"That's 'Deadly'"... RIP Harvey Korman

Sorry for the title but I'm sure Harvey Korman would approve.

I'm often asked what's my favorite movie and I always have to go back to the two I've seen the most.

Blazing Saddles is at least tied with Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid because of the times I threaded up the projector at my dad's Tampa theater and watched them when it wasn't open... oh, mid 50's before I lost count.

When Harvey Korman said -- as Hedley (not Hedy) Lamarr -- that he was sacrificing an almost certain Academy Award nomination for best supporting actor when he ordered his minions to "go do that voodoo that you do so wellllllllllll!" on the town of Rock Ridge -- I believed him.

I loved Korman on TV with Carol Burnett, and on screen with Mel Brooks:

"Meeting's adjourned."

"It is???"

"No, you say that, governor."

"What?"

"Meeting's adjourned."

"It is???"

"Here, sir, play with this."

Bless one of the funniest straight-men ever. Ask Tim Conway.

You don't pay for the "Zohan"

Adam Sandler strikes again -- which means he strikes out -- in You Don't Mess with the Zohan, a movie opening June 6, making its budget back in a week and hitting your local video store shelves shortly thereafter. I'll provide the unbecoming details closer to opening day.

But for now...

Zohan is another excuse for Sandler to have a party and make you pay for it. He invites a bunch of friends (John Turturro should be ashamed, if only for the hoary Rocky spoof scene) or people he'd like to meet (Mariah Carey was better in Glitter) for dumb, obvious and often offensive jokes. Of course Rob Schneider is here; he must be washing Sandler's fleet of cars weekly.

The gags in this movie fall mainly in three categories: buttocks sight gags, erection sight gags and horny old -- I mean old -- ladies being sexually gratified. One of the few highlights occurs when Lainie Kazan (who was hot when I watched her on the Mike Douglas Show in sixth grade) pulls off the trifecta, although it may not count because Kim Kardashian may have been hired as a butt double.

The only thing dumber than Zohan was the security force hired for the occasion, which supposedly confiscated every cell phone to prevent anyone from... um, whatever you can do with a cell phone that you need to hire a handful of guys to prevent. (Memo to future flashlight cops: It's video cameras able to record more than 60 seconds at a clip that you seek.) If it's disturbing viewers with a phone ringing, that rule was violated by -- you guessed it -- one of the security guards with a creepily dainty ring tone.

Anyway, the guards kept the confiscated cell phones in paper bags with claim tickets attached -- right in front of the exit doors. They only had, maybe, 50 stashed with around 200 people in the theater. That's either a lot of missed phones or a lot of Sandler's fans can't afford them. When someone stopped to look for their claim number, the exit was effectively blocked, leading to a jam-up like that high school band Stork led into an alley in Animal House.

Now that's funny.

Sex and the City, Suburb, Beach, Borough and Mexico

My best friend T-bone and I go back a long way, through thick, thin and downright skimpy. We know each other's past and present, and plan on taking care of each other in the future as long as it doesn't cost too much.

I honestly thought I knew T-bone. Tonight I learned something I never suspected, something that truly stunned me.

T-bone has watched every episode of Sex and the City. Some (*sob*) twice.

I didn't know when I invited T-bone to a screening of Sex and the City: The Movie (that is composed and performed exactly like the TV show, only bigger). He broke it to me during the ride to Tampa.

After taking a sip of Monster and mixing it with bile, I listened as a friend should. I felt like Carrie Bradshaw in the movie when someone she trusts confesses a hurtful, long-held secret. Then something happened. The more he explained, the more it all made sense.

Sydney Pollack: Known by the company he kept

The late director Sydney Pollack didn't have a signature style. Look again at his three truly great films -- Tootsie, They Shoot Horses, Don't They? and The Way We Were (note that 26 years passed since the most recent one) and you'd be hard-pressed to identify any master's touch common among them.

He did, however, provide palettes for a few actors to paint their own signature roles upon: Dustin Hoffman's Dorothy Michaels/Michael Dorsey, Barbra Streisand's Katie Morosky, Gig Young's marathon dance huckster, Willie Nelson's sidekick to The Electric Horseman. The director's hands-off approach to actors -- he was one himself, so he understood the frustration of intrusion -- likely made those memorable roles due to the actors' instincts, not Pollack's.   

Pollack was a fine storyteller -- when a script presented a story worth telling, and around half of his 21 works didn't. But I can't imagine anyone viewing a Pollack film not knowing who directed, yet able to identify it as such, as can easily be done with the Fords, Kubricks, Hitchcocks and Spielbergs of cinema history, even some non-household names with distinctive oeuvres.

If Pollack hadn't been compensated with a best director Oscar for 1985's undeserving Out of Africa -- perhaps the dullest best picture winner ever -- his death Monday at age 73 wouldn't be page one news. Making up for oversights by voting for an artist's later, lesser works were common in Academy Awards voting in those days. Pollack and his movies Tootsie (1982) and They Shoot Horses, Don't They? (1969) could've, and maybe should have won those Oscars in their respective years.

If they had, I'm not sure Pollack's career would be any more exemplary.

Flex and the City: The Movies

I never watched a complete episode of Sex and the City, so I can't imagine what sitting through a 2 hour and 25-minute version of a femme banal sitcom I dodged for six years will do to my sperm count.

But I did spend a few minutes watching Flex and the City, an amusing trilogy of spoofs produced by Heavy.com starring Jamie Kovac ("Fury" on American Gladiators) as a musclebound Carrie Bradshaw surrounding by other bodybuilders playing Samantha, Charlotte, Miranda, Sneezy, Dopey... oh, wrong cartoons. Sorry.

I can't vouch for whether the scenes they act out are directly from the TV show but it sounds like it. I know they get the opening credits right because that's how much I'd see of the show before finding the remote control. 

Arrivederci, baby

Got a little less bounce to my step today, and for 10 days to follow. Princess Di is leaving on a jet plane and although I know when she'll come back again that doesn't make being apart from my baby any easier.

She's traveling with her Mom to Italy for a tour of Rome, Venice and Florence, one of those If It's Tuesday This Must Be Belgium kind of bus things where Di will bring down the median age considerably. I'm jealous, even if it would mean road tripping with my mother-in-law.

Actually, we get along very well, especially after a Thanksgiving story I always love telling: Mom-in-law is a stickler for propriety at the dinner table on such occasions. She kept reminding the large group to pass everything to the left, to the left, to the left. She sounded like Kevin Costner going over the Zapruder footage in JFK.

Anyway, during the second round of helpings, the giblet gravy must've caught up to Mom, who let slip a dainty little fart. Everyone froze because nobody mocks Mom.

Except me. I broke the silence by asking her: "So, Mom, should we all pass gas to the left now?"

We've been closer ever since.

Anyway, Princess Di has been doing her research of touring Italy, in typically weird Princess Di fashion. Sure, she checks out Fodors and Zagat and all those conventional sources. But I've been coming home to her watching movies like Hannibal and The Omen just to note where grisly scenes took place. I love that side of my sweetie. Or at least I love knowing she has it, just for self-defense.

Have a great time, baby, come back safe, and stay downwind of your mother.

O Sole Mio!

Summer movie trailer clubhouse is open!

We were sitting around a table somewhere in Ybor during Super Bowl XXXXOOOO (that's our kind of Roman numerals) when I told Princess Di that every football team looks like a champion in the highlight reels. I'm sure I wasn't the first to notice but Di -- bless her no-R-rated-movies-before-21 heart -- thought I was a genius.

I hope everyone else notices that movies are the same kind of promotional beast. Watch the Miami Dolphins' 2007 highlights, hear that NFL Films announcer's (probably a Sabol) booming promise of title-challenging days, probably now, despite a 1-15 season. Tell me if that doesn't look and sound like the preview trailer for Space Chimps.

Every movie is an Oscar contender in the highlight reel.

Which brings us to the topic of movie previews, specifically summer flicks, that coincidentally are the subject of today's Weekend cover story.

Check out my picks for the 10 best and 10 worst movie summer movie preview trailers. Then post your own choices in either or both categories.

Let's remember that anything released before this weekend doesn't count. The online posting date, finally, of my Indy 4 review was the deadline. I don't think Helen Hunt's Then She Found Me preview would get many votes, anyway.

Have fun while I tidy up for the Mom-in-law's visit.

Bunny Chow served at Studio@620

The Gasparilla Film Festival doesn't fold its tents when the wrap party ends. These folks are carving out an identity as a 365-day supporter of independent film arts, both here in Tampa Bay and now around the world.

The festival's ambitious Global Lens Film Series begins this Friday at Studio@620, 620 1st Ave. S in St Petersburg. The venue, WMNF-FM and the University of Tampa are sponsoring this mostly fortnightly (Bob Jenkins just gave me that word) event. The Gasparilla fest hooked up with the Los Angeles San Francisco-based Global Film Initiative, "promoting cross-cultural understanding and diversity by presenting developing world feature films in over 40 major U.S. cities."

The first Global Lens offering is John Barker's Bunny Chow, focusing upon three comedians living in Johannesburg celebrating a raucous roadtrip to Oppi Koppi, South Africa's largest music festival.

The Incredible Shrinking Oscar Winner

Helen Hunt copped a best actress Academy Award for As Good As It Gets, and maybe that's as good as it'll ever get for her.

Anybody see Pay It Forward, The Curse of the Jade Scorpion and Bobby to watch her playing thankless roles blandly? You may have seen What Women Want and/or Cast Away, but do you even remember Hunt was there?

Perhaps directing is her return ticket to significance. On television, where her misplaced debut Then She Found Me might be an afternoon delight for bored homemakers cuddling bon bons.

Then She Found Me is essentially Baby Mama without the jokes, although Hunt and her actors seem to believe they’re there. Hunt plays April Epner, a kindergarten teacher who wants to be a mother. Her marriage to a nerd (Matthew Broderick) ends when he moves back in with his mother. April’s adoptive mother just died. Her biological mother is Bette Midler, whose character has a name but it doesn’t matter because she’s always Bette Midler.

There’s also a Mr. Right, played by the rightest of misters in these affairs, Colin Firth. He’s always Colin Firth; masking his emotions behind that deceptively stern face until the proper moment when he becomes Mr. Darcy-dreamy.

As a director, Hunt is unremarkable except for the extraordinary number of close-ups she gives herself. It isn’t exactly vanity since April scarcely wears makeup on her perpetually strained face; more like an expensive screen test for that meaty comeback role Hunt seeks.

[AP photo]

I scream, you scream

I love Gary Shelton's sports writing for the Times, partly because he knows what he's talking about  when he uses movie references. Therefore, I wholeheartedly believe this multiplex horror story Gary messaged me about:

"I took the kids to see Iron Man over the weekend, and I was aghast at something I had never seen before in an American cinema. Tell me if I'm just out of date.

"We went to Park Place (Stadium 16) for the 6:40 showing. Obviously, we paid a fortune to get in, and a fortune-and-a-half for concessions. The place was packed, and the lights were glaring (they went down during the movie).

"Then, about 15 minutes before the movie began, some usher came in hawking ice cream.: 'Now I'm over in the corner if you need ice cream.' (English movie houses do that all the time.) This was like Crazy Larry selling ice cream. He prattled on and on, loudly, about how hot the theater was going to get and what kinds of ice cream he had and how parents should make kids happy. He went on and on for several minutes. No takers.

"Then he came back and did the same thing. Then he came back again. By the end, I was ready to pay him to shut up. Or to buy (an ice cream) drumstick so I could throw it at him (just joking).

"I don't know if this is another trend to try to increase profits, but I swear, I'm not heading back there anytime soon. I'll wait for the DVD."

Don't blame you at all, Gary. Not only is that shameful shilling, it's also another reason for audiences to think disruptive behavior is appropriate in a theater. I called Park Place, where a manager confirmed that they do sell ice cream (I wondered if it was the nearby creamery doing some cross-promotional thing), and they do occasionally send an employee ("He isn't obnoxious.") into auditoriums selling goodies of all kinds, even using a push cart on occasion.

He called it "a courtesy" for moviegoers when lines at the concession stand get too long.

I call it the last act of a desperate industry. But Gary doesn't care if it's the first act of Henry V (he'll get that, if you don't).

Digging up bones with Indiana Jones

I should have a sandwich board sign hanging off my shoulders today. The front would read: "Yes, I've seen Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull." The back would answer the unavoidable follow-up question: "Yes, I mostly enjoyed it."

Then I'd hire a platoon of Short Rounds to follow me carrying banners explaining why I did and didn't. It's already getting redundant, speaking to everyone's curiosity.

The undeniably positive stuff is easy: Harrison Ford still has his iconic swagger at age 65, Steven Spielberg can still shove the pedal to the metal in action set pieces, and Karen Allen's "Marion Ravenwood," resurrected from Raiders of the Lost Ark, remains one of the pluckiest -- if now puffiest -- adventure heroines in movies.

The undeniably negative stuff is a talky patch of exposition between Indy's first escape from Area 51 and the clutches of Cold War Commies to his next escape astride a motorcycle steered by a minor irritant, Shia LaBeouf's "Mutt Williams," a concession to the teen market buying most tickets these days, unborn when Indy released his (next-to-) Last Crusade 19 years ago.

There's a point when Indy and Mutt careen into a college library where Prof. Jones is asked a source question by a student. Scrambling to make a getaway, Indy refers him to another expert's work, adding: "If you want to be an archaeologist, you have to get out of the library." LaBeouf doesn't immediately convince me that he belongs anywhere else; the movie spends too much time sorting through the archives.

Then there's the stuff that entertained me, that some Indiana Jones fans may not appreciate as much.

Prince Caspian: Onward Christian youth soldiers

“You may find Narnia a more savage place than you remember,” a dwarf warns in The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian.

That’s an understatement.

Continuing the series created by novelist C.S. Lewis, director Andrew Adamson skips the magical wardrobe, gives the witch only one scene and keeps the lion at bay most of the movie. Filling the void is numerous and violent sword fights, fatal arrows and old-fashioned beatdowns that would make Aragorn and his Hobbit friends reconsider their quest.

Even the cute talking animals in this one are out for blood.

What's your fave summer movie preview?

Well, kiddies, I need your help. No, not with antidepressants; I have plenty of those.

I'm prepping our annual summer movie preview that's due for publication on May 22 in Weekend. Each year I like to come up with some new angle but my editors just won't buy into my idea of reprinting last year's feature, just to see if anyone notices.

Instead, our summer preview will focus upon summer previews. You know, those 2-minute propaganda pieces you see in theaters and online trying to convince everyone that this or that movie is ABSOLUTELY WHAT YOU CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT SEEING!

I want to list choices for the best and worst of those preview trailers, the ones either pulling money from your pocket like a magnet, or those that making yard work seem like a better use of time.

Right now, I'm leaning toward Hancock as my fave, with Will Smith looking primed to reclaim his crown as the Fourth of July movie king. I love the notion of a miscreant superhero doing more damage than good with his powers. (The whale-saving shot is priceless, if you haven't seen it.) And that unprintably titled Ludacris song backing the action ("Whoa, get out the way") is, as the kids say, quite hip indeed.

On the other end of the spectrum, the worst trailer I've seen is trying to make chicken salad of the chicken whatever that is Eddie Murphy's next flick, Meet Dave. Check it out but sure to use safety goggles to prevent the exquisite badness from scorching your retinas.

You can find almost any movie's  trailers on YouTube, of course. I'm partial to searching the titles on the Internet Movie Database where trailer links are available.

Wherever you go for your preview trailer fix, post your suggestions here. And before deadline, please. My boss will appreciate that.

Bra Boys and a sweet old lady

In Sydney, Australia’s surfside suburb Marouba lives the Abberton brothers’ legacy of riding waves and trampling civility. They are the core of the infamous Bra Boys (R), a gang preferring to be considered a tribe whose violations of law and propriety are preservations of their culture, not criminal acts.

Who says? The co-creator of Bra Boys who happens to be oldest brother Sunny Abberton. Starting with an unconvincing link to Marouba’s historical past, the Abbertons and their surfing cronies are constantly posed as misunderstood free spirits. The mind-altering binges, reckless behavior and a murder charge all have some bogus rationalization in Abberton’s view.

It isn’t surprising that Russell Crowe with his bad boy image feels connected to the Abberton brothers, providing narration here and plans for a dramatic feature film on the subject. Crowe’s listless line readings suggest his involvement is part of the deal rather than a labor of love.

Like the superior Dogtown and Z-Boys a few years ago, Bra Boys depends chiefly upon home movies, less tightly edited and more blurry in this movie. A more amateurish look is seldom seen in theaters. Even sloppiness might be excused if Abberton weren’t so obviously self-serving to his clan. Brother Jai is charged with killing a drug dealer and the slant becomes too steep for credibility; even if he’s innocent, conviction could be payback for any number of infractions.

The surfing sequences are impressive as any footage in Australia’s waves should be, and the Abbertons’ rebellious nature may appeal to some viewers. But Bra Boys plays like a character reference at a sentencing hearing after the defendant pleads guilty; easy to see through and tough to believe.

Harrison Ford is still a blockbusting swashbuckler at 66 while the Young@Heart chorus of rocking seniors swings out singing. So, what about actor/bon vivant Mimi Weddell deserves a movie besides surviving to age 93?

Director Jyll Johnstone can’t find a concrete answer in her documentary Hats Off despite a decade’s access to Weddell’s routine of chasing down bit parts and modeling gigs. Sure, it’s a kick to see her flipping through gymnastics classes, and being named one of New York’s 50 most beautiful people is a neat twist on that distinction. Anyone defying expectations of aging is at least momentarily interesting.

But Johnstone settles for the sheer novelty of Weddell’s existence, unlike the Young@Heart documentary currently in theaters making stylish longevity seem within anyone’s reach. Hats Off suggests it’s Weddell’s way or nothing, and she’s an exception to the mortality rule.

Viewers may recognize Weddell from her brief appearances on TV’s Sex and the City and Law and Order, and films such as Across the Universe, Hitch and Broken Flowers. Her brittle physical appearance is deceiving but suitable for roles poking fun at seniors. Johnstone doesn’t inquire much about that image, nor does she delve into the slight embarrassment Weddell’s family suggests in interviews.

Without such insight, Hats Off is merely an overlong version of what could be a brief human interest segment on the evening news.

Eddy Arnold, Mom and me

My mother used to joke that she would pack her bags and leave us in a heartbeat, if Eddy Arnold asked her.

At least I think she was kidding.

Eddy was her favorite singer of all time -- with an occasional exception for Ray Price when he sang Crazy Arms. It had something to do with the tuxedo he wore like a second skin, that baritone voice that Dinah Shore memorably described as "warm butter and syrup poured over wonderful buttermilk pancakes," and the lush, Sinatraesque violins he added to traditional country music, becoming a successful crossover act before crossover was cool.

The news this week that Eddy died at age 89 deeply saddened her. When Mama's not happy, nobody's happy.

When we get together for Mothers Day dinner today (yes, it's Saturday but that's how Persalls roll) I'll probably sing a few lines from Turn the World Around or Make the World Go Away into her ear while I'm hugging her. I'm sure we'll reminisce about the two occasions when we went to see Eddy in concert.

The first time was when we lived in Alabama and I was about 12 years old. We drove an hour to Birmingham for the show, stopping beforehand at an appliance store so I could get one of those new-fangled cassette player/recorders that seemed like something from a Jules Verne novel at the time. I got an eight-pack of blank tapes, Dionne Warwick's greatest hits (my initiation to the wonders of Burt Bacharach) and Eddy's, too.

That night, I carried the shoebox-sized contraption into the theater, planning to capture the concert for later replays. "Bootlegging" only referred to 'shine in Alabama at the time, so it didn't seem like a big deal.

The show was classy, as I recall, and so was Eddy afterward, sitting at a table signing autographs for anyone standing in line long enough. Of course, we did. When we reached Eddy, I placed the cassette recorder and its plug-in microphone on the table while shaking his hand. Eddy asked what that thing was, so I told him, proudly adding that I was able to record his show. He looked a bit concerned.

"Umm, how about you taking that over to my manager and tell him what it is," I recall him saying, pointing to someone that I immediately sensed I didn't want eye contact with. Okay, I said, grabbing the recorder before anyone else had a mind to, tucking it under both arms and heading for the exit. I felt like I'd just robbed a Brink's truck but did it for Mom.

Later, I discovered just how lacking the technology was, straining to listen to Eddy's show through a tiny, single speaker and hearing mostly applause between muffled melodies. I never tried listening to the concert again but I don't doubt for a second that my pack rat mother still has it stored somewhere. I know I threw away the recorder after the next big breakthrough -- 8-track tapes -- became the rage.

About 20 years ago, I was writing for Players magazine, a local music/entertainment rag, when news came that Eddy Arnold would appear at the old Bayfront Center a few days after Mom's birthday. Somehow I wrangled a couple tickets and, even better, after-show backstage passes so she could meet him again without the long line or rushed greeting. I kidded her that I wouldn't be the one telling Dad if she decided to not come home.

Eddy was gentlemanly as expected, Mom was thrilled as planned and I didn't bring up the recording incident during our conversation in case the statute of limitations hadn't expired. After all the celebrity brushes I've had over the years, that one remains special, especially now.

Happy Mothers Day, Mom. Rest in peace, Eddy.

Chew on this, Uwe Boll

I get all kinds of messages plugging P.R. stunts. This is one of my favorites lately.

If you don't know the name Uwe Boll, consider yourself lucky. He's the guy who turned popular horror video games such as House of the Dead, BloodRayne and Alone in the Dark into some of the most universally reviled movies of all time. A chewing gum company is riding that vitriolic wave, evidenced by this e-announcement:

In an effort to protect the childhood dreams of millions of video gamers everywhere, the makers of Stride gum announced today that they are launching a special campaign supporting the efforts of StopUweBoll.org in their attempt to convince famed film director Uwe Boll to stop making video game-based films.

For years, Boll has piqued the ire of the gaming community by adapting many of their favorite games into universally panned films. On April 4, 2008, Boll remarked to legendary horror site FearNet that he'd consider acquiescing to his critics and abandoning making films in this genre if an online petition reached one million signatures.

As of press time, the petition is just about 234,000 names, which is why Stride has decided to jump in.

“Since gamers are one of our most supportive groups, we’ve been looking for ways to return the favor,” said Gary Osifchin, Stride North American Marketing Director. “And what better way is there to get gamers’ backs than by helping them rescue their cherished video games from the clutches of Uwe Boll?”

In an effort to help boost signings, the makers of Stride have put out a special bounty.

If the petition reaches the required 1 million signatures by May 14 at 5pm EDT, each signer will receive a digital coupon* for a pack of gum, downloadable on May 23, 2008, a day that could really use some long-lasting refreshment, particularly as it will see the debut of his latest video game-based film. (Either Far Cry or Tunnel Rats -- his distributors don't inform critics for understandable reasons.)

"Look, it's nothing personal against the guy. Maybe his non video game-based films are unbelievable!  But we've seen such intense passion for this cause that we couldn't help but get involved," said Osifchin. "Let the signing continue."

Oscars schmoscars, I want my MTV awards

Serious Film Critics consider the annual MTV Movie Awards to be a chance for junk cinema to get props because that's about all the MTV audience demands from cinema. Cynicism becomes me.

Then comes the announcement of this year's MTVMA nominees. While there are some movies that shouldn't be anywhere near an award show (Rush Hour 3, Jumper, Pirates of the Caribbean: At Wit's End, and I Now Pronounce You Chuck & Larry), I'm very impressed that the nominations list also includes three of my top-10 film choices for 2007: Oscar winner Javier Bardem (No Country for Old Men) for best villain, four nods for Juno and one for Sweeney Todd (although I doubt many MTV voters sat through that much opera but Johnny Depp is tooooo cute for this crowd to overlook).

Either I'm going through my second juvenile delinquency or the kids are wising up.

The list is still slanted toward sophomoric comedy (Superbad leads with five noms), geeks they can relate to (Michael Cera's two nominations), celluloid video games (Transformers) and whoever's pin-ups are gracing bedroom walls (Jessica Biel, Zac Efron, paparazzi terrorist Chris Brown).

Perhaps the best example of the MTV Movie Awards' silliness is a new category: Best Summer Movie So Far. Keep in mind that voting ends May 23, one days after the nominated Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull opens in theaters. Sex and the City: The Movie won't debut until a week later. That gives an advantage to Speed Racer (but not much when you see it), The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian and Iron Man.

Check out the link to nominees and post your choices for the best and worst honorees. I'll be watching  June 1 to see if  Briana Evigan and Robert Hoffman win Best Kiss for Step Up 2: The Streets. That is, if I can figure out which channel they'll be broadcast on.

 

In defense of Ashton Kutcher

It is time to give a fair shake to Ashton Kutcher, as if enough cool things haven’t happened in his life. From his irrationally perfect genes to marrying Demi Moore, Kutcher’s fortune almost demands to be despised.

Those haters should lay off. Anyone paying attention after That 70’s Show and Dude, Where’s My Car? notices how Kutcher cannily parlayed fame as a producer: deflating celebrities on MTV’s Punk’d, punking paparazzi with Pop Fiction and turning the potentially degrading Beauty and the Geek into a sweetly empowering reality show.

Kutcher jumps into acting now and then, usually over his head in dramatic roles that his pretty-boy image won’t allow viewers to accept. Which brings us to What Happens in Vegas, and the role making Kutcher into a bona fide romantic comedy star.

No, Speed Racer, No!

Speed Racer must be what a seizure looks like from the inside, all perpetual motion and confectionery hues with style to burn and a substance needle buried on “E.”

The Wachowski brothers of The Matrix fame – and its sequels’ infamy – turn cinema into spinner art, squirting computer-generated paint on a whirling canvas to see what images result. Some pictures are pretty, while others get pretty irritating the third or fourth time around with encores to come.

Aside from sensory annoyance, the demographic target for Speed Racer is also a blur. Born of Japanese manga 40 years old, the brand appeals to viewers too old to wish to be called fanboys anymore. The Wachowskis hedge their box office bets by making Speed Racer a kiddie flick, often focusing upon a chubby preteen and his impish chimpanzee.

Yet few children care about complex corporate shenanigans forming the story’s core, nor should any see and hear torture and profanity in a PG movie. Then there’s the 136-minute running time challenging any age’s attention span. Don’t worry about taking a restroom break; anything missed likely will be rehashed again.

David #!@*!&# Mamet

Emily Moritmer stars as Laura Black, left, and Chiwetel Ejiofor stars as Mike Terry in the film, "Redbelt." [AP/Sony Pictures]

Writer-director David Mamet (Glengarry Glen Ross, The Spanish Prisoner) detours slightly from his moody, profane con games with Redbelt, creating something like an action movie. The combination isn’t entirely successful, with bone-crushing mixed martial arts interrupted by Mamet putting eloquent words into the mouths of characters, many of whom aren’t around enough for their thoughts to matter.

Mike Terry (Chiwetel Ejiofor) is a man of honor, as Mamet often essays, caught in a potentially compromising position. He owns a ju jitsu school bleeding red ink, with a wife (Alice Braga) doubting their future. In a bizarre early scene, a nervous attorney (Emily Mortimer) accidentally discharges a gun belonging to one of Mike’s students, a policeman who graciously doesn’t arrest her. So far, so what?

Mike visits a tavern where movie star Chet Frank (Tim Allen) is being harassed by a drunk. Mike steps in to protect Chet, who repays him with dinner, an expensive wristwatch and a job supervising fight scenes on his latest production. Something about Chet and his agent (Joe Mantegna) doesn’t seem right, and it isn’t. Neither is it particularly interesting.

Exactly how those episodes connect to Mike entering a crooked mixed martial arts tournament isn’t clear, even in hindsight. Neither does the fact that the big fight occurs in an arena entranceway, not the ring. Redbelt feels like a movie with a lot of clarity left on the editing room floor, some allegory Mamet is attempting that never comes into focus, with a conclusion so incredible that the movie crumples into a heap like one of Mike’s opponents.

Redbelt opens in select theaters May 9.