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'Freedomland'

By Scott Gwin

Awhite woman shows up in a hospital, her hands covered in blood. A street-wise black detective with deep roots in the community is assigned to her case. She explains how she's just been carjacked in a low-income, mostly black neighborhood. Her 4-year-old son was in the back of the car. An almost entirely white police force jumps to the task of sealing off the entire neighborhood, prohibiting its residents from leaving until the crime is solved. Tensions immediately begin mounting while black and white lines are drawn in the gray of broken city asphalt. So begins "Freedomland's" troubling and tiresome tale.

Samuel L. Jackson and Julianne Moore throw themselves into the roles of black cop and white victim with the kind of passion and fury they've rarely shown before. This could very well be Jackson's most emotionally honest performance to date and Moore takes amazing risks with her character, showing sides of the human psyche most of us would probably rather pretend don't exist. But sad to say, all that incredible dramatic effort is frittered away on a plot riddled with storyline problems and trite emotional baggage. While busying himself with the task of making his movie important, director Joe Roth seems to have forgotten to make it something worth watching.

As the story progresses, we're slowly introduced to a widening circle of characters, each in search of a different sort of truth. We meet various members of the black neighborhood struggling against an unjust lockdown. A little further along we meet the white woman's brother, a cop in search of the black guy he believes killed his nephew. Later still it's the head of a volunteer group that looks for missing kids who is still coping with the loss of her own child. The cast of characters starts to feel like a Mickey Mouse Club therapy session. "Hi, I'm Billy, and I have rage issues!" Each one seems more two-dimensional than the last, a trend that slowly drags the movie down.

With each new layer of personalities and situations it becomes painfully clear that the person responsible for adapting the screenplay (namely Richard Price, the man who also wrote the novel on which the movie is based) has failed horribly. Instead of picking what was most important and crafting a film around it, he tried to pack in a little bit of everything regardless of whether or not it worked. The end product is the cinematic equivalent of Jungle Juice, complete with dizziness, exhaustion, and a draining hangover.

Worst of all, Roth and Price have completely abandoned the one element that makes this kind of touchy-subject movie bearable: humor. It's one thing to make us think, another to withhold any chance for laughter. Amongst life's harshest realities there's always a bit of amusement or fleeting delight, and to forget such a crucial element leaves the entire film ringing false and smacking of self-importance. If Spielberg can find a way to weave a smile into "Schindler's List" it can be done in any story.

There are some redeeming qualities to "Freedomland" beyond its wasted performances. Peppered throughout the meandering script are scenes of gut-wrenching honesty and powerful revelation. Jackson's character is particularly profound. As a moral rock and voice of reason, he offers up sage words of wisdom that would seem to be a good starting place for an ending to society's various cycle of violence. Those erudite footnotes are likely to fall on deaf ears though; the audience will likely have fallen asleep by the time he gets around to sharing them.

For all its potential, "Freedomland" simply does not make the grade, a real shame given the importance of the issues it addresses. You know you're in trouble when you honestly start expecting Rodney King and John Walsh to show up, imploring us to all just get along so that we can bring the kids home. In a time when Hollywood desperately needs quality, original films to counterbalance the mindless march of sequels and remakes, it's a tragedy to see this kind of project go so horribly astray. CV

'Transamerica'

By Lexi Feinberg

In his stunning feature debut, writer/director Duncan Tucker has created a touching, nonjudgmental human drama about a protagonist - Bree (Felicity Huffman) - who feels out of sorts with her body. She is an average, conservative woman dressing in business attire, trying to walk gracefully in high heels, and waking up fresh and early to apply her makeup. The only thing that separates her from other churchgoers is that beneath her lengthy skirt is a body part more offensive to her than holy treason: a penis.

However, it is all about to change as Bree works several telemarketing jobs in Los Angeles to save up for her gender correction surgery. Even her therapist (Elizabeth Pena) is prepared to approve the operation and hand over the necessary consent forms to the surgeons, until a surprise phone call interrupts Bree's life.

A policeman in a county lockup facility in New York rings her up to say that a troubled teenager, Toby (Kevin Zegers), has been arrested for stealing a frog and needs bail money. As it turns out, Bree fathered this child while living life as a man named Stanley, but had no idea of the boy's existence. Flying across country to bail Toby out of jail (for $1), Bree finds a teenager with a drug problem and a tendency to prostitute himself on the streets.

So the duo sets out on a road trip cross country with different sets of false expectations to rescue themselves. Toby thinks she is taking him to Los Angeles to find his wealthy father and become an adult film star; Bree is planning to drop him back home with the stepfather he ran away from long before they get there.

Thankfully, "Transamerica" steers clear of pretentious moral lessons and instead tells a tale of eccentric friendship. The film is phenomenally funny and a wonderful blend of dark comedy and heart. The characters don't sell out or change, they just seek acceptance for who they are, warts and all. CV

'The World's Fastest Indian'

By Scott Gwin

For more than 40 years Burt Munro tinkered with his old Indian Scout motorcycle, slowly molding and crafting it into a brilliantly designed, jury-rigged piece of racing machinery. With no suitable place to test the limits of his motorcycle or the proper means to clock the bike's speed, he had long set his sights on racing his Indian at the world renowned Speed Week. An event held at the salt flats of Bonneville, Utah, Speed Week was the place where the fastest of the fast went to test the latest technology and break world records.

And in the late 1960s, at nearly 70 years of age, Munro got his chance. With his bike in tow and his life savings in his pocket he struck out to achieve the impossible, traveling from his quiet home of Invercargill, New Zealand, in search of the world land speed record.

"The World's Fastest Indian" is as much about Munro's effort to reach Utah, as it is about his attempt to break the world land speed record once he arrives. His expedition is fraught with a ferocious fragility, the kind that keeps moviegoers engaged and amazed even if they think they know how things are going to turn out. And while at times the story seems to wander a bit, veering softly in places from the remarkable real life story, every moment is carefully laid out and comes full circle by the movie's conclusion.

Not to mention, the exhilaration of Munro's salt flats racing is undeniable.

This rare and quiet film was written and directed by Roger Donaldson, who oddly enough brought us the likes of "Cocktail" and "Dante's Peak" and has cast Paul Walker to star in his next movie about the later years of Ernest Hemingway. Past and future stumble aside, "The World's Fastest Indian" is simply a masterpiece. It's a winning bit of original filmmaking and a welcome relief from the onslaught of feel-good Disney "based on a true story" sports flicks that, for all their wired-in heart, seem to have little of it to go around. CV

'The Pink Panther'

By Dan Vinson

Originally slated for an August 2005 release (delayed because of studio buyouts), the newest entry in "The Pink Panther" sweepstakes is not strictly a remake, but an amalgamation of all the Inspector Clouseau films starring the inimitable Peter Sellers. He played Jacques Clouseau five times for director Blake Edwards (six, if you count the final posthumous cobbling by Edwards) between 1963 and 1978. Now, if anyone can approximate Sellers, it's Steve Martin, but Martin's "Cheaper by the Dozen" director Shawn Levy is not someone who echoes Blake Edwards.

This "Pink Panther" concerns theft and murder. The theft is, of course, the "pink panther" diamond from the finger of French soccer coach Yves Gluant (Jason Statham), in front of a packed stadium. And he's also the murder victim. Chief Inspector Dreyfus (Kevin Kline) wants this case closed quickly, but more importantly, he wants the credit. Passed over for the French Medal of Honor five times, he won't allow a sixth. To ensure bumbling, so that he and his ace detectives can quietly go about solving the crime, he finds the most incompetent police officer in France, Jacques Clouseau. A loyal public servant, if woefully lacking verbal and manual dexterity, the promoted Clouseau gets assigned a partner, Ponton (Jean Reno), who secretly reports their "progress" back to Dreyfus. In Clouseau's corner for real is his adorable and equally clumsy secretary, Nicole (Emily Mortimer). Starting with Gluant's girlfriend, the pop star Xania (pop star Beyoncè Knowles), the suspects begin to pile up, also including a disgruntled player formerly known as Xania's boyfriend, the team trainer Yuri (Henry Czerny), and assorted Gluant business partners.

Meanwhile, Clouseau and Ponton get used to working together - Clouseau's interviewing tactics, bizarre mannerisms, and attacks "without warning" to keep Ponton alert - and Dreyfus' team forges on. But then Clouseau becomes famous after inadvertently thwarting the "gas mask bandits" (insert clever cameo here), and Dreyfus needs to knock him down a few pegs. When Clouseau and Ponton follow Xania to New York they proceed to make public fools of themselves (via Dreyfus), and worse, France. The disgraced Clouseau is off the case, and Dreyfus, by jove, is ready to take over. But something on the Internet sparks Clouseau to grab Ponton and Nicole and try to close the case. In the final, very public, unmasking - Scooby-Doo style - will Clouseau be right, or Dreyfus? Will Clouseau live to solve crimes another day?

Bathed in full-time silliness and accents (even Frenchman Reno seems to be doing one), "The Pink Panther" contains enough pratfalls to fill a soccer stadium. Clouseau seemingly can't walk five feet without falling or setting something on fire. That gets old. The Sellers films more successfully balanced physical comedy and sight gags with ridiculous, witty, referential dialogue, but this "Panther" script, despite the obvious Martin touches, isn't quite as smart about being dumb. And whereas the original "Panther" paved the way for generations of spoofs, 40 years later, with audiences encountering, among innumerable others, "Airplane," "Naked Gun," "Austin Powers," and "Scary Movie" (not to mention "Saturday Night Live"), no matter Martin and company's intentions, spoofs aren't unique anymore.

Still, this doesn't mean they're entirely unwelcome either. There are four chief reasons to catch this "Pink Panther": Martin, Kline, Mortimer, and priceless tough guy Reno. All their film work is plenty varied and here, especially when Clouseau and Ponton try to pass for Xania's backup dancers, plenty funny. CV

'Final Destination 3'

By Erin Randolph

You can't cheat death. But somehow horror films - including the "Final Destination" series - continue to cheat their audiences out of genuinely scary films. And beyond that, they're hardly ever rated correctly. Films that should have been made for an 18-and-up audience are dumbed down into PG-13 teen flicks. And the opposite is true sometimes, as well.

"Final Destination 3" is in the latter category. This film, about high school seniors who attempt to cheat death, is more appropriate for a PG-13 crowd, if only because the film's main characters are under 18 (which makes things interesting when we see two 17-year-old girls' boobs exposed in a scene clearly made to titillate the males' senses in the audience).

In this installation of the "Final Destination" franchise, set six years after the original, a high school senior has a premonition about a fatal rollercoaster ride that turns out to be true. Her boyfriend and some of her classmates fall to their gory deaths, but those who were allowed to exit before the ride embarked are left to deal with the ramifications of circumventing their fate: death. As death comes after the rollercoaster riders in the order they should have died, the girl with the premonition powers works to warn those whose turn is up next.

"Final Destination 3" isn't scary; it's gruesome, with deaths punctuated by plenty of blood, guts and brains splattered about. And it's the extremely violent deaths that create an underbelly of discomfort that exists within the viewer, who's left to wait for gory death after gory death without much respite as these teens drop like flies. And it may make some people rethink riding rollercoasters or visiting tanning beds.

On top of all the extreme violence, there are glaring plot holes that prevent this film from fully succeeding, even for those whose only requirement in a horror film is blood and plenty of it. Had the gore-factor been turned down, and had this film been marketed to a high school crowd, these plot holes may have been more forgivable. Perhaps such alterations will be made in "Final Destination 4." CV

'Firewall'

By Lexi Feinberg

Harrison Ford has built a career playing strong everyman types, laughing in the face of danger and ensuring that good always prevails over evil. In "Firewall," he plays - you guessed it - an average Joe fighting to save his family from bad guys who threaten to unleash domestic chaos.

Working as a top computer security executive at Landrock Pacific Bank, Jack Stanfield (Ford) designs high-tech anti-theft software to keep criminals from hitting the jackpot during robberies. The system is completely foolproof and perfectly protected, which gives a group of baddies headed by Bill Cox (Paul Bettany), a prime "eureka!" moment: they will stalk Jack and follow his every word and movement for a year, so they can break the codes by using him as a pawn. They learn everything there is to know by trailing him, monitoring his computer access and learning secrets about his family.

One evening while he is at a business meeting, his stalkers break into his upscale ocean-front home and seize his wife Beth (Virginia Madsen), daughter Sarah (Carly Schroeder), and son Andrew (Jimmy Bennett). But instead of taking them captive to a far away place, they decide to camp out at their home and hold an informal slumber party with guns. But there is no time for cheese dip or pillow fights; these guys mean business.

The movie becomes a cat-and-mouse chase through a series of B-list action segments (yes, there are several car chases), and ultimately collides into a deadend wall of immeasurable stupidity. Ford growls his lines like an aged grizzly bear, and thanks to Joe Forte's absurd script, his dramatic moments only invoke laughter. Madsen, fresh off her success in "Sideways," is reduced to a vacant chirpy housewife role.

The nail in the coffin for "Firewall" is its unapologetic string of product placements. It seems obvious that there was a bidding war for corporate sponsorship during production. Throughout the story, an iPod, camera phone, and computerized dog collar help save the day. The moral of this story is that if you don't have fancy gadgets, you may as well accept your doomed fate. CV

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