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The Waterdance tells the intertwined stories of scribbler Joel Garcia (Eric Stoltz), ladies’ man Raymond Hill (Wesley Snipes), and biker Bloss (William Forsythe). The three meet in a hospital ward for the paraplegic and severely disabled. As Joel works his way ago to some level of functionality following a bad hiking accident, he finds himself unqualified to deal with his own exasperate, in spite of the aid and prop of his married girlfriend Anna (Helen Hunt).

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Neal Jimenez’s organize is structured as a series of vignettes. We are introduced to Joel as he is wheeled from the emergency room to rehabilitation, and introduced to his compatriots shortly thereafter. The story uses fadeouts to caper forward in time when it needs to, and we learn involving Raymond’s approaching divorce, Bloss’ loving but frustrated fondness to his look after (Grace Zabriskie), and the lives of the other patients on the ward. There’s a quiet, lifelike rhythm to the movie&#8212events occur very much as they would in real life. Sometimes one incident leads to another; sometimes a scene is just a weight of humor or pathos commendable of the filmmakers’ attention.

The casual flow of the script means that the actors aren’t always given much to work with, and the leads do a genuine job of contents in the gaps, as well as the significant subtext that goes unsaid. Eric Stoltz turns in a credible performance as Joel, be that as it may he on seems excessively conscious of his character’s disability, limiting his palpable expression to the malapropos that he seems emotionless. Wesley Snipes reminds us that he can indeed behave oneself, as a misogynist carouser who finds himself unbearably alone with his pain. William Forsythe is surprisingly sensitive as a unworried, casually racist young man who matures on the verge of in spite of himself, and Helen Hunt presages her later Academy Award®-winning work with a subtle, conflicted performance.

There are times when the loose order of The Waterdance requires some patience on the part of the viewer. Its emotional impact is built into the open air of small gestures of friendship and intimacy, and its severely disabled characters aren’t really free to pursue their “wants” in any visually noticeable at work. The third hoax is slow in coming, and even then the action is more symbolic than cathartic; there isn’t a lot that happens onscreen, but that’s let go of the as regards. It’s a basic, gently paced observational theatricalism back human dignity and temper, subtly rewarding and uplifting without drifting into Patch Adams territory.

In the past decade it seems that most Shakespeare adaptations have been turbo-charged or reimagined as updated hybrids, like the hopped-up Romeo + Juliet, the fascist Richard III, or Al Pacino’s documentary / study session hybrid Looking For Richard. When Kenneth Branaugh approaches Shakespeare, however, it is with a reverence and an awe that lets you know that even if he changes something it is gonna be to try to bring it closer to the Bard’s vision. His epic Hamlet presented the entire text and his Much Ado About Nothing even opened with words on the screen backed by a voice, to make sure that you knew that watching his films is like reading the original text. It all started for Branaugh with his 1989 film of Henry V. His approach is not traditional in a Laurence Olivier theatrical way but rather he stages the scenes in realistic environments, allowing the grit and grime of the locations to inform the texture of the film. The much heralded battle between England and France that comprises much of the climax of the film is pretty spectacular and the blood and dirt make it achingly real, as do the costumes and the lighting. What makes this sequence so memorable is the attention to detail: During the charge of the French army Branaugh doesn’t focus on advancing horses, but rather the faces of the English soldiers and nobles anticipating the battle, twisting and contorting in a complex mix of emotions. By the time Henry orders attack and the arrows are finally let loose the scene has built up to such a powerful crescendo that it completely explodes in action.

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If his approach to staging the film is modern his casting is classic BBC. The list of actors in the film reads like a who’s who of great Brits: Derek Jacobi, Paul Scofield, Emma Thompson, Brian Blessed, Ian Holm, Judi Dench, and a very young Christian Bale. One distracting element, however, is the inclusion of a narrator in modern dress (Jacobi) who walks through the sets reading Shakespeare’s Chorus role. Other than that the film is a visual success and a true version of a classic.

When I first approached this film years ago, I remember doing so with more than a little reluctance. After all, I reminiscences, who wanted to ready for a movie about a cerebral palsy victim? Small fry, was I wrong.

Based on the autobiography of Irish artist and man of letters Christy Brown, 1989's "My Left Foot" is as trusty, vigorous, uplifting, pleasing, and thoroughly enjoyable a film as you'll become aware of, helped in generous measure by outstanding performances by Daniel Era-Lewis as Brown and Brenda Fricker as his spoil. Day-Lewis deservedly won a Best Actor Oscar that year as did Fricker for First-class Supporting Actress. Thanks to them and chief Jim Sheridan (who cowrote the screenplay), the movie presents a vigorous likeness of a real-life cove whose indomitable spirit helped him overcome allegedly insurmountable odds.

Christy Brown was born with cerebral palsy, a brain disorder that fist him paralyzed in every limb and legs of his core except his left foot. It is amazing what the man proficient with so inconsiderable to warm up with physically. He became a noted artist–a painter of pictures–and a writer with his autobiography. Yes, fortunately, there was nothing criminal with his thinking ability, although it took a while for his relatives to realize this fact and in return immature Christy to communicate it to them.

But don't of that "My Left Foot" is Possibly man of those sentimental, lovably uplifting stories where the inauspicious sucker of the malady is all sweetness and moonlight and we uplift for him the whole way. Not on your lifetime. In his book Christy Brown without reserve admits his faults, and the movie clearly identifies them. The item makes no bones close by Brown's feisty transfer, his alcoholism, his fits of temper, his questionable romances, his despair, and his attempted suicide. Still, it is these darker aspects of the man's nature that secure him more sincere, convert us believe in him as a human being.

Equally important to the film's success is Daniel Day-Lewis's performance. The actor becomes the character in a way that few actors actually inhabit a filter task. It may be it's the chameleonlike makeup of Age-Lewis's motion picture portrayals that impresses one; he is clearly one of moviedom's finest performers. In the future this acting goes beyond even what we superiority expect of him. He simply

is

Christy Brown. In fact, when we foretell the real Christy Brown in one of the DVD's accompanying featurettes, we may be tempted to say to ourselves, "That's not Christy Brown. I well-founded maxim Christy Brown, and this is an fraud."

Others in the throw be fitted to the story's believability. Certainly, Brenda Fricker as Christy's mommy puts in as peachy and sensitive a rendering as conceivable of this hanker-trial woman. Fricker conveys an unassailable see fit; she never encourages Christy to get his hopes up, yet she never gives up on him, either. Trace McAnally plays Christy's clergyman, a hard man to white-hot with, extravagant and egotistical but tender and caring. Interestingly, McAnally's character dies in the film, and McAnally himself died shortly after the film's publicity release. And I forced to not forget Hugh O'Conor, who plays Christy as a child in a about worthy of an Oscar nomination as well.

Christy, born in 1932, came from an exceptionally large family, the mother giving birth to twenty-one children, thirteen of whom survived. They all lived together in a small Dublin tenement. The cinema is completely brief, 103 minutes, and it rightly focuses on Christy's coming to terms with his constraint and with his family relationships. It almost wholly ignores incredible-shaking events of the day like the Consequential Depression and Overjoyed War II in lieu of Christy's more intimate, personal story. Fete enough. In withal, we get the idea his adventures playing football, robbing much-needed heating coal, and romancing several women.
The first of the women we give some thought to in his life (other than family) is his physical therapist, Eileen Cole (Fiona Shaw), the doctor who teaches Christy to address more obviously and who brings Christy's painting to trade advise. But Christy misinterprets Dr. Cole's attention to him, mistaking it for mania. He's crushed when she marries another servant. Not that an Irishman is said to need a as a result of to drink, but his resultant despondency leads to his overindulgence in alcohol. The deficient love of his human being is Mary (Ruth McCabe), an attendant with whom he first flirts and later marries.

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Corman at his intoxicating most beneficent, depiction a seductive mesh of sexual motifs from Poe’s adventures through a fine Richard Matheson script. Vincent Price is superbly tormented as the 16th century Spanish nobleman obsessed by the fear that his wife was entombed alive in his castle’s torture house, a repetition of type history that entails his takeover by the personality of his dead father, the Inquisitor who built the fiendish dungeon. And Barbara Steele, as the faithless woman who faked her own expiry, embodies all the contradictions of Poe’s quintessential female to perfection.

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A sumptuously shot slice of Asian melodrama served up in a stylishly refined way, “Shadows of Time” reps a real treat looking for romantics anywhere. Directed, written and key-crewed by Germans but Indian in every other feature, film seamlessly blends European and South Asian aesthetics in a story of love and bewail spanned across 60 years. With no international stars attached, this impressive elementary feature by Florian Gallenberger (known for the Oscar winning short, “Quiero Ser”) will need alert nursing to notice a make available, though further festival exposure could commandeer. Audience reaction at its Toronto world preem was warm.

Opening, with the elderly Ravi (vet Soumitra Chatterjee) driving across a parched landscape to an abandoned carpet factory, sets up the sense of a long-limbed drama about to unfold. Throughout, the resonant widescreen lensing by ace German d.p. Juergen Juerges, with its deep ochres, red and blacks and its play with light and shadow, is a full partner in the action.

Story flashbacks to the early 1940s, with Ravi Gupta (Sikandar Agarwal) a child laborer in the factory, squirreling away his paltry earnings and standing up for himself against the hard-nosed manager (Biplab Dasgupta). Ravi befriends a girl his own age, Masha (Tumpa Das), who’s been sold to the factory by her penniless father, and when a rich man visits and makes an offer for her, Ravi unsuccessfully tries to match the bid. He subsequently gives Masha money to escape, and she promises to wait for him every full moon at the biggest temple of Shiva in Calcutta, giving him her necklace to remember her by.

Though all the exploitative conditions of child labor are up on the screen, pic never lets its main story become sidetracked by any social sermonizing. And with no datelines or references to outside events, the whole film exists in a temporal vacuum that keeps the focus tight on the central relationships.

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Years later, the adult Ravi (Prashant Narayanan) buys his own freedom and sets out for Calcutta. He begins working for an old carpet seller (Satya Bandopadhyaya) and his pretty granddaughter, Deepa (Tillotama Shome), who takes a shine to him. Hereon, the plot begins to seriously thicken, as chance and fate play roles in a way typical of Asian melodrama.

Masha has become a professional courtesan (Tannishtha Chatterjee), romanced by a customs officer, Yani (Irrfan Khan). In an emotionally powerful, beautifully mounted sequence an hour in, Ravi and Masha almost meet at the Shiva temple one night but are separated by the chance arrival of Deepa. The lost opportunity arising from that moment fuels the rest of the picture, as Masha, thinking Ravi is married, decides to marry Yani, and Ravi, thinking Masha has forgotten him, finally marries Deepa.

Gallenberger’s script is unusually lean and focused, with characters straightforward in their emotions and — unlike mainstream Indian melodrama — plotting not reliant on lingering misunderstandings. After Ravi and Masha finally meet (at a posh dinner) and realize the truth, film becomes an increasingly mellow reverie on lost happiness. Coda, back in the present, is quietly moving.

Casting is acute at every level, from Agarwal and Das as the two youths to Keralan thesp Narayanan as the handsome, adult Ravi. Shome is especially good as the patient Deepa, who knows she’s second choice in her husband’s affections. Only Tannishtha Chatterjee fails to carve out a fully formed character, as the adult Masha.

The blood and grunge run obscure on the mean streets in “Romeo Is Bleeding.” This heavy dose of ultra-violent neo-noir gives Gary Oldman a face-first trip owing to the gutter that would make Mickey Rourke drool, but the far-fetched plotting eventually goes so far all through the top that pic flirts with inventing a new genre of mist noir camp. Gramercy issue on find a cadre of devotees who force groove on the hot cast, gamy character and low-down macho fantasies, but more people will be turned off by the excessive butchery and revisionist facetiousness.

Perhaps the most interesting angle here is that the story represents a tough working man’s wet dream, and yet it was written by a woman. Determined to make it big financially, Oldman’s New York police sergeant does his job on the organized crimes task force while accepting payoffs from the mob.

He also has it both ways in the sack, knowing his lovely wife Annabella Sciorra awaits him at home while he makes time with sultry mistress Juliette Lewis.

But that’s before he meets Lena Olin, a member of a Moscow crime family, who has just been nabbed after wiping out some Feds and a government witness. Oldman is entrusted with guarding her at a safe house but she’s got him disarmed and sexually compromised before the Feds even arrive to pick her up.

As narrated in the third person by Oldman in traditional hard-boiled fashion, tale knots up considerably from there. Cultivated gangster Roy Scheider orders Oldman to eliminate Olin, who in turn offers Oldman six times as much money to let her flee the country but tell Scheider he’s killed her. Oldman takes Olin’s cash, but when the she-devil tries to kill him, all hell breaks loose, and pic flies into darkly absurdistterritory that finally gets grotesquely out of hand.

A scene of the two struggling in a car about to crash will have viewers laughing if they aren’t already, and other scenes, including the ultra-bloody climactic shootout, push matters further into silliness.

Ultimately, the prevailing impression is one of an unrestrained fantasy of perverse sex and violence. Screenwriter and co-producer Hilary Henkin has delivered some pungent dialogue, vivid characters and wild scenes, and director Peter Medak has responded by creating a stylishly warped environment for it all.

One of film’s prime motives would seem to be the creation of the most astoundingly, memorably vicious and sexy female villain in movie history, and who better than Olin to play her? With her deep, husky voice, hot bod and intimations of limitless depravity, she would convince anyone that she has already chewed up and spit out the men of one empire and is working on her second.

Oldman clearly has a taste for the wild side but outdoes himself as a self-deluding cop whose weakness for sex and money lets him tolerate no end of beatings, mutilations, humiliations and defeats.

Sciorra registers well as the wife at the end of her patience, while Lewis’ role is a throwaway.

Where style is substance, craft contributions are crucial, and all hands, notably lenser Dariusz Wolski, production designer Stuart Wurtzel, editor Walter Murch and composer Mark Isham, have made strong marks on the prevailing mood.

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November 16, 2007 3:01 PM

It’s been said that if you fell in love with cinema via proficiency fiction in the pattern few decades, you are most likely either a “Star Wars” person or a “Blade Runner” man. Regarding the relatively small pantheon of notable sci-fi films of the past thirty or so years, the latter film has had to affirm itself and authorize itself to be discovered and rediscovered in ways that George Lucas’ space opera not in a million years had to endure. Ridley Scott’s postmodern visual feast may’ve been a critical and commercial bewilderment upon first let go twenty-five years ago, but now has ascended to a place of glory amongst fans, critics, and film recital. And rightfully so – “Blade Runner” is at once a vibrant visual spectacle and an intellectual endeavor bursting with ideas, possibilities, and warnings. The certainly is, exactly which version “Fop Runner” should history embrace to most pantihose?

A brief history: roughly ten years after its original theatrical run, its popularity was such that Warner Brothers released “The Director’s Cut”, a new version with previously unseen footage and the elimination of the notorious film noir style voice over narration that Scott disliked so much in the original version. The world rejoiced, and the original version literally became a murky, washed out pan-and-scan memory, banished forever to the realm of old VHS tapes - doomed to vanish along with their resident mom and pop video rental stores. Finally, “Blade Runner” had the last bit of validating dignity it needed, and Scott’s true vision of the film was a reality. Or was it?

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I for one was, and proudly still am, a “Star Wars” person. Consequently, I never saw “Blade Runner” until “The Director’s Cut” came along. Upon finally experiencing the film, I came away with mixed feelings. I know, how could anyone have anything but raw adoration for freakin’ “Blade Runner”?!? Well, I can safely say that while I could certainly appreciate the film, “The Director’s Cut” failed to change my life the way it was supposed to. Maybe I was simply too young, but for whatever reason, I found the narrative oblique and kind of un-engaging. I knew that this wasn’t right, so I bought the tape, in an attempt to force myself into becoming a fan. No dice, really. It wasn’t until I managed to get a hold of one of the previously mentioned dusty old copies of the original version – darn close to an endangered species at that point – that I was able to dig it a little more. For me, the voice over (but not so much the happy ending) offered appropriate flavor and texture to the strong film noir vibe that was going on in the film’s rainy futuristic urban world. And yet, this wasn’t how Ridley Scott wanted me to see it.

As conflicting as this was, I resigned myself to the fact that I would never be a “Blade Runner” person, and it was time to move on. In the meantime, I found myself working on the set of one of those gawd-awful made-for Sci-Fi Channel movies, and meeting a former member of the “Blade Runner” prop department. For him, “Blade Runnner” was just another job that was many years and many paychecks ago. But when pressed for stories, he revealed the kind of perspective that embellished film history has no room for. According to him, Ridley Scott was a demanding prima donna who was virtually incapable of making a decision (forcing him to take several agonizing and unnecessary passes at finalizing Harrison Ford’s gun, among other things), and brandished a hot temper that was yet unearned in the eyes of the veteran crew. In short, it was production hell. As a film industry professional, I know that such situations almost always stem from the director’s attitude and treatment of others. Perhaps that explains why Ford’s performance is far more in line with the dour, lifeless Ford of today as opposed to the often vibrant and humorous action persona he was riding high on circa 1982. Incidentally, that same props guy who ragged on the “Blade Runner” era Scott went on to work on another of the director’s films later in the decade, and claims that Scott was by then a completely changed, matured, and self-assured person at that point. For what that’s worth…

Whatever dirt one may scoop onto “Blade Runner” (and it’s director, for that matter), the influence of the film cannot be understated. Scott was at the top of his game with this film, and its visionary likeness has rarely been equaled. But Scott still wasn’t happy with “The Director’s Cut”, which, as it turns out, he had little to do with after all. Hence, Warner Brothers, looking to commemorate the film’s twenty-fifth anniversary, took the opportunity to allow Scott to do his “Final Cut”, now playing in limited theatrical release, and coming to DVD next month.

Having been a mere appreciator if not a hardcore believer in the greatness of “Blade Runner”, I have to say the digitally projected “Final Cut” is a revelation. (And yes, the narrative flowed just fine for me now.) The restoration and improvements to the picture and sound are absolutely glorious. Yes, Scott did some minor reshoots in order to correct a few glaring flaws with the previous version, (I am not well versed enough to pick them all out), but their very invisibility confirms they’re only a few very subtle tweaks and changes, purely in the interest of correcting nagging flaws and strengthening the original vision. A wire-removal here, a trimmed edit there. This cannot be considered historical revisionism, since all previous versions will be available on DVD next month alongside this new version, thus simultaneously preserving all the different cuts while also presenting the director’s ultimate final version. Despite my loyalty to George Lucas and “Star Wars”, I have to say that this is how this sort of thing ought to be done. Nothing has been “erased from existence” or forever vaulted – quite the opposite. The beauty of it is that history doesn’t have to choose which version to cling to most tightly – we will have them all.

Volumes have been written about the various texts, subtexts, and ideas that make up “Blade Runner”, so I won’t tread those particular waters here. But I will say that whether you’re a longtime “Blade Runner” devotee or a fair-weather fan like myself, this new version is not to be missed, particularly if you are fortunate enough to have a theater screening it in your town.

- Jim Tudor

Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

Irish writer-director John Carney (”On The Edge”/”Zonad”), once a
bass playing member of the Irish band the Frames, strings this genial,
uplifting traditional musical tale together with a heartwarming romance
and pleasant original folk songs. Glen Hansard, of the Frames, is a twentysomething
Dublin-based busker by night on the busy Grafton Street, where he plays
the violin and sings his own folk tunes, and by day works in his kindly
dad’s shop as a vacuum-cleaner repairman. While playing on the street he’s
befriended by 17-year-old Czech immigrant Markéta Irglova, who is
a pianist earning some bread selling flowers in the street and as a house
cleaner, and for a week the two indigent young adults slowly get acquainted
and try to find out if they are soul mates. There’s the hitch over Markéta
having a baby girl and a hubby back in the homeland, who has not worked
out as a marriage partner; while Glen had his heart broken by an Irish
girl he loved who dumped him for another fellow and then split alone to
London. Inspired by the perky Markéta, the laidback Glen enlists
a motley crew of buskers to record with him a demo album and the heart
of the film is watching these amateurs spend a weekend together trying
to find their ticket into the big time and seeing if there’s a romance
together for them in the future.

Despite cheap production values (was made for less than $200,000
and financed by the Irish Film Board) and inexperienced actors, the film
is appealing because its leads are likable and act natural, and the music,
if not great, is at least decent and vibrant. It never tries to be anything
but the small film it is, and thereby sincerely gives off good vibes.

This unheralded small film became the sleeper hit at the Sundance
Film Festival and won the World Audience Award. 

Kurosawa went to Russia because he’d found it impossible to get work in Japan, but morosely he succumbed little short of perfectly to the Mosfilm underline in tasteless spectacle and simplistic, lumbering drama. Strained from the autobiographical novels of a military explorer who encounters an elderly Goldi forest-dweller at the turn of the century, what emerges is a transparently sincere but unreservedly predictable account of the friendship between ‘civilised’ urban Russian and ‘primitive’ Oriental man of nature.