Year: 2001

It sneaks up slowly on you, how quite astonishingly awful a movie this is. At first you think it’s just the glare off Julia’s enormous and extremely white teeth and Brad’s blond head that’s distracting you, but soon enough you realize that No, this is a comedy that isn’t funny, a romance that isn’t romantic, and an action movie that consists mainly of lots and lots of scenes of highway driving.

Though set in a grim refugee camp in Britain, Paul Pavlikovsky’s gritty Last Resort is not a harrowing exploration of the plight of political castoffs. Though revolving around an unlikely romance of lovers who cross cultural and societal barriers to be together, this is not a retelling of Romeo and Juliet. With those situations as its backdrop, Last Resort is instead a thoroughly and refreshingly internal tale of how the things that keep us from being truly free are within ourselves.

I’m getting awfully tired of defending Brendan Fraser, of saying or implying things like, ‘The only thing that saves this stinkweed of a film from itself is the fact that Fraser is so darn cute and charming.’ So is it a good thing that I can’t even say that about Monkeybone? Is it a good thing that not even Fraser’s dorky adorableness can salvage this mess of a movie?

If there is anything good or — as some people believe — holy about the icon that Elvis Presley has become, then 3000 Miles to Graceland does not deceive in its title: this sadistic, ridiculously brutal movie is far, far removed from any ideal that the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll represents. If Elvis were dead, he’d be rolling in his grave, knowing that this, a new depth in filmmaking atrocity, was perpetuated in his name.

It’s easy to laugh at the religious reverence with which some people approach Elvis Presley, and it’s easy to laugh at the little myths that have grown up around the Elvis legend — how he healed a woman there, lent a helping hand to a man there. But he and they are really no less and no more silly than any other inspirational figure or guiding parables the desolate and confused turn to for succor. And Finding Graceland may be the first film to treat these kinds of delusions as the harmless — and even beneficial — fantasies that they are.

Logic doesn’t enter into it. You have to feel it, be swept away by the utter nonsense of it all. But with Sweet November, you have to be willing to leave at home not only your brain but also your sense of what constitutes romance. Come fully equipped, and you’ll be gnashing your teeth and pulling your hair before the first reel ends.

Autumn in New York is the first movie written by a committee from the Greeting Card Writers Association of America. The ‘Sorry to hear about your fatal heart condition…’ team got together with the ‘So, now that your tomcatting days are over…’ squad and decided they could do as well as anyone else in Hollywood these days.

Or The Adventures of Adam Sandler’s Younger Brother. Is it just me, or does piefucker Jason Biggs look like a younger, even blander version of the King of Dorks? Biggs digs himself even deeper into a Sandler-brand morass of pain-and-humiliation comedy with this relentlessly juvenile, thoroughly witless excuse for a movie. How hopeless a pushover … more…

Get a bunch of actor pals together, give ’em a loose story framework, turn on a camera, and let ‘er rip. Is this any way to make a movie? The writing/directing team of Dominic Anciano and Ray Burdis have done it a few times, and the result here is an absurdist Mob comedy that’s like … more…

This 1970’s coming-of-age tale isn’t nearly as bad as you’ve heard — in fact, it’s rather good. Hippie Faith (Cameron Diaz: Charlie’s Angels) and artist Dad (Patrick Bergin) were the free spirits of the O’Connor family, propping up each other’s dreams; little sis Phoebe (Jordana Brewster: The Faculty) and Mom (Blythe Danner: Meet the Parents) … more…