Here, covered alphabetically, are six new titles -- three mainstream, three alternative -- that between them manage to target the head, the heart, the funny bone, and, for those with a yen for either Brad Pitt or Cameron Diaz, other parts of the body as well. Obviously, the major studio product will dominate the box office Top 10 listings, but the other three pictures -- mere whispers, all -- ably demonstrate that Charlotte theater bookers are making sure that no filmgoing demographic gets left out of this month's movie merriment.
One's enjoyment of Charlie's Angels will likely determine that same viewer's tolerance of Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle. This follow-up to that 2000 hit isn't so much a sequel as an extension -- if movies weren't so time- and cost-consuming, it'd be easy to picture a new Angels flick hitting the multiplexes on a weekly basis (in that respect, it emulates the 70s TV series on which it's based). Like its big-screen predecessor, this new T&Angels adventure features countless scenes that serve as nothing more than mini-vanity projects for its three lovely leads (Cameron Diaz as giggly party girl Natalie, Drew Barrymore as street-smart riot grrl Dylan, and Lucy Liu as sophisticated smart girl Alex), reams of smarmy double entendres that are sure to elicit as many groans as giggles, and several stunt-heavy, death-defying feats that are simply absurd beyond reason. But so what? Indefensible as it may be on a hoity-toity level, this works more often than not because of the infectious atmosphere generated by its leading ladies as well as returning director McG. I've never been a fan of Demi Moore, so her much ballyhooed "comeback" in this picture (as a former Angel gone bad) means nothing to me, and the unfortunate reliance on smutty humor brings it perilously close to Austin Powers territory. But several cameo appearances (including Demi's ex and one of the TV Angels) add to the fun, and let's face it: When our heroines are disguised as welders at one point, who doesn't want to hear Irene Cara's Flashdance... What A Feeling playing in the background?
As the father of a 12-year-old girl who's a big fan of Legally Blonde, I've seen all or parts of Reese Witherspoon's commercial breakthrough more times than I care to admit. Yet repeat viewings haven't tired me of Witherspoon's vivacious Elle Woods; instead, I've become fond (within stringent critical reason, of course) of both the film and the character at its pink center. Yet it's doubtful that excessive viewings of Legally Blonde 2: Red, White and Blonde will render the same verdict; on the contrary, once is certainly enough for this so-so sequel. Lazily copying the first film's template to a staggering degree, this excursion finds Elle, now a full-fledged lawyer, hoofing it to Washington, DC, to introduce a bill that would prevent animals from being used as cosmetic test subjects. There, she's taken under the wing of prominent Congresswoman Victoria Rudd (Sally Field), befriended by a hotel doorman (Bob Newhart) who might be the most politically savvy man in town, and forced to lock horns with Rudd's cynical chief of staff (the great Regina King, sadly wasted here). Part of the appeal of the original film was in watching Elle Woods grow from a shallow sorority girl into a self-aware woman genuinely surprised at the breadth of her own potential; here, the character has grown stagnant, and the herky-jerky script relies on recycled gags and pompous speeches to cover up this lamentable fact. There are a few bright spots along the way, but not enough to prevent this from being declared legally bland.
Start with Mark Twain's The Prince and the Pauper, drain it of all adventure and period flavor, replace that with plenty of existential angst, serve it up in a coat of Gallic glaze, and the result would look something like Man On the Train, the sort of talky yet tantalizing film we've come to expect from master French filmmaker Patrice Leconte (Monsieur Hire, The Girl On the Bridge). Yet here, the change of identity isn't physical as much as mental, with two strangers who meet, quickly become acquainted, and equally as quickly find themselves yearning for each other's lifestyle. Jean Rochefort plays Manesquier, an elderly teacher possessed with the gift of gab; Johnny Hallyday portrays Milan, a tight-lipped, small-time crook who arrives in Manesquier's quiet burg with the intention of robbing its bank. Circumstances thrust the men together, and it's not long before Manesquier grows fond of Milan's outlaw status while Milan becomes enamored with the slow, steady rhythms of Manesquier's sedate existence. The script by Claude Klotz showcases strong dialogue that seems to fly out of Hallyday's mouth while floating out of Rochefort's (credit the actors as much as the writer for any lingering text), yet at its heart is an unspoken, philosophical treatise on the manner in which our lives are laid out for us and whether it's truly possible to suddenly shift gears to take the road less traveled. A plot hiccup near the end breaks the movie's mood, but the picture rebounds with a dreamlike resolution that's as satisfying as most of what has preceded it.
Despite its frequent reliance on computer graphics, Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas largely hails from the "old school" of hand-drawn animation, and like most recent efforts in that vein, it proves to be one dull affair. The advent of other modes of toon expression (seen in the eye-popping likes of Shrek, Chicken Run and the current Finding Nemo) doesn't mean that the traditional animated epic should now be treated as the domain of formula fodder -- Hayao Miyazaki's recent Oscar winner Spirited Away proved that -- but studios with their hands in the cartoon pot, like Disney, Fox and DreamWorks (which produced Sinbad), seem to be unable to break away from the paralyzing blueprint that rarely wavers from one hand-drawn film to the next. So just as Treasure Planet and The Road to El Dorado (to name but two of many) have already maintained the status quo of "been there, done that," so too does Sinbad elicit familiar yawns, reactions to its limp storyline about a plucky bad-boy hero (voiced by Brad Pitt) who tirelessly banters with a spunky lady love (Catherine Zeta-Jones) while battling a wicked goddess named Eris (I guess The Little Mermaid's Ursula wasn't available, though listening to Michelle Pfeiffer's purr in the part isn't exactly a chore). There are a pair of nifty sequences (an encounter with sirens, a battle royale with a giant sea squid) that pay tribute to such past fantasy tale spinners as Ray Harryhausen and Jules Verne, but for the most part, this is rough going -- even without the obligatory Bryan Adams tune clogging the soundtrack's arteries.
This may sound like so much hyperbole, but in a season packed with reloaded action sequels and superhero sagas, it's shocking to note that the most exciting movie of the summer is actually a modest little documentary centering around words. Like Hoop Dreams and many of the other landmark documentaries, this Oscar-nominated gem is only ostensibly about one subject: At first glance, it's merely a piece about eight bright kids who are among the 249 finalists taking part in the 1999 National Spelling Bee competition. On this level alone, director Jeff Blitz has made a wonderful movie crammed with genuine suspense: Having become familiar with these eight students, we're sweating as each one is confronted with a word that most of us have never heard of before (let alone used), knowing that if they misspell it, they're out of the competition for good. Yet Blitz operates on other plateaus as well, forging subtle yet powerful examinations of the often unrealistic pressures parents place on their offspring, the social stigma among youths of being perceived by their peers as too smart (better to be dumb and dumber), the ability of this one competition to represent different things to different families depending on their socioeconomic standing, and, especially significant in these pseudo-patriotic times, the real meaning of what it means to reach for that treasured piece of idealism known as the American Dream, blissfully ignoring the conditions that might prevent one's reach and grasp from squarely matching up.
A star is born in Whale Rider: New Zealand actress Keisha Castle-Hughes, who proves to be the best young import from that part of the world since Anna Paquin stunned us in The Piano a decade earlier. In writer-director Niki Caro's adaptation of Witi Ihimaera's 1986 novel, Castle-Hughes stars as Pai, a 12-year-old girl who had survived a difficult birth that killed her mother and twin brother. Pai is a descendant of Paikea, who, as the legend goes, first arrived in what would become the clan's village riding on the back of a whale. Pai certainly displays all the characteristics that would enable her to one day become the village's latest leader, but because she's female, her tradition-minded grandfather Koro (Rawiri Paratene) dismisses her from consideration, showing controlled love for her as his flesh and blood but lashing out at her whenever she attempts to step outside what he perceives as her lot in life. Employing dashes of fantasy in what is largely a realistic family drama (in many respects, it begs comparison to John Sayles' equally enchanting The Secret of Roan Inish), Whale Rider is above all a moving drama about a young girl's efforts to find her place in the world while simultaneously seeking the love and respect of a patriarch whose own stubbornness blackens an otherwise noble spirit. As Pai, Castle-Hughes delivers a clear-headed performance that, like the film that embraces it, never succumbs to cloying sentiment but instead finds heartbreak and hope in a naturalistic manner.
