Mina Rhodes (Cvalda)

Addams Family Values PG-13

A paramount example of a sequel besting its predecessor in every way, Addams Family Values trades the tired broad strokes comedy of the original for some of the most deliciously arch camp satire Hollywood has ever put out. Paul Rudnick's script is so witty, so consistently hilarious, and so downright bitchy, that it practically transcends any kind of flaws in story or plot structure, almost heroically maintaining an awe-inspiringly consistent stream of knock out one-liners. And the performances... all are incredible, especially Joan Cusack in her career best role as the hilariously materialistic black widow nanny.

Color Me Kubrick Unrated

While obviously the work of a novice director with more enthusiasm than skill, Color Me Kubrick luckily coasts on the has-to-be-seen-to-be-believed central performance by John Malkovich as hilariously flaming and outrageously attired conman Patrick Conway, and the witty script by real-life Kubrick associate Anthony Frewin. Ample laughs and in-jokes for Kubrick aficionados, though casual fans may not care enough to brave the sometimes flat waters of this unabashed guilty pleasure.

Alien R

Most kids had Star Wars--I had Alien. I was either four or five at the time, when I looked up from my Jurassic Park coloring book to see an ad for ALIEN on the Sci-Fi Channel. It looked like the most amazing thing I'd ever seen. I managed to remember the day it was on and begged my parents to change the channel to Sci-Fi--and after much whining they complied, but, alas, I had missed most of it and only saw the last act. No matter--that was enough to galvanize my love of all things Alien. I found out our neighbor had the trilogy on VHS, and so I innocently knocked on her door, asking to borrow it. I can still recall perfectly the nervous double take she gave, considering these were R-rated films and I was barely out of kindergarten. "Do you have your parents' permission?" I lied and said, "yes." Victory was mine! I took the boxset home and duped it in our VCR, and then proceeded to watch all three of them nearly every day for what must have been a couple of years. I cannot begin to estimate how many times I've seen the original trilogy--to paraphrase Ripley in Alien³, "You've been in my life so long, I can't remember anything else." I credit my intense devotion to Alien and its three sequels for giving me an instant dose of cinematic "taste" at such a young age--and I can trace many of my principal interests back to the series. It is a singular achievement in the history of film, managing to combine Freudian psychosexuality, feminism, avant garde/neo-classical scoring, cynical left-wing ideology, existentialism and hard (well, the original trilogy, anyway) science fiction into something that will never be equaled. Is there any other series that challenged what franchise cinema could be on such a grand scale? While Star Wars and its ilk descended into crass, juvenile pandering and commercialism, the Alien "quadrilogy" never took the easy way out, never conformed to what people wanted. Even in the face of nervous studio executives and unadventurous American audiences, it soldiered on with grim determination to be something artistically conscious, unafraid to broach themes and ideas that ordinarily wouldn't make it past a first draft in the conservative studio machine. It all starts with the original: 1979's Alien. The film is a miracle, one in which everything falls into place in such a ludicrously perfect fashion, as though assembled according to some divine cinematic plan--a convergence of multi-faceted brilliance ranging from Ridley Scott's impeccable visuals, the pitch-perfect cast, Jerry Goldsmith's influential score, Walter Hill and David Giler's elegant screenplay, the ingenious editing job by Terry Rawlings, and most importantly, the unforgettable conceptual designs of H.R. Giger. Alien remains Ridely Scott's only true masterpiece (if anything, the man is more craftsman than filmmaker), and is both the best of the sci-fi genre (next to Kubrick's 2001) as well as the horror genre--a lofty accomplishment. Like 2001, it is endlessly imitated and its influence is inescapable. It shattered the cinema screen's glass ceiling in ways only its sequels (and possibly Terminator 2) managed to live up to, and impacted filmmaking in ways more subtle and meaningful than Star Wars ever did. To continue praising the film and expand on its myriad of merits would be redundant in the massive wake of literature that has been justly written about it (despite its initially mixed reception from typically short-sighted critics--even Ebert disliked the film when it was first released, yet it somehow found its way onto his list of "Great Movies" decades later). Its greatness is simply a stone cold fact. One can only hope Scott's upcoming prequel, Prometheus, reclaims similar heights.

Mulholland Drive R

David Lynch's masterpiece (out of several masterpieces), Mulholland Dr. is staggeringly brilliant in its execution. Volumes have already been written on the film, and a small but growing minority of film critics share my view that it is the greatest film ever made. Mulholland Dr is the art form at its most perfect--indeed, the film, in terms of story, can only exist as what it is: a film. Written as a novel, for example, it would be impossible to convey the images and dream-like plotline that Lynch brings to the screen. Mulholland Dr is, for it's first two thirds, a dream (and everyone knows dreams in written fiction are usually beyond tacky), and one of the myriad pleasures of the film is watching how Diane's dream is influenced by her wretched waking life (seen in the last third of the film): the way she lifts names for dream characters off name tags, incorporates individuals randomly glimpsed, twists events and interactions into her favor. The dream section of the film is not just a glib representation of Diane's wish-fulfillment, however; the looming tragedy of the film's climax grows stronger as the dream persists, and the audience feels growing sympathy for poor Diane, whose emotional and mental turmoil is glimpsed in symbolism that is--for once in a film!--not simply representative of cliched Freudian or Jungian archetypes. In many ways, it is Lynch's most humanistic film, and introduces the theme that would dominate Lynch's next (also brilliant) picture as well: the way Hollywood uses and destroys women. Added to all this are the usual Lynch gags, which for once showcase his sense of humor without coming across as masturbatory (Wild at Heart, ahem). Composer Angelo Badalementi's cameo appearance as a supremely picky espresso drinker easily wins top prize as the funniest moment in any Lynch film, and his score itself is among his best. It seems the thing that throws most people off about Mulholland Dr. is its plotline. This is a result of people going in and expecting to work through it intellectually, which is not how the film should be viewed. Dreams themselves are never intellectual--they are driven by emotions and anxieties from the subconscious, and to truly grasp the film, one needs to feel their way through instead of think (the exact opposite of my "grand" life philosophy, but there are always exceptions to the rule).