Movie review by Greg Carlson

It was too much to hope that somehow, “Friday Night Lights” would be significantly different from other high school sports movies, because in that final quarter, just like clockwork, it all comes down to one play. Sure, the movie squirms around with some of the difficult realities of the football-equals-everything logic that nearly destroys the young men of desolate West Texas towns, but when you peel back the top layer, everything looks awfully familiar. Does a star athlete get injured? Yup. Does the coach deliver a rousing locker room speech? Check. Does the team forge an emotional bond that transcends the boundaries of typical adolescent relationships? Maybe.

Based on H.G. Bissinger’s noteworthy book, “Friday Night Lights” tries really hard to question the value system that places unyielding pressure on students to perform like seasoned pros. The movie is directed by actor Peter Berg, and stars Billy Bob Thornton – in another excellent performance – as coach Gary Gaines. Thornton is a marvelous performer, and his offbeat choices are always infused with a sublime sense of authenticity. Gaines may be quick to cut loose with amusing outbursts of “my goodness gracious” when a player does something foolish, but underneath, he has the instincts needed to cope with a town where the team-makers will have your job if you fail to deliver a state championship.

The players are quickly sketched, and only a few manage enough screen time to develop identifiable personalities. Lucas Black plays quarterback Mike Winchell, a morose downer who takes care of his ailing mother even as he dreams about escaping Odessa, Texas for a better life. Winchell doesn’t seem to care about football all that much, and that alone distinguishes him from most of the other characters. Boobie Miles (Derek Luke) is the cocky, talented running back who has already started to pick out the expensive cars that will be his once he joins the NFL. Don Billingsley (Garrett Hedlund) tiptoes around his abusive father (a quite good Tim McGraw), a former state football champ whose alcoholism poses a real threat to his son.

“Friday Night Lights” is more serious-minded than “Varsity Blues,” but both movies cover a lot of the same turf. Like the book upon which it is based, “Friday Night Lights” covers the ups and downs of the Permian High School Panthers during the course of the 1988 season (love the mileage Berg gets out of acid-washed jeans and Boobie’s Public Enemy jacket), but the film could really be set in any year. Gridiron crunches are the main draw, and as a result, female characters are left underdeveloped at best, totally ignored at worst. The townspeople who delight in hassling Gaines are depicted as drooling rednecks; the best line is overheard on a radio call in show when an angry fan moans that maybe too much learning and not enough football is going on at the school.

The film would have been more interesting if its skepticism had been allowed a stronger voice. With sports movies, though, you cannot bite the hand that feeds. Football, therefore, is center stage and Berg depicts the action on the field with color and intensity. Fans of the game will likely ignore any of the uglier side-effects that small town football brings out in its acolytes – the game footage is much too dynamic to let that happen. “Friday Night Lights” does quite well, however, with the details and the moments. For the audience members who are not sports fans, the movie has enough criticism to affirm the underlying assertion that high school athletes are disposable. Seniors inevitably graduate, and there is always hope for next year’s team.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Truncating the John Irving novel upon which his movie is based, and changing the title from “A Widow for One Year” to “The Door in the Floor,” director Tod Williams manages an impressive feat of good moviemaking. Irving rarely makes it to the screen without an abundance of the florid sentimentalism that somehow works better on the page (think “The Cider House Rules” and “Simon Birch”), and for the most part, Williams steers clear of the obvious traps provided by a story that could so easily wallow in the loss of innocence, the loss of children, and the loss of a marriage. “The Door in the Floor” is by no means perfect, but it is entertaining, and features at least one performance that should not be missed.

Veteran actor Jeff Bridges plays children’s book author Ted Cole, an alcoholic and part-time nudist whose marriage has collapsed in the years following a freak accident that claimed the lives of his teenage sons. Ted’s separation from wife Marion (Kim Basinger) corresponds with the hiring of aspiring writer Eddie O’Hare (Jon Foster), an Exeter student who has arranged a summer internship with Ted. It doesn’t take Eddie long to discover that Ted only needs him as a driver, but Eddie is a polite kid, and he is also more than a little attracted to the practically catatonic Marion.

Before you can say Oedipus, Marion is instructing Eddie in the finer points of lovemaking, but the movie is resolute that sex is only one thing worth considering in this fascinating tableau. The principal trio deceive themselves as much as they deceive one another, but Williams (like Irving) is not terribly interested in generating any suspense related to dangerous liaisons. Instead, the filmmaker takes the time to explore the process of mourning, the discovery that one’s hero can be less than heroic, and the reality that grief is dealt with in unique ways by different people.

“The Door in the Floor” only falters toward the end, when a strange shift in tone makes room for a goofy slapstick sequence that would have worked better if more humor had been allowed in the first sections of the movie. Nearly all of the other details in the film are expertly observed, however, and Williams capitalizes on several visual motifs, including the quiet clicking of a turn signal, the fetishizing of undergarments, and the hallway shrine of photographs that makes the house feel like a mausoleum. Additionally, the misty environs surrounding Ted’s rambling Hamptons estate are beautifully photographed by Terry Stacey.

Even though plenty of plotting surrounds Eddie’s relationship with Marion, Williams ultimately settles on Ted as the central figure of the film (the final shot alone, a wordless summary of all that has come before, is thoughtfully linked to the new title). Bridges, who is surely one of the finest, most underrated actors of this or any other generation, provides Ted with unforgettable personality traits. Ted is larger than life, but somehow familiar: he is unfaithful to his wife, but is a good father to his daughter. He can be generous one second and completely vain and self-involved the next. It is only when you realize that Ted’s narcissism operates (like Marion’s silence) as a defense mechanism shielding him from his pain that the story comes into sharp focus. Many actors would embarrass themselves trying to deliver Ted’s rambling monologue that recounts the deaths of his sons. Bridges makes it look easy.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Patrice Leconte’s filmography is peppered with many excellent, entertaining movies, including “The Girl on the Bridge,” “Ridicule,” and “The Widow of Saint-Pierre.” His latest, “Intimate Strangers,” is not nearly as good as those three, but for patient audience members, it still manages to stimulate the senses in satisfying ways. Written by Jerome Tonnerre, “Intimate Strangers” operates like a stage play, with much of the action limited to the flat/office of William Faber, a lonely, middle-aged tax lawyer, played expertly by Fabrice Luchini. Despite the restricted venue, however, Leconte busies himself with the psychological motivations of his characters, and the result is a story that explores the boundaries of sexual paralysis and romantic trepidation.

William’s peaceful, dull routine is interrupted one day with the arrival of Anna (Sandrine Bonnaire), a troubled woman who begins to share intimate details about her marriage. Too flummoxed to interrupt, William realizes that Anna has made a mistake: she thinks he is the psychoanalyst whose office is down the hall. In a weaker film, this premise would have been enough to sustain a farcical comedy of errors in which the mistaken identity is only discovered in the final act. Leconte, however, is more interested in exploring the sorts of things that happen following the revelation of truth, so we are somewhat surprised when William tells Anna he is not a shrink, and she decides to continue seeing him anyway.

As Anna and William forge their bizarre relationship, Leconte nearly tires himself out trying to evoke the erotic tension found in so many of Hitchcock’s great films. “Intimate Strangers” lacks most of the high-stakes danger that propelled “Vertigo,” “North by Northwest,” and “Rear Window,” which makes William’s obsession with Anna more humdrum than it ought to be. The rather late arrival of Anna’s creepy husband delivers a jolt, but the movie would have been much stronger had Leconte pursued this angle in greater depth.

Leconte chooses coyness over disclosure, and the strategy works for some scenes but hampers others. To what degree is Anna manipulating William? Does William even suspect her of duplicity? The characters are often too opaque to enjoy, and the director seems content to keep his viewers in the dark too much of the time. Little clues suggest that William and Anna are greatly stimulated by their doctor-patient formality (a shot of William dancing to “In the Midnight Hour” is one of the movie’s comic highlights), but Leconte keeps the lust on a mighty short leash.

Most of the film’s supporting players exist to poke holes in William’s fantasy, but as signposts of reality, they also provide the audience with much-needed context. William’s former partner Jeanne (Anne Brochet) pops up often enough to scold him for his mind games with Anna. William’s secretary, Mrs. Mulon (Helene Surgere), is simply delightful as she shoots withering glances and mumbles bitter complaints under her breath. Dr. Monnier (Michel Duchaussoy), the real psychologist Anna intended to see in the first place, is suitably pompous and greedy. His interactions with William are clever and revealing. Despite an awkward ending, Leconte wants his viewers to leave the theatre with ideas to ponder. Whether one spends any time thinking about “Intimate Strangers” depends on how much joy can be found in material designed to conceal a cryptic agenda.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

As sports comedies go, “Wimbledon” looks like a champ next to most of its competition. More often than not, it rises above the requisite clichés with reasonably believable dialogue and two terrific lead performers in Paul Bettany and Kirsten Dunst. The film follows the template developed in contemporary British films like “Four Weddings and a Funeral” and “Notting Hill,” in which proper gentlemen are thunderstruck by dazzling, brash American women. That said, director Richard Loncraine (who also helmed the incredible alternate-history version of “Richard III” with Ian McKellen) works overtime to sidestep most of the script’s shortcomings, which tend to be composed of dozens of familiar tricks.

Bettany plays fading tennis pro Peter Colt. At one time ranked 11th in the world, Colt enters the Wimbledon tournament unseeded, and win or lose, he has decided to zip up his racket at the end of his run. Dunst’s Lizzie Bradbury is the diametric opposite of Colt on the court. Young, energetic, and focused, her star is on the rise. Following a hotel room mix up, in which Peter accidentally surprises the unembarrassed Lizzie while she takes a shower, the two discover a mutual attraction that leads to some pre-game canoodling. Lizzie’s father, the hard-edged Dennis (Sam Neill), dislikes distractions to his daughter’s game, and tells Peter to beat it.

Bettany plays Peter with enough self doubt that we would not be at all shocked if he heeded the warnings of Dennis, but Lizzie, being equally hot and aggressive, pursues the affair. Following the demands of the screenplay, the sex invigorates Peter’s on-court performance, and he finds himself advancing through the rounds even as Lizzie begins to falter. This reversal of fortune sets up the majority of the movie’s dramatic conflict, which never works up as much sweat as Peter does during his matches.

Bettany fares better in the dialogue department than Dunst, but not by much. Whenever he is on the court, a truly unnecessary, annoying voiceover narrates the confusion bouncing around in his head. Bettany is accomplished enough to save the technique from being a total disaster, but the movie would have been much stronger without the interior monologue. Bettany manages his role so nicely, he can add romantic comedy to his already impressive roster of cinematic strengths. His performances in “Master and Commander” and “Dogville” showed much greater range, but there is no doubt that his play in “Wimbledon” will win him an even larger base of admirers.

The supporting players, including Bernard Hill and Eleanor Bron as Peter’s parents and Jon Favreau as an oily sports agent, are effectively employed, despite the obviousness of their inclusion as fluffy subplots. The film also manages to depict the Wimbledon tournament with cinematic flair: the filmmakers had permission to shoot at the All England Lawn Tennis and Croquet Club during the actual competition, and Darius Khondji’s photography captures the speed and excitement of the game. Perhaps the most disappointing element of “Wimbledon” is the character of Lizzie, who should have been given more of the kind of material that makes Peter three dimensional. Dunst is ready to volley, but the writing double-faults. Even so, “Wimbledon” remains pleasant and entertaining through match point.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

An assured first feature from writer-director Joshua Marston, “Maria Full of Grace” transports viewers into the tense, desperate world of illegal international drug smuggling. Unlike films that treat this subject with lurid action sequences fraught with phony car chases and salvos from automatic weapons, Marston’s movie focuses instead on the emotional plight of the title character, a 17-year-old Columbian who agrees to become a mule out of economic necessity. The director refuses to romanticize either Maria (Catalina Sandino Moreno) or her new vocation, and the result is a clear-eyed tale more interested in hope than in despair.

Stripping thorns from roses in a florist’s sweatshop in her dreary hometown, Maria bitterly turns over the majority of her meager paychecks to her mother and sister. Facing a grim, dead-end future, Maria impulsively quits her job, much to the surprise of her family and the consternation of her best friend, the naïve Blanca (Yenny Paola Vega). To make matters worse, Maria discovers she is pregnant, but realizes she has zero interest in marrying her dull boyfriend Juan (Wilson Guerrero). With seemingly few opportunities in her immediate future, Maria finds herself hanging out with charismatic Franklin (Jhon Alex Toro), who matter-of-factly suggests she make money by transporting latex-wrapped pellets of heroin in her stomach as a drug courier.

Moreno plays Maria with a rock-solid center of gravity, and her soulful eyes speak volumes when words are not offered. The audience responds to Maria’s predicament with no small amount of resignation and fear, and it is to Moreno’s credit that she can negotiate the uncertain terrain of her harrowing new experiences in such a way that allows the audience to see that she will not compromise her dream of a better life for the criminals who exploit her. The scenes in which Maria prepares for her flight to America are genuinely frightening, as she is made to ingest 62 sizeable rubber packets. If any of the balloons breaks while in her stomach, the overdose would certainly mean the end of her life.

Prior to departure, Maria meets Lucy (Guilied Lopez), another young drug mule who has already made the trip to New York and back at least once before. Lucy shares her pellet-swallowing technique with Maria, and offers what little advice and wisdom she can. Maria realizes that a total of four drug runners are on her flight, and she is dismayed when one of them turns out to be Blanca. The journey from Bogota is incredibly unnerving, and Marston unflinchingly depicts the discomfort and stress of the contraband-carrying women. Once the plane has touched down, the labyrinth of international customs provides another opportunity for the director to turn up the heat, and Maria’s experience continues to induce stomach-churning, white-knuckle anxiety in the viewer.

What follows is Marston’s greatest accomplishment, as the filmmaker eschews most of the predictable outcomes for one in which Maria begins to take some control over her destiny. The remainder of the film introduces several beguiling characters, including Lucy’s sister Carla (Patricia Rae) and the well-connected Don Fernando (Orlando Tobon), a neighborhood fixer at the heart of the tightly-knit Columbian immigrant community. The movie, however, ultimately belongs to Moreno, and the young performer succeeds in guiding the viewer to an understanding and explanation of Maria’s dangerous choices.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-director David Oas is the unlikeliest of first time moviemakers.  At 67, the retired college teacher has channeled his background in clinical psychology into the shot-on-video feature “Raspberry Heaven,” which opens at the Fargo Theatre on Friday, September 10.  Born in Northwood, North Dakota, Oas is a Moorhead High School and Concordia College alumnus who ended up in Ashland, Oregon following his graduate studies.  In addition to his tenure at Southern Oregon University, Oas has maintained a small, private psychology practice for many years.  “Raspberry Heaven” represents the fulfillment of a long-held dream for Oas, and the movie certainly rewards fans of independently produced, low budget, do-it-yourself storytelling.

Troubled Angie Callaway (Alicia Lagano) uses cocaine to escape the painful memories of her childhood, despite the care and protection of her brother Kurt (Morgan Spector).  Following a strange and violent sexual encounter between Angie and a one-night stand who attempts to file assault charges, police detective Alex Purdue (Michael Elich) discovers a backpack stuffed with cash in Angie’s closet and begins an investigation of the unusual siblings.  Meanwhile, psychologist Nathan Andrews (Doug Rowe) meets with Angie and the two form a bond as they try to unravel her grim, sketchy memories.  The relationships between the characters are complicated by Purdue’s own recent past: his daughter was a patient in the care of Andrews when she committed suicide.

Certainly, “Raspberry Heaven” displays a tremendous sense of ambition in both storyline and technical execution.  Oas manages to keep the action bouncing along, and the overall pacing and plot organization stand out as the movie’s strengths.  Point of view, however, never settles on a single character, and the division of screen and story time between Angie and Purdue mitigates the effectiveness that would be provided by a single, strong, central protagonist.  When various pieces of the puzzle of Angie’s past come to light, Oas shifts focus to Purdue’s internal demons, and the audience loses Angie’s thread.

“Raspberry Heaven” benefits dearly from the presence of professional actors and members of the Screen Actors Guild.  As Angie, Alicia Lagano provides the movie’s finest performance.  She negotiates a complex role that requires a wide range of emotional expression, and never fails to convince viewers that she is legitimately experiencing the anxieties and stresses that accompany her character’s fragile temperament.  The part could easily have caused less capable performers to veer off into unwieldy melodrama, but Lagano brings a perfect balance of energy and edge to the part.  By the time the end credits roll, there is no question that much more of the movie should have focused on her character.

In addition to using his performers to good advantage, Oas can also be proud of his technical crew.  Mike Spodnik’s videography is uniformly excellent, the sound mix is clear, the original score by composer Eric Allaman is solid, and the various locations are consistently well-chosen.  The movie’s final act reaches needlessly for an action movie vibe that doesn’t entirely fit with the mood and tone of the rest of the movie, but the total journey is satisfying.  “Raspberry Heaven” promises more good work to come from David Oas; it’s a noteworthy debut.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A stunning visual feast boasting strong performances from its attractive quartet of leading actors, “Hero” finally makes its American debut this week as a theatrically released feature. Fans of wuxia have been trading imported and bootleg DVD copies of the movie for many months, often speaking with reverent awe about the storytelling skills of Zhang Yimou, the film’s Chinese director. Zhang, previously known in America almost exclusively to arthouse fans as the director of several incomparable collaborations with onetime girlfriend Gong Li (including “Ju Dou,” “Raise the Red Lantern,” and “To Live”), tackles the project with the same commitment he previously brought to his politically edgier films. The result is a sumptuous fairy tale recounting the original third century B.C. unification of China.

Martial arts superstar Jet Li plays Nameless, a cunning strategist and flawless swordsman who enters the royal palace grounds in the kingdom of Qin, reporting that he has vanquished three ruthless assassins previously charged with attempted murder against the king. Bearing physical evidence of his exploits, Nameless is allowed an audience with Qin’s monarch (Chen Dao Ming), where he recounts in detail the circumstances of his victories. Surprisingly, the king refuses to accept Nameless’ initial tale, and the stories of his exploits are then retold, ala “Rashomon.”

Zhang makes the most of this simple flashback structure, staging breathtaking set-pieces with veteran cinematographer Christopher Doyle (longtime Wong Kar-Wai D.P.) that vividly shift the color palette according to the thematic and emotional underpinnings of the storyline. Following a mind-boggling courtyard fight between Nameless and Long Sky (Donnie Yen), the film settles on an interesting love triangle involving deadly lovers Flying Snow (Maggie Cheung), Broken Sword (Tony Leung), and Broken Sword’s gorgeous apprentice Moon (Zhang Ziyi). Each time Nameless’ story is questioned, a new version explodes before the eyes of the audience.

“Hero” bursts with unforgettable images. In one duel, Moon and Flying Snow face each other in a blizzard of dazzlingly yellow autumn leaves; when a fatal blow is delivered, the yellow changes to a burning crimson. Another battle, which equals the grace of Ang Lee’s treetop confrontation in “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” pits Broken Sword against Nameless in the middle of a mountain lake. The two warriors fly over the placid surface, skittering and skipping on the water so lightly, they scarcely make a ripple. Another heart-stopping shot, designed in a gauzy blue, allows Nameless to demonstrate his peerless skill with a blade as he catches a delicate bowl on the edge of his sword. A climactic showdown is staged among cascading sheets of lush, alluring green silk that recall the rapturous fabrics of Zhang’s “Ju Dou.”

Several critics have taken Zhang to task for abandoning his earlier humanist treatises in favor of government-mandated nationalism. Certainly, the director is at his best when allowed to display his keen eye for stories that explore the psychological shadings of power struggles great and small. Many fans are holding out for the director’s upcoming “House of Flying Daggers,” which will mark another team-up with Zhang Ziyi (in addition to “Hero” the young actress has also appeared in Zhang’s “The Road Home”). Early reports suggest that the new film is as resplendent as “Hero.”

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Before Sunset” is one of busy filmmaker Richard Linklater’s most deeply felt and satisfying movies. A real-time sequel to 1995’s “Before Sunrise,” (the uber-undergraduate backpacker in Europe fantasy) the new work is simply astonishing throughout its entirely concise 80-minute running time. Wistful and occasionally heartbreaking, “Before Sunset” is the rarest of all sequels in that it catapults the relative insignificance of the first film into a universe that is suddenly concrete and identifiable. Gliding along on the strength of Steadicam operator Jim McCroskey’s perfect compositional balance, “Before Sunset” is at once so beautifully fragile and so classically constructed that it must be placed alongside the great romantic films.

Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy reprise their roles as Jesse and Celine, and the two actors had considerable input into the creation of the new script. Because the film is one continuous conversation (in many ways reminiscent of “My Dinner With Andre”), Linklater and co-writer Kim Krizan have the golden opportunity to delve into the psyches of their creations. Even more remarkable is the world-weary maturity that marks the second encounter of Jesse and Celine: the events of “Before Sunset” take place nine years following the action of the first movie, and every single one of those days can be felt in the conversation shared by the two leads.

“Before Sunset” has a remarkable urgency in its narrative, which ideally captures the awkward thrill of seeing someone special after nearly a decade of almost daily thought. Jesse is now a successful writer, and his book tour has taken him to Paris. Naturally, his novel recounts in autobiographical detail the night he spent with Celine in Vienna all those years ago. Celine has read Jesse’s book, and shows up at the signing. Even though his plane is set to leave in about an hour, Jesse and Celine journey through the city in order to catch up with each other, and their discussion is segmented by the many gorgeous sights of a sun-dappled Paris.

Admirers of the original movie will recall that it ended with a mutual promise by the characters to reunite exactly six months following their magical encounter. Linklater immediately disabuses the romantics in the audience of the notion that Jesse and Celine found their way back to each other (fortunately, his new layers of intense, personal, star-crossed destiny make up for the failed rendezvous). Celine’s grandmother died, and she could not meet up with Jesse because of the funeral. This information rekindles the same thrill and desire the two had discovered in the past, and both Delpy and Hawke are at their absolute finest in the skin of these one-time lovers.

Linklater’s fans – who were afforded a tantalizing moment with Jesse and Celine in animated form in “Waking Life” – are richly rewarded for their patience. Linklater intersperses some shots from “Before Sunrise” into the new film, and the effect, which shows just how much both people have aged, is arresting. “Before Sunset” adds up to one of the most powerful conclusions captured on film this year, a moment of clarity perfectly attenuated in the equilibrium of certainty and doubt. The final few minutes, punctuated by an acoustic guitar waltz and a Nina Simone impression delivered with supreme seductiveness by Celine, speak volumes about the tentativeness of love and the guarantee of loss. Who knows what will happen?

Movie review by Greg Carlson

If one maintains sufficiently low expectations going in, “Alien vs. Predator” is not a completely terrible sci-fi slugfest. Because Twentieth Century Fox opted out of advanced screenings of the film, critics everywhere assumed that a turkey, and not a face-hugger, would be hatching out of the slimy egg laid by the Alien Queen. By now, both the “Predator” and “Alien” franchises reside in the dustbin of once relevant movie cycles. “Alien” was always the powerhouse, with its A-list directors, iconic H.R. Giger design, and its creepy, atmospheric suspense. “Predator” had, well, Arnold Schwarzenegger. Bringing the two worlds together (notwithstanding the clever “Alien” skull in the trophy room in “Predator 2”) is so inherently problematic, even the movie tagline, “Whoever wins, we lose,” alludes to the rub: where do the humans fit in?

Billionaire Charles Bishop Weyland (Lance Henriksen, murkily and frustratingly linked to his android characters from previous “Alien” movies) invites a ragtag group of scientists and tough guys to a strange archaeological dig beneath the ice of Antarctica. A gigantic temple/pyramid, bearing similarities to the architectural styles of several ancient cultures, has piqued Weyland’s interest, and he has the cash to check it out in person. Outdoor adventurer Alexa Woods (Sanaa Lathan, effectively assuming the Ellen Ripley-esque role) is predictably skeptical, and offers many dire warnings that the dangerous trip is not worth the risk of life and limb.

Before you can say “bursting ribcage,” the pitiful human explorers figure out what the audience has known since the trailers appeared: they are now trapped in a gruesome war between two of the most lethal interstellar species ever to cause you to spill your popcorn. Writer/director Paul W.S. Anderson puts his imagination into overdrive to explain how the Predators have actually bred Aliens in order to provide worthy prey for their young hunters (the flashback scenes are completely nutty, and also boast some of the best CG shots in the entire movie). The results are as preposterous as one would imagine, but the fanboys came to see Aliens fight Predators, and that is what Anderson intends to deliver.

“Alien vs. Predator” rapidly comes to resemble a video game, as the mostly faceless crew exists only to be killed by either species. While both creepy monsters boast nasty vagina dentata along with their predisposition for either beheading or eviscerating the puny homo sapiens who get in their way, the Predators are just a little bit more bipedal than the Aliens. They also wear helmets and have armor, which further identifies them as thinkers. This information proves important as the movie grinds on, as Alexa has to find a way to take sides in order to survive. Fortunately, Anderson is willing to tinker with the respective mythologies of the title creatures just enough to keep things moving.

Where the movie really fails, however, is in its lack of interest in the human characters. Ridley Scott and James Cameron were able to sketch vivid, individual personalities in their supporting players, but Anderson’s exposition is woefully inadequate – especially considering that the vicious space fiends don’t show up until well into the movie’s running time. Henriksen is wasted, particularly since Anderson chooses not to reveal anything specific about the Bishop android or the Weyland Corporation. Lathan, like Sigourney Weaver, manages to avoid being upstaged by the oozing, dripping puppets, which is no mean feat. The greatest single disappointment, however, is the movie’s PG-13 rating. By hedging its box office bets, Fox hamstrings the drawing power of the original films: unfettered, graphic violence.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Director Michael Mann straddles a line occupied by very few commercial filmmakers, placing his own visionary stamp on scripts that might otherwise be handled with conventional banality. Like some of his best work, “Collateral” merely uses the urban crime genre – with a bit of police procedural thrown in for good measure – as a way to examine masculinity. The film is undeniably attractive : it packages essentially the world’s biggest star, Tom Cruise, with another veteran performer, Jamie Foxx, who is just now being allowed to show off his formidable talent as a dramatic actor.

Cruise plays Vincent, a steely contract killer with a metallic suit that matches his silvery hair. He enters a cab driven by Foxx’s Max, a fastidious employee whose dreams of owning his own limousine company have never materialized. Reluctantly agreeing to shuttle Vincent to five stops (it’s against company rules, but the fistful of crisp C-notes proves too tempting), Max immediately regrets his decision when a body lands on the windshield of his spotless taxi. Mortified, Max realizes that Vincent is not a typical fare, and before you can say “high concept,” Max becomes a reluctant accomplice in Vincent’s gruesome, nighttime odyssey.

Mann knows how to capitalize on Stuart Beattie’s screenplay, and “Collateral” easily shifts back and forth between frenzied, high-wire action and penetrating psychological disclosure. Mann makes movies in which men must do things with, to, and for other men in order to define their maleness, and there is something perversely delicious about the homoerotic tension developed between Max and Vincent as they come to depend upon one another. We never lose sight of Max’s desperation to escape from Vincent, but the frequent conversations about the need to improvise, take risks, and break away from the expected routine allow Mann to explore the unlikeliest of possibilities: mutual respect and possibly even friendship between the two characters.

Stylistically, “Collateral” is as tight as Mann’s other movies; stray coyotes pad across neon-lit streets while overhead shots of L.A.’s labyrinth of concrete highways sweat with a strange beauty. Because of its linear structure, “Collateral” has to be effective with each of the movements in its quintet, and several of Vincent’s actions take on surreal and operatic qualities. In one set-piece, Max and Vincent listen to jazz at a night club, and engage musician and club owner Barry Shabaka Henley in conversation. Henley’s performance, an actor’s dream in which a lengthy monologue about meeting Miles Davis in the 1960s merely serves as a metaphor about sadness and regret, is one of the jewels of “Collateral.”

Along with Henley, “Collateral” is populated with interesting actors in small but intense roles. Mark Ruffalo is underutilized as an intuitive detective, and Jada Pinkett Smith’s character gets stuck in a Hitchcockian time warp after playing in one of the movie’s most intriguing early scenes. Javier Bardem gets to deliver a juicy speech about Santa Claus and Black Peter, and Irma P. Hall makes an impression as Max’s hospitalized mother. Undoubtedly, though, the strength of the film rests with the exchanges between Max and Vincent, and both Cruise and Foxx are excellent. In “Collateral,” Mann has managed a tricky task: he has made a hard-boiled, suspenseful action movie with both a beating heart and a brain.