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Billed as one of the most expensive movies ever made, James Cameron's Avatar definitely comes across as a "spared no expense" sort of feature. Cameron, who could be referred to as "the other Spielberg" with his unique string of blockbusters including Aliens, The Abyss, Terminator, True Lies and Titanic, is rumored to have worked on the story for Avatar for 15 years before he felt the technology was right to bring it to life. Did the time and investment pay off?

A week and a half after release, Avatar has clocked a cool 600 million in ticket sales worldwide, indicating that it may have the legs to break records before it's done. (One can only guess how much poorer it might have been without the obligatory McDonalds spots.)

I caught the film in 2D with the family at a local theater and came away feeling as though I had been thoroughly entertained. This, in spite of the formulaic and well-trodden story that telegraphed itself within five minutes. In fact, as soon as I saw the set-up with the neuro-linked quadriplegic hero, I recognized the elements of a short story I had read many years ago, "Call Me Joe" by Poul Anderson (1957), one of my favorite SciFi writers. I dug it out of a packing box and re-read it.



Not surprisingly, I wasn't the first to see the connection, and even the Wiki article on the short story hints at a growing buzz of people wondering why Anderson wasn't credited in any way. Apparently Cameron got sued by Harlan Ellison for a similar lack of credit in Terminator.

At any rate, call Avatar a redux of Dances With Wolves, Pocahontas, Fern Gully or one of many enviro-friendly films, and you would be on the right track. The lack of originality in the plot from that perspective, with greedy mining interests, supported by the military-industrial complex ranged against the heroic and desperately outgunned scientists and natives, is a sad disappointment. And the name of the element being mined on Pandora, "unobtainium" sounds like something that got stuck in the original script treatment and accidentally made its way into the final version. When Selfridge, the evil Big Corporation rep, first said it, I thought it was a joke. It wasn't.

The film also carries an anemic strand of nature theology--ala Green Goddess--that comes across as all such theo-tainments do--curiously devoid of interpersonal ethical considerations while wailing over the death of a predatory creature. However, on the plus side, the adaptive Na'vi religion does at least carry the message that people's actions do have larger consequences.



On to what was good about the film: To quote Sponge Bob Squarepants: Imagination. While the graphic originality of Frank Miller's work is merely interesting (as in, "that's kinda cool"), the best of science fiction in general can offer an imaginative detail involving sheer creativity that is not only impressive but inspiring. On this level, I think Avatar delivers more than its fair share.

Like the games "Myst" and the role play platforms created by Bethesda, Inc., the creative genius involved in the fashioning of worlds is fantastic. My son derides me for spending so much time merely exploring in these games. But the artistry of alternate worlds is what is best about these productions.

The genius of Avatar on the big screen, such as it is, is far more about Pandora than anything else. Like C.S. Lewis' Sehnsucht inducing glass box from his childhood, the open-endedness is exhilrating. Some of us get a charge out of that sort of thing the way others get a charge out of a good song or a snow-board ride down a steep slope. The lush, Hawaiian-based sets, richly adorned with giant trees, floating mountains, gorgeous waterfalls and other terrific vistas snapped on the big screen. It's hard to know whether they will fare so well on DVD.

For action-adventure, the climactic scenes deliver well and James Horner is always good for a brilliant cinematic score. No one really scrutinizes the acting in this type of genre (can anyone say Star Wars?) but if it's bad, it's noticeable. The acting, even from the CGI characters, was adequate. One could even get into the scenery-chewing villainy of Col. Quaritch, played to the hilt by Stephen Lang. And the woefully under-rated Sigourney Weaver delivers a slice slightly reminiscent of her days as Ripley in Alien. Final tally: Three and a half stars out of five.

Sherlock Holmes
[IMDb Page]



Disclaimer: If you (1) are a fan of Morton Downey, Jr and (2) have not yet seen this film, you may wish to skip this review until later. I mean it. I warned you.

From AP's David Germain: "Take it from a lifelong fan of Arthur Conan Doyle: Robert Downey Jr. is so NOT Sherlock Holmes." However, in Germain's view and that of most other informed reviewers of the film, this was not a problem. The dissenting view you are now reading believes heartily that most other reviewers were still feeling the effects of their egg nog. If that makes you want to stop reading, please direct your browser to a happier place.

The film is handled by Director Guy Ritchie, a gangster action movie sort of director, whose Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels (1998) is a fine, fun minimum opus. His admitted purpose with the latest Sherlock Holmes was to "reboot an otherwise rather dusty, iconic literary hero." While there is little doubt that he succeeded in creating an entertaining film, one has to argue that it's not a film with Sherlock Holmes in it. If you can get past that, and most viewers from the current generation can without much trouble, then you can have a good time watching it.



That being said, one is forced to admit that the literary Holmes was shaken over the film like a salt shaker. There are some nice little homages in the details, too many to list here, but noticeable enough to give a generous nod to the film's research. This version has a graphic novel scent to it, and with a little digging, you will find that Lionel Wigram had already done a treatment with art through DC Comics, a treatment that heavily informed the visual look of the movie.

On the positive side, the movie looks great and some of the CGI London background is really very good. The action is good, though actually manages to lag on in some spots. The snippy one-liners, quips and verbal sparring are enough to keep the audience chuckling in their seats.

The plot. The plot is straight out of the old "Wild Wild West" TV series, with its wacky, pseudo-science fiction plot, improbable-but-fun fight sequences, chases, bromance and romance, government mingled with megalomaniacal villains, kinda sorta anachronistic mysterious gadgetry and weaponry. All it lacked was the midget villain.

The acting. With apologies to the legion of Morton Downey, Jr. fans, he played very much like someone pretending to be a Brit, "seemingly based on studying Anthony Hopkins and Patrick McGoohan," notes Philip French of UK's Guardian and with a piece-meal costume that conjured visions of Byron and Oscar WIlde at intervals. His dissolute, devil-may-care presentation is actually an anti-Holmes. The literary Holmes would have found him laughable and dismissed him out of hand. Jude Law plays a sharp, dandified Watson, a role that he actually carries off quite well in spite of the "Odd Couple" Felix vs Oscar reparteé that intrudes enough to add comic relief and not much else.



The villain, played by Mark Strong who, ironically looks more like the old Sidney Paget pictures of Holmes than anyone else in the movie, is about as unidimensional a character as one can ask for, to the point of being pretty non-frightening as a sort of wannabe Voldemort with his Roman nose intact.

The principal female characters--Irene Adler and Mary Morstan, the love interests for Holmes and Watson respectively, were flat as week-old Coca Cola. Though she wore her costumes well, Rachel McAdams didn't command the ambiguous subtlety of a wicked-good foil for Holmes as Irene Adler, the sort of role Michelle Pfeiffer would have excelled at in her heyday. Kelly Reilly, as Watson's fiancé, was cursed with some of the film's worst lines and seemed more conscious of her attire than her delivery.

I will give no spoilers, but the film's "reveal," that absolute necessity for the mystery genre, actually has a crow in it (a cliché that became slightly annoying--"Uh oh, there's the crow again!"), while Holmes himself seems to "crow" at a rather inopportune moment, perhaps thereby defying the tiresome parlor convention for this particular stage of the story. There was something of a Scooby Doo effect as well. I half expected Old Man Winters to make an appearance.

My final problem with the movie, its casting and its major premise is that if it ain't broke, don't fix it. The principal creators of the film assumed that the original Holmes was no good and needed serious updating. Variety's Tim McCarthy gushed: "The choice was to transform the historically slim, reclusive, intellectual eccentric into an evident manic depressive whose idea of recreation is to slum in what looks like an East End precursor of the fight club. Such Holmes purists as may remain will blanch, but young audiences, particularly males, will likely swill the topped-out serving of sweaty masculinity, flexing muscle, imaginative violence, unusual weaponry, impudent banter and ballsy effrontery."



While I could not disagree more with the basic assumption that the original Holmes is hopelessly passé, I have to agree that the creators of this movie were savvy in their choices and, given the fact that they are already talking sequel, can expect to hit paydirt more than once.

Final tally: 2 and a half stars out of 4.

Some additional notes for Sherlock Holmes fans:
There are few more iconic figures in English prose than Sherlock Holmes. The literary fan base from day one has been and continues to be enormous. In spite of that, Holmes has not fared well in film. The 14 Basil Rathbone--Nigel Bruce movies from the 40s were tolerable, though they were hardly more than cheaply made crime stories with cardboard characterization on a par with the radio-drama serials performed at the same time. Rathbone and Bruce served to create many of the non-literary stereotypes associated with Holmes (such as the deerstalker cap and coat and the big-bowled pipe, as well as a bumbling Watson).



The other film versions have included several sad attempts at The Hound of the Baskervilles (one including Christopher Lee of Saruman fame), spoofs, derivative tales and one single, solitary gem of a movie, Murder By Decree (1979) with Christopher Plummer as Holmes and James Mason redeeming the role of Watson. The latter film takes its cue from Jack the Ripper and delivers on most levels, with the exception of some conventions borrowed more from Rathbone than from Conan Doyle.

The late Jeremy Brett and the lovable Edward Hardwicke delivered masterful television portrayals for the BBC in a near-complete re-telling of all the Conan Doyle's stories. Though Brett's Holmes is clearly a neurotic genius, each of these faithfully crafted episodes is worth watching.

For fun, check out this page comparing this year's release with the one in 1985.

We met Rollie at a pivotal time in our lives. I had just left my first college teaching job in Newberg, Oregon and we were residing in Oroville, CA near my wife's mother during a summer season of "options." It was a typical Northern California summer--dry, hot and dusty. I occupied my time making mostly futile phone calls, sending out dozens of CVs and application letters and, when bored, whacking star-thistle and weeds with a brush axe. At night, I pulled out some powerful binoculars and gazed at the stars in the clear, clear skies. My wife Leslie helped her mother around the ranch and put up with my jobless angst, patiently waiting for a line to catch to reel in another teaching job.

The ranch cat, a half-wild creature named Baby, had just gotten herself a big litter of kittens. The daddy was a feral beast, a huge Himalayan mix, even more wild, who made brief appearances near the house but vanished whenever you approached him. He looked regal and diffident, dark and serene. I named him Charlemagne.

Naturally, no matter what our larger fate would be, we must have one of the kittens, but which to choose was the problem. I sat on a chair near them to sort out which one we should pick, when one of them took matters into his own paws. A little white and gray fur ball came over to me and began resolutely climbing up my leg, little claws digging into my jeans like climbing crampons, mewing his head off. He climbed into my lap and demanded attention, which I gave him. He was the one.

We decided to call him Roland, in keeping with his sire's name, Rollie "for short," and when, very late in the summer, the job finally came through in Tennessee, we tossed Rollie into the car with a lot of other stuff and brought him along. He handled most of the drive by wedging himself right behind Leslie's head as she drove (I was driving the moving van.)

Rollie would be one of many pets in the household. Around him would be, at various times, three other cats, a dog, a couple of beta fish, and, for a brief period, an iguana (Norbert). Rollie handled all of these with equal grace, granting everyone his space, making very little fuss. He was a most agreeable feline.

As a young cat, he liked to chase hair bands across the room. If you shot one, he would chase it down, retrieve it, bring it back and wait for you to do it again. He seemed to think he was a lap dog. He also loved the little clear plastic lids from hair spray canisters. He was into the sound they made when he whacked them around on the floor. It was a distinct sound and we always knew when he had found another one.

In other respects, Rollie was an adorable, but dull pencil. He was always diffident about covering his business. He had apparently grown accustomed to his siblings taking care of this little detail and, as we have always had other cats, they continued the practice for him. Rollie also had phobias of anything out of place--not sure what that condition would be called--but if anything around the kitty litter area was markedly different, such as a mysterious box or garbage bag or other random item, this was a clear signal to him that he should not approach the facilities. He therefore made his deposits elsewhere. We would sometimes catch him at it, and he was always very apologetic and distressed about having had to resort to such extreme measures, but a cat's gotta do what a cat's gotta do.

He shamelessly begged for handouts, again like a dog. Whenever there was chicken or tuna or sandwich meet, he magically appeared, as if apparating, and would not leave us in peace until a morsel finally came his way.

His phobias extended to virtually anything at his eye level to which he was not accustomed--groceries, shoe boxes, book bags, etc. He would approach these with extreme caution, then dash around and past them, sometimes leaping as if they had struck out at him. This was especially problematic if these threats were sitting in doorways. He might sit nearby for a half hour before screwing up the courage to hurtle past.

He liked escaping outside when he could, which was always strange because once outside, he was terrified. He would go nowhere special. The two times he managed to spend the night outside, I found him curled up near the house, looking pitiful.

I have never seen a more affectionate creature. In fact, other than his tendency to vocalize without the slightest provocation, his craving for affection, which we discovered that day we first picked him out, continued for all his years. This cat could not be deterred from leaping onto your lap, your chest, your back, even your head, all in the quest to get some attention. He would paw at you, drive his head at you, yowl at you. You could hold him and pet him for two hours straight and it would not be enough. He slept every night for fourteen years within physical contact of somebody--either Leslie or one of the other cats. He learned early on that this was something I didn't tolerate.

His vocalizing is legendary in our home. For a cat, he had an astonishing variety of sounds, and he would use many of them if you chose to have a conversation with him. Many years ago Leslie and Nick took to singing "Jingle Bells" with him, with him supplying the last word of every line: "Jingle ... meow. Jingle ... meow. Jingle all the ... meow."

I called him "stupid cat," but it was meant affectionately. He had a thing for cramming his face into my stinky shoes when I took them off.

Always a big cat, he began to lose weight last year. The vet told us he was just getting old. But this year he became nearly skeletal, so then the vet informed us, after a hefty bill of course, that his kidneys were all but gone and he hadn't long to live. We loved on him for the past two months, but he started sinking faster and faster. He spent his days hunched over, a hollow look in his eyes. He still insisted on attention and he and his buddy Oliver actually caught a mouse a couple of nights ago. But finally, after it was apparent he was losing control of his functions, we decided we had to take him in.

All three of us were petting him and crying over him during his last moments. Being the sentimentalist that I am, I'm tearing up even now. Geez.

As we laid him to rest, I said, "I'm not sure he was ever much aware what he was, but he was loved and he brought us a lot of joy."

Farewell, Rollie.

A Review of Inkheart

As a fanatical book lover, I thought many things about the recent film release Inkheart sang sweetly to my psyche. Scenes of extensive private libraries have always made my heart race and my palms sweat, from the glorious collection in Disney's Beauty and the Beast to the gorgeous bookstore serving as stimulating background to the bad acting of Salma Hayek in Desperado.

So any story line that elevates books--and the writing of books--scores significant points from the outset.

Inkheart is hunky Brendan Fraser's latest vehicle to play the rugged, earnest adventurer. His other recent flicks, the third installment of Mummy mayhem (in which there were no mummies) and the latest devastating mis-adaptation of Jules Verne's Journey to the Center of the Earth basically depict Fraser in the same role--a smart, loveable guy who just happens to be good looking, apologetically witty and prone to wander into large-scale conflicts that require his unlikely intervention to resolve.

In fact, the author of the book Inkheart, German writer Cornelia Funke(Thief Lord and Dragonheart), reportedly sent Fraser a signed copy with the words, "Thanks for inspiring the character." So there you go.

But what's not to like about Fraser in these playful roles? In no way does one get the sense that he, as an actor, is doing much more than having a blast himself. He has the right and the luxury to carve out his acting niche along whatever lines he desires. And we have the right to be entertained--or not--by him.

I choose to be entertained. I have seen a few films in which Fraser played a "heavy," the one that comes to mind being The Quiet American and he handles these roles well, but I have to confess to enjoying watching Fraser enjoy himself in these less-than-serious roles.



Before I say more about the film, I should mention that I have not read Funke's book upon which the film is based. So I cannot say whether the book does a better job navigating the difficult plot waters than the film.

The story concept is fantastic--that certain people, known as Silvertongues, have a gift with reading aloud that bring characters literally alive. The film opens with a wonderful image as Fraser reads the story of Little Red Riding Hood to his infant daughter. There is a flash, a moment of disorientation, followed by a velvet red cloak floating out of the sky and landing on their clothes line. "Some are not aware of their gift," the narrator says.

I will not give anything away. The build-up is terrific, with Fraser's character Mortimer and his now teenage daughter being pursued by a character he had inadvertently "read out" of a story many years before--the same time time his wife mysteriously disappeared. We have mystery and motive, all driving the story along and making us thirsty for more.

I wish the rest of the story had played out quite as well. I have loved Helen Mirren as an actress since I saw her as Morgana La Fey in Excalibur in the '80s. There is no doubt she is one of the greatest British film actors of all time. But she doesn't handle light stories as well (the National Treasure sequel is another example.) I wince when I see this powerhouse try to squeeze herself into single dimensional, near comic roles.



Jim Broadbent only needs to walk onto the set to make a film better, and his role as the author of the wayward book at the center of the story is performed as convincingly as ever.

I knew i had seen the mother in another movie, but couldn't at first recall. Then I saw that it was Eragon and I felt sorry for her. She is given the unenviable task in this film of not being able to say much. But she does it well.

Paul Bettany (whose name I can never remember) is superb as Dustfinger, the mysterious character in pursuit of Mortimer and his daughter in the film's first act. Dustfinger gets one of the movie's best lines, when he thrusts a finger into his creator's face and says, "You are not my God. You do not determine my fate."



And then there is Andy Serkis, of Gollum fame, who plays the villain. And that is where things begin to go a little awry for me. Not that Serkis does poorly in his role as Capricorn, merely that the role just did not quite live up to its billing. As the film moves swiftly into its second act, partly centered on the villains, it just never seems to coalesce. Whereas the protagonists have plenty of clear motivation, the villains seem to be villainous characters in the mold of Captain Hook. One never knows whether they are serious about being bad guys or are just sort of filling a literary job description.



As a children's story, one should not be too harsh, I suppose. But I wonder whether the story idea was too big for its child-size skin. I will have to read the book to tell for sure. The momentum of the central idea creates so many intriguing "what if" speculations, one cannot help but be a little disappointed that so few of them seem to be explored in the film. A tighter premise might have contributed to a tighter film script.

Nevertheless, the film does not fail to entertain, and for that it merits praise above what digital disasters like The Spirit failed to achieve.