wordmonkey

Tom Tykwer has come of age as a director with this film, and has dropped his sparkling visual flair in favor of straightforward yet sophisticated storytelling. His camera and editing are spot-on yet smart, as he carefully weaves a layered tale of two lost adults who rediscover and remake themselves through their relationship with another man.

His nuanced trio of characters deliberately play against gender types: Simon, the husband, is passive, quiet, artistic, and metaphorically female; Hanna, the wife, is assertive, successful, opinionated, and symbolically male; Adam, their paramour, a fertilization specialist who "brings life" to their dull routine, has both male and female sides.

The way their lives intertwine is both surprising and entertaining, and Tykwer not only explores their raw cores of emotional and physical need, but deftly and expertly exposes the humor in Hanna and Simon's awkward fumbling for new purpose.

What Woody Allen does for New York, Tykwer does for Berlin, showcasing the city as a vibrant center of art, culture, and yes, sexuality, filled with creative inhabitants who have gone there to remake themselves.

His intermittent visual collages of the character's lives inject new vitality to the stale montages we've all seen a million times; it's not that the screen has never been subdivided this way before, but that Tykwer's method of visual construction is meticulous and succinct -- like every frame of this film.

The result is an engaging, truthful, and non-traditional romance that leaves you feeling hopeful that love can tear down our seemingly permanent walls; yet another reason to set it in Berlin!

Highly recommended.

Director Marcus Nispel is undoubtedly the long-lost offspring of trash master and fellow German, Uwe Boll, as this film is so profoundly awful on every level that it's hard to think that it wasn't intentionally made this way.

Remarkably, the movie gets bad immediately and stays that way. One of its most jarring aspects is that it begins with Morgan Freeman's narration, which sounds so utterly out of place, with his comforting, slightly Southern drawl the total opposite of everything bloody and Cimmerian, that it instantly comes across like self-parody, as if we were seeing some schticky Mel Brooks interpretation after the fact. This ham-handed disregard for appropriate tone haunts every frame of the film.

The story fails to find the real Conan -- who in Robert E. Howard's stories is a smart, tough, brutal survivor -- and instead seems to reveal to us the underwhelming idea that Conan's just another hunky sword dude with a knack for slaughter.

The script inconsistently sticks to any epic poetic flair in the dialog, so that when such words are delivered, they feel forced and flat. The noted line "I live, I love, I slay, and I am content," is meted out with such lack of panache or feeling that I wanted to wash out Jason Momoa's mouth with soap, right after forcing him to watch Schwarzenegger -- not a great actor, by any means -- deliver the unforgettable tagline: "To crush your enemies, drive them before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women." But then again, John Milius bothered to direct his actors.

Stephen Lang (Colonel Quaritch of "Avatar") is the half-assed villain Khalar Zym, who inspires zero awe and no respect on his whatever quest for some supernatural thingy, which is such an afterthought that you constantly forget about it. And post plastic-surgery Rose McGowan as his witchy daughter Marique is so outrageously goth that you half-wish for a Sisters of Mercy musical cue every time she steps on camera; if only her performance received the same attention as her over-the-top costumes. Ron Perlman, as Conan's father, is simply wasted. Weep!

I'm totally sick of the short-attention-span style of storytelling. The filmmakers are so afraid that if some big action sequence doesn't occur every ten minutes, that we'll be bored; and of course, this quickly has the opposite effect, as we instead become bored from so much pointless, poorly shot and edited action unsupported by character or story. Video games often have more character development than this film, and yes, I'm specifically thinking of the comparatively Shakespearean struggles portrayed in Donkey Kong.

I bestowed two stars on this flick, as the second is for unintentional hilarity, of which the film has much. Its hyperbolic Hyborian cartoonishness makes you either wince or chuckle derisively. Hopefully, as many heads as roll on screen will also roll in Hollywood for this abortive, dreadful garbage.

Perhaps the noble Conan will someday get his proper due in a modern film. But not today.

Writer/director Josh Grannell, aka horror hostess Peaches Christ, has created a comedic bloodfest artfully designed to become a camp classic. Grannell pays overt homage to some of his favorite filmmakers, notably John Waters and gore auteur Herschell Gordon Lewis of "Blood Feast" fame, and gifts us with an enthusiastic romp to the dark side of film-making.

Natasha Lyonne, as librarian-turned-lunatic Deborah Tennis, channels various Hollywood grand dames to wild-eyed comedic effect; imagine if Bette Davis chewed scenery in one of Roger Corman's legendary Poe adaptations. Thomas Dekker of "Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles" plays the star-struck film fan to boyish perfection. And satisfying cameos from the likes of Waters alumnus Mink Stole and fellow horror hostess Cassandra Peterson (aka Elvira) round out a great cast. You're also treated to the best evil twins since "The Shining" played by Jade and Nikita Ramsey. And wildly entertaining turns from Noah Segan as dentally-challenged psycho Adrian, and Jack Donner (who's been in everything from "Buffy" to "Star Trek") as the crusty and overzealously murderous projectionist Mr. Twigs, round out Grannell's fantasy cast.

What's often most important to get from a film like this is the sense that cast and crew are enjoying themselves, and the fun shines through in every scene. Part of its delivered joy comes in spotting its numerous in-jokes, which touch on such diverse topics as horror film history or the local San Francisco drag scene. But an insider's knowledge of trivia isn't at all needed to appreciate the over-the-top and violently funny romp that Grannell delivers; instead, bring your love of exploitation and an enthusiasm for camp. Worth the price of admission alone are the parody film titles created by Tennis in the course of her filmicidal spree. And the movie has one of the best opening title sequences I've seen in years.

Much of the film was shot inside San Francisco's historic Victoria Theatre, a former vaudeville hall in the city's Mission district. Using such an authentic location is all part of Grannell's desire to create a red-inked love poem to the uniquely thrilling experience of watching horror films in a packed movie house.

Hopefully you'll get a chance to see "All About Evil" with its touring live stage show, featuring Peaches and her fright-inducing friends in person. It's a one-of-a-kind, in-your-face experience that's not like anything else you'll see in your local theater -- unless you've been going to Peaches' "Midnight Madness" shows in SF for the last 12 years.

Don't miss it -- hopefully coming to a theater near you!