A rather wan attempt to pump new blood into the vampire genre by injecting (no
pun intended) a druggie angle, The Thirst purports to be a harrowing
examination of two recovering drug addicts facing an entirely new sort of
“addiction.” It’s a tonal mishmash of gory set pieces, though, and a
movie that can’t really overcome the weight of its limited means, lacking as it
does a convincingly stylistic imagination and flair.

Directed
in slapdash fashion by Jeremy Kasten (All Souls Day: Dia de los Muertos,
The Wizard of Gore), the movie centers on recuperating junkies Max (Matt
Keeslar) and Lisa (Clare Kramer), who are having a tough time adjusting to
their new lives now that they’ve kicked their old habits. When a series of
tragic and sudden events threaten their lives, both are recruited into a clan
of sex- and gore-crazed vampires, led by the charismatic Darius (Jeremy Sisto).
Each depraved fix hooks the couple deeper on their new narcotic, human blood,
but Max and Lisa eventually begin to rebel against their horrific plight,
hoping that kicking this habit will keep them out of hell.

As
I’ve mentioned previously but will reiterate here, I remember flipping through
screenwriter-producer Mark Altman’s 1991 behind-the-scenes book on Twin
Peaks, and being wowed… by the number of typos and errors. Even for what
was obviously a quickie cash-in title, I thought at the time, this was slung
together in pretty haphazard fashion. The same might be said for quite a lot of
Altman’s hackishly referential writing for the big screen, which includes Room
6, starring Christine
Taylor; 1998’s Star Trek-inspired Free Enterprise; Uwe
Boll’s House of the Dead (and its sequel); and the recent Dead and
Deader. Altman is one of five credited writers here, and he and
his cohorts don’t do much beyond come up with nipped bits from other movies and
staple them together in an effort to bridge together set pieces. Director
Kasten, meanwhile, obliges his writers in canted-angle fashion.

A
few of the arterial sprays and dismemberments are enjoyable for diehard genre
fans, but the best that can really be said of The Thirst is that
provides work to a recognizable cast that is mostly above its value —
actors like Sisto (Six Feet Under), Keeslar (Art School Confidential)
and Kramer (Bring It On, Buffy the Vampire Slayer). Adam Baldwin,
Erik Palladino and such horror film veterans as Ellie Cornell (Halloween 4
& 5) round out the cast.

Presented in
1.78:1 widescreen, enhanced for 16×9 televisions, The Thirst comes
packaged in a regular Amray case that is in turn housed in a cardboard
slipcover with slightly raised lettering. Its supplemental features consist of an
audio commentary track with writer-producer Altman and composer Joe Kraemer,
and around 17 minutes of deleted scenes. There are also a DVD-ROM version
of the screenplay, trailers for other Anchor Bay/Starz genre releases, and a
gallery of still images from the movie. D+ (Movie) B (Disc)

Prodigiously talented and rakishly charming, if definitely a bit affected by years of hardcore drinking, Peter O’Toole is a classic guy’s guy, an old school entertainer cut from the cloth of thespians as rabble-rousing globetrotters. His renowned stage performances, though lost for the ages, live on in the memory and laudatory reminiscences of those who saw them. His film work, meanwhile, is no less unforgettable, including sterling performances in Beckett, The Lion in Winter, Man of La Mancha and The Stunt Man, to name a few. Then there’s the matter of 1962’s Lawrence of Arabia, which many consider to be on the shortlist for the greatest film of all time.



All of this is, in its own way, grist for the mill of Roger Michell’s Venus, a rich, frequently lewd and yet ultimately legitimately moving tale of doused March-December sexual attraction and unlikely mentorship that uses and plays upon an audience’s notion of O’Toole — working knowledge or mere impression, it doesn’t really matter — to bountiful, inspired effect. The film’s story centers aroundIan (Leslie Phillips) and Maurice (O’Toole), a pair of veteran actors whose comfortable daily routine of croissants, theater and cranky banter is disruptedby the arrival of the former’s teenage grandniece Jessie (Jodie Whittaker).Thinking that he’s getting a pliable live-in maid and cook, the self-involvedIan is absolutely apoplectic when confronted with the equally self-centered and mouthy Jessie — a thickly accented, adolescent jumble of laziness and hazy ambition who declares aspirations of being a model but seems quite content to merely lay around, snack and watch television. Maurice, however, displays an interest in Jessie that is equal parts academic curiosity and romantic attraction. He takes the unruly teenager under his wing, procuring a risqué modeling gig for her and buying her little knick-knacks. Naturally, degrees of mutual use ensue.

As penned by Hanif Kureishi, Venus is in essence a movie about life’s indignities, and how they visit and prey upon both young and old, frequently in indiscriminate fashion. Yet Venus never succumbs to mopey dramatic tropes, or indeed, even much melancholy; it’s spry, and a heck of a lot of fun. What you so strongly feel while watching the film — even if you’re unfamiliar with the rest of O’Toole’s filmography — is the force and weight of a life lived with full-tilt passion. That, and the tension that the movie achieves through its smart balance of aged contemplativeness and dirty-old-man creepiness, is what makes Venus a true beauty.

The film comes to DVD housed in a regular Amray case and presented in a 1.85:1 anamorphic widescreen aspect ratio that preserves the scope of its theatrical exhibition. An English language Dolby digital 5.1 surround sound audio track more than delivers on the movie’s scant aural demands, and optional English subtitles are also available. By way of supplemental extras, Michell and producer Kevin Loader sit for a somewhat lethargic joint audio commentary track (there’s no O’Toole, unfortunately), and a brief collection of time-stamped deleted scenes runs around four minutes and showcases a bit more interaction between Maurice and Ian. The chief bonus item, then, is a 14-minute featurette which includes cast and crew interviews, a snippet of Whittaker’s audition tape and some behind-the-scenes footage. B+ (Movie) C (Disc)

A fictitious snapshot of influential photographer Diane
(pronounced “Dee-anne”) Arbus — think of it as a sort of impressionistic
Polaroid biopic — Fur stars Nicole
Kidman in the title role, and she brings her characteristic full-bodied
attentiveness and intelligence to the part. Still, even this isn’t enough to
bring to a full boil what is essentially a very symbolically telegraphed and
half-lidded sketch about desire, burgeoning self-expression and independence.

Based on a book by Patricia Bosworth, and adapted for the
screen by director Steven Shainberg’s Secretary
partner Erin Cressida Wilson, Fur is
a sort of through-the-looking-glass tale, centered around Arbus’ putative
“inner experience,” and thus inventing characters and situations wholesale. One
can’t say for certain whether it was this approach that in part, large or
small, resulted in the movie’s commercial implosion (it grossed all of $220,000
domestically, though its widest release came at less than 40 screens), but it
undoubtedly further segregates the subject matter from those that might
otherwise be at least half-interested in either a historical biopic or tale of
self-actualization. Fur, you see, is
about Arbus’ personal growth through a relationship with a guy… covered in fur.

Set in New York City in 1958, the story unfolds in a high society world, the sort of place
where Diane’s momentary tearing up and excusal from a presentation is cause for
gasping, whispered chatter. Yes, Arbus is another oppressed housewife, you see, stifled by
life as an assistant to her portraiture and advertising photographer husband, Allan
(Ty Burrell). She harbors her own considerable talents, though, and soon meets
Freudian with Lionel (Robert Downey, Jr.), a new neighbor stricken by
hypertrichosis, which results in a thick coat of hair that covers his body,
head to toe. Though he hides his face under a bag, Lionel’s penetrating gaze
strips the veneer off of Diane’s tidy reality, and she soon finds herself
sucked into what might be characterized as an emotional affair. She begins to meet with Lionel under the guise of taking his photo, but never quite gets around to doing so.

Despite its outwardly manifested outlandish elements, Fur is for the most part a movie of considerable
subtlety and restraint; Arbus’ journey isn’t quite as in lockstep with Betty
Freidan as one might imagine. Allan is a compassionate and sympathetic figure,
and he initially quite supports his wife’s artistic awakening. Even when Diane
begins to shut him off in more explicit or pronounced ways, much of his
frustration is channeled inward — though he does (somewhat amusingly) grow a
beard in a silent gambit of plaintive outreach. The film’s problem, really, is
that it places such weight on an admittedly contrived plot point and character, and so we
learn nothing of consequence about Arbus or her real-life work. She comes across here as widely defined, a placeholder for the creative spirit.

Presented in 1.85:1 widescreen, which preserves the aspect
ratio of its theatrical exhibition, Fur
comes packaged in a regular Amray case, and is anchored by English language
Dolby digital 5.1 surround and stereo surround audio mixes that are each a bit
low on dialogue register, but nicely capture Carter Burwell’s music — full of moody,
heavy string pieces that at times recalls Phillip Glass and at other times Angelo
Badalamenti. Optional English and Spanish subtitles are also included.

Delicate, animated menu screens give way to the disc’s special
features, which consist of a brief making-of featurette nipped from HBO’s First Look series, deleted scenes with optional
commentary by Shainberg and an audio commentary track from the director, who
allows no lulls, uncomfortable or otherwise, to intercede. Generally eschewing
production anecdotes, Shainberg disdains the line of reasoning that Arbus’ portraiture
work of dwarves, giants and deviants is exploitative. A lot of his patter,
though, merely points up Fur’s
ladled-on representational topcoat. “To some extent film is about transmission
of his world to her,” Shainberg says at one point; then, “Lionel being upstairs
is a metaphoric representation of Arbus’ inner life — the world that she wants
to explore is right there.” Sure, we get it. What of Diane’s deeper, truer
feelings, though — unattached to anyone else, family or otherwise? Fur looks past this forest through the
trees, beholden in willful fashion to its own immaculately tasteful art-posturing. C- (Movie) B (Disc)

Presented by Wes Craven and directed by one of his longtime
assistant directors, Nick Mastandrea, The
Breed is a killer canine flick with just a pinch of the same sort of
exotic-travelogue-gone-wrong found in Turistas. Inspired by animalistic horror
classics like Cujo and The Birds, the movie is an exercise of the expected in its
plotting, but generally solid in its execution; it’s powered by familiar jump
cuts, yet also avoids CGI work in favor of practical stunts and thrills, making
for a pleasingly low-fi genre experience.

The story centers around a group of five twentysomething friends
who hydroplane in for a weekend on a deserted island once favored by the
deceased uncle of two of the characters. Making up the main troika are Nikki (Michelle
Rodriguez) and her studious, responsible boyfriend Matt (Eric Lively), but
their relationship is complicated by the fact that Nikki used to also date
Matt’s older brother, the alternately brash and withdrawn John (Black Christmas’ Oliver Hudson, somehow married
to this).
Also along for the ride are blonde and flirty Sara (Hustle and Flow’s Taryn Manning) and Noah (In Too Deep’s Hill Harper). The alcohol flows freely, and the group
settles in for a good time. Strangely, a puppy shows up the next morning, and
later Sara gets nicked by its protective parent while walking the perimeter of
the house.

It’s then that Matt and John recall a camp on the island
where seeing-eye dogs were supposedly trained; only later does Matt mention
hearing about it being briefly shut down, allegedly for a rabies outbreak.
Turns out it was a special canine research unit, and the experiment gone wrong
has produced a flesh-eating pack of more than two dozen now-wild dogs, all genetically
engineered to hunt and kill. Trapped and outnumbered, the friends must stick
together as they struggle to survive and escape.

Rodriguez will soon likely pull a muscle due to her lack of
screen stretching, and though she’s not the only — or even principal — athletic
ass-kicker here, she does get to negotiate a zip-line during an ill-fated
escape attempt, and have her leg shot
through with an arrow. That leaves most of the heroic lifting to Hudson
(above left), who actually shows a bit more personality than for which I had
him pegged. No top-shelf leading man is he, but in the right ensemble, he
serves quite capably. The entertainment value of The Breed ultimately, though, comes down to how much one wants to
see snarling dogs nip at the heels of its relatively well-toned cast members.
It makes sufficiently good on its conceit — nothing more, nothing less. The cast showcases a generally nice rapport, but the script isn’t exactly crackling with insight or very memorable dialogue.

Presented in a 1.85:1 aspect ratio, and anchored by a desultory
5.1 Dolby digital mix that disproportionately favors soundtrack tunes over
source audio, The Breed comes with
optional English and Spanish subtitles, and packaged in a standard Amray case
with slightly holographic cover insert art. Its special features consist of a
making-of featurette and preview trailers for the movie and a trio of other
First Look titles, including The Dead
Girl, Kovak Box and Disappeared. The aforementioned
behind-the-scenes bit clocks in at 24 minutes, and seems to be a special
installment of a regular stand-alone program entitled Eye on Movie Magic. Detailing a very specialized portion of the
movie’s six-week South African shoot, this segment focuses on the film’s animal
stunt work, and as such includes interviews with Mastandrea, producer David
Lancaster, dog trainer Paul “Sled” Reynolds and, briefly, actress Rodriguez. If
one can get past the Afrikaner-accented narration, it’s actually pretty
interesting to see how some of the action beats are choreographed and achieved
in practical fashion. It’s nothing grandly illuminating, really, but a nice
inclusion. C (Movie) C+ (Disc)

With a rich and emotive voice, Garnett Silk began his career
as a child toaster, and rose to become one of Jamaica’s most astonishing
singers — an exciting young talent from the 1980s dancehall scene. International
stardom on a bigger order seemed in the cards, but Silk’s career and life were cut
cruelly short, however, as he perished in December of 1994, while trying to
rescue his mother from a house fire. Each year, now, the Garnett Silk
Foundation coordinates an Earth Day Bash in his native country to honor his
name and celebrate his music.

Comprised of 74 minutes of concert footage from the
eponymous foundation’s 2003 Earth Day Bash, this disc features a lengthy list
of artists that includes Ras Fire, Doniki & Steady Ranks, The Rastareens,
Edi Fitzroy, Aaron Silk, Anthony Cruz, Lehbanculah, Chuck Fendah, Richie Spice,
LMS, Turbulence, Lukie D, Ras Shiloh and Sizzla Kalonji. The gathering is
substantial, but also maintains a backyard BBQ party feel — something aided by the
single camera approach used to capture the footage here. For the most part,
this works, as it’s clearly filmed on high-grade digital video. Occasionally,
though, the operator(s) pan out into the crowd or mis-rack focus, cutting you out
of the action for several seconds. And when a flag-waving fool keeps clouding
your vision of Richie Spice’s act, you’re left wishing for an editor and/or
director to provide you with a cutaway.

The energy throughout this disc is high, but the performances
vary rather wildly in quality. Chuck Fenda is the reggae equivalent of a
carnival barker, and it’s a tiresome act. Mixed-sex collective LMS is sort of a
poor man’s Fugees, but they bring a cool vibe to their set. Likewise, Suga
Black weighs in nicely with “A Change is Gonna Come” (a track not listed on the
disc’s accompanying song list), and then segues into an interesting cover of “Let
It Be.” The problem is, the song — like many on this disc — is cut off, mid-tune. With
such a packed roster, we sometimes don’t get full tunes, and certainly not entire
sets. It makes for a frustrating experience, ultimately. It’s additionally strange
that there’s not a cover of “Hello Africa,” Silk’s biggest hit.

Presented in a 1.85:1 widescreen aspect ratio, and housed in
a regular Amray case, this region-free disc is anchored by stereo and surround
sound audio mixes, both of which sound a bit tinny at times, the result,
perhaps, of the concert’s soundboard being placed too close to its stage
speaks. Slightly flickering, motion menu screens give way to song selections or
a “play all” function, but there are unfortunately no special features contained
herein. Some sort of behind-the-scenes material on the concert would have been
nice — and seemingly not too difficult to throw together, given all the warmth
for Silk — or even a text biography for relative reggae newcomers. Alas, this
disc remains a specialized entry. C- (Concert) C- (Disc)

Formula works, in entertainment as in math and science. Anyone doubting should check out Home Improvement, a classic, Red State example of a television series that defines its audience early on
and then gives that subset more of what it has grown to love. The show was originally rooted in the gruff, “guys’ guy” stand-up
comedy of star Tim Allen — part of a spate of pilot production deals handed out
to up-and-coming comedians in the early 1990s — but anyone who followed the
series in its later years will attest that only the most trace amounts of that
edge remained. Instead, Home Improvement
grew into the equivalent of a pine tree — a dependably predictable if unspectacular small
screen laffer. Not quite the majesty of an oak, definitely not the delicious novelty of an
apple or lemon tree (that would be more like Arrested Development), nor the mannered beauty of a willow tree… but there you have it, a syndication-ready small screen hit nonetheless.

For those unfamiliar with the Detroit-set show, Allen (above left) stars
as Tim Taylor, the affable, pun-loving host of a Bob Villa-type, do-it-yourself
television program called Tool Time.
His faithful co-host is Al Borland (Richard Karn, above right), and his long-suffering wife
is Jill (Patricia Richardson). Together, they preside over a brood of three
rambunctious sons (with an irritating nine names between them — Zachery Ty
Bryan, Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Taran Noah Smith), and live next door to a
rarely glimpsed neighbor, Wilson (Earl Hindman), who dispenses nuggets of
advice that help, when necessary, steer the perpetually mishap-making Tim
toward compromise and apology.

The series’ sixth
season finds the kids a bit older, so the cuddly “cuteness factor” herein is definitely on the wane. Episodic highlights include Jill planning an anniversary party with her neurotic sisters and, separately, using an inheritance to buy a fancy sports car; Tim fretting over renovation plans of his boyhood home; and Tim forgetting where he hid Jill’s Valentine’s Day gift. Home
Improvement, like many of its familial sitcom brethren, sometimes stoops a bit too
often to the overly simplified husband-as-idiot routine,
and the episodes that cover well-worn ground like couples therapy can’t match the confident strides of The King of Queens or Everybody Loves Raymond. The show is better sticking to family time squabbles and Jill’s attempts at parsing and defeating the sometimes too-macho-by-half attitudes Tim tries to instill in his sons. Still, the characters
are nicely sketched and rather warmly brought to life by both Allen and
especially
Richardson. Guest stars herein include members of the famous Unser racing family and the Beach Boys, who turn out to be cousins of neighbor Wilson.

Presented in 1.33 full screen with audio in Dolby digital
2.0 stereo, Home Improvement: The
Complete Sixth Season comes spread out over three discs in a cardboard slipcase that houses the set’s sturdy gatefold packaging.
Unfortunately, though, the only bonus material comes by way of a six-minute, season-specific blooper
reel, at least some of which fans will no doubt recognize from Dick Clark’s
visit to the set for his blooper-laden specials. C+ (Series) B-
(Disc)

Former actor Ari Ryan makes his directorial debut with this twisty,
mashed-up heist picture, a movie of desperate characters colliding together in
desperate ways. The film is marginally distinguished by its cast, which
includes Henry Thomas, David Boreanaz, Peter Weller, The Departed’s
Vera Farmiga, Nick Lachey, Bruce Dern and Gary Busey, but otherwise about what
one can expect from a hastily shot, conventionally scripted indie genre flick
grinding through as many set-ups per day as possible.

The story centers on Paul Weston (Thomas), a sad-sack inveterate
gambler with a rising debt, and Roger Hargitay (Boreanaz), a yuppie financial
broker who, together with his colleagues, has bent some rules in the pursuit of
a quick payday. The pair doesn’t know each other, but they share a similar
problem — each owes a lot of money, and has no conceivable way to pay it back. Opportunity
and filmic coincidence collide when Paul and Roger are both approached by
separate groups of thieves looking for accomplices in a bank robbery. At the outset,
the heists look simple. Naturally, however, the “easy” job gets
complicated, and the men find themselves involved in the same hold-up at the
same time — a situation that eventually devolves into a stand-off and gun
battle with each other and the authorities.

Jon Lindstrom and Tom Schanley’s script has this madcap nut
at its core, and not a whole lot else. The cast for the most part supply game
efforts — Thomas has a few nice drunk scenes early on, and as Roger’s boss Ed,
Weller injects some levity into the proceedings, chewing scenery and exclaiming
“Gonad!” when something doesn’t go his way — but are often hamstrung by lame or
awkward dialogue. Furthermore, Ryan over-directs the material a bit, achieving
clear compositions and nicely distinguished color palettes for each setting,
but shooting flat masters and then overcompensating with silly, quick-cut
action.

Also, as I’ve mentioned before,
Boreanaz is an actor who is successful only to the degree that he’s an empty vessel for (mostly female)
audience projection. The Hard Easy
doesn’t really afford him that opportunity (though it does get his shirt off in
one scene, a wretchedly staged rooftop basketball encounter with Weller), and
his portrayal of an angsty white collar type, crucial to the differentiation of
the material in his contrast with Thomas’ Lake Tahoe gadfly, doesn’t float.
Roger seems a contrived follower, not believably cowed by panic related to his
circumstances.

The Hard Easy is presented
in widescreen, enhanced for 16×9 televisions, and comes with a slightly subpar English
language 5.1 audio mix, optional subtitles in English and Spanish, and an audio
commentary track with Ryan and producer Scott Gold. There’s also a
seven-minute-plus interview with Ryan, filmed overlooking mid-Wilshire Los
Angeles, in which he makes copious, nervous mention of his own “theatrical
roots” (as if this is an audition to vet his credentials to direct) and also
discusses — quite straightforward and reasonably actually — how he feels a
filmmaker should communicate and rely on the strengths of each of his or her
film’s specific departments. C (Movie) C+ (Disc)

With his shock of white hair and broad, friendly face,
master guitarist Larry Coryell looks a bit like Harry Caray by way of Saturday Night Live’s master
impressionist Darrell Hammond. A pioneer of rock-jazz fusion, Coryell has, over
the course of a long and lucrative career, recorded as a bandleader, soloist
and featured player, while also cultivating a reputation as one heck of a nice
guy — a virtuoso craftsman with the disposition of an amiable and knowledgeable
guitar shop veteran.

Recorded at The Avalon Club in Hollywood,
on October 13, 2005, the
two-disc, simply titled A Retrospective
provides an alluring overview of his canon. Given Coryell’s ample output — more
than 70 albums over the past three-plus decades, from his groundbreaking work
with The 11th House to a string of solo albums for Arista Records in the late 1970s
— any sort of whittling down is bound to produce debate centered as much around
the exclusions as the songs that made the final cut. Believe it or not, I’d
never heard of Coryell until his fine interpretations of Ravel and Gershwin in
the 1990s — music not included here. Based on the alternately electrifying and
evocative nature of what is here,
though, it’s hard to argue too much with the final track listing.

Influenced in equal measure by Chet Atkins and the note-bending
work of Jimi Hendrix, Coryell is a monster on guitar throughout the show, and frequent
collaborator Bernard “Pretty” Purdie sits in on drums, to nice effect. Several
special guests, including Maroon 5’s James Valentine and Los Lobos’ David
Hidalgo, also drop by and lend their talents in homage to Coryell. A fairly simple
introduction gives way to “After Later,” and the two-fer of “Souls Meeting” and
“Souls Dirge” is surely something in which modern-day Arcade Fire fans could find
purchase. The rest of the track listing is as follows: “Hidalgo Rehearsal,”
“Slow Blues,” “Half a Heart,” “Valentine Rehearsal,” “Beautiful Woman,” “Stiff
Neck,” “Morning Sickness,” “Beyond This Chilling Wind,” “Spaces (Infinite)” and
“Dragon Gate.”

Presented on region-free discs in a widescreen aspect ratio
enhanced for 16×9 televisions, A
Retrospective comes anchored by a somewhat desultory stereo PCM audio track, and
packaged in a standard Amray case with snap-tray insert. While a straightforward
biography would have been a nice inclusion for neophyte jazz fans, special
features consist of additional rehearsal footage of tunes not featured in
concert, as well as an interview with the humble Coryell, who hints at a bout
with drug addiction that cost him some of his best years. B (Concert) B (Disc)

Though part of me can’t believe in its actual existence, I heard a rumor that Rush Hour 3 is actually coming out later this summer, so to “swoll” the archives, as the kids (probably don’t) say, comes this re-posting of Rush Hour 2 on DVD, originally published upon its release… what was that, six years ago? Wow. To wit:

In a way, I may be colored by my friend’s prior
interpretation of the film, but watching Rush
Hour 2 I did indeed feel like it was a throwback to those old ’80s buddy
movies, when fleeing villains scaled bamboo latticework (just ’cuz) and heroes
kicked their way through elaborately choreographed fight sequences while
wearing nothing more than a towel wrapped around their waist. Rush Hour 2’s plot is utterly ridiculous
(a smuggling ring, some counterfeit money, revenge for a father’s death and
Zhang Ziyi kicking ass), but it’s hard to take seriously or bear much animosity
toward a movie in which one of the main characters moves the story along by
elucidating his theory of investigation thusly: “Follow the rich white man.” So
Inspector Lee (Jackie Chan) and his mouthy Western counterpart, Detective James
Carter (Chris Tucker), bop from Hong Kong to Los
Angeles, chasing people, having fun, yadda, yadda. Devoted fans
of the principals will be suitably entertained, others by degrees less so.

New Line’s Infinifilm DVD release, though, really decks out
the title with a slew of extras. For those unfamiliar with this line, pop-up
menus allow access to content specifically relating to given scenes on the
screen, interstitial micro-docs on everything from the fashion of the film to
the rehearsals for its action sequences. There are also a bunch of other supplemental features, including animated scene selection, an audio commentary track with director Brett Ratner and writer
Jeff Nathanson, Ratner’s student film Lady
Luck, a script-to-screen function, deleted scenes and five minutes of
outtakes. Graphically, the layout for the special features is a bit cramped,
but the menu does include running times for each option, which is a helpful
bonus. C (Movie) B+ (Disc)

With Blue Velvet, director
David Lynch certainly vividly reminded if not outright revealed to wide
swatches of America
that behind the white picket fences of suburbia, life is not always what it
appears at first glance to be. The melancholic Little Children isn’t quite that groundbreaking or incendiary, nor
is that its aim, but it does pick up on some of the same themes of dark secrets
hidden behind middle-class façades, mixed in with extra helpings of the
adultery, ennui and self-loathing found in works like We Don’t Live Here Anymore. It seems like a film as fretfully
unraveling hand-me-down sweater, really — something nostalgic, knowable and
damaged at the same time.

Adapted from Tom Perrotta’s novel and directed by Todd
Field, in his follow-up to the Oscar-nominated In the Bedroom, the movie centers around Sarah Pierce (Kate
Winslet), a young mother who feels distant and apart, both from her older
husband Richard (Gregg Edelman) and all the other young wives and homemakers in
her neighborhood. Sarah shocks her so-called friends one day at the local park,
first talking to and then planting a harmless kiss on the hunky Brad Adamson (The Alamo’s Patrick Wilson, above left), a
stay-at-home dad who’s busy scrupulously avoiding studying for the bar exam.
Even though he came to this arrangement in accord with his wife Kathy (Jennifer
Connelly),
Brad is also unhappy in his marriage, and so he and Sarah become partners in
partnered activities for their adolescents, with the temptation of something
more always lurking, in unspoken fashion, just around the corner.

At the same time, the idyllic neighborhood at the center of Little Children is disrupted by cracked pedophile
Ronnie McGorvey (Best Supporting Actor Oscar nominee Jackie Earle Haley, quite
good), who’s just returned home to live with his mother May (Phyllis
Somerville) after a two-year sentence for exposing himself to kids. Hotheaded
retired cop Larry (Noah Emmerich) attempts to rally Brad and others in the
neighborhood against Ronnie, and not entirely without good reason, it sometimes
seems.

Hearteningly, Little
Children supports various interpretations, and it’s possible to both feel
sympathy for Sarah and Brad’s emotional waywardness while also disapproving of
their actions. Apart from an ending that rings a bit false, everything is of a
piece as far as the movie’s construction, and it capably induces thought and
discussion on the domestic and interpersonal matters it examines. Unfortunately,
in a seeming effort to cram in as much of the book’s grey-sky tonality as
possible, Perrotta and Field include a puffed-up, sham narration (from NOVA mainstay Will Lyman) that
undermines numerous scenes, highlighting what should be subtler, subtextual
moments. The performances, then, are what carry the film. Connelly’s role is a
bit underwritten — as this is a story told chiefly through Sarah and Brad’s eyes,
respectively — but she does a good job. Winslet, also an Academy Award nominee
for her work, is charactertistically superb, and Wilson, meanwhile, who also
starred in the minimalist, provocative Hard
Candy, gives fine, restrained
notes of languor to Brad’s boredom and wandering eye. He’s miserable because he’s
stopped communicating and trying, basically stopped participating in his own
life.

Housed in a regular Amray case and presented in 2.35:1
anamorphic widescreen enhanced for 16×9 televisions, Little Children comes with both Dolby digital 5.1 and 2.0 stereo
surround English language audio tracks, as well as closed captions and optional
English and Spanish subtitles. There are, unfortunately and rather bafflingly,
no supplemental extras on the release. Whether this is because the movie was a
gigantic commercial disappointment (grossing only $5.5 million domestically
last fall, and another $8.5 million overseas) and/or Field wanted to preserve
the prerogative to release a more comprehensive and extras-laden DVD somewhere
down the line (I’ve heard rumors that there were back-channel discussions with
Criterion about granting them DVD licensing rights, similar to what Buena Vista
did with Wes Anderson’s The Life Aquatic)
only time will tell. As is, though, entirely adequate tech credits unfortunately
don’t make up for what is, in this regard, the substandard packaging of an Oscar
nominated film. B (Movie) D (Disc)