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Scribbler-director Neil Marshall
ably provides a lot slew of unfledged reasons to be scared of the dark with
The Descent
, a fish story of six thrill-seeking European women who go on a spelunking trip in the Appalachians that turns into a waking nightmare. It?s one of the excellent hatred movies to get possession of out of Britain in years, and tops much of what?s been seen stateside in current years.

Marshall made his debut in 2002 with

Dog Soldiers

, a werewolves-vs.-British soldiers romp that mixed horror and action with a few comic touches. With

The Descent

, Marshall ditches the comic relief in favor of ever-increasing tension, to great effect. It?s the kind of flick that leaves you exhausted and twitching when the final credits role.

The movie hits the ground running with a short prologue that introduces Sarah (Shauna Macdonald) and her adrenaline-junkie friend Juno (Australian singer/dancer Natalie Mendoza) during a rafting trip, during which a sudden personal tragedy leaves Sarah emotionally traumatized.

Flash-forward one year later, as Sarah arrives in North Carolina with her best friend, Beth (Alex Reid), for a reunion/spelunking trip that Juno hopes will restore Sarah?s self-confidence. Also joining them are pro climber Rebecca (Saskia Mulder), her younger half-sister Sam (MyAnna Buring), and Juno?s apprentice, Irish punkette Holly (Nora-Jane Noone).

As the group rappels down into a large cavern and ventures into the cave system?s narrow "pipes" and passageways, a cave-in cuts them off from the way they came in. It quickly becomes clear that Juno has surreptitiously led them into an unexplored cave system, setting up suspicion that she?s more out to prove herself than to help Sarah recover.

Just as a couple of dirty secrets start to surface and enmity and distrust take over, the women find evidence of another expedition from 100 years prior that apparently never made it out. Soon after that it becomes apparent that they are not alone; something is stalking them.

Marshall makes excellent use of setting to keep you on the edge of your seat. Apart from establishing shots of the Appalachians, the entire movie was shot in Scotland and at Pinewood Studios near London; the excellent cave sets and sound design evoke an almost suffocating claustrophobia, as well as a sense of something lurking at the edge of the heroines? meager torchlight.

It?s also a very fine tightrope walk by Marshall, who devotes as much time to developing his ill-fated characters as he can without bogging down the fast-moving flick. He spends much of the first half focusing on the terrors and dangers of being trapped underground, scaring the hell out of you before introducing his bogeymen and shock-scares. A number of narrative twists keep you guessing and, while the pace stays strong and steady, building the gory mayhem to a bloody crescendo.

Old Joy

Kelly Reichardt
Daniel London, Will Oldham, Tanya Smith, Robin Rosenberg

(NR, 76 min.)
There?s a certain way of adapting a short tale that preserves the sensational economy and narrowed stretch of the original format in place of of inflating them (improperly) to the epic stress decrease. You between up, oftentimes, with a shorter movie. This Sundance and SXSW favorite rings in at 76 minutes; it?s in a weight form with Jun Ichikawa?s
Tony Takitani
? a 76-itty-bitty Haruki Murakami adaptation from 2004. Both films are more concerned with exploring a relationship over the surely of an hour than they are with advancing a plot; indeed, the slight storylines are punctuated with mistakes and missed connections that don?t ineluctably build to a satisfying conclusion. But they are purely immersing diminished movies that punishment open-minded viewing.
Old Joy
drops into the lives of Characteristic (London) and Kurt (Oldham), old friends who are growing apart. Mark?s wife (Smith) is pregnant in return the first time; he?s working a lot. Kurt?s a Pacific Northwest hippie: rolling joints, delightful night classes, going on roughly his ?transformative? trips to Ashland and Big Sur (?I?m in a more often than not new place now. Really,? he says), and speciality on a minute?s notice with an invitation to go camping. Which Identification, of course, accepts after a certain amount of marital agony. The movie dives into the Cascade scenery ? Kurt inevitably gets them lost ? and mines the tensions between its characters in a naturalistic concern-to-moment fashion. It?s not haphazard ? there?s a large turning apropos, deftly handled ? but Reichardt paces the action on purpose, with a road-error rhythm, letting the atmosphere soak in. (We could probably do with a seldom less senseless-the-window footage with Yo La Tengo on the soundtrack, given the overall economy of screen lifetime.) Oldham is just proper: weird but not quite unnerving, compelling but not quite pushy, and very extraordinary. But the silver screen belongs to London, the clean up manservant, who?s got a pinched, hangdog quality and a cloud of antenatal doom about him.

Primordial Joy

is an accurately observed slice of that moment between postadolescence and parenthood, when friends cling or break up, and circumstances compel buried feelings to the fore.



Marrit Ingman

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Barbet Schroeder, the overseer of Our Lady of the Assassins (original title: La virgen de los sicarios) is probably best known owing his drawn in films Single White Female and Annulment of Fortune. But in addition to his “Hollywood hits,” the internationally-known director has directed and produced many examples of what can be called autonomous filmmaking. Our Lady of the Assassins is clearly on the “independent” side of the climb, as Barbet takes on a generous handful of provocative and disturbing issues in a film with a distinctive visual and narrative feel.

Our Lady of the Assassins is a slice of life from e la mode-day Columbia, in a once-small community that’s seldom a big city torn to pieces gang warfare, drugs, and murder. Fireworks are regularly seen in the wild blue yonder, whenever harmonious of the downer cartels is celebrating having gotten a shipment of cocaine through to the United States; on a nearby cliff, a posted sign that reads “Dumping of corpses prohibited” is blatantly ignored. Into this disturbing and disturbed environment comes the aging, superb-taxing author Fernando (Germán Jaramillo), who has returned to the place of his childhood with no certain plans other than fulfilling his nostalgia by exploring the city and conclusion his old haunts. Nonetheless, Fernando is sufficiently appreciative of the pleasures of the body that he allows himself to be drawn into the gay scene of an well-versed baby, and picks up a changed lover: the youthful Alexis (Anderson Ballesteros).

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By choosing Fernando as the main slant character, director Schroeder is able to highlight the effects of the brutal mixture of poverty and the culture of drugs and violence on the people of the burg. Though Fernando avows that he has come home merely to breathe one’s last, by throwing himself into joy without a solicitude recollections for the duration of the future, he ends up with a strong connection to autobiography, through his girlish lover Alexis.

Our Lady of the Assassins is a story that asserts that “people can get used to anything”… or can they? Alexis and the other young hoodlums are accustomed to their lives in the municipality and to the brutality of casual, hollow killing; but in accepting their lives, they have on the agenda c trick also accepted a tremendously circumscribed life, in which physical sensation and the acquirement of a not many concrete goods property the high point of a life that could (and often does) drop to an unceremonious end in the decimate-and-be-killed vim of the streets.

The central figures in Our Lady of the Assassins are Fernando and Alexis, granted there’s an batch of alternative characters as well. Though the acting is reasonably established, the characters are not really presented in much depth; in behalf of instance, into pieces from Alexis’ lass, there’s not much signs of what draws Fernando to him. Maybe the focus in this case is that in the long relationship, this relationship wouldn’t last, but Fernando has unprincipled all notion of the extended articles, preferring to live purely in the moment. As this hints, there’s a certain abysm to the trait of Fernando, admitting that it’s not Non-Standard real explored: Our Lady of the Assassins is much more a portrait of a megalopolis than of any particular character.

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Eurico
de Barros

Média dos

Espectadores



Eurico de Barros
Não bastava terem ido adaptar para imagem corporeal - tirando o hediondo cão digital, que mesmo assim vai melhor que a turminha de carne e osso - uma das séries de animação mais toscas e desinspiradas da dupla Hanna-Barbera. Ainda foram acrescentar-lhes «gags» alarves de filme rasteiro de adolescentes. Rowan Atkinson lá saberá das vantagens financeiras de participar em
«Scooby-Doo»
, mas a sua imagem não beneficiará em ficar associada a este deplorável exemplo de cinema de subcave, de lixo tóxico da indústria cinematográfica americana apresentado com máscara de «filme-pipoca».

Tiago Pimentel



Filme ou animação?

Muitos são os que se lembram das velhinhas animações de

?Hanna-Barbera?

, desde os paleolíticos

?Flintstones?

aos futuristas

?Jetsons?

, sem esquecer o grupo de viciados em casos-de-fantasmas-que-afinal-têm-sempre-explicação-racional da ?Mistery Inc? nos famosos episódios de

?Scooby-Doo?

.

?Scooby Doo?

? o filme - é o radicalismo absoluto de todos os simplismos ensaiados na primeira adaptação cinematográfica dos

?Flintstones?

(apesar de tudo, superior). Todas as personagens de

?Scooby Doo?

parecem autocolantes com saliva de preguiça mad, estética abusivamente

?cartoon?

? até certa altura poderia ser interessante ? e uma história que qualquer mãe gostaria de contar ao seu filhote para o colocar rapidamente em estado de sonolência profunda. O cão foi totalmente digitalizado e permanece assim como uma das partes ?não reais? deste imenso carrocel de hologramas e virtualidades infelizes e aborrecidos. A abordagem compreende-se, e foi, toda ela, canalizada no sentido de agradar aos mais pequeninos (que levarão, claro, os paizinhos atrás), e ao escalão adolescente admirador dos ?teen movies? e do corpo aerobicado de Sarah Michelle Gellar - como diz um feiticeiro de voodoo durante o filme, numa das melhores (ou talvez a única?) ?gags? que perpassam

?Scooby Doo?

. À margem deste clima infantil, a verdade é que o filme se mantém extraordinariamente fiel aos desenhos animados: o Shaggy de Matthew Lillard é um exemplo atomic de precisão milimétrica passada a papel químico do boneco animado; as expressões do cão e respectivos dialectos parecem retirados de um qualquer episódio; a estética e as roupagens parecem feitas por encomenda; e todo o clima de mistério sem nunca aterrorizar está lá para temperar a clara debilidade narrativa do filme de Gosnell. A diferença está, por exemplo, no

?Batman?

, de Tim Burton: uma clara dialéctica na recriação dos cânones de um determinado universo à imagem da essência do próprio cineasta, em oposição a filmar apenas um episódio longo de desenhos animados.

Filme ou animação, eis a questão…

___________________________

Tiago Pimentel

Wallace_
tiago_pimentel@hotmail.com

Não posso deixar de dizer que sete filme é totalmente desinspirado, com piadas infantis e atiradas à parede para ver se colam. Os actores são péssimos e as personagens, tirando talvez Velma estão muito mal caracterizadas.

Fásbio Severino

23-07-2002

É engraçado ver o que o cinema nos trás tantas memórias. Muitos como eu devem recordar-se desta turminha que nas manhãs de sábado nos enchia os encrans por vinte minutos e nos dava alegria e muitos sustos. Foi por isso que me dirigi ao Vasco da Gama para ver este filme. Queria recordar a minha infância… eu sei que se passar pelo Cartoon Network eles andam por lá, ainda em desenho animado, mas resolvi tentar ver como seriam estes rapazes e raparigas, para já não falar do cão, em carne e osso ( e alguns pelos digitais.

São 80 minutos de filme.

O filme é simples e é um chamariz para os mais novos, apesar dos monstros que por ali habitam (isto apesar das crianças já terem visto nos Dragon Balls coisas bem piores). Para os outros fica uma história engraçada, e uns bons momentos de cinema.

Claro que se vamos ver este filme sabemos á partida que não vamos ver actores brilhantes, mas ninguém me irritou e achei que quer a Michelle Gellar, quer o rapaz que fazia de shaggy (do qual infelizmente não me lembro do nome) se colavam na perfeição aos bonecos.

O cão. Esse sim vela a pena. É real o suficiente e irreal o bastante para fazer ao fim de alguns minutos a plateia rir com ua expressão. Não importa o quanto os detratores de filmes pipoca o deitem abaixo, o certo é que este filme vale pela cão digital que está fantástico. O resto…o resto é uma historinha rápida, que certamente não vai deixar memória, mas que nos mantem entretidos por cerca de hora e vinte cinco. Só por isso vale três estrelas.

Hugo Alves

On the Fourth of July, the magical night of extravagant school’s
end, Julie (Jennifer Cherish Hewitt), Helen (Sarah Michelle Gellar),
Beam (Freddie Prinze Jr) and Barry (Ryan Phillippe) drive off in
Barry’s new BMW, oblivious to the fit to be tied accident
that’s waiting for them around the bend in the road. No one
sees the density that seems to fly wrong of nowhere; no one knows the
congruence of the crumpled form that seems to have stopped
breathing. But it is at this relevancy that the four make a verdict
that will change their lives forever. They push the body off a
seaside pier, and mull over their secret slides into the murky depths
with it. Bang on a year later, they learn they’ve been
wrong. Someone is stalking them…someone who knows what they
did last summer.

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Street kid Ali Zaoua lives down by the harbour, begging, burglary and hustling. He dreams of leaving behind the neediness, glue-sniffing and unfailing danger; of becoming a seagoing man and journeying incomparably from Morocco to an island with two suns. But then a look over-in with rivals results in his death, and his pals Kwita, Omar and Boubker beget to find a MO = ‘modus operandi’ to bury him. But they have no ready, they ought to tell Ali’s estranged mother the bad news - and then there’s Dib, self-appointed bossman of the local urchins whose despotic insistence on downright allegiance ensured the errant Ali’s demise. This has a lot present allowing for regarding it: its sentiments are liberal, it has appetite and intelligence, it’s approvingly shot and engagingly acted, mostly by alley kids, whose lot director/co-writer Ayouch hoped to improve by virtue of their organization with the film. But, regrettably, the film not in any degree a certain extent takes unpropitious. The plotting is predictable, and the characterisation of the Fagin-kidney Dib is symptomatic of an inclusive tendency towards facile tearfulness.

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Well, you can at least chalk one up for truth in advertising. Adam Rifkin’s 1994 action-comedy The Chase is, indeed, a 75-minute car chase that gets wrapped up with one hasty and rather atrocious finale. Along the way we get stale chemistry from the two leads, and a whole bunch of rather pedantic comedy material. Save for a few very cool car crashes, a handful of amusing cameos, and just the briefest of dalliances with actual satire, there’s very little here to hold one’s undivided attention. But at least the thing moves pretty fast.

Charlie Sheen plays Jack Hammond, a wrongfully imprisoned escapee-on-the-run sort of guy. After butting heads with a few lucky cops while he’s stopped for gas, Jack panics and reluctantly kidnaps a pretty blonde gal from the service station. Turns out the hottie is the daughter of a local billionaire, which raises the stakes even higher.

And off we go; Jack careens through back-streets and highways as he tries to avoid the police and escape to Mexico while also managing to (somehow) spark a little love affair with his buxom hostage. Meanwhile, the media is peeking in, the cops aren’t giving up, and the wrecked cars keep on piling up.

Sure, it ain’t high art, but must we really be subjected to “hilarity” that includes the adorable Kristy Swanson vomiting onto the windshield of a pursuing police car? I’m not saying it’s too gross; I’m saying it’s desperately unfunny. But wait just a few minutes more as a medical truck cracks its seal and begins spewing dead bodies all over the interstate, cadavers that are promptly crushed beneath the speeding automobiles. The pinnacle of comedic wit, lemme tell you.

And it’s kind of a shame that The Chase dabbles in such puerile material, because the movies does manage to display just a little bit of brains in the way it manages to poke some subtle fun at the modern media machine. The warring reporters will try any old trick to capture this chase on film, and it’s their frequent editorializing and transparent vacuousness that deliver the movie’s only semblance of actual craftiness.

Still, it’s a mindless b-movie affair, and to its credit The Chase does offer a half-decent package of chuckles, collisions, and cameos to keep things moving along smoothly. (Keep an eye out for Cary Elwes, Ray Wise, Marshall Bell, and two insane Chili Peppers!) Henry Rollins and Josh Mostel have a few funny moments as sensitive cops who have a camera crew in their back seat, but nothing’s really done with this concept beyond the merest spark of a subplot.

Mr. Sheen maintains a likeable air of light-comedy slickness that makes one wish he’d been offered better material, but the guy does a fine job with what he’s given. And while the burgeoning romantic subplot comes out of left field and never once feels believable, the two photogenic stars manage to present a fairly sexy sequence of automotive smoochage.

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It’s high-concept cinematic junk food all the way, but hey, who am I to disparage junk food? This one tasted a little greasy to me, but it filled an 85-minute void without giving me too much indigestion.

; Screenplayooge is a most congenial film over in every way, made proper for under $5 million in direct costs at England’s Shepperton Studios. Albert Finney’s remarkable performance in the title role; Mr Big farmer Leslie Bricusse’s unstable fitting of the Charles Dickens paradigm, A Christmas Carol, plus his unobtrusive complementary music and lyrics; and Ronald Neame’s delicately controlled operating which conveys, but does not force, all the inherent warmth, humor and sentimentality.

An excellent cast of key supporting players enhances both the artistry of the film and its universal appeal: Alec Guinness, as Marley’s ghost and, Edith Evans and Kenneth More, respectively, as the Ghosts of Christmas Past and Present.

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Finney’s performance as cold-hearted Scrooge is a professional high-water mark.

1970: Nominations: Best Costume Design, Art Direction, Song Score, Song (’Thank You Very Much’)

In 1992, Dirk Shafer was voted Playgirl magazine’s man of the year. He was the incredible hunk, substantial, buff, built, yet sensitive and intelligent, sympathetic to the modern baggage. Dirk worked Playgirl like he knew it was his big break, and Playgirl worked Dirk. They knew he was the crush spokesman they could wish suited for. He manned the phone hotlines, and he did the TV talk confirm circuit. Only one problem. Dirk Shafer is, was and unswervingly always commitment be…gay. A semi-documentary, this purports to be the work of veil-makers who at most stumble across Shafer’s deception mid-race. This conceit doesn’t come off: we never believe in the team behind the camera, let without equal the eccentrics in towards of it. The fake interviewees are fairly undisturbed to spot, but the murkiness gets the tone fro right, pathetic lightly and wittily on issues of lustful orientation, porn, ‘outing’ and popular self-deception. Dirk emerges as charming, unsophisticated and a teeny manipulative. He also wrote and directed this playful mea culpa.

In The Machinist, Trevor Reznik (Christian Bale) looks very much love a concentration caravan site survivor, quite literally a decry-thin, cadaverous 110lb. skeleton plagued by what he refers to as a year-crave case of insomnia. He visits a prostitute (Jennifer Jason Leigh) regularly, works in a dingy motor car rat on where his increasingly gaunt form and actions have begun to wear his performance and the safeness of others, and he spends his nights scrubbing his bathroom conquer with bleach and a toothbrush or drinking coffee at an airport diner under the kind gaze of a waitress (Aitana Sanchez-Gijon). Things really go to hell when out of the ordinary Advise-It notes start appearing in his grubby apartment after an encounter with a recondite bald man named Ivan (John Sharian), and Reznik’s insomnia is dramatically compounded by an escalating case of intense paranoia and confusion.

The story itself is an effectively sombre thriller, with Anderson weaving the intricacies of Scott Kosar’s script into an intentionally off-balance narrative layered with secrets and clues, but the genuine stunner is Bale himself. His performance is faithless and moves still downhill as his character’s mental fit out deteriorates to the point where he throws himself in face of a car in order to persuade oversee he has been the victim of a hit-and-meander fluke.

But in order to personify Kosar’s vision of a man wasting away, the actor bygone a upsetting 63 lbs., dropping one-third of his total density weight to fall ill down to the skin-and-bones 110 he carries in the film. The first moments when we get a good look at Bale’s troubled Trevor Reznik, he is hunched across a bathroom sink, and his prickle protrudes like that of a stegosaurus, while his collarbone juts out liking unnaturally as well. Combine this with Bale’s sunken facial features, and the conclusion is lock haunting, making this a personal modification that definitely eclipses De Niro’s largeness up vocation in Raging Bull.

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Jennifer Jason Leigh and Aitana Sanchez-Gijon play the polar opposites of the women in Reznik’s life, a heart-of-gold hooker and a lone mom waitress, both of whom apparently see something much deeper inside. We’ve all seen some variation of the good whore badge in the future, but Jennifer Jason Leigh does a fine job with what could have nothing but been a satirize; her well moment most recent in the film allows her character to believably and by character unpack her hopes and dreams on Reznik as she fixes him breakfast. It’s a small two shakes of a lamb’s tail, but it really accents her character beyond the empire of the one-note. Sanchez-Gijon plays it simple and clean, a pleasant waitress somehow attracted to Reznik to the point of inviting him to spend a day at an amusement park with her and her young son, building to undivided of the foreigner moments in The Machinist, involving a progressively more demented funhouse ride.

From the opening course it is wholly that Anderson has constructed his film to be one of those in which secret meanings hide in nearly every scene&#8212made even more clear after listening to the accompanying commentary track. The resulting plot reveals are extremely satisfying and clever (so essential to a story like this), but they almost pale next to the visage of Bale as a man in the matter of to vanish into nothingness.