Wicked 'Step Brothers' and 'The Wackness'

It has been a pretty funny week at the movies, and fun when it wasn't.

I'm sure that by 6 a.m. this morning someone somewhere canceled my temporary bragging rights of having seen The Dark Knight twice. Those sold-out midnight shows were backed up with 3 a.m. and 6 a.m. screenings in some markets (not ours that I'm aware of, but enlighten me, please).

It's nice to see such fervor for an excellent movie, as opposed to the similar rushes for Pirates 3: Dead Man's Chest and Spider-man 3. I'm hoping TDK takes away Spidey's opening weekend record of $151-million, just to again prove art, commerce and mainstream moviegoers truly can co-exist.

Those two TDK screenings were followed by three others. You can read about Pineapple Express elsewhere on this blog.

The stoner humor in PE plus the stoner dramedy of this morning's show, The Wackness, means Princess Di should've stashed more potato chips and Fruit Roll-Ups for me while she's in Fort Myers fishing with her girlfriends (at least, that's the story she tells me). This is the first week I've ever gotten cotton-mouth from sitting in theaters.

The Wackness features three terrific performances by Ben Kingsley (of course), Olivia Thirlby (which I might have guessed after Juno) and Josh Peck (who woulda thunk it, except Daly since he watches Nickelodeon).

Peck plays a just-graduated teen in 1994 Manhattan who supports his struggling, argumentative family by selling pot out of an ice cream cart. One of the best customers is his shrink (Kingsley), an old hippie with his own family problems. Thirlby his the doc's stepdaughter, whom Peck crushes on and she appreciates the gesture.

Writer-director Jonathan Levine re-creates Guliani-era New York with great skill and a dynamite soundtrack spotlighting Notorious B.I.G. and A Tribe Called Quest for Peck's character, and David Bowie and Donovan for Kingsley's. The movie drags a bit in the second half but has a Garden State/The Graduate coming-of-age vibe that I enjoyed. The Wackness opens Aug. 1, and it's mostly dopeness.

Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly could use some the mind-altering substances used in The Wackness because those boys just ain't right in their heads. Their second collaboration after Talladega Nights, Step Brothers, confirms they're two peas in the same twisted pod.

Step Brothers is a one-joke comedy that somehow sustains itself for almost two hours. Ferrell and Reilly play 40-year-olds still living with their respective single parents, forced to co-exist when the parents (Mary Steenburgen, Richard Jenkins) get hitched. Not many comedians could carry off acting like spoiled 12-year-olds, and these guys almost don't.

When the angle starts getting stale, Ferrell and Reilly are capable of saying or doing anything obscene to hold your attention. Step Brothers opens July 25.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get ready to tape something for the 11 p.m. news on Ch. 10 regarding the Dark Knight phenomenon occurring. Then I'm hightailing it to New Port Richey to meet T-Bone, who invited me to help park cars at the 30th reunion of a Gulf High class that graduated four years after me.

Not a hard job; we're sitting in a golf cart for an hour or two, drinking beer and waving at cars. Then we'll hit the party inside, at the riverfront home of a guy who was an usher at my first wedding, something that neither of us bring up anymore. Nice warmup for Saturday night's Rays game at the Trop, followed by an M.C. Hammer concert, then Sunday by an Ybor City shindig at Columbia Restaurant for a local film production I'll tell you about later.

You know, you really can't touch this.

Pleading the Fifth on Pineapple Express

I refuse to testify how hilarious Pineapple Express often can be, on the grounds that it may tend to incriminate me.

Well, not me but everyone I've witnessed smoking copious amounts of hi-grade marijuana at rock concerts, family reunions and piano recitals. Those folks will think Pineapple Express is a documentary.

Seth Rogen's reefer madness movie doesn't open until Aug. 8. Columbia Pictures provided an early screening last night, probably expecting short-term memories to lapse so people who attended will buy tickets later.

Even if you've never partaken of heathen weed, Pineapple Express can provide a contact high. Rogen plays Dale Denton, a usually-stoned process server who dates a high school student and witnesses a murder committed by a police officer (Rosie Perez) and a drug dealer (Gary Cole). Frightened for his life, Dale seeks pot, protection and munchies from his cannabis contact, Saul Silver (scary funny James Franco). Things get messy, with a third wheel (Danny McBride, The Foot Fist Way). breaking out big guns and bad attitude.

Pineapple Express -- the title refers to a potent strain of Hawaiian pot -- is basically Cheech & Chong & Brad Pitt's True Romance character meet Lethal Weapon, oh, let's say 3. It's entirely based on shock comedy, from explicit language to ears being shot off. It gets a bit tiring in the second half; the stream-of-consciousness humor goes from stoned inspiration to those mumbles just before someone nods off.

But you can count on its core audience embracing Pineapple Express, and imitating its crudest gags, like constructing a crucifix-shaped joint, or hitchhiking with one's thumb suggestively protruding from a pants zipper, or... hey, man, does that popcorn have butter on it?
 

48 Hour Film Project returns

This weekend, dozens of Tampa Bay's ambitious filmmakers -- and you know who you are -- will partake in a terrific creativity exercise, and maybe jump-start a career or two.

The 48 Hour Film Project is a national contest allowing teams of filmmakers to create a short film in randomly selected categories... with a 48-hour deadline. I wrote about the marathon endeavor and some of the participants last year. Some excerpts from the news release:

"Before the contest begins, each team will get a character, a prop, a line of dialogue and a genre, all to include in their movie. The winning team will be invited to attend the Filmapalooza Awards weekend, held in March (in a city to be announced) and will go on to participate in the second round competition. The contest concludes with a big-screen debut at Channelside Cinemas (on Wednesday, July 23)

"Teams will meet at Limey’s Pub, 1492 4th Street N. in St. Petersburg, before the 48 Hour Film Project begins. Filmmakers will then hit the streets of Tampa Bay to begin filming."

Fun time, fun people, and a fascinating endurance test. Check out my story from last year for a taste.

The Dark Knight: Superheroic Shakespeare

I'm pleased to announce that everything extraordinary you're heard, read, speculated and prayed for regarding The Dark Knight is absolutely true. This isn't only the greatest comic book movie ever, and one of the top-10 or so action flicks, it's the Academy Awards' ticket to engaging a moviegoing public believing the Oscars don't speak for their tastes, and caring less about the show each year.

That's right. I'm guessing The Dark Knight will be a best picture finalist next spring. And academy voters don't need to worry about compromising their high-falutin' standards. Director/co-writer Christopher Nolan crafted a ruthless epic of adrenaline -- which the academy typically stashes in technical categories -- and labyrinthine morality and ethics no less complex and compelling as The Departed and No Country for Old Men. The Dark Knight deserves mention in such Oscar-winning company.

A more mature take on a pop culture fantasy is impossible, unless you get bogged down in the hero's psychology, as Nolan did in Batman Begins. Now that the origins stuff is handled (again), The Dark Knight begins with a diabolically timed bank heist, popping the seal on a 24-pack of whoopass to come. The action is mostly hand-to-hand (or club or whatever's handy), except for a few vehicular assaults that are obviously old-school destruction, not that CG stuff.

Characters who are familiar now get right down to business: Bruce Wayne (Christian Bale) with his Hamlet angst, divided between his bruising alter ego, a romance blocked by a worthy rival (with a delicious subtext possibly making its completion the end of the Caped Crusader), and empty starlet-hopping to keep up appearances.

Meanwhile, a maze of money laundering crooks, corrupt law officials and Gotham Cityites who aren't sure if Batman's needed anymore create opportunities for cold-blooded double crosses, copycat Batmen, a cameo by an old Bat-nemesis and a few more of those wonderful toys.

And I haven't even gotten to the best part.

The Joker is, indeed, wild in The Dark Knight, embodied by a truly terrifying performance by the late Heath Ledger. A self-described "agent of chaos," this Joker is a supersonic psycho making Javier Bardem's killer in No Country for Old Men seem like a rational kind of guy. Ledger goes all the way with catastrophic malevolence,  with none of the clownish aspects Jack Nicholson previously brought to the role.

His jokes -- like a disappearing pencil trick you won't believe and won't want to try -- are deadly serious.

"Whatever doesn't kill you simply makes you stranger," Joker says early on. Ledger's death in January of an accidental prescription drug overdose makes his delivery of lines like that even eerier. But not in an exploitative way. His demise informs the role of a criminal with no regard for anyone's life, especially his own. Ledger's death simply makes the Joker stranger.

I fully expect him to get a posthumous Oscar nomination for this, and it won't be a sympathy thing. Along with Bardem's Chigurh, Robert De Niro's Max Cady and Anthony Hopkins' Hannibal Lecter, we now have one helluva Mount Rushmore of mayhem.

Mamma Mia! Is there anything Meryl Streep can't do?

Never liked ABBA that much, except for Dancing Queen and that was because of this Greenwich, Conn. deb I was dating at a Kansas college. She was one of only two females in the place who didn't look like goat herders. The other was from California, dating a football teammate who later became one of the goons cornering Crocodile Dundee in an alley, learning what a real knife looks like.

But that's another story.

Thought of that deb tonight while watching Mamma Mia! (but don't tell Princess Di). The movie was more fun, in an Across the Universe kind of scatter-shot way. The Broadway musical, and now the movie, isn't an organically conceived musical, like Sweeney Todd or Chicago, with songs created to serve a story planned before the first note was struck.

Like last year's Beatles cine-jukebox, Mamma Mia! strings together pop hits in whatever order a simplistic plot demands. Meryl Streep's daughter is getting married and wants to meet her father. But Meryl was a bit of a slut -- her word, not mine -- in days and nights gone by. Any of three men (Pierce Brosnan, Colin Firth, Stellan Skarsgard) could be the father. The daughter secretly invites them all to the Greek island where she lives with Mom.

Harmonies ensue.

Practically against your will, ABBA's impossibly peppy melodies, ravishing locales and a cast who can mostly sing but are interesting when they can't (I'm looking at you, 007), Mamma Mia turns out to be a lot of fun. The string-along structure isn't as much of a deficit as one might think, with a few clever assignments of puppy love ditties to mature women.

Mix Grease with Sex and the City (with a dash of Under the Tuscan Sun) and you have Mamma Mia!

The key is Streep, who I knew as an exemplary singer from A Prairie Home Companion. Those were live performances by characters who performed. Mamma Mia! is lip-synched, which Streep precisely achieves (like everything else in her career) yet convincingly spontaneous in appearance. Unlike the divas in Dreamgirls, she pushes her performance beyond the recording studio.

Just one number -- a late rendition of the achingly romantic The Winner Takes It All -- now rates among my favorite musical scenes, if only for Streep's closing hand gesture, something so simple and casual that it could be a reflex, yet so perfect that she must have concentrated to make it so. I'm not sure if there's anything she can't do on screen. But I know nobody could do it better.

Free passes to see The Dark Knight

Got your attention, didn't I?

Well, kiddies, in the immortal words of Lili Von Schtupp: "It's twue, it's twue!"

If you want to see The Dark Knight for freesies -- in IMAX, no less -- meet the nice folks from tbt* in front of Lucky Dill restaurant, corner of Central Avenue and Third Street in downtown St. Pete on Monday, July 14, at 11 a.m. They will be handing out passes good for two admissions to a Tuesday July 15 night screening at Muvico Baywalk 20.

Don't be greedy. We're doing you a favor here, in gratitude for your devotion to all things Times.

Don't get there early and jam up the sidewalk during lunch rush. No purchase necessary to get a pass, but those Lucky Dill sandwiches are pretty darn good.

Meet Dave and say 'bye to Eddie

I'm not sure why Eddie Murphy went wrong. I can pin down the when (Another 48 Hrs.), the where (Santa Monica Blvd. where he picked up that tranny hooker) and the how (easy money).

But there should be more to tearing down a legacy than greed, sex and falling back on good will from other movies. Especially when you start out so unique, so much of the past and present that you look like a lock for the future. That's what Murphy was, when he created comedy as if he were the second coming of Richard Pryor before Pryor was dead.

Murphy was a stand-up storyteller whose routines on race, sexual relations and backyard barbeques gone bad (among other universal catastrophes) were carefully crafted with intense intent to make audiences laugh, of course, but also to make them think a bit while they caught their breath. A switch to movies was inevitable with his energetic charisma but, hey, even Robin Williams still tries now and then.

Thinking has nothing to do with Meet Dave, which could be a sequel to The Adventures of Pluto Nash. We all know what that means, even those who haven't seen it. To those readers: Your corneas thank you.

Meet Dave confirms Murphy's supposed artistic (as opposed to financial) comeback with Dreamgirls as a fluke. The ink wasn't dry on his framed Academy Award nomination certificate before Norbit showed up to worry anyone pulling for him to win. That could be chalked up to bad timing, a paycheck long ago cashed.

Walking out of the Kodak Theater shortly after Alan Arkin's name was pulled from the envelope wasn't a good move but Meet Dave is worse. It's a comedy so lazy that Murphy doesn't bother slathering on the latex makeup or fat suit. He only plays two roles, who both look the same although one is slightly more interested in the proceedings than the other.

Murphy plays a spaceship. Read that again and tell me if you think anything after that opening pitch will be good. He does silly walks, silly voices and silly seriousness when called upon. There is nothing in Meet Dave reminding me of the Eddie Murphy I loved years ago, except his face.

I heard Murphy say on the Today show that he's thinking about giving up movies. After Beverly Hills Cop 4, of course. And a remake of The Incredible Shrinking Man, which is an interesting title under the circumstances. And maybe anything else he can be coaxed into being paid for. Then he'll go back to the stage, but by then I wonder if he'll just be another Joe Piscopo.

Journey to the Center of Princess Di's Mind

So, I'm sitting with Princess Di, looking at the garden I gave her because she went to Italy without me (long story, but I'm dealing with it).

For some reason we're discussing Journey to the Center of the Earth, which we saw last night in 3-D and apparently can't leave behind.

So, we started with the yo-yo that Brendan Fraser passes on to his snotty nephew because the kid brought it with a box of stuff that causes the movie. The kid lays down his PSP to try this quaint toy, and Fraser informs him that yo-yos were once used as weapons. The kid flicks it into the lens a few times to make wearing those nerdy 3-D glasses -- some tech geek's revenge for a locker-stuffing -- somewhat worthwhile.

"Where was the yo-yo scene," Princess Di asks, "when the kid uses the yo-yo to bonk the dinosaur, or something?"

Of course it isn't there. Neither is a follow-up scene to several things that get attention and don't mean anything later. The obligatory chick, who's a mountain guide by trade, mentions two energy bars she packed but nobody eats them and the kid eats some kind of prehistoric gruel when he's starving.

Di wants to know why she didn't get caught with crumbs on her lips, a lesson for two dudes who took dibs on her affections on first sight.

Then Di mentions the dinosaur, who apparently had roughage before dripping lime-green goo on the kid's head, while chasing him for a meal.

"What is this creature eating?  Guacamole?," Di says, with foolproof logic for an illogical movie ostensibly based on science.

"How does he know he'll like the kid's taste? No humans have been down there in centuries except the one who got away in the prologue, so how does he know they taste good?"

I won't even get into her comments about the vaginal-looking plants that are man-eaters (get it?) or the weird father-brother-son-daughter vibe throughout.

But that's why Di is the right side of my brain. And why I wish she could be available for discussions before deadline.

Dinosaur loogies and a Ray of hopelessness

My declaration of independence from blogging has ended. That long Fourth of July weekend was just too tempting to type. Even stretched it an extra day Monday since everything was caught up with a morning rush of "creativity" then an impromptu plan to catch the smokin' hot Tampa Bay Rays in an afternoon tilt with the Kansas City Royals, allowing a break before last night's screening of Journey to the Center of the Earth in the only local theater rigged for Real 3-D.

Both events turned out very disappointing.

Got to Tropicana Field expecting the usual short line for walk-up tickets, especially for an afternoon game against a bland opponent. Instead, there were hundreds of fans waiting in the sizzling sun and the National Anthem was already playing inside. Rather than waiting an hour by my estimation, I strolled over to Ferg's for hot chicken wings, a beer and the added disappointment of no Rays game on TV.

It's wonderful that we finally have a winning team, and encouraging that so many folks wanted to see the game. Now we just need Rays management to figure out some way of handing a walk-up rush they've never had to deal with before, at least with afternoon games when 8,000 people in the seats previously would be considered a success.

Oh, and the Rays losing didn't help my afternoon.

But it was better than the evening, when Journey to the Center of the Earth showed how flat a 3-D movie can be.  This juvenile template for an amusement park ride was only two D's: dumb and dull.

Oh, there are a few times when the optical effects pay off, mostly in the final half-hour. An attack by giant piranhas, soon gobbled up by sea serpents in an underworld ocean was pretty cool. The T-rex looked good in close-ups, and like a cheap Sci-Fi channel movie otherwise. Mostly, the 3-D technology is employed with silly stunts: an extended tape measure, a spinning yo-yo, and two spit takes toward the camera (three, if you count the dinosaur hawking a loogie at the lens).

The problem is that the inside of Earth is too dark and nondescript for much of the running time, with only that ocean and a paradise core (with carnivorous plants)  offering anything close to majestic.  And there was this one slab of inanimate rock that always got in the way of the action.

Oops, sorry. That was Brendan Fraser.

Dewayne Staats is a very funny guy

Sorry, I confused the Tampa Bay Rays broadcaster with Rainn Wilson, who I had planned to see tonight in The Rocker, which looks like This is Spinal Tap crossed with School of Rock and Dwight Shrute's deadpan dumb.

A few funny things happened on the way to walking out of the theater.

I'm home watching the Rays leading the Dead Sox now, which is where I'd prefer to be. If The Rocker were opening soon, and if the p.r. guy hadn't told me there will be plenty of screenings between now and whenever it does, I'd still be in the theater now instead of hearing Staats' rimshot humor.

(Big thanks to Worth1000.com for the image from Yahoo)

The theater tonight was in a different place that isn't used to hosting advance screenings. I should've known better when the usual studio monitor for such screenings dished it off to someone else.

He and his helpers honestly did a fine job -- and regular readers know that I don't mind complaining when they don't -- but something just told me that watching the Rays would be a better use of my time. Then I told Princess Di and she, of course, agreed. I like that in a wife.

Anyway, we were convinced when latecomers wondering why some seats were reserved for, oh, media types, screening sponsors, you know, the folks who are the reason why anyone is getting a free movie. I've said as much at screenings before but tonight it would've felt like kicking a puppy.

Nice folks, I'm sure. And maybe it's the fact that Di and I were the only two people in a prime section of seats roped off for 40 or so rumps that made me a bit self-conscious.

After listening to people scared of walking into a packed theater, and pronouncing "reserved" phonetically from signs, and loudly announcing after a cell phone call that the folks they're saving seats for are still at Home Depot, and watching people leave because they were only there for the t-shirts they didn't get, and the baby toted to an R-rated comedy, and the eyeballs aimed at those 38 or so vacant seats, plus a few more tips, I figured we'd catch The Rocker another time.

Besides, I have a paranormal investigation at my favorite dive bar tomorrow night until Dunkin Donuts baking time Thursday. I need my rest.

Hancock: The fat lady loses weight

I met Will Smith when he was still a fresh prince, before July 4th marked Big Willie Weekend at theaters.

New York, 1996, at the New York media days for Independence Day.  Cigars were popular then, and I figured buying a few Ybor stogies would help me fit in with those urbane, urban types. Coincidentally, when I saw ID4 that weekend, Smith had a running joke about smoking victory cigars after kicking alien butt, and that's not over "'til the fat lady sings." Not very original but that's Dean Devlin and Roland Emmerich for you.

Anyway, I ended up in an elevator with Smith after his interview session. Lots of floors.  I complimented Smith on the movie and said something casual about being a movie star now.

"Do you really think so?" he asked, with an expression I'll never forget, or fail to appreciate. It was sincere, quizzical, a little pessimistic, and genuinely seeking confirmation from a stranger about what he hoped was true. This guy already was a music and TV star yet still had a level of insecurity that makes me feel better in insecure times.

"Let me put it this way," I said, reaching into my jacket pocket to hand him one of those cigars. "The fat lady's singing."

Smith took it, laughed loudly and clapped me on the shoulder. The elevator doors opened. I went one way and he became the Fourth of July's movie king.

The fat lady lost a few pounds between now and then, judging from Hancock, a great idea going in too many needless directions for a 90-minute movie to handle. I laughed during the first 30 minutes at what tickled me for weeks in preview trailers, was intrigued/confused for the next 20 with the darker angle director Peter Berg was fashioning, then wondered if someone slipped 21 Grams into the projector when nobody was looking.

This isn't a summer kind of movie, except for starring Smith. The action sequences are standard stuff Berg attempts to make exciting with needless camera motion. There's no nemesis for Hancock except himself, which could and should be extended longer than the screenplay's attention deficit permits.

There is, however, a twist involving Charlize Theron's character that muddles the plot and reminds me of one of last year's worst movies (or at least movie titles). I won't spoil it by saying which one but when a movie trying to be serious reminds you of something ridiculed, there's a distinct problem in tone.

Great character in Hancock, a boozy, antisocial superhero. Nice performances under the circumstances by Theron and Jason Bateman. Smith is as bulletproof as the character he plays, although what made the final reel of I Am Legend disappointing surfaces again here. He'll win a cigar at the box office but the fat lady's kinda hoarse.

What would Tyler Durden do... with Angelina Jolie?

The answer is found in the most exciting shoot 'em up I've seen in I don't know how long.

For those who don't know Tyler Durden, he's the cult antihero from Fight Club who is seen as a golden god by countless guys knuckled under by The Man (or anything commercial, sexual or regulated) and gets destructive complaining about it. "What would Tyler Durden do?" is a question deserving one of those embossed elastic wristbands they'd wear religiously.

And since Brad Pitt played T.D., I guess the Angelina Jolie question is moot.

Anyway, some of that Tyler vibe comes across in Wanted, in the form of James McAvoy, who I never thought I'd respect after he did the faun thing in Narnia I (the titles are too long to type completely but I guess I used more letters explaining that).

McAvoy plays an office schlub yanked from his dull existence by Jolie, playing a super assassin who can bend the trajectory of bullets and thinks this geek inherited the same gift from his father, who was also an ace killer.

The ensuing action is breakneck stuff, with director Timur Bekmambetov -- a hard name to remember but you should from the stylish Russian vampire flicks Night Watch and Day Watch -- creating memorable images when people die. A lot of people die in Wanted, and without cosmically guided bullets colliding in midair many more would.

And you've gotta love any movie with Jolie toting a swiveled gun and video scope, so she can kill around corners.

Wanted has a Matrix thing going with McAvoy raging against a machine he doesn't understand, the Fight Club thing with his masochistic training regimen, a bit of The Empire Strikes Back, a smidgen of Mr. and Mrs.Smith with Jolie's fatal sleekness, and wall-to-wall style that other films have provided only in small doses, like that slo-mo bullet in Three Kings that viewers followed from gun barrel to suddenly toxic intestines.

One more comparison: In 1994 I was in New York for interviews for this film called Pulp Fiction that was creating all kinds of buzz. Matt Lauer was sitting behind me and we were the only two people in a stodgy crowd who were laughing at the mayhem, as intended. After the show, I walked outside to bustling Times Square, dropped a quarter in a pay phone (1994, you know) and called Princess Di, telling her I just saw a movie that made me want to punch somebody, the adrenaline pumped so hard.

I caught a bit of that feeling tonight with Wanted, which isn't as verbally unique -- although it's a kick hearing Morgan Freeman say a word that I can only describe with his initials -- but is visually just as remarkable.

Wanted opens June 27. Right now, it's the best movie-movie I've seen in 2008. 

The Love Guru: For once, the trailers don't lie

Everyone I know who has seen the preview trailers for Mike Myers' The Love Guru tells me it looks terrible.

They're absolutely right, and sitting through this juvenile waste of time to prove it is my gift to you, dear readers.

I understand that the f-word was used in Goodfellas 296 times. The Love Guru is an hour shorter but I'll bet there are as many jokes about the male appendage used to perform that act.  If anyone wishes to check with a tally counter, be my guest. Unlike the first Austin Powers and Wayne's World flicks, I won't be seeing this again, or planning a Halloween costume in honor of Guru Pitka, smugly played for smutty laughs by Myers.

I'm sure you know that Pitka is a spoof of Deepak Chopra and Maharishi Mahesh Yogi, whose pacifist beliefs would prevent them from giving The Love Guru the drubbing it deserves. Could be an interesting, recurring character on Saturday Night Live (the last 10 minutes' sketch) or public access.

But placing that kind of character in the same context with pee gags, elephant-shaped chastity belts, a Canadian named Jacques "Le Coq" Grande, "ball gazing," deep-fried scrotum-shaped nuts in dough, elephant erotica... well, you get the point... seems meaner, more tasteless than even Myers probably intended.

Toss in a couple dozen playground snaps ("I used to have a hat like that, until my mom got a job"), bathroom graffiti played as meta-wisdom ("The joke is in your hand"), and -- in honor of Mini-Me getting another gig -- jokes about Hobbits, Keebler elves, etc., and you have The Love Guru.

And you can keep it.

[Publicity photo]

Who are the one-hit movie wonders of all time?

I'm working on an article and really could use your help.

I commented in a recent review of The Happening that writer-director M. Night Shyamalan's breakthrough movie The Sixth Sense is looking more like one of the biggest flukes in modern film history. That got my editors wondering about other filmmakers who opened with a bang then fizzled out. When editors wonder, reporters write.

Anyway, I'm compiling a list of directors who fall into that ignoble category, people who had breakthrough hits and never reached that level of accomplishment again.

First, we need to qualify what is a hit. It could be a box office smash, or an artistically exemplary film that apparently used up the director's potential. It could be both, like The Sixth Sense, that earned money ($293-million in the U.S.) and acclaim (six Oscar nominations including best picture).

Keeping with Shyamalan's example, don't consider The Village ($114-million) or Signs ($227-million) as box office hits. Their ticket sales were markedly lower than The Sixth Sense, and Signs had the Mel Gibson factor going for it, before Gibson went bonkers and became b.o. poison. Good will residue from The Sixth Sense surely helped, as fans kept hoping Shyamalan could pull another rabbit out of his hat.

Remember that the $100-million mark that slow learners still consider as the measure of a hit, isn't anymore. Higher ticket prices -- not to mention production and distribution costs -- pushed that break-off point to somewhere around $150-million. If you're considering a filmmaker from before the 1970's when blockbusters became imperative, box office totals don't count much at all.

One name that immediately comes to mind is Orson Welles, who reinvented American cinema with Citizen Kane -- arguably the greatest movie of all time -- and never matched himself again. certainly there are academics who will advocate The Magnificent Ambersons, and Touch of Evil has its share of brilliant film noir moments. But Citizen Kane set the bar too high for anyone to clear, which Welles often admitted as his career became a joke.

I'm also considering these directors of Academy Award winners for best picture, who never sniffed an Oscar again: Kevin Costner (Dances with Wolves), Bruce Beresford (Driving Miss Daisy), Hugh Hudson (Chariots of Fire), and Michael Cimino (The Deer Hunter).

Those are just off the top of my head. Now tell me what's in yours.

[Getty Images]

Get Smart and get smarter

Princess Di and I had a pleasant sunset cruise on the Gulf with Mr. and Mrs. T-bone Sunday night, along with two friends who were never quite weird enough to have nicknames.

One's name is Steve Miller, who I taught high school alongside, so he therefore needed some kind of pet name so we called him "Miller." Indiana boy, comes from good stock, and couldn't put three sentences together without saying something memorably dense.

Like the intoxicated night long ago when he tried recalling the female judge on The Gong Show who flashed her hoohahs in a frisky moment and almost got the show booted off the air. Miller couldn't get her name immediately but after some hemming and hawing came up with: "Jamie Lee Farr."

The answer, of course, was Jaye P. Morgan. But never before or since have I known anyone to mistake three celebrities -- Morgan, Jaime Lee Curtis and Jamie Farr -- in a single reference. That all three happened to appear on cheesy 1970's game shows makes the accomplishment even more impressive.

Anyway, I thought of Miller during tonight's screening of Get Smart, as I watched Agent 86 Maxwell Smart (Steve Carell) doing everything dumb and still coming out smelling like a rose. Not the best comedy you're likely to see this year but compared to every other TV show adaptation we've seen, it's not bad at all.

In fact, I was thinking that Mel Brooks and Buck Henry would appreciate what's been done with their 1960's sitcom long before their names appeared in the end credits as consultants. The movie has the same carefree, goofy attitude of the series, not caring about plots except they put Max and Agent 99 (Anne Hathaway, who's getting hotter by the minute) in constant scrapes requiring dumb derring-do to escape from.

I think the movie works better if you're familiar with the series (which I am and Di isn't). Not exactly the best case scenario for a comedy opening head-on with another popular comedian's newest (Mike Myers' The Love Guru, which I'll see tomorrow night) and on the heels of blockbusters still selling tickets. Home video is where most viewers will catch up to Get Smart, and it almost seems designed that way.

All the old gags are there -- the Cone of Silence, Max's shoe phone, Hymie the robot agent, etc. -- smartly assigned as museum pieces until they're required or a savvy update is imagined. Alan Arkin ("The Chief") is a pleasure to watch anytime, Carell is Don Adams reincarnated but not annoyingly so, and did I mention that Hathaway is hot?

I'd recommend Get Smart to Miller but he'd think I was insulting him again. This is the guy who thought the theme song for The Flintstones declared "they're the monostoic family."

Missed it by that much.

Going green with "Hulk" co-writer Mike France

Had a fine time the other night watching The Incredible Hulk with Mike France and his son Tommy, who's growing up with a comic book addiction just like his old man.

France (that's him on the right, next to Marvel mogul Stan Lee) owns Beach Theatre in St. Pete Beach but we met years ago after he co-wrote the screenplay for Ang Lee's Hulk, a lame version of the Marvel Comics superhero that wasn't France's fault. Seems that Lee brought in his favorite writing collaborator, James Schamus, who turned the green-skinned behemoth into a basket case with an Oedipal complex. The action-packed script France and John Turman wrote became one long therapy session.

Disappointed viewers probably caused more wreckage in theaters than Hulk did on screen.

"I never felt that I was getting blamed for it," France told me yesterday. "I was as disappointed, too."

France left Monday night's The Incredible Hulk screening feeling like he had seen the movie he envisioned years ago, combining the drama of Bruce Banner coping with his inner rage and the fun of watching Hulk going postal on anyone in his way. Yet he knows that Universal Pictures has a tougher sell on its hands than a better predecessor would provide.

"There was so much disappointment about having to watch a movie about Banner’s father, and so much joking about that," France said. "It's baggage this film has to overcome.

"That’s why (Universal) came up with the publicity narrative that this is a reboot or a remake, even though it’s very clear to me that it’s a sequel. It’s the same producers, same studio and the characters are in the same places where they were when the first film ended.

“I suspect that because of the baggage from the first film, this movie may not have the same kind of opening weekend. On the other hand, it won’t have the same kind of drop-off, either. People will catch up to it. I think it certainly re-establishes (the franchise) enough to continue with it."

Read more of my conversation with France -- whose credits also include Fantastic Four, The Punisher and Cliffhanger -- on Saturday's Etc. page, 2B.

What's "Happening," hot stuff?

I knew M. Night Shyamalan's latest misfire, The Happening, was going south when Marky Mark Wahlberg --  who has deduced that Mother Nature is taking revenge on humankind -- begins sweet-talking a house plant so it won't do anything rash.

Or maybe it was when Wahlberg is trying to convince a locked-in homeowner that he's sane and therefore unaffected by an airborne toxin created by plants. He does so by singing a few bars of a Doobie Brothers hit to the stranger with a little softshoe tossed in. Yeah, I'd trust him to not be crazy.

Or maybe it's when Betty Buckley -- looking more Grizzelda by the minute -- starts screaming like a banshee because her hermit lifestyle has been disrupted by Wahlberg and his fellow refugees. "I don't like this woman," Zooey Deschanel says. "There's something Exorcist-y about her."

Or maybe it's when a high school student body is sent home after the first toxic outbreak occurs in Central Park and none of them have a cell phone or are logged onto a computer so they would know what happened. Or when Wahlberg starts spewing a torrent of eco-babble to over-explain everything.

Those are the kinds of things Shyamalan does, proving once again that he can have a great idea and absolutely no idea of what to do with it.

The Happening isn't as lousy as Lady in the Water, or pointless as The Village, or silly as the second half of Signs. It's actually an enjoyable bad movie, if you aren't buying a ticket, as I didn't. The first half-hour is a terrific set-up: a series of grisly suicides -- many not shown but suggested with Hitchcockian restraint -- that made my jaw drop and stomach churn. This is new territory for Shyamalan, in his first R-rated movie. He obviously has fun being gross, as do we by being grossed-out.

But The Happening isn't the return to form his dwindling number of fans have sought since The Sixth Sense, which is looking more and more like one of the biggest flukes in modern movie history.

Hulk is green and I'm feelin' blue

The good news is that The Incredible Hulk is more enjoyable than 2003's The (Irrationally Dull) Hulk.

The bad news is that for the first time in my life, I missed my all-time favorite band in concert to find out.

I have flown to California, driven across the South and hit every concert Steely Dan ever played around Tampa Bay. Ten shows by my count. Tonight they're playing about a half-mile from my home. Probably doing their encores right now. When I think about missing the show, my pulse races toward 200, my skin turns emerald green with unsightly veins popping out and I want to smash something.

Which brings us to The Incredible Hulk.

Honestly, it is a better take on the Marvel Comics superhero than Ang Lee inflicted upon moviegoers, as if we actually demanded a Hulk with Freudian subtext and not many opportunities to rage, played by a monotonous actor (Eric Bana) with the bloodless blankness of someone who apparently never read a comic book.

It certainly couldn't be any worse.

The new, improved Hulk ditches the psychobabble, hires more interesting actors -- especially Edward Norton as Bruce Banner, and with the glaring exception of Liv Tyler --  and more importantly allows the green guy to go off on somebody every 20 minutes or so. Director Louis Letterier (Transporter 2) and screenwriter Zak Penn (plus Norton, but the Writers Guild of America didn't allow him screen credit) still take the Marvel myth a bit too seriously yet know when to lighten up a little.

The Incredible Hulk still falls short of being as exhilarating as Iron Man, which may remain the movie superhero standard for years to come. At least until the project that has Marvel fans panting since Iron Man's end credits -- the very end that many viewers, myself included, needed to catch on YouTube because we left fast to beat traffic.

Marvel is smarter this time, adding the cool coda after Hulk/Banner's predicament is settled, and before hundreds of names meaningful only to their family and friends scroll by.

I won't spoil it for you, but with Marvel now controlling its movie destiny rather than being led by the nose by meddling studios (i.e. the first Hulk), that Avengers adaptation is looking more possible by the minute.

[AP Photo/Universal Studios]

Kit Kittredge: Recession-proof girl?

Just got back from a screening of Kit Kittredge: An American Girl, and found it to be a pleasant, G-rated experience with good performances, fine 1930's production design and a wholesome vibe that's actually refreshing.

When the movie opens July 2, it''ll probably get buried by the summer movie crush.

Too bad, since this Depression-era dramedy has uncanny parallels to today's economic crunch times. Themes like housing and business foreclosures, unemployment and the homeless (referred to in the movie by that era's term "hoboes") are core elements of the plot. Nothing political, but the trials of families broken or otherwise devastated by hard times are timeless. Funny that a movie set 74 years ago should be so topical.

It helps that young Kit, played by Abigail Breslin, keeps mostly on the sunny side of life despite the loss of friends forced to move away to better opportunities, and a father (welcome back, Chris O'Donnell) who hid the family's distress for her sake, until he must do the same. Breslin still isn't an especially subtle actor but in these surroundings, a little old-fashioned Shirley Templism isn't out of place.

The movie is corny in a good way, and simplistic about economic factors then (and by extension now) so that modern kids watching  will be able to connect the dots. There are worthwhile messages about honesty, dignity and respect for less-fortunate others. It's the kind of movie that used to be made all the time, that was forgotten when movies got louder, bolder and hectic.

That's why I'm not confident in its success. Will Smith's Hancock is opening the same day, while WALL*E and Kung Fu Panda will still be going strong for the same audience, and they're fun, rather than reminiscent of what parents may be worried about at home. Unless I'm underestimating the appeal for the American Girl doll and book series -- and admittedly I know nothing about it yet -- Kit Kittredge: An American Girl will end up bruised by not one but two economic downturns.

I really hope I'm wrong.

Big Lebowski documentary achieves

In the parlance of the Dude, new s--- has come to light about the long-awaited documentary on the most devout disciples of The Big Lebowski, the 1998 comedy written and directed by Joel and Ethan Coen. These fans call themselves "Achievers," taking the nomenclature from the big, rich Jeffrey Lebowski's charity program for underprivileged children.

I'm an Achiever and darn proud of it. Got the t-shirt and everything, as you've seen in outtakes from my photo shoot for a new Times ad. Princess Di and I pose wearing them each time we go to Telluride or somewhere otherwise cool, adding the photo to Lebowskifest.com's collection of Achievers' world travels. I'm proud to say that my 2005 feature on visiting Lebowskifest in Los Angeles is part of the site's media collection, too.

As such, I get irregular e-updates from organizers Will Russell and Scott Shuffitt on the comings and goings of Achievers worldwide, and plans for the next Lebowskifest.  They've been held in New York, Las Vegas and, of course, L.A. but originated in (and returns July 11 and 12 to) Louisville, Ky. This year's lineup includes musician Mike Doughty (whose Bustin' Up a Starbucks and 27 Jennifers are two of my favorite ear worms).

The schedule also includes the world premiere of The Achievers: The Story of Lebowski Fans that documentary filmmaker Eddie Chung was shooting in 2005 at Lebowskifest in L.A. I'm gonna contact Chung and see if I can get a screener for review, and maybe suggest it to local film festivals for inclusion. Take a look at the preview trailer, and note that the title has changed from Over the Line (a line from the movie) to The Achievers. Enjoy!

Local producer swings The Hammer

Had an interesting conversation with Gregory Firestone, a Tampa clinical psychologist credited as an executive producer for The Hammer, starring Adam Carolla as a boxer taking one last chance at ring glory and love.

Firestone did it for family pride -- his second cousins are the film's director and co-producer -- and also because his minor investment in 2001's Kissing Jessica Stein was successful and fun. being an executive producer means he helped secure financing for the $1-million project, primarily from his Harbor Island tennis pals.

Because of the local connections, two screenings of The Hammer are scheduled Friday at 8 and 10 p.m. at Muvico Centro Ybor 20. Tickets are $10, with proceeds benefiting the Tampa Bay chapter of the American Red Cross. Co-star Jeff Lacy, a former IBF champ from St. Petersburg, will host the events.

"It’s exciting that you have a chance to see earlier versions before it first appears in a theater," he said. "It’s interesting to see it take shape in terms of what gets cut out, or what expands; what gets re-shot and what gets added into it.

"What’s most impressive is when you see people working on an indie film, you don’t have the luxury to shoot the same scene over and over. You try to shoot once, twice max, to keep expenses to a minimum. Then to see the quality product that comes out at the end is really quite impressive."

However, even though it's a fine, funny movie, The Hammer only had a few dozen theater engagements along the West Coast where Carolla's radio show is popular. A DVD release is set for June 24.

Firestone couldn't venture a guess about why The Hammer never really answered the bell. "I don’t know if I understand enough of that business to offer and explanation," he said. "There are a lot of films that are made, and people in the position to distribute movies are in the position to pick what they want.

"But it is a challenge. Film distribution can be more expensive than making the film. You need to find somebody with deep pockets. If we had found somebody like that, obviously we would’ve had a bigger release than we did. You have to put a lot of money into promoting a movie, to get any attention."

(Bloodstained) Ladies of the Night

Maybe it isn't your cup of entrails tea but there's a FREE double feature of locally produced horror flicks Saturday night at the University of South Florida's Tampa campus. Rick Danford of Enigma Films, in association with the university's film and video club and Hocus Pocus Productions are footing the bill.

The shows start at 6 p.m. with Alarum, starring local actor and model Krista Grotte, who I think I ogled at a previous splatter flick festival. She has, ummm, talent. Krista plays a woman besieged by mental illness after a lifetime of sexual abuse. It's a good bet that somebody's gonna pay dearly for that.

Around 8 p.m., you can see Savaged starring Debbie Rochon -- who has 151 horror film credits, according to IMDb -- as a woman hiding from her ex-boyfriend, and whose dog becomes fiercely protective of her.  There's a killer bear in the woods and a possible psycho on her tail, so expect things to get messy.

Rochon (pictured at right with Dee Snider)will attend and conduct a Q&A session after the movie. The evening also includes a number of preview trailers for upcoming (and unbecoming) gore productions including The Black Devil Doll. Not sure what that is but "he'll" be appearing to present an adults-only scene from the movie.

Folks, when these amiable maniacs take time to tell you something is "adults only," I'd take them seriously.

Get all the information you need here.

Kung Fu Panda and General Tao Chicken

Nothing I like better than a Pan Asian buffet. There's a nice one on U.S. 19 in Palm Harbor with a name I can't remember but the spread includes extremely exotic items such as chicken feet, squid innards, soup made of what I'd use for shark chum and a gelatinous dessert that nobody has ever completely identified for me. Not that I eat that stuff -- I'm a General Tao chicken kind of guy -- but I usually see what appear to be Vietnam War veterans eating it, which is as reliable a sign of quality as police cars at a donut shop.

Anyway, I was thinking about that place while my stomach growled through a morning screening of Kung Fu Panda. They could add a big hunk of ham to the menu in honor of Jack Black, who offers one of the best vocal performances I've heard in an animated feature. Black voices Po, a roly-poly panda who accidentally gets chosen as the new Dragon Warrior to battle a white leopard named Tai Lung (Ian McShane, almost as evil as he was on Deadwood).

Po doesn't know much about kung fu except from daydreaming about his heroes, the Furious Five -- Tigress (Angelina Jolie), Mantis (Seth Rogen), Monkey (Jackie Chan), Viper (Lucy Liu) and Crane (David Cross). Tigress is the only one who matters much in the scheme of things, but I wouldn't be surprised if a sequel or two follows to give the other critters a fighting chance.

Po gets martial arts training -- grudgingly -- from Master Shifu, hilariously voiced by Dustin Hoffman.

What I love about Kung Fu Panda (besides Black) is the reverence shown for the chopsocky movie genre, evoking classic fights, effects, settings and spirituality from Bruce Lee to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. This is a movie that's gorgeous to behold, meaningful to kids and adults, and never forgets that 'toons should either be comedies or tragedies, not just a smattering of both (take that, Ratatouille).

You'll find my review on the Web site anytime now, and in Thursday's weekend. But get ready for a bloodbath at the box office this weekend with Sex and the City still pulling females, Indiana Jones lassoing males and kids screaming to see Kung Fu Panda. My money's on the bear, who won't be "Po" for long.

Adam Carolla nails The Hammer

If you're like me, you only know Adam Carolla from his overtly sexist humor alongside Jimmy Kimmel on The Man Show, or his irreverent approach to Terpsicorian (is that a word?) talent on Dancing with the Stars.

If so, you'd be a surprised as I was by his performance in The Hammer, an independently produced romantic comedy/boxing movie that somehow doesn't have any distributor with enough faith in a wider release. Carolla came up with the story idea based on his experiences as boxer, and for an old dude he still has skillz. Carolla was also a carpenter, which makes his character Jerry Ferro a dual-pronged example of role intimacy paying off.

Jerry gets fired from a job he didn't like anyway, working off his aggressions at a boxing gym. He gets taunted by a title contender (St. Petersburg's former IBF champ Jeff Lacy) and responds with a knockout left hook. A trainer putting together the U.S. Olympic Team sees it and convinces Jerry that at age 40 he can finally be a contender, if he'll work hard enough.

"You're just one of those 95-percenters who never gives everything he's got," the trainer tells Jerry.

"No, I'm a 75-percenter but I'm giving you and extra 20 percent," Jerry replies, with Carolla's knack for dribbling sarcasm from the corner of his mouth like beer foam.

Jerry falls in love, faces his challenges and becomes one of the most endearing lugs I've seen on screen in a while.  The Hammer should be in every megaplex but without a distribution deal (it got some play in L.A. and other western states where Carolla has a radio following) it looks like home video will be your best chance.

That is, unless you visit Muvico Centro Ybor 20 this Friday, June 6. The Hammer will be shown twice at 8 and 10 p.m. Tickets are $10 with all proceeds going to the Tampa Bay chapter of the American Red Cross. Lacy will be there hosting the shows.

Why are we so fortunate? because the executive producer of The Hammer is Carrollwood resident and clinical psychologist Gregory Firestone, who I'll profile in a column Friday on the Etc. page 2B.

Good movie, great cause.

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.

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.

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.

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 O