Balanced spoke movie

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Not a thriller so much as an extremely catastrophic swimsuit slate, the lushly lensed but dramatically waterlogged “Into the Blue” is too infatuated with its scantily clad stars to make sense of all the drug dealers, motor boat looters and bloodthirsty sharks tough to hunt them down. Toplining manifestness of Jessica Alba — and her bikini — will attract goggle-eyed males aplenty, although overall B.O. looks shelf to save this new-summer holdover from MGM and Columbia.

When a small plane carrying a lot of screaming foreigners and 800 kilos of cocaine crashes off the coast of the Bahamas, it presents a golden opportunity for amateur treasure seeker Jared (Paul Walker). In a pair of coincidences straight out of 1977’s “The Deep,” Jared and his friends discover the downed plane and, nearby, a slew of jewel-encrusted artifacts that, if proven to be the remnants of a legendary Spanish shipwreck, could be worth millions.

Jared’s classy girlfriend Sam (Alba) wants nothing to do with the coke. Somewhat less principled, his lawyer buddy Bryce (Scott Caan) and blonde-du-jour Amanda (Alba’s former “Dark Angel” co-thesp, Ashley Scott) suggest selling it so they can buy the equipment necessary to excavate the treasure.

Apart from a rival treasure hunter (Josh Brolin, looking effortlessly sleazy) and a few sharks circling ominously nearby, draggy first half focuses almost exclusively on the central foursome as their idyllic beach-bum lifestyle slowly gives way to ripples of greed, mistrust and eventual mutiny. But this isn’t exactly “Knife in the Water,” and since the characters are as thin as their swimwear, the interplay barely merits sustained attention.

If Matt Johnson’s screenplay initially suffers from slack pacing, things do pick up in the second half, which piles on plot twists, intros new characters (”24’s” James Frain turns up as a menacing Brit), and ups the underwater mayhem exponentially.

Helmer John Stockwell brings the pic to a climactic 15-minute frenzy of violence, cross-cutting roughly but effectively between two parallel lines of action, with harpoons, explosives and strategically timed shark bites all coming into play. Harrowing sequence is surprisingly graphic for a PG-13 rating, though still a minor payoff for a thriller otherwise lacking in tension.

Still, given the abundance of flesh onscreen throughout, auds probably won’t be bored. Cinematographer Shane Hurlbut’s leering camera angles leave no cleavage unexplored, while the deep-focus photography conveniently allows the odd body part to be unsubtly magnified in the foreground.

Alba, an actress of greater gifts than she’s allowed to exercise here, takes the exploitation in stride, though it’s Scott, stuck with an irritating and ultimately dispensable character, who is ogled most excessively.

In a role that requires more swimming than acting, Walker is in his element here; at times, he resembles a bronzed mer-god posing for a subaquatic centerfold. Caan gets some of the script’s better lines and tosses them off with a loose-limbed wit, but his slackerish vibe doesn’t make him persuasive as a New York attorney.

Fittingly, the eye-candy cast boasts an actual supermodel, Tyson Beckford, playing a nightclub owner who figures into the drug rap.

The underwater photography is as luxuriant and sparkling as a Caribbean travel brochure, though imagery veers toward incoherence amid the claustrophobic wreckage of the plane. Pitch-perfect below-the-surface sound mix, meanwhile, suggests a disregard for the laws of physics.

Driven by upstanding arousal, Mike Moore explores the culture of violence in an America traumatised by terrorism, teenage killers and monetary inequality. Moore puts the strenuously questions to trigger-happy suburbanites and militia members, alongside the likes of National Rifle Association spokesman Charlton Heston, shock rocker Marilyn Manson, South Park co-designer Matt Stone and surviving students of the Columbine High High school shootings. 

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Samuel Goldwyn took superb comedy writers, a top-drawer comedy number one and top comic and distilled them into a farce of the broadest stripe. From time to time it takes and on it doesn’t.

An apparent endeavor by the writers to be super-funny has certainly resulted in a barrage of entertaining gags and situations, although lacking spontaneity. It’s just too clear how hard the boys were trying.

Bob Hope is pictured as a newspaperman who’s just been fired as a Moscow correspondent for completely missing the German invasion of Russia. He returns and goes to Washington in the hope of re-establishing his rep.

No asset to the film is the quality of much of the acting, particularly that of Dorothy Lamour, whose flat delivery of her lines makes Hope work twice as hard to sell his gags.

Director David Butler succeeds in keeping the film moving, although it is sometimes a battle against the episodic construction of the situation gags.

For adolescent males in the early 1980’s, Porky’s was a rite of hall - the from the word go film whose feeling of lockerroom humor outdid anything you’d even seen on the screen. It wasn’t a silver screen to superintend with your parents, or on the telling screen in a societal cinema; it was a movie to study furtively on cable, or to claim you had seen, equanimous if you hadn’t. It had nudity overload in the take shape of a single, multi-mouse shower scene, foul language, and raunchy slapstick. The content barriers broken by 1960s’ cinema were as nothing compared to the hushed, giggly, man-to-chap recountings of this “dirty” movie’s cheer, and more than rhyme student succeeded in getting a call towards “Mike Hunt” issued remaining the school P.A. system where I grew up.

I will admit I never slogan the R-rated film as a 15-year-old back in 1982, and hadn’t seen it since, aside from one aborted, what’s-the-drift partial viewing in edited-as regards-idiot box form. So I solely knew the film (and its sequel) by reputation, Fox’s Atari 2600 game cartridge, and schoolyard legend when Fox’s new look-alike main film DVD of Porky’s and Porky’s II: The Next Day came across my desk.

Porky’s

The film that started it all stars Dan Monahan as the sharp, terminally horny “Pee-Wee” Morris, a on a trip school follower growing up in southern Florida, so obsessed with “getting laid” that he will risk dignity, stature and public ridicule for a motivation at the goodness fabric. This makes him an easy target in spite of the judicious jokes of his friends, a group of sexist, every now racist and in the main brainless sophomoric men, though they’re not as gullible as poor “Pee-Wee.” The plain plot thread, such as it is, concerns the gang’s journey to a sleazy, legally questionable swathe intersection where (rumor has it) a teen can procure liquor and women if the price is open. At Porky’s, the teens are ripped below average and sent packing by the redneck proprietress (Chuck Mitchell) and his fellow-citizen, the local sheriff (Alex Karras). The boys vow revenge, justified by the crotchety beating given to Pee-Wee’s friend Mickey (Roger Wilson) by Porky’s henchmen.

There’s no scepticism that Porky’s presents an adolescent boy’s examine of the world&#8212the only prestige taught at Angel Beach High seems to be gym, women are excruciatingly good-looking but frustratingly uncanny, and questions of mores rarely enter into the business at hand. The story’s just sense seems to be that, assuming you can’t cheat an honest man, you certainly can con man a libidinous teenager&#8212but then watch out, ’cause he and his friends leave snitch you down. Stationary, there is a fundamental impartiality to Porky’s&#8212its awkward blue humor never seems commercially calculated, and its girl-chasing, self-fitting teenaged heroes seem enough analogous to physical kids to make their single-mindedness credible. Joined really hopes these guys will grow up before the movie ends, but they don’t; undisturbed, Porky’s musters a some leering, primordial, indecent laughs (unsuitable for then again discussion in a stock forum) while staying become a reality to writer/director Bob Clark’s swarthy little heart.

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Porky’s II: The Next Day

Hollywood’s faith that lightning strikes twice remained unabated in 1983, when the result Porky’s II: The Next Day reunited much of the beforehand film’s cast for another run at the box department. The organize this time around (with assistance from Roger E. Swaybill and Alan Ormsby) seems to be another story entirely, hastily retrofit onto the Angel Bank High characters. After the first act, which uses clips from the prime film and is intended as a bridge to the do of the “next day” and thereafter, the gang suddenly metamorphoses into a more mature, Shakespeare-loving group, ready to take on blue-noses, bigots and the The conservatives in general in the name of resourceful liberty, led by Pee-Wee’s play-acting teacher mother (Ilse Earl).

There are some flagrant continuity errors here, most notably Mickey’s remarkable recovery&#8212at the ending of Porky’s, he’s bandaged and on crutches, but the next morning, he shows up smiling and wound-loose. But (and it sounds weird to hear myself remark this) I think Porky’s II is actually a better film than the case. The battle lines are more clearly drawn&#8212it’s a ration easier to established against the lying Reverend Bubba Flavel (Bill Wiley), his misguided flock, the Ku Klux Klan, and two-faced wirepuller Bob Gebhardt (Edward Winter) than the obnoxious but essentially neutral Porky. The cause is magnificent, as the gang crusades for excessive facts and against racism. And the characters are more person this forthwith around&#8212a original relationship between Pee-Wee and Wendy Williams (Kaki Hunter) develops, and we learn retroactively that Wendy is not scarcely as “easy” as she appeared to be in the first film. School supervisor Mr. Carter (Eric Christmas) proves himself brave and honorable, and fair and square perennial nemesis Ms. Balbricker (Nancy Parsons) earns a cheer from the kids.

I’m not saying Porky’s II is a jocose work of genius either, but there’s a bit of a W.C. Fields undergo to the kids’ laudatory-natured immorality this time, and Wendy’s elaborately hilarious give someone his on the lewd Gephardt at a fancy dinner club would not seem thoroughly of place in a Marx Brothers video. These are leisurely targets, to be sure, but it’s still great make sport to watch the kids accomplish what adults hardly ever have the gumption to do&#8212hit their enemies where it really hurts, without be afraid of group or legal reprisal. Less smarmy and more recreation than the original motion picture, I enjoyed Porky’s II: The Next Day a a mountain more than I expected to.

Tuesday, July 13th 1999

The Velocity of Gary (Not His Real Name)


Directed by Dan Ireland

Calculating Gary's said velocity might give occasion to a new definition of

warp speed

: lumbering and misshapen, apparently stitched together from the discarded limbs of unrelated scripts. Take the film's first 20 minutes, in which deaf transsexual Kid Joey (

Chad Lindberg

), just off the bus to the big city, gets viciously gay-bashed a few blocks from Port Authority. Brooding beauty Gary (

Thomas Jane

) comes to the rescue, but following a pointless musical interlude lip-synched to

Patsy Cline

's "Walkin' After Midnight," Kid Joey is hit and killed by a car. And that's it? we never hear about

Joey

again, as the film U-turns back to concentrate (however fitfully) on the fractious love triangle formed by Gary, Gary's lover Valentino (

Vincent D'Onofrio

), and Val's high-strung girlfriend

Mary Carmen

(

Salma Hayek

). Two end up with AIDS and a baby enters the picture, as we're informed through a back-and-forth narrative that would confuse even if the film weren't so atrociously directed and edited. The paper-doll characters exist solely to evoke our pity. For a cut-and-paste job this sloppy, they could at least have given the actors messier roles to play.

More by Jessica Winter

Despite a decidedly wayward accent, Brosnan’s irreverent charm makes this a desirable choice to Stick jokes, unprejudiced if it’s too little to compensate for dreary Kinnear, the less than sparkling Davis, and the movie’s moral ‘stance’ (if such mendacious posturing merits that term); somehow the take contrives to be at once offensively callous hither put out of one’s misery victims and ludicrously timid in its imprudence to keep compatibility for the three leads. This keep-your-cake-and-eat-it attitude extends to a bullfight, Julian’s fancy appropriate for ‘margaritas and cock’, and virtually caboodle else. The film’s fast, has some organized lines (‘I look like a Bangkok hooker on a Sunday morning after the navy left town’), but its outrageousness is facile; as sulky comedy it’s not so much treasonous as frustratingly tricky.

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This is late Buñuel, mockingly sensible black comedy, plant in Toledo in the early 1930s, in which an old guardian (Rey) seduces/rapes his girlish ward Tristana (Deneuve) but is unable to possess her, betrayed by Surrealist lurches in time and reality, and by Tristana’s changing ‘nature’ (the amputation of a tumorous leg). Rey is dazzling as the mephistophelean, anti-clerical Socialist, ladies’ and outmoded master of public graces: father, lover and husband all in one. His passion ruins and softens him, but (caught as she is in the chauvinist paradox of woman as cause and eternal end of man’s aggression) it hardens Tristana from innocent virginity to flinty repayment.

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