James Mangold, director of the acclaimed "3:10 to Yuma" remake, wrote and directed his first Western a decade ago -- only the frontier was a leafy New Jersey suburb, a stone's throw from glitteringly corrupt New York City.

In contemporary "Cop Land" (1997), Sylvester Stallone plays a half-deaf, half-dopey sheriff who pretends everything is all right in his burg. After all, it's peopled by the families of NYPD officers eager to escape a rotten Big Apple.

But there's plenty of rot in Cop Land: adultery, drugs, arson, mob money and murder. A young officer's disappearance forces the sheriff to find his backbone and, like Gary Cooper in "High Noon," stand alone against evil.

Stallone was ribbed for playing a character with more paunch than punch, but he more than holds his own against an A list of tough guys: Harvey Keitel, Robert De Niro and Ray Liotta.

(And the B list is none too shabby: Peter Berg, Annabella Sciorra, Cathy Moriarty, Janeane Garofalo, John Spencer and Edie Falco.)

A young Mangold knows well his beloved Western genre, even if it's more than 100 years on. He delivers with a sharp eye, a steady hand and a blaze of justice.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 09:06 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

He’s an egg-sucking, venison-filching, rowdy yellow mongrel — yet still (sing it) “the best doggone dog in the West.”

“Old Yeller” (1957) barrels into the Coates homestead on the Texas frontier. Travis Coates (Tommy Kirk), barely into his teens, is the man of the place, and he has no patience for a fool stray.

But his younger brother adores the mutt, and their mother (Dorothy McGuire) lets him stay. Soon Travis is won over by a dog smart enough to herd pigs and brave enough to protect his family.

The ending will mist the eyes, but the film is remarkably unsentimental: Raccoons strip cornfields, boars cut flesh to the bone, and rabies shows no mercy.

This might not be for the little ones, but those 6 and older will find an honest, heartfelt tale.

These days, so much of children’s fare is animated, with creatures — a lost fish, a stubborn penguin, a gourmet rodent — that youngsters could never nuzzle in real life. Fortunately, you can always throw your arms around doggone Old Yeller.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

School’s out, but you can still play hooky — joyous hooky — with “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off” (1986).

Can it really be more than 20 years ago since we zoomed into sunny Chicago with irrepressible Ferris, his foxy girlfriend and his scaredy-cat best friend?

Can it be that long since we took in a Cubs game, eyeballed Impressionist art and rocked to “Twist and Shout” in the Von Steuben Day Parade?

Can high school be that far away, the obsessed dean of students, the droning teachers, the hallway buzz about Ferris, that righteous dude?

No, it’s eternally now, thanks to writer-director John Hughes and his fresh take on teen life. The only hint the movie wasn’t filmed yesterday is the absence of cell phones.

Matthew Broderick as Ferris is charming without being insufferable. And he has a delightful supporting cast: Alan Ruck as his reluctant co-conspirator; Jennifer Grey as his much-annoyed sister; Jeffrey Jones as his fuming dean.

And who can forget egghead Ben Stein as the economics teacher intoning roll call: “Bueller ... Bueller ...”

Here!

B.K. Page

Video Vault digs into the past to recommend films you might have missed or are worth seeing again.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The late John Wayne isn't the only movie great with a centennial birthday this year. Also born in 1907 were Katharine Hepburn (May 12), Laurence Olivier (May 22) and the screen sizzler Barbara Stanwyck (July 16).

Stanwyck is indelible, of course, as the sultry schemer in the noir classic "Double Indemnity" (1944). But it's in "The Lady Eve" (1941) that she shows her full range: vivacious, vexing, vulnerable, vengeful and very witty.

Continue reading "07.20.07 `The Lady Eve'" »

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:42 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Mountain man “Jeremiah Johnson” (1972) comes to the brutal Rockies for beaver pelts, bear hides and soulscraped solitude.

He’s condemned to freedom, as the existentialists say. But he is not left alone. Indians, trappers and troops complicate life. Then he takes in a mute boy and a Flathead bride. What should settle him doesn’t, though, and he wanders back into ice and danger.

This unconventional Western, set in the early 19th century, stars Robert Redford as Johnson, and Will Geer and Stefan Gierasch as trapper rascals.

They all turn in strong performances, but top billing belongs to the Utah landscape, indifferently magnificent, whether in winter shroud or summer shimmer.

Director Sydney Pollack is far from his glib, urban territory, but this film holds up well, like crags and character.

Posted by Barbara Page at 07:26 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

He’s a Pole, maybe, but speaks in German endearments.

He rarely bathes, but women bare body and soul to him.

He makes his living by his fingers — playing the piano, lifting wallets — but he’s known for his eyes.

His horrid eyes.

He’s Svengali (1931), the fictional hypnotist who did for mad-dogging what Dracula did for the nip.

At first, Svengali’s a figure of jest in bohemian Paris. Then he abducts an artists’ model and transforms her into a world-famous songbird.

Yet for all his power and riches, he cannot command her heart. And that’s fatal.

John Barrymore as Svengali seesaws between camp and pathos. But there’s a charm in his scenes with young, saucy Trilby (Marian Marsh), and we come to care about both.

For B&W film buffs, “Svengali” is worth finding for its off-kilter, eerily lighted sets. But, please, don’t laugh at Barrymore’s overdramatic eyes. You know it was a strain.

B.K. Page

Video Vault digs into the past to recommend films you might have missed or are worth seeing again.

Posted by Barbara Page at 12:28 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

News flash!

Nightly rants ratchet up TV ratings!

Oily corporations rule the world!

May-December romances run into a hard fall!

As it is today, so it was more than 30 years ago in Paddy Chayefsky’s brilliant skewering of media madness, “Network” (1976).

Continue reading "06.01.07 `Network'" »

Posted by Barbara Page at 09:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

At what point does a war prisoner who barters with the enemy become a collaborator?

It’s an uneasy question, as relevant today as it was a half-century ago in Billy Wilder’s “Stalag 17” (1953).

American POW Sefton (William Holden), crafty and cynical, trades sharp banter with his German captors, whether for a breakfast egg or a tryst in the Russian women’s compound.

Sefton’s ragtag bunkmates don’t think much of him, and they become downright nasty when they suspect he’s an informer. But is he?

Perhaps only a genius like Wilder could make a World War II tale so grubby, so suspenseful and so humorous at the same time.

Holden won the Oscar for his dark portrayal, but the cast is uniformly a winner. Otto Preminger as the camp commandant draws the biggest chills — and the biggest laugh when he puts on his boots just to telephone the brass.

Unlike his nervous studio bosses, Wilder knew the absurdities of war and the resilience of the human spirit would hold our attention. And “Stalag 17” has for all these years.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:16 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Forty-nine years ago this spring, a private plane crashed near Grants, killing all four aboard, including movie producer Mike Todd.

Todd left behind a young wife, the mother of three: Elizabeth Taylor.

Taylor was just a week into filming “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof” (1958). That she continued is a tribute to stoic professionalism. That she delivered a spirited performance as sultry Maggie is star quality.

Tennessee Williams’ story of a dysfunctional Southern family added mendacity — lying — to the American lexicon. Greed and guilt, too, define the Pollitt family.

Maggie has clawed her way into money and love, and fights to keep both. Her husband, Brick (Paul Newman), is an icy, remote drunk. Her in-laws are no-neck monsters. And her father-in-law, Big Daddy (Burl Ives), intends to boss all their lives until his dying breath.

Newman and Ives turn in strong performances, but it’s Taylor, in a white slip, in a shroud of tragedy, who lights the screen.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 12:40 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Phillip Dimitrius is having a midlife crisis of Shakespearean proportions.

"Tempest" (1982), Paul Mazursky's modern take on the Bard's classic, takes pop-culture liberties and hands things over to the fascinating John Cassavetes as the world-class architect who quits his job and disappears to a Greek island with his daughter, a new girlfriend and a direct line to the gods. (It finally got a DVD release this week on its 25th anniversary.)

Continue reading "03.30.07 - 'Tempest'" »

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 10:29 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

God is in the details, Tom reminds Jerry.

Curiosity strangled the cat, not just killed it. An important distinction for a versatile, hands-on hit man like Tom. Jerry, his eager apprentice, is too much of a loose cannon to care. He'd take a gat to the cat -- and anyone else.

Thus the rocky, 10-year relationship between "Jerry and Tom" (1998), who flog used cars by day and whack chumps by night.

Continue reading "03.23.07 - 'Jerry and Tom'" »

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 10:34 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

You belt out “Mame” in the shower.

Or soar with “Maria” in West Side traffic.

Or bellow Brando-style for your toy poodle Stella.

Fess up: You love show tunes and plays. And here’s another guilty pleasure: “Broadway: The Golden Age” (2003).

Working out of his New York apartment (interviews in the living room, editing in the bedroom), Rick McKay splices the memories of stage legends with archival footage.

The result is a delightful, personal history of Broadway from the late 1940s to the late 1960s.

Carol Burnett shares an audition dress with three pals. Jerry Orbach carouses all night on $2. Shirley MacLaine steps from pixie understudy to “Pajama Game” star with 10 minutes’ notice. And scores more add their stories.

Not surprisingly, this documentary has been an audience favorite on the indie film circuit, with sequels in the works. Applause, applause.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 08:02 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

It’s not easy being green.

“How Green Was My Valley” (1941) was supposed to be a four-hour, color epic filmed in verdant Wales.

Nazi bombing made that impossible. So the mining family saga was shot in the hills of Malibu.

The brown hills of Malibu.

Which meant no Technicolor. Which meant no epic.

Instead, the stripped-back movie became a black-and-white classic, the Oscar winner that trumped “Citizen Kane” for best picture.

The late Victorian story is told through the eyes of Huw Morgan (12-yearold Roddy McDowall).

It’s a sad story of labor strife, sons leaving home, love blighted and a deadly mine. But it’s also a story of humor, strength and Welsh song.

The large cast is excellent, and director John Ford frames each scene with heightened naturalism.

The result is a vivid, lyrical movie, far more glorious than the green you cannot see.

Posted by Barbara Page at 08:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (2)

They descend in a flash, rush to make repairs and zip back out.

No, not our state legislators but the one-eyed globs in “It Came From Outer Space” (1953).

In startling 3-D — startling even without the glasses — a blazing craft hurtles to the Arizona desert.

Stargazer/writer John Putnam (Richard Carlson) and girlfriend Ellen (Barbara Rush) first think it’s a meteorite. But Putnam sees something else in the falling rubble.

Not that anyone believes him. Then people, clothes and tools go missing. And Ellen shows up on a mine ridge in a swanky cocktail dress and a blowing scarf.

Something’s amiss. But should it be feared?

This sci-fi classic, adapted from a Ray Bradbury story, challenges our intolerance of “the other” — without preachiness and with smart special effects.

Rush’s Ellen screams once too often, but the performances are also smart. We could wish the same from the humanoids in our Legislature.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 08:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Icy nights could use some radiant energy.

The noir mystery “Body Heat” (1981) rises to the occasion.

Sweat-drenched shadows. Scorching sex. And three sizzling talents: William Hurt, newcomer Kathleen Turner and first-time director Lawrence Kasdan, who also wrote the taut script.

Ned (Hurt) is a small-time lawyer in a sweltering Florida town. His morals are as slicked back as his lank hair, and his wallet’s drained.

He’s a sap. Mattie (Turner) likes that in a man. She’s deep-throated, long-legged, married and desperate to be a rich widow.

She’s bad to the bone, and Ned’s eager to fetch. Trouble, trouble.

Kasdan lovingly renders the trademarks of noir: slow ceiling fans, half-lidded window blinds, fugitive breezes. He also employs a fine supporting cast, including Ted Danson as a nimble prosecutor and a young Mickey Rourke as a sweet arsonist.

But it’s the entwined Hurt and Turner who rivet us. Check the thermostat. It’s hot in here.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 04:14 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Ad exec Dennis Bagley has made a pile selling hemorrhoid cream, toothpaste and the like. But he can't make any headway on a new pimple cure.

Frantic about his blocked creativity, he whips himself into a boil -- a very nasty one, there near his neck. So nasty, the boil grows into a crass noggin of its own.

Talk about id vicious.

If this holiday season is too warm and fuzzy for you, "How To Get Ahead in Advertising" (1989) is definitely an icy blast.

Written and directed by Bruce Robinson ("Withnail & I"), this dark British comedy satirizes success, greed and fish fingers.

Richard E. Grant triumphs as Bagley, whether steely in disdain or running madly in the garden, arms outstretched like a Goya Christ.

And as Bagley's stylishly perplexed wife, Rachel Ward raises eye candy to bonbon.

Rarely has venom been so delicious.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Filmed just about in real time with a steady hand and observant eye by director Agnes Varda,

“Cleo From 5 to 7”

(1961) follows the title character, a singer in her mid-20s who fears she has terminal cancer, as she goes about her day in fear and sorrow.

The film catches Cleo (Corinne Marchand) in two hours of reflection and contemplation as she waits for news of her diagnosis from the doctor. Cleo emerges as a self-absorbed diva who has always gotten by on her looks and frolicked obliviously in the day-to-day minutiae of shopping, lunches and social gatherings.

She is forced to examine herself, stripping away the illusion of mortality to face her imminent demise.

Varda, a member of the French New Wave who at age 78 has shifted into documentaries, is still prolific behind the camera, averaging a film a year. The last one to generate a measure of success in America was “The Gleaners and I” (2000), a thoughtful analysis of a dying, poverty-plagued French subculture.

Phil Villarreal,

Arizona Daily Star

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:19 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Jeff Bridges turns 57 on Monday, an apt number for the Heinz variety actor.

He has been on the road (“Thunderbolt and Lightfoot”), on the edge (“Fearless”), romantic (“The Fabulous Baker Boys”), evil (“Jagged Edge”) and even extraterrestrial (“Starman”).

But for cult movie fans, he will always be the Dude in “The Big Lebowski” (1998).

The Dude is an aging Los Angeles slacker, rolling stoned with his bowling buddies. Then suddenly he’s caught up in the case of a missing hottie, lost booty and, oh, yeah, a kidnapped carpet.

The Coen brothers invented this mystery/ comedy with Raymond Chandler, Busby Berkeley and several offbeat actor pals in mind.

But it’s the sweet, befuddled Dude — the multitalented Bridges — who abides. Happy birthday, man.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 09:11 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Turkey most foul.

No, not your Thanksgiving leftovers but “The King of Comedy” (1983). Despite strong reviews, it was the year’s biggest flop.

Moviegoers apparently couldn’t buy tough guy Robert De Niro as nerdy Rupert Pupkin, a wannabe comedian obsessed with celebrity.

So obsessed he abducts his TV idol, played by — no joke — Jerry Lewis.

De Niro and Lewis turn in two of the best performances of their careers, edgy yet remarkably restrained, in a crisp drama of American delusions.

This week’s feast might leave you groaning for lighter fare, but this turkey is worth savoring. Drumstick, please.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 08:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Who knows whether “Last King of Scotland” will ever make it to Albuquerque screens. We pay tribute to Oscar hopeful Forest Whitaker anyway:

A cornrowed samurai warrior in contemporary New York declares war on a “Sopranos”-esque mafia “family” in “Ghost Dog: The Way of the Samurai,”

Jim Jarmusch’s weird little film from 1999.

Ghost Dog — as Whitaker’s character is known to crips, bloods and a French-speaking ice cream man — lives by the strict moral code detailed in “Hagakuri: The Way of the Samurai.” Among many other practices, he meditates daily on his own inevitable death.

Whitaker’s career is going through a startling acceleration, beginning with his mesmerizing turn as an obsessed investigator on FX’s great cop show “The Shield.” He was unforgivably ignored by Emmy voters for that performance, but Oscar prognosticators are already awarding him a little gold statue for “The Last King of Scotland” (opening soon). He plays murderous Ugandan dictator Idi Amin.

The crips and bloods would be proud — Ghost Dog has become one of our finest actors.

Phil Parker

Posted by Barbara Page at 07:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Halloween season gives us the creeps. And we love ’em.

Add to the list Mark Lewis (Carl Boehm), the young, shy psychopath in the British thriller “Peeping Tom” (1960).

Motion camera in hand, Mark lurks in London’s tawdry Soho, film rolling, mind reeling with the most frightful of deaths. Not even a sweet romance can redeem him.

This is no gorefest. The horror comes from a tormented childhood, a diabolical weapon and our own complicit voyeurism.

Critics reviled the film, unable to accept a sympathetic monster. A few months later, “Psycho” changed all that.

Today, “Peeping Tom” holds it own thanks to writer Leo Marks and director Michael Powell.

Interestingly, the two at first wanted to make a film on Freud. Instead they created a demented soul to creep onto his couch.

B.K. Page

Posted by Barbara Page at 06:41 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

“All the King's Men" (1949), a best picture Oscar-winner, seems all the more relevant in a heated election season and on the heels of the disappointing Sean Penn remake.

Broderick Crawford won the best actor Oscar for the lead role as backwoods politico Willie Stark, a straight-talker who captures the imagination of the public and quickly buys into his own legend. Stark is a work of art; a walking id whose momentum surges like the adrenaline that busts through his veins as he delivers his fist-pumping speeches.

Writer/director Robert Rossen tells his story with cool precision, mapping out Stark’s blossoming from hapless also-ran to demagogue overlord with unpretentious matter-of-factness.

Phil Villarreal, Arizona Daily Star

Posted by Barbara Page at 05:24 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

By B.K. Page
Labor Day is the traditional start of the political season, although mud has been slung for weeks now. No wonder white shoes have to be shelved.

Anyway, here are three movies for the mire.

Continue reading "09.01.06: The election season" »

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 07:57 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Here's a preview of tomorrow's Flicks page in the Tribune. It's a Video Vault entry on the comedy classic.

Remember Jamie Lee Curtis? I do.

Continue reading "08.25.06: A Fish Called Wanda" »

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 11:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

There's just something about one of our all-time guilty pleasures, "The Girl Can't Help It."

Continue reading "08.18.06 - 'The Girl Can't Help It'" »

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 10:38 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Scottish islanders dance merrily around the maypole in "The Wicker Man" (1973).
But don't be deceived: They're weaving a tale of horror.
In what begins as a comedy of manners, a priggish mainland copper (Edward Woodward) comes to Summerisle in search of a missing teen.
But the residents and their laird (Christopher Lee) are far more interested in their fleshy Celtic rites.
And the campy turns creepy as they seek an offering for the wicker man -- a kind of Zozobra as fashioned by Pier 1.
This low-budget flick has become a cult hit in recent years. It's easy to see why: It puts the Mayday in May Day.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:36 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Illegal immigration rarely prompts visions of an Irish family crossing from Canada into the alien world of New York City's Hell's Kitchen.
Yet the Sullivans, too, yearn to clasp a tendril of the dream in "In America" (2003).
Johnny (a superb Paddy Considine) seeks his break as an actor, but he and his wife (Samantha Morton) must work menial jobs.
And in a dark tenement, their two young daughters (wonderfully played by real-life sisters Sarah and Emma Bolger) create their own new world.
Director Jim Sheridan and his daughters wrote the Oscar-nominated script from their own experience. The daughters' first draft, Sheridan says wryly, didn't have Dad in it at all.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:19 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Frazzled ERs. Fill-in nurses. Forgotten patients.
They're all the stuff of today's news, but they've riddled health care for decades -- as "The Hospital" (1971) can attest.
Writer Paddy Chayefsky won an Oscar for this sardonic mystery: Is there a madman loose, or is it just bad care that's killing the staff?
George C. Scott, in one of his best roles, plays the suicidal chief of medicine, shouting: "We cure nothing! We heal nothing!" (Similar ranting crops up in Chayefsky's "Network" f ive years later.)
Diana Rigg, who adds potency to alternative therapy, offers a way out. But the diagnosis remains: sloppy medicine, sharp movie.

Posted by Barbara Page at 12:56 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The tax man cometh. And the tax man abideth in the gentle, quirky "Off the Map" (2004).
Revenue agent William Gibbs shows up at the Grodin home on the outskirts of Taos in the '70s.
Charley's depressed, Arlene's comfortably naked, and daughter Bo yearns for mischief. And, oh, yes, they're too poor to pay taxes.
But they're rich in the shifting New Mexico landscape, which seduces Gibbs -- and us.
Joan Allen is luminous, again, as Arlene, and Sam Elliott brings strength to the all but silent Charley.
Director Campbell Scott takes his time, and the result is an affectionate reminder why we live here. Taxes and all.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:53 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Batter up and pucker up.
Yes, it's baseball season again. And spring, when a young man -- and young woman -- might fancy getting to some bases themselves.
Fortunately, "Fever Pitch" (2005) offers just enough baseball for fans and just enough romance for the rest.
Drew Barrymore plays a high-powered executive tired of alpha males. Jimmy Fallon is a math teacher ready for love as long as he can stay wedded to the Red Sox.
Their sweet chemistry rescues this comedy from the predictable. Plus, of course, you gotta love the Sox.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:35 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Drought has emerged as one of New Mexico's greatest villains.
And when it comes to great, villainous drought movies, nothing tops "Chinatown" (1974).
Corruption, double crosses, depravity and reservoir siphoning -- this noir mystery has it in spades. Sam Spade, that is.
Jack Nicholson stars as Jake Gittes, a slyboots private eye in 1930s Los Angeles who is drawn into the water wars. The femme fatale is an exotic Faye Dunaway, and hoary John Huston is Daddy deadliest.
Their acting's superb. And Robert Towne's sinuous script and director Roman Polanski's dark vision make this film a classic of undercurrents. Watch it twice.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:15 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

College basketball's March Madness is at full tilt.
You could check out the predictable "Hoosiers" (1986), about small-town hoops.
Or you could bounce along to the on-screen lyrics of "Wig in the Box" in the randy, dandy "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" (2001).
This transsexual, rock band musical is about the American dream, via the Berlin Wall, botched surgery, larcenous love and a wild tour of tatty restaurants.
No, there's not a basketball court in sight. But "Hedwig" is a mighty 3-pointer: irreverent, intriguing and rollicking.

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:55 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Port operations have been in hot water long before a Dubai company scudded into the news.
And never has venality been better portrayed than in "On the Waterfront" (1954).
Marlon Brando is Terry Malloy, a sweet palooka more than willing to play D&D -- deaf and dumb -- to dockside corruption.
That is, until Edie (Eva Marie Saint) comes along and awakens his conscience.
Budd Schulberg's script is superb at every turn, especially in the four-minute scene between Terry and older brother Charley (Rod Steiger) in the back of a taxi. " I coulda been a contender," Terry tells Charley, wistfully.
No mere contender here. This is American cinema steeped in greatness.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:51 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This bird's no quail, but there is plenty of hunting in "Three Days of the Condor" (1975).
Robert Redford is Joe Turner, aka the Condor, a low-level CIA wonk who has stumbled onto a plot that wipes out his co-workers and sends him on the lam.
Along the way, he abducts Faye Dunaway, and an interesting Big Apple take on the Stockholm syndrome ensues.
But it's the suspense of a secret agency that keeps us going. And when Redford blurts out the unthinkable -- are we invading the Mideast? -- it's as startling 30 years later as a face full of birdshot.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:42 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

March might come in like a lamb or a lion or, in New Mexico, like a llama with a sideways spit.
But in Mopu, at the rise of the Himalayas, the wind reigns every month.
It winds through an old palace where concubines once frolicked. It whisks the veils and robes of the five nuns (led by Deborah Kerr) who have moved there. And it whips up memories and passions, sweet and mad.
All to make "Black Narcissus" ( 1947) a highly charged drama, with a touch of the gothic.
This film is regarded as one of the great achievements of Technicolor -- and it is -- but it's the wind that marches us to the edge.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:31 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

This is George Washington's week -- holiday Monday, birthday Wednesday.
Grand fella, but he'll forever get his comeuppance in the musical "1776"(1972).
He's the offstage military commander who sends the Continental Congress his constant gripes -- to our irreverent hoots.
And the crafting of the Declaration of Independence? A sweltering fracas!
History has rarely been this interesting.
True, the DVD version tarries a bit, but it restores a song about conservatives (a minuet "to the right, ever to the right") that President Nixon persuaded producers to cut in the original release. And the audio commentary's dandy.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:46 PM | 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)

If ever there were a day to flip your wig, it's today: the 250th anniversary of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart's birthday.
The Austrian composer died at only 35, but his operatic, choral and instrumental works remain vibrantly alive.
So, too, "Amadeus" (1984), the sumptuous, brilliant tale of the lethal rivalry between the impish Mozart (Tom Hulce) and the austere composer Salieri (F. Murray Abraham).
The film won the Oscar for best picture. Abraham won for best actor, and Hulce was easily his equal. But the real star is the music. Glorious.

Posted by Barbara Page at 01:08 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

When it comes to staying the course -- rightly or wrongly -- we could all take lessons from Steve McQueen in "Le Mans" (1971).

As champion driver Michael Delaney, McQueen hunches into his Porsche, laps the miles in rain, dark and danger, and emerges cool, laconic, worthy.

This famed, 24-hour Grand Prix race is nothing short of grueling, and this film is nothing short of fascinating: almost no dialogue and no gratuitous smashups, just headlamps, noise and mettle, bearing down.

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 03:32 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Before Felicity Huffman -- up for a Golden Globe on Monday -- played a man turned woman ("Transamerica"), before Hilary Swank played a woman turned man ("Boys Don't Cry"), Suzy Amis played a woman turned out in chaps.

Amis' society outcast in "The Ballad of Little Jo" (1993) finds the only way to survive in a crude Montana boomtown of the 1860s is to pretend she's a man.

Amis, a former model, more than holds her own in this quirky tale based on a true story. She's a taciturn, heart-hungry figure in a frontier that's harsh, beautiful and transforming.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

On the 12th day of Christmas, my true love gave to me "My Favorite Year" (1982).

OK, maybe you'll have to find it yourself, but this genial, at times rollicking, comedy is worth it.

It's 1954, New York City. TV is live, and the king of comedy shows has booked a soused, Errol Flynn-like has-been (Peter O'Toole). He's a swordsman in more ways than one, and it's up to the show's rookie writer (Mark Linn-Baker, based on early Mel Brooks) to make sure his hero turns up with his swash still buckled.

O'Toole does his own fencing, pratfalls and leaps, all with rapier wit. His is truly a favorite performance.

Posted by J.A. Montalbano at 11:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

A battered year limps off. A brave one waits in the wings. It's the classic crossover.

And that brings to mind another classic, the cult comedy "Harold and Maude" (1971).

Only in this case, it's Harold (Bud Cort), all of 20, who has been beaten down by wealth and a wickedly snobbish mother. And it's Maude (Ruth Gordon), on the cusp of 80, who greets each day with elfin joy.

He's a sardonic misfit who repeatedly, elaborately, fakes his demise. She's a merry prankster with a fondness for getaway cars. Together, they're crazy for each other.

But this is more than a taboo love story. The film's black humor targets the military, therapy, blind dates, death and other conventions.

All that and a jaunty Cat Stevens music score, too. What a way to go.

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

What would you do if millions in currency -- well, at least tens of thousands -- fell from the sky and you had only a handful of days to spend it?

If you're 9-year-old Anthony, you'd opt for snazzy sunglasses, the latest in walkietalkies, payouts to pals and maybe an investment property. But if you're 7-year-old Damian, a sweet boy who regularly talks with the saints, you'd want to help the poor. But the only needy ones in the two brothers' British suburb are young Mormon missionaries who don’t have an automatic dishwasher.

Set at Christmastime, "Millions" (2005) offers faith, hope and chaos. And it all comes with a child's delightful perspective. (Screenwriter Frank Cottrell Boyce is the father of seven, at last count.)

This movie is destined to be a holiday classic. Watch it with children of the wondrous years.

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:43 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

You go for a popcorn refill, and they're gone. That's almost how quickly some films zip in and out of Albuquerque. But if you missed these gems earlier this year, you can end 2005 seeing them anyway -- in the snug comfort of home:

"Saving Face": A pregnant widow and her adult lesbian daughter search for common ground in their Chinese-American community. Genuine and funny.

"Murderball": Young wheelchair athletes triumph on all counts in this documentary.

"Look at Me": A neglected daughter finds her voice amid jaded French intellectuals. Gorgeous music.

"Junebug": Newlyweds visit, and the kinfolk bring out the dysfunction. A radiant performance by Amy Adams as a Southern naif. Oscar, y'all?

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Nick: "Oh, I'm a hero. I was shot twice in the Tribune."

Nora: "By my record, you were shot five times in the tabloids."

Nick: "It's not true! He didn't come anywhere near my tabloids."

Ah, Nick and Nora Charles, the wry banter, the rye liquor, the wiry pooch Asta. And their clever detective work, not that it matters. Nick and Nora's first adventure, "The Thin Man" (1934), and its five sequels are now available in a snazzy DVD collection from Warner, along with a bonus disc on their delightful stars, William Powell and Myrna Loy.

No mystery here: It's gift-giving season.

Oh, by the way, the "thin man" was a suspect in the first film. Nick and Nora are roundly, fully, their screwball selves.

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:52 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

First-time director. Cobbled-together financing. Three hours long. Partial subtitles.

And a Western, to boot.

Fifteen years ago this month, "Dances With Wolves" (1990) opened against the odds. And went on to win seven Oscars, including best picture.

Kevin Costner (who was director, co-producer and star) plays the lone officer at a frontier post who ultimately finds his place in the cosmos among the neighboring Sioux.

This a film of family, dignity and stunning panoramas. Yes, it's mythic, complete with a sweeping music score. But it's the kind of myth we crave, we need still, of our connection to the land and to each other.

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

James Bond fans were stirred -- and not a little shaken -- when British actor Daniel Craig was tapped as her majesty's sixth 007.

For one thing, Craig isn't darkly handsome. He's blond with the rough-hewn face of a thug.

For another, the movies where he has had a leading role are bleak ("Enduring Love"), bleaker ("The Mother") and oven black ("Sylvia").

An exception: "Layer Cake" (2004), a crackerjack gangster film. Craig plays a drug trade middleman who is suddenly thrust into the messy upper tiers of the London underworld.

Unrelentingly violent, it isn't for everyone, but Craig has a compelling presence. This Bond might surprise the skeptics with next year's "Casino Royale." He just might have power -- star power.

Posted by Barbara Page at 10:58 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

The recent documentary "The Aristocrats" offers three dozen comedians and their take on a scabrous joke. Scabrous, as in offensive, disgusting, vile. Not for the kiddies. As the comics point out, the punch line is not "The Aristocats" (1970).

Because this is for the kiddies.

In the animated feature, a high-toned feline (voiced by Eva Gabor) and her kitties are dumped in the country and must find their way back to Paris with the help of a scruffy but hep cat (Phil Harris). This is a sweet, musical, pre-Pixar treat -- probably too tame for older children and their parents but perfect for the under-6 set and their grandparents. Acts of kindness triumph. No joke.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:01 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Electronic eavesdropping has been a staple of thrillers -- and real-life intrigue.

Of late, it has been a key element in the prosecution of former state Treasurer Robert Vigil on corruption charges. It's key, too, to Francis Ford Coppola's little gem, "The Conversation" (1974).

Harry Caul (Gene Hackman) is a master snooper who's paid well to record a young couple in San Francisco's busy Union Square. Harry, whose loneliness is as transparent as his plastic raincoat, professes not to care what his subjects say. But this time he does, and that's trouble. Coppola's script is part Hermann Hesse (the oscillating soul), part Antonioni (the repeated conversation), part Hitchcock (a psycho toilet).

But Coppola makes it more than a pastiche; it's a deft balance of character and suspense. In a distinguished career, "The Conversation" is one of his best.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:15 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

"Hideous Kinky" (1999) sounds like another slasher installment: "Friday the 13th, Part XX: Jason Gets a Perm!"

Fortunately, the terrible title -- a child's word game -- is just a mask. This, instead, is the semibiographical tale of a young Englishwoman's search for self in 1970s Morocco.

Kate Winslet, freed from "Titanic," plays Julia, a whimsical and not entirely likable mum of two little girls. They and Julia's fugitive lover traipse around Marrakech and into farther reaches until the wise children force some growing up.

At times the film is as aimless as Julia. But Winslet proves she doesn't need a prow to take a bow as an adroit, luminous performer.

And Morocco, such a sad nation in recent news, is glorious here, vibrant with color, stunningly diverse, a long, curved finger on the North African coast, beckoning seekers.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:35 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

If you’re hungry for zombies this Halloween, then feast on two British additions to the genre.

In "28 Days Later" (2003), a virus has emptied London, except for a few survivors -- and the red-eyed, ravenous infected. Using edgy digital video, director Danny Boyle ("Trainspotting") creates a gritty, postapocalyptic adventure.

"Shaun of the Dead" (2004) blurs the line between zombies and the zoned-out until slacker Shaun (co-writer Simon Pegg) rises to the occasion with his cricket bat, vinyl records and pub hideaway. Gory in parts but dead funny. Or undead funny.

P.S., Pegg says the droll approach was inspired by "An American Werewolf in London" (1981), another Halloween treat.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:39 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Decades before metrosexual was coined, urbane men roamed the Earth. Or at least the concourse at Grand Central Station. They'd take the train back to tony Scarsdale, sip martinis with their perfectly coiffed wives and fade into quiet desperation. The sci-fi thriller "Seconds" (1966) offered a diabolical way out: a convenient "death," form-altering surgery and new digs in Malibu. A gray banker could emerge as, well, Rock Hudson. With angst. "Seconds" bombed. So much so, director John Frankenheimer said, that when you called for showtimes, the reply was "When can you get here?"

Blame fell on Hudson for taking an out-of-character role. But he's more than credible, and the seasoned supporting cast is excellent.

Add in James Wong Howe's low, wideangle camerawork and Frankenheimer's trademark tension, and "Seconds" deserves a second look.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:44 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Stop the presses: Researchers say heavy drinking isn't good for you. It can make your ticker flicker. (Not to mention your sex life.)

So ease off the beer tap and ease in "This Is Spinal Tap" (1984), the trailblazing mockumentary about a British rock band on the skids.

The repertoire is dicey -- "Big Bottom," for example, with its refrain "How could I leave this behind?" -- and the drummer's sure to combust. But, hey, it's sex, dregs and rock 'n' droll.

This cult favorite launched Rob Reiner as a director and co-writer Christopher Guest as the genius behind the sendups "Waiting for Guffman," "Best in Show" and "A Mighty Wind."

Raise a toast to that, but remember: Laughter is the better medication.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:48 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Cheery disposition. Never cruel. Plays games, all sorts.

A candidate's pitch for Tuesday's election? Not quite. It's an advertisement for the perfect nanny. And, of course, that's "Mary Poppins" (1964). Time has not diminished her rosy complexion, nor her cheekiness, and the English children's classic, filmed entirely on a Burbank soundstage, remains tunefully fresh.

Julie Andrews won an Oscar in the title role, but the truly soaring performers are Dick Van Dyke as bloke-of-all-trades Bert and David Tomlinson as the proper banker father.

And the songs -- chimchim-hooray. All we need is a sing-along version with a bouncing umbrella.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:51 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

"The Gilmore Girls," the java-jazzed, hip-lit, mother-daughter TV show, begins its new season Tuesday. And as fans know, the girls do love videos, particularly "The Way We Were" (1973).

Remarkably, after all this time, the Barbra Streisand-Robert Redford romance hasn't dissolved into a sugar glaze. The mismatch of activist Katie and affable Hubbell across the '30s, '40s and '50s remains intelligent and touching.

So, yes, please, break out the Red Vines -- and the hankies, just in case.

(By the way, Gilmores, add this to your 411: It was Streisand who changed the first word of the theme song from "daydreams" to "memories.")

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:54 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Labor Day had been celebrated for decades before the screwball comedy "My Man Godfrey" (1936) came along. But it took William Powell as a dapper down-and-out to remind the nation that "the only difference between a derelict and a man is a job."

Powell plays Godfrey, one of the "forgotten men" on a New York trash heap, when a ditsy deb (ex-wife Carole Lombard) whisks him to her half-witted household to serve as her butler.

So what if there's a horse in the library or the concert pianist has gone ape? Godfrey is grateful to have a job, and we're grateful he prevails with charm and dignity in a labor of delight.

Posted by Barbara Page at 11:56 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)