Movie review by Greg Carlson

Neither as exuberant as one might hope nor as fulfilling as it needs to be, “Dave Chappelle’s Block Party” nevertheless blows into theaters as a breath of fresh springtime air. A music and comedy-based homage to Mel Stuart’s “Wattstax,” “Block Party” features a tantalizing lineup of hip-hop artists, including Kanye West, Mos Def, Talib Kweli, Common, Erykah Badu, Jill Scott, Dead Prez, the Roots, and the reunited Fugees, among others. Planned by Chappelle as a free neighborhood get-together in Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, Michel Gondry’s documentary constructs a breezy, affable, and mostly lighthearted behind-the-scenes look at the planning and execution of the big event.

Purportedly bankrolled in some measure by Chappelle, the project immediately presents the viewer with the impression that a host like Chappelle can and will make just about anything happen. Kicking off in and around Dayton, Ohio, just a few days prior to the September 2004 concert, “Block Party” follows the comedian around town as he distributes golden tickets to a variety of folks – some thrilled, some gracious, some just plain perplexed. The chaotic spirit that accompanies Chappelle’s spontaneous invitation sets the tone for the film, which mostly fails to follow-up later on the average Ohioans who agreed to take the bus ride to NYC. After the promising set-up, the highlight of which is Chappelle’s recruitment of the ecstatic Central State University Marching Band as performers for the show, “Block Party” spends the remainder of its running time cutting primarily between the concert and Chappelle’s preparations for it.

It’s likely that “Block Party” will work better on DVD than at the cinema, assuming that the musical performances will be presented intact. The theatrical version’s single greatest deficiency is a marked attention-deficit disorder, as many of the finest numbers are interrupted to present some other business. While this tactic will disappoint hip-hop fans, viewers hoping for a big-screen version of Chappelle’s television series will not find that either. Instead, Chappelle’s flavorful musings (as he interacts with regular people and stars) range from the blisteringly funny to the slightly bittersweet.

“Block Party” goes out of its way to remain focused on the fun (even if the inclement weather forces Badu to remove her fantastic Angela Davis afro), but Gondry and Chappelle include several tastes of political commentary, including a conversation between Ahmir Thompson and Chappelle in which they talk about having to perform for mostly white audiences. Chappelle also invites Fred Hampton Jr., the son of the slain Black Panther, to address the crowd, and Wyclef Jean appears in a moving scene where he performs “President” with some of the CSU student musicians.

Chappelle’s infectious energy and deep wellspring of talent course through “Block Party,” even if the finished product doesn’t hit a grand slam. Chappelle’s dizzy rollercoaster career feels like it can go anywhere, and “Block Party” only hints at the future possibilities for the dynamic performer. Like his inspiration Richard Pryor, who appeared in “Wattstax” and whose face graces one of the t-shirts he wears onstage, Chappelle is an innovator whose sharp wit and vivid imagination have put him on the path to potential legend status.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A robust melodrama that mixes its dark tale of upward mobility with a streak of black humor, Woody Allen’s “Match Point” is both attractive and involving. Recalling Allen’s “Crimes and Misdemeanors,” as well as the director’s long-standing thematic preoccupation with Ingmar Bergman, “Match Point” explores guilt, infidelity, morality, and the function of luck. Set in the London equivalent of Allen’s fairytale Manhattan, “Match Point” focuses on Chris Wilton (Jonathan Rhys-Meyers), a social climber who uses his job as a country club tennis pro to gain access to a fabulously wealthy family.

In the blink of an eye, Chris seduces Chloe Hewett (Emily Mortimer), the eager sister of his tennis student Tom (Matthew Goode). Invited one weekend to the Hewett’s opulent country house, Chris encounters Nola Rice (Scarlett Johansson), the dangerous and beguiling American fiancée of Tom. Unable to resist the allure of Nola, Chris chases her outside during a rainstorm and they have torrid sex, even though his future with the Hewett family is all but secured. Before things get out of hand, however, fate intervenes and Nola and Tom call it off. Nola disappears from Chris’ new life.

Nola’s absence from the scene is only temporary, and a chance encounter at the Tate Modern many months later – and following Chris’ wedding to Chloe – rekindles his lust. Like “An American Tragedy,” and its cinematic cousin “A Place in the Sun,” “Match Point” puts its central character in an impossible bind that can only yield devastating results. Allen relishes the opportunity to make his audience squirm, and a close-up of Chris’ reading material, “Crime and Punishment,” additionally alludes to a potentially horrific outcome. The more Nola pressures him to abandon his wife, the more Chris realizes he has grown far too accustomed to his elite lifestyle to want to leave it.

One looking for Allen’s customary approach to comedy won’t find much of it here, although “Match Point” isn’t as far off the Allen track as one might initially think. One of “Match Point’s” underlying themes, the desire of someone from the working class to get a ticket to untold riches, illuminates Allen’s longtime fascination with the good life. “Match Point” overflows with eye-popping material grandeur, from chauffer-piloted sedans to apartments with floor-to-ceiling views of Westminster Abbey. Even as Michael Atkinson calls Allen an “unapologetic wealth pornographer,” the director’s fascination with privilege seduces the audience right along with Chris, implicating the viewer when Chris begins to contemplate the unthinkable.

Continuing his knack for superb casting, Allen’s ensemble forms a perfect company. The director purposefully feeds his viewer very little background information regarding Chris or Nola, which has the direct effect of making us wonder exactly what each character is plotting to do. Johansson continues her run as one of cinema’s most desirable personalities, injecting Nola with a dazzling combination of pouty-lipped, doe-eyed sexuality and fragile, needy, insecurity. Rhys-Meyers is equally good as Chris, and Mortimer, Goode, Brian Cox, and Penelope Wilton all register memorably in their roles.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A modest diversion that coasts by on nostalgia, “Mrs. Henderson Presents” displays nowhere near the level of quality that defines veteran director Stephen Frears’ strongest work. A backstage comedy loosely based on “true events” (whatever those might be), “Mrs. Henderson Presents” blends widowhood, World War II, and the West End into a mildly engaging period piece. As Laura Henderson and Vivian Van Damm, Judi Dench and Bob Hoskins are terrific in their roles, but the low budget and the script’s lack of ambition conspire to give the film the air of a made-for-TV time-filler. Surely the fascinating history of London’s Windmill Theater merits a deeper look than this one.

Beginning in 1937 with the funeral of Mrs. Henderson’s husband, the movie trots along at a brisk clip. Mrs. Henderson tires immediately of typical dowager pursuits, and trades her needlepoint and charity work for a boarded-up Soho theater, which she transforms almost overnight into a successful musical revue house. Mrs. Henderson also forms an unlikely partnership with Van Damm, an old pro who insists on artistic autonomy as the theater’s creative director. Naturally, Van Damm and Henderson don’t see eye to eye on every matter concerning the Windmill, and the witty sparring that attends virtually all of their conversations is at the heart of the movie’s charms.

When other theaters begin to copy the Windmill’s successful formula, Mrs. Henderson insists that Van Damm begin preparations to stage revues featuring nude women. A visit to the snooty Lord Chamberlain (a restrained Christopher Guest, just on the verge of being funny) clears the legal hurdles, although the Windmill must limit its fleshly displays to artfully lit tableaux. The movie’s middle section largely concerns itself with the casting and staging of the Windmill’s new stock in trade, and several of the musical numbers showcase clever, kitschy ways to titillate the audiences composed largely of young soldiers on their way to the front lines.

Frears also settles on a mostly unfocused – and completely rushed – subplot revolving around the nude revue’s star attraction, played by Kelly Reilly, who recently appeared as Caroline Bingley in the vastly superior “Pride & Prejudice.” Reilly is a fine performer, but the character she plays in “Mrs. Henderson Presents” entirely lacks definition, which prohibits the audience from making the necessary emotional investment in her fortunes. This is surely too bad, since Martin Sherman’s screenplay asks the viewers to find some time to brush aside some tears when the below-ground Windmill becomes a shelter during the punishing Nazi air raids.

Frears mixes in stock footage of bombed out London, but the grainy images cannot compensate for the lean production values displayed following the Blitz. By the time Mrs. Henderson delivers a rousing speech to a mob of troops looking to crowd inside the Windmill, the sentimentalism is shifted into the highest gear. The revelation of why Mrs. Henderson chose to feature nudity on her stage is pure corn, but the irrepressible Dench manages to get through the lines without complete embarrassment. In fact, Dench’s spirit of fun rescues “Mrs. Henderson Presents” from total disaster; she’s as delightful to see as the undressed attractions at her music hall.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A creaky, tepid, and thoroughly by-the-numbers action exercise with nary an original idea in its lolling head, “Firewall” is like a rerun of Harrison Ford’s non-Indiana Jones, non-Han Solo heroes – the boring ones who wear business suits and bark things like “Get off my plane!” As Jack Stanfield, a computer securities expert who toils for a large Seattle bank, Ford assumes the position as saintly father and husband with a palpable sense of entitlement. Ford can certainly take a beating with commitment and conviction (“Firewall” makes sure to put him through all sorts of bone-crushing paces), but is that all there is?

Director Richard Loncraine, working from a script by Joe Forte, occasionally seems to forget he is helming an action/suspense thriller. An interminable stretch of time is used to set up the story: cool, calculating Bill Cox (Paul Bettany) takes Stanfield’s family hostage in order to force Jack to hack into his own bank’s system and transfer millions of dollars into Cox’s account. Armed not only with a dizzyingly elaborate plan, Cox is abetted by a coterie of steely toughs, ranging from drivers who monitor Jack’s moves to surveillance/programming experts to machine-gun toting muscle.

“Firewall” never rises high enough to earn favorable comparisons to Hitchcock, but the wrong man theme provides a handful of diversions and complications. Despite the dullness of watching people use computers onscreen – an activity that has never been rendered in cinema with anything close to excitement – Jack is placed in several situations where he must use his security skills to fancy up some high-tech keyboarding. In one improbable sequence, Jack rigs a makeshift device out of his home fax machine and his daughter’s iPod. In another, he uses his son’s remote control toy truck to cause interference in the bad guys’ monitoring system.

Sadly, “Firewall” cannot seem to be bothered with the lives of its supporting characters, most of whom fade into stock stereotypes. Virginia Madsen, as Jack’s wife Beth, scolds the home invaders a few times, but never emerges as a flesh and blood person. Needless to say, the role is a far cry from her work in “Sideways.” Robert Forster, Robert Patrick, and Alan Arkin are virtually transparent. Only Mary Lynn Rajskub, who uses frowns and scowls to great effect as Jack’s harried secretary, manages to occasionally look like she is happy to be in the film.

“Firewall” is the kind of action movie where every last bit of exposition telegraphs something that will be recycled later on. The family dog and Jack’s son’s peanut allergy are two of the more obvious entries into this category, and both bits elicit sighs or chuckles, depending on one’s mood. By the time Jack engages Cox in hand-to-hand combat – in an empty house filled with all sorts of building materials that aid in the crashing and smashing – most viewers will be wondering why they are still watching. Ford long ago cornered the market on playing the victimized father who must protect his family, guaranteeing a happy ending in this safe, predictable, and completely unnecessary movie.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Too trifling to comment with any weight on the racial issues it raises, “Something New” still manages to work as a pleasant, if casually paced, romance with a pair of attractive leading performers.  The feature debut of music video director Sanaa Hamri, “Something New” tracks the dating ups and downs of smart, successful Kenya McQueen (Sanaa Lathan), a demanding and particular young professional whose plan to find an IBM (that’s an Ideal Black Male) goes topsy turvy when she falls for Brian (Simon Baker), the white landscape architect who’s designing her backyard garden.  Hamri, shooting Kriss Turner’s screenplay, uncorks the predictable complications, but the movie’s success rests with the easygoing chemistry between Lathan and co-star Baker.

Following a double cute-meet: an initial, awkward blind date paired with a chance encounter at a pre-wedding party thrown by a mutual acquaintance, Kenya agrees to hire Brian, who shows up at her door in his beat-up pickup truck with playful golden retriever in tow.  Everyone knows that these opposites will most definitely attract, and before much of the soil has been tilled, Kenya and Brian have shared a tender kiss in the rain.  Convincing herself (and her family and friends) that Brian is the one doesn’t come as easy as the kiss, however, and soon enough Kenya’s self-doubt steers the couple over some rocky terrain.

To make matters worse, competition arrives in the shape of handsome attorney Mark (Blair Underwood), who outwardly seems to possess the perfect combination of tall-order requirements on Kenya’s list.  Viewers will not have to consult a crystal ball to guess the movie’s eventual outcome, but those engaged with Lathan’s adept handling of an often ridiculous set of obstacles might find even the more familiar elements worth watching.  Surrounded by a solid cast, including Donald Faison as Kenya’s womanizing brother, Alfre Woodard (doing her best with a mostly strident, underwritten character) as Kenya’s ever-critical mom, and Earl Billings as Kenya’s understanding dad, Lathan navigates the thorny dilemma that finds her stuck in a tough spot.

“Something New” clearly aspires to themes beyond the girl-meets-boy plot that drives the action, but much of the film’s discussion of the politics of interracial dating wind up as speeches instead of believable conversation.  The movie’s heart is nearly always in the right place, but some of Kenya and Brian’s outbursts come off as preachy and forced.  Especially trying are the “Sex and the City”-cloned roundtables with Kenya and her girlfriends, a series of mostly unfunny filler scenes which never play like natural exchanges.

Not surprisingly, “Something New” is lightest on its feet when Kenya and Brian are alone, working out the delicate maneuvers of new lovers with the additional burden of disapproval from those whose opinions count (Mike Epps, as the boyfriend of one of Kenya’s pals, best embodies the skepticism of Kenya’s circle).  Both Lathan, who has been terrific in a handful of films, and Baker, still looking for a really big breakout role, breathe life into their roles that doesn’t exist on the page.  “Something New” may not entirely live up to its hopeful title, but the lead actors almost take it there.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Steven Soderbergh’s “Bubble” will undoubtedly be remembered more for the circumstances surrounding its distribution than for its content or cinematic quality.  Debuting simultaneously this week in theaters, on pay-per-view, and on DVD, Soderbergh seems to be offering a direct challenge to the traditional expectation of a window between theatrical run and home video release.  While the movie only gathered a tepid 70K in the 32 theatres showing it, reports from the distributor claimed a total weekend return of some five million dollars.  Depending on how one looks at it, this could signal the beginning of a shift in the way movies will eventually be released to the public.

Shot on high definition video – although the muddy colors, flat lighting, and frequent focus shifts look more like the results of consumer-grade tape – “Bubble” is purportedly going to be the first of six low-budget properties that will see the same type of opening day simultaneity.  Soderbergh is no stranger to innovative, do-it-yourself moviemaking, and he has maintained an aggressive, if not always successful, blend of lavish projects (“Ocean’s Eleven”) and edgier pursuits (“Full Frontal”).  Along with directing “Bubble,” Soderbergh also shot and edited, employing pseudonyms for those tasks.

Working from a lightly-sketched screenplay by Coleman Hough, Soderbergh comments on the emptiness and banality of low-income life in a small town on the Ohio-West Virginia border.  Set in a doll factory, which affords ample opportunity for unsettling shots of the grotesque and fascinating process of assembling tiny imitations of babies, “Bubble” focuses on the relationship between middle-aged Martha (Debbie Doebereiner) and quiet Kyle (Dustin James Ashley).  None of the principal performers in the movie are professional actors, and the casting choices bring a layer of documentary-like realism to the movie that suggests a purposefully designed minimalism.

An uneasy triangle forms when pretty, single mother Rose (Misty Dawn Wilkins) is hired at the factory.  An immediate threat to the comfortable friendship of Martha and Kyle, Rose’s arrival injects some tension into the movie, especially when it is revealed that there is more to her than either Kyle or Martha first guesses.  A shocking murder is committed less than one hour into the movie’s very brief running time, and the final section delivers an absorbing investigation that showcases Soderbergh’s near-obsessive sense of restraint.  Decker Moody, as the police detective who interviews the people involved with the crime, is ideally suited for his role.

Given the reception of “Bubble,” one would assume that viewers would opt to stay home for a movie rather than go out to see it if the choice is offered.  While the cost of a new DVD, even discounted, totals more than the price of a movie ticket, consumers might enjoy the freedom of being able to start, stop, and replay the movie – especially in the comfort of a well-appointed home theater.  The “Bubble” DVD also includes two audio commentaries, a deleted scene with an alternate ending that provides information that significantly alters the version shown in theaters, and some additional content covering the lives of the actors and the casting process.  Having immediate access to this material changes the experience of “Bubble,” enhancing its value.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

The myth of Pocahontas is simultaneously durable and sketchy, and perhaps this is part of its appeal.  Filmmaker Terrence Malick’s treatment of the story necessitates a great deal of invention, but the final impact of his fourth feature “The New World” is somewhat disappointing when lined up against his other films.  Malick devotees need no convincing that he is a filmmaker unlike any other, a master director unafraid to put visual lyricism ahead of conventional, dialogue-driven plotting.  “The New World” displays nearly all of Malick’s familiar touches, but it fails to replicate the epiphanies and grandeur of his 1970s masterworks “Badlands” and “Days of Heaven.”

The first section of “The New World” is the strongest, as a British exploration led by Captain Newport (Christopher Plummer) arrives in Virginia to the magisterial strains of Wagner’s “Das Rheingold” as the native Powhatan emerge from the trees to greet the strange-looking aliens.  Spared from the hangman’s noose by Newport, Captain John Smith (Colin Ferrell) is ordered to lead an expedition to the natives’ settlement.  While the other members of his group are killed, Smith is miraculously saved by Pocahontas (Q’orianka Kilcher), the daughter of the tribal leader.  Smith stays with the natives for some time, during which he forms a deep bond with the curious and beautiful Pocahontas.

Malick lavishes attention on the closeness of Smith and Pocahontas, painting the unhurried lifestyle of the natives as a harmonious balance between human beings and nature.  Mostly avoiding any explicitly depicted sexual relationship between Smith and Pocahontas, Malick nevertheless suggests an eroticized, prelapsarian sensuousness that discreetly sidesteps the considerable age difference between the central characters, as well as reinforces the fantasy construction that love between a Native American and an Englishman excuses the ugly reality of what Europeans would inflict during colonization and beyond.

Later, Pocahontas marries John Rolfe (Christian Bale), and her sad transformation is manifested in the change from her customary furs and skins to the constricting and uncomfortable togs worn by “proper” ladies.  Arriving in England for an audience with royalty, Pocahontas discovers her very own new world, and ace cinematographer Emmanuel Lubezki’s camera fixes on manicured hedges and soaring architecture in a way that parallels Smith’s earlier fascination with Powhatan culture.  Pocahontas, now christened Rebecca, comes back into focus in a series of moments that bear Malick’s ethereal, almost mystical, stamp.  These last moments reverberate with a bittersweet and tender sense of sorrow.

Like Malick’s other films, “The New World” will no doubt benefit from multiple viewings, not to mention the inevitable stream of scholarly articles that will dissect the director’s purposefully unstated intentions.  One leaves “The New World,” however, with the gnawing impression that there should have been something more to it.  Malick detractors will also carp about the fuzzy internal monologues delivered by Pocahontas, Smith, and Rolfe, which lack the haunting urgency of Linda Manz’s voiceovers in “Days of Heaven.”  Despite its shortcomings, “The New World” surpasses the majority of the thoughtless drivel released to the public, and even those unfamiliar with Malick’s other movies will marvel at the film’s many charms.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Yet another entry in Disney’s lineup of sports movies based on real events, “Glory Road” joins “Remember the Titans,” “The Rookie,” and “Miracle” as a mostly enjoyable – if not altogether penetrating – exercise in history at the movies.  In other words, beyond the central fact that the 1965-66 Texas Western Miners won the NCAA Basketball Championship, “Glory Road” gets the Jerry Bruckheimer makeover, which means that the movie takes generous liberties with the record in order to arrive at the most entertaining, and hopefully profitable, version of events.  “Glory Road” is not exactly “Hoosiers,” but the charismatic casting choices form a likable ensemble.

Josh Lucas, a tremendously talented actor still in search of a truly star-making part, makes a strong impression as coach Don Haskins, the driven taskmaster who contributed to NCAA history by starting five black players in the championship game versus Kentucky on March 19, 1966 – a tournament first.  Despite the film’s familiar touchstones (learning that hard work on fundamentals pays off, putting the team first, etc.), Lucas finds a few moments in which the square-jawed earnestness that defines his character resonates with sincerity.  It’s no mean feat to deliver motivational locker-room speeches without the been-there and done-that feeling, and Lucas sells it like a pro.

Following a leisurely section in which Haskins recruits his players from spots around the United States, the movie alternates between scenes of basketball and the development of the theme that racial integration on the basketball court can teach audiences about an underreported aspect of civil rights.  “Glory Road” deserves some credit for placing the struggles of Haskins’ players front and center.  Surly crowds shower the team with refuse, hotel rooms are violated and racial epithets are scrawled on the walls, and in one harrowing incident, a player is assaulted by a group of racists in a restaurant bathroom (it has been reported that dramatic license has been taken with much of the above).

By the time the movie has reached its final act, it is clear that writers Christopher Cleveland and Bettina Gilois have prioritized the off-court challenges faced by the Miners, but the rendering is usually far too superficial to inspire deep reflection.  Presumably for the sake of excitement, a few facts (in addition to the ones listed above) are fudged.  Among them: Haskins coached the Miners to the famous championship in his fifth season with the team, not during his first, as the movie has it.  Additionally, the film suggests that the championship game was the first time Haskins went with five black players as the starting lineup, but he had done this in games prior to the showdown with Kentucky.

Despite the truth-stretching, “Glory Road” might raise awareness of a transitional time in college athletics.  Audience members should stay for the end credits, in which a number of the actual subjects, including Haskins, Pat Riley (who played on the Kentucky team as one of “Rupp’s Runts”), and several of the Texas Western players, share their recollections of the noteworthy contest.  Combined with game footage, the comments from the real-life participants prove to be more compelling than much of what was fictionalized.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

An often harrowing study of a pair of young Palestinians intending to carry out a suicide bombing mission in Israel, Hany Abu-Assad’s “Paradise Now” is simultaneously a tense thriller and a meditation on the absurdity of the ultimate self sacrifice.  The production of a movie interested in dealing with this particular content assumes a certain amount of high-wire peril, especially considering that location shooting in Nablus and Nazareth is inherently dangerous and also because the humanizing of suicide bombers demands at least some level of audience identification with the film’s protagonists.

Focusing on two West Bank auto shop mechanics, “Paradise Now” scarcely gives itself enough time to set up the characters of Said (Kais Nashef) and Khaled (Ali Suliman) before they are informed that they have been called on to carry out a mission on behalf of a group of unnamed anti-Israeli militants with whom they associate.  Said, the son of an executed Palestinian, is desperate to lash out against what he feels is an oppressive life fraught with perpetual humiliation and shame.  Khaled is not as fleshed-out, but the relationship of the two friends drives the action once the suicide run (which meets with all sorts of complications) gets underway.

Abu-Assad, himself an Israeli-born Palestinian, understands the precariousness of his subject matter in such a way that “Paradise Now” occasionally tries on too many hats.  Containing elements of the crime film as well as cooking up an ill-timed romantic storyline, “Paradise Now” is most surprising for its gallows humor.  The director devotes a substantial amount of time to the preparations made by the bombers, and the videotaping of farewell speeches provides several bleak jokes, including a running gag about water filters.  Once the preparations are complete, rounded out by some none-too-convincing pep talks from other members of the militia, Said and Khaled make their way toward the border.

“Paradise Now” addresses many possible reasons why young men like Said and Khaled would choose to “martyr” themselves for what they believe.  To Abu-Assad’s credit, the movie largely skips any lengthy historical contextualization, choosing instead to let the self-doubts of its central characters guide the complexity of suicide as a tool of resistance.  The film also includes the argument for non-violence in the character of Suha (Lubna Azabal), a well-educated young woman who becomes romantically involved with Said.  Suha’s dialogue is some of the best written in the script, penned by director Abu-Assad and Bero Beyer, one of the film’s producers.

If Suha is the voice of reason in “Paradise Now,” Said represents the grim reality of all too common headlines.  The final act of the film, marred slightly by its elaborate turnabouts, still manages to quicken the pulse.  Abu-Assad expertly modulates the building suspense, keeping the audience guessing about the outcome literally up to the final seconds.  “Paradise Now” is not the sort of film that is likely to change one’s opinion on the Middle East, but its thoughtfully written characters certainly provoke thought concerning the motives of those who would die in the name of their cause.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A glacially-paced miscalculation, “Memoirs of a Geisha” is among the weakest of the large budget studio films in the hunt for this year’s award-season glory. Directed by Rob Marshall as his follow-up to the Academy Award-winning “Chicago,” “Memoirs” clumsily adapts Arthur Golden’s wildly popular 1997 novel. Eschewing subtlety and detail for garishness and simplicity, the screen version of “Memoirs” arrives as watered-down melodrama, and will likely appeal only to aficionados of the Far East as it is so often depicted in American popular culture.

Dropping non-Japanese performers into several key roles (a move that caused a minor publicity stir as the movie was ramping up for release), “Memoirs” winnows the plot into a blood-simple retelling of the “Cinderella” fairytale, complete with stand-in prince and fairy godmother and virtually all the other familiar plot points intact. Zhang Ziyi (now credited with the customary name order switched to the American style as Ziyi Zhang) plays Sayuri, a poor girl sold into servitude as a pre-teen. Desperate to reunite with her sister and escape the cruel conditions of the okiya, or geisha house, where she is essentially imprisoned, Sayuri instead finds herself under the wing of the wise Mameha (Michelle Yeoh).

This alliance is set up precisely to oppose top-geisha Hatsumomo (Gong Li), a calculating and manipulative rival whose viciousness seemingly knows no limits. Somewhat awkwardly, Sayuri romantically idealizes a generous and much older man known as the Chairman (Ken Watanabe), despite the fact that she meets him when still a little girl. Time, however, is a flexible concept in “Memoirs,” and many years are compressed to keep the story chugging along. Additionally, Marshall is far more interested in eye-popping costumes and production design, and everything else takes a back seat as a result.

You never forget that that you are watching a simulacrum filtered through a decidedly Western lens, but that fact is cold comfort given the script’s unwavering insistence on the English-language. Even when translating Japanese words, “Memoirs” sticks with the stilted, halting mispronunciations that have plagued Asian characters in Hollywood films for decades. For fans of the main actresses, “Memoirs” will prove to be a difficult experience, as visions of much better films made by Zhang Yimou and Wong Kar Wai will take the place of the tacky soap opera on display.  Only Gong Li partially overcomes the limitations of the script, infusing her single-minded harpy with a measure of pathos to counterbalance lines like “I shall destroy you!”

Marshall is the one figure most clearly out of his depth here, and only the staging of a wild dance number performed by Zhang Ziyi on towering platform shoes (which, for just a second, calls to mind Pee Wee Herman’s “Tequila” number) wakes the film from its deep slumber. Short of that distraction, “Memoirs” cannot seem to find a decent ending, limping along with an extended coda that reunites the principal characters following the devastation of World War II. Unlikely to draw the kind of audience needed to propel itself toward award nominations, “Memoirs” will disappear as surely as the anachronisms it presents.