Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull

Raiders of the Lost Poligrip, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Viagra, Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade for Regular Colo-Rectal Check-Ups… ah, yes, with so many years since the last Indiana Jones adventure it has given us lots of time to make funny with possible names for a fourth film in the series, especially since the longer the gap continued the older star Harrison Ford kept getting. Finally, after nearly twenty years, George Lucas and his pal Steven Spielberg got their act together and actually put together a real sequel, this one actually called Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull.

My Aunt Evelyn, who’s not really my Aunt at all, came with me to see Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull on Thursday at the Essex Cinemas. Evelyn was my landlady back in my sordid youth, long before I was married, and she insisted that everyone who lived in her building call her “Auntie.” The building itself was full of young singles and around town had the “affectionate” nickname ‘Vaseline Flats’, though Aunt Evelyn didn’t seem to realize that. She appeared to think she was running a co-ed convent or something akin to it, with six floors of celibate 20-somethings whose evenings were spent in Bible study and chaste conversation. The only time she ever actually got a hint otherwise was during the Christmas season when she would put a nearly life-sized crèche scene in the lobby and find that somebody in the building had rearranged the shepherds and the sheep into compromising positions day after day until she’d finally give up and put the whole thing back into storage until the next year. Every year on January 1st when I’d drop by the office to pay my rent, she’d confide to me that she had compiled a list of potential culprits and suspected it was either “the Jew on 4, the homo on 2, or possibly the art student on 5.” I never had the heart to tell her that despite her best anti-Semitic, homophobic guesses, the truth is the person behind the prank didn’t even live in the building. It was actually her own ex-husband, Benny, who still had a key and dropped by nightly to do the deed, a “secret” that was known by everybody in the building but Evelyn herself.

I thought she was in her 70s back then, but that would make her well past 100 now, so who knows how old she really is. All I can tell you is she is mad for Harrison Ford and has had the deluded idea that because one of her tenants in the 1980s was Billy Dee Williams’ mother she has a ‘personal’ connection to Mr. Ford. I know, it makes about as much sense as buying a chicken because you want to make a cake. Yeah, you’ll need some eggs, but what a circuitous route to get them. It’s the same with Aunt Evelyn. She figures if Billy Dee’s mom, Loretta, was a tenant of hers and Billy Dee appeared in Star Wars: Episode V - The Empire Strikes Back and Star Wars: Episode VI - Return of the Jedi as Lando Calrissian opposite Harrison Ford’s Han Solo, then he is as good as family to her.

Since Aunt Evelyn is so tight with Mr. Ford, she has been waiting not-so-patiently these nineteen-plus years for this next chapter in the Indiana Jones franchise to arrive. She doesn’t think I know, but I have a friend at Lucasfilm who told me they used to circulate her letters jones-ing for a new Indiana around the office because they were so strangely entertaining. Eventually, though, they became a tad disturbing, and, after she started sending more than three or four each day, some with nude photographs of herself included, they quit opening them all together. That was more than a decade ago. I hate to think how many more letters and offers of herself Aunt Evelyn wrote in the intervening years, but, perhaps, with Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull finally here she can take a break, at least for a bit, before she begins her campaign for the next installment.

Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is everything a fan of Indy films might hope for and more. It has the essential chases and thrill-ride scenes that the first three movies offered as well as brief glimpses into the professorial life of the title character, and, most of all, it has the requisite hunt for a lost relic. In this case, it is the skull (duh!) of one of the alien creatures snatched by the government during the infamous crash landing of an alien spacecraft near Roswell, New Mexico in 1947.


The mysterious properties of this skull seem to include transferrable psychic abilities as well as an innate magnetism which is why it becomes the target of agents sent from Russia to steal it from the government warehouse in Area 51, where all notorious UFO secrets go to be housed. Enter Academy Award winner Cate Blanchett (Elizabeth: The Golden Age) as Irina Spalko, Soviet super spy. I think Cate took the budget course in learning her Russian accent by watching reruns of “The Adventures of Rocky & Bullwinkle” as she sounds exactly like Natasha Fatale, of Boris and Natasha fame. She even wears a straight, black wig and gobs of eye make-up to complete the look. I kept waiting for her to say something about “muss und skverril” somewhere in the movie, but, alas, she never does. Still, she makes for a fun villain, although the reason for her desperate desire to possess the crystal skull is as vague as what motivates Indy to feel compelled to keep her from getting it, but he does.

Somehow the skull gets from the Nevada desert to Peru and so Indy and his newly-obtained partner/sidekick Mutt (Shia LeBeouf; Transformers) are off to retrieve it and rescue Mutt’s mother, who has been kidnapped along with Indiana’s old friend and colleague, Professor 'Ox' Oxley (John Hurt; V for Vendetta). By now it is no secret that the damsel in distress in this chapter is none other than Karen Allen, the long forgotten Marion Ravenwood from 1981’s Raiders of the Lost Ark. It shouldn’t take a PhD to figure out that Mutt is a chip off the old Indiana and that neither father nor son is aware of that fact until Marion spills the beans at just the most inappropriate of moments (like when she thinks they are seconds from dying).

The family tie-in is perfect for heightening the enjoyment factor in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. With three “good guys” at play during the outrageous fight and chase scenes the action is more than tripled. They fend off their enemies individually as well as together in some of the wildest stunt driving I’ve ever seen in a movie. I can’t begin to describe it here or it would ruin the surprise of the when, where, and how of the scene, but you will be impressed. Trust me. It is a hoot.

There are a lot of “hoots” in Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, my favorite being when Indy and his crew eventually reunite the skull with its body. When I saw those scrawny bones sitting in the chair I immediately thought that Harrison must have felt he had gone home for the night because the skeleton looked a lot like Calista Flockhart, but then I realized it couldn’t be Calista because it actually kept its mouth shut, which was a sure giveaway.

Anyway, despite a sometimes convoluted script (David Koepp; Zathura: A Space Adventure) from an equally convoluted story by executive producer George Lucas (Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith) and Jeff Nathanson (Rush Hour 3), the performances are first rate. Ford is still in fine form at 65, whip-cracking and wisecracking his way across the screen with the same ease he did when he first put on his famous fedora 27 years ago.

Karen Allen has been remarkably untouched by age in the last couple of decades. She returns to the part of Marion as if she had played it yesterday. Allen, who has for the most part given up her acting career, now owns a retail knitting shop called Karen Allen Fiber Arts in her hometown in Massachusetts. Despite being away from the cameras, her return to the role that made her famous is seamless and she appears as comfortable as ever as the feisty, take-no-crap adventurer. Her additional responsibility as a mother in this film seems an extension of the earlier Marion, with her maternal instincts as fly-by-the-seat-of-her-pants as she lives her life in general. Every time she is on-screen the film becomes buoyant just from her terrific smile.

The heaviest load in this installment is Shia LeBeouf’s. With the news leaked early on that he would be playing Indiana Jones’ grown son, LeBeouf had a huge burden to live up to both in equaling the cinematic legend of the original Indy and ensuring somehow that fans would accept him as a potential new Indiana in the wake of Ford’s eventual retirement. Remarkably, LeBeouf has done just that. From his first appearance riding in on his motorcycle, looking exactly like Marlon Brando in 1953’s The Wild One (right down to the very same cap), Shia creates a persona of a rebel with a cause, and he finally breaks free of his teenager roles to become a (young) leading man for a change. Granted, Ford remains the leading man here, but LeBeouf is now in a whole different league.

By the time the movie came to an end it looked to me like Aunt Evelyn was asleep, but when I shook her shoulder to ask what she thought of the movie, she shushed me and told me she was just praying that there would be another sequel sooner than it took to get this one to the theaters. She wasn’t too sure she wanted to see an 82-year-old Indiana Jones traipsing through the jungle with his walker. Worse yet, if it does take that long they might just really name it Indiana Jones and the Search for the Dependable Adult Diaper.

Chronicles of Narnia (The) ~ Prince Caspian

So who knew it was 1300 years since we last visited Narnia? It seemed to me it was only two-and-a-half ago I saw The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe at the Essex Cinemas and then spent the next week trying to memorize the name of the blasted thing. Just saying the title of that “chapter” in the first release in this series was enough to leave me breathless, and not because I wasn’t dazzled beyond reason by what author C.S. Lewis had imagined, because, of course, I was. The trouble is that after all this time and my having watched hundreds of movies since then, my rust-covered brain would require that I go back and read what I wrote about The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe in order to recall exactly what I said back in 2005.

Fortunately, it looks like what I said then is just as applicable with (take another breath) The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian, an admirable follow-up to the original. The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian is just as rich, well-acted, well-executed, and dramatically thrilling as its predecessor, if not more so. The only thing missing is James McAvoy (Atonement) as Mr. Tumnus, the fabulous faun who first showed young Lucy Pevensie (Georgie Henley; tv’s “Jane Eyre”) around the Narnian countryside, but, then again, how many deer live for a millennium or more?

Prince Caspian begins in 1941 with all of the Pevensie children having come out of the closet; well actually that doesn’t sound quite right. *Ahem* Better to say they have left Professor Diggory’s wardrobe, that magical closet that acted as their portal to Narnia in the first story, far behind and are now back at school in London. Suddenly, though, they are whisked away while waiting for a train in the tube, which seems very 'Harry Potter’ except that it was written sixty years or so before Harry’s novels, so draw your own conclusion about where J.K. Rowling went digging for her inspiration (which sounds much nicer than accusing her of plagiarism, m’kay). They end up on a beach near Auckland, New Zealand, which, in this case, is also known as Narnia, and even though they are a little slow upstairs, they eventually figure out that the ruined castle on the cliff is Cair Paravel, their own home where they once ruled as the Kings and Queens of Narnia. Apparently Kings and Queens don’t always need to have instant smarts to be good rulers, I’m just sayin’.

It seems that Susan (Anna Popplewell; Girl with a Pearl Earring) forgot her hunting horn (don’t you hate it when you do that?) somewhere when she was last in Narnia and now it has become a magical relic that the refugee Prince Caspian (Ben Barnes; Stardust) uses to call the Pevensies from their world to help him during a crisis in Narnia. Poor Caspian is on the run after his pointy-bearded evil uncle (aren’t all pointy-bearded uncles in these things rotten to the core?) Miraz (Sergio Castellitto; Fuga per la libertà - L'aviatore) has ordered him murdered, just as he killed Caspian’s father, so he could be King. I wondered right away if Aslan, the Christ-like lion from the first film was going to have an evil twin in this one, perhaps named Scar, visiting from the nearby Lion King-dom. But no, instead we get dwarves.

While on the run Caspian is saved from being captured by Miraz’s men by Narnian forest dwellers Trumpkin (Peter Dinklage; Underdog) and Nikabrik (Warwick Davis; Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix), who, along with Trufflehunter, an agreeable Badger (voiced by Kenn Stott; Charlie Wilson's War), who come to realize that Caspian isn’t like the rest of his race of Telmarines, the warriors who lay siege to Narnia shortly after the Pevensie children left 1300 years earlier and made Narnia their own. The Telmarines believed they had destroyed all of the Narnians in a genocide back then, but instead some the Narnians retreated to the deep forests where they have since become the stuff of fairy tales and legend.

Imagine Caspian’s surprise to discover that the stories told to him by his childhood tutor Dr. Cornelius (Vincent Grass; Empire of the Wolves) about Centaurs, Satyrs, Giants, Minotaurs, Gryphons, and all the other fanciful inhabitants of Narnia were actually true. Even better, the talking beasts are more than willing to align themselves with Caspian, who they accept as the True King of Narnia, and they promise to fight with him so Caspian can regain his throne and bring peaceful coexistence to all of Narnia. Now you know there is no way anybody is going to win any war without the help of “the true Kings and Queens of Narnia” as the Pevensie kids are now known in Narnian history and it is inevitable that they and Caspian’s paths cross and they join forces to mount an attack on the Telmarine forces.

This being a Disney movie, you can pretty much bet that even if 7,000 Telmarines and Narnians get skewered in the coming war nary a drop of blood will be shed. Well, okay, the make-up department bought one of those little four-packs of food coloring with the red dropper about the side of thumbnail. They use it to show us the suffering of the brave Peter, played by William Moseley. They dab a small scratch on his forehead or cheek occasionally so we will know this is what sacrifice is all about. After all, Moseley, who debuted in The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe, and, at 21, is a more handsome version of what we’d like to think Britain’s Prince William actually looks like, is the real hero of Narnia. Prince Caspian, for all his smarmy good looks, sounds Spanish, not to be confused with the rest of the Telmarines, who sound Italian, French, and vaguely anything but British, so his ethnicity is going to be an issue, even if it isn’t supposed to. I mean, if you haven’t read the books you probably don’t know this, but Lewis’ writing was outrageously biased in his ethnocentric view of the world. I doubt that this will ever be as blatantly obvious in the upcoming films as it in the books, but, even here, it is eyebrow-raising that the “bad” guys are the ones with the more "ethnic" accents. Hmmm.

The message buried in the midst of all this warring has little to do with battle and everything to do with faith. During the Pevensies’ trials and tribulations, only little Lucy claims to see Aslan (voiced once again by Liam Neeson; Taken), a sign that the others have lost their faith in the intervening year since they were last in Narnia. It is only when their faith is truly tested and they realize that they have made a mistake in not turning to the one source they know can help them do they find the resolve and resolution they need, thanks to Aslan.

Director Andrew Adamson (The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch, and The Wardrobe) has done an even better job with Prince Caspian than with his original. There are more Narnian “critters”, and Adamson has expanded the story in a few ways that improved on the original novel. There is an additional battle, which could be perceived as perhaps gratuitous, but then again, how often do we get to see sword fighting these days, so I figure it is best to enjoy it whenever the chance comes around. One obvious change from Lewis’ book is in the not-romance-but-budding-interest between Caspian and Susan, which makes more sense today than in the chaste 1950s when Lewis wrote the book. While there is no groping behind the castle turrets between the two, even thirteen year olds in the audience would find it impossible to believe that these two attractive young people wouldn’t show some interest in one another unless they were both gay, and then they’d expect Caspian to try to hook-up with hunky Peter.

The biggest small change in the film version of Prince Caspian has to do with the maturity of Edmund Pevensie (Skandar Keynes; Ferrari), whose character has been shown to grow as quickly as the actor himself has done since the last movie. I hardly recognized Keynes at first as he has shot up a good 10 inches or so, but the real growth spurt comes in seeing how his Edmund more than any of the children (except perhaps Lucy) seems to have learned from his previous visit to Narnia. I won’t give away a surprise moment towards the last third of the film, but look for Edmund to impress in a most unexpected way.

If Prince Caspian is any indication of the quality of this series, I can hardly wait to see The Chronicles of Narnia: The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, scheduled for release in 2010. One thing that did puzzle me though was the shaky non-explanation of why we should not expect to see Peter and Susan in future Narnia chapters (although both actors are listed in the credits for the upcoming sequel). Aslan’s explanation that the older Pevensie kids had “learned all they needed” in Narnia seemed skimpier than Britney Spears’ panties collection. Whatever they learned was lost on me, which is just as well because it means I obviously need to return to Narnia even if they don’t. I hope to see you there.

What Happens in Vegas

'What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas’ is more than an effective advertising slogan. It is usually the best idea anyone could have when visiting that sandpit of sin in the middle of the Nevada desert. It certainly was for me. I left my starter husband there with his mommy more than 30 years ago and he still is there, now 54, and still living in her garage without a job or even the memories of other relationships to keep his hand company at night. He says I “ruined” him for anyone else. I don’t know whether to be flattered or mortified. I’d like to think it is because after me no one else could measure up. More likely though, after me, he was afraid to venture into the bedroom in less than complete darkness for fear that whoever he was with would burst into fits of raucous laughter. I know it wasn’t a kind thing, My Darlings, but every time I saw him naked I thought about uncooked chicken. Scrawny uncooked chicken. The boy was so white he looked like an interstate map of the Eastern seaboard and his back was pimply enough that I often lay awake at night and stared at it like one of those 3-D paintings, looking for the secret picture within the array of red and white dots. Eventually I found it and I realized his back acne was secretly spelling the words “Get Out” and so I did. Not because he had acne, mind you, that would be shallow. I left him because he was an…, okay, I’ll do like the slogan suggests and let that stay in Vegas (at least for now).

Still, every time I see a movie or television show that features Las Vegas I am reminded of the dubious mistake I made back in college and I want to grab naïve young women I see, complete strangers on the street, and warn them not to throw away their early 20s on some complete nozzle just because they’re impressed by some guy’s… well, nozzle. Do they listen? Of course not. It’s just a fact of life that we all have to make our own mistakes and live with them. Just ask Joy McNally and Jack Fuller of the movie What happens in Vegas.

Joy McNally (Cameron Diaz; The Holiday) is a good example of someone living life almost on her terms. She has a great job working in the NY stock exchange, is hard-working, well-respected, fiercely dedicated to achieving a promotion and becoming even more successful in her career. She is also happy with the life she has carved out at home with her boyfriend Mason (Jason Sudeikis; tv’s “Saturday Night Live"), and is looking forward to their eventual wedding, at least she was until he takes the wind out of her surprise birthday party for him by announcing to her (and a few dozen hidden guests) that he is dumping her instead of proposing to her. Yeah, that can be embarrassing. So what better excuse than to take her best pal, Tipper (Lake Bell; Over Her Dead Body), and head to Vegas to drown her sorrows in booze and debauchery?

Meanwhile, across the bridge in Brooklyn, Jack Fuller (Ashton Kutcher; The Guardian) is having problems of his own. He’s been allegedly working for his father (Treat Williams; The Hideout) for years in the furniture building business, but even Jack, Sr. has his limits. Since Jack, Jr. never seems to be able to commit to anything, not even finishing a simple job at the factory, his Dad gives him the boot for good, meaning he’s is broke and with no prospects. So what does Jack do but go off with his best pal and wingman, Hater (Rob Corddry; Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay) to ~ you guessed it ~ Vegas.

When a computer glitch puts both gals and guys in the same suite it is only a heartbeat or so before the women are attacking the guys, believing they are rapists, then not, then yes, then not, until eventually they end up gin-soaked, and, by morning, Jack and Joy are married.

You see why Vegas can be bad for you? They’re nothing worse than waking up with a hangover and a new spouse you don’t remember marrying. Those awkward ‘morning-after’ moments are so embarrassing. That’s why I always encourage friends jumping into a one night stand to go to the guy’s place. It offers four important advantages: 1) you can always sneak out after he goes to sleep so you don’t have to deal with the weird “who-are-you”s in the a.m., 2) there’s no ‘morning breath’ embarrassment on either party’s end, 3) you don’t have to fret about him seeing you with no make-up and hair askew, and 4) you won’t show up at work the next day wearing the same outfit you left in the previous day, thus giving all the office blabbermouths something to gossip about. Just consider this a little public service digression. Sorry.

Anyone who’s seen the previews knows there’s a BIG complication that stops this couple who’ve put in less time together than my antihistamine works from getting an annulment, and that is a $3 million dollar payday from a slot machine, which both claims to own. Sentenced by the always smarmy Dennis Miller (tv’s "Amne$ia"), as Judge Whopper, to six months of “hard marriage”, the two opposites are forced to live together and work on their relationship, including weekly sessions with a therapist, the sadly underused Queen Latifah (Mad Money).

Obviously the predictable resolution to this story is written in the audience’s mind before the opening credits, so it is not so much the plot that moves the story along as it is the charisma of the leading players. Diaz is as charming and beautiful as ever, and I have been left practically speechless (yeah, practically, but not entirely) by numerous comments from critics that she is doing well for “an aging actress” or for being “no spring chicken.” Dear God! The woman is 35 years old. They act as if she is circling the drain in a nursing home somewhere in Florida. Meanwhile, they criticize Kutcher for continuing to act out his personal life by appearing in a movie where his love interest is “an older woman.” Yeah, he is 30 now. It’s not like he is 18 and there is a 40 year gap in their ages. I didn’t even notice any physical age differences between the two, only in how their characters were presented as having developed differently, both socially and professionally, which is pertinent to the plot. After all, isn’t it obvious that the corporate ladder-climber needs to slow down and relax, just as the no-confidence underachiever needs to learn to believe in himself? Somewhere, naturally, they are destined to teach one another a thing or two.

The real laughs throughout come from Corddry and Bell, who as the best friends of the leads despise one another while being madly, and disgustedly, in lust. Their constant bickering and sniping at each other are the best part of the movie, which isn’t to say that What Stays in Vegas is not without other chuckles, but Diaz and Kutcher are more about the romance and the larger sequence gags that involve plot twists.

Don’t expect What Stays in Vegas to sweep the Oscars next Spring, but it is a fun diversion from the over-zealous high tech special effects of what else is out there right now. There’s not a Speed Racer or an Iron Man crashing across the screen in a single frame, and that can be refreshing all by itself for a lot of moviegoers.

Speed Racer

“Go Speed Racer, Go Speed Racer, Go… to the drug store and get me some Dramamine because if I am going to sit through this whole movie I am going to need it or I’ll throw up for sure.”

I’m sorry, Pumpkins, but that was exactly how I felt after fifteen minutes of watching the new release, Speed Racer. It’s not that the movie is dreadful, though it isn’t exactly Iron Man either. It’s just that it’s painfully … busy all the time.

Speaking of busy, I read this week about a woman named Michelle Duggar who lives in Arkansas who is currently pregnant with her eighteenth child. Just the idea makes my uterus pucker and twitch, and it was tossed in a medical waste bin years ago, yet I am sure is still sympathetic to the nightmarish idea of passing a dozen-and-a-half beings the size of full-grown turkeys through it like a starting gate at what we call the human race. I can’t even imagine a household with that many kids around. At some point, you’ve got to just give up on trying to instill values and character into each and simply give it a “ready, set, grow” and then wave the checkered flag and hope for the best. It was hard enough with one son. Mine, for example, refuses to allow me to mention him by name in my writings because he is afraid I might “embarrass” him. I figure I do that simply by being his mother even without spilling any personal stories of his life, but, as always, I abdicate to his wishes.

That said, I will tell you that EriXXX, er, um, Aaron (not his real name) was not a big fan of Speed Racer growing up and so was of no help in filling me in on the finer points of the Racer family saga. He seemed to have missed most of popular culture as a child though God only knows why. I have often taken pride in the fact that you can fry an egg on our television set and have been able to for decades since it goes on first thing in the morning and doesn’t go off until past midnight at the end of each night. Granted, I’ve never let the lad choose the programming while I was home, but I suppose I assumed somewhere along the way he’d pick up the important details of cartoon trivia just as he would his sex education, in the streets or from other boys his age. I saved the important lessons to teach him myself, and I am proud to say that by the time ErXXX, Aaron was ten he could make the perfect extra-dry double martini, play a winning hand of Blackjack, book a full slate of ponies for the day at Hialeah, and whip up a Versace knock-off in less than twelve hours from beginning to end all by himself. Okay, so the last one he learned from my seamstress Lum Ling, but it was my idea that she teach him her clever sweatshop methodology.

All this said, my little darling was loads more useful and just as entertaining and that overly cute little pudge-rocket named Spritle (Paulie Litt; formerly of tv’s “Hope & Faith”), the younger brother of title character Speed Racer (Emile Hirsch; Into the Wild). Spritle is just one of the many reasons not to take your kids to see this movie, mostly because he and his chimpanzee friend Chim Chim not only dress alike, they behave as if they could be twins, and what could be more thrilling a lesson for your five year old to learn than that it is a good idea when he is upset to give the object of his anger “the finger” and then lob a runny pile of his own feces into the face of the offending party? Now there’s a Mother’s Day present you can’t get from Hallmark! Frankly, though, if my parents had named me “Spritle Racer” I might want to give ‘em a poop facial too.

When you see Speed Racer, you’ll have a better idea of what kind of parents these are. Mom is curiously played by Susan Sarandon, once the voice of a generation’s sexual liberation in The Rocky Horror Picture Show, then a feminist icon as she tore up the Southwest as half of the ass-kicking Thelma and Louise, finally becoming an Academy Award winner for her moving performance in the human rights drama Dead Man Walking. And now here she is, decked out in bright primary colors, fretting mindlessly about her pancakes and smiling those empty-headed Stepford Wives’ smiles while her middle son risks his life recklessly in races only an idiot with a death wish would attempt. Worse yet, her first born, Rex (Scott Porter; Prom Night), has already been turned into a human torch in just such a race, but this seems to be a minor concern when it comes to Speed. Pops (John Goodman; Evan Almighty) is only slightly saner, but that’s because he keeps focused on all of the guilt he harbors around Rex’s death since they parted on bad terms. I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that their biggest fights were not about racing but about Mom’s hideous taste in decorating. If I was Rex I’d have bolted from home too. The Racer manse is one enormous salute to garish, bold, and shocking colors, all in a late 1950s or early 1960s theme. I was immediately reminded of the fantasy sequence that went with the song “Somewhere That’s Green” sung by Ellen Greene as Audrey in Little Shop of Horrors except that when Ellen/Audrey sings about yearning for a home with “plastic on the furniture” the Racers have her beat. Their furniture appears to be nothing but plastic. It’s probably because of that damned monkey, if you know what I mean.

There is way too much plot for what is basically meant to be a children’s movie. There’s a corrupt corporate tycoon whose Royalton Industries sponsors almost all of the top drivers in the world so that owner himself (Roger Allam; The Queen) can set the agenda for who wins and who loses (shades of professional wrestling back in the ‘50’s!). Royalton’s fixing races has allowed him to manipulate the gambling market and become an absurdly wealthy megalomaniac. It’s hard to say no to someone like that, but when Speed does just after Royalton tries to lure him into the fold, he makes himself an enemy worse than the Wicked Witch of the West. All Speed wanted to do was to continue to let his Dad’s little independent business be his sponsor, but that’s not the way Royalton sees it, and so he sets in place a murderous scheme of revenge against the entire Racer clan. Now, I doubt most kids will care about this plot at all. They want to watch the cars fly and there’s plenty of that, but there is also whole other sub-plot about Korean racer Taejo Togokhan (Rain; Saibogujiman kwenchana) and how he is going to race in the Grand Prix because he is working covertly for the CIA to bring Royalton down while also trying to bring up the selling price of his father’s company. Huh? Wait, wait… it gets better. The mob gets involved, and a mysterious masked driver going by the name of Racer X (Matthew Fox of tv’s “Lost") shows up, and he seems to be Speed’s guardian angel whenever he needs one. Could he somehow be Speed’s long dead brother, but, if so, why not just say so?

As if all this soap opera drama isn’t enough, co-directors and co-writers The Wachowski Brothers also make sure to include Speed’s scary first love Trixie in the mix. Trixie is played by Christina Ricci (Home of the Brave) and mercifully wears her hair in bangs to cover her gi-normous fivehead. Well, it’s way too big to be called a “forehead”, I’m sorry, but it is. Anyway, there are a few awkward non-nether-region stirring kissy-huggy moments with Speed and Trixie, but, honestly, without those bangs it would be hard to tell the two apart as long as Speed was wearing his crash helmet. When the two of them kiss it is like trying to be aroused by watching two turtles chewing on the same lettuce leaf.

Perhaps this is what one should come to expect from the Wachowski Brothers, who have given the world The Matrix trilogy as well as V for Vendetta. They are a bit different than your usual mainstream filmmakers and that may explain why Speed Racer has gone from being a one dimensional Japanese cartoon to a very three dimensional, multi-layered experience. It is hard to explain, but the film itself actually looks like it was meant to be shown in 3-D, and the images and parts of the story appear to overlap one another at varying times as they move across the screen in different directions either behind or in front of the main action. It is a unique experience that works about half of the time, though it seems to be overused to a point where it is exhausting by the midpoint of the film. Isn’t it enough that they have turned the raceways into rollercoaster loop-de-loops that put you in the driver’s seat going at 800km per hour? Truly, I almost gasped the chunky Technicolor yawn before the movie was over because the blurring images and spinning hues were too, too much. I would have too, but by then I was afraid that the kid sitting near me might pick up a glob and give it a good fling back in my face, or, worse yet, into his own mother’s. Ah, the lessons kids can learn at the movies.

Made of Honor

Patrick Dempsey really is Made of Honor. He’d have to be to agree to star in this retooled version of My Best Friend’s Wedding coming off his big hit from the holiday season, Enchanted. It’s not that this “new” movie, Made of Honor, is awful. It’s just that it is so conventional it makes my teeth hurt. Even the previews show enough of the plot leading up to the BIG climax that you’ll know exactly what is going to happen and how the movie will resolve itself even if you never go to see it. Such is life. I’m beginning to think that the guy who puts together trailers like these must be my first husband. He always was one to rush through things and spill the beans long before was necessary, but let’s not let that ruin Made of Honor for you entirely.

The truth is I know a dozen or more women who have said personally they would watch Patrick Dempsey if all he was doing was standing around reading the phone book. Well, it’s not quite that bad, but if you set your sights for much more than that you may be disappointed. First off, the basic premise is extremely flawed.

The movie begins by having us believe that this healthy, attractive woman, Hannah (Michelle Monaghan; The Heartbreak Kid), has been just friends with the man the rest of the world calls “McDreamy” in another venue for more than ten years. Apparently Hannah is okay with Tom Bailey (Dempsey, of tv’s “Grey’s Anatomy”) dishing to her about his midnight romps with other women and watching from the sidelines as he dates half of New York’s female population but not her. Instead, they are ‘bestest best friends’ and she seems to have no interest in him romantically. As a matter of fact, she has no romantic or sexual playmates of her own, at least none that don’t require AA batteries. On the flip side, Tom doesn’t exactly set the bar high on whom he shares his bed with so it remains a mystery as to what has prompted him to draw the line at Hannah. Unsightly back hair? No. Multiple murder convictions? Nary a one. Possessed by demons? Nada. Neither is either one gay or suffering from chronic sexually-transmitted diseases or sexual dysfunction, so just what the heck is this ~ a science fiction fantasy or what? It makes no sense. Their friendship is as tough as a barnacle clinging to the hull of a boat, but the only place it seems to be going is to Central Park on Sundays.

Something’s got to give, right? And so it does when Hannah, an art museum procurements specialist, is sent off to Scotland for six weeks on a countrywide tour. Poor Tom is suddenly faced for the first time in a decade to face his sexless Sundays alone. Apparently absence does make the heart grow fonder because while Hannah is gone Tom comes to the obvious realization that Hannah is the woman for him and it is time to settle down. And…and…wait for it, wait for it… can you guess? Of course Hannah comes back from the British Isles with a fiancé in tow, a hot Scotsman named Colin McMurray (Kevin McKidd; The Last Legion).

Herewith begins the jokes, People. Tom is put in the odd position of being asked by Hannah to be her Maid of Honor at the wedding, leaving him to wince, stew and generally present the stiff upper lip only a best friend would even though it is driving him crazy inside with every bachelorette party gift basket he zhushes and every insult he fields from one of the other bridesmaids in the wedding party, especially from Melissa (Busy Phillips; tv’s “ER”), a former conquest of his that he dumped years earlier and who has never quite forgiven or forgotten. If this isn’t enough, the more he tries to find fault with Colin the more perfect the guy turns out to be. Given a few more months of this and at the rate Colin is approaching perfection Tom would probably find out that he had solved global warming, world hunger, and cancer, and was paying for it all out of his own pocket.

Things go completely awry once the party moves on to Scotland and Hannah and Tom meet Colin’s eccentric family and friends and then are introduced to the assorted peculiarities of a Scottish wedding celebration. One huge disappointment in this section of the film comes when Dempsey appears for the traditional Highland Games in a kilt loaned to him by the locals. Aye, tis a wee mini kilt to be sure, but, alas, nobody told McDreamy the proper way to wear a kilt, for when Tom competes in the log throw against Colin it is a terrible letdown to see a glimpse of the actor’s tighty McWhities popping out from beneath his tartan rather than the chicken McNuggets his female fan-base is hoping for.

Ultimately, it’s not going to come as any kind of shock to spill the beans with the news that true love will win out, and all will be right with the world eventually. Well, with the right two of this three-sided love affair anyhow. Sure, it’s as predictable as idiots driving out on Lake Champlain in the last gasps of Spring when the ice is thinner than the crust on the inside of Martha Stewart’s freezer, but it is still so sweet it is hard to resist. Director Paul Weiland (Sixty Six) has a long history of focusing on various “Mr. Bean” series in England over the years, so he does know how to focus on a television model, and Made of Honor has a small screen feel to it, not that there’s anything wrong with that. Perhaps the film will even play better when it eventually comes to cable and dvd, on a television-sized scale where Dempsey’s gorgeous blue eyes aren’t so much of a distraction from the modest expectations of the script by first-timer Adam Sztykiel, and writing partners Harry Elfont and Deborah Kaplan (Surviving Christmas).

If you’ve never seen My Best Friend’s Wedding, 27 Dresses, The Wedding Planner, or just about any slapstick farce from the 1930s and ‘40s with one of those gosh darn spunky gals like Jean Arthur, Betty Grable, or Constance Bennett then here’s your chance to experience the story for the very first time. If not, at least you’ll have those McDimples to make it all worthwhile, and that’s worth a whole lot all by itself.

Iron Man

Until today I was an Iron Man virgin. Yes, it’s true. The big guy had barely registered on my mental radar except on the rare occasion when my son might have been reading a comic book in the kitchen at the same time I was using the can opener. That’s when one of those spooky moments of synchronicity would most likely kick in and I’d find myself glancing over at the cover art of his book and suddenly and inexplicably feel the need to pry open a can of tuna fish or baked beans just to see what was inside. What can I say? I’ve always been naturally curious, even about superheroes. I just never got around to Iron Man. Maybe it was his name. It sounds too much like ‘iron lung’ to be of much interest. Maybe if I smoked it would have had more meaning… I mean really. What is going to pique a gal’s interest (or libido) more: an Iron Man or the Man of Steel? That’s right. At least Superman was called “The Man of Steel” and somehow there’s something potentially intriguing about the innuendo attached to that label which just doesn’t “ring” with the idea of iron. I know what you’re thinking. Does this old cow ever get her mind out of the gutter? Well, not often, but I try. I really do.

The truth is when I was young(er) and other girls my age were reading Silver Screen or Modern Romance magazines I had my head buried in piles of comic books, living vicariously through the lives of the few female super-heroines that existed back in the day. There weren’t many. Saving the world was a notoriously male occupation, and for every hundred Green Lanterns flying about you might find a lone Wonder Woman, but it didn’t matter to me. Quality trumped quantity, and besides, the hunk factor of the superheroes was always enough to off-set the lack of female counterparts. At least I could fantasize about being the hero’s girlfriend, since there was always one of those hanging around. Whoever she was, she was inevitably strong-willed, talented, smart-as-a-whip, an intrepid professional, and constantly prone to getting into dire situations that required her being saved by her muscle-bound champion. Hey, it was better than nothing, and when you are a ten-year-old-girl it doesn’t much matter if you are a Superman or Lois Lane while reading comic books. The story’s the important thing.

I’m not sure why, but I threw my allegiance to DC comics at an early age and never dared venture to another brand. Now, eons later, when the boys my age have grown up and into big-time Hollywood executives, it turns out they must have been fans of that other brand ~ Marvel Comics ~ because they are continually throwing buckets-full of money into making gi-normous epics out of Marvel’s Stan Lee creations. Spiderman, The Fantastic Four, and the X-Men have all spawned franchises of their own. Others, like The Incredible Hulk, Daredevil, Ultimate Avengers, The Punisher, and Elektra have all had their turns on the big screen to varying degrees of success as well, with The Hulk even getting a re-boot this summer with a new cast and script hoping to make audiences forget the lackluster 2003 version (though the special effects CG Hulkster himself looks eerily similar in the new movie to the tepidly received big green guy from five years ago). All this said, it was almost to be anticipated that eventually with so many minds focused on the gasoline crisis someone in Hollywood would daydream aimlessly about oil barrels and connect the dots between an empty barrel and the need to fill it with the next great American screen hero, thus bringing us this summer’s Iron Man.

The great thing about Iron Man is that he does not have any super powers per se, unless you consider being richer than God a super power, which I suppose is just as good, if you know what I mean. He’s basically a weasely Bill Gates-type by the name of Tony Stark, and if you are going to be a Stark, you might as well be a ‘tony’ one I always say. Anyway, Tony is played by Academy Award winner Robert Downey, Jr. (Zodiac), who has got to be the perfect choice since everybody knows Robert is as flawed as Tony is supposed to be. Granted, Tony hasn’t spent time in the Crossbar Hotel as Robert has, but he and Robert are both booze-hounds with a long-history of sleeping around and being trés irresponsible. Unlike former cokehead Downey, however, Stark’s drug of choice seems to be gunpowder. He is the CEO and heir to the world’s largest weapons manufacturer and it’s a heady place to be until it lands him in a cave in Afghanistan as a prisoner of a group of insurgent rebels who just happen to have captured him and blown up the platoon of soldiers he was traveling with using Stark Industries’ bombs, guns, and ammunitions.

This is just the sort of life-altering experience that you know is going to turn a guy like Stark into either a superhero or a born-again Christian who starts his own television ministry. Fortunately, since washed-up child star Willie Ames already has the “Bible Man” gig in Pat Robertsonsville and assorted tent revival meetings across the South, Stark opts to use his time in captivity to con his captors into letting him rebuild some of his missiles into a flying suit of armor complete with its own weaponry to aid in his escape from the camp. Ta-da! The spirit of Iron Man is born.

Meanwhile, back in the US, faithful assistant and alliteratively dubbed go-to gal Pepper Potts (Gwyneth Paltrow; Love and Other Disasters) has waited patiently for three months for her oh-so-famous boss to come home, always certain that he would escape the terrorists. Sure enough, but upon his return she finds him a changed man in more ways than one. Not only had his attitudes about war and weaponry changed, he had also physically changed, the result of his initial injuries, which required some remarkable makeshift surgery just to keep him alive in the short-term. A fellow prisoner, a scientist named Yinsen (Shaun Toub; The Kite Runner), saved Stark by wiring his heart directly to a car battery as a way to create a polarized magnet that would keep shards of shrapnel from entering that particular organ. The filmmakers neglected to explain what might happen if the offending metal wandered towards another organ, but then I’m guessing at least one of these might well have benefited from the publicity, but I digress. Stark himself perfected a permanent solution for his dilemma with a technology which would power his heart for centuries in a mechanism no bigger than a mayonnaise jar lid and much more attractive than any of Flavor Flav’s bling.

In case you think I’ve spilled more beans than a New York Governor’s hooker, trust me when I tell you that this is barely scraping the gold and red-painted outer shell of this beast. Once Tony returns, he decides to pull the plug on all weaponry production at Stark Industries, a plan that does not sit well with his mentor Obadiah Stane (Jeff Bridges; Surf’s Up) or the rest of the Board of Directors. It does, however, help inspire Stark to perfect his Iron Man prototype with the help of his supercomputer Jarvis, a sort of HAL-9000 on antidepressants who you might suspect spends his down time watching reruns of “Sex and the City” on his com-link. You’ll love him. He’s just one Cosmo short of giving Stark a “You go, Girl!” when the randy researcher takes his Iron Man drag out for a spin.

Despite seeming like a “typical” superhero flick on the surface, Iron Man really is the thinking man’s take on this genre. Downey inhabits the role as if it’s a second skin, imbuing Stark with the debauchery, world-weariness, and contempt necessary to bring forth the duality all good superheroes possess. On the one hand he is the epitome of the crass narcissist it takes to trump Trump in the business world; on the other, he is a metal-plated Tin Man with a heart, one who is determined to extinguish war and the suffering it entails.

Paltrow, too, rises above the cheesy pre-feminist caricature that anyone named Pepper Potts conjures up and balances her portrayal as something between dutiful and efficient employee with an edgier undercurrent, as if she is the only person around who has been able to keep Stark ~ the weapons magnate ~ in check, a task that is at times both irksome and tiresome yet ultimately necessary because of her personal sense of morality.

As for Bridges, his fanatical warbird role is less well-defined but he plays the creepy mentor-gone-wild role with zest and his physical look, with shaved head and Texas polygamist-style beard, works well in establishing his credibility, or lack thereof. How anyone would put a guy named Obadiah Stane, with a look like his, in charge of anything that goes boom is beyond me. It’s as obvious a mistake as putting a guy with a black Tupperware™ head and asthma named “Darth” in charge of a day care center.

All said, I was much impressed with Iron Man. Even in my dotage I guess I can be taught new tricks. Imagine: a superhero without a cape! I may not rush out and buy any comic books soon, but I am already looking forward to the anticipated sequel. And, who knows? I may even leave my can opener at home.

Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay

I’ll confess, I liked Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle. It feels like that almost requires an anonymous support group to admit such a thing. I mean, really, Harold & Kumar Go to White Castle was not exactly The English Patient. Two stoners with the munchies go in search of a White Castle hamburger joint and end up in all kinds of hot water before they finally get to the place. It’s basically modern day Shakespeare for the mind-altered or the IQ-impaired. The sad part is that when I saw it I wasn’t “mind-altered”, so I guess we know what category I fall into. Oh well. It’s my lot in life.

My own virgin trip to a White Castle was not quite as convoluted as Harold and Kumar’s, but if I say so myself it was equally as memorable. Growing up on the West Coast, we were deprived of the greasy mini-burgers, called slyders (I didn’t spell them that way, so don’t blame me), though hearing about them was another matter. With so many talk shows airing from New York at that time, “The Tonight Show”, “The Merv Griffin Show”, “The Mike Douglas Show”, and who remembers how many more, guests often dropped the name of those bite-sized burgers and made them sound all the more a desired commodity for those us who couldn’t have them.

A gazillion years later, when I finally got to Long Island with my perfect husband, Fred, he suggested late one night that we make a run to the White Castle. My spidey sense came alive! White Castle! After all these years! Who knew my beloved even knew where a White Castle was? And who knew there was one only six blocks from our apartment? Sweet Nirvana! Within minutes we were in the parking lot and my heart nearly pounding out of my chest as we approached the sparkling steel doors that beckoned to the legendary foodstuffs within. My husband, always the gentleman, opened the door and allowed me to take my first step onto the black and white checked tiles. Directly parallel to me was another customer on his way out, a young Middle Eastern-looking man. Suddenly, in a split second, he stopped, bent forward, and vomited his entire dinner of a dozen or so slyders along with an unknown quantity of what smelled like cheap rum all down the front of yours truly. With his slyders slid, the stranger barely made eye contact with me before he darted out the door, running into the night without so much as a simple “I’m sorry.”

This happened a few years before the world changed forever on September 11, 2001, so at the time we weren’t as high strung a culture as we are today or I’d have probably been distraught enough to shriek hysterically and let my imagination give way to Republican euphoria and insist the stranger was working to poison a bunch of flag-waving Bible-lovin’ Americans with some bio-chemical agent when he accidentally became the victim of his own carelessness while playing with Ricin. Now I, too, was going to die along with him unless I was just lucky enough to suffer in agony for weeks on end and subject myself to his long trial and the media onslaught involved as well as their invasion into my own privacy just so I could be a part of ‘the process’ in sending the heaving would-be assassin off to Guantanamo Bay. What fun!

Actually, Guantanamo Bay doesn’t sound like such a bad place to hang out. I mean, it’s got a bay, right? Those are usually lovely. It’s also on the ocean, and what’s not to love about being by the ocean? I picture a prison there as being like the campus at Pepperdine University, all white cascading buildings with red roofs surrounded by luxurious palm trees that sway gently like they are keeping beat to the waves of the tides at the cliffs below. That’s why when I read that there was going to be a sequel (after four years!) called Harold & Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay I had to ask myself “Why?” I mean, why make it in the first place, but also, why escape from Guantanamo Bay?

The first movie was only funny if you were stoned when you saw it or had been vomited on at a White Castle and could identify with their seemingly impossible struggles to simply get one friggin’ hamburger. Since then, both Harold (Jon Cho; soon to be the new Lt. Hikaru Sulu in J.J. Abrams’ Star Trek) and Kumar (Kal Penn; tv’s “House, M.D