by Monika Bartyzel Mar 11th 2010 // 9:35AM
The Twilight Saga: Eclipse is hanging out after the caper, full of teen angst ravenousness desire, messy saccharine love triangles, and reasonable the faintest suggestion of danger in the like.
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I understand the impetus behind taking established animated characters and turning them into “babies.” I get it. It makes all the little kids out there go, “Awwww……..” when they see them, and then they immediately turn to their parents and say, “Buy me one of those!” That has to be the main reason that Baby Looney Tunes were created: for the money. It’s cool, though; I don’t have a problem with companies making money. And come on, it is kind of cute when they take your favorite characters and transform them into toddlers. Personally, I’m waiting for Baby Sam Peckinpah Heroes, with cutesie pie Baby Pike ‘n’ Dutch, Baby “Doc” and Carol McCoy, Baby David and Amy Sumner, and Baby Major Dundee and Captain Tyreen (this review is copyrighted, if anyone is thinking of stealing that brilliant idea). I’m just not sure that the Looney Tunes characters are the best ones for this “baby-fying” genre.
The Looney Tunes characters were without a doubt the most adult-acting cartoon characters out there. With emotions ranging from rage to jealousy to avarice to homicidal tendencies to out-and-out psychosis, the Looney Tunes were cartoon characters adults could embrace, too. And people from my age group grew up on these monstrously dysfunctional characters day in and day out, until they were literally seared into our brains. They exist as whole entities in our subconscious. So it can be a little disconcerting at first when we see them as “Baby” Looney Tunes. It’s not so much that they’re cuter - they are. It’s the fact that now, our favorite malcontents have to jump through the dreaded new hoops of socially responsible cartoon behavior that has generally been the death of most TV animation for the last 15 years.
As a parent myself, I find it almost impossible to argue against teaching our kids good lessons. It’s just that those lessons aren’t nearly as much fun as the naughty, irresponsible stuff we watched when we were kids. I lived in the afternoon TV world of The Three Stooges (with all the appropriate eye gougings and sledgehammer blows to the head) and the Looney Tunes (where one favorite character, Daffy Duck, could today be legally institutionalized). Nobody cared what the hell we watched (parents and teachers especially), and they certainly didn’t look for “valuable lessons” in those stories. Such a notion would have been laughed off by busy parents who knew that kids were just kids; they’ll take care of themselves. Of course today, such a notion goes against the grain of established mainstream institutional education (read: indoctrination camps — come on, I’m kidding), so we mouth along with the teachers about how important it is that every waking moment of a child’s life should be occupied with educational activities (while we die a little bit inside).
Of course, I’m greatly exaggerating (and sort of kidding), but Baby Looney Tunes is a good example of how far stuff has gone the other way for children’s programming. I’m not knocking it (well, not too much). It’s good to see a show that tells kids what’s the right thing to do in certain situations, when not to lie, when to be helpful to others, and all that other socially conscious crap. Seriously, it’s great to have those kinds of children’s shows today. But does it have to happen to my beloved Looney Tunes, as well? I don’t think I’m alone in feeling this way; after all, why do you think Family Guy is such a huge hit right now? Because it’s totally wrong. It’s totally unacceptable to all the tenants and socially conscious requirements we put on animated shows today. “Educational” is valuable and desirable and all that, but “naughty” is fun.
That being said, Baby Looney Tunes is a delight for the kids, and educational, and all that other stuff. Seriously, the little kids do love these shows — although I wouldn’t shoot for an audience over the age of five (and you should have a good book laying around for yourself). They’re innocent and sweet and they do impart valuable messages that can only help kids in this increasingly complicated world. They’re short and to the point (running about eight minutes), and the animation is bright and colorful. The stories are well constructed and the voice work is lively and evocative. There are also several sing along songs included on this DVD which your children will want to play again and again. If your children have seen these before (and it’s pretty hard not to; they’re on the air all the time), they’re going to absolutely love owning Baby Looney Tunes: Puddle Olympics — Volume 3.
Here are the 8, eight minute episodes of Pet Looney Tunes: Puddle Olympics — Volume 3:
Time and Again Grandma teaches the Babies how to tell time. There’s a sing along song, Does Your Tongue Hang Low? included on this episode.
May the Best Taz Win Baby Taz learns about sportsmanship.
Mine! Daffy takes Grannie’s wallet (I’m not kidding), and learns about “finders keepers.” There’s also a sing along song, Over in the Burrow included here.
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Sylvester the Pester Baby Sylvester wants more attention from Grannie.
Cat-Taz-Trophy A trophy is at the center of controversy when the Babies make model cars. There’s a sing along song, If You’re Looney included here.
Duck! Monster! Duck! Baby Daffy makes up a story about monsters, and scares everyone.
Brave Little Tweety Tweety is having nightmares, and Grannie and the other Babies are there to help. There’s also a sing along song, Foghorn’s Talkin’ in The Barnyard (I kid you not) included here.
The Puddle Olympics The Baby Looney Tunes put on their own Olympics — in a mud puddle.
The DVD:
The Video: The full frame video image for Baby Looney Tunes: Puddle Olympics — Volume 3 is bright and sharp, with full, vivid colors.
The Audio: The Dolby Digital English 2.0 stereo soundtrack is fun and bouncy, with that catchy little theme song. There’s a French stereo language track included, as well.
The Extras: Sadly, there are no extras for Baby Looney Tunes: Puddle Olympics — Volume 3.
Final Thoughts: Alright, I was just goofing on them. Baby Looney Tunes: Puddle Olympics — Volume 3 is actually a lot of fun for very little children, and it teaches them valuable lessons that you’re probably too tired to teach yourself (come on!). Seriously, you could do a lot worse than getting your small child this fun compilation. I recommend (for preschoolers only) Baby Looney Tunes: Puddle Olympics — Volume 3.
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How nicely do you quite be familiar with your neighbors? For the benefit of all you be suffering with knowledge of, they could be Satan-worshippers, curved on bringing the Antichrist into the have. Or they could be discriminative old folks who are just a little strange, and you’re right-minded being paranoid. How do you acknowledge which is which? And which should everyone take up the cudgels for?
Henry James posited the ambiguity between truth and paranoid masquerade in his classic pint-sized falsehood, A Reorganize of the Screw. Ira Levin in his best-selling book, and Roman Polanski in his terrific flick of Rosemary’s Toddler, make custom us a similar pun. Is Rosemary (Mia Farrow) at best suffering pre- and advise-partum delusions? Or is her husband Guy (John Cassavetes) in league with the Satanists next door, Roman and Millie Castevet (Sidney Blackmer and Oscar-prepossessing Ruth Gordon), and the toxic obstetrician, Dr. Sapirstein (Ralph Bellamy) to deliver a little one which destitution be sacrificed to the devil, or worse? Is it valid a coincidence that Guy’s acting tear takes settled after they meet the Castevets and Rosemary becomes sombre with lass? And what is this tannis dynasty tree gormandize that the Castevets take care feeding her? And why does Rosemary keep losing weight, flat despite the fact that she’s up the spout? Few images in awe are more iconic than Rosemary, with her ultrashort Vidal Sassoon haircut, doleful and sunken-eyed as a concentration-theatrical patient, as she descends into the nightmare that is her pregnancy. In all, the most terrifying ghost of parenthood until Eraserhead.
The entire pitch does a wonderful job in this pic, headed by Farrow, who is in more every spot. She gives a largely diversified performance, from the fawn-eyed Doris Date variety at the inception to the wracking discomposure of a horrific pregnancy, to executed psychosis and paranoia at the conclusion. At every cautiously, she is convincing. Blackmer and firstly Gordon gleefully take on their roles of dire shrouded by banality. Bellamy doesn’t have a reams to do, but he makes a decorous authority figure that helps compel Rosemary into giving in to the assistance of the Castevets. The intimate Shakespearian actor Maurice Evans plays a newsman who also acts as confidante to Rosemary, and who patently runs afoul of the Castevets In smaller roles, we mark a young Charles Grodin in his highest-ranking significant dusting role as Rosemary’s word go obstetrician, Dr. Hill, and the then-promising starlet Angela Dorian (who also cast-off the somebody Victoria Vetri) as a young char infatuated on as a project by the Castevets; there’s a funny little in-jest switch between her and Rosemary, as Rosemary says she looks “like that actress, Victoria Vetri.” Conclusively, the shackle who shows Boy and Rosemary the apartment is not anyone other than longtime characteristic actor Elisha Cook, Jr.; when he’s your landowner, you know you’re in over the range of skirmish!
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Roman Polanski’s script and route are both surehanded. Although the veil runs slightly hanker, if it were any shorter the seemingly ceaseless nature of Rosemary’s painful pregnancy would be minimized. The camera follows the actors genuinely, but he thinks nothing of swooping and ambulatory promptly when called by reason of. The lighting is usually harsh, with characters heart-rending from looming-blackness to bright lighting at will; commonly Rosemary herself is in the profound, both in a lighting sense as well as metaphorically. Polanski also uses heavy churchgoing iconography, with a explicitly chilling dream line prominently featuring the Sistine Chapel. He helps emphasize the amphiboly by placing Guy’s Faustian count on offscreen; we solely due in Rosemary’s suspicions, but are not allowed to see more than she does. Christopher Komeda’s twenty dozens is highly disturbing and effective, from the unawareness lullaby to the wailing shrieks of the dead in the nightmare conception cycle.
In all, this videotape holds up wonderfully well; the trepidation is almost totally psychological and consists of discomfort. There’s not a nickel’s worth of traditional awe to be seen here, and this makes the pic all the more effective.
Nakajima’s unhealthy-budget bummer raises the usual troubling questions about our radioactive future: Will we truly need to forge clothes out of padded storage materials? And will desolate plastic mollycoddle dolls be as cheap a post-Armageddon note as they seem here? After the Apocalypse on offsets its tired conception with chintzy charm, and Carolyn McCartney’s high-priced-contrast b&w cinematography lands upon a perfect balance of grainy 16mm noise and harsh toxicity. But countless scenes involving, opportunity, trustful ogling at the sight of a coxcomb making music with spoons in the end analyse wearying.
It’s such an intriguing premise: side-splitting book artist Alan Moore imagined that seven Victorian fictional figures - Allan King Solomon’s Mines Quatermain, Dracula’s old intensity Mina Harker, the Invisible Bloke, Dr Jekyll (plus Mr Hyde), Tom Sawyer, Wilde’s goddess Dorian Gray and Jules Verne’s Captain Nemo - capacity pool their noticeable forces to take on a lunatic warmonger known only as the Fantom. ‘Suspend’ and ‘disbelief’ are the crucial words required here because, so get ahead as this reviewer is enlightened, the car was still in its beginnings during the Victorian era and certainly couldn’t leap buildings. In much the anyway way, an scads-active vessel the size of a atomic sub surely couldn’t negotiate the canals of Venice. And yet it begins so well. Sean Connery’s sharp-shooting swashbuckler is coaxed out of African retirement to gather a tandem join up of experts, each armed with his or her own innate powers. Introductions are made and the audience rubs its hands. Then Tony Curran’s Imperceivable Man opens his invisible mouth and spouts … guff! Worse follows. Inferential and continuity blow a fuse obsolete the window. True, the effects and sets are marvellously fantastical and there are inseparable or two first-class comical allusions to the heroes’ literary roots. But where’s the excitement, the thrills, the tightness, the chic?
“The Dancer Upstairs” is an adult piece of work, made up mainly of quiet, emotional scenes and detailed performances. Yet the uniformly measured pace of the scenes and an overly drawn-out narrative soon hamper the movie’s effectiveness. There’s never any doubting Malkovich’s directorial intelligence,
but he has a bad case of what Abraham Lincoln called “the slows.”
Spanish actor Javier Bardem plays Agustin, an honest cop who is trying to find the whereabouts of a terrorist mastermind named Ezequiel (Abel Folk), whose supporters are becoming increasingly violent. At first, they’re hanging dead dogs throughout cities, with signs proclaiming the revolution. Later they’re using schoolgirls to set off bombs and take part in massacres.
In a movie loaded with images of carnage, one is especially unforgettable. Agustin comes upon one of the little-girl assassins, covered in blood and barely alive. He wants to help her, and she responds by taking blood from her mouth and flicking it in his face.
Laura Morante, the lovely Italian actress best known as the mom in “The Son’s Room,” plays the title character, a children’s dance instructor for whom the married Agustin develops an affection. In addition to the demented terrorists, Agustin has to contend with a fascistic military imposing martial law.
For the audience as well as Agustin, the romance comes as a relief from the horrors of the political situation. Morante brings to the film a maternal graciousness, the assurance that sanity and comfort still exist.
Agustin’s spiritual journey is Malkovich’s main concern, and so he switches back and forth from romance to politics to illuminate it. Unfortunately, either a more lively hero or a more lively approach was called for, as Agustin is as brooding and introspective as the film. .
This film contains graphic violence and sexual situations.
– Mick LaSalle
Drama. Starring Mania Akbari and Amin Maher. Directed and written by Abbas Kiarostami. (Not rated. 94 minutes. In Farsi with English subtitles. At the Opera Plaza and the Shattuck in Berkeley.)
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Movies that focus on conversations between cabdrivers and their passengers have been done before — most notably by Jim Jarmusch in “Night on Earth” — but Iranian director Abbas Kiarostami takes this premise to another dimension with his newest marvel, “Ten.”
A mercurial taxi driver (Mania Akbari) is behind the wheel in every scene. She’s angry at her ex-husband, whom she divorced. She’s volatile with her young son (Amin Maher), who is equally on edge with her. She’s philosophical and inquisitive with riders, all of whom (except for her son) are women. These are private moments on the streets of Tehran, where every subject is discussed,
including sex and desire.
As the taxi driver, Akbari turns her position into a platform from which she can rage at the way women are dependent on men (”We don’t know how to live for ourselves!”), berate Iran’s religion-based legal system and compliment the way one passenger cuts her hair to cope with her boyfriend’s sudden departure (”It suits you”).
“Ten,” which takes its title from the number of sequentially ordered scenes,
was filmed with a dashboard camera whose focus rarely leaves the taxi’s front seat. (One exception: It follows the back of a prostitute who goes from the cab to a busy intersection. The prostitute’s bantering is one of the movie’s many highlights.)
A minimalist film, “Ten” looks and feels like a documentary. At the end, there is no big denouement, but a profound realization that the people we see on camera are all aching for answers — and struggling to come to terms with their lives. “Ten” is a rare chance for viewers to eavesdrop on everyday talk in Tehran that, although fictionalized, must approximate what really happens in Iran’s busy capital. There is a kind of urban universality here that hurried people will recognize right away.
– Jonathan Curiel
Romance. Starring Michael Idemoto, Jacqueline Kim, Eugenia Yuan. Directed by Eric Byler. Written by Byler and Jeff Liu. (Not rated. R. 88 minutes. At Bay Area theaters). .
The sexy, surprising romance “Charlotte Sometimes” starts by making an ingenue out of a burly auto mechanic (Michael Idemoto) and gets more original from there.
Led by the fetchingly stoic Idemoto, “Charlotte’s” cast is predominately Asian American — a fact that’s treated as incidental to its story line. Even more refreshing is filmmaker Eric Byler’s respectful treatment of his young lead characters.
Most romances about smart, stylish young people like these would force them into quip-a-minute mode, fearful that audiences weaned on “Friends” won’t accept a simple, unhurried love story. But “Charlotte’s” characters are allowed depth and self-awareness, even when they do the foolish things young people do, like rush into relationships with strangers.
The mechanic spots an alluring newcomer (Jacqueline Kim) at his neighborhood bar and follows her outside. We know this is a bold act for him because director Byler, fond of lingering close-ups and minimalist dialogue, has taken time to establish this guy as self-contained and deliberate. For instance, he won’t act on a longtime crush on his bubbly neighbor (Eugenia Yuan) because she has a boyfriend.
Idemoto and Kim make a gorgeous pair, and their early scenes brim with sexual possibility and emotional danger. Her character plays it close to the vest, as his does, but her air of mystery seems rather cultivated. You get the sense this emotionally remote woman could do some serious damage to the poor guy’s heart. Kim lends her character a thread of self-loathing that suggests that she knows the tough-girl act is wearing thin.
Seeing them circle each other provides some intrigue but never satisfies the way Idemoto’s scenes with Yuan do. Blithely exploiting his intense crush on her, the sunny neighbor prods, teases and even elicits a grin or two from the serious mechanic.
This film contains raw language, sexual situations.
– Carla Meyer
Documentary. Directed by Chris Hegedus and D.A. Pennebaker. (PG-13. 95 minutes. At the Van Ness.)
The renowned documentarian D.A. Pennebaker legitimized the verite style of nonfiction filmmaking: Roll the cameras, and the magic will come. “Monterey Pop,” Dylan’s “Don’t Look Back” and the Clinton campaign-team portrait “The War Room” (the latter co-directed with his wife and frequent partner, Chris Hegedus) all captured an abundance of magic.
But Pennebaker and Hegedus also take on plenty of work-for-hire. It’s the nature of their style — get out of the way and let the story tell itself. Sometimes the story just lies there like an old cat in the sun.
Entertainment reporter Roger Friedman enlisted the filmmaking couple to shoot this desultory where-are-they-now road trip, dropping in on some of soul music’s founding figures, including Sam Moore (of Sam and Dave), Mary Wilson (of the Supremes), raucous Wilson Pickett and the Stax Records father-daughter team of Rufus and Carla Thomas. With Friedman, the narrator and emissary, tossing questions as squishy as Jell-O and heaping praise on the performers for their unexceptional appearances on the oldies circuit, it’s a wasted opportunity.
The material was there for the taking. The crew caught Rufus Thomas, the octogenarian Memphis R&B fixture who billed himself as “the world’s oldest teenager,” just in time; he died of heart failure shortly after filming, in December 2001. The camera loves his mischievous facial expressions, the rheumy eyes and the bulldog mouth. Moore is another piece of work, matter-of-factly recounting his destitute days selling drugs on the streets of New York and yawning widely when his wife, Joyce, tells how he eventually kicked the habit.
But the notoriously thorny Wilson gets a pass (Friedman enthuses about how great her voice sounds, when it clearly does not), as does Pickett, the onetime star who might have more arrests than album releases in the past few decades. Jerry Butler, the classy baritone whose biggest hit lends the movie its title, tells an audience that he wrote his autobiography (also called “Only the Strong Survive”) because “oftentimes we don’t write our own history, so it gets screwed up.” Left to this disappointing documentary, these soul survivors wouldn’t have much history at all.
– James Sullivan
In place of Macaulay Culkin, comes mop-top learner Linz, and in place of Pesci and Sombre, a quartet of similarly stupid espionage thieves. What remains the same is yet another control of ‘ouch that hurt’ cartoon adjust-pieces. The first two films saw Kevin inadvertently left side alone because of mistakes made by his preoccupied parents. Here writer/producer John Hughes has manufactured a situation whereby Alex, distress from chicken pox, is intentionally pink at home by his working parents. This low-IQ tomfoolery is befitting very tiresome.
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Charlotte (Ryder) has upped sticks eighteen times in her children life, and she’s hoping to settle down with her mommy and sister in Eastport, MA. Their new home borders a convent, allowing the Jewish teen to indulge in fantasies back handyman Joe (Schoeffling) and, perversely, down resilience as a nun. Loopy Mom (Cher) has neglected to tell her daughter about the facts of life, leaving Charlotte stranded between lustfulness and fears of pregnancy. This self-conscious, eccentric comedy is set in 1963, a year which sees Charlotte’s innocence fade in the wake of both sexual discovery and Kennedy’s assassination. The film is burdened by curious details and observations, and its preoccupation with all things aquatic (little sister is an ace swimmer, Mom dresses up as a mermaid for New Year’s Eve, etc) is overworked. Characterisation suffers, with Charlotte and her mother too self-absorbed to employ our sympathies. Crucially, they upright aren’t humorous.
NEIL SIMON'S THE ODD COUPLE II: Comedy. Starring Jack Lemmon, Walter Matthau, Christine Baranski and Jean Smart. Directed by Howard Deutch. (PG-13. 97 minutes. At Bay Area theaters.)
Seeing his old roommate Felix Ungar for the win initially time in 17 years, Oscar Madison tells him with a note of resignation, “We suppress have on the agenda c trick foul chemistry. We mix like lubricator and frozen yogurt.''
The differences between the fussbudget Felix and the contented slob Oscar are at the heart of “The Odd Couple'' in all its permutations — play, TV series, 1968 movie and now a sequel with the unwieldy title “Neil Simon's The Odd Couple II.''
Fortunately for “Couple II,'' by far the weakest link in the franchise, Jack Lemmon and Walter Matthau are back in the roles they originated onscreen. Unlike Felix and Oscar, these veteran actors have terrific chemistry. They're still bubbling after all these years.
The delight they take in playing off each other makes it possible to watch the ludicrous situations Felix and Oscar find themselves in without cringing. They have to watch while their rental car rolls down a canyon and bursts into flames. Exchanging frustrated looks and blaming each other, they could be Laurel and Hardy on the road. Lemmon is the classic straight man to Matthau's funny guy. After making 10 movies together, they seem to intuit each other's timing.
By odd coincidence, the two have aged the way Felix and Oscar might have. Matthau's lumpy body would indicate that, like Oscar, he's not into health foods, and his craggy face probably hasn't had the benefit of sun block. Lemmon, on the other hand, looks like someone who fusses over his appearance, especially since he had his eyes and possibly other parts of his face lifted.
As much credibility as these two bring to their portrayals, they can't save the movie from an implausible script. The plot device that reunites the warring curmudgeons — Felix's daughter is about to marry Oscar's son — is so lame you'd think Simon would be embarrassed to proclaim his authorship in the title. For starters, it doesn't make any sense that the dads, who are supposed to be close to their children, would have no idea whom they were dating and would learn of their wedding only a few days in advance.
When Oscar and Felix are forced to drive to the big event together, everything that could go wrong predictably does. Somehow they end up being hauled before the same sheriff three times on such unlikely charges as smuggling illegal immigrants across the border and manslaughter.
They also encounter a couple of runaway housewives named Thelma and Holly (Christine Baranski and Jean Smart looking uncomfort able in biker getups) who think they are Thelma and Louise.
Oscar and Felix argue over what they might do with these hot babes. “Have you stopped to think what we might get?'' asks the health-conscious Felix. “Lucky is what comes to mind,'' replies Oscar.
It wouldn't be a Neil Simon script without some zinger one-liners. He nails the pretensions of Southern California when a pilot announces that a plane is about to land at Barbra Streisand Airport. Director Howard Deutch has come up with a few winning sight gags to match. The best is when Oscar and Felix bum a ride in a vintage Rolls-Royce that appears to go about 5 mph while a school bus, bicyclists, runners and, finally, walkers whiz by.
But “Odd Couple II'' lacks any emotional pull, as has often been true of Simon's work directly for the screen. He knows how to involve theater audiences, but can't translate that skill to film. Not surprisingly, the first “Odd Couple'' movie, in which Oscar and Felix seem like real people instead of just jokesters, started out as a play.
This article appeared on page D - 6 of the San Francisco Chronicle
