Movie review by Greg Carlson

“EuroTrip” resembles so many other recent teen sexploitation comedies, like “Road Trip” and “American Pie,” one is initially inclined to dismiss it on principle. The thing is, the better movies in this subgenre have an intrepid stubbornness about them – perhaps because any intelligence and creativity tends to disappear under the sex and alcohol-fueled debauchery. So while it seems like faint praise to say that “EuroTrip” is amusing despite itself, fans of outrageous humiliation and over-the-top sight gags will no doubt feel completely satisfied after viewing the film.

Our story begins with Scotty, (Scott Mechlowicz, who cribs heavily from the Brad Pitt school of enunciation) on the day of his high school graduation. His longtime girlfriend gives him the boot immediately following the ceremony, and to make matters worse, he believes his German email pen pal Mieke has made romantic overtures in the most recent correspondence. Never mind how Scotty has been able to sustain an intimate epistolary relationship without a command of the foreign language – “EuroTrip” demands that you suspend disbelief if you are to enjoy even one second of its running time. Scotty is so inept, he doesn’t realize that Mieke is a girl, and sends a return email so coarse and dismissive, Mieke deletes Scotty from her address book.

Desperate to track down Mieke in Berlin in order to make amends, Scotty enlists best pal Cooper (Jacob Pitts) to help him, and the pair hooks up with “worst twins ever” Jenny (Michelle Trachtenberg) and Jamie (Travis Wester), who were already backpacking through several countries. Stories in which two characters are destined to meet up demand that the complications that stand in the way take up a massive amount of energy and effort, and “EuroTrip” is no exception. Following a roundabout path pregnant with diversions, the bumbling American quartet finds plenty of time to engage in experimental behaviors.

The strongest comic elements of “EuroTrip” emerge out of stereotypical Yankee xenophobia. Director Jeff Schaffer co-wrote the screenplay with Alec Berg and David Mandel, and the trio gets plenty of mileage out of thuggish British soccer hooligans, a lopsided Eastern Europe exchange rate, the mind-altering properties of absinthe ingestion, and the seamier consequences of choosing the wrong Amsterdam sex club. “EuroTrip” operates like many road movies – the travel serves to set up one outrageous episode after another – and one of the best throwaway gags is a goofy showdown between Scotty and a French “robot” mime who takes his “art” very seriously.

Executive producer Ivan Reitman must also have some charisma when it comes to convincing stars to do cameos. Matt Damon is hysterical as a pierced and tattooed rock singer who performs a rousing song about Scotty. Lucy Lawless struts and snarls as the proprietor of an S/M society and Fred Armisen gleefully portrays a very creepy Italian train passenger who enjoys taking advantage of dark tunnels. Vinnie Jones is Mad Maynard, Manchester United’s number one fan, and Joanna Lumley, as a seen-it-all youth hostel clerk, ends up in the outtakes that play during the end credits. The entire cast, veterans and newcomers alike, appears to have a ball, and whether or not you’ve ever been to Europe, the jokes and gag sequences (many of them tremendously off-color – we’re talking Hitler, incest, and the Pope for starters) are broad enough to elicit plenty of hearty laughter.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Making her feature film directing debut, Patty Jenkins swings for the fences with “Monster,” a fictionalized account of Florida serial killer Aileen Wuornos, a prostitute who shot and killed several of the men who paid her for sex.  Already the subject of a pair of documentaries by sensationalist Nick Broomfield (the second of which was co-directed by Joan Churchill), Wuornos gained international media attention following her arrest because female serial killers are so rare.  Encouraged by Broomfield, Wuornos claimed that the police allowed her to keep killing in order to be able to sell a juicy story to Hollywood.  Whether or not you believe her, there is something profoundly sad about the fact that Wuornos predicted correctly that her story would end up on the silver screen.

Charlize Theron, already honored with several major awards for her performance as Wuornos, turns in a stunning portrayal.  Physically transforming herself with a combination of significant weight gain, dark contact lenses, prosthetic dental appliances, and elaborate makeup to simulate freckled, damaged skin, Theron pulls off the near impossible: she doesn’t allow the disguise to get in the way of a phenomenal understanding of the subject.  In so many cases, actors who bury themselves under mountains of latex and spirit gum allow the costume to emote for them.  Instead of falling prey to this trap, Theron finds a balance between Wuornos’ desperation to remain optimistic in the face of unspeakable pain and her ability to commit murder after murder.

Jenkins frames her take on the Wuornos story around the relationship shared between Wuornos and Selby Wall (renamed for the film), a seemingly naïve young woman with whom Wuornos developed an intense bond.  Christina Ricci plays Wall, and while her performance is nowhere near as flashy or as dominant as Theron’s, she manages to walk the very fine line that separates Selby’s genuine gullibility from feigned ignorance of her partner’s horrible crimes.  Several major critics have not been kind to Ricci in their assessment of her work in “Monster,” but her acting is as strong as it has ever been, and she continues to demonstrate that she is one of the most interesting faces in cinema.

Because the movie’s acting has received the most critical attention, Jenkins’ direction can sometimes feel like an afterthought.  Despite its tabloid pedigree and the story’s residence on the true crime shelves of America’s bookstores, “Monster” is attentive and observant.  The details of its period setting – most obviously manifested in the thrift store t-shirts, acid-washed jeans, wallet chains, and pleather jackets favored by the characters – feel authentic, and the soundtrack is packed with several memorable tunes from the era, including work by INXS, Duran Duran, REO Speedwagon, and Journey.  Music fans will note the anachronistic inclusion of the haunting Chemical Brothers/Beth Orton collaboration “Where Do I Begin,” which feels slightly out of place.

While Jenkins remains resolutely focused on the Aileen/Selby relationship, the male characters are more often than not well-drawn and compelling, despite their brief screen time.  Solid performances are added to the mix by Bruce Dern, Scott Wilson (who appears in one of the movie’s most wrenching scenes), Lee Tergesen, and Pruitt Taylor Vince.  “Monster” belongs to Theron, however, and her riveting, forceful performance makes the film an absolute must-see.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Elmore Leonard’s “The Big Bounce” has been made once before, in 1969 with Ryan O’Neal and Leigh Taylor-Young, and the new version is just as forgettable as the old one. With a great director like George Armitage, who made the fantastic “Miami Blues,” one expects to enjoy clever dialogue, smooth plotting, and sharp performances, but none of these are on display this time around. Instead, the audience suffers through scene after endless scene of model-turned-actress Sara Foster struggling to be taken seriously while comic-savant Owen Wilson struggles to take her seriously.

Even bad caper movies usually yield some kind of satisfying element, but “The Big Bounce” cannot muster a single entertaining moment. The hit-or-miss storyline follows the crooked path of small-time hustler and layabout Jack Ryan (Wilson), an aimless wiseass with a knack for breaking and entering and a penchant for toothsome beach bunnies. While working for unscrupulous real estate developer Ray Ritchie (Gary Sinise, snarling), Ryan smacks his foreman (Vinnie Jones) with a baseball bat, which attracts the attention of local justice Walter Crewes (Morgan Freeman). Besides presiding over a courtroom, Crewes owns a beachfront resort, and figures he might be able to use Ryan in a plot against rival Ritchie.

Enter Nancy Hayes (Foster) a wicked bombshell with trouble on her mind. While her allegiances are not entirely clear, she manages to be the mistress of Ritchie at the same time she is playing both Ryan and Bob Rogers (Charlie Sheen, sporting impressive facial hair), Ritchie’s toady. Of course, one immediately realizes she is also in cahoots with Crewes, but none of the connections proves terribly important or interesting. Instead, the movie sets up a series of aimless sequences in which Foster can tempt the poor suckers with her barely-clothed body. Despite an abundance of exposed flesh, zero chemistry exists between Wilson and Foster, which makes for a long slog.

By the final act, “The Big Bounce” has descended into slapstick farce, heralded by the arrival of Ritchie’s brittle wife Alison (Bebe Neuwirth), another player who knows much more than she lets on. Double and triple crosses rocket by at lightspeed, but by this time nobody cares. At one point, Walter cryptically explains to Ryan that sometimes, things “are exactly as they appear” – and in “The Big Bounce,” those things are listless, dull and devoid of any energy.

This version of “The Big Bounce” is set in Hawaii, and the stunning locations try to mask the fact that nothing much ever happens. The bulk of Sebastian Gutierrez’s screenplay feels improvised, but the sluggish pace of the action undermines any wit and charm that might otherwise have emerged from the writing. Weirdly enough, Willie Nelson and Harry Dean Stanton are on hand to crack wise and play dominoes with Crewes. Both of these salty veterans seem better suited to the type of characters that populate Leonard’s colorful world, but their fleeting screen time offers only a glimpse at what might have been. Everything else in “The Big Bounce” is so unfocused that the screen looks practically blurry.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

At first, “50 First Dates” looks like just another Adam Sandler vehicle, but the presence of Drew Barrymore immediately neutralizes Sandler’s typical focus on the scatological and infantile. The result is a sweet-natured romantic comedy that shows off the beauty of the Hawaiian islands far more successfully than the recent stinker “The Big Bounce.” Directed by “Tommy Boy” and “Anger Management” helmer Peter Segal, “50 First Dates” refreshingly shifts the vulgarity (mostly) to the background – though Sandler fans will be pleased to know that torrential walrus vomit, baseball bat smackdowns, and testicle jokes remain on the menu.

Sandler plays commitment-phobic Henry Roth, an affable veterinarian whose closest friends include a host of marine mammals and Ula (perpetual sidekick Rob Schneider), a native Hawaiian with one good eye and a small herd of children. Even though Schneider’s character exists exclusively for the sake of puerile humor, there is a slight offensiveness about his depiction – audience members might call to mind Mickey Rooney’s gruesome stereotype Mr. Yunioshi in “Breakfast at Tiffany’s.” While Ula lives vicariously through Henry’s sexual conquests (one of the sourest notes in George Wing’s screenplay), Henry’s life takes a new turn when he happens upon the girl of his dreams at a local diner.

The course of true love, especially in an Adam Sandler movie, is not terribly likely to be smooth. The girl spotted building a tiny house out of her waffles is Lucy (Barrymore), and she suffers from a weird kind of short-term memory loss: she can remember everything in her life up to moment she suffered serious head trauma in a car crash. Each morning, however, she wakes up thinking it is her father’s birthday – the day of the accident – and starts all over again. Locked into a never-ending loop of the present, Lucy’s loved ones play along, and the results are surprisingly clever and interesting.

Conceptually, “50 First Dates” resembles a kind of cross between “Memento” and “Groundhog Day,” though it is nowhere near as satisfying as either of those titles. In trying to desperately to win Lucy’s affection, Henry devises a series of inventive interactions that transcend the typical expectations one might have for a movie of this type. In fact, his unwavering dedication to making things work with Lucy resembles the more thoughtful, deeper Sandler of “Punch Drunk Love,” and this is a most pleasant surprise, because the older model’s strident braying and smug narcissism always wore out its welcome quickly.

Barrymore and Sandler were good together in “The Wedding Singer,” and they continue to sparkle with terrific chemistry in “50 First Dates.” Barrymore is a gifted comic, and she takes sly pride in delivering several of the movie’s funniest jokes. She also manages to find the sadness in Lucy, which is no mean feat considering the ridiculousness of the far-fetched premise. In addition to the warm conviviality of the leads, the supporting cast, which includes Dan Aykroyd, Sean Astin, and Blake Clark, is memorable and well utilized by the director. “50 First Dates” projects a winning combination of humor and charm, and should satisfy moviegoers eager for romance and laughter.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Sadly sentimental and nauseatingly pleased with itself from beginning to end, Tim Burton’s latest exercise in magical (sur)realism fails to enthrall in the manner of the director’s best work – potent stuff like “Ed Wood,” Pee-wee’s Big Adventure,” and “Edward Scissorhands.” Adapted from Daniel Wallace’s novel, “Big Fish” is one of those sprawling quasi-epics where two movie stars are needed to perform each major character: one for the early years version and one for the aging, getting-on view. In this case, Ewan McGregor and Albert Finney play the young and old halves of Edward Bloom, a tireless blowhard who spins fabulous yarns every time he opens his mouth.

Edward’s son, the deliberately-named Will Bloom (played with a clenched jaw by Billy Crudup) has grown to resent his father’s falsehoods and reluctantly flies home from France when he learns that his old man is dying. The two have not spoken in years, and Edward’s impending demise presents the textbook device that allows for copious flashbacks and an inevitable deathbed reconciliation. If nothing else, viewers can take comfort in Burton’s eagerness to dig in to Edward’s colorful fibs, as they offer the only relief from dullsville that “Big Fish” can muster.

Like Mark Twain with plenty of P.T. Barnum thrown in for good measure, Edward’s phantasmagoric biography plows through a series of vivid vignettes, which McGregor handles with a goofy grin and a not-too-horrible Southern twang. We get to meet a cyclopean witch, whose milky dead eye can reveal one’s manner of death. We learn how Edward befriends a hungry giant. We see Edward join a circus led by a lycanthropic ringmaster (played by Danny DeVito). We visit an enchanting hamlet named Spectre in which all the citizens walk barefoot on a lush carpet of bluegrass. There is virtually no limit to the number of impossible images Burton can conjure.

There is, however, a pall that settles over the movie rather quickly when it becomes painfully apparent that Bloom’s fish stories are going to add up to absolutely nothing. Will’s desperate attempt to learn the “truth” from his father is obscured by Edward’s relentless storytelling. Not a single character is given anything resembling dimensionality – and that goes for the key supporting cast, which includes Alison Lohman and Jessica Lange as the young and old Sandra Bloom, Edward’s patient and devoted wife. Both wonderful performers are utterly wasted and spend the balance of their screen time gazing lovingly at Edward.

“Big Fish” would have been much more engaging had it allowed us to glimpse some measure of humanness in Edward, but he remains an inveterate fabulist to the bitter end. Not even Will’s phony epiphany – a hamhanded sequence that practically bursts a blood vessel trying to choke up the audience – can instill warmth to the character, and Edward goes out as enigmatic and frustratingly unknowable as he arrived. Weird subplots, including the possibility that Edward might have been unfaithful to Sandra, are given scant development. In addition to DeVito, supporting parts are given to Steve Buscemi, Robert Guillaume, and Helena Bonham Carter, but like all the characters in the movie, they are as cold as the oversize carp that stars in Edward’s signature tall tale.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Winner of numerous critical accolades, including Best Director and Palme d’Or honors at the 2003 Cannes Film Festival, Gus Van Sant’s “Elephant” is one of the year’s most thought-provoking movies, and also one of its most frustrating. Inspired by the 1999 Columbine school shooting (as well as taking cues from several other high profile instances of inexplicable teenage violence), “Elephant” is not the sort of cinematic experience one typically claims to enjoy watching – even though seeing it is disturbing, engrossing, and occasionally harrowing. With its cast of unknown non-actors (most of whom essentially play themselves, or rather, characters that share their real names), “Elephant” bears the mark of an experiment, and like many experiments, its results can be simultaneously exhilarating and disappointing.

Along with cinematographer Harris Savides, Van Sant uses his camera to merely observe the commonplace events that unfold daily at public and private high schools across the nation. During the entire first act of the drama, long takes (often provided by intimate, floating tracking shots that follow individuals as they traverse the grounds and hallways of the high school setting) introduce us to a series of young people. There’s John (John Robinson), an angelic, golden-haired boy who arrives late to class thanks to his irresponsible, alcoholic father (Timothy Bottoms). We meet Elias (Elias McConnell), an aspiring photographer who develops pictures in the school’s darkroom. Nerdy Michelle (Kristen Hicks) is chastised by the gym teacher for failing to wear the required uniform to class. And so on.

A dark cloud hangs over the introduction of these young people, and Van Sant intensifies the focus of the audience by doubling back and repeating several moments from different points of view. This repetition colors the details with an eerie sense that many of the faces we are seeing will be lost to the impending assault. At the end of these languid, quiet intros Van Sant shows another long tracking shot – but this one, a low-angle, from-behind look at two boys dressed in paramilitary fatigues carrying duffel bags weighed down by firearms – shatters the serenity of Van Sant’s preceding “fly on the wall” surveillance. The effect of the shot is dizzying, as it finalizes the director’s refusal to “explain” the shocking violence that will unfold in the latter sections of the movie.

Sadly, Van Sant’s strongest risks prove to be the film’s major liabilities, and the weakest aspect of “Elephant” is the offhand way in which the two killers are portrayed. While one brief scene shows Alex (Alex Frost) being humiliated by some bullies who shower him with spitballs, most of the time we spend with him is opaque: he plays the Moonlight Sonata on the piano, he eats pancakes with his friend (and fellow conspirator) Eric (Eric Deulen), he watches documentaries on Nazi Germany and Hitler, etc. Van Sant is totally correct in assuming that any attempt to account for the killers’ motivations would fall short of the intrigue provided by remaining aloof and enigmatic. Therein, however, lies the rub – “Elephant” leaves us disoriented and more than a little bit nauseous, but the detachment and disaffection instills a sense of helplessness that teeters on the edge of hopelessness.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Along with his daughters Naomi and Kirsten, filmmaker Jim Sheridan wrote the semi-autobiographical heart-string tugger “In America,” an occasionally worthwhile family portrait burdened by odd anachronisms and too-obvious plays for audience sympathy.  “In America” follows the fortunes and misfortunes of the Sullivans, a desperate Irish clan composed of father Johnny (Pady Considine), mother Sarah (Samantha Morton), and daughters Christy and Ariel (engrossingly played by real life sisters Sarah and Emma Bolger).  Missing from the portrait is little brother Frankie, who died from the complications of a brain tumor that resulted after a spill down some stairs back in Ireland.

The Sullivans arrive in the New York City of celluloid dreams: they marvel at the neon carnival of Times Square, they take up residence in a drug-infested tenement, and they make fast friends with a multicultural rainbow of fellow immigrants who, like them, came to the Big Apple filled with hopes for a better life.  In some ways, Sheridan strains to depict the city as a sweltering utopia, where neighbors throw parties for each other and even knife-wielding dope fiends apologize for their attempted assaults.  Despite its sweaty look, excellently conveyed through the lens of cinematographer Declan Quinn, “In America” dons its thematic rose-colored glasses too often to earn any credibility for authenticity.

Of course, the grim memory of Frankie’s death has followed the group to NYC, and Christy, who constantly documents her world with the family camcorder, explains how she believes Frankie can grant three wishes from the great beyond.  Sheridan takes plenty of time to demonstrate how the loss of their son has nearly destroyed Johnny and Sarah, but he tends to overstate the case – no wonder, then, that even Christy understands that her dad is going to have to find a way to move on if things are ever to return to some semblance of a happy life.  The answer appears in the chiseled form of Mateo (Djimon Hounsou), a dying painter who rages against his own looming end.

As Mateo, Hounsou turns in a strong performance, probably one of the best of his career.  The downside, however, is that Mateo is a character caught in a cinematic double-bind.  Not only is he saddled with the “scary Black man who turns out to be a gentle soul” cliché, he joins the long list of ridiculously attractive actors who only seem to become more radiant as the grim reaper closes in.  As expected, Sheridan pins the inevitable Sullivan family epiphany on the strong shoulders of Mateo, and the third act features a heavy-handed birth/death “circle of life” scene that feels like it belongs in the short story collection of a high school student.

“In America” is not without its charms.  Morton is a fantastic performer, and instinctively finds ways to make even underwritten characters sparkle with intensity.  The Bolger sisters are adorable; it’s a shame more of the story wasn’t told from their childhood perspective.  The movie seems to spend a great deal of its running time, however, creating impressionistic sketches depicting the emotional adjustments made by the Sullivans to their new life.  These scenes can be of interest, and are sometimes vivid, but they never really seem to add up to much.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Writer-turned-moviemaker Peter Hedges (who adapted his own novel into the script for “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape?” and Nick Hornby’s book into “About a Boy”) is not on his game in “Pieces of April,” a tepid Thanksgiving-themed tearjerker that plays like a character study without any interesting characters.  Selecting an overworked and unoriginal concept – the dysfunctional family reunion on Turkey Day – Hedges pours on the clichés like so much gravy, and the result is an undercooked mess that fails to satisfy any intelligent moviegoer’s appetite.

As the titular April Burns, the black sheep of her family, too-beautiful-for-words Katie Holmes struggles to play against her good girl type by plastering on the eyeliner, pulling on the clunky boots, and sporting multiple piercings and neck tattoos.  Desperate to impress her dying mother with a homemade feast, April’s frantic preparations are intercut with the tragi-comic road trip of her family (far too reminiscent of Greg Mottola’s “The Daytrippers”) as they slowly but surely make their way from the suburbs to April’s disastrous Lower East Side apartment.  While cancer-stricken Joy (Patricia Clarkson, great as always) fights fatigue and nausea, patriarch Jim (Oliver Platt) struggles to put on a brave face.  Also in tow are senile Grandma Dottie (Alice Drummond), space cadet son Timmy (John Gallagher, Jr.) and bitter daughter Beth (Alison Pill).

Hedges spends the majority of the movie’s brief running time simultaneously sketching the details of Joy’s illness and depicting April’s farcical readying of the dinner, but surprisingly, he manages to skip out on dealing in any meaningful way with the animosity directed from mother to daughter.  The audience comes to understand that April has made a mess of her life, but depth and resonance are frustratingly absent.  Instead, the director throws in a feeble subplot involving April’s boyfriend Bobby (Derek Luke) as he attends to some obscure “errands” that, by all unfortunate appearances, hint at the possibility of a drug deal.

Shot on consumer-grade digital video, “Pieces of April” looks totally terrible on the big screen.  Some proponents of the still unproven format might argue that videographer Tami Reiker handles the electronically-generated images with artistic attentiveness, but the flat, grainy, washed-out palette reveals no sense of dimensional space, and the picture constantly appears as it if it straining to shift into sharp focus.  The portability of Mini-DV also seems to invite handheld shooting, and April’s ceaseless running up and down the stairs of her building frequently results in an addled, groggy, headache-inducing ride.

Certainly, Holmes continues to prove that she has the talent to match her looks, but as a character, April is too flimsy and one-dimensional to be taken seriously.  The deepest characterizations belong to Clarkson, who manages to get plenty of mileage out of the rage and confusion attending the knowledge that this will likely be her last Thanksgiving, and Platt, who nails the kind of helpless cheerfulness that is required of people in his dire situation.  “Pieces of April” tries a little bit too hard to straddle the fence that divides poignant weepy from quirky comedy, and the utterly predictable ending is as hard to swallow as the canned cranberry sauce that ends up in April’s garbage can.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

During the opening credits of “Love Don’t Cost a Thing,” a title appears indicating that the film is based on a screenplay by Michael Swerdlick.  The earlier movie, known to a generation of cable and home video rental fans, is “Can’t Buy Me Love,” starring Patrick Dempsey and Amanda Peterson.  Neither film is really any good, and one begins to wonder almost immediately whether going to the trouble of a remake was ever a wise idea.  While “Love Don’t Cost a Thing” purports to address the perennial issues of high school popularity, friendship, and the importance of being a good person, the movie is lifeless and shallow from start to finish.

Nick Cannon plays geeky Alvin Johnson, an engineering wizard who divides his time between cleaning pools for cash and designing car engines for a GM-sponsored national scholarship competition.  Sporting an anachronistic (and hopeless) sense of style, Alvin vents his frustrations about being unpopular to his fellow nerds – a trio of walking stereotypes whose dialogue wouldn’t convince a kindergartner.  Alvin also worships cheerleader Paris Morgan (Christina Milian) – the most popular girl in the school – from afar, but to her, he’s vapor.

Alvin’s big chance arrives in the shape of a dented SUV fender when Paris accidentally dings up her mother’s wheels and needs someone to help her with a quick fix.  Unwisely, it would seem, Alvin offers to repair the auto himself.  In exchange, he gives Paris $1,500 and essentially blackmails her into pretending the couple is an item.  A woman of her word, Paris agrees, and shockwaves ripple through the cafeteria as Alvin is transformed into one of the beautiful people.  Of course, things are not quite what they seem: Paris is not a cruel snob, and begins to genuinely fall for Alvin (even though he is too naïve, or stupid, to realize it).

Sadly, the movie turns Alvin into a clueless jerk the second he trades in his thrift store apparel for Sean John.  He mistreats his friends, he misreads Paris, and he makes a genuine ass of himself at home and at school.  Lightweight, formulaic teen fare like this demands that lessons be learned, but Alvin is so clueless, rude, and repugnant, his comeuppance and turnaround are a classic case of too little, too late.  Additionally, Troy Beyer’s direction is stilted and ill-paced – the reasonably brief running time feels like double its actual length.

Worst of all, “Love Don’t Cost a Thing” is unfunny.  Steve Harvey, playing Alvin’s perpetually horny father, generates only a few tepid laughs in a handful of clumsy, labored scenes in which he teaches his son about the importance of condom use.  Alvin’s dad, vicariously reliving his own teen years through Alvin, dances around to Al Green on 8-Track whenever he is not pumping his son for information about Alvin’s sexual experiences.  Only Christina Milian, with charm to spare, manages to rise above the wretched premise.  It’s too bad that the movie didn’t spend more time with her character and less time with Nick Cannon’s buffoonish Alvin.

Movie review by Greg Carlson

Watching “Honey,” the latest in a long tradition of movies about wholesome, misunderstood kids who put on a talent show to save a community center and fulfill their dreams, one is initially struck by the central character’s inexhaustible energy and drive. Honey Daniels, played by perky Jessica Alba, divides her time between tending bar, teaching hip hop classes for youngsters, going on dance auditions for music videos, and working at a record shop. While the logistics of all these time commitments might otherwise cause one’s mind to boggle, the straightforward simplicity of “Honey” surely is in no position to tax anyone’s brain.

Like one of the frothy cocktails that Ms. Daniels serves at the dance club, “Honey” is an amalgamation of “Fame,” “Flashdance,” and “Strike Up the Band.” The movie also (inadvertently?) cribs large sections of the practically forgotten, but memorably titled, 1984 hip hop flick “Breakin’ 2: Electric Boogaloo,” right down to the finale. Alonzo Brown and Kim Watson have written a script that maintains its slick sheen for the duration of the movie, and “Honey” never aspires to confront any real dramatic conflict. Even hot-shot video director Michael Ellis’ (David Moscow, suitably smarmy) sleazy advances on Honey seem perfunctory and toothless.

The film also fails to develop any significant relationship between Honey and her nominal love interest, hard-working barber Chaz (Mekhi Phifer). Chaz seems to show up only when his protection or help is required, and his character remains frustratingly flat from beginning to end. Phifer is far too talented an actor to be left without meatier scenes to play, and it is a shame director Bille Woodruff did not recognize this. Instead, too much time is squandered on impossibly adorable moppet Raymond (Zachary Isaiah Williams), a little boy who takes a shine to Honey at the community center.

Like Honey, Raymond’s older brother Benny (Lil’ Romeo, surprisingly comfortable onscreen) is a talented dancer, but he has been recruited to sell drugs by a local dealer. The saintly Honey is desperate to keep Benny out of trouble, and dotes on him and Raymond whenever she is not pouring drinks or choreographing Ginuwine videos (the movie’s best unintentionally funny line is Honey comforting Raymond with an offer for a frozen treat: “I’m fiendin’ for a milkshake”). The film manufactures a crisis of conscience for Benny, but his honorable character is never really in doubt.

“Honey” subscribes to the Horatio Alger-like fantasy that a little talent and a lot of elbow grease can take anyone from just another face in the crowd to the champagne toasts of celebrities in private VIP rooms. Sure, Woodruff offers the audience a whiff of the idea that the cutthroat, fast-paced entertainment industry might cause one to lose a grip on personal values and ethics once the fat paychecks start rolling in, but as a veteran music video director himself, he is not going to bite the hand that feeds him. In addition to Ginuwine, several hip hop artists appear as themselves, including Jadakiss and Missy Elliott. Elliott is nearly as irrepressible on film as she is on her blazing records, and she provides plenty of humor in relation to her scant screen time.