The typographer in me is jumping for joy over this Bell-font teaser poster for Oliver Stone’s W. I hope to see them lined up across the marquee walls soon. The Bushisms are also a great send up of the commander in thief.
Do you think this type of all-type movie advertisement sheet could set a trend for future movie posters? No pictures, but with more font-laced words dedicated to more than just the film’s title and a tag line.
Fun Extra:You can download the font regularly used for movie poster credits here.
Distributed by QED International andLionsgate Films, Oliver Stone’s W. starring Josh Brolin - George W. Bush (In the Valley of Elah, 2007), Elizabeth Banks - Laura Bush (Catch Me If You Can, 2002), James Cromwell - Bush Sr. (The General’s Daughter, 1999), Ellen Burstyn - Barbara Bush (Alice Doesn’t Live Here Anymore, 1974), Thandie Newton - Condoleezza Rice (Flirting, 1991), Jeffrey Wright - Colin Powell (Syriana, 2005), Scott Glenn - Donald Rumsfeld (The Silence of the Lambs, 1991), Toby Jones - Karl Rove (Nightwatching, 2007) Ioan Gruffud - Tony Blair (Black Hawk Down, 2001), and Richard Dreyfuss - Dick Cheney (Jaws, 1975) will be released this October.
Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (2008) is the best Indy movie after the blessed original. Steven Spielberg and George Lucas have taken the whip-snapping archaeologist out for a fourth time while retaining some of the most crucial elements from Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981) that without tarnished the past two sequels. The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull is not a perfect movie. Far from it. There are quibbles galore, but it didn’t stop me from grinning throughout this popcorn entertainment. The fourth exceeding the original is impossible. Raiders is perfect.
Raiders of the Lost Ark (1981), after twenty-seven years is still the best example of a character-driven action motion picture. There are no wasted moments and the exposition is told briskly so the adrenaline rush isn’t tempered. More importantly, the characters were larger than life, capable of nuance, and worth caring about. Watching Raiders in a revival theater last year was an uplifting experience. Spielberg and Lucas made the movie, one they personally would have liked to have seen, with great zeal and, more importantly, selfishness. Like a hyper-imaginative kid, he invented one exhilarating sequence after another and clocked in five minutes shy of two hours. When initially released, Raiders saved Hollywood at a time when ticket sales ebbed to a devastating low.
I approached the fourth one with trepidation after recalling how the sequels treated the fedora man so shamefully. “Docta Jones” anyone? Thankfully the fourth adventure is a hardy throwback that mostly succeeds in integrating the dashing 1930s rouge into the 1950s. The Indiana Jones saga now explores that decades’ hang ups: conspiracy theories, commies, and the stuff science-fiction magazines reveled in. Dr. Henry “Indiana” Jones, now in his fifties, is at a point in his life one of colleagues, Dean Charles Stanforth (Jim Broadbent, Hot Fuzz - 2007), refers to as “where (it) stops giving you things and starts taking them away.”
After being harangued by Soviet soldiers (re: evil Russians - “I hate those guys…”) in search of an artifact not of this world, the Crystal Skull (re: The McGuffin), that promises infinite knowledge when returned to its sacred place in Peru; Indiana must stop them. God, I love the outrageousness here! It is an amusing, if odd clothesline for inventive stunt work, deaf-defying escapes, merciless beatings, and booby-trapped ruins. Spielberg stages car chases like musical chairs, consistently having our hero jump from one moving motorcade into another. There’s also a game of keep away with the elongated glass skull during a high speed pursuit in the jungle.
Most of the action scenes are accomplished, aided by older techniques like back screen projection and actually having the actors and stunt people perform their feats on location. Spielberg shot on film while avoiding as much CGI work as possible with veteran cinematographer and collaborator since Schindler’s List (1993), Janusz Kaminski. To best replicate the visual style so the fourth seems easily with the series, Kaminski and Spielberg studied and worked off of how the previous Indy films looked when helmed by cinematographer Douglas Slocombe, now retired.
The tension of these action sequence is tamed by our perception that Indiana Jones is never in real danger. Of course he’s not, he is invisible. Watching Indy in action is like hanging on the adventurer’s coattails; he makes us believe that we can punch out six goons, jump from a high scaffoldings, and deliver a punchline. The appeal of Indy after the fight is over, seeing him so exhausted by it all, is having an inkling to the man’s mortality.
Harrison Ford is still the man, despite this return to form being the best role he’s had since he has played Dr. Richard Kimble in the 1993 Andrew Davis film The Fugitive. Years older, all that’s changed about Ford is his hair being white and his facial features look more defined, not aged. Acting with ease and command, Ford is the action hero equivalent to stone faced Buster Keaton. Sure, being thrown miles across the desert inside a refrigerator would break his neck, but its so cool that Indy just shakes it off before being haloed by a mushroom cloud from a distance. Though, it would have been great to see him use that whip more often than he did. Even a nod to that Raiders moment with how he disposes of a sword-wielding nemesis with exasperated tact.
Where the film really suffers is a belabored exposition in the middle of the movie that should be much tighter, but drags the production down. Indy’s partner ‘Mac’ George McHale played by the versatile Ray Winstone (Last Orders, 2001) isn’t given enough screen time. The character McHale changes sides more often than he does his shirt and Indy just keeps trusting the guy - a charming snake. John Hurt (Love and Death on Long Island, 1998) plays the fool to Indy’s King Leer as a once distinguished, now brainwashed archaeologist Professor ‘Ox’ Oxley, but not enough of Hurt’s ability to show such proud vanity is exercised here. Though Hurt, sunburned and disheveled, looks like he came straight out of John Hillcoat’s The Proposition (one of 2006’s best), which also starred Winstone.
One overlooked element from Raiders not present in Skull is the horror factor. The 1981 film wasn’t shy about depicting great visual violence and it earned its R rating. When the Nazis got their comeuppance in the original once the ark was open, the visceral gore on the The Evil Dead level left a real impact. The compromise of a PG-13 rating does to Indy what happened with John “Yippee Ki-Ya, mother(gunshot!)” McClane, which only distills naive parents’ pious belief that young teens can’t see for example Zack Snyder’s 300. There isn’t even a good sudden scare to get the heart jacked whereas Raiders delivered a half-dozen sudden jolts.
The young Steven Spielberg would’ve made the man-eating ant scene look more harrowing. The goons just get sucked into a vortex, which Spielberg does us the disservice of showing what’s on the other side - the same Spielberg who usually shows his audience everything. And Irina Spalko deserved the grisly comeuppance a great villain deserves. If only her head became elongated and warped once she received all that knowledge. Even losing her eyeballs would’ve been sweet!
What makes this film worthwhile; however, is the women. At long, Indy is reunited with his old flame Marion Ravenwood played by the long lost Karen Allen with the cathectic smile. Their long history - she swooned over him as a teenager - and the fight, rage, passion, betrayal, vulnerability, and tenderness bubbles up when they so much as look at one another. This is the rousing chemistry great romance demands. It’s Movie Movie Love! Rick and Ilsa had it, so too do Indy and Marion. With years behind them, they have mellowed some, even calling each other “dear” with just a hint of snark. After never seeing one another for years due to another betrayal in commitment, they still want each other. The return of Marion makes the existence of the fourth movie vital and rectifies the great wrong of separating Indy and her.
The other woman in Indy’s life is his arch nemesis Soviet leader Irina Spalko played by the immaculate Cate Blanchett. This villain is iconic. She wears a Hitchcockian gray suit, shades, and a Louise Brooks hairdo; expect to see Spalko get ups this Halloween. It’s so refreshing watching a woman be evil and actually kick ass. She is everything Uma Thurman’s Poison Ivy should have been. She fences! She throws punches! She drives ferociously! She fires a machine gun like The Joker did in that Harleyquinade episode! She even plays mind games! A pity she didn’t say “I’m a bit psychic!” Daphne Moon-style. Boy, what I’d give to be that man-eating ant crawling up Irina’s leg. That’s the way I want to go!
Spoiler Alert: Now, I have written in the past about my displeasure seeing an action hero saddled with a kid. I am happy to report this is not the case with the appearance of leather-jacketed, motorcycle-driving Mutt (a dog’s name) Williams. Shia LaBeouf is spirited and colorful enough to be a good foil to Indiana Jones. There is welcome comic relief how Indy’s tune changes toward the youthful renegade after finding out it’s his own youthful renegade. Mutt even gets to pay homage to another 1930 adventure serial: Tarzan. I like Mutt, but I’m not at all keen to see Mutt Williams And The Key To Diablo’s Inferno.
Despite its flaws and the raised bar of Raiders, The Crystal Skull is still a good, (not great!) action-adventure film. If you can crack a smile when Indiana Jones warns his partner “those tarts are poisoned!” when natives attack, you’re in the right frame of mind so get out of the library. Now that the rice has been thrown, it is now time for Indy to enjoy a well-deserved retirement.
Kudos to the filmmakers for recognizing Dr. Marcus Brody (Denholm Elliott - A Room With A View, 1985).
The Criterion Collection, always a class act, is releasing the DVD (#440) of Brand Upon The Brain! (2007) by cult Canadian filmmaker Guy Maddin. Brand Upon the Brain!(watch the trailer here) was one of my personal favorites when given a limited release last year. Isabella Rossellini (King of the Corner, 2004) takes her madness to overdrive whilst crashing into a basket full of kittens with her vocal narration (”The Past! The Past!!!”). Rossellini is as fearless as when she and Maddin last collaborated on The Saddest Music In The World (2003), where she played a morbid brewery owner who had her legs replaced with prosthetics made of glass and filled with her very own beer. You have to see it to believe it.
Brand Upon The Brain! is another twisted homage to silent pictures and Luis Bunuel (L’ Âge d’or, 1930) with Maddin’s stylistic fingerprints smeared all over it. This one is a surreal memoir to Maddin’s childhood where he lives on a remote island with his family. His mother (Gretchen Krich - Henry Fool, 1997) is forever watching young Guy Maddin from her Gothic lighthouse tower with an ungainly periscope. She communicates through a speaker that like deranged gargling. Title Cards stand in for much of the dialogue - “Guy, come home for supper or I’m selling your island!!”. Maddin’s father stands in as a mad scientist practicing ghoulish experiments in his dungeon. I get so giddy every time I read the words “orphan nectar”.
Special screenings of Brand Upon the Brain! were performed by live orchestras and narration read aloud by either Isabella Rossellini, Crispin Glover (Back to the Future, 1985) Laurie Anderson, John Ashbery, Guy Maddin, Louis Negrin, and Eli Wallach (The Ugly, 1966). Also included is a new documentary featuring interviews with the director and crew members, deleted scenes, trailer, a new essay by film critic Dennis Lim, and two new Maddin-directed short films: It’s My Mother’s Birthday Today and Footsteps. The DVD will be released in early August. I can’t wait!
The rest of Criterion’s August slate includes Pier Paolo Pasolini’s Salò, or the 120 Days of Sodom (an upgrade of #17 - 1975), Michael Powell & Emeric Pressburger’s The Small Back Room (#441 - 1949) and Keisuke Kinoshita’s Twenty-hour Eyes/Nijushi no hitomi (#442 - 1954). One day I’ll defeat the gag reflex and watch Salò, and while I’m at it I’ll also see Dusan Makavejev’s Sweet Movie (#390 - 1974).
Columbia Pictures and Neal Moritz, the producer of Cruel Intentions (1999) and I am Legend (2007), have secured the rights with Scholastic Media’s Deborah Forte to make the R.L. Stine penned Goosebumps franchise into a theatrical feature. It’s like Rod Serling’sThe Twilight Zone for kids. Executive Producer Andrea Giannetti (Vantage Point, 2008) will oversee the production. The release date is set at 2010.
The popular Goosebumps book series, much of it written and sold throughout the 1990s, holds second place as the most financially successful in the young adults demographic. It was published in over 32 languages and has sold more than 300 million copies worldwide. It was beaten by another youth-oriented serial written by some Brit named J.K. Rowling who specialized in wizards or something (supposedly 5 out of 8 blockbuster films were also adapted).
My reservations on an adapted Goosebumps movie is that it will be based on a Horrorland revision (unread by me) that includes many characters from previous plots. Between evil ventriloquist dummies, a preordained picture-taking camera, possessed Halloween masks, plant zombies, mutating green blood, and a summer camp that enslaves children to wash down a blob with teeth; I hope the filmmakers don’t bloat the film with too many creatures.
Why the invested interest? As a kid, I had difficulty being engaged by less than compelling material outside of Beverley Cleary’s Ramona serial. Unless the characters were personable and a real sense of doom was preordained, my mind drifted to more haunted thoughts of my imagining that proved more enticing. At the age of 7, I was introduced to the Goosebumps series, the closest in horror literature I could obtain at the time, by an antique dealer who I never saw again. As an early reader, I am in debt to R.L. Stine. Throughout grades four and seven, I read front to back over seventy Goosebumps novels. My father used to bribe me with a new Goosebumps book ($5.50 each) every week I completed all of my homework.
The covers of the books were a wonder to behold. A vibrant, ominous painting visualized what was just as immediate and unnerving as when I ventured the horror shelves at the video store (Images of the grinning Chucky Doll entranced me at the age of five). The Goosebumps cover illustrations were all by Tim Jacobus. You can read about his process in this short illustration tutorial.
While I’m on the subject of illustration, it has come to my attention that the U.S. House and Senate is introducing an Orphan Works Act of 2008 and the Shawn Bentley Orphan Works Act of 2008, which deprive copyright ownership from working illustrators whose livelihood depends on acquiring paid permission to use said images. I am calling out to U.S. citizens to take action and oppose this thieving atrocity by e-mailing this form to congress. As a practicing illustrator myself, you’d be doing me a favor.
Back to Goosebumps. In the mid-nineties, the Fox Kids Network in collaboration with Scholastic Publishing produced a Goosebumps television series featuring an adapted episode in a half-hour format. Another like-minded show released much earlier was Eerie, Indiana (1991) that included episodes directed by Joe Dante (Innerspace, 1987). Being a hardcore Goosebumps fan at the time, I taped almost every episode and now return to favorites as a rare guilty pleasure. Perhaps the upcoming film could be made in an episodic fashion - it’s Creepshow for kids!
The first season of the show was effective because it focused on character development (sometimes performed well by child actors - Kathryn Long as Carly Beth comes to mind - and sometimes not) and executed subtle special effects within a reasonable television production. Even future stars like Ryan Gosling (from Say Cheese and Die! to Half Nelson, 2006) and Hayden Christensen (from Night of the Living Dummy III to Shattered Glass, 2003) cut their teeth into the series. Enter seasons two and three as the faithfulness to the original stories and production quality gradually ebbed to a pitiful low. The second the show introduced CGI effects, it was all over.
Cartoon Network brought the show back for a limited time last year. Check out the awesome Grindhouse-inspired tv spot. I wish the original episodes were shown in this rough, scratchy format.
Once in every four months, I google to see whether a Goosebumps: Season One Box Set is on the horizon. Unfortunately, Fox sold the rights to Buena Vista who have peddled out some of worse Goosebumps episodes individually on separate DVDs. Sometimes Disney is pure evil. Hopefully the upcoming film will bring the franchise back to public conscious and the damned series will be released properly. I read that Columbia is looking for a writer for their Goosebumps movie: I nominate myself.
Watching the movie theater screen compress vertically before Standard Operating Procedure began, my heart quickened: this is the first time one of my top three documentary filmmakers has shot a film with an anamorphic 2.35:1 widescreen aspect ratio. S.O.P. follows the best examples of documented journalism from last year from Charles Ferguson’sNo End In Sight to Tony Kaye’sLake of Fire. The film has also won the Golden Bear at the Berlin Film Festival. Detective-Director Errol Morris (Gates of Heaven, 1978 and Mr. Death: The Rise and Fall of Fred A. Leutcher Jr., 1999) examines the shocking exposé of the Abu Ghraib torture-photography scandal with a dogged determination to simply analyze and discover the limited truth of the photos themselves. By taking the photographs, former MP Ken Davis figures that “(the soldiers) weren’t trying to hide anything”. G.I. Javal Davis reasons that “if you consider yourself dead, you can do all the shit you have to”.
The interviewed subjects, photographed harmoniously by Robert Chappell, are young American soldiers, underlings dominated by a handful of superiors in the Army division. The most photographs taken (as well as staged) were by Sergeant Charles Graner who was not allowed to participate in the interviews while being serving his sentence. Described, sometimes in awe, by others in his unit, Graner, seen in odd photos and video clips, comes across as a depraved and vile bully. So manipulative was Graner that he directed his impregnated girlfriend G.I. Lynndie England, who in interviews is surprisingly articulate and even empathetic, to pose with the abused imprisoned men in photos that sealed her infamy. Lynndie’s situation reminds me of an episode from Morris’ short-lived First Person series (2000) about Sondra London, a woman deeply in love with a serial killer. Despite the NO PHOTOGRAPHY signs, the presence of cameras instigated the acts of human degradation: why leash a man if it wasn’t a photo opportunity?
Many of the grotesque scenarios such as the human pyramid, the leashed man, and Gilligan (nicknamed by Graner) standing on the box with electric wire attached to his fingers came to be are testified, debunked and measured by evidence. Specialist Sabrina Harmen, one of the photographers, explains that the wires connected to Gilligan were not connected to electricity. Gilligan was told otherwise as a psychological means of depriving the man sleep. The motive for Sabrina’s picture-taking is explained away as the gathering of damning proof: “No one would believe the shit that goes on here”. Sabrina, at one point, contradicts herself when she recalled, “(getting) to laugh and throw corn at (the prisoners). We (didn’t) hit them, that’s a plus.”
These kids fresh out of high school were ordered by decorated superiors to follow remorseless commands that included, “You are not to release anybody”. Fathers, sons, and nephews were abducted, mostly on false charges, in the Abu Ghraib prison where the cell block population (6000) had overrun maximum capacity.
Morris uses highly elaborate dramatizations that emphasis the journalistic inquiries visually. Going the extra mile, he employs nightmarish production designs by Steve Hardie inside the prisons with ever changing harsh lighting and lens filters, saturated colors, dutch angles, and thoughtfully-composed cinematography by wunderkind Richard Robertson (Natural Born Killers, 1994 and The Aviator, 2004). Some critics (I’m looking at you, Michael Philips) have complained that these stylistic choices detract from the grounded journalistic intent. I found the surrealistic depictions do not distract, but enhance the emotional reality of the Abu Ghraib horrors more deeply. The imaginations of viewers are more lucid and strange than images that depict reality unfiltered. Morris contrasts the central-aligned photographs with blown-up and moving interpretations of the events to arrest the subject matter more vividly.
The hell of Abu Ghraib is shown with close-ups of rats, snarling dogs with sharp teeth, walls and floors awash in blood scraped out of hands and knees, nightmarish large bags for prisoner’s heads, a bouncing Nerf football, and ants so large Sabrina claims, “(they’ll) carry the family dog away and give you the finger”. Images are hard to forget such as a dirty puddle that reflects upside-down a beaten, masked Iraqi prisoner cowering as a large military steps and lifts off the liquid menacingly. The video made of the naked Iraqi prisoners being positioned as the human pyramid is presented through a hazy vertical slit of darkness as though we were peering through a keyhole.
The only attacks made to the commanders in higher office who designed the means of torture are the accounting for Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld’s slipshod inspection of Abu Ghraib. The fact that the U.S. soldiers involved in the debacle get reprimanded and the powers that be go unpunished. There’s a subtler jab when a recreation of Saddam Hussein’s fingerprint are recorded; seen slightly out of focus is hanging the infamous portrait of Ghoul W. Bush grinning dumbly. Morris’s The Fog of War (his long overdue Oscar win in 2003) slyly juxtaposed Robert Strange McNamara’s account for the unnecessary and brutal war in Vietnam with the unspoken one taking place in Iraq now.
Over his career, Morris has tapped into some of the most influential composers of the last few decades. Having worked with Philip Glass on numerous occasions, Morris has remarked that Glass does “existential dread better than anyone”. Caleb Sampson, who collaborated brilliantly with Morris until he tragically took his life, composed some exhilarating tracks that were simultaneously enthusiastic and laced with despaired. S.O.P. marks Morris’ first collaboration with Danny Elfman whose contribution to defining the term Burtonesque is without parallel. After venturing in the experimental and classical music venue with his opera Serenada Schizophrana, Elfman has grown aesthetically as a musician. His score, like all of Morris’ films, is cold, sad, and somewhat celebratory. Most of all, it is chilling.
Errol Morris has written at length about the nature of photographic truth in essays for The New York Times. The objective is to reason with what a photograph depicts and ignore what can only be assume exists outside the frame, which is unknown. During the testimonies, Morris allows us to hear his inquiries sparsely. Specialist Megan Ambuhl, who is now married to Graner after he sold-out Lynddie like Ivan Nagy to Heidi Fleiss, describes her following of the torture methods meant to soften prisoners before interrogation such as sleep deprivation, vocal humiliation in the showers, and burning with cigarettes, Morris then asks sincerely, “did any of this seem weird?”
Heroism is hard to muster whether in its in a foreign war zone or trapped in an enclosed space with corrupt comrades upon whom you depend for survival. MP Jeremy Sivits, a self-described “nice guy” who was cornered by Graner to take the human pyramid photo and did so because “(he didn’t) want to get people angry at (him).” Sivits was one of many soldiers who served time in prison for the debacle. Many note-worthy details in photos publicly seen and unseen before S.O.P. premiered include the following text written with a black marker on a naked prisoner’s thigh: “I AM A RAPEIST.” Watching the film made me recount a fact that is as enraging as it is not sensational: Had the Bush Administration not coerced the US into occupying Iraq, none of this would have happened.
UPDATE (May 15, 2008):
George W. Bush just said in an interview with Politico writer Mike Allen:
“I don’t want some mom whose son may have recently died to see the commander in chief playing golf. I feel I owe it to the families to be in solidarity as best as I can with them. And I think playing golf during a war just sends the wrong signal.”
The psychopath in office should have also appeased the Iraqi victims with his pathetic sacrifice.
There are some movies that are the sum of their parts which require repeat viewings entirely. And then there are some movies that only have one scene that demand repeat viewings. Sometimes even bad movies can possess one scene that makes the venture almost worthwhile. Emphasis on sometimes.
My selection for the Scene To Be Seen today comes from Wes Craven’s 1986 horror-teen-romance The Deadly Friend – a cheerfully gory film that goes like this: Paul is a brilliant, scientific young man (Matthew Laborteaux, Little House on the Prairie) who resurrects his murdered would-be girlfriend Samantha (Kristie Swanson, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off) using advanced nanorobotics. Unfortunately, his corpse-crush goes haywire and targets the nasty old wench (Anne Ramsey, Throw Momma From the Train) who lives across the street.
How malicious is this hag? She makes Mrs. Deagle look like Mrs. Claus. First she snatches a basketball away from our hero because it was on her property. And then (get this!) she opens fire using a double-barrel rifle on BB, Paul’s ultra-cool, talking robot he spent years constructing. And the robot was voiced by Charles “Roger Rabbit” Fleischer! Double-bitch!
Now put on your raincoat and watch the freaky comeuppance Samantha the Zombie Queen delivers to the evil crone! You’ll never think of shooting hoops the same way again.
If my brief synopsis piques your interest, I’d recommend a rental. It’s no Re-Animator (1985) but you could do a hell of a lot worse. Director Wes Craven was disappointed though; he had intended to make a H.P. Lovecraft inspired romance but the studio made him cut back on the love and shoot more gore. Pity. This explains the weird hell-with-the-story-for-the-sake-of-a-BOO! ending in the morgue.
The second trailer from Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull has somehow founds it’s way online. And by the looks of it, this could wind up being the best yet. Indy 4 hits theaters on May 22.
Yesterday, Ratatouille composer Michael Giacchino’s eight-minute musical ode to 50s era Godzilla movies Roar has been made available on iTunes (only the US version). Followed by a strong cult following, the demand was high for the only piece of an instrumental soundtrack to play over the end credit sequence of J.J. Abrams’ produced Cloverfield.
Negotiations to release the composer’s cut of the score extended by five minutes on iTunes were met. Giacchino has said, “…there (were) a bunch of legal knots that need(ed) to be tied…”
Listening to the score again, I was reminded of Danny Elfman’s turbulently operatic score for “Mars Attacks” (1996).
An AP story surfaced today revealing the official title for the next X-Files movie coming out on July 25. The official title is….
X-Files: I Want To Believe
Fans of the show will remember that “I Want To Believe” was the slogan on the poster by Mulder’s desk. Series creator and the film’s director, Chris Carter, had this to say about the title:
“It’s a natural title,” Carter said in a telephone interview Tuesday during a break from editing the film. “It’s a story that involves the difficulties in mediating faith and science. `I Want to Believe.’ It really does suggest Mulder’s struggle with his faith.”
It’s hard to believe it’s been 10 years since the first X-Files movie and 6 years since the show ended. It will be interesting to see if the series has managed to keep an audience, and if it will bring in new movie-goers who may have been too young to have watched the show years ago. Read the full AP story
This is not a joke. Ok, ok, take a moment to soak this in. This is set to feature the voices of Drew Barrymore, George Lopez, Selma Hayeck, as well as few more lesser known actors. I’m not getting the Aztec architecture, and the Indiana Jones style lettering, especially since the title is Beverly Hills Chihuahua. Here’s to hoping this is the first in a series of films about vulgar animals. We all know not all animals are cutsie and loving…especially Chihuahuas. I’m not holding out much hope though.
