In the last month or so, I have seen two bloody, gory, sickeningly violent movies, one of which I loved (Inglourious Basterds) and one of which I hated (District 9). I spent a good amount of my theatre-going time buried in my husband's shoulder, and during both films I briefly considered Walking Out.* Then later I made a solemn vow which came back to bite me in the ass. Won't you read on??

The violence in Inglourious Basterds is typically Tarantino - gratuitous and shocking-on-purpose - but underneath it was such a pretty, clever story that I forgot about a lot of it, like it was limp lettuce and a mealy tomato before an excellent dinner. I try to hate Tarantino. It's not clear to me why, unless it's because I can't stand listening to him talk, but I usually end up being all captivated and whatnot. It's the isolated quirky elements that end up bugging me almost more than somebody beating someone else's head in with a baseball bat in a sequence that is two minutes longer than it needs to be. He's always throwing in titles and narration where they don't belong, in an effort to show how much he treasures his influences, I imagine. Sometimes it works for me, sometimes it doesn't. In Inglourious Basterds, it doesn't work, but I'll put it aside with the lettuce and tomato - a too-thick slice of yellow onion. It was there, and I bit into it hopefully, but my disappointment with it was forgotten when I tasted the main course. These onion moments ALMOST bother me more than the grossness, but not quite. Well, I should say, not as much as the miggles** that erupt all around every time someone's head explodes in a shower of brain and skull and scalp. They even laughed during the scene in which Hitler laughs at a violent movie (though inwardly, I'm sure, they were dealing with some really troubling self-comparisons that are sure to have kept them up late that night.)

District 9, guys, was stupidly the exact opposite. The film began with a neat allegorical premise (aliens, deposited in Johannesburg through no fault of their own, are hated by everyone else, who think they're pretty gross, so they get stuck in their own ghetto, aaand we have Apartheid.) (Although you gotta wonder about the implications of this - the aliens, except one guy who has big Wall-E eyes and is therefore acceptable, are pretty much made out to be worthy of everyone's hatred and disgust). Half false documentary, the film could have been something special, but instead it leaned farther and farther into the action/thrills genre until it stumbled over the line and became a sci-fi action flick.

So anyway, after all the chunks of alien/human meat flying around all the time, I swore off violent movies for awhile. Instead, I've been devoting every spare second to watching the BBC television phenomenon, Monarch of the Glen. It's a sprightly show about a young Scottish guy who is sort of thrown into managing his family estate. Every episode ends satisfyingly, there are one or two seriously good jokes, and I enjoy the rampant sexual tension between just about everybody. Plus I get to see beautiful highland scenery (every scene is shot before some kind of fantastic waterfall, it feels like), beautiful highland guys, and hilarious archetypes of old, rich aristocrats. Best of all, nobody's body explodes before my eyes! Win/win!

Unfortunately, I watched about ten episodes in a row this weekend while I struggling with some sort of stomach illness. As a result, the cheerful saxophone theme song and the garish lines of plaid that intersect the opening titles now fill me with Pavlovian nausea. Bitter irony?

* It's so liberating to do that, but also constricting because you want to save that insult of all insults for only the truly despicable boils upon the face of cinema. Not to mention that so many terrible movies are so terrible that one enjoys feeling gleeful contempt and wants to see it through so that every drop of suck that can be wrung from it will be duly appreciated and mocked. But sometimes things just blow, and when it not only blows but murders Beatles songs, I'm outta there.

**Noun, man giggles. Made up by my sister last week. Sooo much more useful than you might think.

1. Clint Eastwood is not a good director. Maybe he was once, but he is no longer choosing good scripts, and this script was utterly awful. He was also the only good actor in the film but who can blame the other actors? You should hear the lines they were fed.

2. This movie is NOT Dirty Harry 2, so wipe that idea from your head. No one is "badass," despite what the idiotic guys in the row in front of me kept saying to each other, unless you think old racist misanthropes who basically strive to save all Asian folks from themselves (the screenwriters - Nick Schenk and Dave Johanssen - clearly really believes that, although Walt (Eastwood's) methods are a little screwy, any and all non-whites would benefit from a lesson or two).

3. If you don't believe the above parenthetical statement, can I add that the amount of laughter that the white, middle-aged audience indulged in, following every racist comment out of Walt's mouth, was disturbing. Raucous, half-guilty, half-justified laughter. I kept expecting the lady next to me to actually come out and say to her husband, "Oh, Keith! Those sound like the horrible names you call our dry cleaner in private! Remember the good old days when we could just go around calling people Chinamen whenever we wanted??" Instead, she just chortled and elbowed him, and he nodded knowingly, and I died a little inside.

4. Sookie Stackhouse kissed Vampire Bill on the mouth IRL!! And SRK presented an award!!! (Wait, those are from my "One Million Reasons to Enjoy the Golden Globes Last Weekend" list, sorry.)

5. There is no subtlety in this film. I'm surprised Paul Haggis wasn't involved somehow (as he was with Letters from Iwo Jima, Flags of Our Fathers, and Million Dollar Baby. I swear I knew about none of these until I went to go hyperlink his name to IMDB. It's incredible how everything fits!). The ungrateful teenage granddaughter is forever ungrateful and bratty. The hardworking Asian is forever hardworking. The young priest is always smug. No one budges a hair from their predetermined cliche of a character, which, in turn leaves you with only a plot that is so painfully predictable (guess who gets the Gran Torino? Is it the bratty teenage granddaughter?? Or is it the Asian kid next door who he has come to regard fondly only after showing him how real men act) (i.e. like assholes?))

6. Because Clint Eastwood is involved, some sort of Oscar nomination will doubtless go to this film, as the Golden Globes demonstrated by nominating the jaunty little tune that plays during the credits as Best Original Song. Yeah, that song's called "Gran Torino," and features Eastwood himself rasping out the words "Gran Torino" a bunch, while you watch the Gran Torino driving along the street. lakdjaskdjsalkdjlsakdjlksdjla!!!!!!

7. Obvious Christ-figure overtones make me sick. Especially when it's not even an overtone, it's just the tone. Directors! Symbolism isn't really as powerful when you COME OUT AND SAY WHAT THE SYMBOL IS.

8. I can't believe movies like these are still made and praised as if people are honestly unaware that it's been made 100 times before.

9. The only reason it even gets a second star is that the plot moves along at a nice pace.

10. Also Eastwood is a good actor, even in this film. Even I can't deny that.

11. It appears that I am no longer actually making a list of terrible things about this film, so I'm not sure why I'm still numbering thoughts.

12. I think maybe I just don't want to end this review because this is the kind of movie that, when you call it stupid, every person who enjoyed it will burst into flames and call you all sorts of names. I guess because they think you're calling them dumb? I never understood that. Like, my mom HATES Daniel Neiman. I can't figure out why. I mean, I guess smugness is a problem. But it's hard to avoid that when you see a TON of movies, so many that it really takes a unique zinger to stand out from the crowd, and after while you get so bitter that you have to sit through 90% recycled material that you start seething with anger during movies that actually only deserve an eye roll. After awhile, you are in serious danger of letting your largely unwarranted hatred turn you into, holy crap, CLINT EASTWOOD IN GRAN TORINO, which of course means that you'll move in next door to Paul Haggis, hating him at first as you hate all clumsy, hackneyed filmmakers. Eventually you find some common ground (Surprise! He's a Rodgers & Hammerstein fan too!!!) and before you know it, you're showing Paul how to be more like you and less like Paul, and in the end you've done everyone a favor.

13. I have no idea where I'm going with this. If the onslaught of amazing movies that I just know is coming (to herald the coming of the Academy Awards) takes any longer to get to Richmond, this kind of thing might continue to happen. I make no promises. Save me, Revolutionary Road!

That is to say, "something" about Casino Royale elevated that Bond movie out of the recession of the Pierce Brosnan years. I mean, we all know what elevated it. Completely revamped writing style (finally getting rid of those jokes that were funny in the 60s but in the Nows just seem like Austin Powers references), a hot, angry Bond who leaps around like Indiana Jones and gets bruised and battered in the process (unlike the guy who used to sit in the corner, smirking, with a silenced gun), and an overall gritty quality that the previous Bond films didn't have (and didn't want to have).

But those blue trunks...here is a Bond who isn't afraid to be objectified.* What does he care? He's got kicking and punching to do and M to exasperate and steely expressions to make. In essence, he's not trying to smoothly go about his business with one of those devil-may-care attitudes. No way, man. Daniel Craig's James Bond is working hard at his job. So hard that occasionally he has to take off his shirt and let us survey the damage.**

Anyway, those who made batrillions of dollars with Casino Royale clearly got together and said something like "OK, give them a well-crafted, serious film and they will go crazy!! If a=b, then 2a=2b, right?? They will go double crazy! Let's GIVE THEM MORE!!"

As a result, you get a hotly anticipated film that ends up wearing the same outfit it did four years ago, only with way, way too many accessories. Confused? Me too! Quantum of Solace's plot was convoluted and unclear, probably because the (my) brain was too busy trying desperately to sort through the overly choppy Bourne-ish editing to figure out who was fighting who. There are some spots that appear to be purposefully vague, as if we aren't quite on Bond's level enough to get an explanation of his actions. And it's not that I don't appreciate the upgrade, but it's a BOND movie! Things don't need to be all crazy, plot-wise. We're accustomed to villains with dark, sinister names, often descriptive of their favorite Gruesome Thing. Guys whose intention it is to control this pipeline/industry/naval fleet/atom bomb so that they may, obviously, take over the world.

In Quantum of Solace, the enemy is...well, we're not sure exactly. Some sort of conglomeration that has something mysterious to do with Bond's previous girlfriend's untimely demise. We finish the movie knowing literally nothing more about this group of ne'er-do-wells other than that they meet at the opera. We don't even know their objective. Hey, maybe I didn't get it because there's nothing to get! Bad guy equals anyone who isn't James Bond or M. Too complicated or too simple...at any rate, it didn't satisfy, and the action scenes might have been able to carry it if director Marc Forster had been able to just take a step back and allow some space between us and the action. I know the idea is to make it seem like the viewer is within the fight, but it's possible that some of us might want to observe the fight and its impressive surroundings. Otherwise, a bunch of quickly edited shots of elbows and fists doesn't really impress.

I get that this is prequel number two (a la The Dark Knight, which clearly proves that a feverishly awaited prequel sequel can indeed stun and impress), and that we're supposed to be seeing Bond's transition into a lean, mean, sexing/killing/drinking machine, but one of the major reasons Casino Royale was so refreshing is that it showed us a new Bond - a Bond that changes his facial expression from time to time. Maybe we're not ready to give up that Bond just yet.

In sum, I have come up with a brief list of things that could have been removed from Quantum of Solace, things that weigh the film down and prevent it from hitting the bar that Casino Royale raised. Without these things, the beauty of the rest of the film would have been able to shine on through:

1. About 100 hours of editing
2. The handheld cameraman
3. The last scene
4. "Fields"

And some things that could have been added:

1. Dialogue that isn't just M saying "Damn him!! Yet...I trust him."
2. Q!!!!!!! (??)
3. Facial expressions
4. 

But, there were many, many things that I wouldn't change for the world. Namely, the opening credits, Judi Dench's bathroom, the fact that Bond didn't nail every chick in sight, the plane sequence, the Tosca sequence, Fields covered in oil, everything Bond wears, everything Bond doesn't wear, and the part where he tells Fields that he can't find the hotel stationery.

I have a feeling they'll learn from their mistakes and next time head down a different path. I have of course penned a very long letter re: this subject to Judi Dench, assuming she has some stake in the process, being a Dame and all. We'll see what happens.

*Which is lucky for me because I'm not afraid to objectify!
**Verdict, not too damaged.

I found myself in New York (for those of you who have a map on their basement wall with pins in it, following my progress around the world) this weekend, and I got pumped about seeing something different and special that we wouldn't get here until two weeks before it came out on DVD. And...nothing! I guess there is a lull right before Oscar contenders burst onto the scene, and it's possible the cinematic world could be holding its breath in desperate anticipation of this Friday's Beverly Hills Chihuahua, but whatever the case may be, my options were limited. So we escaped the rain and the crowds and ducked into Ghost Town.

If you haven't seen the BBC version of The Office, you haven't lived. Or, more accurately, you haven't experienced the uniquely soul-crushing mortification that Ricky Gervais's David Brent* can cause. Gervais is so associated with the character that it's difficult to separate him from David in other shows and movies (like HBO's Extras), yet somewhere along the line, Ricky clearly met and carefully studied a former roommate of mine. This dear fellow (you are close to my heart, dude), who eventually became a fine, upstanding, caring creature, was formerly quite content living life as a tidy little snot. Bertram Pincus, D.D.S. (Gervais) is not so misguided that he thinks he's happy this way, it's just that he thinks this is the way things have to be. People are obnoxious, everything is stupid, you live alone, you die alone, let's just get on with it.

Gosh, it even makes my heart break just to remember it. He gets better, of course, but at a slower, more realistic pace than you might expect from a film of this ilk. I mean, the rest of the movie is classic romantic comedy drivel that would be in danger of collapsing into an overly silly heap, but Bertram Pincus, D.D.S...he's the kind of character that can elevate even a horribly-titled film about ghosts living in New York City. Well, whatever, I guess some sort of device had to set the wheels of poignancy in motion so that Bertram can find the motivation to change his tune, and it might as well be ghosts who need closure or something. Greg Kinnear can phone it in all he wants, it doesn't matter. Everyone in this film is just a backdrop to the least glamorous person in it -- a dentist who becomes a tiny bit happier. Who says a horribly-titled romantic comedy can't be beautiful?** Turns out all you need to do is just provide it with an overdone framework, next to which an extraordinary talent looks even better. Maybe you keep a couple of other goals in mind too, like not casting the reigning starlet, or directing it with an elegant hand, but after that, you should be set.

I can't guarantee that if you see this film you'll be surprised or amazed or astounded, but chances are, you will wonder why it feels so different. 'Tis the long lost shadow of the everyman! And, except for the whole talking to ghosts thing, maybe it's OK to watch someone's life change in a more ordinary way. It can't be Stardust every year, right?***

*You may know the character as Steve Carell's Michael Scott.
**Answer: a lot of people.
***Ricky Gervais is actually in Stardust too! Totally coincidence, I swear.

[rating 3.5/5]

A few hours before I saw this film, I happened to catch the beginning of the 1995 Joel Schumacher neon extravaganza (aka Batman Forever), in which Chris O'Donnell and Val Kilmer wisecracked their way through a cartoonish, blacklit landscape of surreally costumed thugs. Somebody enjoyed that film enough to hire Schumacher to craft what is surely the laughing stock of the entire film industry, Batman and Robin -- you know, the one with George Clooney and Alicia Silverstone and Arnold Schwarzenegger....and more neon. But ven Tim Burton's first two Batman incarnations, both classic in their own ways, seem trifling and childish compared with this film.

Actually, a whole hell of a lot of other movies seem childish now, also. Including Iron Man, Spider-Man, and even, I have to admit, X-Men. A large part of it is because none of the above movies, or any movie like them, has really had a villain quite like Heath Ledger's Joker. There's a posthumous Best Supporting Actor award in this for him in 2009, certainly, and the role deserves it. But it's not just Ledger's phenomenal performance (a friend of mine wrote to me that the audience pines for him when he's not onscreen, and I think that's an excellent way to put it) that creates this truly mesmerizing villain. Nolan has stripped The Joker of his backstory. A man who has no origins, no agenda, and no grudge against anyone in particular also has no weaknesses. It was a brilliant screenwriting move and not the only one in the film. There are other things going on here. Unexpected relationships, gritty cinematography, top-quality acting, and a setting and pace reminiscent of The Departed -- these things inform us that big budget superhero flicks can (and should) deliver a product worth every dollar that was put into it.

Is Christopher Nolan the dark knight of twenty-first century cinema? Between him and Andrew Stanton (director/writer of Wall-E), I feel that at last, someone in Hollywood is paying attention. And the bar has been raised so high that filmgoers will demand the same level of quality from their blockbusters, be they about robots, giant bats, or anything in between.

*I know George Clooney was Batman, but it makes things too confusing to bring that up. It's like the time travel paradox. Kinda like it, anyway.

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars

Rating: 2.5 out of 5 stars

You have to admit that it's almost not worth me writing a review of anything like Hellboy, a comic book character that I happen to know nothing about but you happen to know everything about. If I say it's phenomenal, purists will turn up their noses and insist that a filmic version can only sully the glory of the original blah-de-blah. If I say it's not phenomenal, I'll be told that I could never understand the sophisticated dark comedy that is HELLBOY. Even though director Guillermo del Toro (Pan's Labyrinth) is becoming an individual brand name himself, the Hellboy films still carry the mark of the red beast, and the movies seem to be less about del Toro being dreamy and more about a superhero making wisecracks. So you see, I'm damned if I do, damned if I don't.

Well, I'm going to take the low road and infuriate every dude I know, because apparently they all view Hellboy as an essential thread in the fabric of their youth*. The fact remains, this movie is neither good nor bad. It is merely forgettable. The most solid 2.5 star movie I've seen in a long time. My criteria for painting a film this neutral tone of dishwater beige in my mind is simple: If I have to struggle to get a clear memory of this film after only 22 hours, and if I have to cringe during more than a couple of lines, and if I have to cry to the heavens, "When will it all end?? I'm tired and hungry and disinterested!" then I categorize this film as unalterably ordinary.

Sure, the big, red guy's one-liners are generally funny. And the monsters he brashly destroys on behalf of the FBI look really cool. And as my husband sulkily reminds me (already mad and I haven't even finished writing this yet), it's not every day that you see some superheroes getting drunk on cheap Mexican beer. All those things are just great. No one's career was ruined by this movie, but no one's going to do that thing where they turn to their friend while in line at Starbucks and say, "Actually, Hellboy 2 is really good. It's like an actual good movie. I mean, I went into it with low expectations, so I was really super impressed." This is no Iron Man. The story was dumb, the writing spotty, the acting is lackluster, and while it's a beautiful, magical miracle that Red (giant devil-type demon with massive stone hand and a frightening jawline) ad Liz (Selma Blair, 'nuff said) are going to have a baby, the mind recoils in horror when thinking about how that baby was actually created. Oh God, I just thought about it again. And again. And again.

Blech, I think I'll wrap this up so I can go back to thinking about Wall-E nonstop. Does it really matter what I think, anyway? Maybe some of you who loved Pan's Labyrinth might still be on the fence (don't get your hopes up), but it seems like most people are either predisposed to love this movie or hate it. That's OK, they're allowed to waste their energy duking it out over this mediocre piece of ectoplasm. The rest of us can turn our hopes and dreams towards The Dark Knight. And if that fails us, there's always Pineapple Express. And if that fails us, then there's Wall-E 2: Eve's Revenge**. What I'm saying is, it's summer, it's not super hot out. Save your money and your time for when there's a movie worth seeing. In the meantime, go outside and play frisbee golf or something.

*Which is weird, because in my recollection, they all spent their youth playing Doom and watching Salute Your Shorts.

**This doesn't exist (yet), but I think my friend Thara is working on it.

7/10

For someone who has never seen an episode of this apparently life-altering cartoon that was created to market toys, Transformers sure isn't a difficult movie to follow. And even if I wasn't following the basic (er, only) premise - (bad guys want to take over the universe, good guys try to stop them) - I wouldn't have to wait more than a couple minutes for someone in the film to give me a nice summary. It occurred to me that if I had been as passionate about Transformers as a kid as I was about Anne of Green Gables (omg, Gilbert Blythe), that I might have been irked and/or bored by the endless repetition of the simplest plot points, but my date is a fervent Transformers nerd and still spent the whole time clutching my knee with delight So with that evidence in mind, I'm going to assume that the purists* weren't let down by the film either, and I'm going to move on.

This one turns into a truck.

JEEZ LOUISE, folks. CGI might possibly take over the world one day, or at least fool us all by creating a digital President with an animated cabinet. Besides trying to neutralize the seeds of crush that Shia LaBeouf was mercilessly sowing in my heart, I spent the majority of my time during the film slackjawed and sitting completely upright, thinking dumb things like "We've come a long way since Jurassic Park." If this film doesn't win a Best Special Effects Oscar, at least we will finally have proof that the Academy has most definitely been coerced into acting in the best interest of someone else. Each alien's lightning-fast transformations into and out of their mechanical alter ego is so visually fascinating, that your adrenaline will muffle the part of you that will be screaming, "It's a movie about TOYS! About toys that you can move around!" Occasionally, that skepticism is impossible to contain, such as during the scene in which Megatron is released from bondage and booms out "I...AM...MEGATRON!" "YOU...ARE...A TOY!" is what Tom Hanks will yell inside your head at that moment.**

This one turns into a jet.

The horrible and embarrassing "black" Autobot should have been stricken from the script, that's for sure. Especially since the stereotype represented seemed to be an outdated version of DJ Jazzy Jeff or that sound-making guy in Police Academy. It blew my mind that this was included in the film, that some poor animator had the job of creating a breakdancing machine that folds its arms and says things like "You wanna piece of me?" And Megatron (whose name in my head keeps oscillating between both Magneto and Megadeth) was probably the least-developed villain ever, but it was exciting to watch them stomp around and brush tanks out of the way just to clash in mid-air briefly before turning into jets and cars and whatnot.

This one turns hearts into mush.

But the film doesn't hide behind its special effects. On the contrary, director Michael Bay is perfectly suited for this sort of thing - a boisterous action flick with a lot of dramatic tension that doesn't fully expect us to take it seriously. And the script and acting are surprisingly solid, with the exception of just about everything the actual Transformers say. Shia LaBeouf, as a teenager named Sam who has the unlucky fate of possessing something the aliens want, and John Turturro, who pops up in the second half of the film, are seriously funny enough to carry the film. They, along with Bernie Mac, Julie White, and Kevin Dunn (a used car salesman and Sam's parents, respectively) provide so many great moments that we're a little more forgiving for everything hokey that Optimus Prime says.

And this one turns into George Clooney in 20 years. (You wait).

It's almost the flimsiness of the story that makes the film so impressive. Bear with me now, but clearly in order to make the film watchable, given the basic plot of the cartoon, one would have to guarantee a terrific script, talent, and direction. It's clear that the producers' energy was directed into these elements so as to make up for and indeed overshadow the movie's dubious origins. Let's be honest. The All Spark thing is kind of stupid. Transformers doesn't have the benefit of a comic book background, it had to be liberally doused with talent to get my attention, and it wasn't until I heard "Actually, I thought it was really good!" from at least ten friends that I even dragged myself to see it. But I'm glad I did. Even though the most important scene in the film is based around a giant Mac-truck-turned-robot screaming "PUT IT IN MY CHEST, SAM! PUT IT IN MY CHEST!" I still came out exhausted and afraid of the parked cars outside of the theater, worried that each Hummer was more than met the eye.

*I tried to come up with a good name for them, here is the IM conversation I had with my roommate about it (while we were in the same house):
Susan: what's a funny way to say "fans of transformers" that isn't "trans-fans"
Susan: Fansformers?
Susan: Trans-fats?
Kelly: "Dudes"
Kelly: "Optimus Primelots"
**Toy Story? Buzz Lightyear? Anyone?

2007, Paul Greengrass

(guest review by Kelly!, who gives 6 out of 10 stars)

The previews shown before The Bourne Ultimatum were the semiannual Wahlberg, Washington, and Foxx films about corruption and responsibility, and all were choppy
and strangely colored (a bright tint of a washed out urban setting is now
the official shot of the Middle East). I had no idea what was happening in the previews since my eyes couldn't adjust to how quickly everything had been edited, so I dismissed the Box Office Boys, trusting that Little Matty Damon and his assassin with amnesia
would not lose me so easily.

Bourne!

The Bourne Ultimatum is the third installment based on the Robert Ludlum
thrillers. Damon reprises the title role of Jason Bourne as he continues
to search for his identity and the person(s) responsible for making him who
he is. Or WHAT he is (jk, it’s who).

The first few sequences are helped along with flashbacks from the earlier
films. Bourne’s girlfriend, played by Franka Potente, is wrangled in as an accomplice in the first film and murdered in the second film, which provides further
motivation to find out what sort of government program Bourne is a product of.

Bourne!!!

Why do I like the movies? Because they are smart, quick, and rewarding. However, watching the flashbacks, I realized that I have no memory of the previous films. That may be a drawback to the slick, fast editing that shows Bourne as a ruthless and resourceful fighter. The fights are exciting and tense but are so quickly sliced together that until the dead body is still for a moment there is no image for the audience to take in. Remembering the Bourne films is like trying to remember a dream: they were in Milan, Albert Finney was there, and someone was punched in the face with a cookbook. (A sidenote to filmmakers: although Finney was a real fox years ago, Finney and Brian Cox are the exact same person to everyone else. When Cox’s character was killed in the second movie it confused me that he was continuing to menace Bourne in the third, until I was reminded that Finney had played someone different).

I am a big fan of the previous Bourne films, as well as Damon, and I think
the casting is terrific and an opportunity to give interesting international actors a chance to play small roles (Clive Owen, Paddy Considine). It’s even nice to have a reminder that Julia Stiles ever existed. Stile’s Nicky and Joan Allen’s Pamela, both in the previous films, add emotional strength as CIA agents who have reservations about Bourne’s role as the enemy.

BOURNE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Paul Greengrass takes his second crack at directing the series, and I was entertained throughout. I just wish I could take more of the film with me. Maybe it’s me. Maybe
it’s Julia Stiles.

Zack Snyder, 2007

3.5 stars*

Things I learned from 300: Spartans are the hottest ancient Greeks, Persia’s king was an eight-foot-tall drag queen, and shirts should really be optional as they serve no purpose except to limit a (my) healthy appreciation of pectoral muscles.

Surely there must be something else to say about this long-awaited, heavily-promoted, graphic-novel-adapted film? Let’s see, 300 tells the story of a Spartan king who, for a couple of hasty reasons, rounds up 300 hot guys in their underwear and marches them off to war against a giant Persian army with nothing more than some shields, spears, and a strategy simple enough to be depicted by a few drawn lines in the sand. Each of these elite soldiers has been rigorously trained since birth to yell “HOO!!” when necessary, which appears to be whenever their king yells a sentence that ends with “…SPARTAAAA!”,” …SPARTAAAANS!”, or “…GLORYYYY!” The only other remaining piece of plot information is just whether or not they win or lose, and if you are a sweet, innocent lamb who really can’t figure it out in the first ten minutes, I’m not going to be the one to ruin it for you.

Now I’m afraid that I’ve deterred you from slapping down some ticket money and getting pumped about seeing this movie in the theater. Plot or no plot, 300 is an amazing feat, a very non-Spartan approach to filmmaking. The color treatment alone is enough to make it worth seeing, much less the striking presence of the main character, who it’s impossible not to follow on-screen, even when surrounded by nearly-identical dudes. I was doing some research on Gerard Butler, the hard-as-nails King Leonidas, to confirm my suspicion that a Scottish accent kept breaking through his majestic lines, and I was surprised/delighted/dismayed to learn that he was the adorable Archie in Mrs. Brown. I would never, ever have recognized him due to what I believe is some sort of prosthesis going on here in order to make his face look more Spartan. David Wenham (aka “Faramir”) and Vincent Regan (aka “that guy from Troy”) are immediately recognizable, however, as they basically play tiny, one-dimensional slivers of former roles.

Everything’s pretty one-dimensional in this film, to be honest, as all of the energy was obviously focused into creating something stunning and original. With that mission accomplished, nobody seemed to go back over the film and think “what a breathtaking representation of…nothing.” Because of this, a review about 300 is very difficult to write. 300 expresses nothing and signifies nothing. It is what it is – eye candy. But the reason reviews of it aren’t terrible is that it is some of the finest eye candy yet, and it’s hard to pan something that’s so unique and truly deserves to be seen on a big screen.

I know what you’re thinking. “But it’s made from a graphic novel! It’s not supposed to be King Lear! Meh meh meh! Frank Miller!” Look, all I’m saying is, Sin City managed to include “awesome-looking” in one giant package of “awesome.” It hit the visual highs necessary to make it groundbreaking while also including some substance. Of course, that film also had the benefit of the stupendous Robert Rodriguez, one of my favorite filmmakers ever, who managed to take Frank Miller’s handiwork and make it into a masterpiece in its own right. 300 won’t quite rob of you of speech, but it’ll certainly leave an impression. And sometimes thinking is overrated, you know? Sometimes we all just gotta sit back and enjoy the nearly nude men on the screen who are engaged in combat for their honor.

*I'm starting to rate movies, just to make sure there's not ambiguity over what I think and because I give them all ratings in my head anyway. I'm expanding Netflix's five star rating system into a ten point one (that is, half stars and whole stars) because I need more gray area. I LOVE Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but do I really think it's as good as The Departed? I mean, really? This allows me to save five star ratings for the true masterpieces. If you're Netflix and you're reading this, take note.

Zack Snyder, 2007

3.5 stars*

Things I learned from 300: Spartans are the hottest ancient Greeks, Persia’s king was an eight-foot-tall drag queen, and shirts should really be optional as they serve no purpose except to limit a (my) healthy appreciation of pectoral muscles.

Surely there must be something else to say about this long-awaited, heavily-promoted, graphic-novel-adapted film? Let’s see, 300 tells the story of a Spartan king who, for a couple of hasty reasons, rounds up 300 hot guys in their underwear and marches them off to war against a giant Persian army with nothing more than some shields, spears, and a strategy simple enough to be depicted by a few drawn lines in the sand. Each of these elite soldiers has been rigorously trained since birth to yell “HOO!!” when necessary, which appears to be whenever their king yells a sentence that ends with “…SPARTAAAA!”,” …SPARTAAAANS!”, or “…GLORYYYY!” The only other remaining piece of plot information is just whether or not they win or lose, and if you are a sweet, innocent lamb who really can’t figure it out in the first ten minutes, I’m not going to be the one to ruin it for you.

Now I’m afraid that I’ve deterred you from slapping down some ticket money and getting pumped about seeing this movie in the theater. Plot or no plot, 300 is an amazing feat, a very non-Spartan approach to filmmaking. The color treatment alone is enough to make it worth seeing, much less the striking presence of the main character, who it’s impossible not to follow on-screen, even when surrounded by nearly-identical dudes. I was doing some research on Gerard Butler, the hard-as-nails King Leonidas, to confirm my suspicion that a Scottish accent kept breaking through his majestic lines, and I was surprised/delighted/dismayed to learn that he was the adorable Archie in Mrs. Brown. I would never, ever have recognized him due to what I believe is some sort of prosthesis going on here in order to make his face look more Spartan. David Wenham (aka “Faramir”) and Vincent Regan (aka “that guy from Troy”) are immediately recognizable, however, as they basically play tiny, one-dimensional slivers of former roles.

Everything’s pretty one-dimensional in this film, to be honest, as all of the energy was obviously focused into creating something stunning and original. With that mission accomplished, nobody seemed to go back over the film and think “what a breathtaking representation of…nothing.” Because of this, a review about 300 is very difficult to write. 300 expresses nothing and signifies nothing. It is what it is – eye candy. But the reason reviews of it aren’t terrible is that it is some of the finest eye candy yet, and it’s hard to pan something that’s so unique and truly deserves to be seen on a big screen.

I know what you’re thinking. “But it’s made from a graphic novel! It’s not supposed to be King Lear! Meh meh meh! Frank Miller!” Look, all I’m saying is, Sin City managed to include “awesome-looking” in one giant package of “awesome.” It hit the visual highs necessary to make it groundbreaking while also including some substance. Of course, that film also had the benefit of the stupendous Robert Rodriguez, one of my favorite filmmakers ever, who managed to take Frank Miller’s handiwork and make it into a masterpiece in its own right. 300 won’t quite rob of you of speech, but it’ll certainly leave an impression. And sometimes thinking is overrated, you know? Sometimes we all just gotta sit back and enjoy the nearly nude men on the screen who are engaged in combat for their honor.

*I'm starting to rate movies, just to make sure there's not ambiguity over what I think and because I give them all ratings in my head anyway. I'm expanding Netflix's five star rating system into a ten point one (that is, half stars and whole stars) because I need more gray area. I LOVE Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, but do I really think it's as good as The Departed? I mean, really? This allows me to save five star ratings for the true masterpieces. If you're Netflix and you're reading this, take note.