Film

With a promising beginning scene and dazzling credits, Mirrors looked like it was going to deliver. I was actually smiling and nodding to myself that this was going to be the horror flick I'd been waiting for. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Ben Carson (Kiefer Sutherland) an alcoholic cop on leave of absence for the accidental killing of his partner, living with his sister Angela (Amy Smart), separated from his wife Amy (Paula Patton) and kids, is somewhat unstable. To take his mind off his troubles, he takes a job as a night watchman at the Mayflower department store, a gigantic burned out but ornately columned building. The inside charred ruins manage to look pretty haunting with disfigured mannequins everywhere and a ton of mirrors. The history behind the store is textbook ghost story: a lot of innocent lives were lost in a fire. Maybe their spirits are trapped in the mirrors and want out.

The director (Alexandre Aja), who I HAD nothing but respect for, flounders badly here. His first two movies, Haute Tension and the re-dux of Hills Have Eyes were above par, showing extremely ground breaking vision, cool camera work, supreme editing and lots of mind-numbing gore. Mirrors seemed like it was going to take this path. Aja throws in R-rated risks, bloodletting like crazy, but then plays it safe reeling it in, like the stupid plot would hold its own. You'd think with gore, nudity and NYC you couldn't go wrong. Instead Aja falls back on tired old horror movie conventions: slow moving flashlights, investigating dark corners, looking into mirrors over and over and quick jump scare tactics.

Oh, to be that cigarette.Vicky Christina Barcelona continues what seems to be Woody Allen's never-ending introspective into the long and winding road of love's labors lost and found and lost again and forever talked about. The prolific and diminutive Woodman has been regurgitating his New York City neuroses across the screen on an almost annual basis for more than 40 years.

The film begins and continues with a narrator. Other than the name Chuck Norris in the opening credits, there is nothing that makes me cringe in dreaded anticipation more than voice-over. If I had wanted a novel on tape, I would have gone to the Bend Library. I was glad that VCB didn't have Allen the actor in it. He has become a sad caricature of himself. But there he was, taking over an early scene in a restaurant. The character Vicky, played by the Brit actress Rebecca Hall, was doing Woody better than Soon-Yi ever could. She had the same lines, tensions, the facial expressions, the fears, constrained tone, and probably the same NY shrink. Ten minutes, and the movie was burdened with a monotone narrator filling in this sketchy New Yorker short story pretending to be a movie, and a tall, female version of Allen. I moved against the wall separating my theater from the one showing Mamma Mia and pressed my ear deep into the dried popcorn oil stains in the hope that Meryl Streep's wailing ABBA tunes would drown out the nonsense Allen was forcing his actors to inflict on the six of us in the auditorium. I longed to be in the next theater with the middle-aged, cat-owning women singing along with Meryl and Pierce.

I eventually overcame Hall's imitation of Allen to marvel at her perfect American accent and ability to play a short, neurotic New Yorker, even at 5'9". Patricia Clark was perfect in her limited screen time playing a woman trapped in a loveless life of quiet desperation. Scarlett Johansson, I think she was saying something but I'm sorry. Anytime she's on the screen, I have this humming in my ears, and breathing and time both stop.

Jungle boogie. In the decade since he became a household name Ben Stiller has drifted primarily towards two comfortably generic personas: the tightly-wound, put-upon Everyman (see: Meet the Parents, Night at the Museum) and the preening buffoon (see: Zoolander, Starsky & Hutch). All the world loves a clown, and Stiller has been content to be one, nuance be damned.

Tropic Thunder, however, finds Stiller as star, co-writer and director attempting a skewering of Hollywood - a genre that requires a scalpel, where he favors blunt instruments. The set-up casts Stiller in buffoon mode as Tugg Speedman, an action-film star whose box-office clout is running out of steam and whose attempt at "serious actor" respectability playing mentally-challenged in Simple Jack flopped miserably. He's leading the ensemble in a Vietnam War drama titled Tropic Thunder, along with co-stars — including multi-Oscar winner Kirk Lazarus (Robert Downey, Jr.), a Method maniac who had his pigment altered to play an African-American soldier; and heroin-addicted comedy actor Jeff Portnoy (Jack Black) — who are causing just as much trouble for rookie director Damien Cockburn (Steve Coogan). So Cockburn and the movie's grizzled technical advisor (Nick Nolte) decide to drop the actors into the jungle for a more guerilla-style filming technique — where they promptly encounter real danger in the form of a well-armed drug operation.

The opening 10 minutes hold out the promise of one of the year's most hilarious comedies, including a trio of faux movie trailers introducing the preferred milieu for each of the three principal actors. Lazarus and Tobey Maguire make cow eyes at each other as closeted gay monks in Satan's Abbey; Portnoy plays multiple flatulent, fat-suited characters in a vicious swipe at Eddie Murphy. Even the early moments of over-the-top violence from the movie-within-the-movie — a bayonet-slashed private (Jay Baruchel) tries to gather his intestines, and Speedman's character goes down in a hail of Platoon-inspired gunfire — are funny in context. Give Stiller a full-length feature of cinematic parody sketches, and it'd kill.

Truth is, we ran out of waterboards. The Apatow comedy train chugs along with a new installment, Pineapple Express.

You cannot get more of a skeletal plot here. Dale Denton (Seth Rogen), a 26-year-old process server with an inexplicable high school girlfriend, witnesses a murder while on the job and exits the scene leaving a roach of Pineapple Express, the ultimate killer weed. Turns out his subpoena target is the dealer that supplies his connection, Saul (James Franco). Soon they're on the run from cops, drug crime warlords, evil Asians, and whoever else crosses their path. Almost all the dialogue seemed or was ad-libbed, reminiscent of "Curb Your Enthusiasm," but lacking Larry David's Seinfeld-esque plot twists.

I have to admit there are some redeemable qualities James Franco was excellent as the weeded-out dumber-than-dirt dope dealer. As of late, Franco seems typecast to play the guy possessed with angst and inner turmoil in most of his characters (Spiderman, Annapolis) in contrast to his slacker role on Apatow's late 1990s television gem Freaks and Geeks. It was refreshing to see him in this role of weed-soaked, dim-witted, likable, grinning idiot-it was almost like getting to know Brad Pitt's character from True Romance. And Danny McBride (Fist Foot Way) as Red, the middle-man drug connection, steals the show playing part tough guy drug dealer part wimp-ass squealer.

And that’s how I plan to roll my way into the semis.Swing Vote is a schmaltzy fairy tale that dives deep into unbelievable land, reviving the old Hollywood formula that if you do the right thing and follow your heart, everything will be fine.

Due to a malfunctioning voting booth, Bud Johnson (Kevin Costner), a lazy drunk oblivious to the political system, must re-cast his uncounted vote deciding the next president of the United States. News travels fast making Bud and his daughter Molly's (newcomer Madeline Carroll) white-trash life a whirlwind of attention thanks to the imposing media blitz circus.

This is far-fetched stuff, but the "one-vote-makes-a-difference" concept is spun by real newscasters. Cameos include Chris Matthews, Bill Maher, Arianna Huffington and Tucker Carlson, to name a few. I guess everyone jumped on the band wagon for this pathetic little Hallmark card of a movie to boost the American vote.

seriously, does my foot smell bad?The Mummy franchise has risen from the dead again, but just barely this time. Riding on its past blockbuster success and Brendan Fraser's comedy/adventure star power, the latest in the trilogy, The Mummy: Tomb of the Emperor, should have stayed entombed. Even if you're prepared to wrap yourself in layers of disbelief for two hours, the film's computer-generated yetis and 2000-year-old warriors are just too corny to resurrect the intrigue of the series' first installment, 1999's The Mummy (inspired by the original 1932 version, starring Boris Karloff).

Movie mummies are supposed to be scary, and Arnold Vosloo's character in the first two films was truly terrifying. Though Jet Li, as the ruthless ancient Chinese Dragon Emperor, slips in a few deadly kung fu moves at the beginning, his fearsomeness wears off soon after; throughout the rest of the film, the scariest thing director Rob Lohan (The Fast and the Furious) can conjure is the Emperor's skin continuously peeling off in clay-like layers, revealing what appears to be a glowingly molten body underneath. Beyond that, and his alternating incarnations as an unconvincing CGI dragon and monster, the Emperor fails to frighten. Steeped in lust and greed for power, ultimately he wants what all mummies want-immortality.

Why, lord? Why? Why, lord? Why? Meryl Streep never ceases to amaze, and what she does in Mamma Mia!, a screen adaptation of the hit musical featuring the mighty works of ABBA, is so good that I almost forgave the movie's shortcomings. Almost.

It breaks my heart to report that I didn't enjoy this movie, because I was very excited about it. Let it be said that, while I never saw the play on which this movie is based, I am a huge ABBA fan. Alas, I did little toe-tapping and a fair amount of grimacing at what director Phyllida Lloyd hath wrought. The fun music of ABBA is shoehorned into a stupid story that doesn't deserve these grand melodies.
The story concerns Sophie (the adorable Amanda Seyfried), who is getting close to her wedding day and doesn't know who her father is. She stumbles upon the diary of her hard-working mom, Donna (Streep), and discovers that there are three men who did the deed with mommy who could be her pops. She secretly sends them wedding invitations, making them believe it's Donna who is inviting them.
The three show up for the Greek island ceremonies. They are Sam (Pierce Brosnan), a divorced architect; Harry (Colin Firth), a former rocker type; and Bill (Stellan Skarsgard). One of the men still harbors big feelings for her.

The FBI: Screwing up the X-files since 1993.One question was burning in my mind as I strolled out of a screening of The X-Files: I Want to Believe: Why was it made? Was it the product of marketing research - a sufficient amount of X-Files fans loyal enough to see this film no matter what? Did director Chris Carter (X-Files creator) get together with the two main stars (David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson) and say, "Let's do another movie and see how long and drawn out and boring we can make it?"

This is one huge lesson in vapidity. Now, don't get me wrong, I wanted to like it. I was never a big fan of the series, but I have caught some decently clever and fairly warped episodes in re-runs. Based on that fact alone, I thought I might be more sympathetic to this movie. Even blending in body parts, a pedophile psychic priest, a love interest, missing agents, with a twist on the Frankenstein legend turns out to be a big waste of time. Want to Believe is at the bottom rung of mediocre.
The story unfolds as Mulder (Duchovny) is drawn out of hiding by Scully (Anderson) to assist the FBI in finding a missing agent. They are following a lead from a questionable source: visions of an ex-priest Father Joe (Billy Connolly). Some quasi-intrigue is mixed in with the underlying themes of God versus science versus instinct versus what the FBI says. There's chance for a believable love story between Scully and Mulder (they're now an item) but it's screwed up with tortuous soap opera dialogue. The convoluted clues are not presented well, so we, the audience, have a hard time figuring out why they are even giving them to us in the first place. The incompetence of the FBI in figuring things out is annoying. It was like a "guess how many mistakes are on this page" kid's book exercise.

Hells angel. "Gonzo journalism" is the self-coined phrase that Hunter S. Thompson used to describe his writing because it seemed so far out of control it defied normal terminology. And it was a word he liked. Over time he became all things "Gonzo." Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson expands on this theme… or tries to.

There have been several films focused on Thompson and I was hoping this was going to be the definitive movie. It holds your attention at the beginning with a Natural Born Killers feel and follows with great interviews and archival footage, but ultimately the story is conveyed a hell of a lot better in Tom Thurman's 2006 film Buy the Ticket, Take the Ride.

Gonzo follows Thompson's writing years, detailing his journalistic Fear and Loathing books and articles, his reporting on political campaign trails and drug and alcohol experimentation. The movie begins in Thompson's home of Woody Creek, Colo. showing him firing guns to an exhilarating choice of music, Bob Dylan and the Band's live version of "All Along the Watch Tower." Narrated whimsically by a sometimes on-screen Johnny Depp, it includes interviews with Jimmy Carter and George McGovern. Jan Wenner from Rolling Stone magazine is prominently figured as is a surprisingly reverent (to Thompson) Pat Buchanan.

one more time, kids. Who stole my damn wig?After a record breaking weekend at the box office the question is: Does the Dark Knight live up to the hype? The answer is yes and no.

In the latest and best installment of the long-running serial, writer/director Christopher Nolan plunges ever deeper into the realm of madness and self-doubt, adding more evil and more complexity to the story. The result is a film so dark, at least by the series' standards, that not even the director can find his way through to a consistently coherent plot.

When a triumvirate of crime-fighters-Batman (Christian Bale), Lt. James Gordon (Gary Oldman) and Harvey Dent (Aaron Eckhart, who also plays Two-Face)-believe that they've finally mopped up a notorious mob crime-ring, a demonic Joker returns to spread chaos throughout the city. From then on, the challenges of betrayal, corruption, and sadism, combine to generate a relentlessly nerve-wracking sense of dread.