You're Inaccurate

movie review: Nothing But the Truth

2009-02-10T14:21:00.000-08:00

“Though inspired by actual events, the following is a fictional film that does not depict any actual people or events.” So reads the disclaimer that precedes “Nothing But the Truth,” a political drama written and directed by Rod Lurie that draws heavily upon the 2005 saga of New York Times reporter Judith Miller and CIA agent Valerie Plame for its story. Those words practically beg you to draw comparisons between the film and its source material. It’s a dubious exercise.

Kate Beckinsdale plays journalist Rachel Armstrong, who goes to jail for refusing to reveal a source to a federal grand jury. The source in question has broken the law by revealing the identity of undercover CIA agent Erica Van Doren, played by Vera Farmiga. Sound familiar?

Lurie’s story echoes the Plame affair even as it diverges from it. A misguided war backdrops both stories, and different as they may sound, they serve much the same purpose. In the film, the Iraq war is a struggle with Venezuela; and the war’s antecedent is not the 9/11 attacks, but an assassination attempt on a fictitious U.S. President. But despite the many similarities, factually and thematically, between the stories of Rachel Armstrong and Judith Miller, the former cannot be seen simply as a screen version of the latter. Rachel Armstrong brings with her none of the experience – and none of the baggage – of her real-life counterpart. Not the Pulitzer Prize, not the bungled reporting on WMDs. Secondly, Rachel Armstrong provides next to no commentary on Judith Miller. They are two different women thrust into impossibly similar circumstances.

The story of “Nothing But the Truth” dances with that of the Plame affair in quite a complicated fashion; unfortunately, it does very little to inform it. If Rod Lurie has filmed the story of Judith Miller without saying anything about her, then what has he done? He’s given us a tale about the sacrifices that accompany journalistic integrity, if you’re into that sort of thing. More importantly, he’s provided a platform for Kate Beckinsdale to show some chops.

An up-and-coming journalist married to a burgeoning novelist, Rachel Armstrong is an icy opportunist; at the beginning of the film, she appears to be at least as interested in what breaking her story will do for her career as in its political implications. She’s cocky and cool and a pleasure to watch. After she’s thrown in jail, though, she’s revealed to be steadfast and brave, unwilling to jeopardize her journalistic principles under any circumstances. And while the quality of Beckinsdale’s performance never diminishes, her character does become less interesting after she goes all holier than thou.

The film throws a wrinkle into the mix in its use of Rachel’s husband and son, who show the effects that an incarcerated wife and mother can have on a family. Their pain opens the possibility that Rachel’s decision is perhaps not heroic; that her decision to withhold her source may not be selfless, but rather selfish.

A strong supporting cast features Angela Bassett as the ever-supportive newspaper editor, Alan Alda as the defense lawyer, and Matt Dillon as the unflappable federal prosecutor, the closest the film comes to a villain. David Schwimmer also appears, as Rachel’s husband. None of them leaves a lasting impression. There isn’t a whole lot for them to work with in the script.

This is all familiar terrain for Lurie, who directed the 2001 prison picture “The Last Castle,” and created the TV show “Commander in Chief,” which starred Geena Davis as the first female president. He’s attempted to punch up this story. There are some gunshots, a little sex, a jailhouse beat-down. And these efforts are, for the most part, appreciated. Also admirable is the modesty with which he infuses them; while alternately a political drama, a prison drama and a courthouse drama, the film never tries to be a thriller. It’s tempting to say that “Nothing But the Truth” fails to realize the potential of its premise. But then again, sometimes the facts are just more interesting than the fiction.

movie review: Adam Resurrected

2009-02-10T14:11:00.000-08:00

The story of Adam Resurrected will be familiar to American audiences in so far as it resembles that classic of modern literature, One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. Israeli author Yoram Kaniuk’s 1968 novel, brought to the screen here by Paul Schrader, centers around the arrival of an unusual, energizing presence at a psychiatric hospital. The protagonist, Adam Stein, a fast-talking, charismatic charmer with a hearty appetite for women and drink, has much the same effect on his fellow patients as Randle Patrick McMurphy does in Ken Kesey’s tale, instilling confidence and hope, and stressing the importance of laughter. Both characters are emotionally unstable, possessing violent streaks just beneath the surface that reflect the severe psychological traumas in their respective pasts. The nature of those traumas and their depictions are what distinguishes these stories and their heroes: McMurphy escaped from a Chinese POW camp during the Korean War; Stein survived slavery at a Nazi concentration camp. And while McMurphy’s wartime experiences are represented hazily, occupying the forefront in neither the book nor Milos Forman’s film, the horrors of Stein’s past are always present in Adam Resurrected.

The film begins in 1961 as Stein (Jeff Goldblum), following an aggressive outburst in which he choked his landlady, returns to the Seizling Institute for Therapy and Rehab, a fictional facility in the Negev desert in southern Israel that specializes in the treatment of Holocaust survivors. Between scenes of him clowning with the other patients (familiar caricatures of the mentally ill) and titillating his fiery, compassionate nurse (Ayelet Zurer in a performance that commands attention), his past is revealed through a series of flashbacks.

A couple of lively sequences establish Stein as a popular entertainer who worked burlesque shows and cabarets in Berlin throughout the ‘20s and ‘30s until his Jewish heritage marked him for internment. The transitions from present to past might best be described as clunky; upon seeing a model train set at the hospital, Stein’s eyes open wide with terror, and suddenly the film cuts to a shot of him and his family standing huddled aboard a locomotive to the Nazi camp, in black and white, no less.

At the concentration camp, we watch as Stein is made to grovel at the feet, literally, of Commandant Klein (Willem Dafoe as evil incarnate), who forbids Stein to speak and instead trains him to crawl on all fours around his office and emulate the sounds and mannerisms of a domesticated dog. His job, says Klein, remains the same as it was onstage: “to comfort and entertain.” After the war, Stein is racked with guilt for having survived, albeit on a subhuman level, while his wife and daughter were dispatched to mass graves.

Back in the present, the Seizling Institute is run by Dr. Nathan Gross (Derek Jacobi), who is stuffy and irritable but smart enough to overlook Stein’s reckless sex and drinking habits because he knows the man can help his patients. Gross has marked one case in particular for Stein’s healing touch – a severely abused boy who has been raised to behave like a dog, barking, crawling, and rabid. The crux of the film lies in the interaction between Stein and this frightened, debased child.

Goldblum gives himself entirely to the role, spanning the gamut of emotions as a man that’s playful, impulsive, inspiring, damaged. He deserves credit for carrying the brunt of the workload and giving some coherence to a story and character that lack focus. As if Adam Stein wasn’t already complex enough to carry a film, he also reads minds, and bleeds suddenly from his feet, among other places. I mention these traits only in passing because that’s how the film treats them; breezed over, they function almost entirely as abstract religious symbols.

The picture stumbles most in its treatment of the relationship between Stein and the boy. Here, again, Goldblum’s effort is valiant, but the child is not so much a character as an idea. He embodies what Stein once was: a being in a state of degradation that, when reached, can never be forgotten, no matter how hard one tries. Their relationship embodies some of the film’s core ideas: that empathy is crucial to therapy; that the healing process is a struggle for both the doctor and the patient. But it’s frustrating that when the film finishes, for all his time on screen, we’re left with no clue as to who this boy is, or was, or will be. Randle McMurphy, too, inspired a mute to speak; but Chief Bromden was an individual in his own right.

An ambitious film, Adam Resurrected features a couple of genuinely humorous bits, courtesy of Goldblum, and a wealth of important messages, the most resonant being an obvious one that’s still worth repeating – that the suffering of the Holocaust lasted long after the defeat of Hitler and the Nazi party. Nevertheless, Adam Resurrected bites off more than it can chew. This is especially apparent in the film’s climax, if one can call it that, which arrives suddenly and fails to wrap anything up – and that might have been fine, except that the ending purports a degree of tidiness that’s unearned. It’s difficult to justify enduring the basest humiliations of grown men and children alike for a film that’s so uneven, whose effectiveness is so intermittent.

movie review: Four Nights with Anna

2009-02-10T14:03:00.000-08:00

If a man stands and watches as a crime is committed, and chooses not to intervene, is he somehow culpable? What is the difference between someone who sins and someone who wants desperately to, but refrains out of fear? Where is the line between perverse fascination and romantic love?

These are just a few of the questions that arise when watching Four Nights with Anna, the first picture in over 15 years from Polish filmmaker Jerzy Skolimowski. The script, co-written by Skolimowski and first-timer Eva Piaskowska, is a gripping character study of Leon, a timid man approaching middle age who has voyeuristic tendencies (to put it mildly). An intriguing story in its own right, Leon’s tale is made all the more provocative by the unconventional structure of Skolimowski’s narrative, which complicates interpretation of the film in wonderful ways.

Leon lives with his ailing grandmother in a small community in the Polish countryside where the sky is always overcast. He works at a crematorium. At night he watches Anna, a nurse and the object of his longings, through her window. From what little we learn, she seems entirely normal and unremarkable. She is unaware of Leon’s existence though she lives in a house separated from his by only a small, muddy field. The story is put in motion when Leon devises a scheme to drug her so that he may sneak through a window into her room at night.

As if it wasn’t discomforting enough to watch him methodically execute this plan, the film cuts periodically to scenes in which Leon is being interrogated on charges of rape. Are they flashbacks or flash-forwards? It’s intentionally ambiguous. In any case, we’re set up for the worst. The camera assumes Leon’s point of view while he peeps, and it appears, initially, that this may just be a sick, exploitative fantasy – albeit, a gorgeous looking one. Throughout Four Nights with Anna, the low key lighting is perfectly ominous, the camerawork is smooth and efficient, and Skolimowski’s direction impresses in a manner that’s understated and unobtrusive.

Once Leon steps inside Anna’s room, however, things get a good deal more interesting, and it becomes clear that this craftsmanship has not all gone to waste. Leon stops short of molestation. So what does he do in there? He tiptoes around and examines her things. He covers her with a blanket; he mends her shirt with a needle and thread. Skolimowski renders Anna’s room a treasure chest when, in actuality, it’s quite cluttered and mundane. “Just like you wanted, Grandma,” Leon says later. “I’m seeing a woman.”

Leon is played by Artur Steranko, who performs the bedroom scenes with just the right mix of reverence and dread, shyness and desperation, trepidation and anticipation. His performance is vastly creepy and punctuated by moments of sweetness. In many ways, Leon is somewhat average. He is not particularly smart or slow. He fails in his attempts to be furtive (tumbling out of her window into the mud, and so on). He is disturbed, certainly, but he does not appear to be a complete psychopath – which, in turn, makes him that much scarier, his behavior that much more inexplicable. It should be noted that the film’s excellent score, composed by Michal Lorenc, also contributes greatly to the unnerving vibe and overall sense of suspense; though, naturally, a film about trespassing engenders a great deal of suspense.

The aforementioned flashback/forward device helps make Four Nights with Anna successful because it forces the viewer to constantly reevaluate what’s come before, and from multiple angles. Likewise, as the film progresses, earlier flashbacks and the assumptions that came with them require reconsideration. Whatever way you want to look at it, it’s Leon that’s being examined and reexamined, and this sentiment is echoed in the film’s interrogation and courtroom scenes. Skolimowski dares the audience to judge him again and again, and each time he reveals another twist. He never portrays Leon as a hero – it would be reckless, even dangerous, to condone such behavior, and with that in mind, Leon does pay for his misdeeds. But neither does he demonize him. Rather, Leon is shown as a human, flawed, capable of both good and bad, and ultimately his comeuppance is wrought not with retribution but with pathos.

movie review: The Yellow Handkerchief

2009-02-10T13:47:00.001-08:00

The Yellow Handkerchief is that odd road trip movie that forgoes montages and a hip soundtrack in favor of quiet conversation and pregnant glances. Udayan Prasad’s film, loosely based on the 1971 Pete Hamill short story “Going Home,” follows an unlikely trio of outsiders cruising through rural Louisiana with little agenda and plenty of emotional baggage. These are lonely individuals, down on their luck, but they are decent folk, and good-natured. Unfortunately, for all its modest charms, the film mirrors its subjects in that it never goes much of anywhere.

At the heart of The Yellow Handkerchief is Brett (William Hurt), a laconic, middle-aged badass who sports a jean jacket, tattoos, and a moustache that demands respect. Hurt deftly captures the dual essence of Brett, a man simultaneously affable and intimidating; when he’s not wrangling gators or punching out windows, his speech is measured, his smile gentle and slight. As the movie begins, Brett steps out of prison following a six-year sentence and steps into an old convertible with Martine and Gordy, a couple of angsty, hormonal teenagers. It’s chance that brings these three strangers together one hot afternoon.

Kristen Stewart plays Martine, and much as she did in Twilight, she imbues her character with attitude and intrigue even when the script does not. Gordy (Eddie Redmayne) is nervous and spastic. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I have unusually wide shoulders and a small, tapering waist,” he says, a goofy grin transfixed on his face, as he models a new coat.

As they set out on their journey to nowhere specific, the crew exhibits a comforting warmness. They are cute together, awkward, and their banter and bickering holds a tranquil allure, even as it turns to abandonment issues, which it often does. These characters are endearing; they’re well-meaning and well-acted enough to make them very attractive traveling partners.

One assumes, however, that something is eventually supposed to happen to them, and it’s the plot (and the way the plot’s conveyed) that gives the film trouble. The true meat of the storyline, involving Brett and a lost love named May (Maria Bello), takes place before he was incarcerated, and is relayed through a cumbersome flashback mechanism. The story of Brett and May – a beautiful, weathered woman – is a fine one, touching and sad. It is also quite straightforward. The flashbacks, however, which appear with increasing frequency until they become the primary source of action, needlessly convolute the saga of their relationship, perhaps in an effort to compensate for its simplicity.

Also of concern is the near total absence of action back in the present day. These characters do little more than talk and drive during their time together. Admittedly, some of their conversations are quite lovely. It’s enjoyable to watch as their bond of friendship forms and they grow to trust one another. But they have very few actual experiences on their trek – at least, very few that appear to impact them in a meaningful way. They stay at a roach motel; they hit a deer. The drama of the film seems better suited to the confinements of a stage set than to the lush, wide expanses of the Louisiana countryside.

I found myself wondering how the gang might react, were they to stop at some tacky roadside attraction; or how they’d be affected by a run-in with their version of Large Marge, that notorious truck driver, or George Hansen, the drunken ACLU lawyer. I admit, those may be the words of my inner road trip movie fan – but even so, these characters could’ve grown so much more if they’d had some significant interaction with people outside their little circle.

That said, the insulated nature of the narrative, frustrating as it is at times, does underscore the connection formed between the characters – this movie is very much about friendship. And if that sounds cutesy and light, well, it is. Although the film’s mood begins to shift from contemplative to melancholic around the midway point, the picture never becomes more serious than its story warrants. That was probably a wise decision on the part of Prasad and the screenwriter, Eric Dignam, because light as it may be at times, The Yellow Handkerchief is neither frivolous nor trivial.

movie review: Tropic Thunder

2008-08-19T21:10:00.000-07:00

Ben Stiller has spoken: white guys in fat suits dancing to hip-hop are funny. Following the end credits of the 2004 Stiller vehicle Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, the actor sits shirtless in a grotesque fat suit singing “Milkshake,” a then-popular tune by the sultry singer Kelis. For his latest comedy, Tropic Thunder, Stiller hands the reigns to Tom Cruise, whose career has sunk so low that he dons a bald cap and fat suit to play a malicious movie exec named Les Grossman (he just might be Jewish) who constantly screams obscenities, and yes, dances to hip-hop in the film’s stirring finale. More miraculous is that for Cruise, this actually constitutes damage control.

Tropic Thunder is a better film that Dodgeball, mainly because of Robert Downey Jr.’s performance as Kirk Lazarus, a method actor who has undergone a pigment darkening surgery in order to portray a black man in the movie within the movie, also called Tropic Thunder. An action star (Ben Stiller), a comedian (Jack Black), and a rapper (Brandon T. Jackson) round out the cast, and Tropic Thunder follows their follies as they attempt to shoot an epic war film deep in the jungle.

Few actors could get away with wearing blackface through the whole of a major Hollywood movie, but if it’s anyone, it’s Downey Jr., who steals all his scenes and throws all his chops into creating a dedicated, misguided, and overextended thespian. Less interesting is watching a limited actor portray a talentless one, as is the case with Stiller and the action hero he plays, Tugg Speedman, a variation on the arrogant but well-meaning idiot he perfected in Zoolander. Downey Jr. also brings a low-key sense of humor to the film, which, aurally and visually, subscribes to the everything-louder-than- everything-else aesthetic.

The worst culprit in this regard is Jack Black, wasted here, who plays comedian Jeff Portnoy and is given little to do but scream “Yeah!” Black’s best scene is his first, a mock trailer for a Portnoy film called The Fatties: Fart 2, in which he wears (you guessed it) fat suits and plays a farting family in a spoof of crap like Eddie Murphy’s Nutty Professor sequel, The Klumps. Danny McBride, as a raucous redneck in the film crew, is also responsible for a lot of shouting; it’s debatable whether exclaiming “Big ass titties!” before detonating a bomb qualifies as comedy (though I found it hilarious).

The film has generated a great deal of hype, both good and bad, due to Downey Jr.’s character, and its treatment of “retards” (more unfunny than offensive), and its supposedly scathing indictment of the film industry. With regards to the final point, Tropic Thunder does have some good laughs at Hollywood’s expense, as in the mock trailers which open the film, and the clever entertainment news segments which dote endlessly on moronic actors. Matthew McConaughey, amiable as always, plays an agent (also a moron) responsible for managing prima donna movie star Tugg Speedman. And then, of course, there’s Cruise, whose Grossman represents all that’s immoral in Hollywood, like Ari Gold with none of the heart. But the satire is all surface deep. Ultimately, Cruise is just playing a fat guy that dances to hip-hop, and one can hardly think that would rile too many folks in the film industry.

game review: Grand Theft Auto IV

2008-05-23T11:20:00.000-07:00

In Grand Theft Auto IV, the long-awaited new chapter in the wildly popular franchise from Rockstar Games, the player takes control of Niko Bellic, a sardonic badass and Serbian immigrant who steps off the boat and immediately becomes entangled in the criminal underworld of Liberty City. Niko, brilliantly voiced by Michael Hollick, is about as charming as stone cold killers come; his "What, me worry?" attitude and low-key sense of humor help him navigate the city's web of drug dealers and other sordid gangsters (as well as the dating scene) with ease.

As great as Niko is, though, he's never the star of the game. That honor is reserved for the city itself, Liberty, which is really an undisguised New York, and which is as close as a console game has ever come to a living, breathing, modern metropolis. In keeping with the game's tone, this New York is always presented with some degree of derision (Times Square, here called Star Junction, is "A great place to go if you love advertising" reads the guidebook, i.e. instruction manual). But the superb attention to detail--from the Cyclone at Coney Island, to the Unisphere at the old World's Fair grounds, to the Metropolitan Opera House--betrays a great deal of affection from the game's designers, as well.

There are literally hours of pleasure to be derived from driving around the city's four boroughs (Staten Island is omitted; instead we get a portion of suburban New Jersey) in search of your favorite landmarks. But the virtual world within Liberty, the media inside the game, is even more compelling.

Star Junction.

Back at Niko's apartment, you can watch television--for quite a long time. Choose from programming like "I'm Rich," a spoof of shows like VH1's "The Fabulous Life Of..." which is much more entertaining (and raw--apparently there's no FCC in this world) than its source material; an hysterical documentary on the history of Liberty City; and a cartoon called "Republican Space Rangers," which takes our nation's war on terror (the game's greatest source of comedic material) to other galaxies. When the shows pause for commercials, you'll see ads for the same mock products being hawked on billboards out in the street.

Hop online at an internet cafe and you can send emails that open up new missions and further your progress in the game. Stay online and surf through the boatloads of content that exist only because (1) they are hilarious, and (2) because the game creators went above and beyond with just about everything in GTA IV. Kill the head honcho at a high-profile law firm, and shortly thereafter you'll find a story about the murder on the Liberty Tree newspaper's website. Or check out one of the dozens of other sites, like CrapList.net (read: Craig's List), "an online forum where users can sell stolen bicycles and meet up at lunch to give each other head" (Thankfully you can't do either of those things in the game). In many ways, this is what GTA IV is all about: scathing, pointed satire mixed with sophomoric vulgarity.

The radio commercials and talk stations, which lampoon everything from reality T.V. ("Waning With The Stars") to Axe Body Spray, work in much the same way. While listening to the news, you'll hear updates which reflect the world around you, like bridge openings or closings, for example. The music stations introduce another impressive element. While driving through Liberty City, you can tune to stations (most feature between 10 and 20 songs apiece) dedicated to genres including funk, jazz, Latin, dancehall, hip-hop, indie rock, R&B, hardcore punk--even a station that exclusively plays Bob Marley and the Wailers (with one Stephen Marley track thrown in for good measure). It's an incredible cross-section of American and international popular (and not so popular) music.

Just don't call him Russian.

The true meat of the gameplay has not changed drastically from previous installments. As far as the missions go, one of the amusing caricatures for whom you work (the steroid nut, the Rasta) generally assigns you with the task of driving (or perhaps taking the subway) to a specific place in the sprawling city to pick up goods, or drop them off, or spy on someone. Regardless of what it is, you usually have to kill a guy, or lots of guys. The use of a cell phone for calling, texting, and even picture messaging (all essential, at times, in completing your tasks) is quite clever. Still, it feels pretty much the same as it did in the past few GTAs, only better: a better weapon aiming system, more nuanced assignments, and far superior graphics.

Powering through the missions and advancing the plot (Niko's backstory and his true motivations are gradually revealed) is great--when you feel like it. And that's always been the beauty of the Grand Theft Auto games: now more than ever, you play however you want. Don't feel like running guns for a thug? Snag a cop car, access the police computer, and hunt down criminals, vigilante style. Not in the mood for (that kind of) action? Hit up a strip club and get a lap dance. Hunt for ramps in deserted back alleys; rev up your engine and try a death defying jump. Try online dating. Go bowling with one of your homeboys, or hit up a pool hall, or throw darts at a dive bar. Or maybe just kick back at the crib and watch some television.

Thank God for Mickey's

2008-05-23T10:32:00.000-07:00

It would be an understatement to say that our nation has hit a rough patch. From soaring gas prices, to the war in Iraq, to the subprime mortgage whatever, the U.S. of A is embroiled in tumultuous times. As the Dems continue to undercut themselves in an ugly, endless primary, and the Mets sleepwalk through game after game, the ruthless New York media censuring them at every turn, one thing is clear--it's time for some unity.

Enter the Golden Arches. Enter the Southern Style Chicken Sandwich.

Finally, something we can all agree upon. The debut of a new McDonald's sandwich is a major cultural event that may someday achieve federal holiday status. This particular sandwich is especially laudable, bringing together as it does the North and South in an act of true American solidarity. Moreover, the Southern Style Chicken Sandwich will rock your socks off, regardless of your gender, race, class or political affiliation. Let me break it down for you: juicy-ass white meat chicken, topped with--oh yes--butter and pickles. That's right--butter and pickles. And as if that wasn't enough, Mickey's has also introduced the Southern Style Chicken Biscuit for those ambitious enough to be up and out of the house before 10:30a.m. Hallelujah.

Thank you, Mickey's. Thank you for doing your part to help right the ship in these trying times. Thank you for providing a beacon of light and a moment of respite, however fleeting, during these days of turmoil. Thanks for giving us kickass chicken sandwiches. With butter. And pickles.

game review: Army of Two (Xbox 360)

2008-04-27T19:23:00.001-07:00

The most fun I had with Army of Two was playing air guitar. No, this isn't the next Rock Band or Guitar Hero. It's a third-person shooter much like the 2006 Xbox 360 hit Gears of War. But whereas Gears of War pitted you against grotesque aliens, Army of Two strives for a more realistic experience--kind of. So a friend and I, playing on a split-screen, were leading our characters, a couple of beefy American mercenaries, through the caves of an Afghan mountain range shortly after 9/11. We were dispatching suicide bombers and other Al-Qaeda operatives with our AK-47s and hand grenades when there came a break in the action. We looked around. It seemed as though we'd slain all the terrorists in the vicinity. Before continuing on to the next arena, my friend positioned his soldier next to mine and hit the "A" button. They exchanged high fives. He pressed it again and they gave each other a pound. "Props all around," they said casually. When he pressed it a third time, I stared in disbelief as the two bloodied combatants went into full on Bill and Ted mode, headbanging, singing power chords, and yes, playing air guitar. In the middle of a cave. In Afghanistan. My friend and I shared a good laugh over this, and then we descended further into the dark cavern with the goals, I think, of destroying warheads and rescuing a POW, but mostly just looking to shoot as many bad guys as possible.

Such is the way of Army of Two, a new game from Electronic Arts, which can be played solo, but is meant to be played with a friend online or using a split-screen. You control two soldiers of fortune working for a private military company called the Security and Strategy Corporation. The younger, prettier one is named Elliott Salem. He muses about the Wu-Tang Clan in the midst of combat, and says "bro" constantly. He is what we called in college a "douche bag" (nothing against Wu-Tang). His partner is Tyson Rios, older, grizzled and hard, though not above channeling Jack Black ala School of Rock after executing a few good kills.

Over the course of the game's six brief missions, which take you from China to Iraq ("Long live Saddam!" screams an insurgent with a Gatling gun), you uncover your employer's conspiracy to overtake the U.S. army as the country's primary military outfit. Although you play as guns for hire, it seems, at times, that there is supposed to be a message here about the risks of privatization of the military; the game even invokes President Eisenhower's 1961 farewell address warning "against the acquisition of unwarranted influence... by the military-industrial complex." However, the epilogue, in which Rios and Salem go on to found their own private military with the money of black market arms dealers, shows that Army of Two declines to advocate anything--except, perhaps, irresponsibility--in its approach to current events and the nation's military and political affairs.

I should, I suppose, be grateful not to be moralized to by a video game, especially one that allows you to "pimp" your firearms (I'm not gonna' lie, blinged-out assault rifles are kind of hilarious). Army of Two is supposed to be fun, and for the most part, it delivers in that regard. Playing by yourself (with a partner controlled by computer A.I.) doesn't make for a particularly memorable experience, but working with a friend can be a blast, as there is some strategy and teamwork required. The crux of the gameplay lies in the idea that if one player shoots a lot of bullets, he will draw the bulk of the hostile fire, rendering the other player less visible to the enemy and better able to flank and ambush them.

Comparisons to Gears of War are inevitable and Army of Two doesn't fare particularly well--it's gameplay isn't as tight and there's simply not as much action. When Gears of War 2 arrives this fall it should fairly blow this game away. Army of Two's short campaign mode and lack or replay value make it more of a rental, and actually, it's quite a good title to play with a buddy for just a few days. The most exciting moments come when one player is wounded and falls to the ground; the other player must then drag him behind cover and heal him. While the wounded player is being dragged, he can still shoot, and there's something incredibly satisfying about taking down an enemy who's about to shoot your "bro," while your "bro," in turn, is escorting you to safety. In the words of Tenacious D, that's fucking teamwork.

game review: MLB 2K8 (Xbox 360)

2008-04-04T18:57:00.001-07:00

The rainfall was slow but consistent at Turner Field in Atlanta. I was in the top of the second inning of a scoreless tie between my Mets and the Atlanta Braves, with two outs and a runner on third, when something very strange happened: the umpire called for a rain delay. After I watched a brief cut sequence of the players milling around in the dugout, the umps called the game. And that was it. A loading screen appeared and I was back at the menu of Major League Baseball 2K8.

If this degree of "realism" sounds too, um, boring, you may be better off with the arcade-style action of The Bigs, released last summer. But if you're looking for a true baseball simulation, MLB 2K8 is the only game in town this year for the Xbox 360. And while it's a little rough around the edges--really, it's a little rough everywhere--MLB 2K8 delivers enough goods to satisfy those gamers craving some hardball.

MLB 2K8 benefits from great attention to detail. All 30 major league ballparks (and 20 minor league ones) have been recreated with the proper dimensions and some nice touches like the home run apple at Shea and the Green Monster at Fenway. Players' face animations range from decent to unrecognizable, but their motions have been captured more successfully: El Duque's high leg kick, for example, looks terrific.

Commentary from announcers Jon Miller and Joe Morgan also includes a few clever points. Start a game between the Yankees and Indians and they'll mention the midges that derailed Joba Chamberlain and co. in last year's ALDS. Soon enough, though, their chatter goes the way of typical sports video game commentary: I rocketed one over the left field wall and for some bizarre reason they started raving about an inside the park homerun. Those moments are awkward, but the big problem with the game's presentation is that it just doesn't run smoothly. I soon turned down the number of animations--of players walking to the batter's box, or instant replays--not because I was in a rush, but because they look choppy and load slowly.

(I must add--and I admit, this sounds like an old lady complaint--that the text is outrageously small. MLB 2K8 continues this annoying trend, seen also in games like Call of Juarez and Mass Effect, which forces gamers to either play on massive HD screens or murder their eyeballs.)

The standard game modes and features--Home Run Derby, create a player, franchise mode--are all here, though there's little more. Personally, I don't need a lot of extras if the baseball is good enough, and here, again, MLB 2K8 is a mixed bag. The gameplay makes interesting and extensive use of the right analog stick. It's used to pitch, field and hit, and for the first two it works pretty well. Each pitch--fastball, slider, and so on--requires a distinct, three point motion of the stick; it's challenging, but quickly becomes intuitive. When fielding, just point the stick in the direction of the corresponding base; hold it down for the correct amount of time and your throw will be quick and on target. Hitting is simplest of all--pull back on the stick to step, push forward to swing--but each at bat feels like a total crap shoot. When you pop out (which is most of the time), it's frustrating as hell. When, on occasion, you get a double down the left field line, you just feel lucky. It doesn't help that the computer pitchers can nip the outside of the strike zone nearly every time.

It's unfortunate that 2K Sports decided not to make a 2008 version of The Bigs, as many gamers would likely prefer a faster paced, more action packed baseball title. Baseball isn't hockey or basketball, by which I mean it's slow. It takes nearly an hour to play through a game of MLB 2K8. It requires some patience. Even if you favor a more realistic sim (as I do), 2K8 may not be your best bet. MLB '08: The Show, from Sony, is an all around better game. The Show, however, is exclusive to the Playstation systems, and those who've invested in an Xbox 360 are left only with MLB 2K8. Things could be a lot worse. 2K Sports has already announced plans for a free, downloadable patch that will make the game run at a smoother frame rate (which basically says they rushed it to shelves). With or without the patch, though, 2K8 is a solid (if flawed) and even addictive game for a baseball fan. I won't be surprised if I'm still playing it come October.

game review: Turok (Xbox 360)

2008-02-22T09:35:00.000-08:00

In Turok, players are encouraged to create "meat fountains." When you shoot a large dinosaur with a rocket or bomb, it explodes into a couple of big, gory pieces. These chunks fly high in the air before landing on the ground with a wet, heavy thud. If you approach the carnage for a closer look, you'll notice that the bloody slabs are still discernible. Think: 'Hey, the raptor's leg is over here! And there's part of its face!' What, ultimately, do meat fountains add to Turok, beyond shock value and visceral thrills? Well, nothing. But perhaps that's a stupid question.

Turok puts you in the role of the title character, who first appeared in comic books as early as the 1950s and arrived on video game consoles in 1997 with Turok: Dinosaur Hunter for the Nintendo 64. Turok is a Native American, and like so many of his brethren, he sports a Mohawk, loves the rugged outdoors, and is mean with a bow and arrow (he's also comfortable with flamethrowers and plasma rifles). The game's story follows Turok and a band of intergalactic commandos who have been sent to a remote planet to capture an escaped war criminal. Upon entering the atmosphere, their ship is shot down and they find that the jungle planet is crawling with hostile soldiers and genetically engineered dinosaurs. Turok must slay everything in sight in order to survive. There's a little more to it (a very little), but that's the basis for this action packed first-person shooter.

Frequent and beautifully animated cut sequences give the game a cinematic quality and advance the plot. They depict Turok and the other camouflaged testosterone freaks in-fighting and shouting taunts like "Why don't you grow a pair!" These videos don't slow down the action, but act as quick, welcome transitions between the various stages and objectives. And while in some games there's a jarring disconnect between story clips and playable action, Turok blends the two almost seamlessly, due to its uniform, excellent graphics. The lush jungle, the explosions, and of course, the dinosaurs, all look great. It makes one wish there was more innovation and variation in the character and level designs; the enemy soldiers all look identical, and the settings--a cave, a futuristic military bunker--while very pretty, are all things you've seen rendered in 3D before.

The action is typical of a first-person shooter. You choose from an assortment of weapons (a balanced array, but, unfortunately, the guns aren't quite as ridiculous as in previous installments), and have to determine which ones are most effective in a given circumstance. Similarly, you're forced to weigh your strategy depending on the number of enemies and their positioning: occasionally you use stealth to sneak up on your prey, while other times you duck behind cover and pop up to shoot during a pause in enemy fire; and when in doubt, you can always just run in with guns blazing. The enemy A.I. for the soldiers (not so much the dinosaurs) is very high--they, too, can judge when to hide and when to take their shots, and this makes for a more challenging, enjoyable experience.

Turok lands in a crowded field of first-person shooters, and lacks the depth and fine-tuning of premiere titles like Bioshock, Halo 3, and Call of Duty 4: Modern Warfare. There's really not much going on here beyond running around shooting guys and knifing dinosaurs with a massive blade; the game forgoes even the most rudimentary puzzles in favor of non-stop action. And sometimes that's enough. Turok is a fun, mindless action game with great graphics, solid controls, and buckets of gore. Where else can you find a meat fountain?

tv review: Terminator--The Sarah Connor Chronicles (2 hour premiere)

2008-02-22T09:13:00.000-08:00

In the first five minutes of "Terminator: The Sarah Connor Chronicles," we see a robot from the future track Sarah and John Connor and try to murder them with a shotgun and a couple of Uzis. He mows down a slew of cops in the process. Terminator fans will no doubt be happy to see that the television show is loyal to its source material.

Set after the events in Terminator 2: Judgment Day (the show ignores the third movie), it begins with mother and son running from the law because of the mayhem they caused in that film. Hunting them is the FBI, which we quickly learn has been infiltrated by a terminator. John (Thomas Dekker), yearning for a normal teenage life, is resentful of his Messianic status as the future savior of mankind from the machines, but he's a pretty good sport about it all. Lena Headey plays Sarah, and while she never makes you forget Linda Hamilton, she's appropriately intense and efficient. The two of them manage to be kind of cute together, despite the fact that Sarah is usually shouting (justifiably paranoid) lines at John like, "No one is ever safe!"

John is just settling in at the latest in a long string of high schools when his teacher pulls a handgun out of his robotic leg and starts busting caps. Fortunately the cute girl sitting next to John is also a terminator, and she's here to protect him. From there the basic premise mirrors that of T2: a "good" terminator protects Sarah and John from a "bad" one (here a couple of bad ones). But instead of Arnold Schwarzenegger, we get Summer Glau, the wide-eyed girl next door, sporting lip gloss and mini-skirts. In contrast to Arnold's unwavering voice, Glau's hushed tones feel timid and confused. She's actually more believable when she's kicking ass. Then again, she's attractive enough that most fan boys won't care about her acting chops; and terminators are always kind of aloof, anyway.

Fans should enjoy references to the films peppered throughout the show, from quotes ("Come with me if you want to live"), to secondary characters (the Dyson family, the arms hoarder Enrique), to visual homage (the rolling highway, the lonely swing set). The show puts clever spins on the films' established time travel mechanism. It also shares its predecessors' penchant for cheesy (and generally amusing) one-liners.

Naturally, there are ways in which "Sarah Connor Chronicles" suffers as a result of its medium. Sarah was working through emotional scars ten years after her first brush with a terminator; here she has to maintain her sanity while outrunning an android every week. And the special effects obviously can't compete with those in a big-budget James Cameron film. But as far as television sci-fi action romps go, this is really not bad; it's about as good as one could reasonably hope for a Terminator t.v. show to be.

movie review: The Orphanage

2008-02-12T23:27:00.000-08:00

Things that go bump in the night. The big haunted house. Demonic children. And a creepy clown mask. The Orphanage, the directorial debut from Juan Antonia Bayona, relies on these and other classic horror staples to create its numerous scares. Though the film is less than innovative, its use of suspense and impeccable sound editing--and not violence or special effects--give it the welcome feeling of a throwback in this moment when gory torture porns continue to flood the box office.

The Orphanage tells the story of Laura (Belen Rueda), who moves to the Spanish countryside with her husband Carlos (Fernando Cayo) and young, adopted son Simon. There she aims to start a home for disabled children in the former orphanage where she was raised 30 year ago. Simon, played by Roger Princeps, who captures the sincere curiosity of a child in a beautiful, understated performance, is HIV positive and Laura lives with the constant fear of losing her beloved boy. Her nightmare comes early when Simon suddenly disappears and from there Rueda's gutsy, charged performance propels the film. Searching desperately for answers, Laura comes to believe that children's spirits inhabiting her home have taken Simon, and a kooky medium (Is there any other kind?), played by Geraldine Chaplin, validates her suspicions.

The film has been compared with Guillermo Del Toro's Pan's Labyrinth. While both films share the theme of the thin line between fantasy (and the supernatural) and reality, the association likely has more to do with Del Toro's producing credit The Orphanage. Whereas Pan's Labyrinth exploded with singular creative vision, The Orphanage often feels like well worn territory, despite its uniqueness in today's horror field. It borrows liberally from its inspirations (The Others, The Innocents, and numerous others) without ever commenting on them, and never transcends its status as a genre film, albeit a very good one.

movie review: The Diving Bell and the Butterfly

2008-02-12T23:11:00.001-08:00

After suffering a massive stroke at age 43, Jean-Dominique Bauby awoke with "locked-in syndrome." He retained full mental capacities but was paralyzed, unable to speak or move, save the blinking of his left eye. That eyelid became Bauby's voice. His doctors devised a system wherein they read aloud the alphabet to Bauby and he would blink to signify a given letter; slowly he assembled words and sentences. In this manner, he dictated an entire book about his experiences after the stroke. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly, the film from Paul Schnabel which takes its name from that remarkable memoir, captures the monotony and frustration of life with locked-in syndrome; it is perhaps only natural that the film becomes an exercise in tedium.

A series of flashbacks help flesh out Bauby (Mathieu Amalric), but rather than endear the character to the audience, these curiously chosen scenes depict a moody man whose new girlfriend and sports car scream midlife crisis. Bauby's lack of agency doesn't help; a passive, unsympathetic protagonist is not an inherently strong one. We pull for him because his affliction is so tragic and because the dedicated, loving people around him want desperately for his condition to improve. These include a couple of gorgeous female doctors, his two young children, and their charming mother (whom Bauby forsakes, via blinks, in the film's most powerful, wrenching scene).

Schnabel uses interior monologue and point-of-view shots to take us inside Bauby's world, and these visual techniques, especially, comprise the film's most effective and creative elements. In one particularly grisly, memorable shot, we see Bauby's right eye sewn shut from inside. But mostly we watch Bauby sit and blink, and listen to him work through pity and self-loathing with the help of his attendees and memoir. Bauby occasionally uses his imagination to escape the dull, confined spaces of the hospital. These scenes, in which Bauby lives out fantasies of fine food and beautiful women, evince the film's gentle sense of humor. They act as moments of respite, not only for Bauby, but for the audience, who may welcome a break from the dreary oppressiveness of The Diving Bell and the Butterfly.

album review: Down--Over the Under

2008-02-12T22:47:00.000-08:00

It's been a rough couple of years for Phil Anselmo. The singer was hooked on methadone following the 2003 breakup of heavy metal giants Pantera, after 15 years together. While touring with the short lived and poorly received Superjoint Ritual, Anselmo publicly lambasted his former bandmates from the stage, to the dismay of the group's loyal fans. In 2004, disaster struck: Pantera guitarist "Dimebag" Darrell Abbott was shot and killed while performing with a new band, prompting Anselmo to rescind his recent comments about the fallen musician. "He's like a brother to me," Anselmo said, changing his tune in lieu of the tragedy. Then in 2005, Anselmo's New Orleans home was flooded during Hurricane Katrina. On III-Over the Under, the third album from long-running New Orleans metal collaboration Down (their first in five years), Anselmo tries to come to grips with his missteps and misfortunes and, perhaps, push forward.

With Down, Anselmo's strained, soulful delivery taps into a sorrow rarely heard in his other bands, where unbridled rage took center stage. Now reportedly clean, he evinces frustration about his former drug habits on "Never Try" and "N.O.D.," admitting, "L.S.D. ain't what it used to be for me." Gone is the chest-thumping bravado; in fact, Pantera is never channeled here, lyrically or musically. Rather, the sludgy, often bluesy, mid-tempo songs are evocative of the primary bands of Down guitarists Pepper Keenan and Kirk Weinstein, who play for Corrosion of Conformity and Crowbar, respectively.

Fortunately, Anselmo's melancholy themes never keep the album from rocking hard. It's on "I Scream," the album's most straightforward, blistering metal jam that he touches on his broken relationship with Dimebag in the month's prior to the guitarist's death: "Fallen leaves/from the same family tree/regret is all that's left," he sings.

In "On March The Saints," a beautiful, boozy slab of southern hard rock, he decides there's no sense to be made of Katrina and nothing to do but soldier on and start anew. Yet for all his talk of rebirth on Over the Under, Anselmo stops short of repentance. He prefers to see himself as a victim. "All scorn me," he snarls on "I Scream," bemoaning what he calls "witch hunt blame."

Down
III-Over the Under
Warner Music Group

dvd review: Children of Men

2008-02-12T22:03:00.000-08:00

The pleasure of watching Children of Men on dvd is hitting the pause button and trying to examine everything that's going on in the background. "Production design is it's own character in this movie," says a producer in the film's bonus features. And she's exactly right. Through superb attention to detail, director Alfonso Cuaron has created an eerily believable future dystopia in which women are infertile, the earth is ravaged by nuclear war, and, according to a television commercial, "Only Britain soldiers on." As London grows more like a police state, terrorist bombings become a common occurrence and immigrants await deportation in refugee camps throughout the city.

Part of the reason this world feels so realistic is that it's set in the near future, the year 2027. But more than that, it's the way it resembles what a prosperous nation might actually look like if, 20 years from now, it lost all hope for a future. Cuaron's London is devoid of the technological inventiveness and ornamentation found in films like Blade Runner and Brazil. The cars, just slight updates of the ones we have now, are all dirty and rundown. The whole country wants for upkeep and no one is talking about it. The characters don't sit around rehashing the events of the past two decades because for them it's an accepted reality. Since the dialogue eschews any inessential exposition, the graffiti, newspaper headlines ("Bombing of Saudi Pipeline Disrupts World's Oil Supply"), and government propaganda ("Avoiding Fertility Tests Is A Crime") which fill the background become that much more important--or at least intriguing--in understanding this future and how it got that way.

If the film's setting is often hyper-detailed, the plot is relatively simple. Disgruntled everyman Theo (Clive Owen) trudges through his days in a London office, drinking and occasionally seeking respite in the country home of his friend Jasper (Michael Caine), an old hippie and ex-political cartoonist who grows weed and listens to hip-hop. Theo is jarred from his stupor when Julian (Julianne Moore), a former lover, draws him into the work of her activist (or is it terrorist?) group, the Fishes. Soon he's forced to protect Kee, a young pregnant woman and humanity's last hope, from the Fishes, who hope to use her as leverage in advancing their political agenda. The film's second half chronicles his travails in transporting Kee to a rendezvous point where she can meet a mythical group that allegedly possesses the resources to use her child to create new life.

Along with a few brief deleted scenes, the bonus DVD includes a featurette in which a panel of experts with titles like "Anti-Globalization Activist" speak ham-handedly about the perils of mass migration and global warming, some of which connects with the film's political themes. But ultimately the bonus features deliver because they shed light on the filming of the breathtaking action sequences shot in long takes. Some lasting upwards of four minutes, these amazingly choreographed bits bring you deepest into the film's world, occurring at turning points in the plot and heightening the suspense of the action by working in real time. Cuaron manages to span the full range of human emotion in one shot. After seeing the incredible rig used in creating the car chase--and if you don't know what I'm talking about, you must go rent this--the already stunning scene feels like a landmark achievement. The film's visuals impress more with each viewing.

As much as Cuaron's London is covered in crime, Children of Men is a highly polished film. It reminds that a big budget thriller needn't be mindless popcorn fodder, not when paired with a talented director and a clever script. Children of Men uses its resources to create a world that's as absorbing as it is repellent.

game review: Tomb Raider Anniversary (PS2)

2008-02-11T13:13:00.000-08:00

Lara Croft has appeared in 10 games and two feature films since Tomb Raider debuted on the Playstation in 1996. At that time, 3D gaming was in its infancy, and Tomb Raider helped set the standard. But as much as Ms. Croft's blue tank-top and khaki booty shorts may be iconic in the eyes of fanboys, it's been years since a Tomb Raider title actually wowed the gaming public. Recent installments have shown improvements in the curvature of the heroine's breasts (she no longer appears to be wearing Madonna's old cone bra) and not much else. Now after a long line of missteps, publisher Eidos has gone back to the series' roots with Tomb Raider: Anniversary, a liberal remake of the original that marks a step-up from the franchise's recent output.

As in the first game, Anniversary finds Lara traversing the caves of Peru, Greece and Egypt in search of a magical relic called the Scion of Atlantis. Absent are the vehicles and RPG (that's Role Playing Game, noobz) elements of the past few releases, and thus Anniversary is somewhat less ambitious in scope. This, however, focuses the action squarely on what Lara has always done best, naming scaling cave walls and gunning down wild animals. Anniversary's greatest strength is the fluidity of its controls, as Lara bounds from one ledge to the next like a nimble chimp. If only manipulating the camera was so easy--wrestling with the game for the best viewpoint quickly grows tedious.

Although the Playstation 2 can't compete with the graphics of the next-gen systems, Tomb Raider: Anniversary is a handsome game. The water and lighting effects are especially well done, as are the level designs. The tombs look fantastic and are expansive enough to allow for a great deal of exploration without overwhelming the player. Some locales from the original Tomb Raider have been lovingly recreated (longtime fans may wax nostalgic over the T-Rex battle in the Lost Valley), while others have been amalgamated or made from scratch. Music is used sparingly but to great dramatic effect, as it's cued suddenly when you enter a new area or are ambushed by enemies.

Lara has a few new abilities which enhance the gameplay, such as the use of a grappling hook, but the bulk of the action still lies very much in a methodical repetition of finding switches that open doors. The combat, too, is overly simplistic, with one button to target and another to fire. Loading times are another concern. Every time Lara plummets to her death (which is quite often) or is mauled by a bear, expect a good 30 second wait.

Nevertheless, these are fairly minor gripes with a fine tuned game. Anniversary is challenging but has a gradual learning curve. It features 20 hours of gameplay and considerably more for perfectionists hoping to discover all the well-hidden artifacts. Tomb Raider: Anniversary breaks little new ground, but is a worthy addition to the Playstation 2 library in its twilight years. What remains to be seen is whether Eidos can create a truly new Tomb Raider experience on the next generation consoles.

movie review: Bug

2008-02-11T12:38:00.000-08:00

I went to see Bug expecting a gory, insect-infested shlockfest. Mutant cockroaches gnawing peoples' eyeballs and the like. After all, they "feed on your brain," promised the trailer, amid quick cuts of bloody mayhem. I was surprised to find something completely different, an arresting drama, a psychological thriller that actually probes the human psyche and asks questions about sanity, addiction, abandonment and paranoia. But I understand the studio's decision to sell Bug as a typical horror flick. For one, a movie this unorthodox must've been hell on a marketing team. And secondly, the film does succeed in giving quite a scare.

Bug tells the story of Agnes White (Ashley Judd), a crystal meth addict who lives in a rundown motel and waitresses at the local dive bar in middle-of-nowhere Oklahoma. Alone and depressed, Agnes fears the return of her abusive ex-husband, Goss (Harry Connick Jr.), an ex-convict fresh out of the pen. Goss is the father to her only child, a boy who disappeared 10 years ago in a grocery store when he was six years old. One night Agnes' friend introduces her to Peter Evans (Michael Shannon), a shy, stoic Gulf War veteran, who espouses a unique worldview and only gradually reveals the tendencies of a paranoid schizophrenic. "I like hearin' you talk," she tells him early on. They soon sleep together and from there it's a descent into madness for the bruised, vulnerable Agnes. Peter drags her into his delusional world, where government conspiracies lie everywhere--even in the bugs he claims have infested her hotel room.

The film is adapted from the Tracy Letts play of the same name (Letts also wrote the screenplay) and it still feels very much like a stage production. It takes place almost entirely in the motel room. It consists of a few lengthy scenes, mostly duologues between the two leads, and it relies heavily on the strengths of its very small cast. Judd and Shannon (reprising his role from the off Broadway production) are terrific as the unlikely lovers. Retreating into isolation and paranoid fantasies, Agnes and Peter enable one another's self-destruction by rejecting the few individuals who try to help them and reintroduce them to some semblance of reality.

Harry Connick Jr., too, is excellent, in an unexpected turn as Goss, a violent lowlife who turns out to be a voice of reason. People "try to control you, they try to force you to act a certain way," says Peter of Goss. "They can make you crazy, too." We understand Agnes' hatred of Goss--he is a brutal, ugly man, and the source of much of her anxiety. But it's ironic that he's trying to help Agnes while Peter is the one who finally drives her mad.

Bug finally builds to a conclusion which, if perhaps inevitable, is handled with a dose of melodrama that, up until that point, the film has been careful to avoid. The ending aside, however, director William Friedkin has crafted a riveting, claustrophobic film, meticulously paced to allow for a clean evolution of its characters, and superbly acted by a cast that truly inhabits its roles. Judd's Agnes is so alone and abused, so steeped in drug addiction, so desperate for hope and meaning that she seeks refuge in the arms of a very sick individual and never looks back. While Bug does have a few bloody, violent moments, it's these honest explorations of human need, malleability and fear which make the film genuinely unnerving and scarier than so much of the torture porn and gore-filled horror swill that comes down the pipeline.