Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Anchorman” is one of the strangest, funniest, and most oddly satisfying comic vehicles to appear in a long time. Granted, you must be a fan of Will Ferrell in order to enjoy the film – if you don’t like him, you are in for a very long hour and a half. Continuing to capitalize on his big screen successes in “Old School” and the smash hit “Elf,” Ferrell pulls out all the stops with title character Ron Burgundy, a Scotch-swilling male-chauvinist moron who happens to be the most popular news reader in 1970s San Diego. Burgundy’s world is turned upside down when he begins to experience genuine feelings for his new co-worker, the smart and talented Veronica Corningstone (a solid Christina Applegate).

Despite casting her lot in the male-dominated local news business, Veronica is driven, and knows that she can become the first woman to anchor a network news program. Ron, clueless and self-absorbed to the point of ridiculous hubris, honestly believes that Veronica doesn’t have a chance, and after an embarrassing workplace erection and a gonzo turn on the jazz flute at a local nightclub, ends up successfully wooing her. Of course, co-screenwriters Ferrell and Adam McKay are only warming up, and both men know that Ferrell the performer is at his most brilliant when playing broken, devastated fools deserving of their cosmic comeuppance. You can imagine that Ron is headed for a doozy of a fall.

It is for this reason that “Anchorman” really improves and gets more hilarious as it chugs along. The movie is crammed with one-liners, non sequiturs, sight gags, and plenty of nonsensical wordplay – all of which add up to a journey that is richly rewarding for the folks who loved Ferrell’s characterizations on SNL: “Inside the Actor’s Studio” host James Lipton, Vegas crooner Robert Goulet, lusty academic Roger Klarvin, and music legend Neil Diamond. Ron Burgundy contains glimmers of them all, and “Anchorman” is the better movie for it.

As “Anchorman” director Adam McKay demonstrated in many of his short films that were played on episodes of SNL, loony, impossible-to-explain occurrences can easily reside alongside trivial, mundane existence when approached with an open mind. In “Anchorman,” this sort of surrealism is made possible by Ferrell’s sensational supporting cast: the great David Koechner as hyper sportscaster Champ Kind, Steven Carell as imbecilic weatherman Brick Tamland, and Paul Rudd as investigative reporter Brian Fantana. With Burgundy as their ringleader, you never know when a cappella office harmonizing will lift “Afternoon Delight” to heights never before imagined.

McKay and Ferrell are not shy about stretching for any gag, no matter how out there, and “Anchorman” goes bananas with a cameo-infested, knock-down brawl between several rival news teams (riffing on spaghetti westerns and gladiator movies in one swipe). The movie has so much in the way of bombastic madness, including an animated sequence, vintage stock nature footage, and intelligent animals that communicate in subtitles, that it is nothing short of amazing that the story pretty much sticks to a predictable, linear plot. Setting aside Ron’s Channel 4 news team pals, “Anchorman” just does not have enough time to give to its other supporting players, like Chris Parnell and Fred Willard. This is a minor complaint, however, because this is Ferrell’s show, and everything else is just icing on the cake.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Friendly, easygoing Morgan Spurlock finds the documentary’s killer application with “Super Size Me,” a gut-wrenchingly funny examination of America’s obsession with fast food buoyed by the director’s own freakish experiment: Spurlock will eat only at McDonald’s restaurants for thirty days, and measure the results of the disastrous diet on his health.  Of course, it’s really no contest when you consider that Spurlock is grossly exceeding the recommended daily intake of salt, sugar, fat, and calories, but the journey is both horrifying and hysterical, as our protagonist gains serious weight, watches his cholesterol spike and completely loses his sex drive.

Spurlock has all the tenacity of Michael Moore, but presents himself and his arguments in a less combative manner.  He could be you or someone you know, and the self-effacing humor with which he affably goes about trashing his liver engenders both audience interest and sympathy.  Enlisting three doctors and a nutritionist (who form a Greek chorus of increasing shock and stupefaction as Spurlock’s health takes a nosedive), Spurlock shrewdly supplements his daily intake of Big Macs and Quarter Pounders with alarming side trips and face-to-face interviews with a healthy (and unhealthy) cross-section of Americans affected in one way or another by the perils of the modern diet.

Leaving Manhattan to travel the country, Spurlock introduces us to characters who would not be out of place in Harvey Pekar, Daniel Clowes, or R. Crumb: a rail-thin nerd who has consumed more than 19,000 Big Macs; narrative pop-culture artist Ron English, whose gruesome paintings of sinister Ronald McDonald-esque child clowns echo Spurlock’s sentiments about brand imprinting; and former surgeon general David Satcher, practically at a loss to account for the poor eating choices of millions of Americans.  Spurlock never strays far from center stage, though, and in one of his most telling moments, struggles to find the pamphlets with nutrition information that should be readily available at all McDonald’s stores (in one case the poster is hidden behind a promotional standee; in another, a manager thinks some of the flyers are in the basement).

Spurlock deals with corporate irresponsibility as well as the powerful influence that food giants have on public school lunch programs (getting kids hooked on processed and refined vittles of low nutritional quality in order to turn a profit), but he does not go as far as Eric Schlosser in “Fast Food Nation,” the eye-opening bestseller that covered some of the same ground.  Spurlock does not, however, skimp on the alarming statistics, which he presents in a colorful, amusing parade of animated graphics designed to stun and titillate in equal measure.

“Super Size Me” never completely addresses the question of personal responsibility in matters of public health.  Spurlock peers into the same crystal ball that less-flashy doomsayers have been using for some time, and seems to say that education is no match for the advertising budget of McDonald’s and the happy-go-lucky characters that populate McDonaldland.  Children shown a set of pictures of notable figures easily picked out Ronald McDonald while frequently blanking on President Bush.  Like Spurlock vomiting his French fries on the pavement, this is as gruesomely comical as it is distressing.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

While his films remain an acquired taste for even die-hard cinema buffs, Guy Maddin toils as one of the most original and interesting independent auteur filmmakers working today.  Brewing up feverish melodramas with a visual style reminiscent of silent-era masters like Robert Wiene and Dziga Vertov, Maddin’s stunning filmography is consistently rich and rewarding.  Having blown a few minds at the 2000 Toronto Film Festival with his jaw-dropping short subject “The Heart of the World,” Maddin is only now beginning to enjoy a broader appreciation for his unusual tales, and his latest, “The Saddest Music in the World,” is also one of his most accessible and enjoyable.

Set in Maddin’s native Winnipeg in the winter of 1933, “Music” is adapted by Maddin and George Toles from Kazuo Ishiguro, but the script has clearly been stamped with all the familiar hallmarks of Maddin’s typically outrageous yarns.  Mark McKinney stars as Chester Kent, a Canadian passing himself off as an American stage producer and impresario.  Dating the gorgeous Narcissa (Maria de Medeiros), who is equal parts amnesiac and nymphomaniac – and who also makes most of her decisions based on the psychic advice of her own tapeworm – Chester navigates a contentious, stormy relationship with his father Fyodor (David Fox).  Chester’s ex-lover (and double-amputee) Lady Port-Huntly (Isabella Rossellini) owns a brewery and is growing ever wealthier from profits made on Winnipeg’s Great Depression status as the “World Capital of Sorrow.”  Lady Port-Huntly decides to sponsor a competition to determine the saddest music in the world, and stakes $25,000 as the grand prize.

Complicating matters is the arrival of Roderick (a brilliant Ross McMillan), Chester’s brother.  While living in Serbia, Roderick had been married to Narcissa.  Paralyzed with heartbreak following the death of their son, Roderick dresses in black and travels around with his child’s heart preserved in a jar of tears.  Along with musicians from Scotland, Poland, Siam, Mexico, and many other far-reaching locales, Roderick enters Lady Port-Huntly’s contest, certain that his mournful cello will claim first place.

Maddin has a wicked and sly sense of humor, and the staging of the music competition borders on the surreal, with snippets of songs cut off by blaring warning buzzers and the winners of every round sliding into a giant pool of ale to celebrate their victory.  Bagpipers and African drummers share the stage with pan flutists and Spanish guitarists, but none seem able to top Chester’s numerous variations on “The Song Is You,” which always whips the reeling, ossified crowd into a frenzy of cheers and whistles.  A pair of radio announcers provides color commentary on the action, and despite their barrage of hilarious one-liners, their presence is mostly unnecessary.

Between the musical showdowns, Maddin cranks up the hallucinatory psychodrama driving the characters.  Lady Port-Huntly is outfitted with a pair of prosthetic legs: glass gams filled to the brim with her own sparkling, effervescent brew.  Romances are rekindled and alliances are made.  The incendiary climax is classic Maddin, as Chester’s American steamroller morphs into a theatrical melting pot, with losing nations joining his team to present a stupefying “California Here I Come.”  It’s a clever commentary on the United States’ longstanding global dominance in the export of popular entertainment, as well as a dazzling set-piece.  “The Saddest Music in the World” should not be seen without also reading Maddin’s witty, fun, five-part online production diary (at villagevoice.com) – the director is equally talented as an observational essayist.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A thoroughly funny David vs. Goliath comedy, “Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story” delivers a steady supply of laughs both subtle and vulgar. Buoyed by a cast of sensational comedic actors, including Ben Stiller, Vince Vaughn, Rip Torn, Stephen Root, and Gary Cole, “Dodgeball” hits its mark early and often, as it follows the fortunes and misfortunes of a hapless group of adults as they pummel each other in the faces, chests, and groins while playing a competitive version of the barbaric elementary-school game that has added new depth and dimension to our understanding of exclusion and humiliation.

Stiller riffs gleefully on his Derek Zoolander character, this time remaking him as White Goodman, an oily, narcissistic health club owner sporting an outrageously feathered hairdo matched only in weirdness by the inflatable codpiece in his workout spandex. Looking to steamroll his only competition, a grungy, dilapidated gym called Average Joe’s, Goodman is set to pounce as soon as imminent foreclosure lowers the curtain. Peter LaFleur (Vaughn, wisely playing it low-key), the owner of Average Joe’s, hasn’t collected membership dues in some time, but his loyal gym rats – a collection of goofballs, freaks, nerds, and lovable losers – refuse to let their hangout close without a fight.

Hatching a loony scheme to raise the fifty grand needed to keep the gym alive, Peter’s pals organize a competitive dodgeball team, hoping to qualify for a Las Vegas tournament that will net the winner the exact amount of cash needed to save Average Joe’s. Coached by an aged, wheelchair-bound dodgeball legend named Patches O’Houlihan (Torn), who enjoys hurling wrenches at the heads of players as a form of training, the Average Joe’s team shapes up enough to hold their own. When they are joined by Kate Veatch (Christine Taylor), the lawyer assigned to the foreclosure proceedings, her blazing underhand throwing style kicks their game up a much-needed notch.

First-time writer/director Rawson Marshall Thurber keeps things moving quickly enough to maintain the attention of his target audience, but the script includes plenty of witty one-liners and clever pop-culture references as well. Once Peter’s team makes it to Vegas for the inevitable showdown with Goodman’s Purple Cobras, the movie erupts with dizzying absurdity: ESPN 8 (hilariously nicknamed “the Ocho”) is broadcasting the tourney, and this section of the film is delivered precisely like a mind-numbing cable TV showcase. Best of all is the pairing of Gary Cole and Jason Bateman as brilliantly-named on-air commentators Cotton McKnight and Pepper Brooks. Taking a page out of Christopher Guest’s “Best in Show” playbook, the duo’s idiotic banter reminds viewers of Fred Ward’s inane announcer, with the laughs to match.

Sure, more could have been done to develop the relationship between Kate and Peter (even though it does have a giddy payoff), but Thurber knows that more audience members will enjoy the comic schadenfreude unleashed by rubber balls smashing into faces at maximum velocity. The brackets of the tournament are executed quickly, but it is great fun to examine the oddities supplied by opposing squads (the hip-hop crew Skillz That Killz in their powder blue track suits, Team Blitzkrieg, driven by their passion for David Hasselhoff, etc.) as they face off against Peter’s plucky bunch. “Dodgeball” will never be mistaken for a great motion picture, but as far as summer fun goes, it’s got a lot of bounce.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A mostly toothless satire of contemporary Christian culture as imagined by the popular media, “Saved!” is an amiable, mostly entertaining teen comedy that scrapes by on the talent of its formidable young cast. Directed by Brian Dannelly from a script he wrote with Michael Urban, “Saved!” wraps its simple sociological lessons in a conventional storyline: when the all too obviously-named Mary (Jena Malone) discovers that her adorable boyfriend Dean (Chad Faust) is gay, she reasons that the only way to “save” him is to have sex. Of course, Mary ends up pregnant, which you might imagine is a major no-no at American Eagle Christian High School.

American Eagle might start off with prayers and hymns at morning assembly, but in most respects, it operates like any secular high school. Mary hangs out with the Christian Jewels, a popular clique led by Hilary Faye (Mandy Moore, marginally spoofing her good girl image), a narrow-minded harpy with a fake orange tan and globs of blue eye shadow. Hilary Faye bends over backwards to congratulate herself for taking care of her wheelchair-bound brother Roland (Macaulay Culkin, quite good), who takes every opportunity to prick holes in his sister’s unflattering self-righteousness. When Hilary Faye discovers that Dean has been sent to Mercy House for “degayification,” she reminds Mary gravely, “You’re not born gay, you’re born again.”

The longer Mary hides her secret from her friends, the less tolerant she is of their own special brand of self-satisfied sanctimoniousness. Drifting from Hilary’s non-stop prayer meetings towards Roland’s cynical worldview, Mary discovers an unlikely friend in Roland’s girlfriend Cassandra (Eva Amurri), a rebellious troublemaker and the school’s only Jewish student. Complicating matters even more is Patrick (Patrick Fugit), the skateboarding son of school principal Pastor Skip (Martin Donovan). While Patrick quickly develops a crush on Mary, Mary’s own mother Lillian (Mary-Louise Parker) begins to explore her feelings for Pastor Skip.

As Skip, Donovan delivers his usual, low-key, quietly intelligent performance, despite the indignity of having to spout purposefully dated hip-hop slang in order to look woeful and foolish (at one student gathering, he asks “Who’s down with G-O-D?”) to the intelligentsia in the audience. Skip never convincingly behaves as a fully formed character, however, which adds a sense of frustration to what could have been meaningful scenes with Lillian, Patrick, Mary, and the other students. Dannelly stumbles even harder with the oft-used “climactic public revelations” sequence, in which several shocking truths are revealed at the prom. Handled more deftly, the messages of tolerance and forgiveness central to the filmmaker’s thesis might have been worked – but clumsy, spotlight-washed speeches don’t cut it.

“Saved!” is at its best when it allows its pious characters to be seen with something that resembles humanity (although watching Hilary Faye, eyes closed with one hand in the air and one hand on her heart, always generates a hearty laugh), but the movie never goes far enough in its criticism of zealousness and persecution. Some story threads surely would have been interesting to follow in more depth (Dean at Mercy House, Cassandra’s relationship with Roland), but Malone – who had better be careful lest she make a career out of playing troubled schoolgirls – is a really excellent performer, and she earns the attention of the story and the audience.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

To say that “Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban” is the strongest of the three movies in the series is something like faint praise; translating Potter to the screen has consistently resulted in long-winded, ponderous juggernauts that try way too hard to please fans of the novels by cramming in far too much plot and not enough cinematic breathing room. Alfonso Cuaron, who takes over the directing duties from Chris Columbus, is a superior filmmaker, but for all his efforts, “Azkaban” manages to overwhelm his considerable sense of style. Even so, the film remains tremendously entertaining, and seems poised to win even more converts to J.K. Rowling’s fantasy world.

Boy wizard Harry (Daniel Radcliffe) is reintroduced in a sly tableau of archetypal adolescent discovery: practicing spells under the covers in his bed. Cuaron may be announcing his grown-up sensibilities, but the entire opening set-piece, in which Harry blows a fuse and inflates a cruel dinner guest until she literally floats away, should have been excised. A manic ride on a phantom coach is enjoyable enough, but “Azkaban” doesn’t really begin to move until Harry is reunited with pals Hermione (Emma Watson) and Ron (Rupert Grint) aboard the train to Hogwarts, where they encounter new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor Lupin (David Thewlis), as well as some Dementors, floating, spectral reapers apparently on the trail of Sirius Black (Gary Oldman), the escaped prisoner of the title, who has something to do with the death of Harry’s parents.

Cuaron has thoroughly re-envisioned Hogwarts for Harry’s third year. Aided by phenomenal cinematographer Michael Seresin, Cuaron paints the sprawling grounds of the academy with a darker, more sinister brush. A large portion of the action takes place outdoors, and this also helps to free the movie from the predominant soundstage effect that plagued the first two. Buckbeak, the half-falcon, half-horse hippogriff tended to by Hagrid (Robbie Coltrane) is the best-rendered creature of the series so far, and the natural forest settings emphasize the beast’s grandeur and nobility.

More attention is now being paid to unraveling some of the mysterious circumstances surrounding the murder of Harry’s folks, and both Thewlis and Oldman – who are excellent in their roles – reveal new insights that will change Harry profoundly. Other characters, like Emma Thompson’s Sybil Trelawney, could have been cut without harm to the film, and Timothy Spall’s Peter Pettigrew scarcely has a chance to register before the movie rushes off to deal with other things. Michael Gambon has replaced the late Richard Harris as Albus Dumbledore, and his take on the character is more lively and spirited, if less sweet. As always, Alan Rickman’s Snape is brilliant.

Harry, Hermione, and Ron are growing up quickly, and it has been fun to watch the young actors age along with their characters. All three exhibit a marked increase in confidence, and the development of their acting skill is reflected in the comfortable way in which they inhabit their roles. Certainly the fourth Harry Potter movie (which will still utilize the original trio) will mark a major turning point as the performers head into their middle teen years. Speculation abounds that they will eventually be replaced for the later films in the series, but that would be a shame – with “Azkaban,” they are really coming into their own.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“The Day After Tomorrow,” a stupendously awful disaster flick in the tradition of “Earthquake” and “The Towering Inferno,” is an absolute howler. Writer-director Roland Emmerich continues to build his dodgy resume (“The Patriot,” “Godzilla,” “Independence Day”) with another computer effects-driven spectacle; the only difference this time is that he weirdly seems to embrace perpetually maligned eco-philes as his noble protagonists. While global warming leads to tidal waves, floods, hurricanes, and the dawn of a new ice age (seemingly thrown in for good measure), insensitive politicos are initially painted as the shortsighted bogeymen whose disregard for the environment has led to meteorological Armageddon.

Climatologist Jack Hall (Dennis Quaid, jaw clenched tightly) barks his way through the hysterical screenplay’s finest lines. After suggesting that the North Atlantic has hit “a critical desalinization point” Hall springs into action – which amounts to spending lots of time on the phone with other weather gurus like Terry Rapson (Ian Holm), in order to corroborate the grim calculations that just don’t seem to matter that much when the whole world is under siege from extreme weather conditions. The Capitol Records building and the Hollywood sign are vaporized by twisters, New Delhi is hit with a blizzard, Tokyo is buried under giant chunks of hail, and New York is drenched by a wall of water that almost instantly freezes into a sheet of ice.

While the special effects are generally impressive, the catastrophic conditions are never once rendered plausibly. Victims are rarely shown, and the survivors are almost unfailingly polite to each other. The cool detachment, which some have suggested exists as a kind of antidote to post 9/11 skittishness about showing large-scale urban chaos, robs the movie entirely of its ability to inspire awe or fright. The perpetual irony of the disaster movie genre is that we know instinctively that the underlying theme is going to be one of survival and not destruction. No matter how devastating the calamity, most of the core group of central characters will make it through to the end, ready to start anew.

Just as the emergency reaches fever pitch, Hall’s son Sam (Jake Gyllenhaal, smirking) finds himself trapped in Manhattan with the other members of his competitive academics squad. He admits joining the team because he has a wicked crush on hot brainiac Laura (Emmy Rossum), and sure enough, the movie makes sure that the pair has to save their lives by “sharing body heat” (see also: “The Saint” with Val Kilmer and Elisabeth Shue, and nearly every daytime soap opera ever made). Resourceful Sam holes up with a handful of other stock characters (mousy librarian, snobbish intellectual, streetwise homeless guy, etc.) in the public library, which provides plenty of opportunity to make jokes related to the burning of books for warmth.

Jack eventually decides that it would be a swell idea to set out on foot to rescue his son, and the movie chucks the last of its skimpy plausibility out the window. By this point, it is best to simply give up on the goofball movie science that governs the action (temps dropping at ten degrees per second, for example), and the wacky inclusion of select sequences tossed in for their “look what we can do!” factor (watch out for those wolves!). Instead, enjoy the tiny number of comic bits that were actually intended to be funny: the vacant president nervously asking the Dick Cheney-esque veep “What do you think we should do?” and the shots of Americans wading the Rio Grande into Mexico. In the end, the movie is never particularly entertaining, which suggests that one should just wait and see it the day after tomorrow.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

A carefully engineered crowd-pleaser with equal measures of jokes for children and adults, “Shrek 2” improves on the original by expanding its palette to include vivid new characters and different locations for the principal characters to visit.  While the DreamWorks animation department still falls well short of the technical brilliance of Pixar’s work, “Shrek 2” features animation superior in every way to the original – despite the fact that the human characters continue to resemble plastic, single-expression action figures as opposed to breathing specimens.  Ogres and donkeys look wonderful, however, and the movie’s breezy charm and lightweight plotting will most certainly translate into serious money over the course of the summer.

An opening music montage reaffirms the “accidental love” of the unlikely ogre couple united in the original “Shrek.”  Shrek (Mike Meyers) and Fiona (Cameron Diaz) have scarcely had the opportunity to begin their life of “happily ever after” wedded bliss when messengers arrive from the Kingdom of Far Far Away.  Fiona’s royal parents (John Cleese and Julie Andrews) have requested an audience with their newly-married daughter, and after some cajoling by Fiona, Shrek reluctantly agrees to meet the in-laws.  Donkey (Eddie Murphy) latches on to the road trip, and following a comically protracted journey, the trio arrives in a fairy tale version of Hollywood, complete with thinly-disguised product placements and goofs on the self-absorption of Tinseltown’s inhabitants.

Writers Andrew Adamson, J. David Stern, Joe Stillman, and David N. Weiss introduce a variety of conflicts to complicate the lives of the protagonists, but the more interesting thread (dealing with how the King and Queen struggle to accept their new son-in-law) is dropped in favor of a more action-oriented storyline in which Fairy Godmother (Jennifer Saunders) pressures the King to remove Shrek from the picture so that Godmother’s son Prince Charming (Rupert Everett) can hook up with Fiona.  The King employs the services of Puss in Boots (Antonio Banderas), but the debonair assassin’s conscience gets the best of him, and he ends up joining forces with Shrek and Donkey.

As Puss, Banderas steals the movie.  Sending up his own Zorro role as well as his lover-boy image, Banderas purrs his way through the film’s sexiest part.  The script capitalizes on the funny feline’s presence by developing a wary rivalry between Donkey and Puss as the two compete for Shrek’s attention.  While Donkey cheerfully reminds everyone that one annoying, talking animal sidekick is plenty, the movie proves otherwise.  By the conclusion, Puss has distinguished himself enough to warrant his own movie.  Other classic characters, including the Gingerbread Man, the Three Blind Mice, and Pinocchio, team up to assist Shrek when things look grim.

“Shrek 2” is not without its shortcomings.  Fiona disappears for long stretches, and despite her early arguments with Shrek, is rarely depicted as a fully-formed, proactive character.  That the King would so willingly agree to have his son in law murdered (ogre or not) is largely unmotivated – Godmother’s threats are not enough to explain it.  It also would have been nice to see Shrek and Fiona spend more time together.  By now, the movie version of “Shrek” bears little resemblance to William Steig’s book, but it is abundantly clear that the filmmakers have a difficult time reconciling sneering cynicism and satire with the desire to be genuinely touching and sincere.  Even so, as rainbow-colored brain candy, “Shrek 2” provides plenty of reasons to smile.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

“Troy,” director Wolfgang Petersen’s spin on the uber-classic Homeric epic “The Iliad,” turns out to be another link in the chain of outstanding sword-and-sandal camp.  More a testament to Brad Pitt’s considerable biceps and rippled six-pack abs than a serious philosophical treatise on war, love, honor, and immortality, “Troy” obediently fills in all the genre clichés crucial to its survival as an ostentatious, posturing addition to the canon.  The movie is very freely adapted from the literature that inspired it, and many have groused about the tweaked storylines and the absent Olympian gods and goddesses.  Nobody seems to mind, however, that interminable catalogues of ships aren’t included, so the loss of Zeus, Apollo, and the rest of the gang is surely no catastrophe for something intended to be enjoyed with Coca-Cola, hot buttered popcorn, and air-conditioning.

The script of “Troy” is credited to David Benioff, who manages to simultaneously pen ridiculously awful dialogue and harness the essential emotional framework of Homer’s vast canvas.  The clichés are abundant, but it must be noted that the source material more or less set the stage for every epic written since the ninth century B.C.  Yes, characters mostly end up reduced to single epithets (Odysseus = clever, Priam = wise, Helen = beautiful, etc.), but the movie adroitly manages to juggle more than half a dozen different storylines.  If the script has a fatal flaw (aside from the clunky, self-important speeches), it is manifested in the laborious, heavy-footed way in which the movie contents itself with alternating so regularly between battles and discussions about battles.

Pitt mostly tosses out the usual tics he brings to his characters, and instead invests Achilles with a brooding, quasi-existentialist streak.  The greatest warrior of all time is a juicy role to play, and it is surely to Pitt’s credit that his performance takes into account the tumultuous combination of rage, narcissism, and scoffing, misanthropic derision that makes Achilles and his attendant hubris so compelling.  Eric Bana’s Hector is a worthy foil, with his deeply ingrained sense of family duty and self-sacrificing resignation to his fate.  Bana understands that Hector is a guy who knows he cannot beat Achilles, but goes out to lock swords with him anyway.  The pair’s one-on-one clash is one of the movie’s highlights, a visceral gut-punch that tops anything from “Gladiator.”

Like all great movies set in antiquity, one of the most enjoyable aspects of “Troy” can be found in the outrageous hairstyles and over-the-top togas and tunics worn by the cast.  While the women, including German model Diane Kruger as Helen, Saffron Burrows as Andromache, and Rose Byrne as Briseis ,don’t fare too badly in the costume and coiffure department, the men are on display like Greece was sponsoring Versace’s spring runway show.  Elaborate hair extensions, complete with gold clips, layered curls and perfectly-placed braids, festoon the handsome heads of Pitt, Bana, and Orlando Bloom, who spends most of his screen time looking uncomfortable that he has to play Paris as such a cowardly pretty-boy.

The older actors tear through their roles with both hands, however, and as King Priam, Peter O’Toole magnificently navigates several tricky scenes in which he is paired with younger fellows mostly out of their depth.  Brian Cox goes ballistic as Agamemnon, Brendan Gleeson is in his usual fine form as the cuckolded Menelaus, and Sean Bean has more fun with Odysseus than the script seems to afford.  “Troy” won’t be the last version of “The Iliad” to hit the big screen with a combination of veteran character actors and hot young stars, but for what it is worth, it’s likely to best many of its contenders.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Director Stephen Sommers has already had his way with the Mummy, turning the great Karl Freund’s atmospheric 1932 classic into the noisy and noisome computer-driven action-thriller that starred Brendan Fraser.  With “Van Helsing,” Sommers dumps the Mummy in favor of assembling a package of Universal’s stable of staples: Dracula, Frankenstein’s Monster, and the Wolf Man (along with the Count’s sexy brides, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and Igor, apparently for good measure).  Team-ups like this one are nothing new (NBC’s 1976 live-action “Monster Squad” series even put a super-hero spin on the trio now featured in “Van Helsing”), but Sommers just keeps doing his usual: spoiling a good story with CG overkill and cardboard characters.

Hugh Jackman plays Gabriel Van Helsing (supposedly the younger brother of Abraham Van Helsing, but honestly, who cares?), a perpetually youthful amnesiac who has been doing battle with supernatural baddies for centuries.  Working in the service of a clandestine organization of clerics – whose workshop copies the James Bond universe down to the inevitable introduction of cutting-edge toys and weapons that will come in handy when the plot demands it – Van Helsing hooks up with sidekick Carl (David Wenham), a wise-cracking friar who provides what little comic relief the movie can muster.  They travel to Transylvania to square off against Dracula (Richard Roxburgh), who is on the verge of hatching thousands of his devilish offspring.

Van Helsing eventually crosses paths with the improbably named Anna Valerious (Kate Beckinsale, decked out like some kind of gypsy pirate), a gorgeous vampire hunter whose family has entertained a wicked feud with Dracula for generations.  Together, they slash and bash their way through endless skirmishes with the shape-shifting succubi, who don’t seem to mind that the Count is a bigamist.  Van Helsing shoots at the swooping harpies with a technologically advanced crossbow that spits out ammunition like a 19th century Gatling gun, and Anna divides most of her time between swinging around like Tarzan and getting thrown by the blood-sucking ghoulies into the branches of tall trees.

With Sommers, more is more, and the computer-generated special effects are employed like a heavy truncheon.  The movie’s only coherence lies in its incoherence, as set-piece after set-piece populates the screen with digital excess (in one, bat-winged beasties burst mid-flight, like thousands of kernels of hot popcorn).  It doesn’t really seem to matter that major characters suffer from lycanthropy, or that the anguished, tormented Frankenstein’s Monster pops up only when it is most convenient to include him.  Worst of all, Roxburgh’s Dracula is a one-way ticket to dullsville, lacking every detail that made Bela Lugosi’s iconic interpretation the premier cinematic version of the vampire.

On the plus side, “Van Helsing” contains an excellent chase scene involving the ever-popular runaway coach and horses, and the movie’s opening, photographed in gorgeous black and white by Allen Daviau, perfectly recreates the magical design of James Whale’s vintage Frankenstein movies.  The rest of “Van Helsing” is a serious disappointment, however, as the film never quite achieves the sense of thrilling wonderment that made the original Universal horror cycle the monster movies by which all subsequent versions continue to be measured.