Basquiat

I haven't written in this spot for a good minute. I don't have much of an excuse, except that I haven't seen much that's given me any motivation or inspiration to blog. It's not that I haven't seen any good movies lately, but none have been so good or so bad that I had, just had, to write about them.

That was the case until last night when as part of the Riverrun International Film Festival that's taking place here in good ole Winston-Salem, I had the chance to see the documentary Basquiat: The Radiant Child.

Jean-Michel Basquiant took the art world by storm in the early 1980s with his graffiti-styled paintings and drawings, a brilliant tapestry of work that spoke of the turbulent and exciting times in which he lived. He was only 27 of a drug overdose, another in a long line of geniuses who shined bright but burned quick.

As I saw watching the movie, I was taken in by the story of a man who grew up in the streets and managed to survive by his wits, who by raw unbridled talent made a name for himself first on the walls and trains of New York with the enigmatic tag of SAMO and then later in some of the most elite art museums.

Years ago, I saw the movie Basquiat, directed by artist and friend Julian Schnabel and starring Jeffrey Wright, who captured the nervous energy of Basquiat. But it is one to see Wright portray Basquiat but quite another to see Basquiat himself in archival footage and never-before-seen interviews.

We see a man who sought fame and found it not to his liking, a black man struggling to find his place in an elite white art world that kept defining him and his work.

Director Tamra Davis, through interviews with his friends, follows Basquiat's childhood in New York to his untimely death. In between, she allows us into his world, filled with late-night parties with his friend, Fab Five Freddy, and his insane work ethic.

The result is a nuanced portrait of an exceedingly complex artist, someone who wanted people to understand his work and to hear his voice. He wanted to succeed, no doubt, but he wanted to succeed on his own terms and to make uncompromising work.

The subtitle of this movie has it right. Basquiat was a radiant child, an artist whose work was too brilliant even now for this world, who created art that we still talk about.

And I find myself so much the better for being exposed to who he was and what he was about.

Roger Ebert

Roger Ebert cannot speak.

The acclaimed film critic lost his voice to complications from thyroid cancer four years ago. He can no longer relish solid food, drink good wine or talk about his favorite movies.

But in a way, his voice is still there, even if he can no longer move his lips. That's clear from this beautifully-rendered profile in the latest issue of Esquire.

I grew up on Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel. Their show, "At The Movies," was required viewing for this budding movie enthusiast. I had to see if they gave thumbs up or thumbs down to the latest movies.

Siskel and Ebert were a contrast of physicality. Siskel was nearly bald and slim and given to harsh take-downs of films. Ebert had silver hair, a round face and a softer tone. They were like the good cop/bad cop tag team of film criticism.

But they knew their stuff and they were fair. Their arguments were well-constructed and not too high-falutin' for the average viewer. They just loved movies. It was that simple.

And I loved movies too. I didn't always agree with them. I still don't understand why Ebert loved Eyes Wide Shut, that strange film from the late Stanley Kubrick focused on marriage and S&M and that featured the now-divorced Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman.

Chris Jones, who wrote the profile, captures a man finding new ways to communicate other than through his lips. Ebert scribbles his thoughts on Post-it notes while watching Pedro Almodovar's film, Broken Embraces. He taps out his musings on a blog, keeping his voice alive via the World Wide Web, a distant yet intimate form of dialogue.

And with his wife, Chaz, there is an ease of communication where words aren't needed that comes from 16 years of marriage.

This is no against-all-odds tale, some cliched-filled happy-go-lucky story. Instead, what emerges is Ebert as a man taking it one day at a time, dealing as best as he can with the crappy cards he has been dealt with.

He gets angry. He gets frustrated. You can see it in the shaking of his hands and the desperate grab for paper to put down this thoughts, even though the moment he starts writing, the feelings have already started to dissipate.

The picture that accompanies the story shows Ebert with large smiling eyes staring back at us. His face is thinner than I remember and it slopes into a weird V shape, the result of his lower jaw being taken out years ago because of the cancer.

I imagine him to be a loud voice locked in a quiet body bursting at the seams to make noise. But there are more ways to make noise than with your mouth. He writes. He scribbles. He taps his fingers across the keyboards on his computer.

Ebert can no longer speak but we hear him nonetheless.

Up In The Air

Ryan Bingham has the bliss life, the kind we all think we would want, the one where we can live out of our suitcases and fly anywhere we wanted to, piling up frequent flier miles and staying in swank hotels.

In Up In The Air, Bingham (played with ever-easy charm by George Clooney) lives this life at a cost: He works for a company that other companies hire to fire people. And Bingham does his job very well, giving speeches about people who built empires who started right where Mr. or Ms. Laid-Off Worker is sitting.

It is a cold job he does with dignity and to do that job, he lives a disconnected existence.

And everything is swell, until his company decides that it would be cheaper to do the firings via video conference rather than in person. That threatens Bingham's out-of-suitcase lifestyle.

Plus, love, in the form of another corporate downsizer named Alex, also shakes up his obligation-free life of arrested development.

As directed by Jason Reitman (who gained enormous critical acclaim with his Oscar-nominated film Juno), this movie flits from sexy comedy to a screen version of the book Bowling Alone, which detailed the collapse of the American community.

Critics have hailed this as Clooney's best performance. That's hype, but it is a good performance, one that taps into Clooney's persona as the never-going-to-marry bachelor. The brilliance of his performance is he shows through Bingham the dark side of such a persistently solo existence.

It is only when he falls in love with Alex (sexy smart Vera Farmiga) that he realizes maybe the way he has gone about his life was wrongheaded and wronghearted.

Reitman, thankfully, keeps the movie from getting all mushy, and part of that comes from the real-life people who play the employees who get fired, their emotions red-hot. That decision grounds the movie, so to speak. He manages to sneak in a message or two about the devastation our ever-shrinking economy is having on every day Americans in a story about our increasing isolation from each other, the ease in which we hurt each other primarily because we've lost that need to connect in a meaningful way.

We're all about text messages and Facebook friending and twittering our lives instead of living our lives. And in the end, all that flying, all that living out of the suitcase, gets old and empty.

It is a important message that Reitman delivers without preachiness and with plenty of humor. And it makes me think I should probably fly more.

Book of Eli

Book of Eli is a parable parading as an action flick, a mediation on the importance of literacy buried beneath decapitations done in silhouette.

And it is all cool and never preachy.

This is the first feature from the Hughes Brothers in nine years, the creative forces behind Menance To Society and From Hell.

Allen and Albert Hughes, in their new movie, decided to go western and apocalyptic, the result of some mysterious nuclear holocaust 30 years prior.

Denzel Washington is the titular Eli, a lone warrior in the tradition of Mad Max, armed with a gun, a blade and the last Bible on the planet. He has walked deserted roads and burnt-out landscapes littered with the remains of a world no one knows anymore.

Thirty years ago, a voice (presumably God) told Eli to head west with that Bible so that it may one day do good and be the key to mankind's salvation. And he has kept that path and cut the hands off anyone who dared touch him or what he simply refers to as the book.

We've seen apocalypse on the screen many times, men and women reduced to savages killing each other over scraps of food. The recently-released The Road covers much of the same ground the Hughes Brothers deal with here.

But the difference here is that it is not just water and food that are scarce resources; books no longer exist. And the villain, Carnegie (played by the wonderful and often creepy Gary Oldman) is the only other person in the film who knows and appreciates the power of books and the knowledge contained within.

Carnegie is the would-be dictator of a small town into which Eli enters, and once Carnegie finds out that Eli has the only Bible in the world, he sets out to do whatever it takes to get that book, knowing that he might be able to use it to control people.

Given the subject matter, it is surprising that the movie isn't as ponderous as one might think. The Hughes Brothers make ample room for humor and for cool action sequences that show Eli is rather deadly with his blade.

The cinematography is evocative, as one would expect from the Hughes Brothers.

And there is a twist at the end that won't be revealed here that, at least for me, deepened the movie.

No, the movie isn't all that deep but I found it fascinating and thought-provoking, a cool action flick that easily pleases those who love to think and those who just love a good knife fight and those who happen to love both.

Mourning Blockbuster

Blockbuster is closing. Not all of them, just the one around the corner, the one less than five minutes away that I could go to late at night when I wanted to feed my movie fix.

A large "Store Closing" banner hangs outside the building. Employees are overseeing the liquidation of everything in the store. In the windows are posters promoting discounts as high as 80 percent. And I am in mourning.

I know all about Netflix and everytime I go to Harris Teeter, I see the Redbox vending machines. But, for me, there was nothing like going to Blockbuster or Hollywood Video.

I cherished those moments of browsing, your eyes going over all those titles, some big studio blockbusters and others more independent fare. One night it might be the latest Michael Bay movie. Another night, it could be some obscure movie I had never heard of.

And of course, there have been plenty of times when the movies I picked absolutely sucked, such stinkers that the word "stinker" doesn't even do them justice.

But others have been wonderful movie-watching experiences, full of rich indelible characters and superb acting.

I found them through browsing, and that's why I loved Blockbuster. I could spend an hour just walking around, trying to choose, patient in my search.

The first time I used Redbox was this week. I got The Hangover, a hilariously raunchy movie. I struggled with how to use it. I stood at the Harris Teeter an embarrassing long time trying to figure it all out. And I was frustrated with the limited number of titles. You just had to choose quickly as a line formed behind you or just go empty-handed.

That never happened at Blockbuster. Not that you didn't go home empty-handed some nights. But you had the time to figure out what you wanted.

And the joy came when you happened upon some great movie you might not have discovered if you hadn't spent all that time browsing.

We live in this world where patience is a rarity. Time rushes by us, and we have to make these rapid choices. You can't wait and see.

The good things, the wonderful things, in life --- you don't see them right away. You have to browse because the beauty of life appears in unexpected places. You have to walk around searching a bit before you find it, whatever that it is.

And when you find it, whether it's that right movie, or that right person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you know it and you're happy that you took the time to find it.

That's why I'm mourning Blockbuster. I hate having to go to Redbox or order movies from Netflix. I want to walk around for awhile, pick something up, look at it for awhile, put it back, pick something else up, then rent it and see what happens. I may like it or I may hate it.

But no one ever said searching for gems was going to be easy. I guess I'll have to find my gems somewhere else.

Avatar

Avatar is gorgeous, absolutely breathtaking at times, seamless in its beauty, but the film is also pedestrian in its storytelling, predictable and weighed down by wooden dialogue and ham-fisted moralizing.

This is James Cameron's masterpiece, his comeback since he made the mammoth hit Titanic that catapulted Leonardo Di Caprio to fame so many years ago and the first two Terminator movies. The movie is price tagged at $230 million and was years in the making, with Cameron waiting for the technology to catch up to his imagination.

The result is a film vibrant with color and jaw-dropping special effects that look even better in 3D version. The magic is in how the special effects fade into the background, awe-inspiring in how realistic they appear.

But the special effects are supposed to aid in the telling of the story, and the story is simply this -- evil American corporation goes to Pandora to steal a mineral known as "unobtanium" that is key to Earth's survival. Standing in the way are blue-skinned gazelle-like creatures known as The Na'vi, and they're not about to watch their world be ravaged by these human colonizers.

Jake Sully (played by Sam Worthington, who unfortunately was in that money-losing Terminator sequel this summer) is a paraplegic Marine recruited to go to Pandora and take his twin brother's place in a cool scientific experiment.

Scientists have spent years growing this Avatars, half-human, half-Na'vi, bodies into which human minds are implanted. Sully is the guinea pig and his mission is to befriend The Na'vi and convince them to relocate so their land can be scraped away.

Sully jumps at the chance to be in a body that walks and runs through lush jungles and leaps onto lizard-like creatures that fly into blue skies. But his plans to complete his mission go sideways when he meets beautiful Na'vi warrior (Zoe Saldana) and falls in love.

Of course, falling in love leads to outright rebellion against his superiors when he realizes what they're doing is wrong.

And for all the awesome CGI, it doesn't obscure the fact that this movie is unfailingly predictable. The dialogue is awful at times, though some humor manages to get through.

Cameron does remember that he is making popcorn entertainment, and he fills the screen with action sequences geek-lovers everywhere will adore.

But all of that stuff can't make up for the lack of a story you really care about. Take away the CGI, and you have Braveheart, without Mel Gibson. You have 300, without the bare abs.

Yes, Cameron makes incredible strides in the use of motion-capture technology that other filmmakers will be studying for years. But this isn't some gnarly breakthrough in terms of storytelling.

It is cliched to the point of numbness. It is knock-you-over-the-head pro-environmentalism to the point that Al Gore might get annoyed. Umm.. the Earth is precious, we are connected to the land, yada yada yada. We get the point and we might even agree with you but please don't preach.

Avatar is a good movie, for the most part, a lovely way to spend a weekend afternoon, lost in the magic of moviemaking. But next time, Cameron should spend more time on the story and less time on the expensive CGI.

The Princess & The Frog

Everyone knows what to expect from a Disney movie; they expect to transported to a magical place where dreams come true if you wish upon a star, a place where Prince Charming sweeps a young woman off her feet and they live happily ever after.

And in that sense, The Princess & The Frog is no different from the Snow Whites and Cinderellas of the past. Except this time our heroine is a black woman.

For some, that might not make much difference, but to black women who grew up watching Disney movies that only showcased white beauty, this historical milestone means a lot.

But it won't mean anything if the movie isn't good. Luckily, in this case, it is.

The Princess & The Frog is retro, capturing that two-dimensional animation audiences haven't seen in many years. It is classic both in style and narrative.

Anika Noki Rose is Tiana, a native of New Orleans who dreams of making her late father's dream of opening a restaurant come true. She isn't a princess in the traditional sense. Tiana is a hardworking girl who saves her money and refuses to party.

Into her life comes a prince transformed into a frog, thanks to a evil voodoo conman played by Keith David. Of course, we know how the story goes -- princess kisses frog and frog turns into prince.

Well, not exactly. Tiana turning into a frog too in this scenario and together, fussing almost all the way, Tiana and the prince begin a journey to become human again. They encounter a cast of characters including a Creole-speaking light bug and a trumpet-playing alligator.

The movie is infused with New Orleans culture, from the food to the music, and I found myself swept away in show-stopping musical numbers, many blessed with the powerful voice of Anika Noki Rose (who wowed audiences a couple years ago in Dreamgirls).

Disney movies are often predictable and this one is no different. But we enjoy the journey and we laugh and go aww along the way.

The performances are universally wonderful (even Oprah Winfrey in a small role as Tiana's mother) as our heroine slowly begins to learn that love is the most important thing in the world.

G-rated films are not my fare (ummm.... Die Hard is at the top of my favorite movie list and that's about as far from Disney as you can get). But I enjoyed this movie, and not just because we have a black woman in a Disney film.

It is because the movie is good, entertaining and with a message all us adults could stand to learn.

Precious

Black folks are sensitive about our image, and for good reason. Our history is one of misrepresentation, of dehumanization, one in which the act of a single bad apple is used to denigrate the entire race.

And when you look to Hollywood, you see a legacy of images seared into our public consciousness, one that elevates buffoonery and obscures our dignity. So anyone surprised by the controversy surrounding the movie Precious: Based on the Novel Push by Sapphire just hasn't been paying attention.

Here we have a story about a obese, illiterate black girl who has birthed two children by her own father and endures horrifying physical and sexual abuse by her mother, poor dysfunctional black people living in the grittiest of conditions.

Precious exists, and so does her mother, Mary, and her father, Carl. They exist even though we don't want to see them. They exist even though we pretend they are as invisible as Ralph Ellison's narrator in Invisible Man.

The problem is that when it comes to Hollywood, it seems as if that's the only image we see, as if every black family is that messed up, that we all live in the ghetto, that bullets fly all the time in all of our neighborhoods. And when that happens, all the nuance of black life is lost.

This is why us black folk are so sensitive and it's why some people have reacted to Precious like this guy.

It was in this context that I approached the film, directed by the ever-provocative Lee Daniels, who made the equally controversial Monsters Ball. That movie garnered Halle Berry an Academy Award in a performance some raved as powerfully raw and others criticized as playing into the most awful stereotypes surrounding black women.

Given all the controversy about this movie, I ended up carried away by the simplicity of the storytelling and the pain-drenched performances by everyone. Daniels knows something all good storytellers know -- less is more.

He shows restraint in places where the novel itself is unflinchingly graphic. The abuse is there, but he pulls back just a bit.

More importantly, he allows Precious to tell her story. That's where the power of the novel and this movie lies, in Precious' voice, her ever-growing ability to tell her tale, both of tragedy and triumph.

It is in her broken English that she founds, gradually, the power of words.

Daniels allows us entry into her world, her confusion about her circumstance, her desire for something better, her anger at her abuse, her fantasies of being a superstar with a light-skinned boyfriend. Precious is a girl who knows not the meaning of her name, who is bowed down in self-hatred, who has never known love.

As teacher Blue Rain, who heads up an alternative school that Precious is sent to, Paula Patton is the shining light of love that Precious needs. And so are the others who come into her life, the students in Ms. Rain's classroom, the nurse (played by rocker Lenny Kravitz) and the social worker (portrayed by a nearly unrecognizable Mariah Carey).

But the revelation is Gabourey Sidibe, a relative newcomer in the game of acting, who fully inhabits Precious in a performance transforms stereotype into fully-realized human.

And comedian Monique gives a horrifying and heartbreaking performance as Mary, Precious' abusive mother who is wholly ignorant to her monstrous behavior.

But the movie isn't without its problems. I wonder, as others have, why the good characters in this movie, such as teacher Blue Rain, are light-skinned, while Precious and her parents, the most dysfunctional people in the movie, are all dark-skinned. Lee Daniels has said in interviews that he has had issues with colorism, that discrimination that black people practice against each other, and it shows in his casting.

The other problem I have is the ending. We find Precious dealing with the fact that she is HIV positive in a movie set in the late 1980s. I wondered what would happen to her? How long would it be before she died? Would she complete her education? Would she find work? Would she find a way to take care of her two children, one of which has down syndrome?

Neither the movie nor the novel answers those questions. We are only left with the hope that Precious' new-found determination and desire for better things will help her overcome her obstacles.

But in the end, I liked the movie. I saw the movie as art, as one that challenges us and moves us beyond our comfort zones, to get to a truth we may otherwise not want to see. I don't want to see just positive images of black people. And I don't want to see just negative images of us.

I want to see us as who we really are, human beings, flawed, some of us good, some of us bad, some of us in-between, complex, complicated, four-fourths man and woman. Human. The bottom line is that all of our stories deserve to be told, not just this one.

This Is It

I wanted to keep Michael Jackson frozen in time, just as he looked on the cover of his pop masterpiece, Thriller. There, he was dressed in a white suit with a black shirt, his brown skin smooth, his eyes intense, his aura all innocent, a singer still somewhat a child but also on the brink of coming into his own as a young man.
But the Michael Jackson who died at the age of 50 was something far different. His nose was halfway gone, his skin turned vanilla, the Jheri curl replaced with straight black hair. His face was skeletal. He didn't look human even though he was, no matter what anyone might say. His musical genius had long been obscured by his weirdness, the child-molestation charges he successfully fought, the money problems, the drama, oh the drama.
When he died, I mourned the death of an incredible entertainer who poured his soul into his music, and I tried to forget about the strange being he became in the eyes of many. So when This Is It, a documentary of his last days rehearsing for his 50-city tour, arrived in theaters, I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to see Michael Jackson at his worst.
I finally gave in recently, however, my curiosity getting the best of me.
And what I found was that the Michael Jackson of old had never left, despite the media representations of his rather odd behavior. The passion that informed his life was ever present.
What the film shows is a man still at the top of his game, even if in a few days, his life would end. We saw what could be when a genius pushes for perfection. We saw what happens when magic is allowed to flourish.
I still cringed at the sight of Michael Jackson. He is scarily thin, and we never get to look into those eyes of his because in every scene he wears sunglasses.
But that tender voice of his is there. He, in that quiet way of his, sweetly admonishes when the music isn't quite right or something else is off in the performance. He tells a young guitarist that it is her time to shine.
The moments I remember the most are the performances, where we see that even with age, his dance movements are as sharp as ever. That falsetto voice of his still brims with soul.
Kenny Ortega, who was the producer for Michael Jackson's comeback, edits this archival footage with care and sensitivity, allowing us a rare glimpse of an artist in his rawest creative mode. We get caught up in the excitement of seeing Michael Jackson and his collaborators birthing something ambitious, something that, if Michael Jackson had lived, would have blown the eye-sockets out of anyone who had the pleasure of seeing it live.
That, we know all to well now, never happened. On June 25 of this year, Michael Jackson died. And the most heartbreaking footage of the movie is seeing dancers auditioning for the show talk about how overjoyed they are to have the chance to be on stage with Michael, their inspiration to dance, shout and shake their bodies to the ground. We see them almost delirious at the time they get to spend with Michael and you feel sad knowing that these are Michael Jackson's final days.
Yet, here is This Is It, a lasting testament to remind us that however strange, however odd, however troubled Michael Jackson may have been, he was also the penultimate entertainer, someone who gave us the beauty of his musical soul, who touched us all with his vision.

Before Sunrise

I remember her, that sweet smile, the slender figure, the walk in the park on a fall day more than a decade ago.

What I don't remember is her name. I was in college at the time, in a small town, and she was a prospective student coming in for a day or two to see if she liked my college enough to attend. For some reason, I was her guide for the day, showing her around, and in those hours, there was this irresistible connection, a magnet drawing us together.

We talked and laughed as we walked from campus into the streets of that small town, holding hands, my skin tingling with a nice warmth.

Later, however, in the dorm room where she was staying, she asked me about an upperclassman she was interested in, apparently a much more handsome guy than me, who I also knew to be a bit of a ladies man. It was a gut-punch but I smiled anyway. The pain eventually faded, as she did, because she ended up going to another school. I never saw her again.

I thought about that girl as I watched Before Sunrise, the 1994 film by Richard Linklater, the genius behind cult-classic Dazed and Confused.

The movie centered on Jesse and Celine (played by Ethan Hawke and Julie Delpy), two strangers who meet on a train destined for Vienna. Jesse is a backpacking American headed to Vienna for his flight back home. And Celine is a French grad student who just got back from visiting her grandmother.

Jesse sparks up a conversation with Celine. The chemistry is undeniable. The connection is there, and when the train stops at Vienna, Jesse invites Celine to accompany him until his flight leaves the next morning.

And so they do, their conversation going from heady to bawdy and everything in between, those moments of laughter interspersed with quiet moments when the two hit that sweet spot of intimacy.

This isn't your typical romantic comedy. Jesse and Celine don't hook up within the first hour of the movie, then break up and finally rush toward each other in some inane climax after realizing they're meant to spend the rest of their lives together.

The connection here is at first intellectual and gradually moves toward romance and there's no guarantee that they will end up together forever at the end.

In fact, they very well may never see each other again.

What I loved about the movie is that the connection isn't purely physical. There's this unexplainable emotional intimacy that develops between the two, some special chemistry drawing the two together and making it hard to let go.

There's a rhythm here, a rapid back and forth marked by pauses and brief and poignant moments of vulnerability. There's joy simply to be in one another's presence, something that I just don't think Facebook-based relationships can replicate (even though I admit to being a Facebook addict in need of Dr. Drew-like intervention).

At the end, Jesse and Celine promise to meet back in Vienna in six months. They never do. We know this, of course, because Richard Linklater decided to make a sequel called, appropriately enough, Before Sunset.

I saw this movie several years ago, way before I ever saw Before Sunrise. It was the rare sequel done years after the original that actually worked in that there's an added emotional tension, a history just surging beneath the surface of the characters' interactions.

Life got in the way and changed Jesse and Celine in surprising ways, but the connection was still there. They pick up where they left off more than a decade earlier, as if they never left each other at the train station at Vienna.

But they did and they can never go back. They have to live with the choices they made. Yet, the scene I loved the most is the ending, where they bask in the moment, an ecstasy of joy of that connection made so many years ago that never went away.

Before Sunrise and its subsequent sequel, I think, reminds us of the importance of searching for the bliss in those connections, even if some may be fleeting. This is where life is. This is where joy is. This is what we will remember when we see our lives coming to an end, and the more we have of them, the richer our lives are.

Paranormal Activity

Maybe scary is like beauty; it is in the eye of the beholder.

Lots of people have said that the new movie, Paranormal Activity, is scary, like for real scary, like The Blair Witch Project scary.

Sorry but The Blair Witch Project was never all that scary to begin with, and Paranormal Activity, also shot in that cinema-verite style, isn't either. The movie is not even creepy, the kind of creepy that keeps you up at night in a darkened house or apartment, jumping at strange sounds.

Suffice it to say, I slept well after seeing this movie.

The movie, the one made for just $11,000 but topped the box office this weekend, is about a young couple, Katie and Micah, who hear weird things go bump in the night. It turns out that Katie has been haunted by some demon/ghost thing ever since she was little that followed her every place she has lived, including the nice little home she has made with Micah.

Micah decides to set up a camera in the bedroom to record what happens. He also follows his girlfriend around during the day with the camera. Oh, how romantic. Look at how cute she is when she's brushing her teeth.

The audience knows going in that the ending is not so bright for this young couple since we are looking at footage that police found after some horrible occurrence. We just have to slog through the movie to find out what that is.

The concept is cool. And the director, Oren Pi, does manage some legitimate chilly moments, but nothing that jolts you out of the seat until the very end.

Katie Featherston and Micah Stoat, the newby actors who play the couple, have an easy-going chemistry together that grounds the movie and avoids reality-TV cliche.

But despite Katie's well-rehearsed screams, the movie lacks suspense. I hardly cared what happened to the couple because I wasn't invested in them or their survival.

And while the ending (which like any good movie critic, I won't reveal) does provide a juicy climax, it comes too little, too late.

Like The Blair Witch Project, this movie feels like a gimmick, a well-executed one, that in the end amounts to bleh.

Good Hair

When Angela Davis wore her hair in an Afro in the 1970s, she wasn't trying to be cute. She was making a political statement. She was black and proud.

For black folks, our hair has historical baggage, going from slavery to now. Many black women have struggled with the age-old question of whether to straighten their hair or keep it natural, to relax or not to relax.

As comedian Paul Mooney says, "If your hair is relaxed, white people are relaxed. If your hair is nappy, they're not happy."

Stories abound of black women not being accepted at their place of business because they chose to wear their hair natural. Straight hair is in; the natural is out, or so it seems.

Good hair. It is a phrase fraught with pain for many black folks who grew up in a world where the standard of beauty was Marilyn Monroe, white dress blowing around her with fluffy blond hair.

And when Chris Rock heard one of his daughters say she wanted to have good hair, he decided to make a movie about it, called appropriately enough, Good Hair.

Rock takes his camera inside beauty salons across the country and to a flamboyant hair show competition in Atlanta that's held every year. The documentary also includes interviews with famous black women such as the divine Nia Long (yes, divine is my word and Miss Nia is divinely fine, in my humble opinion, but I digress) discussing their hair issues.

One of the interesting facts one learns is that some black women pay $1,000 for a hair weave and that most of that hair comes from India, where women routinely cut their hair off in a religious ritual. And one theme Rock hits on repeatedly (almost a little too much, for my taste) is how you never, ever touch a black woman's hair, not even during sex, unless you're that good in bed and you better be good. And even then...well, you get the point.

This is Chris Rock so the laughs come frequent and hard. But behind the laughs, Rock manages to sneak in some thought-provoking messages. We see soda cans dissolve in sodium hydroxide, the main ingredient in hair relaxer, and then we see relaxer being smothered into a young girl's hair.

We see that black people spend billions of dollars on hair products even though we don't control the manufacturing or the distribution.

Heavy stuff, though he could have been a little heavier, as a writer friend of mine argues, doing a better job making the historical connections and pointing out that back in the day hair texture could mean more for a black person's social status than skin color. In other words, the kink in your hair could make or break you.

The strength of the film comes from Rock's travels to India and his interviews with black women, particularly actress Tracie Thoms who talks about her decision to wear her hair natural. There's laughter but Rock gets at the desire to feel beautiful, the innate confidence boost one gets when your hair is right and the pain you feel when society tells you that your hair is wrong.

A black woman's hair is her glory, Maya Angelou says in the movie. Indeed, it is.

Where The Wild Things Are

I remember Max in his wolf suit tearing through a bedroom that changed into a jungle populated by monstrous creatures who turned out to be rather friendly. And in that imagined jungle, Max and his creature friends began their wild rumpus.

The book was Where The Wild Things Are, written by Maurice Sendak, and it remains one of my favorite reads from my childhood.

Spike Jonze, the crazy genius behind Being John Malkovich, manages to preserve the beautiful essence of that book in his screen version.

Max is played by newcomer Max Records, and the movie fills out the thin volume of pictures and words it is based on. Max has a mother (Catherine Keener) struggling to raise her son and daughter, balance her career and date.

Max is a rambunctious child, struggling with all those intoxicating emotions most nine-year-old boys are apt to have. He is needy and independent, his loneliness assuaged by his wandering imagination.

One night, Max acts a fool, standing on the kitchen counter in his wolf suit while his mother tries to spend time with her boyfriend. He bites her on the shoulder and runs out into the street.

He sees a boat on water and sails to a faraway island where he meets those creatures, who at first want to eat him up but stop when he announces that he is a king with great power.

And this is when the wild rumpus begins.

Max runs wild with these creatures, led by Carol (voiced by a profanity-abstinent James Gandolfini). Rounding out the cast of monsters are KW (Lauren Ambrose), Judith (Catherine O'Hara), Alexander (Paul Dano), and Ira (Forest Whitaker), and Douglas (Chris Cooper).

For awhile, they all run through the jungle, causing fun-filled destruction. But underneath the fun is dysfunction, just like the dysfunction Max was running away from.

And this is where Spike Jonze, with help from a script written by Dave Eggers, shines, embodying his movie with both fantasy and raw emotion.

This is a kid's movie in lots of ways but it isn't. There are scary moments of disturbing behavior and circumstance.

Max isn't some lovable cute child. He's real, at least the way Max Records plays him, full of rage and immaturity, lost in the confusion of his life.

And the monsters have their own deep-seated insecurities, particularly Carol, full of jealous anger and an unbearable sadness.

I don't know how Spike Jonze did it but the movie somehow works, the fantasy and the reality all mixed together some kind of filmic stew. This world feels real even if it is only the result of Max's imagination.

And we, the audience, allow ourselves to be carried along on Max's journey fueled by pain and loneliness and the need we all have to know we are loved.

The movie ends, as the book does, with Max coming home to a hot bowl of soup, safe, loved, happy. Just as I was when I left the movie.

Fame

Remakes suck, and unfortunately, Fame, the teenybopper, PG-rated update to the 1980s R-rated original, is the rule and not the exception.

Not that there aren't nice dance moves and good singing, especially from Naturi Naughton, a member of the now defunct-pop group 3LW and last seen playing the naughty rapper Lil' Kim in Notorious.

As in the original, this film follows a bunch of kids with dreams of fame, for lack of a better word, as they go through four years at New York's High School of Performing Arts. There's singing and dancing in the cafeteria, though strangely no singing and dancing in the streets and on top of taxicabs that we relished in the original.

Dreams get crushed, hearts broken, in the brutal world of the performing arts. Like Debbie Allen said, "You want fame? Well, fame costs and right here is where you start paying it... in sweat."

But the 1980s version had memorable characters you cared about, like Leroy, (played in the movie and on the series by the late Gene Anthony Ray) the kid from the rough side of the streets who had raw dancing ability, a rebel's attitude and soul. You had the incomparable Irene Cara, who played Coco in the film and sang that song "Fame (Can You Feel It)."

The film delved into dark topics, including homosexuality, the pressures to be thin in the dance industry, suicide and the exploitation of naive students willing to do almost anything to get the glitter and the glam.

All that is lost in this smiley-faced remake. Glimpses of the character's lives are seen but never the whole, the movie so busy getting to the dancing and singing that the kids obsessed with American Idol and So You Think You Can Dance want to see.

The original Fame was edgy and real. The remake is a movie thrown together to appease the masses, drained of any soul, any passion, and nothing but cliches.

Good actors such as Charles S. Dutton, Bebe Neuwirth, Megan Mullally and Kelsey Grammer make do with what they have, which isn't much. And some of the fresh faces stand out, such as Naturi Naughton and Collins Penne, who plays Malik, an angry aspiring rapper/actor who starts off with an interesting story arc but one that never goes anywhere. But it's not enough to save this skeleton of a movie.

Hollywood these days is littered with remakes and unnecessary sequels. Word is that a remake of the horror/comedy classic An American Werewolf in London is in the works, the idea of which is more frightening than the actual movie, which is pretty scary itself.

Fame is a very good reason for Hollywood to just stop doing remakes. Try being original for once. Oh, that's right...this is Hollywood we're talking about.

I Can Do Bad All Bad By Myself

Almost every Tyler Perry movie is the same, with maybe the exception of The Family That Preys -- at the center is a woman, so beat down and bitter over the pain caused by some bitch of a man that she can't see the sweet, beautiful love of the handsome guy (always one with washboard abs) standing right in front of her.

The formula works, because every single one of Perry's movies, even the awful Madea Goes To Jail, has seen box-office gold.

His newest one, I Can Do Bad All By Myself, sticks to that well-worn formula and with powerful performances by the fiesty Taraji P. Henson, it works.

Henson plays April, an alcoholic, selfish nightclub singer haunted by a painful past and is currently sleeping with a married man, played by Brian White.

She is not in the mood when Madea drops her niece and two nephews at her doorstep after her mother, who has been raising them, disappears.

Anyone who has seen a Tyler Perry movie shouldn't be too surprised at what happens next. Angels come into her life in all forms, including a fine-looking handyman named Sandino, played by Adam Rodriguez (who's most known for his role as Delko on CSI: Miami).

It is Sandino, as well as her pastor (played by gospel singer Marvin Winans), her friend Tanya (the incomparable Mary J. Blige) and Wilma (the lovely Gladys Knight) who push her into taking control of her life and opening her heart to the possibility of love.

The script is rife with cliches and over-the-top melodrama, all Tyler Perry standards. But in this case, Perry is getting better at holding back, even sidelining audiences' favorite character, Madea, for long stretches of the film.

And that's a good thing because it gives Henson room to do her own thing. And it is a thing she does well. Henson dives into her character's pain and makes it real, even if the dialogue doesn't do her performance justice.

Her's is a journey that feels real and when she finally makes her breakthrough, you feel as if she has truly earned it. But we could have done without her singing along to an old gospel song in her house as her pastor sings the same song at his church down the street. It reminded me too much of that scene in The Color Purple, the one where Shug comes down from the juke joint to the church, singing that song, "God Is Trying To Tell You Something," and embracing her estranged father. Just a bit too much there, Tyler.

But there's no doubt Tyler Perry knows how to entertain his audiences. He packs this movie not only with uproarious hilarity but also poignant moments and soaring musical performances by Knight, Winans and Blige. On the night I saw the movie, audience members waved their hands and clapped as if they were at a concert or at church.

Anyone confused as to how the movie will eventually play out just hasn't been paying attention. Of course, April will find love, with Sandino. Of course, she'll finally decide to take care of her sister's children. And of course, faith in God will give April the strength to finally kick out her abusive boyfriend.

I wish Tyler Perry would make movies with a little bit more sophistication, that he would allow for nuance and tone down the melodrama, especially now that he is going to helm a film version of Ntozake Shange's For Colored Girls Who Considered Suicide When The Rainbow Isn't Enuf.

Here's hoping this movie is a sign of better things to come.

Extract

Office Space is a classic, a box-office bomb that took off within the hallowed walls of Blockbuster. Mike Judge, the creator of the doofus duo, Beavis and Butthead, directed this hilarious take on cubicle culture and the misery of working.

It was for Joe and Julie Schmos everywhere to relish in the awfulness that is the modern-day workplace.

Judge is back with another movie, Extract, this time from the employer's point of view. The always affable and charming Jason Bateman is Joel, the owner of a extract-flavor manufacturing company whose wife won't sleep with him and is tempted to sell his company.

More problems come his way when a freak accident causes one of his employees to lose one of his nuts, literally.

A smooth con-artist with a pretty face (Mila Kunis) comes along and convinces said employee to sue the company, thus jeopardizing the sale.

And in the midst of all this, Joel, in a drunken state, decides to hire a guy to be the pool guy and to umm ... service his wife so he can feel less guilty when he has an affair with the beautiful con-artist.

Sounds like a good premise? It is, but the movie ends up as a long-winded bore. The only bright spot comes from Ben Affleck, who plays Joel's friend. He actually gives one of his best performances, one so good you're want to give the dude an Oscar.

But Judge doesn't give you anyone to root for in this movie as he did in Office Space. The movie meanders quite a bit, as if it is high on pot, never truly landing anywhere.

There is one laugh-out-loud moment near the end, provided by the underused Kristin Weig, who plays Joel's no-sex-having wife.

Extract just fades away once the credits start rolling, a film that relies too much on the idea that we the public might want to get in the shoes of our employers. We just don't care.

Halloween II

There's no excuse for neglecting a blog. None whatsoever. But it happens, especially in a summer where movies have not inspired me to write much.

In short order, though I did love 500 Days of Summer and the new Transformers, though for vastly different reasons. I refused to watch G.I. Joe, it's sheer awfulness revealed in the trailer, which is never a good sign.

And finally, there's Rob Zombie's Halloween II. Two years ago, Zombie gave us back Michael Myers, the William Shatner-wearing mass murderer that stalked Jamie Lee Curtis in that 1978 movie. It was a brutal, slash-happy remake, brought down only by Zombie's insistence that we must understand the monster. Monsters are not made to be understood. They are made to kill and scare the living crap out of us.

The sequel picks up where the last movie left us, with Laurie Strobe (this time played by Scott Taylor-Compton) all bloody and hysterical and in the hospital. But unlike the original Halloween II, this movie takes up the action a year later.

Laurie Strobe is in therapy and haunted by nightmares, and our dear Dr. Loomis is hawking a book on Michael Myers in which he reveals that Strobe is Michael Myers' long-lost sister, Angel.

Of course, Michael Myers, bullet-proof as he is, isn't dead, as some insist. He's alive and just waiting to come back to Haddonfield to kill some more and reclaim his sister.

Zombie is good at creating tension from dark hallways and blood-soaked floors. The violence is immediate and undeniably in-your-face.

And it is often unnecessarily graphic. Myers plunges his knife into his victims a sickening number of times that it ceases to be scary and becomes increasingly just gross.

We even see Myers eat a dog. That's just too much.

But when Zombie focuses on Myers' bloody reign of terror, the movie works. The acting is a bit over-the-top but effective. We get a sense of how a traumatic event changes people.

And there's a clever (okay, somewhat clever) twist at the end that brings the whole thing home and maybe, maybe, makes room for a sequel.

Michael Jackson

The gloved one is gone, the one who bedazzled the world with his moves and touched the world with his music.

Michael Jackson was and is a pop culture icon, one so entrenched in our everyday language and existence that his death leaves a hole immediately felt by anyone who ever listened to that falsetto voice of his.

As a kid, I mimicked his dances, trying to get that moonwalk just right. I remember the night his video/mini-movie "Thriller"premiered. I ran into the bathroom as Michael Jackson's angelic face transformed into that of a monstrous werewolf to terrorize the beautiful Ola Ray. And I came back just in time as he did those smooth dance moves in zombie makeup.

I also remember when Michael Jackson electrified the world with his hit-making performance of "Billie Jean" on the 25th Anniversary of Motown, how he moonwalked across the stage in perfect motion, effortlessly.

Those moments I held dear as I saw his career decline, his later albums never reaching the success of Thriller. I cringed as his face became lighter and his nose narrower, the plastic surgery turning a handsome man into a human skeleton.

His behavior could not be explained. That massive amusement park home of his that he called Neverland and to which he brought children whom he was later accused of molesting. The now strange marriage he had to Lisa Marie Presley and the uncomfortable kiss they shared on MTV. The shot of him danging one of his sons out of a hotel balcony.

Michael Jackson was, no doubt, a disturbed man, a man twisted inside out by a dysfunctional childhood marked by early success and an abusive father. He never learned how to be an adult because he had never had a chance to be a child.

And throughout his life, he chased youth. He feared growing older.

It is something, though, that we all fear, our youth fading, the aches and pains of age creeping up on us. Many of us spend our lives keeping a little bit of that youth in plastic surgeries and injections of Botox or just sitting out in the sun to get that nice tan line.

We chase youth because we loved our innocence. We loved that time when things seemed simple, when the complexities of adulthood hadn't tarnished our rainbow-colored view of the world.

Michael Jackson touched us because we loved that he looked at the world with child-like wonder, that he believed love was so powerful that hate could not win.

Being grown up sometimes robs us of that belief. We become cynical, hardened by life's rough blows. But Michael Jackson had an optimism that good conquers evil, that one person could truly change the world if he cared enough.

And in many ways, Michael Jackson did change the world. He did change us. There was a purity in the pop confections that he made. Love was always the theme in his music, love of self, love of a woman, love of humanity. It was always there, for all to see.

So as disturbed as I was by the weirdness of Michael Jackson's behavior, I was always touched by his music, the songs that made you dance ("Don't Stop Until You Get Enough" and "Remember the Time") and the ones that made you think ("Man in the Mirror") .

It is hard, now in the immediacy of his death, to measure the impact Michael Jackson had on us. I just know there would be no Justin Timberlake, Usher or Chris Brown without him. There would be no New Edition, New Kids on The Block or InSync, without him. I know that pop music divided into two eras --- pre-Michael Jackson and post-Michael Jackson. The landscape of pop music changed when he came on the scene. The possibilities for what pop music was expanded under his tutelage.

Michael Jackson gave us entertainment performed with a perfectionist's excellence. He gave us his all on and off the stage, and in the end, we forgave him his eccentricities because his music was about love and we were in love with him.

Today, I am still wrapping my head around his death. He was too full of life to ever die. And really, as I listen to that voice of his, that beautifully sweet voice full of wonder, he is yet alive, telling me life ain't so bad at all. Let the madness of the music get to you.

I will, Michael, I will.

The Taking of Pelham 123

Tony Scott is known for action movies that whiplash audiences with spinning cameras and flashes of images broken up with brief glimpses of character.

Here in The Taking of Pelham 123, Scott is no different, going for the jugular as much as possible.

But what keeps the movie from turning into another shallow blockbuster are the performances. Scott picks his actors well, and he couldn't have gotten a better actor than Denzel Washington, who has appeared in a number of Scott's movies. Washington grounds the movie and allows the audience to gloss over those logic holes that always appear in summer blockbuster.

This is also a remake of a movie I never saw, the 1974 thriller of the same name that starred the late Walter Matthau in the Denzel Washington role.

Washington is Walter Garber, a New York City subway dispatcher who happens to be there when Ryder, played by an amped-up John Travolta, hijacks a subway train, threatening to kill passengers if he doesn't get $10 million in an hour.

The heart of the story lies in the relationship that's built between Garber and Ryder. It's a tense one as Ryder cajoles and menaces all in one breath, while Garber tries to be the voice of calm in a chaotic situation.

Scott builds the tension well and breaks it every once and a while with large helpings of gallows humor.

Washington has mastered the art of playing decent guys who have a smidgen of a dark side. It's no different here, as we soon find out that Garber has been demoted after being accused of taking a bribe.

And there's more to Ryder, of course, than what we at first see, but you'll have to see the movie to find that out.

The supporting cast includes John Turturro as a hostage negotiator and James Gandolfini as the New York City mayor who is part Rudy Guliani and part Michael Bloomberg, and they all give good performances.

The weak leak, to be honest, is Travolta. He overacts and instead of being scary, he ends up being unintentionally funny, especially when he continues to utter one particular profanity that starts with "mother."

That's a minor quibble, though. I watched this movie after only having five hours of sleep, and not once did I fade out. This I consider an accomplishment.

Being whiplashed, at least in this movie, isn't always a bad thing.

Terminator Salvation/Star Trek

Arnold Schwarzenegger, you should have come back. And Christian Bale, you should have stuck to being The Dark Knight.

Either scenario might have salvaged Terminator Salvation from being a tired reshoot instead of the thrilling sci-fi adventure it could have been.

Bale stars as John Connor, who is destined to be the leader of the resistance against Skynet, the computer program that went nuts, took over the world and got machines killing humans. The year is 2018, and Connor is not that leader yet, just a cog in the resistance movement.

Soon, he comes face to face with Marcus (played by Sam Worthington), a mysterious man who turns out to be more machine than human (or is he?). Also in the mix is Kyle Reese (Anton Yelchin). Fans of the Terminator series know that Reese was once played by Michael Biehn in the 1984 classic who goes back in time to save Connor's mother, Sarah, from Arnold and then ends up getting her pregnant before getting himself killed. Her child? John Connor.

You get all that because this time travel business can get a bit confusing. Eventually, Connor and Marcus will have to work together to save Reese because if Reese dies, Connor won't exist.

This could have been all heady cool stuff but director McG paints the whole movie in a dull gray that is supposed to represent how apocalyptic everything is.

Bale plays Connor with an unceasing intensity. What marked the first two Terminator movies was a quirky sense of humor underneath all the world-is-ending foreboding.

Not here. Things are just dark. Which makes the movie a long, lumbering, angst-filled experience for the audience, with sparks of well-filmed action thrown in.

Star Trek, on the other hand, is everything a sci-fi movie should be. It is a true reboot, finding something in the classic television series that's fresh. We see old characters in new light, mostly because they're played by younger actors. But also because we see them at the beginning of their lives: Spock as a young man struggling between his human and Vulcan sides, Kirk as a James Dean kind of rebel looking for purpose in his life.

J.J. Abrams directs the movie with a verve, ably bringing new insights to old material. And all the while, he makes a damn good action movie, one filled with thrills and characters you care about.

Abrams succeeds where McG fails. He builds characters. He shows relationships. He makes their struggles relatable. McG gives us a Connor who keeps us at a distance, who we are never allowed to see inside. So in the end, we don't root for him. We don't care about him at all.

Only through Marcus do we get a glimpse of a compelling character, a man/machine who causes all around him to question who is really human.

Emotion rules the day in Star Trek, spilling all over the place just as easily as the blood that's spilled. But in Terminator Salvation, only blood is spilled, and the emotions are kept firmly in check.

And we are so much the less for it.