Movie review by Greg Carlson

A spectacularly narcissistic vanity project, “Beyond the Sea” was overshadowed by several other recent biopics when first released, most notably “Ray,” for which Jamie Foxx won a Best Actor Academy Award. Kevin Spacey, who plays pop crooner Bobby Darin with a look on his face indicating that he thought he might win another Oscar, miscalculated both his own and Darin’s current popularity with audiences. Staged as a weird meta-memoir, in which pre-teen and adult versions of Darin occupy the screen at the same time as well as converse and sing with each other, “Beyond the Sea” is nothing if not compellingly strange.

Much has been made about Spacey’s age-inappropriate unsuitability to play someone who died at 37. Considering the fact that he is not only the movie’s star, but the director, the credited co-screenwriter, one of the producers, and performs Darin’s vocals as well, it goes without saying that he is darn well going to do whatever he wishes to do with this story. Spacey shamelessly molds the film to deflect expected criticism, providing a laundry list of obsessive choices which include kicking things off with “Mack the Knife” and addressing both the issue of his maturity and his receding hairline.

Despite the attempt to spice things up with a slightly unorthodox approach to the recounting of how things “really” happened (or didn’t), “Beyond the Sea” is hamstrung by the same complaints that hobble virtually every biographical film: the tendency to provide a series of greatest hits in a reductive glossing-over of a life. Most, but certainly not all of Darin’s dossier is covered, including the childhood bout with rheumatic fever that weakened his heart, the initial climb up the pop charts with “Splish Splash,” the desire to compete with Sinatra, and the less than fairytale marriage to teen movie princess Sandra Dee.

Spacey builds his Darin as a well-oiled show-biz machine racing against the clock that is so observably symbolized by his bad ticker. Certainly the strong suit of “Beyond the Sea” is the generous smattering of Darin classics, navigated mostly with aplomb by a fearless Spacey. Of course, many Darin fans will only be reminded of how much they miss the real thing, but Spacey can be commended for the results of his single-minded fixation when it comes to the tunes. Sometimes, the garish staging pushes the numbers into camp, but it must be said that the music is the one thing that emerges from the film with little damage.

The same cannot be said for Spacey’s costars, who seem to be included largely for ornamentation. Almost giving new meaning to the term supporting players, talented vets like John Goodman, Bob Hoskins, and Brenda Blethyn all perform characters whose function seems to be to fawn over every move Darin makes, and Kate Bosworth, as Dee, is so poorly utilized she makes her work in “Blue Crush” seem like a virtual Actor’s Studio clinic. It doesn’t help that Spacey and Bosworth are separated in age by nearly a quarter of a century; the inevitable deflowering scene, which involves a giant sword and a slimy Darin speech about the Knights of the Round Table, boggles the mind. Is “Beyond the Sea” so bad it’s good? It is difficult to say, but that scene at least screams yes and yes and yes.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

After languishing on the shelf for two years, “Mindhunters” finally limps into theatres just ahead of “Star Wars: Episode III,” virtually guaranteeing a quick box office death and an even speedier trip to the DVD afterlife. It is likely that “Mindhunters” will fare better in the home rental market anyway, given its lurid subject matter, its B-list cast, and the track record of its over-the-top director Renny Harlin. A strident psychological thriller in the vein of Thomas Harris on a bad day, “Mindhunters” extends Hollywood’s flirtation with the FBI profiler. Boasting a strange merger of gruesome and elaborate death sequences that defy plausibility and a tendency to overthink even the most ridiculous scenarios, “Mindhunters” will entertain only those folks who appreciate Harlin’s “so bad it’s occasionally mediocre” camp.

Borrowing liberally from Agatha Christie’s “Ten Little Indians,” “Mindhunters” deposits a handsome class of Quantico trainees on a fictional island where they will pit their skills against each other in pursuit of a fabricated killer called the Puppeteer. Given the twisted predilections of mentor Jake Harris (Val Kilmer, kooky), the trainees are already on edge when they arrive, and sure enough, one of them is immediately offed in spectacular fashion. The remaining would-be agents scramble to figure out the whodunit, but the script never satisfactorily entertains the notion that Harris himself could be pulling the strings.

Shaken by the death of one of their own, the students close ranks and shift their brains into overdrive. Mysterious clues begin to show up, indicating a time sensitive pattern to the killer’s plan. True to form, the trainees begin to drop like flies, leaving those remaining to begin pointing fingers at each other. Compounding tensions is the presence of outsider Gabe Jensen (LL Cool J), a cop invited along to observe the exercises. Suspicion immediately falls to him, but given the obviousness of his status as an interloper, and his heroic efforts to save the group, he doesn’t register as a legitimate suspect.

In its defense, “Mindhunters” stages imaginatively grisly deaths for its victims, and director Harlin relishes the opportunity to show off each nasty demise – even when employing laughably horrendous CGI. Harlin also keeps the film chugging along at a rapid clip, which certainly helps hide its deficiencies in logic. The industrial setting, filled with crumbling, empty buildings laced with all kinds of pipes and tanks, makes an ideal playground for this kind of nonsense. Some viewers will cringe at cinematographer Robert Gantz’s sickly green palette, but the desaturated look occasionally assists the anxiousness of the proceedings.

With the exception of LL Cool J, Kilmer, and Christian Slater, none of the cast members has enjoyed extraordinary fame. Kathryn Morris, who appears on “Cold Case,” has the largest role, but “Mindhunters” is not exactly the kind of movie that one associates with stellar acting. Jonny Lee Miller tries out a shaky accent. Patricia Velasquez, as the only other female profiler beside Morris, suffers the indignity of lathering up Slater in a gratuitous shower scene. Eion Bailey does his finest Jason Patrick impersonation. Confined to a wheelchair, Clifton Collins, Jr. is nearly as twitchy as his drug dealer in “The Rules of Attraction.” Will Kemp, who appeared in “Van Helsing,” scarcely registers this time out. None of the acting is poor – that distinction largely belongs to sections of Wayne Kramer and Kevin Brodbin’s script. Even so, “Mindhunters” offers enough cheap thrills to make it worth seeing on a rainy day.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Bearing almost no resemblance to the 1953 Vincent Price film that inspired it, the new “House of Wax” should please genre fans looking for elaborate makeup effects that capitalize on a multitude of macabre and sadistic depictions of mayhem and bloodletting. Sticking close to the formula in which a maniac cuts a group of mostly moronic teens down to the last one or two standing, “House of Wax” has just enough ghoulish humor to keep it from melting. First-time helmer Jaume Collet-Serra deserves credit for keeping things fairly interesting, and even manages to stage a few genuinely memorable set-pieces along the way to a predictable conclusion. Rest assured, “House of Wax” is strictly for folks who get a kick out of titles like “Wrong Turn,” “Cabin Fever,” and the recent remake of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Everybody else should stay far, far away.

A half-dozen kids take a detour on the way to a sporting event and end up near Ambrose, Louisiana, a cobwebby backwater that seems to have missed the memo about the 21st century. The movie theatre loops “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?” and a filling station and a church appear to host the only signs of life in town. Of the remaining buildings, an imposing Art Deco museum (with signage matching the film’s title) serves as a reminder of the hamlet’s better days. Production designer Graham “Grace” Walker and wax body supervisor Jason Baird deserve mention for their impressive work, which rises above the usual slasher flick fare.

The six youngsters include twins Carly and Nick (played by Elisha Cuthbert and Chad Michael Murray), Carly’s boyfriend Wade (Jared Padalecki), Nick’s buddy Dalton (Jon Abrahams), and libidinous couple Blake (Robert Ri’chard) and Paige (Paris Hilton). Certainly the appearance of overexposed celebrity Hilton will draw a few curiosity seekers, but one of the movie’s biggest surprises is that the heiress isn’t completely abominable as an actor. Hilton’s presence also merits a handful of jokes at her own expense, including a wink and a nod to her sex tape scandal.

Thematically, “House of Wax” trots out a twins motif, pitting Carly and Nick against psycho siblings Bo and Vincent (both played by Brian Van Holt). Screenwriters Chad Hayes and Carey W. Hayes, also twins, hopefully draw lightly on their own experiences, as Bo and Vincent are a gruesome twosome. While sadistic Bo sticks with snipping off a victim’s finger and super-gluing someone’s mouth shut, Vincent’s methods are more mechanically involved. Like a deadly spider, he drenches his still breathing prey in hot wax, ultimately sculpting them into eerie, hair-raising imitations of life. The effects are often disgustingly remarkable, and the museum’s parlor, filled with unmoving figures, will inspire unpleasant dreams for some.

At times, “House of Wax” teeters precariously on the edge of overcompensating for its formula-bound genre customs (whenever convenient, we learn more than we really need to about Vincent and Bo). The clumsy exposition, however, doesn’t compare with the inexplicable choices made by the characters: harassing the locals by smashing out a headlight, discovering a huge pit of rotting roadkill, splitting up, breaking into ominous buildings, accepting rides from strangers, etc. – which play like a laundry list of things to avoid when in peril. Needless to say, these are the very things that make slasher movies tick, and the target demographic for “House of Wax” is not likely to complain.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Director Danny Boyle, a stylish filmmaker who always manages to provide audiences with something to chew on, does not seem a likely candidate to make a heartwarming tale of a philanthropic little boy dealing with the death of his mother. Despite its mostly tender pleasantness, however, “Millions” steers clear of mawkishness, and turns out to be the kind of entertainment that people of many different ages will enjoy. “Millions” cannot properly be called a children’s movie, but it certainly contains an alluring central design that all kids fantasize about: the sudden appearance of instant wealth unencumbered by responsibility to any grown-ups.

As young Damian, Alex Etel makes a striking feature debut. The pint-sized, freckled thespian will surely draw adoring sighs from the audience, but his preternatural intelligence tempers his cuteness. Moving with his brother and father into a brand new housing development, Damian makes off with several large packing boxes to construct a little fort along the nearby railroad tracks. Inexplicably, a duffel bag bursting at the seams with cash literally seems to fall out of the sky. Its impact just misses the boy, but takes out a section of his cardboard castle. Damian alerts brother Anthony (Lewis McGibbon) to the fortune, and before you know it, the kids have started spreading their windfall.

While Damian is immediately taken with the idea that the money can be used to help others, Anthony buys tech toys, cool sunglasses, and the friendship of his new classmates. In one hilarious image, Boyle depicts Anthony riding into the schoolyard on the back of a pal’s bike, surrounded by jogging minders who look just like miniature versions of secret service agents in a presidential motorcade. Anthony also seems to have a solid grasp of the value of real estate investments, while Damian is content to stuff fistfuls of cash though the mail slot of a nearby group of Mormons.

Boyle introduces several engaging complications, including the “Great Expectations”-esque appearance of a stocking cap-wearing baddie sniffing around for the loot, a love interest for Damian’s pop, and the imminent conversion of pounds to euros, which means that Damian’s riches come with the urgency of an expiration date. The film’s other primary gimmick is Damian’s ability to carry on imaginary conversations with a variety of long dead saints. Boyle manages this busy palette with aplomb, and the director’s signature penchant for skillful, on-the-ball visuals enlivens the story from start to finish.

Frank Cottrell Boyce’s (“24 Hour Party People”) screenplay excels in its ability to tap into the particular logic of childhood, and despite a few head-scratching turns in the final act, hurtles forward with just the right amount of speed and momentum. While there is no question the film’s point of view belongs to Damian, it might have been nice to spend a few more scenes developing the relationship between Damian’s father Ronnie (James Nesbitt) and new friend Dorothy (Daisy Donovan). Boyce should certainly be praised, however, for his ability to sketch such believable generosity in a young boy. “Millions” is tenacious in its avoidance of too much cynicism, and that is refreshing indeed.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Stephen Chow’s “Kung Fu Hustle” is surely one of contemporary cinema’s finest examples of innovatively and effectively integrated CGI. Unlike Lucas’ soul-crushing “Star Wars” prequel juggernauts, as well as the “Matrix” series, Chow recognizes the vast, nearly untapped comic potential of pixel-bound nonsense. Totally unafraid to attempt any kind of jaw-droppingly goofy sight gag, Chow’s universe is completely comfortable in its ability to channel the kind of gravity defying impossibilities perfected by masters like Tex Avery. “Kung Fu Hustle” announces itself as a parody, but Chow’s skillful storytelling, along with his genuine reverence for past masters, makes the film one of the most entertaining of the year.

Set in a fairy-tale past suggesting the 1940s, Chow’s film kicks things off with a dazzling opening sequence that introduces the audience to the Axe Gang, a legion of dapper, tuxedoed thugs who break into choreographed dance routines upon completion of their grisly business. Two desperate wannabes (director Chow and Lam Tze Chung), posing as members of the Axes, draw the gang’s attention to Pig Sty Alley, a marvelously designed tenement, which also happens to be home to several former kung fu masters who can more than handle themselves in a fight. Pig Sty Alley serves as the primary setting for a heart-stopping run of tasty battles, and Chow stages the numerous clashes with reckless, delirious abandon.

Every clever confrontation in “Kung Fu Hustle” contains as much humor as it does impressive combat, which should satisfy genre fans who like to laugh. Not wanting to skimp on the wow factor, Chow enlisted the brilliant Yuen Wo Ping to design the skirmishes, and the legendary fight director delivers some of the finest displays of his career. Chow’s cast, which includes several legendary performers, is nearly perfect, and Yuen Qiu, as a chain-smoking landlady in curlers, slippers, and a housecoat, steals the movie with her exquisite deadpan expressions and her ability to deliver a serious beating.

Chow’s intertextual stew doesn’t stop with Avery cartoons, as “Kung Fu Hustle” nods in the direction of Sergio Leone, Fred Astaire, “Gangs of New York,” and “The Shining,” just to name a few. Amidst all the pop culture references, Chow still finds time to weave in a dewy romantic subplot involving his character and a mute childhood sweetheart (Huang Sheng Yi) who runs an ice cream cart as a grown-up. Despite being filled in with flashbacks, Chow’s nostalgic reverie needs a little more development to work as a full-fledged component of the movie, but it is hard to deny the charisma of the attractive lovebirds.

Chow leaves no doubt, however, that the visuals are the chief attraction, and his vivid style makes for some memorable imagery: giant palm prints stamp the earth, musical instruments send out hellish banshees that lop off heads and slice cats in two, and bodies stretch and twist like Reed Richards and Eel O’Brian. With so much on display, the most enjoyable aspect of the movie comes from the giddy realization that anything can happen (and often does). With “Kung Fu Hustle,” Chow cements his place as a sensational moviemaker. His admirers will wait eagerly to see what he does next.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Arguably the most notorious porno film in the history of American movie exhibition, “Deep Throat” serves as the subject of Fenton Bailey and Randy Barbato’s latest razzle-dazzle documentary. Often touted as the most profitable movie ever made (a claim that on some level remains unverifiable, as many of the box office receipts were swallowed up – pun intended – by shady mob operators who shook down theater owners for a chunk of every night’s take), “Deep Throat” emerged at a time in which strange cultural forces seem to have aligned: middle America not only acknowledged the movie’s existence, people of all kinds of backgrounds and income levels clamored to see it.

Directed by ex-hairdresser Gerard Damiano, now a Florida-dwelling retiree, “Deep Throat” presented a ridiculous scenario in which a woman whose clitoris exists at the back of her throat finds fulfillment only through performing fellatio. While the male-centric flaw in this conceit is immediately identifiable as a misogynistic fantasy, the notion that a woman’s sense of pleasure even registers as something of importance ended up being a crucial factor in the reception of the movie – especially when it became the target of investigations by the federal government.

Bailey and Barbato rocket through dozens of incredible stock footage shots that give “Inside Deep Throat” a tremendous feel for the era, but the interviews they conduct with the central players in the “Deep Throat” saga are just as entertaining. Along with an oddball gallery of peripheral participants in the movie’s production, director Damiano and actor Harry Reems contribute fascinating anecdotes. “Deep Throat” star Linda Lovelace, who died from injuries sustained in a car accident in 2002, appears in numerous clips that trace her unsettling personal saga from her violent relationship with uber-creepy husband Chuck Traynor to her status as pop culture icon to her role as a symbol of the anti-porn crusade to her untimely death. Lovelace’s ghost haunts “Inside Deep Throat” to the same extent that Reems mind-boggling odyssey provides the film with its most literal depiction of the cycle of sin, punishment, and redemption.

In a series of Kafkaesque decisions that culminated in Reems’ unfathomable conviction, “Inside Deep Throat” recounts the actor’s unlikely trajectory from bit player to cause celebre. In one segment, we see Reems flanked by Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty, two of many celebrities who came to the beleaguered actor’s defense. Yet another clip shows Reems on television debating Roy Cohn, with Cohn shouting down Reems with fire and brimstone pronouncements about the workings of the Bill of Rights. American second and third acts are nothing if not strange: Reems is now a recovered substance abuser who sells real estate in Utah.

Many pundits have suggested that it was the government’s intense scrutiny of “Deep Throat” that generated undeserved interest in the movie, and Damiano cheerfully admits on camera that his most famous film is terrible. “Deep Throat” seemed to reach out across the 70s and beyond, and Bailey and Barbato do their best to figure out why the film transcended its status as public enemy number one during the Nixon years (that Nixon was brought down by an anonymous source called Deep Throat is a delicious irony not lost on the moviemakers). An impressive group of talking heads pops up throughout “Inside Deep Throat,” including John Waters, Camille Paglia, Norman Mailer, Gore Vidal, Hugh Hefner, Erica Jong, and Dick Cavett. No matter how witty and pithy, their recollections never fully account for the popularity of “Deep Throat,” which is undoubtedly part of the notorious movie’s mystique.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Prolific legend Woody Allen has been fair game of late for releasing a string of films dismissed by critics and ignored by American audiences. Despite a few terrific features (“Deconstructing Harry” and “Sweet and Lowdown” jump to mind), none of Allen’s more recent films have compared to the career achievements of the 1970s and 1980s. Still, one admires Allen for cranking them out at the rate of nearly one per year, and “Melinda and Melinda” is a pleasant enough diversion that shows off a few of Allen’s skillful attributes: colorful casting, exquisite photography and production design, and an almost quaint, old fashioned sense of NYC romance.

Playing out a clever conceit in which two stories featuring the same central character are alternately presented as the faces of tragedy and comedy, “Melinda and Melinda” never ends up going far enough to show just how difficult it is to tell happy and sad apart from one another. It would certainly help if the tragic aspects were poignant and the comic aspects were hilarious, but as it is, “Melinda and Melinda” seems content to show off the considerable skill of Radha Mitchell in the titular role(s). The two-pronged narrative begins with a series of similarities that keeps the audience engaged trying to sort out just how much the stories will have in common (two dentists, two out-of-work actors, two magic lanterns, two dinner parties, etc.).

In both stories, Melinda is an emotional wreck who appears unannounced to insert herself in the lives of some of Allen’s favorite stock types: actors, musicians, and filmmakers. In the tragic thread, Melinda tracks down her old college friend Laurel (Chloe Sevigny), and Laurel’s alcoholic husband Lee (Jonny Lee Miller), convincing them to let her stay at their fabulously appointed apartment. In the comic narrative, Melinda lives in the same building as movie director Susan (Amanda Peet) and Susan’s neglected husband Hobie (Will Ferrell).

Allen makes sure that both Melindas inject plenty of conflict into the lives and marriages of her acquaintances, but the film includes far too few significant revelations or surprises to keep the audience interested beyond the level of curiosity generated by the unique parallelisms of the double story. As an actor, Allen’s own presence is missed, and Will Ferrell’s attempt to play the familiar Woody character meets with mixed results. Only the appearance of Chiwetel Ejiofor, as the elegantly named pianist Ellis Moonsong, injects the proceedings with some overdue sparkle.

The film is so mild mannered, it ends up being neither comedy nor tragedy, and too many of the supporting players are left with little to do. Like all of Allen’s movies, however, the music selections (encompassing the usual array of the director’s favorite pop and jazz standards) are top notch, and greatly contribute to Allen’s fantasy construction of Manhattan. “Melinda and Melinda” lacks the razor sharp bite of Allen’s best writing, and the rapid-fire wit is sorely missed. Allen has balanced the bittersweet happy/sad dynamic more effectively in films like “Annie Hall” and “Crimes and Misdemeanors” – and while those films are great, “Melinda and Melinda” ends up being for hardcore Allen fanatics only.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A tour de force of hard-boiled crime fiction clichés and pulpy noir fever dreams, “Sin City” is the first exciting movie to be released in 2005. Tenaciously faithful to comic book deity Frank Miller’s popular series, “Sin City” boasts a volcanic ferocity that will quicken the pulse and tighten the pants of scores of drooling, perspiring, adolescent and post-adolescent fanboys. Helmed by Miller and Robert Rodriguez (with a well-tuned scene by special guest director Quentin Tarantino), “Sin City” succeeds almost solely on the slavishness of its adherence to Miller’s gloriously penciled and inked panels. Seldom has a movie recreated the particular experience of reading comic books.

Reconstructing four of Miller’s stories (only three of which get the full treatment), “Sin City” likes to find a single exposed nerve and poke it over and over. The major protagonists all seem to define themselves as protectors of women – despite the fact that some of the females in Sin City clearly don’t need protecting. Add to that creaky chivalric trope Miller’s never-ending castration and emasculation motif and you have a recipe that seems certain to part America’s teenagers from their allowances (assuming they can sneak past the decidedly R rating).

As usual, violence trumps sex as the socially acceptable graphic engine that drives our voyeuristic lust, and despite the parade of barely-clad hotties in impossibly skimpy bondage-wear, Miller and Rodriguez are much more comfortable when they can focus on the two-fisted sadism that chokes nearly every CGI frame of their visual experiment. The filmmakers revel in the various ways street justice is meted out: arrows thump through chests, necks are chomped, limbs are separated from bodies, heads are stomped into unrecognizable puddles of bone and brain, and so on. Male genitals suffer every indignity: kicked, stabbed, and shot off, nuts are the target du jour.

Despite the casting of a parade of A-list talent, it is the seemingly washed-up Mickey Rourke who delivers the movie’s only really great performance. As the relentless, unstable Marv, Rourke manages something none of his co-stars can muster: he brings his character to vivid, muscular life. Buried under a mask of prosthetics, Rourke infuses Marv with both the brutal despair of a condemned prisoner and the rabid dangerousness of a wounded predator. Cracking spines and crushing skulls like a supernatural killing machine, Rourke seems to have found the role of a lifetime.

While the other major stories deliver their fair share of gut-bucket mayhem, Rodriguez and Miller seem too preoccupied with the stylish production design to bother much with script mechanics. “Sin City,” heavily influenced by “Pulp Fiction,” fails to intertwine its narrative threads as deftly as Tarantino did in his landmark film. One could argue that “Sin City” is meant to play like the comic book all the way down to its episodic structure, but great cinema has its own set of demands. At more than two hours, the movie version nearly wears out its welcome, and it is in large measure due to the lumbering, one-thing-at-a-time approach to the material. Even so, the movie’s eye-popping visuals nearly make up for its deficiencies, and “Sin City” already looks like a cult destination.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Based on the 1945 film “La Cage aux Rossignols,” Christophe Barratier’s “Les Choristes” (translated stateside as “The Chorus”) evokes plenty of other movies, from “Zero for Conduct” to “Mr. Holland’s Opus.” Told in flashback, the story transports the viewers to Fond de l’Etang, a strict boarding school for young boys of the deeply troubled and often orphaned variety. A single, middle-aged teacher named Clement Mathieu (Gerard Jugnot) takes a job at the grim institution, where he is immediately shocked by the deplorable, heavy-handed approach of the vile headmaster.

Mathieu talks his boss into letting him start up a choir, and before you can warble “Kyrie Eleison,” the discipline-challenged moppets are singing together in perfect harmony. Among the youth gone wild is Pierre (Jean-Baptiste Maunier), a sullen pretty boy with a huge chip on his shoulder. Pierre’s mother (Marie Bunel) is attractive and single, and the boy must endure the kinds of comments one would expect from the coarse inhabitants of his dormitory. Primarily to alleviate concerns that Mathieu might have an unwholesome interest in his charges, the script finds time for the teacher to pine away for Pierre’s mom. Fortunately, Jugnot’s fine performance tempers some of the obviousness of this plot device.

“Les Choristes” quietly sidesteps the issue of pedophilia (it is brought up, and then immediately dismissed), but the movie might have been stronger had Barratier and his co-screenwriter Phillipe Lopes-Curval chosen to explore it. As it is, “Les Choristes” often strains to fill time, and resorts to a half-baked subplot concerning the arrival of a thuggish bully who threatens the other boys and indirectly places the future of the choir in jeopardy. An arresting scene in which the young tough is brutally punished by the cruel headmaster, however, hints at the frustration supported by the theory that corporal discipline merely breeds violence.

“Les Choristes,” like “Dead Poets Society,” puts its faith in the idea that one great teacher can inspire creativity, gratitude, and a love of learning in the hardest-hearted would-be scholars. Like the long parade of films in the tradition of super-educators, “Les Choristes” adheres closely to the formulaic elements that are demanded: battles with administrators (here thinly veiled as a symbol of fascism versus democracy), a moment of near hopelessness, and the obligatory triumphant performance or demonstration of skill learned at the feet of the doting professor. None of the clichés are over the top, but missing are the unique and distinguishing details that would elevate the film to a higher rank.

A smash hit in France, “Les Choristes” dispatches its tale with enough warmth and charm to please most audience members. It doesn’t hurt that the singing is provided by a stunning choir, the Petits Chanteurs de Saint Marc, or that director Barratier applies the tunes early and often. Enjoyment of the movie will depend to a large extent on how much one cares for old-fashioned yarns in the tradition of “Goodbye, Mr. Chips.” In addition to the music, the solid production values (particularly the gloomy, dank keep where the action is set) help to make the film easy to watch, even when it practically insists on tearful sentimentality.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Over the closing credits of “Bride and Prejudice,” a quick cameo featuring movie mogul-bulldog Harvey Weinstein reminds viewers that when it comes to filmmaking, it’s all about the Benjamins – which means that quality more than occasionally takes a back seat to the sheer force of marketing a seemingly good idea. A Bollywood-style re-imagining of “Pride and Prejudice” looks great on paper, but the execution of Gurinder Chadha’s follow-up to her winning “Bend It Like Beckham” never gets a shot on goal. Coarse, simple-minded, and nearly dead on arrival, “Bride and Prejudice” is a major step backward for its director.

Trying much too hard to be up-to-the-minute and old fashioned at the same time, “Bride and Prejudice” brings the rudiments of Jane Austen’s classic story to India, where Lalita Bakshi (gorgeous star Aishwarya Rai) contends with the “marriage fever” that seems to have gripped everyone around her. Along with her three eligible sisters, Lalita faces daily pressure from her strident mother to find the right match, but the young woman knows in her heart that she must buck custom and find love before consenting to marry anyone. At – where else? – a colorful wedding dance, Lalita meets Amerian hotel tycoon Will Darcy (Martin Henderson) and the opposites immediately attract, even though the road to their eventual coupling proves rocky.

Henderson, unfortunately, cannot negotiate the subtleties required to play his part, and the blandly handsome performer fails to ignite any sparks with his lovely co-star. It doesn’t help that the movie strictly adheres to the chaste Bollywood rule that eschews onscreen passion – even one forbidden kiss on the mouth might have given the story just the jolt it needed. Lalita and Will bicker foolishly over high-minded idealism (she chastises him for wanting to spoil her beloved India with a tourist hotel, even as Chadha’s overuse of aerial establishing shots plays like a travel video).

The dialogue is embarrassingly awful throughout, and even the usually unsinkable musical numbers pop up awkwardly, with seemingly little thought given to their placement in the film. At one point, a trip to the beaches of Goa promises an exotic change of pace (Lalita’s mother even clucks that it will provide an opportunity to break out the swimming suits), but Chadha keeps her performers covered up, instead directing our attention to an almost surreal spectacle featuring American R&B princess Ashanti.

The misunderstandings that pepper the skeletal plot seem more at home in a lame sit-com, and too many of the weak machinations could have been solved with a simple dose of candid truth rather than the forced concealments that ridiculously lead to near-panic (Lalita’s little sister takes up with a rival of Will’s who turns out – to nobody’s surprise – to be a dastardly cad). “Bride and Prejudice” shifts its action to London and Beverly Hills, but the geographic eye-candy remains as underutilized as Rai. Rai is already a big star in her native country, and given the right role, her charisma might allow her to make a mark on American cinema as well. Unfortunately, “Bride and Prejudice” is not the film that will do it.