18 December 2007
Other notable "gurus" include directors like John Landis, Alison Anders, Allan Arkush, Larry Cohen, Mick Garris, and Jack Hill, and screenwriter Sam Hamm.
The best part of it all is that in most cases, the trailers are better than the films they're ballyhoo'ing. Case in point: this month's trailer is "I Was A Teenage Werewolf", hosted by none other than makeup maestro Rick Baker!
©2007 Robert J. Lewis
12 December 2007
"Corner Gas", "Little Mosque On The Prairie", "The Rick Mercer Report," "Dragons' Den" "Degrassi: The Next Generation" and "Robson Arms" are some of the initial titles. Although CTV fare like "The Hills", "South Park", and "The Sarah Silverman show" come from south-of-the-border.
If iTunes really wants to get me excited about downloading Canadian content, they'll add "SCTV", "The Forest Rangers", "The Starlost", "Strange Paradise", and of course, "Rocket Robin Hood" to the library.
I assume that the selection will eventually expand to films. Just think--Michael Snow's "Wavelength"! Available in your shirt pocket! Whenever you need some perspective during a long streetcar ride!
Check out the story here at Canoe.
03 December 2007
Yep, a five-year old year chimp has a better memory than a human--at least compared to these these co-ed clods--in a test that involved recalling the order of Arabic numbers. If General Urko organizes his gorilla army before next year's 2008 elections, perhaps Dubya can save face and send 'em to Iraq...
The beginning of the end can be read here at Canoe.
25 November 2007
21 November 2007
19 November 2007
17 November 2007
10 November 2007
06 November 2007
01 November 2007
27 October 2007
23 October 2007
22 October 2007
21 October 2007
20 October 2007
Check out my review here.
13 October 2007
Up until this moment we're well-primed for something major: after listening to Charlton Heston's space age misanthrope George Taylor dismiss the human race to this flight recorder, badger his surviving fellow astronauts as they navigate a curiously habitable alien world, and make friendly with what Ash would call some "primitive screw heads" (excluding the stunning Nova, of course), a strange, forboding noise from the brush initiates mass panic. Suddenly, a relaxing skinny dip gives way to swishing blades, then mighty horses, then marching figures, which bring gun fire, hunting nets and then--
Even though the premise is right there in the damned title, the simian soldier's entrance is still a stunner of a moment, rivaling even this film's notorious ending, IMHO. After literal dozens of viewings I still get that frisson of horror and enchantment when that a-rooooogah! horn blares from amidst Jerry Goldsmith's nerve-wracking percussion and the camera zooms in on this first reveal of John Chamber's astonishingly expressive makeup illusions--ushering in a too-brief wave of adult science fiction, fantasy, and horror cinema (along with Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, Roger Vadim's Barbarella, and George A. Romero's Night Of The Living Dead that same year) and securing my hopeless geekdom for life.
THND's Matt Soller Seitz was inspired by Norma Desmond's lament, "We had faces then" from Billy Wilder's Sunset Boulevard:
"Entranced as I am by Ms. Desmond's fervor, I must respectfully disagree: yes, they had faces then, but we have faces now. And some of them are extraordinary. Therefore, I'm calling for a Close-Up Blog-a-thon to run Oct. 12-21. Your piece could be as simple as a series of frame grabs with captions, or a short analysis of a single close-up in a particular movie or television episode, past or current. Or it could be an essay about a certain performer's mastery of (or failure to master) the close-up. Or it could fixate on a director or cinematographer who is especially adept at pushing in to capture emotion."
Regrettably, I'm too busy to free up any time to write any form of a coherent, impassioned piece on my favorite screen closeup--the day job, the night course, and the upcoming Toronto After Dark Film Festival occupy whatever time I don't spend sleeping these days--so instead, I'll post a few of my favorites until the closing date. If you want to get involved, check out Seitz's details here.
Here's my first entry: Ben (Duane Jones) appears out of the darkness and chaos to save Barbara (Judith O'Dea) in George A. Romero's original 1968 classic Night Of The Living Dead.
12 October 2007
11 October 2007
But while fanatics like Jack Thompson (and Hilary Clinton, who really should know better and save her energy to save her desperate party) are campaigning to make sure no American child shall drive the virtual streets of Liberty City without a seatbelt, or plasma-blast a Covenant soldier without feeling remorse for their own intolerance of other cultures, and our soccer fields, hockey arenas, and baseball diamonds are reportedly barren as kids take up their Wii sticks in their trans-fat encrusted fingers (well, everywhere but Toronto, where there are reportedly still waiting lists to get into amateur sports leagues), yet another attack is raging, this one from the PBS tote bag circuit: can video games be considered art?
The only rational answer is “yes”, of course, because anything created by an artist or team of artists can be defined as such (ask Dali and his limp clocks, ask Herriman and his Krazy Kat, ask Duchamp and his monogrammed urinal). Behold the production design of “Gears Of War” (Goya meets Giger), marvel at the nuanced, multi-narrative threads of “GTA: San Andreas” that seem random but build to a satisfying conclusion. “God Of War 2” is a kick-ass way to learn some remarkably dense Greek mythology while slugging it out in some of the most painterly and immersive simulated environments ever realized. But what we’re really talking “High Ahhht” here. To which I will quote Al Pacino in Carlito’s Way: “Here come da pain!”
Amazingly, the most heated debate over the subject is currently raging between author/artist/filmmaker Clive Barker (yes, the Hellraiser guy), and critic Roger “Thumbs Up” Ebert of all people. The supremely-talented Barker (I admit it, I’ve been a fan since 1985’s ‘The Damnation Game” and have had the pleasure of meeting him in person several times) has been developing some interactive game properties of his own creation ("Jericho" is due for the Xbox 360 and PS3 later this month), and took exception to Ebert’s published remarks that video games aren’t-and-never-will-be “art”.
And just what qualifies Ebert to evaluate the aesthetic credibility of the results of all those little ones and zeroes? By his own admission: absolutely nothing.
For a man who expounds the joys of a medium that was once (and in some circles, still is) considered a lesser art form, he’s extremely short-sighted. When Barker accused Ebert’s woefully uniformed view as “prejudiced”, Ebert wore it like a badge of pride:
The word “prejudiced” often translates as “disagrees with me.” I might suggest that gamers have a prejudiced view of their medium, and particularly what it can be. Games may not be Shakespeare quite yet, but I have the prejudice that they never will be, and some gamers are prejudiced that they will.
I never considered anyone who argues in favour of the merits of expanding one’s tolerances (which Barker is trying to do) as prejudiced, but I’ll remember that, Rog, when you suggest I waste any more hours of my life on the dated, New Wave stunts of Jean-Luc Godard, whose validity as an artist today is purely due to the nostalgic longings of people who never got over their first screening of The Conformist (which was a Bertolluci film, of course). When Barker praises the range of experiences and the potential for interactivity that (so far) only the videogame can provide--
We should be stretching the imaginations of our players and ourselves. Let’s invent a world where the player gets to go through every emotional journey available. That is art. Offering that to people is art.
--Ebert grips his vintage leather-bound Dickens volumes and sniffs:
If you can go through “every emotional journey available,” doesn’t that devalue each and every one of them? Art seeks to lead you to an inevitable conclusion, not a smorgasbord of choices. If next time, I have Romeo and Juliet go through the story naked and standing on their hands, would that be way cool, or what?
Ah, so Ebert hath decreed that Art should lead the viewer/reader/listener to only a single conclusion. Hmm—I’m pretty sure that once upon a time, it was firmly held by the intelligentsia of the time that art could never be anything but representational, and concerned only with religious iconography. But what do I know? He even closes with a tiresome Pauline Kael quote, which you can read here, because I can’t be bothered recounting it. It was parodied, once, on SCTV, during the Dr. Tongue remake of Midnight Cowboy.
Barker shot back (perhaps a bit inelegantly) calling Ebert “a pompous, arrogant old man” (I think Clive was too kind). But one has to admire his progressive vision and glee in partaking in a genuinely unique and innovative creative enterprise, something Ebert would know little about.
I think Ebert is one of the better film reviewers working today—he seems to enjoy a greater variety of movies than most of his insulated brethren and they don’t hand out Pulitzer Prizes for nothing—but this is the same man who once dismissed Night Of The Living Dead (to his credit, he later recanted) and did much damage to the reputation of the already-maligned horror genre when he and the late Gene Siskel turned their weekly series (PBS, of course) in early 1980s in a hysterical (and one-sided) anti-slasher rally (going so far as to urge moviegoers to boycott Paramount releases because they distributed the Friday The 13th series).
I don’t really care if sticks-in-the-mud like Ebert dig video games or not (admittedly, I’m only a casual player, but I would definitely define the best of them as art, just as I would with painting, film, music, theatre), but I’m just more than a little tired of these cranky aging Boomers who worship at the altar of Altman and who think that artistic progress stopped when the clock struck midnight on January 1st, 1980.
Ebert would do well to keep on partying like it’s 1974 and leave the rest of us--obsessive, yes, juvenile, perhaps—alone to partake in the invention of a bonafide new art form, which is likely only in its birthing stages. He should remember people once saw The Jazz Singer as just a “talkie”—a passing fad. I’d like to think we ain’t heard, or seen, or experienced, nothin’ yet.
©2007 Robert J. Lewis
02 October 2007
The complex and unromanticized Western serial was cancelled by HBO due to low ratings and creator David Milch's desire to pursue another series: the metaphysical surfer ensemble John From Cincinatti. But we were assured Deadwood would to return in the form of two feature length films (to air on HBO) that would wrap it all up.
This past June, while promoting Live Free Or Die Hard, Timothy (Seth Bullock) Olyphant told Coming Soon: "don't hold your breath...the fact that show existed at all for as long as it did (three seasons, all available on DVD) was a miracle of sorts."
And last week Ian (Al Sweargen) McShane told Cinematical: ""I just got a call on Friday from ... a dear friend of mine, who told me that they're packing up the ranch. They're dismantling the ranch and taking the stuff out. That ship is gonna sail. Bonsoir, Deadwood."
Today, the site follows up with responses from other cast members: Jim (Ellsworth) echoed McShane's news, and W. Earl (Dan Dority) Brown confirmed that HBO's lease for the sets is up, but he wants back his "hat, knife, and gunbelt."
With John From Cincinatti having gotten the pink slip from HBO, I'd hoped Milch would return to the Black Hills at least one more time to wrap up the Hearst plot and give fans a proper ending as planned.
But to paraphrase Al Swearengen: Announcing your plans is a good way to hear God--or clueless network executives--laugh...
27 September 2007
Adam Lopez and his team (of which I am now a latecoming member) have toiled through the nights, dawns, and days of the dead to bring you the following lineup:
Friday, October 19:
Mulberry Street (Premiere Gala)
Saturday, October 20:
Sunday, October 21:
Monday, October 22:
Tuesday, October 23:
Wednesday, October 24:
Thursday, October 25:
Murder Party (Closing Night Gala)
TAD offers three programmes showcasing the finest in short-form horror from Canada and around the world:
Cutting Edge Horror (Sat, Oct. 20, 1.45pm)
The best new horror shorts from around the world. Highlights include It Came From The West, a puppet zombie western!
Cutting Edge Fantasy (Sun, Oct. 21, 1.30pm)
The best new international sci-fi and fantasy shorts from around the world.
Cutting Edge Canada (screening before features throughout the fest)
Outstanding new Canadian horror and fantasy shorts, with several of the filmmakers in attendance.
(The complete lineup of titles will be announced shortly).
And of course, don't forget the second annual Official Toronto Zombie Walk! Last year's "Million Maimed March" was attended by over 500 fans in full zombie regalia. This year, the event lasts even longer with the afternoon walk, a break for food and drink (or to track down human prey), and an evening of two premiere zombie films (here's a fan's Flicker portfolio of last year's walk).
I've heard great things about the opening night film Mulberry Street, which (along with the upcoming The Signal) could mark the emergence of a new era of brave and distinctive horror voices the likes we haven't seen since the advent of Carpenter, Cronenberg, Hooper, and Romero (if not, well, what the hell--it's probably pretty entertaining...).
Keep checking this site throughout the event for daily news and reviews.
21 September 2007
18 September 2007
She was born Audrey Johnston in New Brunswick, and grew up in Portland, Maine. At age 17 she settled in Greenwich Village and changed her named to "Brett" after the lead female character in Hemingway's "The Sun Also Rises." Somers was her mother's maiden name.
She was married for a time to actor Jack Klugman, who was responsible for getting her onto the game show. Klugman suggested she be brought on when he appeared during the show's first broadcasts and she soon became a regular part of the panel.
I'm not the biggest fan of panel game shows but I try not to miss Match Game reruns on The Game Show Network--I've always enjoyed Gene Rayburn's exasperated, insulting tone towards the (dim) contestants and the antics of the classic panel--lead by Somers and Nelson Reilly (who died this past May), of course--especially during the "afternoon" tapings when the witty tongues would be well-lubricated with alcohol.
Here's her obit from CNN.
17 September 2007
And we are assured by the show's producers that even though prophetic artist Isaac is dead, Tim Sale's art will still be featured this coming season.
I just hope that Global HD actually plays "Heroes" in true high-def this year, considering the money I'm forking out for these digital channels...
16 September 2007
06 September 2007
03 September 2007
30 August 2007
Possibilities to play the father/son duo: Brad Pitt and Maddox Jolie-Pitt. If so, have them ride around on ATVs instead of walking. Walking is boring.
Father needs "buddy." See if Jackie Chan is available. If not, maybe Andy Dick?
In book, we don't find out how the world ended. Must show in movie version. Possible scenarios:
Girls in bikinis accidentally blow up nuclear power station by hitting self-destruct button with their big, round butts
If we go with robots as destroyers of Earth, robots should still be chasing the people. Also, maybe change name from The Road to The Robots.
If we decide to rewrite as comedy, see if Sandler is available for May production start. When the father and son discover the boat, boat should be loaded with machine guns and hand grenades.
In book, they say "carrying the fire" and it's some kind of abstract thing about carrying the spirit of humanity around in a time of hopelessness.
What if "fire" is a secret weapon that will restore atmosphere and kill the robots? Or it turns out at the end that boy can shoot fire out of eyes and mouth? He's like a messiah guy, but a fire-shooting-eyes messiah guy.
Read the whole thing here.
28 August 2007
Demons 2, produced less than a year later, offers a near-identical concept, except here, the transmission device is a television signal and the location a high-rise apartment building. It more than satisfies Joe Bob Briggs’ patented rule that a sequel should be the exact same movie all over again, and should appeal to afficionados of The Twonky and Jerry Manders' "Four Arguments For The Elimination Of Television".
In the first Demons' film with the film (keeping up?) the titular nogoodnicks entered our world—and human bodies—via the sharp prongs of a cursed mask that was unearthed in Nostradamus' tomb. In Demons 2, the fwtf features another group of clueless teens who have entered a quarantined disaster area where presumably the invasion was contained and eradicated. They happen upon a demon’s ashen remains where blood from one of their wounds triggers its resurrection. The creature then comes towards the screen, and out of it, entering its first victim’s body.
Several parallel plots—such as they are—collide throughout the ten floors of the apartment building “The Tower”: in one suite, there’s a birthday party in full swing for Sally (Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni) and her senior classmates, who, without the distractions of the Internet, iPods, and Second Life, must entertain themselves by robot-dancing to some 80s alternative hits on the boom box while swilling down booze in paper cups, careful not to spill any on their feathered ‘dos and shoulder pads.
Sally’s a shrill one, and while her dialogue from screenwriters Bava, Dario Argento, Franco Ferrinni, and Dardano Sachetti is less than Hughesian (“My hair stinks! This dress stinks. This whole thing is disgusting! These sleeves on this go back and forth--what am I gonna do?”), the actress has an endearing presence reminiscent of her American teen scream queen counterpart of the time, Jill Schoelen. As the first to be possessed, Sally quickly mutates into a fanged, milky-eyed harpy who spreads the demon virus throughout the complex ala Cronenberg’s Shivers/Frissons/They Came From Within.
In neighbouring apartments, bookish George (David Edwin Knight) is concerned for the safety of his expectant wife Hannah (Nancy Brilli), a family with two young children (one of them a prepubescent Asia Argento) try to escape, a latch-key kid and his dog become possessed, and some truly dedicated fitness addicts, who under the tutelage of a returning Bobby Rhodes (who memorably played a pimp in the first Demons) enact a Howard Hawksian standoff in the underground parking garage.
First beastie to exit through Sally’s cathode ray tube makes for an impressive effect (more or less replicated in Ringu), albeit once based heavily on Rick Baker’s pioneering work on Cronenberg’s Videodrome, which was likely an unacknowledged influence here.
Lots of gloppy monsters follow, more akin to zombies really, all pustules and razor teeth and bloodshot orbs, anticipating “the infected” of the later biohazard-themed 28 Days Later than anything genuinely supernatural (there’s no internal story logic to these nasties, where they come from, what they want, what they do--other than to cause a lot of icky havoc—is left for the theatre of the mind…). Serious horror buffs will strain to find a metaphor in the television angle—perhaps Bava aspires to cheekily paraphrase McLuhan in that here, the medium is the massacre? (a reach, I admit...).
The momentum is dulled, somewhat, by the third-act emergence of a gawd-awful rubber puppet--of the John Carl Beuchler variety ala Ghoulies and laughably unconvincing even by 80s standards (and we all bought into “Yoda”, ET, and the Gelflings, didn’t we?).
Those of us of a certain age (read: those of us who first consumed Douglas Coupland and tingled: "that's me!") will enjoy the soundtrack: alt-rock staples The Smiths, The Cult, The Dead Can Dance, Art Of Noise, Gene Loves Jezebel, Peter Murphy underscore the KY jelly and karo syrup free-for-all that occupies much of what passes for plot in Act Two. It all oozes and splats to the requisite “the end?” coda that, to no one’s surprise, segued to a Demons 3 and a Demons 4.
Following the screening, presented by Rue Morgue Magazine and London, Ontario’s Vagrancy Films, the jazzed audience was treated to a Q&A with “Sally” herself, actress Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni, who currently resides in New York (her home town, actually), and was in the GTA for Rue Morgue magazine's annual Festival Of Fear blow-out at the FanExpo convention.
The 36-year old actress, not looking a day older than she appears in the film, was clearly moved by the enthusiastic reception, and admitted she still feels a kinship with her character, who she says “makes her sad”.
Demons 2, like its preceding chapter, was shot in Munich. She recalled that the makeup took hours to apply, and that her contact lenses were quite painful—obviously, FX technology has come a long way. Bava, who cameos in the film as her father, didn’t give her a lot of direction, and hired her without an audition, based upon her other film work.
Cataldi-Tassoni went on to become something of a Italian scream queen, appearing in Dario Argento’s Opera, Phantom Of The Opera remake (as a child, she grew up in the opera scene, performing in “La Boheme” at the age of three!), as well as Andreas Marfori’s “Il Bosco/Horror Clutch, and Bava’s recent Ghost Son. When asked to compare the directing styles of Bava and Argento, she demurred “quantum physics…completely different universes…” and left it at that.
Extending warm regards from Lamberto Bava and FX supervisor Sergio Stivaletti, Cataldi-Tassondi was off to the Gladstone Hotel to perform numbers from her debut music CD “Limbo Balloon” accompanied by Maurizio Guarini of the prog-rock band (and frequent Argento collaborators) Goblin.
Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni will next be seen in Dario Argento’s Mother Of Tears, the long-awaited sequel to Suspiria and Inferno, debuting in just a little more than a week at The 32nd Annual Toronto International Film Festival.
© Robert J. Lewis 2007
24 August 2007
Costar Coralina Cataldi-Tassoni will be in attendance--perhaps Argento will show up as well?
Review and report to come.
23 August 2007
I suggested Daisy would know best and that we should let her lead the way, and after she sniffed and prodded about the hedges, pointed us to the front porch of the unit two doors down. There, we found three palm-sized newborns: one ginger-hued, one a smokey grey, and the third, a beautiful tortoiseshell like her mother (and equally vocal too!).
We'd just lost our beloved tortie Molly, who developed a rare cancer at the age of 10, and while neither of us much believed in "cosmic" signs, who were we to question the universe? We put in our dibs on the tortie, I grabbed a box and a blanket for the kittens, and on Thanksgiving Day, we christened the six-week old handful "Maggie" and she joined our merry band--instantly making her older sister Minnie's life a daily ordeal.
She's two today, and while she's grown a little longer and is exhibiting some signs of her grandmother Daisy's contemplative nature (sadly, Daisy was killed by a car last month), she's just as bratty and spring-loaded as ever. So here's Maggie in a rare quiet moment (actually, she was in the middle of trying to tear my office curtains down), when I can actually capture a photo that didn't show her as a brown motion blur.
Happy birthday, dreamboat!
31 July 2007
30 July 2007
I was just old enough to catch Snyder for the first time on the tail end of his "Tomorrow" run on NBC (before he was cancelled to make way for "Late Night With David Letterman"). He'd occassionally throw to Rona Barrett for some Hollywood dish, but mostly, it was all Tom for the hour. Chainsmoking against a dark set, dressed like a high school math teacher, and sporting a flappy comb-over that he was able to maintain for decades, Snyder could be counted on to digress into some marathon account of his "Mother Snyder"s various situations, his favourite LA steakhouse, or the fact that he couldn't get "The Great Escape" on home video, and to laugh heartily at his own frequently perplexing jokes and non sequitors.
29 July 2007
24 July 2007
10 July 2007
Watt's appreciation can be read in its entirety here at The Toronto Star.
05 July 2007
Yessir, to a particularly odious breed of swaggering a-hole, Maya Deren and Brett Ratner are cut from pretty much the same (cheese) cloth...
The insufferable jack-ass pictured here is one Ronald Bergan, a film instructor, author, and reviewer (and I would offer, possibly a virgin, impotent, and suffering from IBS, so sources tell me) who must've broken a snaggled-tooth on a popcorn kernel from his "Surf's Up" Happy Meal this week in order to pen this doozie the Britain's Guardian Unlimited:
"By the highest standards of cinema, American films fall short. There are no living American directors who can compete in innovation and depth with the likes of Theo Angelopoulos, Ingmar Bergman, Jean-Luc Godard(the list goes on)...It has always been thus, but to a far lesser extent. The only American-born film directors that truly belong in the Film Pantheon are John Ford, Howard Hawks and Orson Welles..."
Ah, but what about the golden age of the Hollywood studio system, the discriminating and well-versed cineastes/TCM subscribers amongst you have countered? The era in which such acknowledged visionaries such as Ernst Lubitsch, Fritz Lang, Douglas Sirk, Billy Wilder and of course, Alfred Hitchcock, produced their greatest critically-lauded and audience-friendly works?
Sorry, but Bergan's got that covered, too: those artists--he proclaims with laughable authority (presumably having been with them as they stepped off the boat at Ellis Island)--"brought what they had learnt in Europe with them to America".
And true to form, the article is illustrated by a still from the Jim Carrey vehicle "Dumb And Dumber", another dated and woefully obvious reference that's about as representative of American cinema as "Carry On Up The Khyber" is of the U.K. film industry(Lesson number 1 in being a fatuous armchair intellectual: always define your object of scorn by its worst possible example)...
Bergan never informs us at to what those "highest artistic standards" actually are, then again, I'm exactly the kind of sci-fi loving, sequel-going, comic-book-reading moron the Evil Empire caters to and am thus too hopelessly infantile to figure it out. And as a part-time, semi-professional reviewer, I've been known to give positive notices to Eli Roth and Rob Zombie thrillers and would rather cough up a lung before sitting through five minutes of any Godard wank-fest, so it's likely I'll never be invited into the Pundit's Inner Circle unless I trade in my Ray Harryhausen boxed set for the annotated works of Marguerite Duras.
If I seem to be taking all of this a bit too personally, it's because Bergan's tirade distills four years of the kind of blithe, anti-Hollywood, artsy-fartsy dogma crap I was force-fed daily by most of my instructors while studying Fine Arts and Film at York University in the 1980s. In short, for me, it's the equivalent of a 'Nam flashback. You've seen "The Deer Hunter"? Try watching "Battleship Potemkin" frame-by-frame with a hand-coloured Russian flag throughout the 80-minute black & white film and you'll plead for the sweet relief a round of Russian Roulette could bring!
Honestly, I thought we'd moved past this easy anti-populist nonsense: we survived breakdancing movies and "Missing In Action" sequels and other lamentable trends that were supposed to have already killed off film as an art form and here in the 21st century, Spielberg and "Blade Runner" now show up on the AFI list, animated cartoons are no longer considered purely kiddie fare, and films about caped superheroes have elicited stronger critical kudos than the last four Meryl Streep weepies. Hell, the Hobbits even cleaned up at the Oscars, beating the usual "important" disease-of-the-week melodrama...
No doubt tomorrow, there will be those out there quoting liberally from Bergan's article, hoping to impress...well, someone. Just in time to dismiss the new Robin Williams wedding comedy and the expanded opening of "Transformers". Kindred spirits, thankfully, seem to be in short reply, judging from the readers' responses that follow the essay. "Pointless, snobby", "you were being ironic, weren't you?", "banal observations", "xenophobic intellectualism", are some of the kinder remarks...
As for Bergan's influence on my movie-going habits--I don't think I've ever looked more forward to a glorified toy commercial featuring giant robots so much in my life...
©Robert J. Lewis 2007