A Midpoint Review

Well, I knew it. I predicted it. In my post for the Top 5 Movies of 2007 I advised after the most glorious year for film I've ever beheld that we were on a collision course for "one hell of a letdown in 2008". And so it's come to pass. My intent today was to compose my annual Midpoint Review, a list meant to include the best films and best performances thus far of 2008 and came up with.....not much.

"Forgetting Sarah Marshall" was pretty great. And....well....that's about all we've got, as far as I'm concerned, and so this led me to ponder the cause of such a strange, freak spate of cinematic glory last year. Was it the pull of the moon? A bizarre wombat plague? Thus, I decided to do some research. Here's what I found....

It turns out in 2007 The Doomsday Clock was moved from 7 minutes to 5 minutes. Is this meant to indicate that years which overflow with quality filmmaking simultaneously bring us that much closer to our ultimate demise?

Upon further review, however, The Doomsday Clock also moved from 9 minutes to the aforementioned 7 minutes in 2002 and, rest assured, cinematically-speaking 2002 was no 2007.

No dice. Ah, but no so fast, there's more.

In 2007 the Pound Sterling hit a 15-year high against the US dollar, breaking through the US $2 level for the first time since (gasp!) 1992. What makes this significant? "Last of the Mohicans" was released in (gasp!) 1992.

Interesting, eh? But there's still more.

On September 12, 2007 the Burj Dubai became the tallest freestanding structure in the world, surpassing Toronto's CN Tower which originally became the tallest freestanding structure in the world in 1975. Do you know who was born in 1975? Kate Winslet, my favorite actress.

Curious, no? But now it gets positively spooky.

December 7, 2007 marked Uranus's extremely rare equinox. December 7, 2007 was the very day I first saw "Atonement" in the theater. It was Uranus's first equinox since....1965. Bruce Springsteen's first public performance was at the Woodhaven Swim Club....in 1965.

Are these all mere coincidences? You be the judge.

My Walk Outs

So I just read my friend Brad's (The Wretched Genius) post in relation to that cinematic-going staple The Walk Out. As in, movies you saw at the theater and were so infinitely terrible you had no choice but to get up and literally walk out on them. You should read this post immediately for his breakdown and definition of what The Walk Out is and how one reaches that point as he summarizes it to perfection. Anything I say would be 1.) Redundant and 2.) Not as good.

But I have to get in on the listing. I just have to. As Brad would attest, I think, it's a matter of pride to tell people the movies that prompted your own personal Walk Out. Without further adieu, the four films I have Walked Out on:

-The Postman.
-Varsity Blues.
-Van Helsing. (This film also made me fall asleep in the theater for about, I think, 20 minutes.)
-Pirates of the Caribbean 3: At World's End.

In Search of a Midnight Kiss

A misanthropic wannabe' screenwriter with a best friend he's had since they were two years old named - I swear I'm not making this up - Jacob cuts a swarth through L.A. on New Year's Eve with a melodramatic, self-destructive Jewel look-a-like who bears a very distinct and, thus, very, very disturbing resemblance to a young woman I knew many years ago whose name I am certainly not about to say out loud.

Everything I've just mentioned aside, we all find films which seem to have been specifically engineered for us and writer/director Alex Holdridge's "In Search of a Midnight Kiss" seems to have been designed with me in mind when you consider its obvious comparisons to "Before Sunrise" and "Manhattan" (two of my all-time favorites) but I'll address that momentarily.

So Father Time's hourglass is about to get flipped upside down and Wilson (Scoot McNairy), fairly new to the city of angels, is alone and depressed and at the film's onset caught in the most uncompromising of positions. Therefore his roommate and best friend takes it upon himself to post an ad on Craigslist in order to score Wilson a date for the evening of December 31: Misanthrope seeks misanthrope. It doesn't take long for a call to come through and so Wilson sets off to meet Vivian (Sara Simmonds), though, of course, there's a catch. She's interviewing two other potential candidates to spend her New Year's with and so Wilson isn't quite guaranteed a date. He's gotta' earn it.

He does and finds himself alternately appalled and intrigued by this Vivian as she talks a mile a minute and smokes like DeNiro in "Casino". The two traipse through the city as shown to us in storybook black and white while secrets are revealed and, more often than not, nothing of great importance is discussed meaning it is of the utmost importance.

And while influenced by both "Before Sunrise" and "Manhattan" it does not necessarily copy the formula. Yes, you sense if the souls of Woody Allen and Diane Keaton's characters were plopped down into two late-twenty-something's in the L.A. circa now you'd get Wilson and Vivian but these two are not as pithy as Woody and Diane, nor as intelligent as Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy. That is not a criticism. I'm not as pithy as Woody and Diane nor as intelligent as Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy. Oh, I wish I was. But I'm not. No, I'd be more likely to follow poor Wilson's footsteps and make the wrong admission at the wrong time as he finds himself angering Vivian to a probably unfair degree as she stalks off in order to make a scene.

I can see the argument that Vivian is not someone you'd wish to hang around with after only a few minutes but that's you and I'm me. When she is interviewing her third and last candidate and treating him rather rudely Wilson watches off to the side and you can see two emotions simultaneously flash in his eyes - this girl is nuts, and, man, am I turned on by her. I nodded in recognition. (Reader's Note: As previously established, I tend to confuse insanity with charm.)

But Holdridge doesn't just let her vamp throughout the film, one-dimensional and obvious. I think Vivian's got a pretty good heart - maybe not one of gold, but a decent one - underneath that brazen exterior. Wilson, meanwhile, isn't quite as misanthropic as one would believe and a couple ordeals he finds himself in during his long night reveal him to be an all right guy. These changes, however, are not broad and lit up with neon lights, they occur gradually. Holdridge doesn't force the issue.

Holdridge also offers Jacob and his girlfriend as the counterpoint couple, in love a long time and with Jacob readying for a proposal on the final night of the year. In these scenes most especially there are particular seeds planted that seem prepared to take the movie down a very expected road but it doesn't happen.

Could we have done without such an over-the-top ex for Vivian? Most definitely. (When you first hear him you'll wonder if that's how he really talks or if he's doing an awful Bill Clinton impersonation. I still haven't decided.) And might Vivian's "reveal" late in the film not have been so obvious? Yes. But so what? The film's not perfect, how many movies are?

Most important, however, is the film's fundemental understanding of human nature. Contrary to popular belief, it's not just happy-go-lucky people (you annoying gasbags of joy, you) who sincerely have faith in the magic of the midnight kiss or believe true love can last for one night and no more and affect a person for the rest of his or her life. Misanthropes are romantics, too.

Fall! At Last!

All right, people, the Olympics are over and that has left me in the midst of my once-every-four-years Post Olympic Depression but, thankfully, the best time of the year for movies is almost upon us. So to try and cure my hangover I will count down the 10 movies I'm most excited to see this autumn. (But let us all remember that "Atonement" would not have been on my Top 10 list last year and, well, we know what happened.)

10. Four Christmases. Yes, I want to see a holiday rom-com with Vince Vaughn and Reese Witherspoon. You got a problem with that?

9. Miracle at St. Anna. Spike Lee does WWII.

8. Changeling. Eastwood directs Jolie.

7. The Road. Based on the Pullitzer Prize winning novel by Cormac McCarthy ("No Country For Old Men") this one is definitely intriguing. I have yet to read any of McCarthy's work but from everything I've heard it's not supposed to lend itself to movie adaptations very well (McCarthy did co-write this one, however). But if anyone other than the Coen Brothers is going to try, a guy fresh off directing a film written by Nick Cave seems just about perfect.

6. The Brothers Bloom. Writer/Director Rian Johnson's follow-up to his noir-in-a-high-school "Brick". Plus, you can't get a much better headlining trio than Mark Ruffalo, Adrien Brody and Rachel Weisz. Oh, did I mention Rinko Kikuchi (of "Babel") plays an explosives expert named Bang Bang?

5. Burn After Reading. My friend Rory indicated he is "wary" of Coen Brothers comedies and that's a completely understandable reaction. They are not for everyone. They are, however, for me. "The Hudsucker Proxy" is still my favorite movie of theirs - "I'll stake my Pulitzer on it!" - and I even enjoyed "Intolerable Cruelty". So, yeah, I'll turn out for their latest foray into funny.

4. Synecdoche, New York. Screenwriter extraordinare Charlie Kauffman makes his directorial debut.

3. The Express. Yes, I've mentioned this one a couple times but, damn it, I'm a college football obsessee and we don't get a lot of movies. So I'm praying to the college football gods and the movie gods that the story of late Syracuse running back Ernie Davis doesn't get messed up. (Speaking 100% honestly, though, I'm worried to all heck it's going to follow the cliche handbook to the tee and I'll leave the theater wanting to punch out car windows.)

2. Australia. An epic romantic adventure with the backdrop of WWII? This one's got Nicholas (J.) Prigge written all over it.

1. Revolutionary Road. Winslet. DiCaprio. Reunited for the first time since "Titanic" in the big-screen adaptation of the one of the greatest books of all time. Oh, mama. Putting my anticipation level for this film into words would be an exercise of the utmost fruitlessness so I'll just say this - it's the World Cup of movie releases, only bigger.

A Digression: Not Of This Earth

(Okay, last Olympic rant. I promise. Tomorrow it's back to this blog's purported theme.)

We're all aware of my favorite moments from the Olympics, the moments that choked me up, the moments that made me believe the world really is a good place, but, of course, at their absolute core the Olympics are about athletic achievement. So, now that they have concluded, I wonder about the single greatest feat - personal considerations aside - I witnessed, the one event that solely from an athletic standpoint made my jaw drop and say out loud to no one, "Holy s---."? Well, it's easy. It was Jamaican sprinter Usain ("Lightning") Bolt's quarterfinal heat in the 100 meters. No, not the final in which he ran a mind-blowing 9.69 seconds or the 200 meter final which was the track equivalent of determining the earth revolved around the sun, but the 100 meter quarterfinal.

(By the way, I find the hub-bub surrounding Bolt's supposed brash cockiness as he crossed the finish line of that 100 meter final by opening his arms and thumping his chest quintessential American media. I don't know how it played in other countries but here in the U.S. you would have thought Bolt was a modern-day Mussolini, shouting proclamations to his minions. He wasn't simply just a 22 year old kid who had run the first sub 9.70 second time in the history of civilization. No, he was showing up his opponents and being the bad-sport to end all bad-sports, even though it's quite obvious in the replays he never looked back at his fellow competitors and taunted them.

Meanwhile NBC continually trumpeted the basketball's Redeem Team made up entirely of normally brash, arrogant NBA players as setting aside their typical ways to unite as one and, in doing so, not just reclaim the gold medal but also become model citizens for the stars & stripes. I'm surprised we weren't shown staged scenes of them rescuing kittens from trees. Of course, they failed to address the moment during the Olympic Gold Medal basketball game - yes, I got up at 1:30 in the morning to watch it - when Kobe Bryant hit a critical three point shot late in the game and then turned to the crowd and made the "shhhhh" gesture. As in, "Shut the f--- up, I'm Kobe Bryant". Yet, right after this vintage display of taunting, all we heard, over and over, was comments along the lines of, "Boy, Kobe Bryant has really stepped up his game when the U.S. needed him most."

So Kobe Bryant, an egomaniacal adulterer who may or may not have raped a woman, makes the "shhh" gesture after hitting the nine thousandth three point shot of his career but is still a class-act while Usain Bolt, who donated $50,000 to the relief fund for the Sichuan earthquake despite making zillions less than Kobe Bryant, is the devil come-to-life for thumping his chest at no one in particular for doing what no human being has ever done? Got it. Thanks for setting me straight, NBC!)

The first Summer Olympics I became obsessed with were the Seoul games of 1988 and during that Olympiad I watched Carl Lewis, generally considered the finest sprinter of all-time, win the 100 meter dash by running a world record. It's important to note that Lewis did not cross the finish line first. Canadian sprinter Ben Johnson actually crossed first with Lewis trailing. However, a couple days later it was discovered that Johnson had so many steroids pumping through his body his eyes were literally yellow. But because Lewis was behind this freak of drug-taking he had to run all-out, full-on, his fastest, his hardest, flexing every muscle, using up everything in the tank, expending his energy to the fullest, leaving it all on the asphalt, unable to ease up at any point, exerting himself during every last one of those one-hundred meters. His time: 9.92 seconds.

In Bolt's 100 meter Beijing quarterfinal heat he shot out of the blocks and took the lead at 60 meters where he looked right, looked left, realized he was in control and would qualify for the next round easily, shut it down, and jogged the remaining 40 meters. I repeat, he jogged the remaining 40 meters. He was so un-taxed at the race's conclusion the camera clearly showed he had not even broken a sweat. His time: 9.92 seconds.

Like I said, holy s---.

A Digression: An Appreciation of Awesomeness

(Note: I'm sorry if people are tiring of my Beijing-inspired rants but every four years the Olympics consume me in totality and stir my emotions and, well, this is my outlet. You're gonna' have to cope.)

108. Read that number and let it sink in. Got it? I'll repeat it just in case, 108. That is the number of matches the American beach volleyball duo of Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh have won consecutively. One hundred and eight matches in a row. They have not lost a match in over 365 days. They have won two straight Gold Medals (a feat never accomplished in the sport), in Athens in 2004 and now in Beijing. They have not only not lost a match in those two Olympic tournaments, they have not lost a set. Only one word can sum up such information - dominance. Well, actually another word, a word used by Kerri Walsh after she and May-Treanor beat the Chinese team yesterday to earn their place atop the podium yet again, also could be used - "awesomeness". As in, "Eight years of awesomeness." (That's how long this duo has been playing together. Their career record over those eight years? 476-18. No, no, no, you don't understand. 476-18.)

There seems to be, well, maybe not resentment, but an inability to accept beach volleyball with complete seriousness back here in the States. After all, the women on the sand play their sport while wearing two piece swimsuits and pop songs (beach volleyball is the only Olympic sport where you will hear "Sweet Escape" by Gwen Stefani) blare between points. And, yes, Misty May-Treanor is attractive. I'm not going to - in the words of so many hip-hop artisans - front. She is, shall we say, pleasing to the eye. That, however, does not change the fact she's probably the best volleyball player (male or female) currently roaming the earth.

Why, it was just last week a female co-worker of mine was drooling over Michael Phelps and his "well-toned abs" (her words, man, not mine). Oh, you don't remember that "Golden God" Phelps swims while in a speedo? And perhaps you've never attended an NBA game (that's a sport contested in America, if you forgot) where they not only play pop music between timeouts but quite often while the game is actually in progress. And maybe you haven't attended a major league baseball game where they have human beings dressed up as sausages running laps around the bases between innings. Yeah, that's what athletics are all about right there. God Bless America, huh? Way to be even-handed, U.S. sportswriters. High quality journalism, I must say.

Okay, I'm being a little snippy but, you know what, I don't care. I'm not apologizing. You don't win 108 matches in a row (did I mention that?) without possessing a plethora of athletic ability.

I read one writer who tried to claim they have been so dominant only because Kerri is taller than everyone else on the beach volleyball tour. Reality check: one of their opponents in the Gold Medal match was, in fact, taller than Kerri. It was fascinating to watch how Kerri got stuffed by her opponent the first couple times at the match's start only to keep calm, re-group, and quickly figure out more clever angles at which she could get the ball around the Chinese player. It wasn't just jumping up and smacking the ball, she out-smarted them. And don't even get me started on Misty's mad ability to dig the pesky ball. She hurls herself around the court with an abandon that's more precise than reckless. Most players I've seen pull off the dig by collapsing into the sand and then scrambling back to their feet in the hopes of receiving their partner's set. But Misty digs, perfectly, even if the laws of physics say it shouldn't be dug, keeps herself on at least one foot so she can hop back up while Kerri simultaneously sets the ball, puts it away on the other side of the net for a kill, and then acts as if she's gonna' go pour some sangria. No biggie. Another point. My serve, Kerri, or yours? It's more spectacular, as far as I'm concerned, watching Misty dig a ball when the pressure's on than watching LeBron dunk or whatever major leaguer is currently the man of the hour crank one deep.

This duo, see, brings the heat come rain or shine. Literally. The aforementioned Gold Medal match was contested in a driving rainstorm (no tarps here, amigo) against the hometown Chinese team that had the backing of the crowd's majority. But did Misty and Kerry gripe about the weather or the situation? Nope. They just went out and did took care of business. Even when one of the Chinese women appeared to indulge in a bit of theatrical showmanship ("oh no! My arm hurts! Injury timeout!") to delay the game and try to stall momentum Misty and Kerri just sluffed it off and rocked the mushy manmade beach like it was a sunny saturday in Santa Cruz.

And did you see them after the match? That was giddiness personified. Man, they were happy. They ran around and around the court (still in the rain) hugging everyone, whether they know them or not. Kerri even hugged the intrepid NBC reporter. On the medal stand they looked like the kids in "Willy Wonka" when they first enter the chocolate factory.

Listen, I'm not kidding myself. I know there's a great deal of people whose only interest in watching a beach volleyball match is because, well, all the reasons not including volleyball itself. I'm also willing to bet most (if not all) of those people can't run as fast or jump as high as Misty and Kerri. In fact, if they tried to run in the sand they'd probably fall down after one step. In fact, the only thing they've probably done 108 times in a row is....woah, Nick. Pull up the reigns. Let's not get carried away.

On second thought....let's. No word gets tossed around more when discussing sports than Dynasty. The New England Patriots were given that label about 347,565 times last year. And then, when it mattered most, on the biggest stage, when it was all on the line, what happened? Cough, cough....choke, choke. But Misty and Kerri? In an Olympic year they faced the best of the best week after week, everyone gunning for them, and got to the Olympics and played the best of the best of the best and then, when it mattered most, on the biggest stage, when it was all on the line, when they were playing the home country on the home country's turf in a mini-monsoon, what happened? Oh, nothin' much. They just won again. Two gold medals. 108 straight matches. Ho-hum. Another day at the beach (ha! ha!).

Misty May-Treanor. Kerri Walsh. "Awesomeness", and the real American sports dynasty. End of discussion.

A Digression: Forgive Me, I'm A Little Verklempt

Well, you knew this was coming, at least you did if you know what happened yesterday. That is, West Des Moines, Iowa's Shawn Johnson finally struck gold on the last event of the last night of the womens gymnastics competition at the Beijing Olympics. If you're keeping score at home that makes it three silvers and one gold and while a silver medal is nothing to pluck off a bridge you could sense just a smidgen of disappointment that she had yet to stand atop the podium and, thus, I was a little sad for her. But as the final result came in last night to make Shawn the champion of the balance beam I realized something - it could not have happened any other way.

In the past week and a half my mom and I have been exchanging emails while keeping track of Shawn's feats of style and strength. I found myself attempting to explain why I've been following her progress so passionately and rooting for her so hard. I've lived in Chicago now for three years and I love it here, but it seems the longer I'm away from home the quicker I am to defend it and speak praises to its name. My mom was born and raised in the city where I currently reside and is also quick to defend it and claim it as being the greatest place in the world. It doesn't matter that she hasn't lived here for quite some time because it's still who she is. Nothing changes that, and nothing changes that Iowa is still who I am.

It's why it was so wonderful to see an Olympic athlete who was not only from Iowa but embodied the values possessed by so many Iowans. Conviction. Devotion. She had a dream. She made it come true, but not at the cost of sacrificing grace and courtesy. There were some rocky times during the last week and a half - the age controversy with her Chinese competitors, the unfortunate, tragic errors of a teammate, questionable judging at times, and another teammate who maybe was just a little bit better at this competition. But she never whined, never complained, never assigned blame. She gave credit to her fellow athletes and said how much she loved her teammates and how proud she was of them.

At the end of the floor exercise individual event, which she had led the whole way only to slip to second place to the very last gymnast, you could sense the tiniest bit of sorrow wanting to creep in, and still she wouldn't let it. As she left the floor that day the U.S. cameraman tracking with her offered a high five and even though you sensed she had no desire to play along, she honored his request with a smile. She didn't even take it out on this yahoo when she was having a bad day.

This quality was found last night, too, in the other Olympian from Des Moines (who I've admittedly neglected on my all-Shawn-all-the-time blog), 110 meter hurdler LoLo Jones. She had the lead with a mere two hurdles to go in the final, the Gold Medal in her sight. But her foot smacked against the second to last hurdle, she stumbled and in a split-second had fallen from first to seventh. Olympics over. She cried out, fell to her knees, staring up at the sky in disbelief. Yet, she still was cordial enough to submit to an interview with the NBC reporter. She was clearly heartbroken, but she didn't bemoan her fate, she didn't make excuses, and when the reporter thanked her for her time she replied, eloquently, "No problem". No problem. That's what she said, even though it was obviously a problem, even though she had just experienced what was most likely the worst moment of her life.

She put up a brave front, and it's because that is what Iowans do. It's why last September when I was laying in a hospital bed with my appendix literally rupturing in my stomach I couldn't bring myself to complain to the nurses filtering in and out of my room. "I'm surprised you're not in more pain," said the doctor, her eyebrows curiously raised. What am I gonna' do, I wanted to say, sit here screaming? What's that going to accomplish? Nope, I just gotta' suck it up and get on with it. And despite her setbacks, despite her desire to win a gold and the gods seemingly conspiring against her, Shawn forever maintained a brave front. She was always smiling. Always. No matter the situation that delightful grin never vanished.

Until last night on the podium when the Gold Medal was placed around her neck and our country's anthem played just for her, and then the smile slipped away. It did so not because Shawn Johnson was faking. No, Iowans put up brave fronts because we don't let people peek behind the curtain. The things behind the curtain, you see, are just for us. Our deepest emotions, our worst fears, our ultimate hopes, our most joyful moments, our most deplorable decisions, our most impractical dreams, "the things we think and do not say" (as Jerry Maguire once wrote). It's not that we aren't emotional, we are. In fact, I think in some ways we're more emotional than most people, it's just that we don't believe other people want to be bothered with it. You don't want to hear me blather about my lot in life, we think, so we'll smile and raise the curtain.

As the years go by every once and awhile my dad will offer some piece of himself from years ago that I never knew about and every time it absolutely floors me. My God, I think, I really am just like him. Why didn't he ever tell me this? And it's because those things stay behind the curtain and are only revealed when and where we see fit. Sometimes, however, you get a glimpse behind the curtain when the person leasts expect it, when they unknowingly relinquish control. And last night everyone had got a glimpse behind Shawn Johnson's curtain.

Standing on the podium her lips clenched and twisted, one side way up, one side way down, and she focused on the flag lifting into the heavens across from her. Her famous smile was gone, and with it went the brave front. My most moving memory of the Olympics has always been the last qualification long jump of Carl Lewis (who I sort of idolized during my track-running days) at the '96 Games in Atlanta when he had to achieve a certain distance just to qualify for the final. As he leapt thousands of flash bulbs lit up the stadium, enveloping him, with every single person thinking the same thing - this might be Carl Lewis's last jump. (It wasn't. He qualified in the top spot and pulled off the impossible the next night by winning his fourth straight Gold Medal.) As he glided through the air that evening you could feel his entire career, his entire life, even if you were in your basement on 220 3rd Street in Waukee, reverberating through the whole stadium, and last night you could quite literally see Shawn's entire life flash before her eyes. It was pure, unguarded emotion, and it was even more moving to me.

Last week a co-worker was recounting the exploits of the gymnasts in the break room and I, of course, had to chime in that I hailed from the city as Shawn Johnson and she said, "Man, I'd be so proud to be from the same place as Shawn Johnson." She has no idea.

But, on a more serious note, I recall on my cross-country move to Phoenix that a stretch of I-35 passing through Oklahoma City was named Shannon Miller Parkway in honor of the U.S. gymnast who won several medals in the '92 and '96 Olympics. So, city of Des Moines, how about re-naming the portion of I-80 that passes through West Des Moines Shawn Johnson Parkway? It's got a nice ring to it, don't you think?

Tropic Thunder

Ben Stiller's latest comedy-action film (because I read somewhere he didn't like the term action-comedy and, thus, I've cleverly inverted them) hits and misses, though I found more of the former than the latter. It's about a group of actors on location in Vietnam to film a war epic only to unwittingly wind up in a real-life war with a heroin cartel. But it's more than a spoof of the movie-making process, it's a spoof of Hollywood itself. It's about self-absorbed, clueless actors, directors in over their heads, megalomaniacal producers, and writers who don't necessarily write what they know but what they wish they knew.

Our platoon: Stiller is Tugg Speedman, a cushy action star on the verge of being washed-up whose attempt at a serious drama has failed spectacularly. Jack Black is Jeff Portnoy a comic actor who offers nothing much more than a bunch of fart jokes (literally and figuratively). Robert Downey Jr. is Kirk Lazarus, a five time Oscar winner who hails from Australia and is so insanely method that he has undergone a surgical skin procedure to make his face black in order to portray the film's African American sergeant. Brandon T. Jackson is Alpa Chino, the real black man on the movie who is none too happy with Lazarus's intense process. Jay Baruchel is the newbie and because he's the newbie he seems to be the only one of the bunch with any brains.

As the film opens the film's first-time director Damion Cockburn (Steve Coogan) finds his movie behind schedule and behind budget only a few days into production. The preposterously foul-mouthed producer back on the Hollywood ranch Les Grossman (Tom Cruise, in a bald cap) needless to say is unpleased. Therefore the author of the book on which the movie is based, Four Leaf Tayback (Nick Nolte), suggests to the director they take the main actors deep into the jungle and make the movie as real as possible. Little do any of them know precisely what this severe reality entails.

There has been a dash of controversy surrounding the film and, no, it's not Jesse Jackson and Spike Lee raining down proclamations in reference to Downey Jr. playing the entire film in blackface (as one would expect) but instead stemming from Stiller's character's attempt at serious drama coming via "Simple Jack", the tale of a mentally challenged person. The primary issue is the film's continuous employment of the word most used by modern culture when referring to mentally challenged people.

We live in too sensitive a world, of course, for this word to be uttered so many times and not have people get irate and I'm fully aware of the word's negative conotations and I myself try to refrain from ever saying it but the movie's intent is to mock Hollywood's belief that by playing characters of this sort you can ensure yourself Academy hardware. There is a conservation between Tugg and Lazarus in which Lazarus berates his acting counterpart by having gone too far in the role of "Simple Jack". Does the scene itself go too far? Is it offensive? Yes, I suppose it is. But I also do not doubt, not even for a second, that this conversation has been had many times before in Hollywood. If the movie doesn't push the envelope than it rings flat and feels false. But if it does push the envelope you wind up with people protesting on the red carpet. No one wins. I thought Stiller made the correct decision because I felt he was mocking Hollywood-ites and not mentally challenged people. (In the third act, however, the movie might take it just a bit too far, but I would still argue Stiller has always seemed like a genuingely decent person and I really doubt his intent was to offend anyone other than people in the entertainment business.)

But if you waste your time complaining about that subject matter you'll surely miss out on one of the finest performances of the year - Downey Jr., disappearing into the role of an actor who disappears into his roles, brilliantly and delicately handling the role of a way-too-devout white actor pretending to be black. The movie offsets the potential danger here by including Alpa Cino who can keep mocking Lazarus's obvious idiocy but if you can't appreciate this slam-bang job of acting, well, I've got no sympathy for you.

It's a pointed jab at the many method actors in our current landscape and while comparisons to Russell Crowe, what with the Australian accent, are inevitable the name Daniel Day Lewis (who I love!) kept popping into my head. Don't forget that it was Day Lewis who prepped for "Last of the Mohicans" by camping out in the wilderness for weeks all by himself. During the aborted crying scene at the start Lazarus gets so worked up he winds up drooling on poor Tugg. They cut and try it again and again Lazarus generates the drool. Exactly like Day Lewis's clearly calculated drool at the end of "There Will Be Blood"! (My favorite line: "That was tabloid conjection." On paper, not so funny. But the way he phrases it, well, I assure you no one in the theater laughed it as hard as I did.)

Unfortunately Jack Black doesn't fare nearly as well. His character's "trait" seems to exist for no other reason than to allow for him to act like Jack Black - loud, obnoxious, grating. Alpa Cino meanwhile gets saddled with about the most obvious "twist" imaginable. And while I enjoyed a lot of Tom Cruise's tenacious profanity (I think he excels in the role because Les Grossman is so self serious and Tom Cruise himself is so self serious) I have to wonder if his antics over the closing credits were forced into the contract by Cruise himself.

Nevertheless, when the group first finds itself out in the middle of the jungle, the director Cockburn confiscates everyone's cellphones to make them more authentic but Lazarus declares, "They didn't have cellphones in '69. I'm head to toe legitimate." Actually, Lazarus isn't legitimate at all. But Downey Jr.? That's another story. Between this and "Iron Man" (two wildly funny and wildly different performances) I think it's safe to say the summer of '08 belongs to him.

American Teen

Director/producer Nanette Burstein took her cameras into the high school of Warsaw, Indiana and found four teenagers to follow over the course their senior year and they are people with whom you may be familiar. The popular bitch. The jock who dreams of a basketball scholarship. The artsy outcast. The socially awkward band geek. Ah, but since this is a real life documentary and not "The Breakfast Club" everything is more powerful. Right? Right?

The popular bitch (let's call her Megan) dreams of attending Notre Dame. Or wait, is it really her father's dream? Her best friend, a male, starts seeing another one of her friends, angering her, and thus she gets revenge in about the harshest way possible. The jock (let's call him Colin) is told by his father (an Elvis impersonator) that the family doesn't have money for college and so he needs to impress the college recruiters who routinely come around to the basketball games which seems to make Colin press a bit too much. The artsy outcast (let's call her Hannah) has her heart broken at the outset by her boyfriend and so she stops coming to school, only to make a painful, difficult return, and start dating, of all people, another jock named Mitch. The socially awkward band geek (let's call him Jake) starts dating another girl in band but doesn't seem to know what to do in a relationship and so spends most of his time carrying out relationship fantasies through the use of his video games.

There have been inevitable rumors that some of the scenes were staged. Were they? I don't know. All I know is that if they were, the film doesn't do much of a job at staging fake drama. The film feels as if it's merely scratching at the surface.

Colin seems like a nice, good-hearted kid but, honestly, if you desire a peek into the struggles of high school athletics just rent "Hoop Dreams".

Megan seems to have some psychological heft (unless she's just trying her damndest to be what's-their-name's from "The Hills", which might be another possibility) to her story. I sensed a lot more push & pull between her and her father regarding the Notre Dame issue than we see. Why is she so self-destructive? What becomes of the strained relationship with her and her best friend? And most especially late in the movie a family tragedy is referenced that seems to have bearing on everything but the effect it had on her is never fully explored.

Jake, forever desperate to have a girlfriend and unable to get or maintain one, suddenly at the end finds a girl named Lesley whom he met at his brother's wedding flying all the way out from San Diego to attend prom with him. For a moment it seems we have a Manic Pixie Dream Girl (note: The Manic Pixie Dream Girl was a recent topic of discussion on The AV Club) come to life! I was sitting in my seat already plotting how I could compose a scathing diatribe about how The Manic Pixie Dream Girl is real and then....as soon as she arrives, she vanishes. The movie forgets about her, save for a tiny passage at the end. And if this tiny passage is true, how the hell did they get there? What happened inbetween?

Hannah (saddled with a mother who, I swear, is essentially Angela Lansbury from "The Manchurian Candidate" come to life) has the relationship with Mitch that might very well be the core of the film had they dug deeper. Two people from different cliques and, as we all know, high school is all about the cliques. You may say it's not, but you know it is, and then you start dating someone another clique and you may say it doesn't matter, but you know it does, and, sure enough, it turns out that it does. Mitch would have been a more interesting choice for a key character, I think, than Colin, not necessarily because he's more interesting in real life but because his plight seemed better suited to the film's aim.

Apparently, there was over 1,000 hours of footage and that leaves one to assume there must be some spectacular footage on the cutting room floor. Did Burstein have an agreement (verbal, non-verbal?) with subjects to not include certain items? Did her subjects see an initial cut and request scenes they didn't like be removed? Did Burstein become too close with her subjects and decide to refrain from serving up moments that may have been too raw? Did the editor simply have no idea what he or she was doing?

In another coming-of-age film, Cameron Crowe's miraculous "Almost Famous", the young protagonist William Miller, an aspiring writer, is advised by his sometimes-mentor, real-life rock writer Lester Bangs (Phillip Seymour Hoffman), that a true journalist had to be "honest and unmerciful" toward his or her subject. Well, if Burstein was being honest, I get the distinct feeling she was not being unmerciful.

A (Long) Digression: A Journal Of Watching An Olympic Journey

This evening is the Women's Gymnastics All Around Final from the Beijing Olympics, meaning the aforementioned Shawn Johnson of the WDM will be attempting to join the rarefied air of women such as Nadia and that American with two first names (I believe she was on a Wheaties box). It is being shown live stateside which is definitely cool but also means the competition won't start until 10:15 PM CST. I tried to take a nap but no dice. Needless to say, I'm wired.

I constantly teeter on an emotional tightrope and, goodness, do gymnastics make the rope just a bit more wobbly. Anyone who knows me is aware of my precarious mental state when my beloved Nebraska Football team plays but at least in that sport there's a margin for error. You can throw an interception or get a false start penalty or even go down by several scores and still emerge victorious. But in gymnastics if your toes curl the wrong way, that's it. You're done. "Hit the bricks, pal, and beat it." Four years of waiting and training just went whooshing down the drain.

If you didn't see it, the US Female Gymnastics team began its Beijing Olympics in the preliminary round on Sunday on the floor exercise event and proceeded to have its first gymnast step out of bounds, its second gymnast step out of bounds, its third gymnast almost step out of bounds, and then Shawn took the floor and......NBC cut away to commercial. By the time they came back I was sprawled on my floor in need of someone to - as George Costanza once screamed with authority - "electroshock me back into coherency!"

Thus, in order to steady my nerves on this night I have determined to log (not blog, as I'm doing this in my trusty notebook stationed on my coffee table) my way through the lead-up to the competition and the competition itself. It's the only way I can calm myself down. So strap yourself in! It's gonna' be a long night!

7:03 PM: Did you happen to catch the women's team gymnastics final? That was some hard s---, man. I'm all about my fellow Iowan but you've gotta' feel for the American team captain Alicia Sacramone who tragically fell off the balance beam just when it appeared they might be able to overtake the Chinese. Later, she fell on the floor exercise. The look on her face at the end of the competition was the single most heartbreaking thing I've seen since the end of "Atonement". And after the competition the asinine American reporter is shoving the microphone in her face asking her "what happened?" Alicia looked like she was about to simultaneously have a nervous breakdown and punch the reporter in the face (the latter would have been preferable). These sideline reporters are out of control. They have to be stopped.

Still, though, they came away with a silver medal and while many American news outlets deemed it "settling" for silver (or something of that sort) I hope they took a page from the American men and realized they won the silver. They didn't settle for it. (By the way, this is a piece that merely re-affirms why Shawn is still all that.)

7:45 PM: Shawn is in NBC's official Gold Medal Spotlight, complete with a profile of her as a - in her words - "typical girl from Des Moines". Represent, sister.

Now they're showing the Butter Shawn alongside the Butter Cow. Ah yes, I can remember attending a Styx/REO Speedwagon show at the Iowa State Fair several years back, imbibing one too many warm beers and then spilling out from the grandstand while loutishly yelling about how we needed to see the Butter Cow. Those were the days.

They just played Devotchka during the profile! I listended to Devotchka on my Ipod coming home today on the train! I like it. A good omen.

7:49 PM: Maybe this will sound horribly anti-American but so be it - I am sick of Michael Phelps. Enough already! No more blathering about how much this guy eats. They keep showing shots of his mom in the stands when he wins and by now even she looks bored. I mean, do we have to see every gold medal ceremony for this guy? I'm sure there are other Americans partaking in medal ceremonies. Can we see those? Case in point is the bubbly Californian Natalie Coughlin who won the backstroke, I think, and it's probably the only one she'll win but we we didn't get to see her on the podium so we could watch Phelps pick up his 134th Gold Medal.

There's a lull in live coverage so NBC inevitably drags out a replay of a Phelps race. Seriously? A replay? You can't find anything else to show us? How about this? Phelps is great. I know. His achievement would be immense and he appears to be a good guy. But there are other Americans competing and, besides, until he wins one when he's not the favorite and has gray hair - a la Carl Lewis in Atlanta - put a kibosh on the Greatest Olympian Ever talk, okay?

7:54 PM: They just showed a preview for "The Express: The Ernie Davis Story" about the Syracuse running back who was the first African American to win a Heisman Trophy. Being a college football fanatic I'm excited to see it. It looks pretty good, though Dennis Quaid appears to be playing the head coach and also appears to have scene where he gives the Motivational Speech In The Locker Room.

7:55 PM: Thinking about it, this whole gymnastics showdown tonight is like a movie. Really, it is. Shawn Johnson is the lead. The whole-hearted Iowan whose gym fell victim to the Iowa floods with the coach who hails from Beijing, therefore giving us the mentor-returns-to-hometown-with-protege angle.

Nastia Luikin, the other stellar American who also has a definite shot at gold, is the supporting character (i.e. The Best Friend role) since, after all, she and Shawn are roommates at the Olympics. It's true. Of course, we'll need Nastia to give Shawn a poignant speech at a key moment when Shawn appears on the verge of defeat.

The two Chinese girls, naturally, are the Villains, what with them lying about their age (and you know they're lying about their age). They're Dolph Lundgren and Shawn is Rocky Balboa coming onto their turf to show 'em what's-what. (Does this make Nastia Luikin Carl Weathers?)

8:05 PM: Beach volleyball with the American team of Misty May-Treanor and Kerri Walsh. These two are awesome. They won the gold medal in Athens and have won - this is not a misprint - 104 straight matches, as in they haven't lost for over a year. They're to beach volleyball what Nebraska was to college football in the 90's. I guess that makes Misty Tommie Frazier (calm, cool, raises her play the higher the stakes get) and Kerri Ahman Green (all business, same emotion whether they're up by 40 or down by 10). Yeah, they wear bikinis when they play. So what? You don't think they're athletes? Is that what you said? I'm sorry, I couldn't quite hear you with that piece of frozen pizza wedged in your mouth.

8:14 PM: Well, even Tommie Frazier lost once to Iowa State. I mention it because suddenly May/Walsh are down 17-14 in the first set to two Belgians no one's ever heard of. On top of that, NBC is telling us Belgium wasn't originally even going to send this team to the Olympics. That's got made-for-tv-storyline all over it.

8:20 PM: Belgium had three set points in a row and the Americans, on the strength of Misty digging the ball outta' the sand like a mad-woman, fought 'em all off. See? Just like Tommie Frazier! The bigger the stakes, the bigger the game!

8:22 PM: May/Walsh fought off two more set points and then turned the tables and won the match. High, high drama. This is not what my already precarious heart rate needs right now.

8:31 PM: Now the Americans are laying down some serious smack. They ain't takin' no more Belgian s---. Close the barn doors. This one's over.

9:05 PM: Back to swimming but no Michael Phelps for the moment. Hallelujah. Instead it's Australia's feared "Lethal" Leisel Jones versus underdog American Rebecca Soni in the 200 meter breaststroke. NBC color commentator Rowdy Gaines doesn't seem to think Soni has a chance.

9:13 PM: Oh, doesn't she? Soni just laid down some smack of her own. She looked like a dolphin all jacked up on Red Bull. She put the hurt on "Lethal" Leisel. It wasn't even close. And now the Beijing Water Cube is echoing with chants of "USA!" I like it. This is good mojo. Everything's coming up red, white, and blue.

God, I hope they show us this medal ceremony.

9:36 PM: NBC is breaking down the gymnastics final apparatus by apparatus. Shawn got a check on the vault but Nastia got a check plus on the uneven bars. It's a wash on the beam and Shawn gets the check on floor exercise. They're picking Shawn. That scares me.

9:38 PM: NBC gymnastics announcer Al Trautwig, who never met a colossal proclamation he wouldn't make, has this to say: "The Chinese are sending two gymnasts to try and ruin this American dream." See? They are making China out to be the villain.

9:40 PM: We're about 40 minutes away now. I told myself I wouldn't have a glass of Chardonnay (because, really, what else do you drink during womens gymnastics?) until the event actually started but....my nerves need settling. Sue me.

9:45 PM: They're breaking down why Michael Phelps is "the perfect swimmer". Aaargh, make it stop.

9:59 PM: They actually showed Rebecca Soni's medal ceremony! Thank you, NBC! She was beaming. Gotta' be happy for her.

10:12 PM: It's on, baby. Showtime. Shawn's going for gold (Nastia, too). Right here, right now. Al Trautwig, the melodramatic master of ceremonies, is ringside with his color commenating duo of Tim Dagget and Elfie Schlagel - The Magistrates of the Mistake. Rest assured, any error, however miniscule, these two will see it and harp on it relentlessly. They could find fault with Kylie Minogue's backside.

To wit, as we prepare for Shawn's warmup vault Tim and Elfie are criticizing the "crossover step" she's been making on said vault so far during the Oympics. It should be a "step forward", apparently, not a "crossover".

-Shawn's practice vault is, in the words of Dagget, "the best (vault) she's ever done." That should relax me, right? Why does it just freak me out more?

-Nastia vaults and sticks her landing. Oh, boy.

-But Nastia gets a lower score than what she seemed to have earned. One event and the controversy begins anew. Ah, the Olympics.

-Shawn vaults and takes a "critical" step. Dagget's telling us the step could "decide a lot". She has a higher "start value" than Nastia and is supposed to take a huge early lead, though this may not be the case now.

-The judges are taking forever to post Shawn's score. They're communicating with one another on phones which, apparently, is not a good thing. Dagget is saying the score may not be as high because Shawn's "start value" may go down since she didn't fully turn her shoulder. Or something. I don't know. I'm out of wine. I should have known one glass couldn't prevent anxiety. This isn't good. Keep it together, keep it togther....

-Shawn got the full "start value". Whew....someone get me a defibrellator.

-One of the two villains (i.e. The Chinese) falls on the vault. It takes half-a-second for Al Trautwig to thunder, "She has now has no shot at the gold."

-A Romanian girl is 1st, Shawn's in 2nd, and Nastia's 10th. But we're being advised that Nastia has the advantage since the uneven bars, up next, are her best event.

-Now we're going back to swimming for a Phelps semi-final. Not a final, but a semi-final. It never, ever ends.

-Back to gymnastics: Bela Karolyi, the former coach of the aforementioned Nadia and the American with two first names on the Wheaties box, is in the NBC studio with Bob Costas and saying both Nastia and Shawn got robbed on their vault scores. The blaming of the judges has officially commenced!!!

-Uneven Bars: we're being told Nastia will get a "huge, huge score". And she does. Man, she's good. I don't know the intricacies of this sport, truth be told, but her routine is really, really cool.

-Shawn's turn. This isn't her best event and so she's just gotta' stay within striking distance.

-Boo-yah! She stuck the landing, bitches! (I just hit my head on the ceiling. To be fair, my "garden" apartment has an extremely low ceiling, but I really did hit my head on it.) How do you like her now?!

-Except Shawn got another low score. Dagget is informing us this was because "her elbows were locked". Her elbows were locked? I'm dying here, man. How do parents of gymnasts stand this stuff?

-Nastia's in a frickin' cave when they show her on camera. That is focus.

-It's after 11:00 now and we're still waiting to move on to the next event. I may have to bust out the scotch. Although, I must say, this whole logging the event thing is quite cathartic. Perhaps the next time I go on a date I should bring my notebook and log my way through it?

-Oh, guess what? A Michael Phelps interview! I wonder what he's having for lunch today? If only they'd ask!!!

-Back to gymnastics: Shawn is eight-tenths of a point out of first. EIGHT TENTHS!!! Nastia's in second. And The Villain (Yang Li Win from China) is the one holding down that top spot.

-Back in the NBC studio spotlight-seeking Bela Karolyi is "not satisfied with the scoring". He called Shawn's deduction on the uneven bars "brutal", though he states he doesn't see any "major biases". I guess that's good. The judges aren't cheating, they're just idiots.

-Shawn's on the balance beam. She had a "balance check" but everything else looks rock solid. Tim & Elfie are wondering where judges find deductions in Shawn's beam routine and Tim informs us he thinks international judges "don't like the look of Shawn Johnson." Yeah, well Iowans don't need anyone to like the look of us. We don't want your approval, ya' dig? Piss off, Europeans.

-Another low score for Shawn. Apparently, her "chest landed low". HER CHEST LANDED LOW?! SHE'S ON A BEAM SMALLER THAN THE WIDTH OF THE PIECE OF PAPER I'M WRITING THIS ON! That's it. I'm pouring a scotch.

-Now The Villain got a higher score than what she appears to have deserved. Elfie's telling us it was "way too high". Tim says "I don't know what's going on." Maybe Shawn should just challenge everyone to balance beam in the parking lot.

-It's not looking good for Shawn. I'll admit it. And you know what, I hope she just says the hell with it and lets it all ride on the floor exercise. Like DeJuan Groce's punt return in the '02 Rose Bowl when Nebraska was down 34-7 to Miami in the 4th quarter. He didn't care what the score was. He took the punt and said, "Screw you and everything else, I'm scoring." And he did. It didn't matter in the supposed grand scheme except that it did. I was so proud. Still am.

-Nastia stuck her landing. She's in control of her own destiny. Perhaps she's the lead and Shawn's the supporting character?

-Okay, we're headed to the floor exercise - the last event. Nastia has the lead. Shawn's in third, but barely. Let's go USA. I'm gonna' go bash my head against a wall until the commercial break is over.

-Floor exercise warmups. We're being told Shawn has a "twist" in her routine she hasn't been doing thus far in the Olympics but that now she needs to put it back in. Go for broke. That's what I'm talkin' about. She goes last so she'll know what she needs.

-Al Trautwig tells us that "now the game begins". The Russian who's fourth behind Shawn is up. She nails her routine and takes first.

-Now the Top 3 go: The Villain, Nastia, and Shawn. I'm hiding behind my couch as I write this.

-The Villain nails it, too. "How about wow?" Al Trautwig says in his typical understated way. The Villain leads.

-But Nastia, in the theme of the night, lays down the smack. "Oh, baby," declares Trautwig. "That's a routine we could be watching for generations." Now it's all about the Des Moinesean.

-Shawn Johnson on floor: as good as DeJuan Groce's punt return in the Rose Bowl. Better, even. She stuck every landing and I hit my head on the ceiling again. She bounds off the floor with a magnificent smile and looks so wound up I think she could run the length of the Great Wall. Good for her.

-Nastia gets gold and Shawn gets silver, and if anyone says she "settled" for it I'll spit in their face.

12:03 AM: The medal ceremony is about to get under way and, god damn right, I'm staying up to see my fellow Iowan get that medal put around her neck. Wouldn't miss it for the world.

12:15 AM, Final Thoughts: So it turned out that, in fact, Nastia was the lead and Shawn the supporting character. That's fine. It was Roger Ebert who once wrote of Woody Allen that his whole career was "based on making secondary characters heroic." So we'll just get Woody to write & direct this film.

Man on Wire

When Philippe Petit was finished scooting back and forth on a metal wire strung between the two towers of the World Trade Center on August 7, 1974 and taken away by the police and eventually released he was repeatedly asked by the American press, "Why? Why did you do it?" As Petit recounts this in James Marsh's exquisite documentary about the astounding event you can tell he both didn't understand and couldn't stand the question (and still doesn't). The film itself is the same way. It doesn't possess much interest in the why, only the what and the how.

Many critics have compared it to a heist film and that comparison is quite apt. "Man on a Wire" starts with the daring WTC break-in and constantly flashes back to it throughout the narrative while simultaneously showing Petit and his gang as they scheme. Petit's seeing an article in a hospital waiting room about the Twin Towers being built and realizing he must walk between them is essentially a real-life "A Ha! Moment" on par with any thief of any heist film having his "A Ha! Moment" in relation to the bank that will bring him the Big Score so he can retire to an island somewhere.

We are introuced to Petit's former girlfriend Annie Allix, a woman who seems to understand she is relegated to the sideline in his life and he will call her onto the playing field when he sees fit. She was taken with him and is still taken with him, and how could you not be? The guy's a package of passion, man. He rarely seems able to sit still as he expounds on his tale in the present day, standing up, bounding about the room, waving his arms, and probably dramatizing various parts of the story for effect. He's a showman, after all.

We are introduced to his accomplices, most notably his one-time best friend Jean Louis Blondeau who seemed to lend a necessary reality to the situation that Petit could not bring on his own.

The film flashes back to a couple of Petit's other spectacular tightrope walks, over the Sydney Harbour Bridge and across Notre Dame Cathedral where several breathless black & white still photos make it appear as if he is truly walking on air.

Petit briefly addresses the question of how he came to be what he was with a few lines about being a "climber" as kid but quickly dismisses it with, "Who knows? Who cares?" And that, in a nutshell, can be used to sum up the film's almost non-existent backstory. How did he get funding for his various adventures? How did he come into contact with the various Americans who helped him get fake IDs for the WTC and onto the roof of the building initially? Who knows? Who cares?

Much like Petit himself, the film has a single focal point and follows it relentlessly. Nothing else matters at all. A heartbreaking moment near the end shows the present day Jean Louis explaining not in so many words that he and his best friend had a severe falling-out in the wake of the WTC walk. He doesn't address it in depth (Petit doesn't address it at all) and makes it clear that he doesn't need to. Together the two of them made sure that this grand piece of high altitude artistry came off and it still lives today. It happened. The event - that's all that matters.

September 11 is never mentioned and because it isn't the film becomes perhaps the most poignant of all memorials to the Twin Towers. Seen in this light they seem far more than, shall we say, architectual martyrs. It was George Leigh Mallory who said when asked why he wanted to climb Mount Everest, "Because it's there." But Petit, and the others, appear to believe the Twin Towers were there because Petit needed to walk between them.

Pineapple Express

The latest cinematic thoroughbred to come charging out of the stable of Judd Apatow (this time he's producer with a story by credit) might be best termed Apatow's first foray into action movie territory. Yes, it's about two stoner buddies and that automatically means gobs of comedy we expect from such a movie but the one phrase that kept popping into my head over and over as I watched it was this: "Pineapple Express" is "The Wild Bunch" for the stoner crowd.

Dale (Seth Rogen, co-writer of the script with Evan Goldberg) is a process server with a teenage girlfriend. He drops by her high school for a visit where she gets him to a agree to dinner with her parents the following evening and then he's off to the apartment of his perpetually high drug dealer Saul (James Franco) to score some weed, though in this case it's not any weed but the wonderous, extremely rare Pineapple Express. The two dudes bond, sort of, with Franco especially conveying the desperate need for companionship beneath that hazy exterior.

But Dale has someone else to serve and that someone just happens to be Ted Jones (Gary Cole, tragically not given much to do) who just happens to be the kingpin who deals the drugs to Saul's middleman and it just so happens that when Dale shows up at the house he witnesses Ted and and a female cop (Rosie Perez, given even less to do than Cole) murder someone. Frantic, Dale ditches the joint he was smoking and flees back to Saul's apartment. One problem: Ted finds the joint, smokes it, recognizes it as Pineapple Express, and therefore tracks it to Saul since it just so happens Saul is the only one in the city who has it.

The set-up is somewhat contrived but that's to be expected. What follows after is sometimes funny, sometimes not so funny (although I wonder if partaking in the ganja might be required for certain scenes because some audience members were laughing really hard at things I didn't find funny at all) and very, very scattershot. The screenplay is not so much a screenplay as it is a slender strand from which our characters dangle by their fingertips for the film's duration. (The movie's last scene, in fact, felt entirely improvised.) This means various plot points will be brought up and never from heard from again, like Dale's girlfriend who is mysteriously left hanging. I know, I know, I can already hear people arguing, "But that's what it's like in a stoner's mind, man." Okay, but I'm not a stoner. I'm a screenwriter (or so I say) and in a screenwriter's mind this crap don't cut it. Last year's superior (and underseen) "Smiley Face" actually had various story pieces threaded through its script while still maintaining the propensity of stoner movie inanities.

Thankfully Franco offers a wonderous turn as Saul and Danny McBride as Saul's middleman Red is great, too. (Seth Rogen, of course, is just Seth Rogen.) But the movie has one major trick up its sleeve.

When "The Wild Bunch" debuted in 1969 movie violence was not in any way what it is now. If someone was shot in a movie, there was no blood. Violence was kept to a minimum. But "The Wild Bunch" blew the door off the hinges. When a guy got shot, he got shot. When blood splattered, it splattered. You saw more than you'd ever seen. It revolutionzied action movies. Every gratuitous cinematic killing and every single god-forsaken slow-motion bullet you've seen since exists because of "The Wild Bunch". And in the years after we've seen our action heroes progress more and more to where they're larger than life and indestructible. No one gets hurt in these movies. The hero gets, maybe, a little cut on his upper lip, a little blood on the forehead. The bad guys die swiftly so as not to detract screen time from the hero. And worst of all, anyone in a movie that doesn't appear to have ever been in a fight can somehow pick up a gun and start blasting bullets as if he's done it all his life.

The first real action scene, per se, in "Pineapple Express" occurs when Dale and Saul confront Red who has agreed to sell the duo out to Ted's two henchmen. The trio engages in a prolonged struggle throughout the house and not skillfully. As you watch it you realize these are three guys that have no idea what they're doing. They are fighting for survival without the action movie manual to guide them. People get hit, but no one gets knocked out. People get injured, and they whine about it. There is a distinct lack of slow motion choreography. It's artless - the artlessness of real life. And the fact it's done without music just adds to that artlessness. Say what you will, but I thought this was the finest action sequence of the whole summer and a lot of that stems from the fact it's the precise opposite of what we have been conditioned to expect. Is that what director David Gordon Green (who also helmed this year's "Snow Angels") intended? I have no idea. But that's what I took from it.

Later a bad guy takes a bullet but doesn't take it like a man. He moans. He admits he's never been shot. Even when we see Ted masquerading about with a gun in each hand he doesn't resemble Antonio Banderas, he resembles a guy who wants to look like Antonio Banderas. Green seems a little bit unsure at times with the most elaborate setpieces but I still didn't mind so much because that lent more rawness, more unstoryboardness. It gets gory, sure, and if you don't like gore this probably isn't the movie for you but if you got shot in the ear, well, what? Did you think you'd just go about your day like nothing happened?

Besides, any movie that works in a few snippets of Public Enemy's "Lost at Birth" can't be all bad.

My Great Movies: Without Limits

Many is the number of times I've been asked by people to name my favorite Sports Movie. This is an interesting question because I myself often wonder precisely what constitutes a Sports Movie. Sports Illustrated's Jack McCallum has written they "are, for the most part, fractured fairy tales with soft, gooey centers."

Director Robert Towne's 1998 "Without Limits" (which he co-wrote with the great sportswriter and former long distance runner Kenny Moore) is a Sports Movie. It features numerous racing scenes and the relationship between a cocky long distance runner and his crusty coach. But how many sports movies have you seen where 1.) The hero never really accepts the changes demanded by the coach, 2.) The hero loses the Big Race and 3.) The hero suddenly perishes at the end? Of course, "Without Limits" is based on fact, the story of arguably America's greatest long distance runner, Steve Prefontaine (Billy Crudup), and so it had no choice but to veer from the formulaic course so many Sports Movies tread. It's not a fairytale and its center is not soft nor gooey.

Normally if I see a movie I love (or hate) and pull up Roger Ebert's review I will find he and I are in unison. "Without Limits" is an exception to this rule. He wrote that, "Prefontaine was more interesting as a public figure than a private one." I could not disagree more. I was slightly familiar with Prefontaine when I first viewed this movie. I knew about his race at the Munich Olympics and I knew he died in a car crash. But his private persona was a mystery to me, and watching this film put it front and center and made me realize how much I love the man and what we shared in common.


At the start, the track & field giant that is Oregon University sends an assistant coach and two runners to Prefontaine's home for recruiting purposes. This, however, does not please their potential signee. The only person who can persuade him is the legendary head coach who doesn't believe in recruiting, Bill Bowerman (Donald Sutherland, gentle but commanding). "I don't go anywhere near Eugene unless Bowerman personally says he wants me," declares Pre. Thus Bowerman offers a contrite handwritten letter and off to Oregon goes Pre. This scene is extremely important. Yes, Pre courts comely Mary Marcx (Monica Potter, re-proving that she only has two facial expressions) but the most vital relationship of the entire film belongs to the runner and the coach.

Pre is a "front-runner", which is to say he darts to the lead of the race at the very start and stays there, as opposed to hanging back and "stealing" the race at its end. Bowerman explains that front-running is a "disaster" at the international level of competition but the stubborn Pre will have none of it. A key confrontation comes in Bowerman's scenic backyard overlooking the McKenzie River. Bowerman wants to know from where Pre's "front-running" compulsion comes. "I only want to win if I know I've done my best," the long distance prodigy explains, "and the only way I know to do that is to run flat out and in front until I have nothing left." He wanted to win more than anything but winning meant nothing unless he did it by adering to his own idealistic standard.

Later, during Pre's battles with the pre-historic AAU (foreign runners were paid to work on the track while American runners had to fend for themselves), Bowerman calls out Pre tellingly: "You and the AAU have a whole lot in common. Resistance to change."

The only instance in which he does to an extent alter his running style happens in the movie's focal point - the 5,000 meter race at the 1972 Olympics. It has become a common device to begin a film with the end but Towne starts "Without Limits" with the race, a sequence placed in the middle. It is the crux of the story. All that happens before is leading up to it and all that that happens after is more or less a result of it.

Many sports movies based on true events tend to fictionalize the key competitions (see: "Glory Road") but the race here is presented just as it happened in real life and, as far as I'm concerned, it is the absolute pinnacle of sporting events brought to the movie screen so far in cinematic history. It is not simply Pre doing battle with his fellow runners, but also with his coach (Bowerman's strategy vs. Pre's) as he looks on from the stands and with himself. Perhaps if Pre were around he would disagree but the real life outcome is decidedly romantic in a way no screenwriter would ever dare pen.

The race having happened at in Munich means, of course, the horrendous tragedy involving the 11 Israeli athletes will turn up as it cannot simply be side-stepped. But rather than feeling like an ungainly appendange Towne works it in rather gracefully with Bowerman offering his runners a brief monologue that I wish NBC would show several dozen times during the upcoming Beijing games rather then trotting out puff piece after puff piece. (I did wish, however, the film chose to present more of Pre's real-life anger at the situation.)

In the lead role Billy Crudup offers a brilliant biopic performance. One must be careful in a movie like this to avoid mere mimickry and while Crudup unequivocally nails Pre's unorthodox running style (the Munich race shifts between actual footage of Pre and a re-enactment with Crudup and you can never tell when or where) he also offers a beautiful portrait of a complex man. He displays the pomp a cocky guy like this would have but never fails to generate empathy. His reaction when Mary pulls away from him in bed clues you in to the good heart he possesses. And notice how the slamming down of the bench during an argument with Bowerman functions not as anger but as an exclamation point to a speech he's probably been forced to give dozens of times.

The film must also deal with Pre's death in a car crash at the age of 24 and taken solely within the context of the movie this terrible event seems to completely destory the film's arc. Entertainment Weekly's Owen Gleiberman wrote that the death in the movie "is surely a tragedy, but a naggingly arbitrary one. We're watching the story of a man on the verge of transcendence, and then, suddenly, it's as if a piano had been dropped on his head. (His) death, I'm afraid, breaks all the rules of screenwriting..." As a means of disagreement I would like to return to the esteemed Roger Ebert and borrow another line of his from a different review: "Life can contain catastrophe, and life can cheat. The ending is the making of the movie, its transcendence."

The scene prior to the car crash involves Pre explaining to a teammate how he plans to set the world record in the 5,000 meters and the scenes prior to this one inevitably involve Pre's mental fallout from losing the race at Munich. He fights through the dark times to emerge enlightened and then life pulls the rug out from under him. It happens all the time and no screenwriting professor and his or her devotion to narrative flow can stop them.

Though perhaps there was something at else at play, too. Pre was, as I've said, cocky and stubborn. He famously once said, "The hell with my country. I compete for myself." (To be fair, this notorious quote was taken out of context.) But in seeing this film and reading about him afterwards I sense in Pre someone who had figured out his particular place in the world. He found something he loved and poured his heart and soul into it. He had to run. He had to. A lot of people in life, whether they pass away early, at middle age, or late, don't ever find something like it. "It's the hardest thing in the world to believe in something," he tells Mary. "If you do, it's a miracle."

At one point Bowerman chides his star that he can't give a fellow runner and the crowd the "performance" they expect. Pre dismisses this notion, "You can call a race any goddamn thing you want but I wouldn't call it a performance." Bowerman wonders what he would call it. "A work of art," says Pre.

This passage is moving to me beyond words. God, is it unbearable when I passionately rave about a film and someone responds, "It's just a movie." ("It's just a...." is the worst beginning to a sentence in the English language.) It's not just a movie. The great ones are never just movies. They're works of art. "Without Limits" is a work of art. It's the best Sports Movie ever made.

A Digression: 她是所有那 (She's All That)

I suppose I don't know how many people anymore possess interest in the so-called Olympic Games but I suppose I don't care. Personally, I love 'em. I absolutely love 'em. Two solid weeks of people carrying out their dreams makes me frickin' happy. (Note: My friend Becky is actually in Beijing for the Games so I urge you to keep updated on the sites and sounds of the XXIX Olympiad via her blog.)

But I have to say that I'm even more excited than usual for the 2008 Summer Games and this is because my hometown will be representin' in Beijing courtesy of 16 year old Shawn Johnson, tried and true resident of West "Most Chain Restaurants Per Capita Of Any City In The Continental United States" Des Moines, Iowa, who will be part of the US Female Gymnastics Team. (For the record, Shawn is not one of those raised-in-the-womb-to-be-a-gymnast gymnasts. Her mom took her to a local gym for nothing more than a little recreation and bam! Shawn found her passion and the rest was history. And this, of course, just lends more credence to the old proverb "Never Mess With A Passionate Iowan".)

And while anyone skilled enough, dedicated enough, and fortunate enough to stand for their nation in the Olympics has the right to be proud just to compete, let's get somethin' straight - Shawn Johnson is not merely in a just-goin'-to-Beijing-to-compete situation. Ya' feel me, dawgs? She's the 2 time (read: back-to-back) US All-Around National Champion, the defending World All-Around Champion and she just won the Olympic Trials going away (which I watched, meaning even I can't jinx her). She is the proverbial - no, no, why am I saying proverbial? She is the Gold Medal favorite.

Ya' best recognize, rival gymnasts. Weather beacon blue....Shawn Johnson's comin' for you. (If you have no idea what that means, well, it's probably because you've never seen John Bachman at the Tavern and thought, "Ooooooh....celebrity.")

Don't you be bringin' that weak-ass s--- to this competition, Romania. Stay home since you're already there, China. There's a straight-up Iowan in the hiz-house! Shawn makes the balance beam look as wide as the Raccoon River and the vault as leisurely as a stroll through Valley West Mall opening weekend of the Jordan Creek Town Center. True dat.

Her skillz are so wack she'll be sharing the stage this summer with the Iowa livestock that's got the most flava....The Butter Cow. (How 'bout you, Nadia Comaneci? Ever been cast in butter? Yeah. That's what I thought.)

Okay, okay, I'm a little wound up, a little outta' control. I need to tone it down. The last thing Shawn wants is some moron blogger who can't even do half of one pull-up talking trash and ranting and raving about he too used to run tha streetz of WDM and how they actually have just a teensy bit in common. (Question: Do you know how Shawn chooses to relieve stress? Answer: By writing.)

Look, it's just amazing to think I can turn on my TV next week and see someone competing in the Olympics from my old stomping grounds, someone who probably has to repeatedly explain to her teammates, "Uh, no, Iowa actually isn't just one big cornfield and, no, I don't park next to a tractor when I go to the gym."

Or, let me put it this way - I saw Carl Lewis (arguably the greatest Olympian of all time) when he ran at the Drake Relays in Des Moines. But getting to see someone from Des Moines in the Olympics will be much, much cooler.

No One Is Ever Pleased

I should have known it was coming. At the showing I attended of "The Dark Knight" on opening weekend two gentlemen (probably so-called "fanboys") who were sitting a row in front of me mocked Christian Bale's "Batman Voice" as the closing credits rolled. By mocking it I mean they spoke in a tone best described as a profoundly deep growl. And I vividly remember wanting to tap these two idiots on the shoulder and say, "Yeah, and if he hadn't changed his voice so dramatically you'd be sitting here bitching about how he hadn't changed his voice so dramatically and so why couldn't anyone tell he was Bruce Wayne?"

Lo and behold, this very topic has apparently become an issue.

People will always find something about which they can whine.