Shutter Island

Shutter Island (2010) dir. Martin Scorsese
Starring: Leonardo Di Caprio, Ben Kingsley, Mark Ruffalo, Michelle Williams

*1/2

By Alan Bacchus

Despite the opinions of some people who claim this film as a masterpiece (inc. my colleague Blair Stewart who posted the first review HERE) It pains me to give such a low rating to Mr. Scorsese, but other than the abominable New York, New York, Shutter Island is his worst film – an overwrought melodramatic stink bomb, one giant red herring much less clever than it thinks it is.

NOTE: I write this review assuming everyone has seen the movie...needless to say SPOILERS are ahead.

Shame on Marty for stooping so low as to use easy ‘shock’ images of dead children and the Holocaust in the same film. When you strip away Shutter Island, there’s actually nothing going on, and no suspense whatsoever, and so it takes flashbacks to dead children and the Holocaust to provide the meat. Except these moments are not earned by Scorsese because they are parachuted into the script instead of organically fusing itself into the narrative.

For example, Leonardo Di Caprio is crazy, and so since his past is only told to us in brief flashbacks absolutely anything could have happened to him to cause this insanity. Lehane/Scorsese choose two traumatic events – witnessing the Holocaust and having his equally crazy wife kill her own children. This is certainly enough trauma to cause his insanity, but without knowing the character beforehand, seeing how his relationship with his wife could have progressed to the point of her killing her own kids, it feels false and unearned.

Of course my discontent with this film is fundamental to the point of the story. If you can't accept the 'twist' the movie fails. For two thirds Lehane and Scorsese proceed to lay the groundwork for the investigative potboiler of US Marshal Teddy Daniels and his partner searching for a missing patient by the name of Rachel Solondo. It’s a rather brooding procedural filled with numerous mysterious details such as cryptic messages on scraps of paper, shifty-eyed administration staff who appear to be hiding information, a mysterious government communist conspiracy, etc.

Then at the two thirds mark the rug is pulled out from under the audience to reveal a completely different journey – that Daniels, is not a Marshal, but a patient of the facility going through some experimental role playing game monitored by his Doctors. Upon first viewing the bombshell didn’t so much shock me as stab me in the back for reversing everything I had invested in the characters in the first place. The twist essentially renders everything before it null and void. Therefore, if you don't accept the twist upon second viewing, the experience of watching this ruse play out is even worse. The twist reveals a number of gaping plot holes which become even more frustrating the second time 'round.

Are we to assume Mark Ruffalo was ‘acting’ the entire movie for the benefit of Daniels? Same with Dr. Crawley and all the other staff?

How did everyone keep a straight face? Was there a group meeting where the other staff members laid out this elaborate game?

And shame on you Marty for resorting to the laughable ‘word jumble’ in the third act to convince us the Leo is crazy. The moment Kingsley reveals the conveniently laid out white board word scramble of Andrew Laeddis – Edward Daniels reduced the film to a notch barely above Hardy Boys or the Da Vinci Code. These cheap tactics might have worked if there was any sense of humour in the picture, unfortunately it's so heavily handed its ultimately a dead weight.

There’s even little in the way of technical flare to entertain me, nothing of the authorship which earns the title 'A Martin Scorsese Film’. Even Robert Richardson’s photography which sparkles with colour and glossiness is beautiful to look at, but too beautiful and has no gothic authenticity.

Shutter Island is Martin Scorsese light, a phoned-in performance from Marty and a stain on his filmography.

Shutter Island is available on Blu-Ray and DVD from Paramount Pictures Home Entertainment

The Conversation

The Conversation (1974) dir. Francis Coppola
Starring: Gene Hackman, John Cazale, Harrison Ford, Allen Garfield

****

by Alan Bacchus

There have many great San Francisco-set films, if Vertigo is the best, “The Conversation” makes a terrific companion - a paranoia film about a reserved and quiet surveillance man whose conscience is awakened when he finds out the couple he’s spying on may be targeted for murder. It’s a classic 70’s film from arguably the decade’s best director.

Harry Caul (Gene Hackman) is the nation’s top surveillance expert. The film opens on Harry and his team recording a conversation between a man and a woman in the middle of San Francisco’s famous Market Square using a series of long distance microphones. After reviewing the tapes Harry discovers what might be a plot to murder the couple. When Caul visits his employer he refuses to give up the tapes unless he meets his employer face-to-face. Instead he’s brushed off by his assistant, played by a young Harrison Ford. Harry’s conscience won’t allow him to release tapes, instead retreating to his lab to uncover the conspiracy himself.

Harry Caul is one cinema’s classic characters – a loner, with an acute talent, so acute in fact, his life has become a day-by-day intimate obsession with his job. He doesn’t get out much, and when he does it’s spent in the company of other wiretappers who seem bent on comparing dick sizes. A night on the town after a trade show turns into a game between Harry and his east coast competitor Bernie Moran (Allen Garfield) of one-upmanship to prove who’s the better wiretapper. I won’t ruin the payoff, but the scene ends with Harry being humiliated by Moran. Harry’s insecurities run deeper though. An incident from his days in NYC are often brought up which resulted the mob murder of some of the people he was tapping. This guilty conscience awakens with his latest case. The climax of the film contains a great reveal about the case, and the denouement (and specifically the last scene) is sad and somber ending which reveals the current state of Harry’s mind. It’s one of Gene Hackman’s best performances. Usually known for his tough guy roles, Hackman’s Caul is a soft spoken, shy introvert. Despite his towering stature he is meek and insecure.

“The Conversation” was made at a time just as Watergate hit, and so Coppola’s timing was impeccable. He captured the paranoia of big government and the secrets and lies that are covered up by the highest powers. Other films such as “All the President’s”, and “The Parallax View” would tread similar ground. Coppola’s influence was likely Michelangelo Antonioni’s “Blow Up” which tells the story of a photographer who thinks he discovered a murder in one of his photographs.

Sound designer Walter Murch was highly influential in much of Coppola’s work, including his George Lucas collaborations “THX 1138” and “American Graffiti”. The attention to the sound is remarkable and is as important as the cinematography. The film was shot by Bill Butler (Jaws) and may not stand out like Gordon Willis’ or Vittorio Storaro’s work with Coppola, but it’s justly unobtrusive and complements the quiet story.

What’s remarkable about the film is that Coppola shot it in between the two Godfathers. Has there been a greater quality of output from a director in such a short period of time? Please send me some examples if so. Coppola was at the peak of his talents. Watching the film again is a delight, but if you’re watching it for the first time, I’m insanely jealous.

Cop Land (Director's Cut)

Copland The Director's Cut (1997) dir. James Mangold
Starring: Sylvester Stallone, Ray Liotta, Robert De Niro, Harvey Keitel, Michael Rapaport, Robert Patrick

****

by Reece Crothers

James Mangold has kept a comparatively low profile among his contemporaries of the Miramax 90s in part because he has avoided the auteur label by never repeating himself, shifting genres and styles from picture to picture. Consider that Cop Land is only his second picture and that his first was the slight, near-silent "Heavy", a Sundance favourite two years prior, a modest romantic drama in the tradition of "Marty", about an overweight young man hopelessly in love with dream girl Liv Tyler. There is nothing in "Heavy" to suggest the scope and gravity of "Cop Land", an ensemble epic crime picture that often feels like a Western. A collision of John Ford and Martin Scorsese's worlds.

Making up the ensemble is an embarrassment of acting riches, supporting star Sly Stallone (giving the best performance of his career) are heavyweights like Scorsese's leading men Harvey Keitel, Ray Liotta, Robert De Niro, and even Raging Bull's Cathy Moriarty (smoldering and sexy in a small role) alongside 90's staple Michael Rappaport, Robert Patrick (at his best, too - it will make you forget about the T-1000), Annabella Sciorra, Paul Calderone (of Pulp Fiction, Clockers, King of New York), Janeane Garofalo (in a rare dramatic turn as a sherif's deputy!) and Arthur Nascarella (Summer Of Sam), a former NYPD detective, who like fellow cop-turned actor Dennis Farina, wears a lifetime of experience in his cop face. Watching Keitel and De Niro play off each other is a great treat. That it is nowhere near the most memorable scene speaks volumes about the picture - as great as everyone else is, Stallone owns the picture.

Following in his co-star's shoes, Sly famously gained a staggering amount of weight to play Freddy, the flabby small town New Jersey sheriff in over his head with a town full of crooked big city cops. Liotta is great too, giving off the kind of sparks that made him so electric in Goodfellas and Something Wild. His "Rule of Diagonals" speech is terrific.

The director's cut runs 116 minutes, about 12 minutes longer than the theatrical version. I'm not going to list all of the additions, though the excellent commentary track Mangold shares with Stallone, Patrick, and producer Cathy Konrad will, but the overall effect is that the film breathes more and despite the added footage, the picture moves faster, culminating in a shoot-out climax that has some of the best sound design in any film of its genre. The music by Howard Shore is beautiful, hypnotic and haunting, as we have come to expect from Cronenberg's favourite composer. There's also a little Springsteen thrown in to nail that melancholy Jersey feeling - something nobody does better than The Boss.

"Cop Land" has aged well, improved even - gorgeous to look at, elegant, thrilling, sad, and even touching, a film that will one day be regarded as a classic.

The Third Man

The Third Man (1949) dir. Carol Reed
Starring: Joseph Cotton, Orson Welles, Alida Valli, Trevor Howard

****

By Alan Bacchus

"The Third Man" might just be the absolute greatest film noir ever made. A stunning potboiler about an American man investigating the death of his friend in post-War Vienna. Carol Reed’s contrasty black and white skewed frames, sharp political wit and one of the great third act reveals in history make the film essential viewing for anyone who likes watching movies.

The political jungle of post-war Vienna is seen from the point of view of Holly Martins (Joseph Cotton). As the narrator (an omniscient one in the British version and Joe Cotton in the American) tells us, Vienna is divided into four quarters, British, American, Russian and French, with no one speaking the same language. Out of greed and necessity a black market for almost anything has emerged and with it all the nefarious smarmy characters we expect from a film noir.

Martins arrives in Vienna summoned for a job by his friend Harry Lime, unfortunately immediately discovering Harry was recently been hit by a trolly and died. But as Holly meets and questions the supposed witnesses to the event shifty eyes, and inconsistent recollections point to a conspiracy. With investigative sleuthing Holly uncovers a plot which involves illegal black market pencillin, and eventually, the discovery, of well… it can’t really be a spoiler 60 years later can it?…. Harry Lime himself still alive having faked his own death.

Graham Greene, the great novelist and screenwriter, is careful to unfold the story. Everyone seems to be on edge and untrustworthy of anyone. The antagonists in the story, a trio of black marketeers, are sophisticated and blend in with the refined polish of their British pursuers. The primo of polish is Harry Lime, when he’s eventually revealed, played by Orson Welles as one of the most famous villains in film history. When we first see Welles, he gives Holly, and the audience, a devious little smirk, before disappearing off into the night. And his dialogue with Joseph Cotton on the ferris wheel is one of the great exchanges in cinema. Cotton and Welles, two old pals from the Mercury theatre, Radio, Citizen Kane and Magnificent Ambersons, bounce the lines off each other with natural ease with Welles using his body language and subtle innuendos in conveying Lime’s threats to Martins.

Carol Reed’s nighttime shooting of Vienna embellishes all the noir-ish texture of genre. The desolate streets and underground sewer systems which the characters chase each other through are lit with harsh contrasty light placed low to the ground creating long ominous shadows and highlighting the rough cobblestoned streets. It’s unnatural but a distinct exaggerated expressionistic aesthetic.

I’ve never heard this said, but I can’t help but think the starkness of Welles’ own “Touch of Evil”, made years later, was influenced by “The Third Man”. If not by the stylish camerawork, then the use of the city locale as a character or the distinct and discongruous musical choices of Anton Karas and Henry Mancini.

"The Third Man" is available on Blu-Ray from the Criterion Collection

Magic and Bird: A Courtship of Rivals

Magic & Bird: A Courtship of Rivals (2010) dir. Ezra Edelman
Documentary

***1/2

By Alan Bacchus

The NBA Finals have begun and with rivals teams Lakers and Celtics vying for the trophy HBO couldn’t have timed the release of their fantastic new sports documentary Magic & Bird: A Courtship of Rivals any better.

In fact, it’s one of two new feature length sports documentaries airing now (including Broad Street Bullies, documenting the Philadelphia Flyers’ great teams of the 1970’s – again GREAT timing). Perhaps its the success of ESPN’s documentary series 30 for 30 series, which featured fine documentaries on Wayne Gretzky and Reggie Miller to name a few, which helped greenlit these film. Either way, it's a welcomed trend.

The inherent conflict involved in sport, the visual spectacle of the action and the emotional drama makes for good cinema plain and simple. And when you show sports with the highest production value and attention to detail through which a feature documentary can give its more than worthy of the cinematic experience.

Magic and Bird is a wonderful film, which captures the intense rivalry between two of Basketball’s best players and pop culture icons. The rivalry couldn’t have been scripted any better. Filmmaker Ezra Edelman goes back and charts the rise of each player from humble working class beginnings to the top of the game in the pros. While the playing styles of each player complimented each other well, it’s personality differences which heightened their rivalry. Interviews with fellow players and coaches reveal Larry Bird as an introverted and severely intense workhorse who rarely showed emotion and never ever showed camaraderie with other teams. Magic, on the hand, was the opposite, a Hollywood celeb, a free spirit, and someone who just wanted to get along with everybody, including Larry Bird.

As history has told us already, the competition between the two started in college when the pair faced off against each other at the NCAA championships, with Magic’s Michigan State coming out on top. Later in the pros, Bird would top Magic for rookie of the year honours and three championship rings and three MVP trophies before Magic equaled his three trophies later in the decade to go with five Championships. And on the court we watch Bird face Magic three times in the finals in the 1980’s.

With all available TV coverage, and the most insider sports personnel to comment, we are brought back into this age with the convenience of a time machine. Edelman broadens the effect of their rivalry beyond the court, showing us how they single handedly revived the sagging NBA TV ratings and even resparked some latent racial tension between black and whites. Having grown up in the 80’s, I can say that none of Edelman’s insights are embellished. He captures the flavour and feeling of that era with 100% accuracy.

Edelman’s even finds common ground in the final act of each of the players, a 'downfall' for both players who both succumbed to the intensity of sport and celebrity. Of course, for Magic his womanizing Hollywood lifestyle led to his contracting HIV and quitting prematurely; and for Bird, his physical, no holds barred play led to a severe back injury and like Magic premature retirement.

The mirror between Bird and Magic and the intensity of sports coalesces into a near perfect portrait of athletes, celebrities and regular people who lead extraordinary lives in the spotlight.

The Wanderers

The Wanderers (1079) dir. Philip Kaufman
Starring: Ken Wahl, John Friedrich, Karen Allen, Toni Kalem, Allen Rosenberg

***

By Alan Bacchus

Gang culture of the 60’s, a common theme of the late 70’s early 80’s plays like a nostalgic version of The Warriors, somewhere in between the comic book action of The Warriors and the schmaltz of American Graffiti, Diner or even West Side Story.

It's 1962 New Jersey, Frankie Valle blasts throughout the streets. Young gang leader Richie (Ken Wahl) stops making out with his girlfriend to respond to the call from one of his fellow gang brothers. Richie meets up with the runt of the group Joey, who's being chased by the notorious Baldies gangs, identified by their intimidating bald heads. Richie and Joey who are part of the Wanderers engage in a thrilling chase sequence through the streets of Jersey before being saved by a new heavy in town and newest member of the Wanderers gang.

And so begins the cinematic adaptation of Richard Price's novel, the true life experiences of Price as a teenager on the mean streets of Jersey. Like the Warriors, everyone is split into racially segregated gangs. As mentioned, there's the Baldies and the Wanderers, but also the black gang the Del Bombers, who wear purple and gold , the Asian Wong gang who specialize in Kung Fu and the Irish Duckies. In between the macho posturing between the gangs, a coming of age story evolves between Richie and Joey. Richie, the womanizing leader of gang finds himself torn between his steady girlfriend Despie (Toni Kalem) and the new hottie in town Nina (Karen Allen), and Joey, struggles to stand up to his overbearing father as well as find a girlfriend himself.

What threatens to come off as ugly racial and genre stereotypes actually turns out to be one of the better gang /greaser pictures - at least for two thirds of the picture, but more on that later.

Some of the fantastical elements of The Warriors are there including the first confrontation with the Duckies, which is a great embellished and violent action sequence. Missing though is the effect of the violent behaviour. Fights and brawls are mostly humorous and ‘playtime’ for these machos males. Like most films about the 60’s we never really feel like emotional impact of the violence.

While its high on nostalgia and period detail, missing is the emotional pathos of say, American Graffiti. Kaufman often shows us a marine recruiter watching the shenanigans from the background. And with the spectre of Vietnam hanging over the film an added big picture historical perspective could have provided some emotional resonance. Unfortunately this pays off with a rather silly sequence when the Baldies get tricked into signing up for the Marines by a particularly slimy and moustache-twirling recruiter.

Kaufman’s dramatization of the 60’s milieu is progressive. The depiction of sexual discovery and the genuine fear and ignorance these macho men had of women is on the mark. Kaufman is aware of the stereotypes of the 'greaser' film and mostly avoids the hokiness of say, ‘Grease’. Kaufman even helps create some stereotypes, helping to birth the cinematic depiction of the Jersey mob, 10 years before Goodfellas and 20 years before The Sopranos. Their Hawaiian shirts and bowling alley locales are hilarious and perhaps its the first cinematic incarnation of the phrase 'forgettaboutit'. Kaufman even makes light of the grislier elements of the mafia by crafting a funny sequence out of a group of loan sharks who fall victim to the mafia’s punishment using a bowling ball as a blunt weapon.

Kaufman’s sharp direction and affable treatment of the subject matter is let down by a silly third act, which begins with a lengthy and head scratching football sequence that rivals the Vampire baseball sequence in Twilight. The final confrontation with the Duckies doesn’t make sense at all and is more in keeping with Roger Corman camp than intelligent observation.

And on a side note, watch for a fun over the top performance from Linda Manz of Days of Heaven fame and look in the final credits for Scott (Boss-zilla) Rudin was the casting director.

Splice

Splice (2010) dir. Vincenzo Natali
Starring: Adrien Brody, Sarah Polley, David Hewlett, Delphine Chanéac

***½

By Alan Bacchus

With ‘Splice’ Vincenzo Natali continues his distinct mix of auteur intellectual science fiction he established so boldly with ‘Cube’, then broadened with ‘Cypher’ and ‘Nothing’. The high concept Natali has chosen to explore in his latest film is the area of bioengineering and genetics, an intense retooling of Frankenstein for the genetics generation.

Natali, working under the guidance of Guillermo Del Toro as executive producer, boldly pushing his cinematic boundaries of genre cinema producing a film so audacious he dares critics, and audiences, for good or bad, not to stand up and notice his film.

Adrien Brody and Sarah Polley plays Else and Clive, a husband and wife team of superstar biochemists, whose work on creating animal hybrids finds them on the cusp of some major biomedical discoveries. But when the corporate heavies threaten to shut down their laboratories Else recklessly tries to combine human DNA with their test subject. The result is a unique new form of animal, a hairless anthropoid with tiny arms, squinting eyes and rabbit like legs. The duo soon discover the creature is growing like a fetus outside the womb into a woman-like beast creature.

Despite violent debates about the ethics of manufacturing such a creature without proper trial and experimentation there’s no doubt the creature is semi-intelligent and a full fledged growing and learning life form. Under the nose of the company the duo become father and mother to the animal whom they name Dren. But the blissful family dynamic doesn’t last as conflict from within and outside the trio threaten them all.

With today’s special effects technology available Natali masterfully manages the temptation to overdesign his creature effects. He approaches this aspect of his visual design with delicate kid gloves. The birthing scene of the creature is rendered with spine tingling suspense and its reveal as a cute humanoid, hairless rabbit like creature is thrilling. We’ve never seen anything like this before.

While the ethical questions raised about playing God, or playing Dr. Frankenstein, are intellectually stimulating if not obvious, Natali keeps a sharp sense of humour in the foreground. Natali and his characters are aware of the absurdities of playing mother and father to a hybrid genetic beast who looks like a female centaur and they maximize the comic opportunities to lighten any over seriousness which threatens the enjoyment of the film.

And so Splice oscillates between progressive science fiction and old school b-movie tones. I think Natali knows his movie is not far removed from the monster movies of the 50’s substituting nuclear fears with trendier biomedical fears. The Fly is a good comparison. And in fact, as a Canadian filmmaker Natali cleverly plays on the foundation of fellow Canadian David Cronenberg’s predilections with bio-horror.

Admittedly Natali makes some creative choices in the second half which test the audience’s acceptance of this fine line between b-movie silliness and being just plain sick and twisted. But in horror and sci-fi what’s the point in holding back. Splice is the perfect Midnight Movie, a rousing and wildly imaginative neo science fiction cult classic in the making.

The Informer

Informer (1935) dir. John Ford
Starring: Victor McLaglen, Heather Angel, Preston Foster, Margot Grahame

****

By Alan Bacchus

John Ford was, of course, best known for later pictures, namely his westerns for John Wayne, in addition to his award-winning non-westerns Grapes of Wrath (1940), How Green Was My Valley (1941) and The Quiet Man (1952). These films are part of his post Stagecoach (1939) career, which is indeed remarkable. He unequivocally earns his aura as a legendary studio auteur, a director with an unmistakable style and vision . There’s also an almost fairytale like simplicity to his stories, crystal clear themes of honour, brotherhood, redemption which resulting in a remarkably consistent body of work across 50+ years of filmmaking.

I haven’t seen all of John Ford’s pictures, and it would take a lifetime to do that (he made 75 pictured BEFORE The Informer), but if there were one to recommend starting with 1935’s The Informer would be it.

What we traditionally know as a ‘John Ford’ picture, an elegant combination of pathos, machoism and sentimentality, arguably began with The Informer, a character piece set in Ireland (Ford’s homeland) during the Irish fight for Independence in 1922.

Victor McLaglen plays the larger than life brutish Gypo Nolan whom we see at the opening of the film wrestling with a decision to rat out or ‘inform’ on his best friend Frankie McPhillip to the British. What’s the only thing that could come in between brotherhood? Love. In this case £20 which was a lot of money and enough for Nolan to pay for he and his girlfriend Katie to sail abroad to America for better opportunities. And so Ford, in a matter of minutes has presented his audience with all he needs to wring out his emotionally charged personal story of redemption.

Having ratted out Frankie, and subsequently seen him killed during his capture Nolan devolves into a lengthy depression fueled by an extended drunken bender. Even though his payout money is supposed to be for his girlfriend the money quickly burns a mighty big hole in his pocket. His guilty conscience takes over and he spends wildly, buying drinks and food for his village lads, a spree which soon puts him as a key suspect in Frankie’s capture and death. The farther down Nolan goes into despair the grander his eventual redemption will become.

Through the entire film we feel the weight of repression and depression of Nolan and his people. Ford’s rendering of the poverty stricken Dublin is dripping with moody texture. Ford’s fog filled streets and cobblestone roads wet from the permanent Irish mist creates some of his most beautiful and expressive compositions. It’s gloomy and murky but there’s still a liveliness among the people, an optimism which pushes through the brutal poverty and British subjugation. I was recently in Ireland and I felt this everywhere I went. And so with this feeling of cultural pride which every Irish man and woman holds for themselves, the gravitas of Nolan’s betrayal is made even more severe. And of course, the Catholic Church provides even another and even more impenetrable layer of guilt on Nolan. Nolan is doomed, but not before a final confrontation with Frankie’s family becomes the confession he needs to ascend into heaven and be accepted by God.

Perhaps this is a flowery way to write a review, but this is the feeling Ford brings forth through Victor McLaglen's performance. Nolan’s redemption is so powerful on a fundamental level of base moral conviction, it plays out like a cathartic religious experience, a thunderstorm of deeply affecting Hollywood melodrama and perhaps THE quintessential John Ford picture.

Invictus

Invictus (2009) dir. Clint Eastwood
Starring: Morgan Freeman, Matt Damon, Tony Kgoroge, Patrick Mofokeng, Adjoa Andoh

****

By Alan Bacchus

I was surprised how affected I was upon second viewing of Invictus. It’s a testament to Clint Eastwood’s skills are director to not complicate a good story. In most of Eastwood films, he seems to aspire to the old adage, ‘a good story well told’. Invictus happens to be a GREAT story well told.

In keeping with Eastwood’s easygoing filmmaking attitude, in Invictus keeps his storytelling his conflicts are simple - the period of turmoil right after Nelson Mandela was freed and subsequently was elected as the President of the country. Though Apartheid was gone, the racial divide was still there due to the ingrained attitudes, and in many cases, hatred, of the other side.

Of all things, the sport of rugby becomes the symbol of this divide. For the whites, it’s an old boys game, a guts and glory game of strength and stamina and cultural pride. For the blacks, it’s the opposite, by the mere fact that the South African rugby team (nicknamed the Springboks) instils so much pride for the whites, the blacks always cheer for them too lose. Ever the astute politician, Mandela finds this contradiction an opportunity and through a new friendship with the Springbok captain François Pienaar (Matt Damon), to bring his country together.

It's inspirational cinema 101 - as my colleague Greg Klymkiw calls it, a 'meat and potatoes' story. But if you were doing a checklist of screenwriting fundamentals, you might find Invictus deficient in some of the 'essentials'. While the overall political conflict of race provides the contextual background, there’s very little intracharacter conflict pushing the story forward, and lack of a traditional 'antagonist'. Certainly this is something screenwriting guru Robert McKee would not approve of and anyone less confident and experienced than Eastwood would likely have shoehorned in another character, a tangible rival for Mandela, to beat. And herein we see the genius of Eastwood who knows when to bend the rules and in this case allow the gravitas of the real life story to surmount any of this kind of superficial conflict.

Eastwood also has the thrilling rugby matches to provide us with more than enough cinematic sports action and dramatic stakes. Eastwood’s attention to detail in directing these stunning matches is miraculous. Using old fashioned techniques and modern computer graphics Eastwood renders his rugby with complete authenticity. If anything, Eastwood might linger over his panoramic shots of the spectacle once too often, but we can easily forgive a moment or two of cinematic immodesty from Mr. Humble.

Morgan Freeman’s performance as Mandela is remarkable and wholly deserving of its acclaim. From the moment we see him appear on screen, walk and talk we believe he is Mandela. There wouldn’t appear to be much to do other than mimic his speech, his walking gate and other specific mannerisms. Freeman gets all these details right, but most importantly he inhabits the internal strength and confidence of the man with great subtlety. Matt Damon is the perfect match for Freeman, bulking up admirably to play a tough rugby player. His accent is on the mark and even his rugby skills look World Cup worthy.

The icing on the top of Invictus and the element which makes the film sore into the upper strata inspirational cinema is Eastwood's music. This time it's his son Kyle and frequent collaborate Michael Stevens doing all the work, but their simple melodies still retains the familiar tone of elegant melancholy of Eastwood’s Million Dollar Baby, or Gran Torino scores. And the native South African choral music harmonizes perfectly with this. And shame on the Academy for not giving a nod to the magnificent final theme song 9000 days which takes us out of the film and into the picture credits.

Though the collective opinion of audiences and critics seemed to be indifference, in time we should come to see Invictus as one of Eastwood’s best films, because it is.

‘Invictus’ is available on Blu-Ray and DVD from Warner Bros Home Video

War of the Worlds (2005)

War of the Worlds (2005) dir. Steven Spielberg
Starring: Tom Cruise, Dakota Fanning, Tim Robbins, Miranda Otto

**1/2

By Alan Bacchus

Lately we’ve finally started to see some of the Steven Spielberg pictures appear on Blu-Ray. Unfortunately it’s the later post 2000 films when his deal with Paramount had that particular studio working his Dreamworks home video releases. It’s been a fun looking back on these latter films, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skulls, Saving Private Ryan, Minority Report and now War of the Worlds. Each of these films seemed to look better upon first viewing than its subsequent screenings. Maybe it’s because Spielberg’s pictures work best on the big screen. Well, considering ALL films look better on the big screen than on television this isn’t a valid excuse.

Like Minority Report War of the Worlds works best as a series of set pieces with another another crack at reconciling Spielberg's own fractured childhood home life shoehorned in. It worked with Close Encounters and ET, but years later the domestic plotting feels unnatural and overwritten. Once upon a time this was Steven Spielberg’s greatest gift of filmmaking, other than his technical proclivity, his ability to pull naturalistic and warm performances. But over the past 15 years or so, the direction of his actors have become ice cold and stiff - every time someone opens their mouth we get dialogue written to be natural, but in that effort coming off as completely unnatural.

As for War of the Worlds, its best viewed as a technical exercise par excellence and none better than set piece #1. The magnificent build up to the invasion is expertly crafted. It’s a scene which has been done time and time again and most recently time and time again by that Spielberg wannabe hack Roland Emmerich. Under Spielberg's eye for spectacle these scenes are as tense and suspenseful as anything before it. Spielberg wonderfully foreshadows the destruction of the elevated freeway explosion which closes off the first act. The gigantic concrete structure dominates his frames in the opening scene teasing us as to how the structure will come into play (and be destroyed in magnificent fashion) later in the film.

There's a distinct feel for Spielberg's 70's, 80's films in here as well. This is due to Janusz Kaminsky's unique photograhy. It’s certainly one of his best looking films. Through some in camera or post-production process he achieves a wonderfully textured grainy look, a markedly different visual palette to today’s crisp and robust High Definition-shot films.

Spielberg’s reverence to the famed original George Pal version of War of the Worlds, a film which arguably set the bar for alien invasion films, and in my humble opinion, has yet to the surpassed. Admirably Spielberg exercises some restraint creatively and is more reverent to the HG Wells and Orson Welles version of the story than other filmmakers would be. Like the Welles radio program, Spielberg doesn’t expand the world beyond the perspective of these characters. We don’t know what’s going on in the rest of the world other than news reports. Spielberg’s camera compliments this as well, using long takes with an expressive roaming camera putting the audience in the point of view of his characters.

And miraculously he keeps his film under two hours.

War of the Worlds disappoints because it’s not hard to imagine what this picture could have been if he directed it in the 70’s or 80’s. It has the look, but not the heart. The fact is, Steven Spielberg is rather tame now, no longer the fresh enthusiastic wunderkind of his youth. As an older married man with kids and maybe even grandkids, the folly of youth and his instinctual edge is long gone. Spielberg has even admitted, if he made Close Encounters of the Third Kind now, he wouldn’t have had Roy Neary leave his family for the aliens. Spielberg is also let down in these films by an aging John Williams, whose scores have become increasing indistinct and forgettable.

I think Mr. Spielberg is badly in need of a reboot. It wouldn’t be too hard. Here’s how to do it:

1) Ditch his awful screenwriting collaborator David Koepp and buy an awesome spec script from the Hollywood black list
2) Take a break from Janusz Kaminsky and hire Christopher Doyle or Harris Savides
3) Send John Williams into retirement and some other young composer looking for a break
4) Keep the running time to 90mins

'War of the Worlds' is available on Blu-Ray from Paramount Pictures Home Entertainment

The South Pacific

The South Pacific (2009) prod. BBC Nature Unit
TV Documentary Series

***1/2

By Alan Bacchus

This title is not to be confused with Oscar and Hammerstein’s musical, or Steven Spielberg’s The Pacific, or even the French theatrical doc Oceans. This BBC series further expands on the monumentally successful series Planet Earth, for another six episodes of stunning high definition nature goodness, this time specifically in the Pacific Ocean.

Why the Pacific Ocean? As the opening narration describes it’s subtropical, relative inhabitability and its sheer girth which covers 1/3 of the earth means there’s a wealth of life in this region of the world which most of us never get to see. In certain parts of the Ocean there are islands so remote their nearest neighbours are thousands of miles away.

But the Pacific Ocean is hardly anything new, and footage of funny jellyfish, great white sharks, snakes, anteater, or tropical birds are nothing we haven’t seen before. But under the super glossy high definition imagery, suddenly animals, nature and people we take for granted becomes as mindbogglingly beautiful as anything in Avatar.

The series splits of into six episodes, each concentrating on a specific aspect of the Ocean. Episode 1, ‘Ocean of Islands’ explores the effects of the relative remoteness of many of the tiny island which dot the 19,800 kilometre-wide blanket of crystal blue water. It’s the same collection of oddball creatures which fascinated Charles Darwin, flesh-eating caterpillars; large crabs which can open coconuts, in addition to the isolated native communities with continue to thrive without much contact with the globally connected world. Perhaps the most delirious are the inhabitants of Pentecostal island who engage in ritualistic bungee jumping using on twist vines instead of flexible cord.

Other episodes include: ‘Castaways’ which looks at how plants, animals and humans colonized even the most remote islands; ‘Endless Blue’ which uses the true story of the journey of a 19th century shipwrecked whaling ship to show us brutality of living on the ocean; ‘Ocean of Volcanoes’ shows us how the violent eruptions of molten rock brings life into the Ocean; ‘Strange Islands’ shows us the usual animal life which evolved from the remoteness of the islands; and ‘Fragile Paradise’ which inevitably has to preach to us the dangers of environmental destruction.

The BBC cameramen, producers, directors use the same visual philosophy of Planet Earth to astonish us once again with the treasures of life and nature which is in abundance in this special place. Ten years ago I would have never have believed that a nature documentary like March of the Penguins, or Winged Migration or Oceans would ever be cinema-worthy films. South Pacific never got to the theatres, but considering the success of the Planet Earth-adapted feature film Earth, the South Pacific could easily have been Oceans.

'The South Pacific' is available on Blu-Ray from Warner Bros Home Video

Micmacs

Micmacs (2009) dir. Jean-Pierre Jeunet
Starring: Dany Boon, Jean-Pierre Marielle, Yolande Moreau, Julie Ferrier, Dominique Pinion, Michel Cremades, Marie-Julie Baup, Andre Dussolier and Nicolas Marie

*1/2

By Greg Klymkiw

There is a particular brand of whimsy that forces me to eject globs of bilious half-digested food matter into whatever receptacle might be handy (and God forbid those around me if I am bereft of such a loving cup). My revulsion is so intense that even hearing the word "whimsy" (or seeing it or writing it) can inspire in me, at the very least, the dry heaves. In spite of this, there are many movies of a whimsical nature that I like or even love which leads me to believe that ultimately, not all whimsy is created equal.

Let's take Tim Burton, for example. If I ever have to see even one more frame from "Big Fish" again, I will find a water tower, climb atop it with a high-powered sniper rifle and start shooting innocent passersby at random. "Edward Scissorhands", however, is a movie I am always happy to see - not a steady diet, mind you, but enough to remind me of what I love about it (and to pinch me on occasion with respect to its occasional dollops of minor bile-inducement). Perhaps it's as simple as feeling that the whimsy is machine-tooled in the former and tied genuinely to emotional truth in the latter. Granted, we feel Burton's weighty hand in each movie, and his intentions might well have been true in both pictures, but one seems false, while the other seems perfectly natural in its use of magical realism.

Of late, Jean-Pierre Jeunet is a director who has sadly allowed whimsy to consume his work in a manner that is mind bogglingly sickening. His first major solo directorial effort after the thoroughly decent, but mildly overrated Caro collaborations "Delicatessen" and "City of Lost Children" was "Alien Resurrection", the third sequel to Ridley Scott's absolutely perfect blend of science fiction and horror. While all the sequels to Scott's near-masterpiece "Alien" seem ill-conceived, Jeunet's foray into the franchise was poppy, pulpy and, at times, downright scary - a far cry from the dour, humourless clamour of Cameron's "Aliens" and Fincher's dour, humourless mess that was "Alien3". (While the first AVP was stupid, it was at least kind of fun.) So when "Amelie" finally came along, I was primed for more Jeunet - especially since "Alien Resurrection" was so solid.

I saw "Amelie" with my wife. We had (and continue to have) a silent code at the movies (which now extends to my daughter and I). When we both agree that a movie is intolerable, we leave the theatre and sneak into something else in the multiplex. The code is rather simple and not obtrusive to others in the cinema. I turn my head towards her and just stare until she turns her head and either nods (in which case, we totally walk the fuck out of there) or gently shakes it (and we give it more time). Sometimes it's vice-versa, but usually (and surprisingly, no doubt, to those who know me), I am usually the instigator of the courteous silent "let's hit the fuckin' road!" With "Amelie", I relentlessly drilled holes into the side of my wife's head for what seemed an eternity. She refused to look at me. Her eyes were transfixed upon the screen. Finally, I jabbed her with my elbow. She turned. I had the tell-tale "let's fuck off" look on my face. She returned my gaze with surprising confidence and whispered, "Please let me enjoy this movie." I relented and spent the entire time wanting to rip that idiotic grin off Audrey Tatou's bone-headedly whimsical face whilst swallowing cold lumps of vomit that needed to desperately escape my gullet.

I never bothered to see "A Very Long Engagement" but in order to make my Jeunet-hatred complete and most importantly, truly informed, I suppose I will, at some point, nail my feet to the floor and suffer through the damned thing. For now, however, Jeunet's latest dive into the cesspool that is whimsy, more than makes up for this omission in my cinema literacy.

Strangely enough, "Micmacs" opens rather promisingly. At the beginning, we find ourselves on a Moroccan desert where a group of soldiers are sweeping for mines. Sadly, one of the soldiers discovers a mine and carefully sweeps sand away from it. In doing so, the strangely embossed logo on it is the last thing he'll see as the mine explodes in his face.

Back in France, a dreamy young boy hears the jangling of a telephone. After his mother answers, he hears her grief-stricken sobs. He peers in to see her trembling, her face almost draining of sanity as he stares with a mixture of knowing dread and confusion.

After the funeral, the mourners gather in the family home of the fallen soldier. The boy's mother is catatonic. When presented with a box filled with his father's effects, the boy makes a mysterious find that will become important later in his life. Mom is carted off in an ambulance to the loony bin and the young boy is sent to a private school and orphanage run by the meanest nuns I've seen since my own childhood. At one point we see him forced to kneel for hours on end, his bare kneecaps resting painfully on a long square of thin wood. (For me, it was bare-kneed on uncooked rice, but that's another story.)

Thirty years later, our dreamy young orphan has grown to manhood and promisingly appears to us as Bazil, an even-more-dreamy sad sack working late night in a video store. Happily, Bazil is played by the truly brilliant actor/comedian Dany ("Joyeux Noel") Boon - his gentle poker-face endearing him to us immediately. Even more heartening (and heartbreaking in all the right ways) is how we find him sitting alone in the dusty, old store watching "The Big Sleep" in French and expertly mouthing all of Bogart's dialogue.

Great! So far! No whimsy alarm bells of note and a vaguely melancholy drama with one of the world's great actors.

Bazil's cinematic Heaven is rudely interrupted by a car chase outside the store. Two thugs speed along, shooting at each other. Bazil walks outside to survey the ensuing carnage worthy of a Luc Besson film.

So far, so good. Perhaps we'll be immersed in a noir-like thriller.

And then, my heart sinks. One of the thugs is shot. His gun flies in the air. It discharges as it hits the ground and a bullet propels across the street and directly into Bazil's skull. This would officially be whimsy alarm bell Number One!

In the operating room, the presiding surgeon explains that if they leave the bullet in, Bazil has a chance to live a normal life - but just a CHANCE. There will always be the threat that it could discharge in his brain. If they operate, he will possibly live, but as a vegetable.

Bazil's fate is then decided when the surgeon flips a coin. This would officially be whimsy alarm bell Number Two!

With bullet in brain, Bazil is discharged to find that all his worldly goods have been confiscated and/or stolen, that he has been evicted from his apartment for not paying rent and that he's lost his job at the video store to a cartoon-watching, big-breasted bubblehead who conveniently has found and bestows upon him the casing of the bullet in his brain which also bears the strange markings we've seen earlier. The plot, as it were, is thickening - like a salt-free split-pea soup.

Bazil is forced to become a street performer whose specialty is recreating silent movie comedy routines. He is, in essence, a mime artist.

Mime!

And yup, you guessed it, this would officially be whimsy alarm bell Number Three! Or, in the parlance of baseball enthusiasts the world over: "Three strikes and yerrrrrrrrr out!"

At this point, my only thought is, how bad can this possibly get?

Well, hold on a moment and you, like I did, will receive the answer.

After a mime performance in the street, he is hailed over to the table of a distinguished looking old rapscallion (Jean-Pierre Marielle) who introduces himself as Slammer (he's spent most of his life in prison - get it?). Bazil is convinced by Slammer that he needs a safe haven, a place to be useful, a family. Slammer bids Bazil follow him to what could be a new home and beginning.

Here is where the vomit-meter overloads. Within the bowels of a dank cave-like environ, Bazil is introduced to a group of fellow misfits who live happily together - away from the cruelty of the outside world, and spend their time assembling other people's junk and ever-so whimsically, transform the trash into a variety of magical contraptions and/or art. Jeunet stalwart Dominique Pinon plays some loser who wants to get himself into the world record books for being a cannonball artist. Claude Zidi regular Michel Cremades plays an especially offensive whimsy-poo who creates all manner of "magical" art and toys and has the stupidest bovine expression on a human face since Audrey Tatou in "Amelie". As if this wasn't sickening enough, there is a female contortionist who becomes Bazil's love interest and some idiotically whimsical young lady who can only communicate through complex calculations (Ulrich Seidl knows such a character needs to be treated disdainfully as a cretin - much like a similar character in the admirable Austrian iconoclast's "Dog Days).

If any of this hasn't invoked bile yet, I've saved the most disgustingly whimsical character for last - a cherry, so to speak, on an ice cream sundae, flavoured with waste-treatment-plant sludge for syrup. The matriarch of this utterly horrid "family" is the porcine Mama Chow who dotes over all the "children" (losers) since she moronically lost her own children when they entered a house of mirrors at the circus and never came out. I can only assume she is meant to be rather challenged in the brain department.

Oh yeah, and if you're still not convinced to avoid this grotesquerie, feel free to become Father Damien and hop onto the isle of Molokai that is "Micmacs" and thrill to this group of loveable spastic lunatics as they band together to destroy the arms manufacturers (yes, the companies bear the same mysterious logos we've seen earlier) who orphaned Bazil with the mine that killed his Dad and turned him into a walking dead man with the bullet that's lodged in his brain.

What finally drives me insane about this picture and "Amelie" (and no doubt, the one I still have to force myself to see) is that Jeunet is clearly a born filmmaker. Cinema is hardwired into his DNA. He is not only an artist of the highest order, but he's proven that he also has proficiency, a sense of humour and the potential to make some great movies that will truly knock us on our ass, or, at the very least, scare the living wits out of us.

This horrendous phase of machine-tooled whimsy must end. Better Jeunet should instil vomit through the GENRE of horror rather than the horror that is this unrelentingly happy-happy-happy-let's-do-good-for-society nonsense. The first fifteen minutes of the picture suggested that greatness would follow. I try to imagine the picture it could have been, but I suppose that's completely unfair. Jeunet decided to crap where he sleeps and instead, delivered a bunch of "loveable" losers to make (a) losers feel good about themselves and (b) those who do not consider themselves losers to feel good about EMPATHIZING with losers.

There are many who will love this film. I'm not one of them. Give me the Caro-Jeunet collaborations or "Alien Resurrection" anytime over this whimsical sack of dung.

In the meantime, I pray that someday Jeunet will make a genuinely great picture. It's in him. He's just got to do it.

"Micmacs" opens May 28 in Toronto and Vancouver via E1 Films. It has already been released in international territories outside of North America.

Edge of Darkness

Edge of Darkness (2010) dir. Martin Campbell
Starring: Mel Gibson, Danny Huston, Ray Winstone, Jay O Sanders

**

By Alan Bacchus

I haven’t seen the original BBC Mini Series Edge of Darkness from 1985 so I can only judge the film on its own merits, but even still, without anything to compare it to, it comes off as a completely forgettable thriller without the ‘edge’ required for it to compete with its chief genre competitor, ‘Taken’.

On the surface, the film seemed to be marketed as another vigilante film much like ‘Taken’ or the upcoming ‘Harry Brown’. On paper, this is how it would seem, as the logline would read something like, ‘veteran working class Boston cop sets about to find the murderer of his estranged daughter and exact his own personal revenge’. Certainly casting Mel Gibson, who is his own kind of mentally deranged cinema vigilante and celeb of ill repute, is a good starting place. Unfortunately the film refuses to fully embrace its vigilante genre roots, instead dragging us through a rather dull, straight-ahead procedural which leads to an inevitable conclusion, and without the complexities, surprises, twists or most importantly the visceral and emotional complexities which makes vigilantism such a compelling cinematic topic.

It should have been showcase piece for Gibson who hadn't played the lead in a film since 2002's Signs, but the time away from the craft of acting is evident in his performance, with Mel looking rather shaky in front of the camera and for lack of a better word, ‘old’. The stuntman who doubles for him in most of the action scenes, including rudimentary jumping, running and hand-to-hand combat looks obvious. On occasion Gibson turns on his quirky psychotic tendencies from his Martin Riggs roles, but for most of the picture he skulks around with barely an expression on his face,a dopey visage devoid of any emotional depth.

Competing against Gibson’s performance is a silly political activist plotting involving the devious business practises of a shady arms manufacturer. Danny Huston who plays the uptight upper class company man, is a stock character, recycling the same performances from ‘The Constant Gardner’, ‘The Kingdom’, ‘Birth’ among others. Jay O Sanders' presence and purpose in the story is telemarked from the very beginning. He plays the cop buddy to Gibson’s character, and by his complete inactivity in the story we know he will emerge as the betraying Judas of this story.

Campbell shoehorns in a couple of shockingly brutal violent moments, although are exhilarating, don’t actually fit in with the overall tone of contemplative investigation and weak stream pacing.

Under the watch of another director with some real ‘edge’ Edge of Darkness might have been a snowball turned avalanche of power and emotionm, instead its as dull as a rusty butter knife.

‘Edge of Darkness’ is available on Blu-Ray and DVD from Warner Bros. Home Video.

Fuzz

Fuzz (1972) dir. Richard A. Colla
Starring: Burt Reynolds, Raquel Welch, Jack Weston, Tom Skerritt, Steve Ihnat, Yul Brynner, Bert Remsen, Charles Martin Smith, Charles Tyner, Don Gordon, Peter Bonerz, Tamara Dobson, Gino Conforti, Gerald Hiken and Uschi Digart

**1/2

By Greg Klymkiw

"Fuzz" is a 70s cop-movie with a light touch that I vaguely recall enjoying when I first saw it in 1972. And now, almost forty (!) years later, I was compelled to take another gander. On one hand, I could see why it was so forgettable, but on the other (and because of its forgettable "qualities") I'm pleased to report that it's an extremely pleasant movie, especially as a relatively familiar entity that I was now viewing with fresh eyes - as if I'd never even seen it before.

There's nothing at all earth-shattering or exceptional about the picture, but it's a blast watching a stalwart 70s cast do their thing against the backdrop of a few days in the life of a ragtag police precinct. Burt Reynolds, Tom Skerritt and Jack Weston are the three cops the picture primarily focuses on. They're all working on a variety of cases- the main ones being a local rapist terrorizing the neighbourhood and trying to nab a pair of teenagers (one of whom is played by American Graffiti's "Terry the Toad", Charles Martin Smith) who are dousing alcoholic bums with gasoline and setting them on fire.

The rape case is an especially hard nut for the cops to crack and the brass decides to bring in a policewoman to do the job. That she is Raquel Welch in her absolute prime is especially good news for the all-male environment of the precinct. I've never seen more gratuitous shots of male characters ogling a female character in my life in one movie. And, what the hell - she does look stunning in the picture. Who wouldn't be ogling her - male or female.

Before the key crime wends its way into the film's plot, the most pressing and persistent issue in the precinct seems to be that two inept painters have taken over the detective room and in addition to impeding the cops' work, they are continually annoying everyone with their corny one-liners and routines which suggest they'd have had a great career as Borscht Belt comics. Gino Conforti and Gerald Hiken are so hilarious they come close to stealing the whole movie.

To make matters worse for this group of detectives is that their precinct has been targeted by a potential crank with a series of extortion demands via telephone - threatening the lives of several city officials. The extortionist, with a voice sounding suspiciously like Yul Brynner's, takes care to note that he chose this precinct because it was the most incompetent.

Well, to the men and WOMAN of the 87th Precinct, them's fighting words - so much so, that they can't shove their heads in the sand and pawn it off on another division (which they'd prefer), but have to be forced by the brass to handle the case in addition to all the small potatoes stuff they're bollixing up.

Yup, it's an adaptation of one of Ed McBain's 87th precinct cop novels that he wrote under the nom-de-plume of Evan Hunter and it's a decent enough film adaptation of that world. As I watched the movie recently, all the McBain books I read as a kid came back to me - not so much the details, but the style and world was quite unique in crime fiction. In the film as in the books, there's a fair bit of time spent on the details of police procedure that many might consider dull, but are, in fact, pretty entertaining - especially when played (mostly) straight for the natural humour inherent in such plodding details.

Brynner, by the way, and not surprisingly, is a great villain and he seems to be having a lot of fun. He spits out his invectives with considerable relish. In one scene, his moll (played by the stunning Tamara "Cleopatra Jones" Dobson) expresses boredom as he plots his crime. He offers to take her out to dinner. When she retires to doll herself up, Brynner, with salacious nastiness plastered on his face, takes a sip of champagne and looks in the direction she's departed to. He remarks to his partners in crime, spitting out each word like a series of drum hits: "A marvelous ... empty ... headed ... bitch!"!

Director Richard A. Colla, a prolific TV director whose camera-jockey skills were put to use on tons of small-screen police procedurals - keeps things moving quite briskly. The one-liners spit fast and furious and at times, the scenes in the precinct itself, are admirably handled with a kind of Robert-Altman-Lite touch. Overlapping dialogue, several conversations going on at one, lots of movement filling the frame, but the camera itself moving only in the most subtle ways are just some of the highlights of the picture. Even Altman stalwart Bert Remsen appears as a beleaguered desk sergeant.

And there are quite a few laughs. One of the funniest comic set pieces is a stakeout sequence with Reynolds (and his great 70s 'stache) and Weston (pudgy and oh-so cute), working undercover as nuns with Skerritt and Welch who are literally under covers in a closed sleeping bag pretending to be lovers (only they DO have a thing for each other). Everything that could go wrong, goes wrong, but in the end, the rag-tag cops get their man.

Another great comic set piece is the kind of politically incorrect gag that could almost never be done today where the guys sick a porky, sex-starved, middle-aged woman with an overactive imagination on Welch. Raquel is investigating a rape and this woman claims to have been raped, so she takes it very seriously while Reynolds, Skerritt and most of the other guys in the precinct are desperately trying to hold in their snorts of laughter while the "victim" (who has obviously visited the precinct many times) describes the most outlandish Harlequin Romance-styled rape perpetrated upon her. (Apologies to the politically correct, but it IS funny!)

Yet another politically incorrect gag involves the station Captain walking in on Raquel in the washroom as she's changing. He stutters and stammers his way through a conversation while trying to keep his eyes off her bounteous pendulums secured in a bra (for the PG-rating, of course, but also because Welch refused to peel down completely in any of her pictures).

In fact, many of the gags in the film ARE politically incorrect and often involve the sexist attitudes of the time (though I suspect not ALL that much has changed - especially within the domain of police precincts).

This all eventually converges during a thoroughly insane climax involving the sort of coincidence that can only happen in movies (yet in reality, often happens in real police work). Every cop gets their man at once and save the day! It's decidedly feel-good, though the ending suggests that the filmmakers anticipated a sequel (which never happened). This involves Yul Brynner as the main villain, "The Deaf Man" who, in the 87th Precinct books, is a recurring master criminal character who keeps trying to challenge the 87th precinct klutzes.

As a movie, "Fuzz" is relocated from Manhattan to Boston, but this doesn't detract at all from the picture. So many great crime pictures have been set in Boston, and even though "Fuzz" is far from anything resembling "The Friends of Eddie Coyle" or "The Departed", director Colla captures enough cool locations that this, in and of itself, is one of the picture's highlights.

Besides, as McBain wrote - in mock "Dragnet" style at the beginning of all his 87th Precinct novels:

"The city in these pages is imaginary. The people, the places are all fictitious. Only the police routine is based on established investigatory technique."

It's the "police routine" that "Fuzz" captures quite nicely. Besides, it's an early 70s cop picture and even lower-drawer efforts in this genre with mild pleasures like this one are usually worth watching - if, however, you like this sort of thing.

I know I do.

"Fuzz" is available on DVD from MGM Home Entertainment.