Reviews written by registered user
|68 reviews in total|
Among the worst sequels of all time. with John Travolta pretending he
is acting by showing the same smile in every scene in the movie. Big
question: Is it a stroke or is it Botox? But, fortunately there is some
action in his appearances before the camera. One can watch his
hairpiece as it changes position on his head between camera takes from
back on his head to practically on top of his eyebrows.
All in all, a smirking, self-referential Hollywood mess with decent actors phoning in their lines. Except for Travolta. He is about as animated as a dummy playing a Travolta corpse. A terrible waste of time. Spare yourself the misery of watching this mess. And as for Uma Thurman, what was she doing in this movie? I can remember when she was a decent actress in good movies. She is failing her own promise here, and certainly betraying her fans, if she has any left.
The sheer tedium of the pacing was enough to make me want to turn this WW II propaganda film off, but I was determined to see it through. The message, however, came stomping over my hopes for some redemption from a very solid cast with unquestioned talents. Sadly, they didn't stand a chance with this gray, grim material that was meant to convey a very plain and unadorned message: Oppression is bad, liberty is good. It is impossible to disagree, but this movie was so drawn out, so yawn-worthy, that it almost undercut the sentiment. Not one of the better products of the difficult war years from Britain's film industry. And, alas, Michael Wilding's central performance was such a sorry one-note of morose self-pity that it was extremely difficult even to want to empathize with him. Times were tough for the British during the Forties but at least they couldn't have been this boring.
I am astonished every time I see this film that it was ever released,
despite the prestige of Preston Sturges as its director. The very
notion that a comedy could be made in the war-time forties about a
woman who may ---or may not--- be legally married to a soldier whose
name she can't remember after an evening of dancing and "lemonade" and
who becomes exceptionally pregnant as a consequence is mind-boggling.
But, we should be grateful that it slipped under the censors' noses
because it is still as smart and subversive now as it was then. Even
the cameo appearances of Donleavy and Tamiroff are a witty commentary
on Sturges's earlier political satire, the Great McGinty.
A great movie, to be seen more than once and savored, particularly for how it bloomed in an era that might have been inclined to suppress it.
Ed Harris's work in this film is up to his usual standard of
excellence, that is, he steals the screen away from anyone with whom he
shares it, and that includes the formidable Sean Connery. The movie,
which is more than a bit sanctimonious, comes alive only in the scenes
when Harris is interrogated by the attorney for another convict. It is
breathtaking, a master class in artistic control.
The other cast members are all adept and Connery is reliable, as is Fishbourne, but the story itself packs no wallop. The plot depends largely on the premise that a black prisoner always will be mistreated and coerced by white law enforcement officers. This is the engine which drives the story, right or wrong, and makes one feel a tad cheated at the end.
Still, worth watching to see Harris in action.
The performances are terrific, Kate Hudson proves that she is the
actress that Goldie Hawn never was, and it is always good to see Leslie
Caron looking her age and looking great. Now, the matter of the plot
has been raised and the consensus so far is that it is a bag of clichés
dumped into a blender and then poured out on film.
True. But, the book was no great shakes either and the screenplay simply has not risen above its origins.
I enjoyed Le Divorce for its cynicism and its predictability, frankly. It is nice every now and then to see a movie that elicits a sour chuckle rather than a guffaw or a shriek, and this is one of them.
The people who are critical of this movie are no lovers of film, nor do
they possess anything but a dim uniformed memory of great American
cinema. SKY CAPTAIN is a reverential homage to the films and serials of
the 1930's, particularly one technicolor icon which is shown in the
background during an early scene at Radio City Music Hall. This movie
is not merely fun in its own right but a beautiful evocation of some of
the great moments, style, and great scenes of an earlier era's films.
The plotting which some are whining about is also derived from the scenario script box of another day and requires some thought (which apparently much of the audience hasn't the equipment to offer) and a sense of fun to follow.
The leaps in logic were what made so many of the thirties adventure serials such fun to follow because you frequently had the unsettling feeling that not even the writers knew what was going to happen next. Yet, this impression was and is far from true, because SKY CAPTAIN is as tightly planned and well-wrought as a Swiss watch.
I loved this movie and want to cheer everyone who had anything to do with it!
Whatever Committee of PC Enforcers is responsible for this movie has
achieved something that I never thought possible: to take some truly gifted
actors (Davis, Hardin and Taylor) and make you want to insure you never
encounter them in an enclosed space, ever. The sentiments that underlie the
screenplay are so jejeune and idiotic that it is impossible to understand or
imagine what audience would find this picture appealing, much less funny.
Architecture students perhaps?
Only one scene is visually clever: Marcia Gay Hardin sashaying, all wriggles and rhythm, into a bar manages to exude more style and energy in ten seconds than the whole of the rest of the film added up and multiplied to the tenth power. As for the other members of the cast, they probably won't want to put this one on their resumes.
Guided by the reviews when the film was released, I deliberately and
carefully avoided seeing it in a theater. Now, I'm sorry. The movie is not
nearly so bad as the general public was led to believe and is, in fact,
quite effective and even, in parts, moving. Although these are not
qualities one either expects (or even wants in a picture with comic book
origins), they are also scarcely to be considered debilitating to the
overall effectiveness of the project.
Much of the power of the film comes from the performances of two old pros, Nick Nolte (playing himself, before rehab) and Sam Elliott (playing himself). These old rhinos snort up all the air in every frame in which they appear. No one else can touch them, particularly not Eric Bana, whose profound rages come across as temper tantrums until the special effects kick in and he is wholly computer generated. The "monster" gives a particularly fine performance and his programmers are to be commended.
It is, on the whole, a very satisfying movie. And a badly underrated one.
Among all the enthusiastic reviews for this movie, it is hard to find a
sufficiency of praise for the work of Edward Arnold. A familiar face on the
screen in the thirties and forties, with his round face, solid body, and
trademark pince-nez, Arnold surpasses himself in this film
Too often type-cast as a plutocrat, Arnold nevertheless demonstrates nuance and sensitivity as a man who, despite many flaws and faults, is redeemed by his love for his son. Arnold is seldom credited with the subtlety and poignancy of his characterizations, probably because he generally played greedy capitalists in a time when greedy capitalists were even more frightening than they are (and properly so) now, but this is an omission that should be corrected. His characterization in this comedy is a powerful performance, and grossly under-appreciated. He was one of the masters of American cinematic acting, with never a false note on his performances, and it is shameful that he is not so acknowledged.
If not the worst film ever made, it is so bad that it makes one think fondly
of the antic creativity of Ed Wood. This movie, a sniggering piece of
anti-Catholic bigotry, featuring an all-star cast of people who should have
known better, is so shamefully acted that one wonders how hard up the
performers were to take their roles. Fran Drescher, abandoning her
trademark whine, offers such an embarrassing performance that she should sue
the distributors for defamation by allowing the public to discover how long
she has defrauded them by passing herself off as a comic actress. Here, she
evokes neither laughs nor applause. The rest of the cast merely deserves our
censure for the waste of our time and the blot on their own
Shame on all concerned with this ugly, nasty little piece of work.
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