The Kite Runner mostly soars

In its finest moments, The Kite Runner shrinks a world grown too large and unruly to comprehend.

This absorbing saga of soiled innocence is set mainly in Afghanistan, ending two years before 9/11 retaliations made Americans care where the country is located.

Soiled innocence isn’t an exclusive burden. The triumph of Khaled Hosseini’s novel and now Marc Forster’s film is making such tragedy -- and hopes for redemption -- feel like common ground.

The Kite Runner focuses upon the haunted childhoods of Amir (Zekeria Ebrahimi) and Hassan (Ahmad Khan Mahmidzada) in 1978, before Soviet invasion enabled Taliban extremists to take control. These are idyllic times for the boys, spending allowances at the local theater and flying kites with Little League competitiveness, filmed with computer-generated grace.

Forster impressively presents pre-Taliban Afghanistan life as something timeless, universal and soon-to-be turbulent; it could be Germany before the Nazis, Cuba before Castro or even the colonies before the British.

The Kite Runner occasionally seems too Hollywood slick for its subject. But it constantly moves the heart, urging viewers to see the world as more than “us” and “them,” an imperfect movie with perfectly good intentions.

A biography of Joe Namath? I'm there.

I grew up in 1960's Alabama, when you were either a Bear Bryant disciple or run out of town. The first football player I idolized was Crimson Tide quarterback Joe Namath, whose autograph I got on a football a few years later but it was in pencil and started fading, so I sloppily traced over it in ink, ruining its value except for sentimentality.

Now comes word from Variety that an untitled Namath biopic is revving up, with Jake Gyllenhaal playing Broadway Joe. Can't wait.

Gotham Awards go "Wild," pass on "Cass"

The first major awards of 2007 were presented last night in New York City, with Sean Penn's Into the Wild chosen as best feature film at the Gotham Awards. Also good to see talented actor Ellen Page (Hard Candy) win a breakthrough performance award for the spunky comedy Juno, which I'll tell you about soon.

Read the Hollywood Reporter's account of the Gotham Awards evening here.

One thing HR didn't cover was the category of Best Film Not Playing at a Theater Near You, spotlighting little movies that could, if some distributor ever gives them a chance.

One of the nominees was Loren Cass, the  St. Petersburg-set drama written, directed and edited by Chris Fuller. Alas, Loren Cass was gassed by Ronald Bronstein's Frownland.

Check out IndieWire's better-than-HR coverage of the Gothams.

Yet another happy reader

No reply for this one. She's right about my "dark" preferences. And some folks don't like the f-word is usage or (for the really Puritanical types) in practice. I did like Enchanted, though, but not enough to bother telling "Helen:"

"I read and listened to your opinion on movies and find that you like the 'dark'.  There should be others who give opinions on "the rest of the stories".  On your advice, I went to the supposed great movie Gone Baby Gone...which was awful(in the opinion of most everyone in theater as we were leaving).  Actually I almost walked out 10 minutes into show...but as there was nothing else to do that day, stayed thinking it would get better....it didn't.  Not only was the movie in general bad....but it most likely could win Guiness (sp) Book record for how many times and how many ways the "F" word can be used.  So distracting was THE WORD that we hardly paid attention to movie....we try to count and lost track, since it was repeated numberous (sp) times in one 'sentence?'.

Now comes a movie such as August Rush, and you are blowing it off as too sugary.  Excuse me?!  Some people like wholesome.  Not everyone is a New York streetwise type person that feels life has to be the "F" raw type and movies to match.

We count on opinions from the newspaper.  But lately have ignored them....because the movies you like are the ones we don't usually go to. 

I'll bet you are going to stomp on Enchanted too!"

Spirit Awards nominations announced

If you ask me, the best awards presented in Hollywood each year are the Spirits, presented under a circus tent on Santa Monica beach the night before the Oscars. Had a chance to cover them a few years ago, when Robert Duvall won best actor for The Apostle and Jason Lee barely flinched when I asked the best supporting actor winner (for Chasing Amy) if he'd be following his pal Ben Affleck's lead to stardom.

"You won't catch me chasing asteroids, saving the Earth," the future Earl said, alluding to Affleck's role in Armageddon. Then he went back to playing pool on the table provided backstage for press and talent. I'll tell you: the Spirits do it right.

Anyway, the 22nd annual Spirit Awards will be presented Feb. 23. Nominations were announced Tuesday morning -- I'm Not There leads the pack with 4 nods and a special prize for ensemble acting (take that, AW) -- and you can read all about 'em here.

It's the most wonderful time of the year

The path to my front door has been beaten down by UPS and Fed Ex deliverymen, as studios scrambling for attention ship screener DVDs to awards voters and critics. I have a feeling my TiVo will get lonely in the next couple weeks.

Before you ask: They're not for sale, rental or borrowing. The dvds are watermarked with a coding that can be traced to me, if my copy somehow showed up on the Internet or a flea market table. The MPAA seriously hunts down such things, regularly imposing jail time or hefty fines that might as well be a death sentence.

I'm not sure if I'll get through copies of previously reviewed movies such as Things We Lost in the Fire, Lust Caution, Knocked Up, Rescue Dawn, Michael Clayton, Away from Her, The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford, 3:10 to Yuma, The Brave One, Ratatouille and Talk to Me. We did watch Eastern Promises last night so Princess Di could see Viggo Mortensen's jumblies.

On the other hand, I did my best Macaulay Culkin impression when not one but two copies of Into the Wild arrived.

Other screener DVDs are blogsends, though. Rather than dealing with erratic scheduling of theater screenings and audience distractions, I can now relax at home with The Kite Runner, Margot at the Wedding, Dan in Real Life, The Savages and Reservation Road (so far). Not to mention The Bucket List and Juno that I've already enjoyed.

And with vacation coming up in a couple weeks, I can get reviews and maybe my top-10 list completed in advance, unlike previous vacations that really weren't.

The hits (and misses) will keep on comin' through December. I'll keep you posted.

Another satisfied customer

Wanted to share more fan mail, in the same clunky style that it appeared to me. Then you'll see my reply. Enjoy!

The reader (maybe) speaks, in an e-mail titled "We have finally learned our lesson":

"Last night we sat through over 2 hours of "a waste of our time" watching "I'M NOT THERE". I know we could of walked out at any time, but we kept waiting for the A- to "kick in".   The four of us laughed all the way home and wondered who could of rated that movie a A-. Well will wonders never cease, this morning I got out the Weekend movie section and read that STEVE PERSALL rated it. If we would of known that,  we would not of gone to see it. If we listened to Mr, Persall in the past when he rated a movie C or below, we would of missed a lot of good movies, when he rates them higher, we should know by now NOT TO GO SEE THEM. All four of us know the story of Bob Dylan and the movie was still the WORSE!!!  The best thing the St. Pete times could do is give Mr. Persall a copy of the classified section to assist him in finding a new profession.  AW

My response, in an e-mail titled "More lessons to consider":

Dear AW: Thank you for your message. Always good to hear input from readers. A few things to consider, though:

Obviously you didn't read my review of I'm Not There, which wasn't published in Weekend but on Wednesday in Floridian when the film opened at Tampa Theatre. You probably took the easier route of reading the Film Clips brief to see a letter grade without concern for what thinking went into it. That's like buying a new car because it is a color you like, or voting for a candidate because he/she dresses nicely.

If you took time to read the review, you would have (not "would of," as you incorrectly use several times) noted statements such as:

"I’m Not There doesn’t even declare itself to be about Dylan, who has never been willing to admit who or what he is. Call him a poet or a preacher, the voice of a generation or a con for the masses and Dylan denies it all. Haynes can’t pin him down yet relentlessly tries, like a blindfolded man throwing darts."

Or this one:

"Certainly more than casual knowledge of Dylan’s career and varied disguises is necessary to know when Haynes nears the target. I’m Not There still contains something to stymie the most devoted Dylanphile, as anything he creates typically does."

And especially this one:

"I’m Not There isn’t the ultimate Dylan analysis, if such a thing could ever exist. Even better than description, Haynes’ film absorbs Dylan’s unpredictable nature, piling nonsense upon deep meaning and daring viewers to dig for it. Like its subject, it will frustrate some viewers, exhilarate others and leave everyone expecting more when so much has already been presented."

As far as your enjoyment of other movies I graded C or below: My sincere congratulations. I'm always pleased when folks have a good time at the movies, even if I didn't. Reviewing films isn't a cut-and-dried exercise because everyone has different tastes and levels of experience with the art form. After nearly 15 years in this job, I'll trust my instincts more than you distrust them.

You have my blessing to use me as a reverse barometer when selecting your choices, from best to worst (not "worse," as you noted).

Finally, I am personally confident that the Times (capital "T") will hand me a retirement check before any classified ads.

Good day, sir.

The In-Laws, outlaws and a grinch

Sorry I've been silent, but Thanksgiving and an early birthday present of Cabo Wabo -- with that, even Sammy Hagar is a pretty good singer -- and a few other distractions, kept me occupied. Foremost was a few days at one of the only surviving mom-and-pop motels on the Gulf Coast with Princess Di's family, and mine for Turkey Day.

Where do I begin? Maybe the fire pit nights (and early mornings) with XM, a steady liquid diet, and the nicest people with whom to spend a holiday. Not only my amazingly nice in-laws -- remind me to tell you about passing to the left at the dinner table sometime -- but other folks attracted by the flames like alcohol-soaked moths.

I enjoyed talking football until 3 a.m. like I haven't since leaving public school teaching and coaching,with guys from the Charlotte Warriors team of junior midgets (sounds redundant to me, too). A nicer bunch of barely teenage kids couldn't be found. Not at 3 a.m., of course. They had curfew. But their coaches and team parents were a lot of fun, and genuinely cared about the players like I'd want my kid's coaches to do.

There was also a woman from Pasco County who asked Wednesday night to warm up at the pit. She soon revealed that her 25-year-old daughter committed suicide by hanging last Thanksgiving Day. This was her getaway but you could tell she wasn't getting far. I wanted to invite her to our dozen-or-so T-day dinner, but didn't see her Thursday. Kind of put the whole idea of the holiday in perspective.

During one of my daily trips home to feed Mojo and Chili Palmer, the cat, I checked my office e-mail and found this message, the kind I often get when someone doesn't "get it." Maybe those coaches and that woman inspired my response:

Hello Steve:

My wife and I are not frequent movie goers but tonight based on your, and Colette Brancroft's (sp), ratings we went to see "No Country for Old Men". Were you both asleep when you screened this movie or are film critics these days enjoying "freebies for kudos" like some restaurant reviewers are known to do?  Too bad!

My reply:

Hello ------. Sorry you didn't appreciate the movie; perhaps if you were a frequent moviegoer your perspective would be enhanced. I certainly do not appreciate your suggestion of unethical actions by me or my colleagues. Judging movies isn't a true/false test. There are no clear-cut answers for everybody, and the wisest moviegoers realize that. Resorting to such a cheap shot on Thanksgiving Day sort of defeats the whole idea of the holiday, doesn't it? Hope Christmas is happier for you. Too bad, indeed.

Steve

Monday morning update:

Received this e-reply:

Hi Steve:

Your e-mail caused me to read some other reviews of "no country for.." - I guess I missed the main point of the flick and I owe you an apology. Furthermore, my comments about "freebies" was a cheap shot. Sorry about that and I appreciate you taking the time to answer. All the best for the up-coming holiday season. ------

Very classy. Thanks.

The Bucket List is Beaches for dudes

Jack Nicholson has influenced my life from the first time I saw Easy Rider in Anniston, Alabama, at a theater my Dad ran before but didn't then or else I wouldn't have seen an R-rated counterculture flick in George Wallace's Alabama at age 12.

I walked out of the Ritz on Noble St. -- a couple blocks from my Mom's newsstand -- and checked out the credits on the glass-framed one-sheet: "Ok, I know Peter Fonda and I think that was Dennis Hopper under all that hair. That must've been Jack Nicholson."

The guy in the gold football helmet on the back of a hog rolling down a freedom highway but -- when under the proper influences -- knew freedom makes you scary to dangerous people. At least that's the way it shockingly worked out for Peter, Dennis and Jack. Like when Mrs. Bartek busted me for wearing leather boots with shorts to 4th-grade social studies class. She asked if I was a Hell's Angel. My Mom asked for her apology. But I digress.

I can't order a chicken salad sandwich without telling the waitress to hold the chicken between her knees. I can't handle the truth. I wonder where he gets those wonderful toys.  I make me want to be a better man. Jack is me.

Watched the DVD screener of The Bucket List tonight. It isn't a completely good movie although it has excellent intentions plus Jack and Morgan Freeman, and two actors of that caliber playing off each other is fine for a Christmas Day release.

Especially for guys.

Fellas, we finally have a lump-in-the-throat movie besides The Dirty Dozen (poor Trini Lopez and Jim Brown), to call our own. Jack and Morgan play terminally ill cancer patients who take occasionally dumb last flings at life. They're terrific, no matter what Rob Reiner and the script throw their way. I'll tell you more later. But after all these years of Jack showing me how to live, at 70 he offers a pretty cool attitude for how to die.

Disney does rats right for a change

OK, so Enchanted isn't as pretty as Ratatouille. But it's a heckuva lot funnier, original and entertaining for the whole family, not just artsy-fartsy types and the kids they spawn to be shoved into school lockers someday.

Does that sound like a review before opening day, violating the Mouse House's pulled-from-thin-air "policy" that a still-MIA studio flack claimed I violated when I blogged that Ratatouille wouldn't be as interesting to children or profitable as Disney/Pixar's recent hits? She hasn't contacted me since but I expect a Christmas card.

Check the numbers. I was right.

So, without an official invitation, I crashed the Enchanted screening last night. Philip Booth is handling the review while I get the Atlantic City/Young Frankenstein stuff started. Don't know what he thought but the snide side of me hopes it wasn't as mildly positive as what I would write.

Enchanted is a hit-and-miss fantasy in which a cartoon princess named Giselle (Amy Adams, who is delightful) is banished to the real world (or at least Manhattan) by an evil queen (Susan Sarandon). I know the preview trailers (and comparatively there aren't many running) make it look worse than it is. Disney doesn't know how to sell anything anymore without plush toys and corporate tie-ins.

Enchanted is cheeky about Disney's 'toon legacy -- often too subtle to be funny yet wan enough to seem like they're playing it straight. I could skip a second viewing except for two scenes.

The first is when Giselle does the standard thing of singing out to her animal friends for help in the big city. Since she's real now, so are they: big freakin' computer-animated rats leading a charge of cockroaches, flies and pigeons (or rats with wings, as we call 'em here). It's so subversively funny that I'm shocked the super-secret-double-probation types didn't squash it.

The second scene is when Giselle's animal pals do a bibbidy-bobbedy-boo before Giselle's night on the town. Same joke but smartly executed, so it works.

We also see various rodents crawling around kitchens and restaurants, like that wimpy Remy (a pigeon without wings) in Ratatouille, but with energy and humor.

Funny thing: In one Times Square shot I spied a Superman Returns billboard, meaning Enchanted was filmed sometime before June, 2006. Disney held back this fun flick in deference to Ratatouille, thinking the rodents here would upstage Remy and his rat pack. In reality, Enchanted might have helped Ratatouille by showing rats can be fun. Of course, that would be false advertising of sorts, but that's Dizzy business as usual.

So, if that sounds like a review, feel free to attempt to pull down this post, Disney flacks. Whoops, I forgot: It's OK to say nice things about the empire. That's policy.

That's Fronk-en-steen

Back in town, back in action, and backed down with my blood pressure since I realized the doctor visit today wasn't for her to do a Katie Couric on my nearly 51-year-old butt. That'll come later.

Had a pretty good time in Atlantic City except for the dough I dropped at the roulette tables and in slots. Princess Di changed my luck a little when she arrived. Good thing I wasn't as sunk as deeply in my life when I met her.

Got a few stories to tell in print, about AC in the dead of winter when even the boardwalk cats -- the kind with whiskers, not the cool ones -- stay in their rooms. A couple Asian massage therapists stepped outside long enough to beckon tourists in. Not me. I'm a Magic Fingers kind of guy.

I'm also doing something on our bus ride from AC to NYC to see Young Frankenstein. The bus ahead of the one we were shooting for never showed up, causing a long line for whatever number of seats the next one might have. We were second and third in line when the driver announced he had two seats left.

Princess Di, trouper that she is, was already planning to let me go so I could see the show for a review, and she'd try to catch up on a later shuttle. Then my luckiest break in AC happened.

The iPod dude in front of us pushed a 20 at the driver, who said he couldn't take cash for a ticket. Go inside and buy one, he told the guy. "I have two tickets right here," I said, not giving anyone time to complain before bumrushing the bus steps. Had to sit next to the lavatory door for a while, but it was worth it.

Anyway, there's more. Until then, here's a first-draft preview of my Young Frankenstein review, to be continued on a publishing date to be announced:

The only thing higher than Young Frankenstein’s ticket prices are expectations for it.

Paying up to $450 for premium seats at the Hilton Theatre buys a lot of high hopes, especially after Mel Brooks adapted another of his movies, The Producers, with spectacular results on stage, at the box office (with more affordable pricing) and at the Tony awards.

Brooks doesn’t have a tough act to follow; he has an impossible one.

Young Frankenstein strains mightily to match The Producers with enormous set designs, clever lighting effects and occasionally inspired performances. Yet there are too many nondescript songs – again composed by Brooks – and performances paling in fond memory of his 1974 film to succeed.

Not that Young Frankenstein is a play that Bialystock and Bloom would’ve picked for a premeditated flop in The Producers. The ingredients are solid, if over-baked by director-choreographer Susan Stroman, another holdover from Brooks’ first smash.

Stroman’s version is nearly an hour longer than its non-musical namesake. This is a critical error, wrecking the film’s madcap pacing with forgettable songs between memorable dialogue, cribbed by Brooks and Thomas Meehan for the stage. Indeed, the audience whispered jokes with the actors, and got antsy when familiar setups – a blind hermit’s cottage, or impressively large door knockers – appeared onstage.

It’s too easy to get the jokes when you know them by heart and hard waiting for them longer than expected. When Dr. Victor Frankenstein (Roger Bart) yells "It’s alive!" as his monster awakens, the temptation as a theatergoer is to scream back: “No, this show isn’t.”

    

Springsteen wouldn't do this

Everybody needs a little time away, I heard her say, from each other.

Sorry to get all David Foster-era Chicago on you.

Actually, it's only for a day. Princess Di will meet me Friday night in Atlantic City. Take it away from Peter Cetera (please!), Bruce:

"Well now, ev'rything dies, baby, that's a fact But maybe ev'rything that dies someday comes back. Put your makeup on, fix your hair up pretty. And meet me (Friday night) in Atlantic City."

I'll be out of touch a few days while doing a Latitudes/travel story on Atlantic City. I like challenges.

I think I'm more excited about the Saturday morning bus ride from AC to NYC, where we're seeing the Broadway version of Young Frankenstein that just opened. Judging from these comments, the bus ride to the Port Authority station early Saturday morning and return late Saturday night should be blog material, if not an arrest report.

Take care, pals.

Sidney Lumet is still crankin'

At age 83, Sidney Lumet can still show young mavericks how movies should be made. Nearing the end of career that includes the classics Network, Serpico and Dog Day Afternoon, Lumet still pulls tricks from his sleeve with Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead.

Lumet works best when dealing with desperation and the way unprepared people haphazardly handle it. The crisis at hand is a beaut: Two brothers deeply in debt, robbing their parents’ jewelry store and their mother is killed in the process. It is the standard perfect crime gone drastically wrong. If leaving clumsy clues won’t trap the brothers, guilt certainly will.

In the end, this sordid story might be better served by linear telling. But let the aging master have it his way. Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead is smarter and tougher than most crime thrillers these days, thanks to Lumet’s firm handling of exceedingly nasty business.

Read the review Wednesday in Floridian.

The Oscars ain't over 'til Rob Lowe dances.

Finishing up the annual holiday movie preview that'll run Nov. 22 in Weekend. I already have a pretty strong top-10 list in mind but there's more to come.

In the article, I list 10 reasons why Oscar voters need to hold their ballots for a while (but keep No Country for Old Men and Into the Wild close to your hearts).

I won't give you all 10, or seven other reasons why the holidays will be box office business as usual, or four more subtitled movies worth reading. But here's a start:

Sweeney Todd: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street (Dec. 21) – Tim Burton and Johnny Depp reunite for a grim, blood-soaked adaptation of the Broadway smash. Depp plays a barber avenging his wife’s death and disposing of the bodies in meat pies baked by Mrs. Lovett (Helena Bonham Carter). And you complain about fruitcakes.

The Great Debaters (Dec. 25) – Could be the season’s sleeper. Denzel Washington directs and stars as a professor at a small black college in 1935, who started a debate team. Despite Jim Crow opposition, they earn the chance to challenge Harvard’s team.

There Will Be Blood (TBA) – Director Paul Thomas Anderson (Boogie Nights, Magnolia) tinkers with Upton Sinclair’s novel Oil! for Texas-sized melodrama. Daniel Day-Lewis is earning raves for his portrayal of a ruthless prospector who despises everyone.

Grace is Gone (TBA) – John Cusack’s fans are pulling for his first Oscar nomination, playing an Iraq War widower who can’t break the news to his daughters. One of his avoidance tactics was filmed at Cypress Gardens in Winter Haven.

Youth Without Youth (TBA) – Francis Ford Coppola (The Godfather) hasn’t been the same since Vietnam. His first film in a decade is the saga of an old man (Tim Roth) regaining youth after a lightning strike, devoted to studying the origins of language. Leave the gun, take the thesaurus.

The Patriots ain't got nuthin' on me

Gotta brag about going 8-0 in fantasy football this weekend, my first perfecto of the season. Deeply satisfying was my come-from-behind victory over Times pop music critic Sean Daly, whose affection for New England players proved costly during their bye week.

I was down 26 points before Monday night's game. Picked up Seattle's defense on a hunch and they tossed the shutout I promised Daly yesterday. Also picked up Maurice Morris, whose TD and 103 total yards made the difference.

Almost made sitting through August Rush worthwhile.

What's the rush, August?

Hickory Farms doesn’t produce as much cheese as August Rush, an aggressively sentimental urban fable with an Oliver! twist.

Devoid of anything approaching realism, Kirsten Sheridan’s movie moans for affection while viewers groan at her tactics. August Rush is actually more fun after the show, recalling its leaps of logic and boundless schmaltz.

Resist the urge to snicker during the movie, lest you disturb those who buy into this yarn and applaud its marshmallow conclusion, as some did at a free screening. Some folks really need to get out to the movies more.

Freddie Highmore (Finding Neverland) plays the title role, a bullied resident of an orphanage that apparently doesn’t have MTV. How else to explain his gawking at musical instruments as if they were from another planet? August is also one of those incredible child prodigies who can zoom from neophyte to conducting the New York Philharmonic in 100 minutes or less.

August Rush has its auditory pleasures as the boy hears music in the streets, while camera operators swirl their equipment like conductor batons. But Sheridan burdens her film with too much serendipity. Each chance encounter and sudden shift of fortunes makes a taller pile of hokum.

My favorite is that the song Moondance was the cue for August’s conception, played by a street musician who’ll turn out to be exactly who you think. Then the song is central to August’s “original” symphony that changes his life forever. Van Morrison must be so proud.

August Rush opens Nov. 21. Read the full review that day in Floridian.

Into the wild, with a detour for sushi

Went camping this weekend, or at least half of it, in Fort DeSoto Park, where men are men and raccoons don't mind cleaning up after 'em. First, I'll tell you why it was only a half-weekend.

I like camping. It's something I picked up in my 40's after a childhood deprived of summer camp. I just don't know how to do it right, since I quit Cub Scouts after my Webelos badge and grew to prefer roughing it with a/c and Magic Fingers.

Anyway, Princess Di and I get this campsite after an e-mail from friends saying get 'em soon in the dog-friendly area (so Mojo's involved) or lose out. There's a 6-month limit on reservations, so I - like the responsible person I am - log in at T-minus 6 months minus one day. No problem. We're set for the party.

Then everyone else isn't quite as responsible, and books in the non-pet area because that's all that's left by the time they are. I'm like an old schoolteacher on Survivor that just got his eyes poked with an immunity idol someone else won. Nobody explained the shift, which I take as a hint and maybe can't blame 'em for.

Anyway, Di and I have a Blue Lagoon kind of thing set up, very Shangra-La with a hickory smell straight from Lowe's. Until dark, when dark comes earlier now but appetites are still on standard time. That's when I hook up the first propane cannister by mini-flashlight to the grill I bought for the no-longer-communal occasion and it doesn't work. The fire pit would get hotter but the chemical logs stink up the babybacks.

Of course, I found the second cannister that did work at daybreak, and a breakfast of ribs, gourmet sausages, trimmings and garlic bread never tasted better. After two tents and two air mattresses to make one of each work, and a few other things, it seemed like a good time to go home to leftovers, a bed, and the alarm clock that makes cricket noises all night long and I haven't slept better in a raccoon's age.

But that's not what I wanted to tell you about.

I wanted to tell you about Sam.

When the grill didn't work and the drive to people who'd done camping right was just as far, Di and I (and Mojo, who was happy to be anywhere) drove to this sushi place that didn't mind a grubby, grumpy camper ordering take-out. Food was OK but the saki was better. Di and I waited outside on the bench next to a half-filled (-empty?) 12-pack of Miller Lite that wouldn't mind.

After a few minutes, someone who we later learned was named Sam walked toward us on the boardwalk - a generous assessment of his wobbly gait - with ears plugged to an iPod, so he didn't hear when I asked if those Miller Lites were more of what he clutched in his hand.

A couple minutes and several garbled conversation starters later, Sam removed one plug. I again asked if those were his beers. His reaction was what I'd imagine Timmy's mother would be if the kid were rescued from a well. We made a friend for 15 minutes, and enjoyed introducing Sam to anyone walking by who might appreciate a free spirit before the deputy in the parking lot did.

Made our night, after the camping disappointments and everything.

And if you're near Fort DeSoto and have a hankering for sushi, the Tokyo Love Story is to die for. Especially by flashlight.

Love in a movie like malaria

Even without reading Love in the Time of Cholera, it is easy to assume that director Mike Newell’s adaptation got it wrong. There is no way that such an enduring classic of romantic literature should be so disappointing on the screen.

The movie version reminds me of women I’ve dated: lovely but dull and sometimes irritating. Newell’s film is poorly cast, often wretchedly overacted with dialogue that Gabriel Garcia Marquez probably wrote yet wouldn’t seem silly on pages where emotional circumstances provoking them are fully developed.

Or perhaps you’ll swoon when post-coital conversation includes a line like: “I’ll never smell turpentine the same way again.” You’d have to be Olivier, Streep and De Niro rolled into one to make such words sing.

I know enough about Marquez’s book to guess Javier Bardem is the wrong choice to play Florentino Ariza, a lovestruck commoner spending 51 years, 9 months and 4 days pursuing the privileged woman of his dreams. Stalking is more like it in Ronald Harwood’s version, or maybe that comes from seeing Bardem the night before as a terrifying killer in No Country for Old Men.

Bardem is too virile for a role as a shy guy with an undertaker’s personality. His suppression of natural vitality is forced, his bowed head, tentative steps and muttered anguish hard to believe. Not too mention the aging makeup forcing him at times to resemble Groucho Marx.

Debate continues about the propriety of British filmmakers and actors from nearly everywhere except Spain handling that nation’s beloved literature, and in English. Something obviously is lost in translation. Love in the Time of Cholera spreads more like malaria, which is also known as sleeping sickness.

The movie opens Nov. 16, with the full review published in Thursday's Weekend.

No Country for Old Men, and not safe for young ones, either

No Country for Old Men expands a theme Joel and Ethan Coen raised at the climax of Fargo, when pregnant police chief Marge Gunderson is bewildered by the savage crimes she solved: “And for what?” she chides her prisoner. “For a little bit of money… And here ya are, and it's a beautiful day. Well, I just don't understand it.”

Neither does Sheriff Ed Tom Bell (Tommy Lee Jones) whose sardonic assessment of a desert massacre – “If it ain’t (a mess), it’ll do ‘til one gets here” – masks distaste for having to clean it up.

Llewelyn Moss (Josh Brolin) was hunting when he found the bloody scene and the money, $2-million that can change his trailer park life. Now he is the hunted, first by gunmen and a pit bull, then by the most quietly electrifying killer on screen since Hannibal Lecter.

Anton Chiguhr (pronounced shi-grrr and played by the astonishing Javier Bardem) is a ghostly sociopath with a Shaun Cassidy haircut, who wouldn’t be noticed until you got his attention and then you’d likely be dead. His weapon of choice is a tank of compressed air hooked to a cattle-kill spike. But anything will do.

The Coens again explore the darkest human intentions, as in Fargo and Blood Simple. Roger Deakins’ camera makes wide open spaces seem like deathtraps and seedy motel rooms like crypts. Again, the Coens edited their movie under the pseudonym “Roderick Jaynes” with diabolical timing. No discussion of No Country for Old Men is complete without marveling at Craig Berkey and Skip Lievsay’s sound engineering. This movie sounds as casually menacing as it should.

It opens Nov. 21 at local theaters and is challenging Into the Wild for best-of-year honors. Put it this way: If I need reassurance about life I'll see Into the Wild. If I need reassurance about the state of American cinema, I'll see No Country for Old Men. 

I'm Not There is almost here

Todd Haynes’ I’m Not There begins with Bob Dylan (or someone like him) on an autopsy slab, an appropriately offbeat symbol of what the movie does to his career.

Right away, we know this won’t be another Ray or Walk the Line, reciting familiar career highlights in a conventional arc. Autopsies are messy and so is Haynes’ movie, although missteps are seldom so daring and mistakes so wondrous to observe.

I’m Not There doesn’t even declare itself to be about Dylan, who has never been willing to admit who or what he is. Call him a poet or a preacher, the voice of a generation or a con for the masses and Dylan denies it all. Haynes can’t pin him down yet relentlessly tries, like a blindfolded man throwing darts.

I’m Not There isn’t the ultimate Dylan analysis, if such a thing could ever exist. Even better than description, Haynes’ film absorbs Dylan’s unpredictable nature, piling nonsense upon deep meaning and daring viewers to dig for it. Like its subject, it will frustrate some viewers, exhilarate others and leave everyone expecting more when so much has already been presented.

I'm Not There opens Nov. 21 only at Tampa Theatre. I'm guessing that a slightly wider release will follow as the year ends, as the movie makes top-10 lists and gets awards consideration, especially for Cate Blanchett as the Don't Look Back-era Dylan (shown at left), the screenplay and cinematographer Edward Lachman. Don't miss it, or the complete opening day review in Floridian.

They found comedy in the Muslim world

Got a story running Friday's Floridian about the Comics on Duty program created by Houston resident Rich Davis. He arranges tours of Iraq and Afghanistan war zones for stand-up comedians to entertain U.S. troops.

Two familiar Coconuts Comedy Club favorites are frequent COD entertainers: Danny Bevins and John Bizarre. Along with two other comics and local producer Tom Gribbin, they shot an hour-long documentary of their most recent trip titled We Love You, Mrs. Bevins.

You can view the trailer here.

The movie is only available on line but will be shown Nov. 14 at 9:30 p.m. at Beach Theater. Admission is $5 for a polished amateur movie about a good cause for troops deserving a little comic relief.

Davis told me he doesn't have any trouble finding comedians willing to give up a few weeks' gigs to  make 'em laugh.

"I literally turn away dozens of comics each month because I don’t have slots for them," Davis said. "I don’t have an unending budget. My programs are run by individual commands requesting us. There are a lot of comics who want to step up but a lot of them aren’t ready for that, for the situations they’ll be put in. That’s not to say they won’t be able to someday but with so few slots I have to pick and choose."

Davis said his charge to Army and Navy entertainment agencies isn't much. Comics on Duty is a nearly non-profit organization.

"This is not a $700 hammer," he cracked.

Bevins recalled one show at a helicopter base, before a group that didn't want to leave.

"We did the show and they wanted to keep talking to us," Bevins said. "We ended up in a dining facility with one light on, a table of people talking and laughing and eating ice cream. I’ll never forget that. Everybody was laughing, having a good time. If we were back home we’d probably be drinking beer but there’s no beer over there."

Check out the rest of the story Friday.

Lions for Lambs

While the word “debate” is demeaned by cautious candidates, along comes Lions for Lambs, proclaiming that ideas eloquently expressed and defended can be thrilling.

Of course, filtering those ideas through the liberal vantage of director Robert Redford encourages viewers to lean left. But no further than other patriots leaned when urged to action, and more “fair and balanced” than conservative media demagogues who compromised that phrase, too.

Lions for Lambs is rational to the brink of being unwieldy, boiling down U.S. military involvement in the Middle East and its consequences to a torrent of bipartisan rationale. Neither side is glorified or vilified, only given a chance to briskly outline their respective positions, with the media in the middle, taking its share of blame.

Redford’s message, conveyed through Matthew Michael Carnahan’s remarkably succinct screenplay, isn’t antiwar as much as it is anti-apathy. He doesn’t question the righteousness of some wars but the willingness of Americans to sit back and watch it happen. “If you don’t stand for something, you’ll fall for anything” is the movie’s tagline that applies to any ideology.

Read the full review Thursday in Weekend.

Been distracted, but...

What a weekend, starting Friday with work on an upcoming story you'll like. Local entertainment entrepreneur Tom Gribbin -- you'll remember him from the Saltwater Cowboys that Jimmy Buffett loved -- produced a cool documentary.

Four standup comedians including local favorites Danny Bevins and John Bizarre shot in in Iraq while entertaining troops as part of the Comics on Duty program. More on that project later, and the full story in Friday's Weekend.

Friday night, I went back home again to New Port Richey for an informal reunion with guys I played football with at Gulf High in the mid-1970s. Pretty good turnout, considering we won six games in three years. Nothing much changed with the wisecracks and poptops. Gotta tell you the best part of the evening, though, was when we resurrected someone from the dead.

Keith Aston played linebacker for us, and was among the first to leave NPR (New Port Richey or no place, really) after graduation, as many of us did. A few years later, word came that Keith was in a terrible accident and was decapitated. I think I even saw it posted on a Web site dedicated to the Class of '74 years later.

Friday night, I meet the guys in a Sonny's BBQ parking lot and  recognize everyone except this biker-looking dude. I sheepishly admit my forgetfulness and he says: "I'm Keith Aston."

With all the composure I could muster, I replied: "WHAT? YOU'RE S----ING ME! YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD!"

"Yeah, that's what I keep hearing,"  Keith says, and a running joke for the evening is born.

Later, I told the story to Chuck Pitcock, a wildman who was a few years behind us, played for the USFL's Tampa Bay Bandits and could still use a Ritalin IV. He's the guy that Preacher Dave who organized the get-together said had been hit too many times in the head and I added that the swelling hasn't gone down.

Chuck looked at Keith and said: "I don't even see no stitches on his neck." And this guy might've been my brother-in-law.

We all went to see Gulf play Pasco in a key district game the Buccaneers lost, apparently in our honor. Kind of like that lousy Robin Williams movie The Best of Times except we didn't suit up. We'll have to do that again sometime.

Saturday was the day my Dad has been awaiting for weeks. His entry was selected among 60 finalists in the Fanatical Bucs Fan contest co-sponsored by another local newspaper. That gave him a 1-in10 chance of randomly selecting a key to unlock and win a brand new Dodge pickup truck tricked out in Bucs colors. He already said I could borrow the pimped ride for a tailgate party or just to jokingly park in front of the Times building since it advertises Brand X.

We went to Channelside where a nice party for the finalists was held, with Stumps providing a free lunch of fried chicken, nachos and tasty cornbread. I took Dad inside the theaters and showed him a minute of the IMAX Transformers, his first look at such a screen, and one his first "boutique megaplex," as I'd describe Channelside's venue.

"Oh, my God," he said at first sight, truly stunned. Later he told me: "I thought I'd seen it all with Cinerama, but..." unable to complete the stunned thought. We headed outside to get his key.

In the courtyard there was a band, games, all the things that an 87-year-old man wouldn't get out of the house for except he might win a truck.

Alas, it wasn't to be. By the time dad got his key, four trucks had been claimed, severely reducing his  odds. He tried his key in the remaining two locks and nothing happened. We were all so proud of him anyway but he still apologized several times for not doing better. That's him, and subsequently, that's me.

Great weekend, and it'll only get better if the Bucs win and I can sweep my six fantasy football matchups for the first time this season.