a drive-in years ago, I was anxious to see what I'd been missing over the years. Quite a bit, it turns out. TV and video completely diminish the impact of this extravaganza, destroying director Robert Wise's brilliant utilization of the Cinemascope frame and obscuring the stunning location scenery. The famous opening, with the camera swooping through the clouds, over the mountains and across a meadow to find Maria (Julie Andrews) singing, is breathtaking on a big screen, as is a later shot that cruises from the wedding bells of Captain Von Trapp (Christopher Plummer) and Maria over Salzburg and into a square where Nazis are on parade.

A cinema setting also makes it easy to understand why this film, along with "Mary Poppins" (1964), established Julie Andrews as a major international movie star. Her radiance and energy fills the screen in scene after scene. She's absolutely magnetic, maintaining a spunk level that makes contemporary spitfires like Holly Hunter and Sally Field look like slackers. In the first half of the film (there is an intermission, remember), she is prim but vivacious, until she falls for Von Trapp. From then on out, Wise gives her lots of soft-focus close-ups that make her look like she's made of peach sherbet. of course her singing is sterling, but one tends to forget how absolutely perfect her diction is, thanks perhaps to all that Broadway training. It helps too that the Rodgers and Hammerstein score is not only magnificent, but ridiculously catchy as well. The songs will reverberate in your head for weeks afterward.

The only depressing aspect of seeing "The Sound of Music" these days comes from realizing how Andrews would spend the next 20 years of her career either struggling through megaflop musicals ("Star!", "Darling Lili") or trying to escape her sweet, virginal image (her chest-baring in 1981's "S.O.B." is a strong contender for Cinematic Low Point of the 1980s).

Andrews is certainly the centerpiece of the film, but there's much more to admire, particularly in Wise's direction. Notice how many of the musical numbers are shot in long takes, requiring the actors to sustain a high energy level. There's no MTV-style flash-editing to cover up mistakes. Wise must also have been at least partially responsible for the movie's pacing, which is near-breathless from start to finish but never feels rushed. That's another quality that suffers on TV, where commercial intrusions break up the flow. If you've never been impressed by "The Sound of Music," give it a chance by seeing it where it was meant to be seen. If you've always loved it, this revival is heaven-sent.

"The Sheltering Sky" (1990)

You don't have to have read Paul Bowles' novel "The Sheltering Sky" to conclude that it must be a good deal more profound than Bernardo Bertolucci's film adaptation. If it weren't, it's doubtful it would still be a cult favorite 40-plus years after its debut. The film seems unlikely to provoke such fervor, although it may provide blessed relief for any insomniacs who venture near it. Soul searching is rarely a thrill a minute but it's rarely as tedious as this.

Bowles' book is a debatably autobiographical account of three Americans making their way through North Africa in the late 1940s. Port and Kit are married, although there's precious little passion left between them, and Tunner, their companion, is infatuated with Kit. Ideally, the trip would bring the couple back together, but instead fate intervenes, all three indulge in impulsive affairs and the trio splits up.

Bertolucci, perhaps hoping to recapture the fire of his "Last Tango in Paris," allows ample time for the sex and flirts with an NC-17 rating, but ignores the entire point of the book. It's not about sex, it's about people too obsessed with their own private worlds to realize the outside world around them. Their inner emptiness is reflected in the endless sands surrounding them. In the movie, there are multiple montages of the desert, but it's nothing but scenery; there's no correlation to the characters or what they're going through. Ryuichi Sakamoto's hypnotic score is far more affecting than anything happening onscreen.

There's nothing in the script or the performances of John Malkovich or Campbell Scott to make Port or Tunner interesting. Debra Winger throws herself into Kit with her customary gusto, but by the time Kit becomes the focal point of the story, the picture is already a lost cause and the semi-kinky liaisons between Kit and her Arab lover Belqassim reveal considerably more about Winger's bravery in showing her body than they do about Kit's descent into insanity. Once again, a group of great resumes unite to produce a piece of work unworthy of any of them. Oscar-bait it may be, but "The Sheltering Sky" is more deserving of the First Annual Chicken Little Award.

"Plenty" (1985)

"Plenty" is a film destined to arouse a lot of controversy -- not over its quality, but over its heroine: Susan Traherne (Meryl Streep), an Englishwoman who worked with the French Resistance in World War II and, much to the consternation of those around her, longs for the thrills and passion she felt during those days. Restless, dissatisfied and determined to challenge and change society, Traherne rubs employers, acquaintances, and even her husband the wrong way in her quest for satisfaction.

Yet screenwriter David Hare, adapting his successful stage play, asks us to accept and identify with Traherne, a steadfast individualist whose striving and scheming cost her everything, including, finally, her sanity.

Much of the attraction -- not to mention the challenge -- of "Plenty" lies in trying to rationalize Traherne and her motives and motivations. When first seen, she is a young woman who has arrived in France to aid the Resistance movement. Although only 19 years old, she is in a position of power and a situation fraught with danger, and she loves it. After the war, she returns to England, full of high ideals about building a better world where everyone can flourish. But what she finds in her homeland instead is a nation of men and women who are far more concerned with getting back to normal, and satiating themselves in material goods after years of wartime shortages.

For Susan, the postwar world of plenty is distressingly devoid of thrills, goals and open minds. Her feelings of emptiness lead her to seek out bohemian and beatnik friends, a foxy lower-class lover and a husband whose career in the diplomatic services is on the rise. But flirting with danger and accumulating wealth are not the answer for Susan either, and she languishes in luxury.

The role of Susan is custom-made for Streep and she turns in yet another tour de force. Classy and vivacious one moment, scathing and bitter the next, Susan is genuinely a puzzlement, and certainly an addictive one. You may not like her, but you will not forget her.

There is no shortage of fascinating characters in the supporting cast either, nor of fine actors to play them. Singer-comedian Tracey Ullman is enchanting as Alice Parke, Susan's roommate and confidante. Alice wears men's clothes, smokes marijuana and aspires to be a writer and artist, but little things like bad pot keep getting in her way: "How am I supposed to find artistic inspiration if I can't even get any good drugs?" she complains. Sting, who too often relies on his looks to carry his performances, turns in his best screen work to date as Mick, a black-marketeer whom Susan hires to get her pregnant (the love scenes between Sting and Streep are both funny and sexy). But finally, Susan dismisses him after 18 months of trying. "There comes a point at which the experiment should be stopped in the name of common courtesy," she notes.

As Susan's weary husband, Charles Dance brings life to what could easily have been a one-dimensional part, effectively conveying the toll a marriage built on pity can take on a man. Sir John Gielgud also sparkles as the duty-minded Leonard Darwin, whose run-in with the defiant Susan at a dinner party is the nastiest and most uproarious scene in the film.

"Plenty" is not an easy movie to categorize, and interpretations of its central character and its message are sure to be numerous. But there is no denying its power or the allure of the people in it. There are lighter, more charming films around, but there are few as ultimately rewarding.

"The Man Who Wasn't There" (1983)

You'll wish you were the title character if you're unlucky enough to sit through "The Man Who Wasn't There," another 3-D dud. It's a supposed suspense comedy involving a State Department employee (Steve Guttenberg) who accidentally gets his hands on an invisibility potion that various spies, agents and sundry others want. The yawns never stop as he's chased all over Washington, narrowly escaping the clutches of a nefarious Russian ambassador (Jeffrey Tambor) time after time.

It's hard to know where to begin in talking about what exactly is wrong with "The Man Who Wasn't There" because there's really nothing right with it. The special effects are rock-bottom (the wires and blue matte lines come through stunningly in 3-D) and the film doesn't even use its major gimmick effectively. Instead of having things constantly hurled towards the audience, all we get is bad actors standing around, mouthing banal dialogue and waiting for something to happen.

What passes for acting in this opus includes almost cartoonish facial expressions, lots of squealing and the broadest kind of reactions imaginable. Typical of this is a fascinatingly inane scene in which the hero's girlfriend (Lisa Langlois) makes love to him while he's invisible. Langlois is hopeless to begin with (she attempts to do a Farrah Fawcett imitation and never quite pulls it off) and this feeble pantomime only serves to make her look worse.

"The Lonely Lady" (1983)

While no one should expect anything derived from a Harold Robbins novel to be classy, it's not unreasonable to go into the theater thinking you're at least going to see some good trash.

"The Lonely Lady" is not good trash; it doesn't even come close to qualifying.

It's a revoltingly sexist, poorly acted, ineptly made and nearly incoherent piece of garbage that can't even properly exploit its star, which would seem to be the primary reason for its existence.

Pia Zadora fills the role of Jerilee Randall (it would be overpraising her to say she actually plays the part), a Valley Girl with a supposed knack for writing. Soon after her graduation from high school, she is whisked off to sinful Hollywood by top screenwriter Walter Thornton (Lloyd Bochner) who, though twice her age, becomes her husband and mentor.

Having learned after her marriage that her hubby is impotent, Jerilee wastes little time in striking out on her own, using her body in various vain attempts to peddle her screenplays to interested parties, both male and female. On her way to the top, Jerilee is raped with the nozzle of a garden hose, becomes an alcoholic, is forced into a liaison with a seductive Italian actress and suffers a nervous breakdown. The audience also endures its share of agony: Zadora's horrifying version of "The Clapping Song" is played twice in the course of the film.

This saga could have made for some good campy fun, but "Lady" takes itself too seriously to be enjoyable on any level, dropping such profundities as "wine is cheaper than self-respect" and "in this business, you can't afford self-respect" with a straight face. Peter Sadsy directs the actors in broad strokes, letting them scream, whine and whisper, but rarely allowing any room for normal conversation.

In addition, the editing is shockingly amateurish, abusing fades, dissolves, jump cuts and other standard storytelling techniques. It also leaves the storyline in pieces: One minute, we see Jerilee whooping it up in bed with an apparently friendly nightclub owner; the next, he's physically forcing drugs on her. While it's doubtful that any of the performances were ever any good, the hack-and-splice method with which this picture was assembled appears to have made mincemeat out of both the players and the plot.

"Impulse" (1990)

The continued ability of Theresa Russell to find work continues to be one of Hollywood's greatest mysteries. The walking definition of the term "limited actress," Russell plays apathy well, but continually finds other emotions well beyond her grasp. Early on in "Impulse," Russell, struggling to portray an L.A. vice cop with personal and professional woes, is called upon to deliver anger and indignation as she finds her smarmy superior officer lounging around her home. Her body tenses up, her eyes narrow, her chest heaves, and... she whines.

Justifiably more famous for her luscious body than for her thespian skills, Russell has somehow managed to cling to the marquee while other, far more gifted ladies have drifted into obscurity. Sondra Locke, who may be to directing what Russell is to performing, offers her little guidance: No doubt she was too busy trying to imprint "Impulse" with the same heavy-handedness and lack of style that made her "Ratboy" (1987) an instant camp classic.

As "Impulse" rushes to cram as much plot into two hours as most soap operas do in two months (Russell dresses as a hooker for work, but finds herself getting turned on by the job until she has an affair with a lawyer and then ends up implicated in a murder involving a drug magnate and a missing suitcase full of money -- and that's just for starters), Locke scurries to pack in at least one cliche every couple of minutes. Everything you've ever hooted at is here: the woman alone in the old dark house; the lovers' clothes sliding to the floor; the mystery man in shades. Throughout, Russell's lustrous face continually remains as expressionless as a Barbie doll's, and Jeff Fahey, as the love interest, provides the perfect Ken compliment with his own frozen features and plastic blue eyes.

"I Love You To Death" (1990)

It would make a perfect headline for one of those supermarket tabloids: WIFE SHOOTS CHEATING HUBBY; NOW HE LOVES HER MORE THAN EVER. But in this case, the story really is true: "I Love You To Death" is based on the strange romance of a Pennsylvania couple whose marriage was revitalized after the wife almost succeeded in murdering her spouse.

The film plays less like docudrama than weird sitcom, however, as director Lawrence Kasdan and a superb cast engage in what seems like a working vacation. The fun is infectious, and the result is a slight but highly entertaining comedy of errors.

Joey Boca (Kevin Kline, elaborating on his "Fish Called Wanda" persona) runs a pizzeria and, although he professes to love his devoted wife Rosalie (Tracey Ullman), doesn't hesitate to make special deliveries to female customers. When Rosalie is confronted with his infidelities, she teams up with her mother (Joan Plowright), their friend and co-worker Devo (River Phoenix) and two bemused local drug addicts-turned-hitmen (William Hurt and Keanu Reeves) to stop Joey's sleeping-around once and for all. There's a surprising twist to the attempted homicide that's too improbable to be fiction; it gives the story a jaw-dropping punchline.

All involved have a high time, particularly Plowright, with a fierce Yugoslavian accent, and Hurt and Reeves, playing a duo with no surplus of IQ points. The casting is so strong that even bit players shine: Miriam Margolyes only has about three minutes onscreen as Joey's perturbed mom, and she makes an unforgettable impression slapping some sense into her son.

But it's Ullman who truly impresses. For years, there's been speculation that within the wildly eccentric comic there was a first-class dramatic talent: Here's the proof. Rosalie is the only central character grounded in reality and if Ullman had played her as farcical, the movie would have fallen flat. Instead, in the movie's darkest scene, she shows Rosalie's shame and humiliation, then lets us in on the overwhelming passion that drives her to jail rather than divorce court. It's a stunning performance that should certify her as an actress, not just a comedienne.

"The Handmaid's Tale" (1990)

It's a rare book that is improved in its transfer from printed page to silver screen and unfortunately Margaret Atwood's acclaimed "The Handmaid's Tale" is not one of them. Harold Pinter's adaptation has its powerful moments, but ultimately the narrowing of the novel's scope dilutes the story's message too much.

Before blame is laid entirely on the filmmakers, however, some consideration should be given to recent history. In 1982, when Atwood's novel was published, her vision of a future society dominated by repressive right-wing born-again Christians with perverted ideas of Biblical teachings seemed chillingly possible. But eight years later, with Jerry Falwell's Moral Majority just a distant memory and the televangelists running for cover, it no longer has the same scare power. Although "The Handmaid's Tale" conjures up several unnerving images, including a downright terrifying execution sequence, the film seems more like science-fiction than a believable vision of the future.

Not helping in the credibility department is the casting of America's high priestesses of camp cinema, Faye ("Mommie Dearest") Dunaway and Victoria ("Flowers in the Attic") Tennant in key villainous roles. Also miscast is Natasha Richardson, a bright actress who doesn't quite fit the lead role of Kate, the fertile young woman coerced by the government into becoming a baby factory. Only Elizabeth McGovern, surprisingly effective in a brief role as Kate's spirited friend Moira, scores. The men have better luck, with Robert Duvall adding unique shades to what could have been a drab walk-through as The Commander, Kate's boss, and Aidan Quinn appropriately alluring as Kate's illicit lover.

"Green Card" (1990)

To the uninitiated, those filmgoers who haven't seen a French film since "Breathless," Gerard Depardieu is going to come as a shock. Unrefined, more than a bit chubby and blessed/cursed with a nose larger than Streisand's, he is a huge star in Europe, but he's hardly a conventional leading man. But he's enormously charming and diverse, as evidenced by his recent tackling of everything from a sophisticated businessman in "Too Beautiful For You" to Rodin in "Camille Claudel" to his latest efforts, playing a humble immigrant in "Green Card" and the outspoken swordsman "Cyrano de Bergerac." Both films are terrific in their own right, but it's Depardieu who makes them work.

"Green Card" is a perfect contemporary companion piece to "Cyrano," matching up quiet French immigrant Georges (Depardieu) and the even more low-key American gardener Bronte (Andie MacDowell) in a marriage of convenience for mutual benefit. Georges desperately wants a green card to allow him to stay and work in the U.S., while Bronte needs a husband in order to snag an apartment with ample garden space in a marrieds-only building. Seperating almost immediately after leaving city hall, the two are thrown back together when a government crackdown on illegal alien marriages threatens to blow both their covers. With only a few days to do so, Georges and Bronte must construct and memorize a facsimile of a love story, complete with shared memories and a book of snapshots.

The story could have been turned into a plastic sitcom, but director Peter Weir ("Witness," "Dead Poets Society") gives it an earthy feel and the crackling chemistry between Depardieu and MacDowell gives it considerable charm. Speaking English for the first time onscreen, Depardieu beautifully conveys outsider Georges' longings for both America and his American wife in-name-only.

"Ghosts Can't Do It" (1990)

Good times never last forever, and sure enough, after only six blissful years, John and Bo Derek have resurfaced with a new home movie. The good news (for those who enjoy squirming through the worst cinema has to offer) is that "Ghosts Can't Do It" manages to top even such masterworks of schlock as their earlier "Bolero," "Fantasies" and their perversion of "Tarzan the Ape Man" for sheer artistic ineptitude.

Bo has never shown the slightest acting ability, but that doesn't stop John from throwing down a broad emotional gauntlet for her to run. She does have a sensational body, which is unwisely downplayed for most of "Ghosts," as John dresses her in outfits even Cher might condemn as gaudy: You won't believe the furry black number she trots out for her husband's funeral. The real shame falls on Anthony Quinn, playing Bo's deceased spouse who keeps tabs on her from the spectral world: Most of his footage consists of embarrassing reaction shots that look like they were filmed through an aquarium full of sewer water and lit with a strobe light.

The skimpy and disjointed storyline has to do with Bo and ghostly Quinn pining for each other and scheming to bump off a virile young gigolo so that Quinn can possess his body and "do it" with Bo once more. Far more absorbing though is a climactic showdown between tough tycoon Bo and takeover king Donald Trump, who is portrayed by The Donald himself. "You like to make mischief," Bo teases. "You noticed that too?" he deadpans. Somewhere Ivana is smiling...

"Ghost Dad" (1990)

Some combinations will never work out: oil and water; fire and gasoline; peanut butter and mustard. Add to that list Bill Cosby and the movies. Remember "Leonard, Part 6"? "Ghost Dad" will make your memories of that one sweeter.

In this dismal, cheap-looking attempt at domestic fantasy in the "Topper" mode, The Cos plays a neglectful single father who is too obsessed with his career to mind his kids. After an accident puts him in the spirit world, he learns it's more important to be with your family than with your boss. Lessons are learned by all, at the expense of any entertainment value.

There's more preachiness here than in a hundred "ABC Afterschool Specials," and the special effects wouldn't pass muster on a local kiddie show. Wires are clearly visible when Cosby floats about, and the matte work that makes him walk through walls and fall through floors is embarrassing. Most astonishing, though, in what might pass for a "family film," is the abundance of scatological humor, with jokes about flatulence, urine specimens and even impotence. Most of these prompted groans from the preview audience, but the most telling comment came as the end credits crept up: "Yea! It's over!" cheered the little boy behind me. Yea indeed.

"Ghost" (1990)

Hollywood continues to buy ideas in bulk. What else can account for the onslaught of similiarly themed movies all hitting the box office within months of each other? Five years ago, teen science movies were all the rage ("Weird Science," "Real Genius," "My Science Project" and the surprise hit of the bunch, "Back to the Future"). Two years ago, it was the onslaught of the body-switcher movies ("Vice Versa," "Like Father, Like Son," "Dream A Little Dream" and the aptly-named "Big"). And now, in the past few months, we've had ghost stories: Spielberg's "Always," Bo and John Derek's hideous "Ghosts Can't Do It," the aforementioned "Ghost Dad" and this one, with the no-nonsense title "Ghost."

Despite its generic packaging -- and its less-than-promising cast of Patrick Swayze, Demi Moore and the generally dreaded Whoopi Goldberg -- "Ghost" works. Director Jerry Zucker's resume of raucous farces like "Airplane!", "Ruthless People" and "The Naked Gun" gives no indication of his being capable of sustaining the movie's many shifts of tone and tempo, but he pulls it off, certainly more successfully than Spielberg did in "Always," which was more saccharine than romantic and was weighed down by overblown comic interludes. But the real crusher of "Always" was its failure to make Richard Dreyfuss and Holly Hunter a believable pair of lovers. In contrast, "Ghost"'s leisurely first hour sets up Swayze and Moore as Sam and Molly, a very credible, likable couple; there's a terrific love scene involving Moore's pottery wheel that establishes their strong erotic bond and that's essential for this kind of material to click. The relationship is interrupted when Sam and Molly are mugged and Sam is murdered by a derelict. His spirit discovers the truth about the killing and finally gets in touch with one person in New York who actually can hear him: Sister Oda Mae Brown (Goldberg), who runs a psychic scam but doesn't believe she actually has the gift. Oda doesn't want to help Sam, but finally gives in after he keeps her up all night singing "99 Bottles of Beer" and "I'm 'Enry the Eighth, I Am." From here on out, "Ghost" becomes a deft blending of comedy and suspense, with some impressive special effects that are incorporated into the film instead of being the center of it.

Swayze has trouble playing agony and shock, but acquits himself nicely in his first decent role since "Dirty Dancing"; after the debacles of "Steel Dawn," "Road House" and "Next of Kin," he may finally have found a picture his female fans will like. Moore has always been an underrated actress and she turns in strong work once again. But it's Goldberg who almost steals the show. After five years of watching her disgrace herself and trash her talents in one sorry vehicle after another, it's hard to believe she could rebound with such a spirited characterization, but she has. As Oda Mae, she's finally found a role that combines the hipness of her standup act with a bit of the serious side she's shown in "The Color Purple" and "Clara's Heart," and she's made the most of it. And if John Travolta could redeem himself in the eyes of moviegoers with just one picture, why not Whoopi?

"Dick Tracy" (1990)

When militant rappers Public Enemy chanted "Don't Believe The Hype" a couple years ago, they weren't talking about the movie industry, but they might as well have been, especially when it comes to summer blockbusters. It's easy to fall victim to media frenzy and get suckered into watching an atrocious film by a clever ad campaign. "Dick Tracy," easily the most hyped film of the year so far, would seem a strong candidate for suspicion.

Disney, learning valuable lessons from Warner Brothers' marketing of "Batman" last year, started pushing their product last Christmas and has hardly let up since. But what is it about "Dick Tracy" that makes you want to see it? The presence of Warren Beatty? His name certainly didn't sell "Ishtar" three summers back. Madonna, in her return to the big screen? Anyone who sat through "Shanghai Surprise" and "Who's That Girl" has reason to beware of any film she toplines. The title character? Dick Tracy himself has not been hot for at least 40 years. Boil down the slick sell and all you have left is the film itself, meaning that it had better be pretty remarkable if it's going to survive the scrutiny of pitch-wary moviegoers.

Miracle of miracles, it is. More than remarkable, it's flatout stunning. The first time you see it -- and few will be able to resist the temptation of a second or third viewing -- you'll be wowed by the intricate and astonishing production design: No other movie ever made looks like this. From the opening shots that carry us from Tracy's apartment to the other side of town via a breaktaking rapid pan that cruises across a landscape part-real, part-painted, it's obvious that this is going to be a visual vacation.

But the design doesn't overwhelm the actors. Director Beatty knows how to bring out the brightest in his cast, and his ensemble, in turn, gives their all to the script, which is much snappier than you'd expect. The villains and near-villains get most of the good lines: slinky singer-seductress Breathless Mahoney (Madonna, whose sensuality and humor are perfect for the part), asked by Tracy (Beatty) if she's mourning her late sugar daddy, deadpans, "I'm wearing black underwear"; Breathless' new boss, the sub-intellectual crime kingpin Big Boy Caprice (Al Pacino, camping it up to the max), tells his minions to "dress like bankers, join the Rotary Club. If you're not of the people, you can't buy the people." Although his lines are not easily intelligible, Dustin Hoffman almost steals the picture as albino informant Mumbles, a sly variation on his "Rainman" performance.

They get fewer laughs, but the good guys aren't boring either. Glenne Headley puts a sassy, smart spin on the potentially goody-goody Tess Trueheart, and Charlie Korsmo, previously seen as Jessica Lange's youngest in "Men Don't Leave," is a delight as The Kid taken in by Tracy and Tess.

And Beatty the actor? He brings his customary charm to Tracy, making him a hero with real heart. As a director, he invests the film with as many emotional conflicts as physical. Underneath the special effects and creative coloring is a truly affecting story about people unable to choose between love and work, or between good and bad. What a rarity: a summer blockbuster set in a fantasy world, but addressing real-life concerns. Here's something worth hyping.

"Cyrano de Bergerac" (1990)

Budgeted at $17 million, "Cyrano de Bergerac" is the costliest French film in history -- and certainly one of the finest. Director Jean-Paul Rappeneau gives Edmond Rostand's romantic classic a lavish production, but Cyrano is never lost in the spectacle. From the opening scene in which he takes on a theater full of pretentious actors to the grand tearjerking finale, Cyrano is always the center of attention, and Depardieu, full of wit, bravado and passion, rises to the challenge.

Obsessed with the lovely Roxane (Anne Brochet), Cyrano is unable to bring himself to declare his feelings for an all-too-obvious reason. "My nose precedes me by 15 minutes," he sulks.

When Roxane confesses her lust for an attractive but dense cadet named Christian (Vincent Perez) in Cyrano's regiment, Cyrano at first tries to dissuade her (she speaks longingly of Christian's curly hair, while Cyrano warns "his brains may be curly, too"), but he finally relents, using his gift for penning passionate prose to get them together.

Rappeneau brings out all the comedy in the wrongheaded wooing, particularly when the tongue-tied Christian has to speak for himself and can come up with little more than "I love you." "Embroider it!" begs Roxane, starved for more of Cyrano's luscious language. "I love you so much!" Christian answers.

"Cyrano" is also faithful to Rostand's original, unlike Steve Martin's 1987 update "Roxanne," which retained much of the material, but added a happy ending. With this and Franco Zeffirelli's exciting version of "Hamlet" both in release, it's a great time for rediscovering the classics.

"Cinema Paradiso" (1990)

Director Giuseppe Tornatore's "Cinema Paradiso," this year's Oscar-winner for Best Foreign-Language Film, is an enchanting, sweeping look at post-WWII life, real and reel. It's set mostly in a small Italian village, but the characters, situations and changes it depicts are universal. You don't have to be Italian to empathize with a young man whose dreams are too big for his hometown to possibly fulfill, or to appreciate the village priest who previews every picture, indicating censorable scenes by ringing a bell. And you don't have to read subtitles to recognize an Italian-speaking John Wayne in "Stagecoach" or to pick up on the frustration of a 50-ish man who takes an exam alongside 10-year-olds in the hopes of earning a belated grade-school diploma. In this case, nothing is lost in the translation.

The film's center is Salvatore DiVita (Phillipe Noiret), whose twenty-odd years in the village of Giancaldo are built around his obsession with the local theatre, the ramshackle Cinema Paradiso whose shabby walls and wooden seats seem to disappear when they're washed in the silver-grey glow of Hollywood and Rome. Building a friendship with Alfredo (Jacques Perrin), the projectionist, Salvatore becomes increasingly absorbed in the magic of the cinema, which reflects the changes in the outside world. Things change in film as well. Censorship ends with the arrival of Bridget Bardot, and fire-proof safety film replaces the unstable silver nitrate that could turn a theatre into an inferno. Notes Alfredo, who was blinded in a booth fire, "Progress always comes too late."

It's Alfredo who pushes Salvatore out of Giancaldo, realizing that the town is a comfortable dead-end. Thirty years later, when Salvatore returns from Rome for the first time, his mother sees that his mentor was right: "Here, there are only ghosts." Tornatore conveys the message most movingly as he shows us what Salvatore's fate would have been had he stayed behind: Everyone in Giancaldo is older, but still doing the same jobs they did three decades before. All the changes in town are cosmetic. His vision is bittersweet, but not depressing, and the pathos never feel manipulative. Cheap sentiment is easy to come by in movies; films this emotionally honest are rare indeed.

"After Hours" (1985)

"After Hours" is a near-perfect black comedy from an unlikely source: Martin Scorsese, the director who's previously given us such rib-ticklers as "Raging Bull," "Mean Streets" and "Taxi Driver." In this satire of urban paranoia, Scorsese hits the right note from the very first scene and, with the help of a brilliant cast, accomplishes an exceptionally difficult task, creating a comedy that's both uproariously funny (often in a most uncomfortable way) and deeply disturbing at the same time.

Paul (Griffin Dunne) is a word-processor who lives alone in Manhattan. When he runs into an attractive, alluring blonde named Marcie (Rosanna Arquette) in a coffee shop, he decides to make a date and sets in motion the wheels that will ultimately crush him. During his harrowing journey to Marcie's Soho loft -- and the hair-raising trip back -- he runs afoul of almost every kind of disaster imaginable: lost money; heartless subway token vendors; militant gays who mistake him for a criminal; punkers who want to give him a Mohawk; nasty ice cream men; and even a ditzy cocktail waitress (beautifully played by Teri Garr in a sky-high beehive) who subjects Paul to her collection of Monkees records.

Dunne is wonderful as the quintessential schmuck and Arquette, in her fourth movie this year, sparkles as the tempting but twisted Marcie, whose constant confessions are hysterically bizarre. Michael Ballhaus' magnificent photography makes this a banquet for the eyes as well. "After Hours" is so relentlessly sardonic some people won't make it through to the end, but those who do will find this weird, jarring and often hilarious film is an experience they won't be able to shake off.

"Extraordinary Measures"

Although "Extraordinary Measures" is based on "The Cure" by Pulitzer Prize-winning Wall Street Journal reporter Geeta Anand, this well-meaning tearjerker too often has the artificial flavor of a made-for-TV melodrama. Granted, you probably wouldn't see stars of Harrison Ford and Brendan Fraser's caliber gracing a Lifetime Movie of the Week, but you'd definitely find some of the same situations, perhaps even a lot of nearly identical dialogue.

That's disheartening, since the theme of "Measures" -- a father literally racing against the clock to find a drug capable of saving his slow-dying children -- is deeply poignant. John Crowley (Fraser) is a marketing executive at Bristol-Myers who spends his evenings researching Pompe disease, a rare condition related to muscular dystrophy that has shown up in two of his three children. His wife, Aileen (Keri Russell), tries to keep up a sunny front for the kids, although she and John are both aware many children with Pompe have a life expectancy of only 8 or 9; the disease causes muscular deterioration as well as enlargement of internal organs. Six-year-old Patrick (Diego Velazquez) and 8-year-old Megan (Meredith Droeger) are already showing troubling symptoms, and when Megan is rushed to the ICU after a respiratory illness, one of the doctors urges the Crowleys to see her eventual death as "a blessing."

Instead, John travels from their home in Portland to Lincoln, Nebraska, where he stalks Dr. Robert Stonehill (Ford), a researcher who has devoted much of his career to studying Pompe. Even after John enlists Robert's help, there's the matter of trying to find the necessary financing for further study and development of a treatment, and "Measures" is most effective when it turns its attention to the delicate dance between the medical community and the business world. Suffice to say getting seed money for a biotech start-up requires considerable compromise, gentle arm-twisting and a sturdy stomach: It's hard not to squirm when financiers ask, "What rate of patient death can be defined as acceptable loss?"

"Measures" occasionally makes a stab at America's woebegone health insurance system -- Aileen points out the family will be facing $40,000 a month in medical bills if John loses his benefits package -- and allows Robert to rage against "the bean-counters" who put profits ahead of treating the sick and suffering. "This is not about a return on an investment -- it's about kids!" John bellows in one of the film's tenser moments.

But Robert Nelson Jacobs' screenplay generally opts to play it safe, which diffuses much of the drama. "Measures" includes numerous shots of weary-looking children hooked up to respirators or confined to wheelchairs; it could have used a little more insight and sass instead of the saccharin.

It also would have benefited from a more subtle touch from director Tom Vaughn, whose previous credits include the winning college comedy "Starter for Ten" and the dreary Cameron Diaz/Ashton Kutcher farce "What Happens in Vegas."

Speaking of Diaz, "Measures" often begs comparisons to last summer's "My Sister's Keeper," in which Diaz played a mom dealing with her daughter's leukemia. While "Keeper" had its flaws, it offered characters who were more fully defined than the ones in this story. John is bleary-eyed and determined, Robert is brilliant and belligerent, Aileen is hopeful yet terrified, and the kids are basically on hand to pluck the heartstrings every 10 minutes or so. Apparently, Jacobs had to do a little doctoring of his own to compress the story's timeframe and consolidate some of the major players in the actual case. That may account for why this true story that should have been an emotional powerhouse only gives off intermittent sparks.

"The Book of Eli"

To paraphrase that old Three Dog Night hit, Eli's a-comin' and the cards say ... a broken head. Or a severed hand. Or maybe just a split-open stomach.

In "The Book of Eli," directors Allen and Albert Hughes take us down, shall we say, a well-traveled "Road." The skies rain ashes, cannibalism is all the rage in certain circles, freeways have been largely reduced to rubble and nearly everyone is dressed in "Mad Max"-style threadbare thug-wear. Familiar sights perhaps, but the Hughes Brothers, production designer Gae Buckley and art director Chris Burian-Mohr have nevertheless put together a memorably miserable vision of the future.

Read the full review here.

"The Spy Next Door"

"The Spy Next Door" begins with a montage of clips from vintage Jackie Chan films such as "First Strike" and "Supercop," underscored by Johnny Rivers' "Secret Agent Man." Unfortunately, that brief sequence is by far the best part of the movie. "Rumble in the Bronx" this is not; it's barely even Rumpus in the Playpen.

Read the full review here.

"Leap Year"

Amy Adams is one of the most beguiling and engaging actresses around. Matthew Goode was born with an extra charisma gene. And the countryside and coastline of Ireland are always a banquet for the eyes. Put these powerhouse ingredients together, and you'd naturally wind up with something irresistible, right?

Maybe if you threw in a field's worth of four-leaf clovers, something the makers of "Leap Year" apparently didn't have close at hand. Although Adams and Goode try to glide through the film on sheer amiability, they are anchored to a screenplay that undermines them practically every predictable step of the way.

The exceedingly slight story by Deborah Kaplan and Harry Elfont steals pages from "It Happened One Night," "The Sure Thing," "Runaway Bride" and any other romantic comedy that might have happened to find its way into their Netflix queue. Anna (Adams) is a full-steam-ahead, Type-A personality who has made a career out of dressing up luxury apartments to make them sell quickly (one of her secrets is stolen directly from "Clueless"; I'll leave it to you to find out which one). For four years, Anna's been seriously involved with a cardiologist named Jeremy (Adam Scott) who has yet to say those magic words and slip a sparkling stone on her finger.

So Anna decides to take the initiative herself, secretly following her man to Dublin, where she plots to take advantage of an old Irish tradition by proposing to him on Feb. 29. A series of contrivances is engineered to deliver Anna to the doorstep of a pub/inn run by Declan (Goode), who doesn't immediately warm up to the frazzled American lass, even though she's willing to pay a handsome fee for a ride to Dublin. Still, Declan needs to make some fast money to save his business from creditors so the duo hit the road together, sniping and griping at each other mile after mile.

She can't stand his devil-may-care attitude and his rattletrap car. He carps about her Louis Vuitton luggage and her $600 high heels (and does the world really need one more film in which a know-it-all sophisticate tromps into the wild in wildly inappropriate attire?). Observing it all from the sidelines are a crew of elderly, meddling Irish stereotypes whose behavior and dialogue would make even the Lucky Charms leprechaun blush in embarrassment.

Every so often, "Leap Year" manages to come up with a mildly funny moment or two, and, when they're not hurling puffball insults, Goode and Adams find a sweet tenderness in their rapport that only serves to make you wish they'd been teamed up in a better-written movie. Cinematographer Newton Thomas Sigel's camera lingers lovingly on the craggy rock walls, castle ruins and windswept meadows of the Emerald Isle, providing a little eye candy to distract attention away from the plodding plot. Watchable but a long way from wonderful, "Leap Year" strains to kill the requisite amount of time before Anna faces that life-changing Big Decision -- and no, it's not the choice between the shepherd's pie and the cottage pie.