I drove by the Madstone Theater today -- or where the Madstone used to be. Curiously, the facade sign was still up, almost welcoming, and so were the outside concrete benches, but behind them all was rubble, towered over by an earthmover with a giant maw. A car lot was in the making.

Sad.

For the two years the Madstone was operating off San Mateo Boulevard Northeast, I was there almost every week. And I was a frequent visitor to its predecessor, the San Mateo 8, which operated there for a dozen years or so. (How I loved its rack of free advertising postcards!)

True, the theater was near my apartment at the time and near work. But the true draw was the Madstone's selection, not just its convenience.

That's not to say I haven't seen great movies or had great memories at the Guild, the UNM SUB theater or the late, funky Don Pancho's. (One of my favorte moments was watching the Talking Heads' "Stop Making Sense" in a crowded Don Pancho's with five rockin' friends back in the '80s. When the credits rolled, a row of young men in front of us sang along sotto voce. Can't remember the song, but those guys definitely could have taken me to the river.)

No, the difference with the Madstone was having eight screens. You could see heralded documentaries, like "Bowling for Columbine" or "Fog of War," but you could also see a small gem like "The Weather Underground" or something off the wall, like "Born Liar," a documentary about Fellini. (Someone dressed like a street person stumbled in halfway through the matinee and dropped off in a row close to the screen, apparently to sleep. Fellini would have approved.)

You could get that second tier of foreign language treats, such as "Mostly Martha" (a German language film about a neurotic cook) or "Sweet Sixteen" (a Scottish film about a boy trying to find a stable life amid poverty and crime) or "Nowhere in Africa," which played forever at the theater, an excellent film about German Jews who thought they had escaped privation and persecution by moving to Kenya.

Oh, how rich the selection was. We were lucky. And we should count our blessings that we still have the Guild, UNM and the indie selections at the Century Downtown and at the High Ridge.

When the Madstone closed its small chain in June 2004, the local manager said the Albuquerque theater actually was among those that made money. Maybe that holds out promise that someday a Madstone clone will return.

After all, Albuquerque has plenty of lots filled with wheels. What it need is a wider world of reels.

Your turn: Any favorite Madstone movies or memories you'd like to share?

By the way: If you've wanted to post a comment to the blog entries but were thrown off by that request for a URL, take heart. It's optional! What it is, is an opportunity to list your Web site address, if you possess a Web site. If you don't have one, or don't want us to know about it, just leave that space blank.

Posted by Barbara Page at 03:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Yes, after a week off for our crazy/beautiful lives, we returned to the movie theater for "Cache" (with an accent over that e). It's a French thriller about a well-off Paris couple -- intellectual, urbane, attractive -- who begin receiving videotapes of their comings and goings. Who's filming them and why? "Cache" (remember that accented e) is French for "hidden, "and there's much that's secreted away in the relationship, in the past and in politics in this intriguing film. Hear our comments here.

Posted by Barbara Page at 12:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Hi, Nancy and Barbara here. One of us had minor surgery this week, the other was out of town with relatives, and so we didn't get to a movie. But, recuperating from cuts and kin, we hope to be back in the dark next week.

Posted by Barbara Page at 03:06 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Once again, I have been dissapointed with another classic film nostalgic movie lovers demand I see. "Dirty Dancing" is just plain bad. So are "Saturday Night Fever" and "Scarface."

The plot of "Dirty Dancing" is bizarre. It moves awkwardly from scene to scene (bad rhythm in a dance flick is a big no no), new ideas are introduced at the end of the movie, the characterization is forced and stilted ...
What's the deal? I know, I know. It's typifies an era, or is a symbol of your youth or whatever. But better movies have come out since. Your love of old crappy movies is like your love for a car that breaks down every week. Let it go. Upgrade to a newer, faster model. It might not be the same. You'll miss the duct tape on the vinyl seats and the quirky, nonworking door handle, but you'll be better for it. We can do it together.
Here are classic movies that are junk and better alternates:
1) "Dirty Dancing": So you like the love story. The class tensions are interesting. The triumph of the workers/dancers at the end is just the right kind of underdog-wins-out ending.

See "Rize" instead. Expect better dancing, a better exploration of race and class, and a love story not between pompadoured Patrick Swayze and a curly haired no-name, but between street dancers and their art, their neighborhood and their faith. Truly beautiful. And, actually, true.

2) "Scarface": I like few movies as little as I like this one. The terrible dialogue (the restaurant speech is the only good bit), the two-dimensional acting, the strange relationship between drug lord and sister....Hey, I like a little implied incest as much as the next guy, but this comes out of nowhere and goes nowhere.

For a better drug flick, see "Traffic." For a better movie staring an Italian as a Cuban for no good reason, see "The Perez Family" with Marisa Tomei.

3) "Saturday Night Fever": Ugh. Blech. I couldn't wash the dirty taste out of my mouth after I saw this rotten excuse for a movie. I was pleased that the infamous walking scene at the beginning involved a slice of pizza, but that's where my pleasant surprise ended. The dancing is fine, but there's not enough of it. The plot hung together by a rapidly fraying bit of floss, if you ask me.

For a better movie about a smooth walker having an identity crisis, see "Napoleon Dynamite" or "Aeon Flux."

Posted by at 09:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (7)

Washington Post writer Hank Stuever (and former Tribune great) wrote a column yesterday about love in the movies. Or, more specifically, love for a character in the movies.

I know full well that agony. I have seen it in my own life, and -- sigh -- in so many others, too.

While I was never in love with Lloyd Dobler, as were the women in Stuever's column, I still wrestle with my feelings for Atticus Finch, and I have a major Clark Kent fixation.

Stuever a few years back wrote another story (you can find the column if you follow the first link) about women who still swoon for the hero in "Sixteen Candles," a guy who dumps his hottie girlfriend for geeky Molly Ringwald. The girls still complain that that would never happen.
But wait...
The story reminded me of a fellow I know. He's handsome, sweet, sensitive, funny, blah blah blah. And he has always had the toughest time in the dating scene. Why? He doesn't want the hottie. He wants that awkward redhead. He is holding out for the Molly Ringwald he fell in love with in "Candles" or "Breakfast Club" or any of the Brat Pack flicks. But, for him, in the real world, she didn't exist. So here he is, all these years later, still searching for Molly Ringwald.

D you have a Lloyd? (Or a Molly?)

Posted by Tamara Shope at 08:53 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It's no secret Hollywood and I don't really see eye-to-eye when it comes to relationships. Lately, though, I've been especially disheartened. I'd love to go see a romantic movie this Valentine's Day, but there's just one little problem: What's with all the cheating?

"Brokeback Mountain," "Tristan & Isolde" and "Walk the Line" all have central characters whose marriages are threatened by infidelity. Even King Kong seems to cause second thoughts in Naomi Watts' Ann Darrow. (OK. Maybe that one is a stretch.)

Sure, the rationalization in most of those cases is that the marriages or relationships that are bruised or broken shouldn't have happened in the first place. But, for crying out loud, seems like everyone is a cheater these days. And, most of America -- myself included, most times -- has no problem shelling out $9.50 or so watch it.
(Confession: I didn't see the "Brokeback" or "Tristan," and I did like "Walk the Line." I'm in that camp of people who do sometimes pay to see it, though I didn't see "Unfaithful" -- and "Fatal Attraction" freaked me out.)

But as a wife, I'm fairly offended by the trend. As someone who was promised "till death do us part" once, I have a special longing to see that reflected on the Silver Screen.
Right now, it seems my best chance for a happy and monogomous relationship is in "Fun with Dick and Jane".

Feels like there should be something wrong with that. What do you think?

Posted by Tamara Shope at 03:13 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Two years ago for Valentine's Day, The Telegraph, a national newspaper in England (and a smart, lively one, too), published its list of the 30 most romantic films ever.
And at No. 1:
"Casablanca"?
"Gone With the Wind"?
"Lost in Translation"?

No, it's "Brief Encounter" (1945), a modest, black-and-white British film about two married people who meet by chance, briefly, at a rail station in 1938. He's headed one way, she the other, but their destinies are star-crossed, or train-crossed, and they fall gently, miserably in love over a handful of weeks.

It is romantic, if terribly restrained. Alec (chiseled Trevor Howard) is a doctor with a noble streak, and Laura (wide-eyed Celia Johnson) is a devoted homemaker with a spirit of adventure. They are the spark to each other's otherwise suburban souls. But they also know it doesn't take bedsheets to make adulterous love sordid. The stolen embraces, the lies, the dash to catch unrelenting trains-- all take their toll. And the couple's inherent decency can only lead to heartbreak.

Of course, this is a British list. It's hard to imagine "Brief Encounter" even making an Americans' list, although it played well on both sides of the pond in 1945. We want the heroic love of "Casablanca" (No. 4 on the Telegraph's list) or the tempestuousness of "Gone With the Wind" (No. 12) or the sweet, funny intelligence of "Lost in Translation" (No. 25).

But "Brief Encounter" is definitely worth a watch -- although maybe a little sad for Valentine's Day. The acting's superb, and a young David Lean directs Noel Coward's script with the sure touch he'd later use for such epics as "The Bridge on the River Kwai," "Lawrence of Arabia" and "Dr. Zhivago." (He also directed one of my favorite comedy romances, "Hobson's Choice.")

In Lean's deft hands, the night trains steam and wail, and we're swept away with them and with Rachmaninoff's Second Piano Concerto, which plays throughout the film. The movie revived the concerto and made it one of the most popular scores of all time. Even I played the opening movement as a young, and inept, piano student, swaying to the passion of it all.

By the way: You can see the Telegraph's full list here.

Your turn: What's your all-time romantic film?

Posted by Barbara Page at 02:54 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Hi, I'm B.K. I'm a DVD-aholic.

(Hi, B.K.!)

This midsummer my generous co-workers gave me a portable DVD player when I was recuperating from minor surgery, and it has been a rare night since that I haven't watched a film. Or two.

Now, I don't have a TV. (I know: What planet am I living on?! But try to fathom this: I didn't have a microwave oven until 18 months ago. As one of my co-workers said in her soft East Texas drawl: "That's just not right.")

Anyway, you can rest assured I haven't been glazed-brained, as indiscriminate TV and movie watching can do. In fact, most of my DVD rentals have been older films, classics, wonders.

But, ouch, the hit to my wallet! I did join an online service, Blockbuster.com, and that's just less than $20 a month. (By contrast, a friend has one of those cable TV packages that's so expensive it's beyond platinum; it's plutonium.) But, still, I've been spending $12, $20, more a week at my three neighborhood video stores to supplement my addiction.

I needed to get clear. And so for my fiscal sanity -- and for you, blog cruisers -- I went cold turkey for a week. Yup, seven days, Sunday through Saturday, with no DVDs. I did keep my weekly movie date, but that was it.

I stayed out of trouble (sorta), tried not to watch the clock and scribbled down some brief diary entries.

Sunday

Withdrawal symptom: Coma state. Activity: What activity? I sleep until 10:45 or so. Reconcile my bank statement. Off by $46.39, in the bank's favor. Wounded by our poor reconciliation, I nap from 1:30 to 3:30. Late afternoon shopping. Evening letter writing. Bed at 8:30. Mood: Indigo.

Monday

Withdrawal symptom: Disorientation. Activity: Am stopped on Paseo del Norte at 6 in the morning by a police officer.
"Are you all right, ma'am?"
No, I scream inside, I haven't seen a DVD in 30 hours!
"You're going too slow. It's posted 60, you know."
You want me to go faster? I'm in a Ford Focus, for crying out loud! Why aren't you stopping all these demons going 80 mph? What kind of insanity is this, Ponch?!
I nod at the officer, pick up my speed and drive to McDonald's, where for the first time in ages I buy an Egg McMuffin. I am remembering the last DVD I saw, "The Great Raid," about POWs in the Philippines. In the audio commentary, one of the movie advisers talked about a prisoner who was so starved he blew up to 300 pounds because his body had no protein to get rid of excess fluid. He was saved by a camp doctor, who gave him a bird's egg. There was enough protein in the tiny egg to release the fluid and bring him down to normal, skeletal weight. The Egg McMuffin does not have that effect on me. Mood: Testy.

Tuesday

Withdrawal symptom: Up and down, like a sugar high. Activity: Dental cleaning. Gums could do better. Rub them while you're watching TV. the hygienist says. DVDs, I sigh inside. DVDs. That night, I finish a book, the late Spalding Gray's "Life Interrupted," a monologue he was developing before he pitched himself off a frozen Staten Island ferry. In the book is a reference to his ailing mother-in-law, that she was lost in a "horrific bardo state" -- that is, between life and death. My eyes, aching for a DVD, first read the line as a "horrific hairdo state." I find this perfectly reasonable. Mood: Stoic.

Wednesday

Withdrawal symptom: What day is this? Activity: What day is this? Mood: Did you say what day this is?

Thursday

Withdrawal symptom: Hope. (Is that one of the five stages of grief?) Activity: Movie date ("Nanny McPhee") and dinner out. Quail. Am still working that protein angle. Mood: Good, come to think of it, good.

Friday

Withdrawal symptom: Glances at where the DVD player used to be. (It's now hidden on the far side of the sofa.) Activity: Receive a late Christmas, gift-filled box from a friend in Montana. Books, CDs, cards, a wonderful letter. Almost makes me forget I'm without DVDs. Almost. Mood: Eager for the weekend.

Saturday

Withdrawal symptom: Who cares?! I'm just 24 hours away from a DVD. Activity: Ditto. Mood: Ditto.

And, yes, on the eighth day, Sunday, she rested her fanny on the sofa and watched "Day of the Triffids," a 1963 British sci-fi film (recommended by her cinephile boss) about a meteor shower that blinds everyone but hunky seaman Howard Keel and a few others, who escape activated, flesh-eating plants and bring their sight and sense back to the future. If the metaphor fits, accept it.

After all, between nothingness (poor wallet!) and being, some things cannot be reconciled. Ah, DVDs.

Posted by Barbara Page at 09:10 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I admit it. When I take my kids to see children's movies, I pony up for the popcorn and candy, make sure they're settled and happy and gone-to-the-bathroom-ized, then sack out for an hour or two. That's just the deal: They watch "Cinderella." I watch "Cinderella Man."
But "Curious George," which is a simple as a linen sheet, got me. For sure, it got my son, age 7. The film was so faithful to the books, so sincere, that you had to like it. There were no hidden jokes for the adults; no double-entendres made for the PG-13 crowd. (I never get the humor in such films, because as we all know, I'm asleep).
My only nitpick in "George" was a couple of gratuitious product-placement scenes -- I know, I know -- that we could've done without. But the voices of Drew Barrymore and Will Ferrell were just right, and whoever was making those monkey noises did a nice job, too.
Hey, what can I say? I'm a sucker for the monkey and the big yellow hat.

Posted by pcasaus at 08:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Gene's comments about the quaint reduction of "Innocence" to a one-sentence blurb brings up a favorite topic: insanely simplistic plot descriptions.

Earlier this week our TV pages distilled the sophisticated drama "The Upside of Anger" to this: "An ex-baseball player befriends a woman whose husband has left."

And I'm reminded of one of my favorite routines from comedian Richard Lewis, who imagined this TV Guide-like summation of "A Streetcar Named Desire":
"A visit from his sister-in-law throws off Stanley's bowling game."

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 11:16 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Woo! Did we disagree this week! Barbara enjoyed "The Matador," starring Pierce Brosnan as an unsavory hit man desperate for friendship, and Nancy found nothing redeeming about it. In her opinion, it failed as a caper movie (as opposed, say, to "The Good Thief" with Nick Nolte), and it failed as an acting showcase. Barbara, ever more plebeian, found it quirky enough, funny enough, for an afternoon in the dark.

Hear more of our comments here. (If it takes a few seconds longer to connect to our dulcet tones, please hang in there. We're trying some new technology.)

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If you haven't had your fill of the real thing, here are two films with Winter Olympic themes to warm the night:
Fire and ice: Moira Kelly stars as a temperamental figure skater. D.B. Sweeney is the ex-hockey player who's her unlikely partner. "The Cutting Edge"(1992) isn't hard to predict -- hint: sparks fly -- but there's a sweet tease for the romantic.
Tropical smoothie: Improbably, Jamaica had a bobsled team in the 1988 games. And "Cool Runnings"(1993) is a charming recounting of long odds and cool threads. A family treat.

Posted by Barbara Page at 08:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

In "The Shop Around the Corner" (1940), Mr. Kralik and Miss Novak do not get along.
He's bossy; she's contrary. Red hands, he accuses. Bowlegged, she replies. Old maid! Fizzled intellect!
They're at each other's throats when they should be in each other's arms: They're anonymous pen pals who've fallen in love.
Yes, this is the original for "You've Got Mail" (1998) but warmer, funnier, with Jimmy Stewart and Margaret Sullivan as delightfully wayward romantics.
Add in director Ernst Lubitsch's famed touch, and we're hopelessly smitten.
Which is good. After all, Valentine's Day is just around the corner.

Posted by Barbara Page at 08:37 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

NASA's new, unmanned probe to mysterious Pluto will take 10 years.
The manned mission to the fictional Altair in "Forbidden Planet" (1956) took just a year but has plenty of mystery itself.
Why are the stern Morbius (Walter Pidgeon) and his kittenish daughter, Altaira (Anne Francis), the only survivors of an early colony?
What monster is ripping apart the new crew (skippered by an earnest Leslie Nielsen)?
And rotund Robby the Robot -- friend or machination?
This sci-fi classic mixes suspense, Freud and romantic humor with remarkable, pre-digital special effects. It's definitely worth a visit -- and well before we reach Pluto.

Posted by Barbara Page at 08:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Hmm. Harrison Ford or Curious George?

Luckily, Albuquerque has plenty of far more interesting options. Let's see what's playing ...

Tonight in the SUB at UNM (not in the basement theater but in the Acoma Room) there will be a 7 o'clock screening of the classic '60s film "Battle of Algiers." This one resurfaced a few years ago at the late, great Madstone and deserves another look. Its message is acutely modern.

This weekend, the SUB's Film Center has an intriguing offering: "Innocence" by Lucile Hadzihalilovic, a French filmmaker. It looks like a bizarre fever dream about a camp for girls.

Speaking of French films, an ad in the Alibi touts the opening of "Cache," the much-anticipated 2005 release from Michael Haneke, the director of "Code Unknown" and the devastating masterpiece "The Piano Teacher." But "Cache" isn't in the listings anywhere (and not on Century's Web site), so maybe someone jumped the gun.

At the Center for Peace & Justice on Saturday, you can see the hourlong documentary "With the Poor of the Earth." According to the center: "This film shows the contradiction between the 80 percent of Venezuelans who live in poverty and the vast potential wealth of their country." Later in the month the center will feature the films of Melvin and Mario Van Peebles.

The Guild brings Hindu spirituality to town with "Ganges: River to Heaven," including a discussion after Friday evening's show. Check Friday's La Vida section for a review.

Later this month: the UNM Film Center keeps Black History Month going with "The Spirit Lives! The Legacy of the Black Panther Party." ... And the Center for Peace & Justice has this: "Loose Change: Second Edition," touted as "a thought-provoking and skillfully produced documentary that uses video footage, eyewitness and expert testimony and hard science to debunk the 'official conspiracy theory' of 9/11." ... Looks like it might be the last chance this weekend to catch "Cowboy del Amor" at the Santa Fe Film Center. Take your sweetie.

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 10:31 AM | Permalink | Comments (4)

"The Great Raid," the war movie about the most successful U.S. military rescue in history, couldn't liberate anything but chump change at the box office last year.

Made by Miramax for $70 million or so, it ended up with a paltry $10 million in domestic ticket sales. It will no doubt do better in Australia and China, where principal scenes were shot, and in the Philippines, where it's set. Still, it's not destined for big play on most video store shelves.

Hollywood is hell. But this film deserves better.

Yes, it's long (two hours 13 minutes). Yes, its principal actors (Benjamin Bratt, James Franco) are a little too starched. Yes, it received decidedly mixed reviews.

But this is an amazing, stirring tale, especially for anyone interested in military yarns and especially for New Mexicans, who have a historical and emotional connection to the Bataan Death March.

It's 1945, the Philippines, the Pacific war theater. It's three years after the Japanese marched 70,000 starving, brutalized U.S. and Filipino prisoners of war to a railhead that would take the Americans to POW camps. (An estimated 1,800 New Mexicans were in that march; less than half survived.) These were the forgotten soldiers of World War II -- or at least that's how they felt. Their bitter ditty: "No papa, no mama, no Uncle Sama."

But now U.S. troops have landed and are quickly taking back the island, and the Japanese do not intend to turn over the POWs. At the camp in Cabanatuan, 500 extremely ill American prisoners are just days away from execution.

Their only hope is a nighttime raid by about 125 Army Rangers -- 125 against the up to 10,000 Japanese in the area. A miracle. A brilliant miracle.

"The Great Raid" is told in three strands: the Rangers (with Bratt and Franco in the lead roles), the ghostly POWs (with an excellent performance by Joseph Fiennes as their malaria-stricken leader) and the Filipino underground and the nurse who found a way to get medicine to the camp.

This movie is a great tribute to ingenuity, persistence and resistance. I was particularly impressed by the pivotal role Filipinos played in the raid and in sabotaging Japanese efforts over the three years. This is a story of bravery few of us have heard.

The DVD comes with several features, including interviews with survivors. And the film begins and ends with archival footage -- a history lesson worth the rental price alone.

Your turn: Was there any film from the past year that you thought deserved better than it did at the box office or at the hands of the critics? Also, when it comes to war films, what are your recommendations?

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If only they had an award for "Best Three Hour Toy Commercial."

I'm a bit behind with this, seeing as the nominations were out last week, but let's give some love to the Oscars for a stone-cold snubbing of the single most disappointing film of all time: "Star Wars Episode III."

This is a wonderful message to the world of cinema that the biggest and most expensive special effects money can buy aren't even close to the best. Watching "Episode III" was like eating a deep dish pizza topped with frosting and gummy bears while sitting in the front row of a Clay Aiken concert and getting kicked in the crotch every 15 seconds. It sucked and it looked like garbage.

Consider that space fight at the beginning, when Anakin is using his jet's wing to knock some cuddly little robot balls off of Obi-Wan's spaceship. Or the fight with the four-armed dude who was spinning around so fast you had no clue what was going on. OR the big and insanely stupid light saber fight at the end of the flick -- student and teacher are locked into deadly combat, so they start tightrope walking across a lava lake and climbing up a gigantic floating metal piece of who-the-hell-knows-what.

Not for one second did the bright and colorful goings on feel real - which I'm pretty sure is the entire point of special effects. Remember "Return of the King"? Sam fights that giant spider to save his true love and you know what? That actually looked like a little fat man fighting a gigantic spider -- like they somehow bred a 500-pound arachnid, unleashed it on the actor from "Rudy" and filmed the fight between the two. It was amazing.

"Star Wars" wasn't. Not even close. And even though it's really of no consequence, I love that there's just one award the film's up for: Best Makeup. HA!

One last thought: I saw "Walk the Line" and "Cinderella Man" and there is not one chance in the darkest pits of Hades that Joaquin Phoenix gave a better performance than Russell Crowe. (Or Mickey Rourke in "Sin City," but I'm not near so sure of him as Crowe.)

One more last thought: "The Chronic (WHAT!) cals of Narnia" DID get some dap for best special effects, but it was ugly and overdone to a lesser degree than "Star Wars." Also, the movie was as forgettable as that one thingee...

And one more final last thought: The Best Cinematography lineup is a joke without "Sin City," which was the coolest-ooking movie this year, and probably one of the coolest-looking big-budget flicks ever made.

See you on The Flip Side...

Posted by Phil Parker at 09:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Let's see, what was more annoying: the star of "Grizzly Man" or the commercial breaks every 8 minutes on the Discovery Channel on Friday night?

If I were more cable-savvy, I would have known that the Discovery Channel shows commercials. Lots of them, apparently. And many that inspired "Saturday Night Live" parodies, it seems. Yes, I should have known better. I bailed out within an hour.

But even taking that savage Madison Avenue assault into account, I could barely stand "Grizzly Man." I'll need a whole lot of convincing to expose myself to Timothy Treadwell again. Or his precocious friends. (Theater people!)

Unless there's a dramatic turn at the end -- like, maybe his parents and friends pop some popcorn and hoot and cheer as they watch a dramatic re-enactment of him being torn apart by bears -- I don't see the point. I've watched a lot of documentaries and withstood 90 minutes with some insufferable subjects ("Tarnation" anyone?), but the "Grizzly Man" combination of tipsy Timothy Treadwell and the laconic Werner Herzog had me thinking early on how precious life is and how short it is and how, though I don't taunt killer animals with my maudlin, show-people idealism, the men in my family tend to die young, and I'm not getting any younger.

That was enough for me to turn off the TV and be thankful for my valuable time on this beautiful Earth, here with all of God's furry creatures.

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 09:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This week we saw "Nanny McPhee," the Emma Thompson family film about seven very naughty children and a warty nanny with an unblemished heart.

We were charmed. Hear why here.

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:27 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I winced.

There on the movie poster, beneath Steve Carell's goofy if muscular portrait, were the words "40 Year-Old Virgin."

No, it wasn't "Virgin" that made me flinch. It was the missing hyphen between "40" and "Year."

That was this summer. Then during the holiday season I saw the DVD image everywhere. This time, the title was above Carell, and the hyphen was inserted: "40-Year-Old Virgin."

What happened? Did the cries of wounded wordsmiths move Universal Pictures' unpunctuated heart?

Good luck finding out.

I e-mailed Universal weeks ago. And I'm still waiting. (Shouldn't those holidaying interns -- who no doubt take on such lowly tasks -- be back from Barbados by now?)

I did query the friendly folks at the Internet Movie Poster Awards site and heard back promptly: (a) No, they didn't know why/how the change occurred. But (b) the rumor is all the hyphens were in place in the original poster design and then somebody "fixed" it.

Interestingly, as they note, the theatrical posters feature both versions. Albuquerque must have just gotten the shortchanged one. And, oh, yes:The movie itself has no hyphens in the title credits.

Why, you might reasonably ask, does a hyphen, or the lack of one, make a difference? Will it give Carell more dash? (Sorry, we copy editors must have our joke.)

Certainly it hasn't kept the comedy from raking in the moola. At recent count, it has taken in $110 million at the box office and $30 million in video. Not bad for a film made for an estimated $26 million.

But punctuation can make a crucial difference, Lynne Truss argues in her thumping best seller, "Eats, Shoots & Leaves." As she observes, a pickled-herring merchant takes on a different meaning as a pickled herring merchant. Ditto a little-used car and a little used car.

Of course in this case, meaning is not affected. He's 40, and he's a virgin. We get that. As much as one can. (Still, just an "s" could make a difference -- "40 Year-Old Virgins" would be a tale about a crowded nursery.)

And, class, know this: Rules on hyphens are not hard and fast. Many style guides, in fact, wish they'd go away altogether. They tend to clutter up reading; a "blemish," as Churchill called them.

We're not that keen on them at The Tribune either. So we don't use them with common combinations, for example, in ice cream cone or high school band.

No, I think what galls sticklers (as Truss calls us) about "40 Year-Old Virgin" is not a concern for clarity or rules, but its illogic. The three words work together as a compound adjective. Why hyphenate just two of them?

Of course, logic and Hollywood don't always go hand in hand. Poster decisions, any decision, can be a big question mark. (Sorry.)

Your turn: Are you a stickler, too? Did "Two Weeks Notice" -- without an apostrophe -- bug you? Or "Million Dollar Baby" without a hyphen? Or "Kiss Kiss Bang Bang" with no commas? Or "sex, lies, and videotape" without capital letters?

Posted by Barbara Page at 09:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

I haven't seen any of the films nominated for the best picture award at
the Oscars this year.

"Crash," "Capote," "Munich," "Brokeback Mountain" and "Good Night, and
Good Luck" represent a quintet of snoozeworthiness for me.

Apparently much of America agrees because not one of these babies broke
$60 million at the box office.

I am totally vindicated because, as we all know, might makes right.

For best actor, I choose Joaquin Phoenix because I simply cannot bear to
watch Phillip Seymour Hoffman race to join Peter Jackson as the scruffy,
frumpy bearded guy winning all the awards.

In the best actress category, I'm kinda hoping Felicity Huffman takes
it, just because I really, really like her on"Desperate Housewives."
And she's still so gaga over her hubby, William H. Macy, that it makes
her acceptance speeches heartfelt.

Not that any of this nomination stuff really matters in the long run.

I just want to see what all the women wear, who's with whom and judge
the amount of gel that best actor nominee Terrence Howard has in his
hair (enough to style a small country,I'm sure.)

Will best actress nominee Reese Witherspoon make a huge fashion faux pas
like she did at the Globes wearing the same (U-G-L-Y, you ain't got no
alibi) cocktail dress that Kirsten Dunst had already worn three years
ago?

Will Hilary Swank show up with her hubby or bring a family date?

Will Peter Jackson brush his hair?

Only 33 days until I have answers to my burning questions...

Posted by Mary-Ann McBride at 10:04 AM | Permalink | Comments (8)