stusviews

An unsuspecting group of invited guests, in this case writers and journalists. A remote location. A creepy host. An eerily attentive staff. A rule that says all cell phones and laptops must be turned in, effectively cutting everyone off from the outside world. Visitors who have gone missing. One new arrival in particular--the only one, naturally--who believes that Something is Dreadfully Wrong. Sound familiar? It should; with only minor deviations, it's the blueprint for half the horror movies--and novels--out there. "Opus," in fact, is so mindlessly derivative that the only box that can't be checked is the one marked "Good Movie." Some of the images are truly unpleasant, and the filmmakers have clearly made an effort--they even seem to have something to say about the way cults, and cult leaders, are covered by the media--but if only John Malkovich weren't so unrelentingly weird, the music weren't so hard to listen to, and--well--the whole thing weren't so damn familiar, they actually might have come up with something watchable. Maybe I didn't like it because I'm not a real horror buff. Or because I lack the requisite sense of humor. Bottom line: a smattering of cringeworthy images doesn't a scary movie make. There are better fright fests of this kind out there, both onscreen and in books--much better. Not recommended.

Shubunka is a Brooklyn gangster with just that one name (no one ever calls him anything else) and a multitude of problems: his night club singer girlfriend isn't sure he really loves her anymore, a rival boss is trying to muscle in on his territory, the meek little man who assists him in his numbers racket is starting to cave in under the pressure, and a down-and-out accountant won't stop hitting him up for loans so that he can pay off his mounting gambling debts. It's no way to live, or conduct his business--personal and professional. Barry Sullivan as Shubunka is tall and thin, with haunted eyes (when they don't look capable of boring a hole right through a wall, that is), chiseled cheekbones, and a 1940s GQ sense of style. (It's an excellent performance, and--as he's in just about every scene--he carries the movie.) The hard-boiled dialogue packs plenty of punch, the look of the film is terrific, the Coney Island sets, while not always completely believable, certainly pass muster, and--as one of the flick's primary selling points--the supporting cast is like a who's who of '40s-'50s/B-movie stars, including Sheldon Leonard, Elijah Cook Jr., a young Harry Morgan, and an even younger (and virtually unknown) Shelley Winters. "The Gangster" is the story of a lonely tough guy who--with no one to help him (while Leonard's gang boss has a whole posse of cutthroats to do his dirty work)--is forced to try to salvage his business (and his dignity) on his own. It's one of the best noirs I've ever seen, and well worth checking out.

Quite possibly the granddaddy (grandmama?) of all mean girl movies. The prom scene still delivers the goods (boy, does it ever), the performances still hold up, and it's as much fun to watch young pros like Sissy Spacek and John Travolta as ever, but after seeing it again the other day I couldn't help noticing (maybe for the first time) the film's undeniable (though, happily, not fatal) flaws: the script's paint-by-numbers structure keeps things moving but does nothing to enrich the story, and the archetypal characters--the bullies, their testosterone-driven knuckleheaded enablers, the victim, the vic's cartoonishly oppressive mom, the well-intentioned but misguided teacher--are all here, trotted out like baseball players dutifully stepping up to the plate. They're either hateful, or pitiful, or somewhat likable but ultimately too dumb for words--and there isn't a truly three-dimensional character in the bunch. Still--at only 90 minutes--"Carrie" is the cinematic equivalent of the Stephen King novel (his first); short and to the point with hardly a wasted moment anywhere. Not a great movie, but certainly an effective one. And oh, that ending!