I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry (2007)

Dennis Dugan's 2007 so-called comedy I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry offended me on a lot of levels. No, the plotline of two heterosexual firemen (Adam Sandler as Chuck and Kevin James as Larry) who pretend to be homosexual to collect one's insurance benefits isn't at all offensive. It's a lot of other factors that troubled me to the core.

Take first the fact that, as comedies go, this one isn't terribly funny. If we're being honest with each other, I did laugh at a lot of points in the film. Yet these were quick laughs, brief "Ha!" moments interspersed between scenes that are terribly unfunny. Not because they're offensive or crude, just because there simply isn't a joke in sight. Or if those pass for jokes, I missed a memo somewhere.

Also patently offensive: Adam Sandler. Kevin James is great here (and in the sitcom that made him a star, The King of Queens), but it's unfortunate that he's not the lead in a movie that could have been saved by giving him a larger role - and replacing Sandler, who continually seems bored. Sandler seldom makes eye contact with his costars, leading me to believe that he's either practicing some new tick of method acting, or he's reading cue cards because he's not interested enough in his part.

That might be the fault of Jessica Biel, who's supposed to be playing the sexy lawyer defending Chuck and Larry, with whom of course Chuck falls in love. Did I miss a meeting somewhere? Are we giving Miss Biel acting roles because she has some talent? Because she has some endearing physical characteristics? Because to be honest, I don't see her possessing either. Forgive me for needing more in a movie than She-Hulk in wet lingerie (a scene that I'm convinced was used as a trick to get straight men into the theaters without feeling "gay").

Also forgive me for being patently offended by Rob Schneider's uncredited role as the wedding chapel owner who weds Chuck and Larry. Did I mention he's supposed to be Asian? Uck. Steve Martin's Frenchman in The Pink Panther was funnier than Schneider tries to be, which is admittedly not saying much. I'm not sure which is more offensive - that Schneider tries to revive the antique tradition of "yellowface" (a term originally used to disparage the Charlie Chan film series), or that he tries to be funny. He fails miserably on both counts.

The final offense this film commits is wasting perfectly good actors in this muck of a mess. I've already shed a tear for the misuse (I should probably say underuse, since he makes the best of his part) of Kevin James, but note Steve Buscemi who has a sum total of three scenes - an insult to a talent of his caliber. Dan Aykroyd... well, maybe not a talent, but he's reduced to giving the preachy "message" of the film in an eye-rolling climax. And Ving Rhames - oh, poor Ving Rhames. The man tries his best to redeem his largely inconsequential role as a closeted homosexual fellow fireman. Rhames is over-the-top, but I feel sorry that the man who embodied Marsellus Wallace (please, no jokes about Zed here) is stuck in movies nowhere near as funny as it could have been.

Oh, and I almost forgot. It's not even original. It's remarkably similar to a 2004 Australian film, Strange Bedfellows (similar to the point that the first film's makers are in legal combat with the second's). The original might be funnier, but after this one, I'm not exactly inclined to find out.

The Thin Man (1934)

They just don't make them like The Thin Man nowadays...

In adapting Dashiell Hammett's last novel, director W.S. Van Dyke found the perfect screen pair in William Powell and Myrna Loy - heck, toss in Asta the terrier while you're at it. As Nick and Nora Charles, Powell and Loy are delightful, bearing on-screen chemistry of which most other pairs only dream. Though I haven't yet seen any of the five sequels to this movie, I'm sure I'll check them out, if only for the positively adorable pairing of Nick & Nora.

There's a mystery here somewhere about the disappearance of Clyde Wynant, the eponymous "Thin Man," but the real star is the joke-for-joke and drink-for-drink marriage of Nick and Nora Charles, wealthy socialites who can hold their liquor and banter like no other in town. Though everyone assumes Nick is on the Wynant case, Nick would much rather drink martinis and walk Asta than solve murders. Of course, once he gets on the case, it's open-and-shut.

As a mystery movie, The Thin Man isn't anything special, but at least it's easier to understand than The Big Sleep, the notoriously puzzling Bogart mystery noir by Raymond Chandler. As I said, though, the mystery isn't the star attraction, and once the killer is revealed there's no further discussion of the crime. It seems that there are two films going on at once - the plotline of Wynant's disappearance and the screwball comedy between the Charleses. The second is infinitely more interesting, without a scene elapsing without at least one belly laugh.

Of course, it says something that, no matter the irrelevance of the mystery to the overall enjoyability of the movie (similar to the Charlie Chan movie series, of which the Sidney Toler films come more highly recommended from yours truly), I'm watching this movie almost 75 years after its debut - and enjoying it.

Now I sure don't think alcoholism is funny, but Nick & Nora aren't alcoholics. They must have a wooden leg or something, especially Nick, whose ability to outdrink his wife predates the drinking contest episode of Arrested Development by about 70 years. I can't remember how much of the snappy dialogue is preserved from the original novel, but screenwriters Albert Hackett and Frances Goodrich have done a great job of crafting witty repartee.

Powell is delightfully suave as Nick Charles, the detective-by-insistence, and Loy is positively adorable as his wife Nora, whose love for her husband is as distinct as the two twin beds they sleep in. Please, God, don't let anyone try to remake this movie. Even as I write this, some Hollywood bonehead is working on a remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still with (ugh) Keanu Reeves replacing Michael Rennie.

So, George Clooney, keep your hands off The Thin Man. Because I know people will mention your name. Just don't do it. Leave perfection well enough alone.

Kill Bill, Vol. 1 (2003)

In mining for films to review, I've been digging back into movies that I love but haven't seen in a while. Quentin Tarantino's fourth film, the first volume of his Kill Bill revenge epic, fell squarely in that category, so I felt it needed to be viewed again.

I'm almost sorry I did that. KB1 is not as good as I remember it being. Though it's still rip-roaring good fun, it's not exactly high cinema. Is there anything wrong with that? Not really... but this is one of those postmodernist moments where the simulation - my memory of the film - is better than the actual thing.

What I loved about the movie - and still do - is its unique structure, which divides the story into ten nonchronological chapters over two movies. The basic throughline of the movie is the story of The Bride's quest for revenge against her assassin cohorts who tried to kill her when she left their organization. The Bride (Uma Thurman) has five names on her list, and in the first volume she gets to two of them - O-Ren Ishii (Lucy Liu) and Vernita Green (Vivica A. Fox).

It's tricky to review Vol. 1 without acknowledging Vol. 2, so at least some comparisons are necessary. Vol. 1 is a lot more action-packed and a lot more colorful than its successor, but I'm not sure that makes it a great movie. It's a lot of fun, for sure; the action scenes, incredibly violent though they are, are rousing at a visceral level, instilling "Ew" and "Ah" at all the right moments, even on subsequent viewings. The direction, despite being lifted as "homages" to other works, is visually stimulating, with angles conveying more at times than the performances.

Of course, this being a Tarantino movie, we expect two things: a powerhouse of a soundtrack and snarky dialogue that predates Diablo Cody by more than a decade. On the first count, Vol. 1 delivers in a big way; the songs Tarantino chooses fit perfectly with the scenes on screen, but at times it seems like too much of a good thing, at times overtly showy. Then again, this is the film that introduced "Battle Without Honor or Humanity" and "Woo Hoo" to American listeners, so it's certainly not all bad.

As for the dialogue, I used to love its snappiness. Now I look at Vol. 1 and realize just how uneven it is. The Bride (whose name is cleverly never mentioned in the first film, although you can see it if you freeze-frame her plane ticket) alternates between intellectualism and street speak, sometimes distractingly so within the same scene. Though the writing is clever and well-organized, it's this dialectic disparity (which fortunately seems rectified in the second installment) that hurts the overall authorial reputation Tarantino earned from the likes of Pulp Fiction.

I suppose I would like Vol. 1 more if it were coupled with Vol. 2 in one movie-going experience; that would probably launch into great movie status, since a four-hour movie wouldn't be as easily dwarfed by these shortcomings. The thing is, I don't believe Tarantino set out to make an enduring classic of cinema. I believe he wanted to make his own movie that captured all the fun and excitement of the campy flicks he grew up with. And in that endeavor, he succeded. "A roaring rampage of revenge," the film describes itself. Oh, it roars, and it rampages, and it leaves the audience slightly breathless.

Perfect it isn't, but bloody satisfying? You betcha, kiddo.

Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade (1989)

"I've got a lot of fond memories of that dog."

That's about the way I feel about the third Indiana Jones film, which I still consider to be the best of the four-film series. Recovering from the Temple of Doom debacle - a redeemable film, to be sure, but certainly less spectacular than its predecessor and successor - Steven Spielberg and George Lucas culled together this masterpiece, one of the best of Spielberg's and arguably THE best complete film of Lucas's (I exclude the Irvin Kershner-directed The Empire Strikes Back from contention on the basis of its incomplete cliffhanger ending).

I almost feel like plot synopsis is irrelevant here, since this movie is pop culture history only 19 years after its premiere. Indiana Jones (Harrison Ford, in his defining role, perhaps even more so than as Han Solo) is contracted by antiquities collector Walter Donovan (Julian Glover, who is the only actor holding the distinction of playing in the Star Wars, Indiana Jones, James Bond, and Harry Potter series [and a Woody Allen movie, to boot] - talk about cultural monopoly!) to recover the Holy Grail, the cup from which Christ drank at the Last Supper. Perhaps a more immediate motive for Indy is the disappearance of his father (the always marvelous Sean Connery), who was also hot on the Grail trail when he went missing. Of course, the Nazis are after the Grail, as well, so it's literally a race to the finish.

I have the same gripe here that I had about Raiders of the Lost Ark - that I remember it too damn well. This is, again, more my fault than the movie's, but here I've been able to discern a key factor in the movie's memorability factor - a script apparently predominantly written by an uncredited Tom Stoppard, who's been called the modern Shakespeare, and perhaps not without good reason - recall he's the author behind John Madden's 1998 Shakespeare in Love (no, not THAT John Madden). The writing of this film is pitch-perfect, one of the funniest action movies I've seen (take that, Pirates of the Caribbean).

The acting is phenomenal, with every member of the cast deftly moving between slapstick comedy and subdued scenes of dramatic dialogue. The action scenes are spot-on, as well, directed brilliantly by Spielberg with just the right amount of levity to prevent a heart attack. And the return to Nazis and Judeo-Christian artifacts is one well appreciated in light of the more mystical Kali cult and Sankara Stones.

Like I said, I'm having a tough time reviewing a movie that I've seen dozens of times and love to death. I feel obligated to include this movie on my short list of "Perfect Movies" and also feel obligated to share that list at some point. The trouble is I have too many fond memories to look at this movie with any degree of objectivity. But that's not necessarily a bad thing, because seeing this movie again with an older eye proved to be two of the best hours I've had this month.

Find Me Guilty (2006)

I never thought I'd say these words, but here goes: I enjoyed a Vin Diesel movie.

Sidney Lumet's 2006 courtroom drama/comedy (my third Lumet film this summer... noticing a pattern yet?) Find Me Guilty suffers from what I like to call "Brad Pitt in Twelve Monkeys" syndrome. This condition of cinema (which will probably soon be retitled "Heath Ledger in The Dark Knight") is not something that speaks ill of the film. Instead, it's high praise for a performance that steps so far outside of the otherwise humdrum career of a lackluster actor and allows the person in question to actually ACT.

The actor in question here is Vin Diesel, who plays Jackie DiNorscio, a New York mobster who elects to defend himself in what becomes the longest trial in federal court history. Though he has no legal experience - save for his self-profession that he's "spent half of my life in jail" - "Jackie Dee" actually does a serviceable job defending himself against an elaborate case built by professional prosecutors.

Chalk it up to Lumet, who I'm sure is responsible for getting this knockdown bang-up performance out of Diesel. After all, this is a guy whose credits include The Pacifier and three Fast and Furious movies. So I wasn't expecting a stellar performance, but Diesel surprises here, virtually unrecognizable as he steps into the shoes of DiNorscio. Other performances here of note include Peter Dinklage as another defense lawyer, who seems miscast because he seems underused; Alex "Moe Greene" Rocco as the surly mob boss at the top of the trial; and Annabella Sciorra, who boils up the screen in her one scene as Jackie's wife.

The screenplay is electrifyingly humorous, with much of the courtroom dialogue allegedly taken from actual court transcripts. If the percent of actual dialogue is as high as a title card leads me to believe, this must have been a real circus to see! Of course, too, Lumet's direction is all right, but nothing calls attention to the direction as in some of his other projects.

One down note on the film is that the momentum it builds in the courtroom scenes - which is considerable and hysterical - is lost in some of the other scenes, so the movie feels like it drags its heels in a few spots. It's also a disappointment to read that, in real life, the jury in the case had been bribed.

The movie on its own, though, as a whole, is perhaps not Sidney Lumet's best work, but it's unquestionably Diesel's best work to date.

The Rules of Attraction (2002)

Though 2002's The Rules of Attraction bills itself as "From the corrupt minds that brought you 'Pulp Fiction' and 'American Psycho,'" I wouldn't go in expecting the magic that director Roger Avary (co-writer of Pulp Fiction, though I understand that claim is a little sketchy) and source novelist Bret Easton Ellis (who also wrote the American Psycho novel) offered up in their earlier projects.

That isn't to say that The Rules of Attraction is wholly without redemption. A fundamental problem with the movie is that its characters not only are for the most part unlikable, but they demand not to be liked.

The character map sounds like something Shakespearean in scope. Sean Bateman (James Van Der Beek) brother of American Psycho Patrick Bateman) is a self-proclaimed "emotional vampire" who falls in love with Lauren (an endearing Shannyn Sossamon), whom he believes is writing him purple love notes filled with glitter. But Lauren is really in love with Victor (Kip Pardue), a sex- and drug-addled student taking a semester abroad. Lauren's roommate Lara (Jessica Biel way-back-when) is similarly promiscuous, though she has her eye on Sean - as does Paul (Ian Somerhalder, alias Boone from Lost), a depressed homosexual looking for Mr. Right.

With the partial exception of Lauren, no character was sympathetic enough for me to grow attached to. Where Patrick Bateman (as portrayed brilliantly by Christian Bale) was an oddly enjoyable anti-hero, Sean tries his hardest to be unlikeable, having no-strings-attached sex and dealing drugs without any concern for the lives he hurts around him. An Ellis trope, to be sure, but at least Bale made Patrick Bateman compelling. In fact, all the performances are heavily laced with ennui. That's not to say that the performances are boring, but rather the characters are extremely bored, which makes a difficult viewing experience. The actors involved all do a great job personifying this disillusionment (especially Somerhalder, though I find myself asking why it seems Lost destroyed what could have been a promising career), but it's distracting to have characters so vapid that I can't pay attention.

Avary's direction is also distracting. Though imaginative the first few times it's employed, Avary's repeated use of reversing the film - playing scenes backwards - is wholly overused, seeming tired and cliche by the end. Perhaps this is a stylistic point Avary tries to make, but he doesn't make it well. One style feature used well here is the typically-Ellis first-person narration, in which characters freely speak their minds in the present tense to give a better sense of what's going on. Again, though, Bale did it better; the narration here sometimes verges on Kevin Costner's turn as the brutally dull narrator of Dances with Wolves.

I'm not sure I can in good faith recommend this movie. The point of a film is to get the audience engaged, and The Rules of Attraction tries profusely to make its characters despondently inaccessible. If you're up for a challenge, though, try to get thoroughly attached to one of the characters.

Lauren melting your heart doesn't count, though.

The Mist (2007)

Resolved: if there are to be any more adaptations of Stephen King's writings, Frank Darabont must be behind the wheel. Darabont, the man behind critically heralded King flicks The Shawshank Redemption (which I'll have to get around to seeing one of these days) and The Green Mile (which I commend for being one of the most faithful and most incredible adaptations of any work of literature ever). With 2007's The Mist, Darabont did something risky - change the ending of King's original novella.

And King preferred that ending to his own. Kudos, Mr. D.

Kudos also for making one of the most suspenseful - but perhaps not the scariest - movies I've seen in a long while. By restricting the action of the plot (for the most part) to a supermarket sealed off by a mysterious creature-filled mist, Darabont keeps the film rolling with a cast of characters trying to survive. Thomas Jane (fresh off his "I just want my kids back!" cameo on Arrested Development, a cameo that probably won't be far from your mind) wants to defend his son and escape the creatures outside, supermarket employee Ollie (the fortunately inimitable Toby Jones) is the standard sidekick with a shooting-gallery twist, and Mrs. Carmody (Marcia Gay Harden, who seems to have been snubbed as a Best Supporting Actress) is the obligatory religious nut who believes the mist is an End Times reckoning from on high.

If it sounds a bit formulaic, don't let that fool you. The Mist is anything but. The performances keep the movie from verging on cardboard, and the characters are all thoroughly engaging. Though the film deals with the same themes that King has explored since Salem's Lot - the fact that the supernatural threats are less terrifying than the darkness within ourselves - the film is as disorientingly unfamiliar as the best science fiction.

Then there's the matter of the ending. What do we do with an ending like this one? Is it a desperate plea for the preservation of hope, or simply a brilliant exercise in irony? Is it the destruction of King's ending or the construction of a better one? Or is it a classic example of the theory that gets thrown around a lot when Lost is mentioned - purgatory? Whatever it is, it left me in stunned silence after the credits rolled. I'm not ready yet to assess it as a "great" or "terrible" ending, but I'll say it's unforgettable.

From a critical standpoint it seems as though I'm not saying anything earth-shattering here. Then allow this postulation: Darabont needs to sue J.J. Abrams and the makers of Cloverfield, and fast. I thought Cloverfield was an outstanding accomplishment in the monster suspense genre, but it seems Abrams and Cloverfield director Matt Reeves took more than a few pages from Darabont's what-I-now-realize-as superior film. Shaky cam? Check. Insect-like creatures and a larger crab-like monster? Check. Army presence (and possible culpability)? Check. Lovable character getting devoured by vicious pincer-bearing creature just when escape seems certain? Check. Ambiguous shock ending? You get the picture.

Skip Cloverfield and see what an original movie The Mist is. Leave it to Stephen King to outdo fresher faces in the movie world.

Lars and the Real Girl (2007)

For starters, let's say that Craig Gillespie's Lars and the Real Girl is nowhere near as disturbing as its premise might lead you to believe. The relationship between Lars (Ryan Gosling) and his sex doll "girlfriend" Bianca (humorously credited "as Herself") is much more innocent than one might initially predict, and it's a whole heck of a lot funnier.

Lars is your lonely Everyman, bouncing between a nondescript cubicle and the garage behind his brother's house (brother Gus and his wife Karin are played by Paul Schneider and Emily Mortimer, respectfully, obviously). Despite (or perhaps in spite of) an obvious romantic tension with coworker Margo (Kelli Garner, who positively glows), Lars purchases Bianca, around whom he crafts an elaborate relationship. Recognizing this as a legitimate psychological delusion, the town plays along.

This whole sex doll business is, one has to admit, a little beyond the norm of your average film fare. Yet screenwriter Nancy Oliver does a marvelous job of keeping it within the lines of cinematic plausibility, aided in no small part by a completely infatuated performance by Gosling, who really shouldn't be thought of "that guy from The Notebook" anymore. In a lot of ways, Gosling's Lars Lindstrom is like Heath Ledger in Brokeback Mountain - completely enamored with a lifeless nobody. It's not difficult to see why the townspeople play along with the Bianca facade; Gosling looks at Bianca as though she's real, as though she's the girl of his dreams.

Poor Margo. Kelli Garner is completely adorable as the would-be love interest, the quintessential girl-next-door, if only he knew. With perhaps her biggest exposure since her turn as Faith Domergue in Scorsese's Hughes-biopic The Aviator, Garner is definitely someone I'll have to keep on my radar - similar words about whom I spoke in reference to Emily Mortimer in The Pink Panther, who will break your heart here when Bianca falls ill.

I wasn't expecting to like this movie just as much as I did. It's a sweet film, emotional, guided by a few great performances. My gripe with this film is the unbelievability factor; other than Gus and a few religious figures, no one really shows any problem with accepting Bianca as a member of the community. Does this town love Lars so much that they're willing to elect Bianca to the school board? As Geoffrey Rush said in the first Pirates of the Caribbean movie, "It does strain credulity, at that."

Otherwise, I'd have to give Lars a "Recommended Viewing" certificate, if only for making sex dolls so gosh darned interesting.

Before the Devil Knows You're Dead (2007)

May you be in heaven half an hour, the old saying goes, before the devil knows you're dead.

The significance of the film's title is just one of the many things about which Sidney Lumet's latest - Before the Devil Knows You're Dead - will leave you thinking. Although I had a similar amount of unprocessed thoughts with Brokeback Mountain, I'm more inclined to label this film as "to my liking."

It seems almost a crime to give any sort of plot summary to the film, which jumps back and forth chronologically in order to properly tell the story of a heist gone wrong. (Sensing a trend in my summer movie tastes? I sure am.) Let's put it this way - you find all this out in about the first twenty minutes, anyway. Andy (Philip Seymour Hoffman) and Hank (Ethan Hawke) are two brothers, both of whom are hard up for money for reasons that the film will explain as the story progresses. So they decide on a victimless crime: the robbery of an insured mom and pop jewelry store. The catch? The mom and pop store belongs to Andy and Hank's mom and pop (Rosemary Harris [Spidey's Aunt May] and Albert Finney). Naturally, the heist goes horribly askew, and the film becomes a mix of covering the trail and making things right.

Credit Sidney Lumet's impeccable direction for keeping the film at an even pace while meandering to and fro in time. In a way, Lumet is doing the same thing that Lost has been doing for four years, only he's doing it one step better by making the flashbacks and flashforwards a) interesting and b) relevant to the plot.

Another element Lost is missing is strong character acting (of course Lost has its acting athletes like Michael Emerson, but... we're not here to review serialized drama, are we?). Each performance in here is top-notch; P.S. Hoffman deserved an Oscar for this more than he did for Capote (for the definitive Capote film, see Toby Jones in Infamous), Ethan Hawke redeems himself as an actor, and Albert Finney brings an intensity to his role that only a Brit can provide. Even Marisa Tomei, whose basic function here seems to be to stand around and look attractive, has her moments to shine.

I should also commend Kelly Masterson's masterful screenplay, which keeps the plot moving while alternating between moments of high tension and dramatic revelation. My only gripe here is that the fate of one of the main characters is left completely open ended; we last see this character running around a street corner, never to be seen or heard from again. It's as though the film should have gone on for another scene.

But it's good to see that, fifty years after his debut with 1957's Twelve Angry Men, Sidney Lumet hasn't lost his touch.

Barton Fink (1991)

Where do we begin discussion about a film like the Coen Brothers' Barton Fink? Do we examine the allegories to Nazism, the Fight Club syndrome that diagnoses most films as "it's all in his head," my personal theory that the Hotel Earle is really hell, or do we simply ask "What the heck is up with John Turturro's hair?"

After the lackluster Blood Simple., I needed a film that would restore my faith in the filmmaking abilities of Joel and Ethan Coen. It was then that I realized that I was two films shy of seeing the enire Coen canon - Barton Fink and The Hudsucker Proxy. Almost by fate, Fink fell on television yesterday afternoon, so I had to take a powwow for it.

Let me say this about Barton Fink. It is the most fascinating "slow movie" I have ever seen. That is, the pacing of the movie is deliberate and without hurry, but - though little happens on the screen for large portions of time - I could not stop watching. Even as the credits rolled, I remained glued in thought.

After his socially conscious play makes big splashes, quirky playwright Barton Fink (Turturro) lands a gig writing Wallace Beery wrestling flicks for Capitol Pictures. While desperately attempting to dodge deadlines and writer's block, Barton Fink resides at the Hotel Earle, a place where Steve Buscemi valets, strange noises come from the sixth floor, and his boisterous neighbor Charlie Meadows (John Goodman) is a constant visitor - who sometimes steals the glassware. The film is a butterfly collection of the most unique characters the Coens have ever crafted, including angry film moguls Jack Lipnick (Michael Lerner) and Ben Geisler (Tony Shalhoub), groveling gopher Lou Breeze (Jon Polito), drunken novelist Bill Mayhew (Frasier's dad John Mahoney), and his jaded sweetheart Audrey Taylor (Judy Davis).

If it sounds like a lot to take in, that's because there are a lot of parentheses in the preceding paragraph. The Coens keep the film moving and create three-dimensional figures that are characteristically Coen in their prolixity and personality overloads. The basic through-line of the film is simple - Barton Fink has writer's block. The rest of the film is a series of character-driven vignettes that give the Coens an opportunity to flex their dialogue muscles and give the actors involved the chance to show us just how believable they can make these ridiculous characters.

The central performance - though all are worthy of commendation - is Turturro's Fink. Fink is restrained, quiet, shy, and nervous; everything Turturro does, from the quiver in his voice to the way he holds his coffee cup, is completely in step with his character. Ditto for Goodman, who's perfectly cast as the jolly world's-worst-neighbor.

An added bonus is the absolutely beautiful set design and direction that make me nostalgic for a 1941 that probably never was. Every set piece contributes to the all out 40s-immersion the film projects, prompting me to say at several points, "Boy, I wish I could live there." Even the decrepit Hotel Earle, with its peeling wallpaper and occasionally igniting walls, generates that nostalgic feeling.

If we are to believe the theory that Barton Fink is a response to/remake of David Lynch's Eraserhead, it's a marked improvement. But I'm inclined to believe that Barton Fink is a wholly original Coen creation, because no one else could have come up with a product as quirky at this one.