bwilcox

And I ain't joshin'.

Why Scott Baio gets the proverbial shaft when great actors are discussed is beyond me. Here's a cat who has dated all the hottest tail and was the driving force behind what is arguably the edgiest, most acerbic teen flick ever in "Zapped!" ... yet he is often mentioned in the same breath with the two-headed Corey Monster (Haim and Feldman) and his frequent, far less dramatically astute compatriot, Mr. Willie Aames. Such degradation is tantamount to a travesty.

This movie is a cutting comedic triumph. Baio's character makes incisive observations about the empty rhetoric of adolescence, and challenges authority not only with his telekinetic powers, but alcohol, tobacco and sex. And let's examine the telekinesis closer -- is it just another one of those blessing-and-a-curse afflictions that finds the right guy or girl? Absolutely not. We're talking about a uniquely Zen ideal, a manifestation of a young man's private internal nirvana in the laboratory of the local high school. Beakers move, brooms sweep up debris, roulette wheels spin out of control, dad tosses liquid laxative all over himself uncontrollably ... this is a celluloid incarnation of unrivaled genius.

Alas, who am I kidding? This movie is stupid bad. And yet I still love it, dammit. So sue me.

I mean, why not? All the conventional elements of a "cult" film are squarely in place. It's campy and goofy, after all, and chock full of "guilty pleasure" value. Plus, it was nothing more than a nominal hit, its domestic gross barely outstripping its budget.

But "From Dusk Till Dawn" is, in my estimation, more deserving of earnest appreciation. It's not simply a cheeky mess that takes on an ethereal kind of following. No, I contend it's pretty sharp filmmaking in all facets.

The dialogue is incisive and memorable. Clooney gives a tour de force performance. The supporting players -- Cheech Marin and Juliette Lewis, specifically -- hit the mark. And from start to finish, you get ample doses of the talents that Quentin Tarantino expounded upon and the ones that Robert Rodriguez apparently forgot.

This isn't conventional horror schlock. It's bloody and dryly comedic at times, for certain, but "From Dusk Till Dawn" brings so much more to the table than what the genre usually provides. The hybridization of two very distinct directorial styles, and the woeful marketing of the flick, left a lot of the viewers feeling disappointed; however, there's an element of unfettered genius in this film that was lamentably ignored upon its release.

First thing's first: I wasn't looking forward to "Hollywood Homicide," and I damn sure wasn't anticipating a philosophical coup in what has shown itself to be a summer of empty-headedness.

That being said, I was NOT pleasantly surprised. Harrison Ford, try as he might, just cannot rescue Ron Shelton's most vapid effort as a director. An atrocious script, if it existed at all, kept this hammy endeavor from ever achieving any kind of worthy plateau.

Moreover, the buddy-cop concept has worn thin, and I had no delusions about Josh Hartnett being able to pull off his half of the task, at least not with that ridiculous mop-top coiffure and his inescapably bad delivery. This particular film includes supreme irony in that Hartnett's character, K.C., is contemplating forsaking his detective gig for acting, and we get glimpses, on occasion, into just how misguided a pursuit this would be. Unfortunately, the joke rings hollow when you realize that Hartnett's own theatrical skills are pretty soft themselves.

As for the movie, this dilapadated mess can't sustain the intermittent doses of energy it manages to squeeze out. The intro has a kind of Soderbergh-ish cool about it, with all kinds of music icons turning up to support it, but after that, the jokes are few and far between. And more often than not, trying to determine if this is even a comedy at all becomes the viewer's most frustrating task. Long and uncomfortable stretches without a trace of humor plague a story that seems to have been authored completely on the fly, and perhaps by primates or preschoolers.

"Hollywood Homicide" is a real tragedy, in fact, and not in terms of its tonal or textual elements. Instead, it's another tragic misuse of the gifts belonging to one of our finest American actors. Ford's present rut deepens just a bit, and yet again, it's through someone else's doing. This time, it's Shelton, who continues to make "Bull Durham" a distant memory. He's becoming this generation's Michael Cimino, a promise left gloriously unfulfilled.