Valley, Mark Movie Reviews

Flush from the breakthrough success of Blood Feast in 1963, producer David F. Friedman and pioneering goremeister Herschell Gordon Lewis followed up a year later with Two Thousand Maniacs!. The drive-in movie would never be the same. Filmed in 14 days in St. Cloud, Florida, on a luxurious budget of $62,000, this instant cult classic revels in the grisly fate of three unwitting Yankee couples who've been falsely detoured to the Southern hick town of Pleasant Valley (population 2000--get it?). These unlucky lovers are the guests of honor at a Confederate centennial celebration. What they don't know is that the twisted citizens of Pleasant Valley are vengeful ghosts of the Civil War, determined to dispatch their "guests" in deviously unpleasant ways. Simply put, Two Thousand Maniacs! (with Blood Feast) is the original "splatter" film.

On the murder menu: death by amputation, dismemberment by horses (one per limb), crushing by boulder, and, the most unsettling (or creative?), death by barrel rolling... with flesh-ripping nails in the sides. Tame by later standards yet still absurdly shocking, Two Thousand Maniacs! is the pure, funny-freaky essence of exploitation cinema, complete with the obligatory Playboy Playmate (Connie Mason) in the cast. Lewis (a former literature professor, no less) frequently cited this as his proudest achievement, and who's going to argue? With its crude direction, atrocious acting, and delirious redneck flavor, the movie genuinely deserves its place in cinema history, its dubious entertainment value proving surprisingly durable through the decades. A milestone of movie bloodletting, it was followed, appropriately enough, by Color Me Blood Red in 1965. --Jeff Shannon

Based on the book by Marshall Frady, this epic bio by John Frankenheimer stars Gary Sinise as one of the century's best candidates for true Aristotelian tragic status. The Aristotelian tragic protagonist is not an entirely bad man, but he has a fatal flaw. Wallace's flaw was not (originally) racism. It was lust for power and status, a lust so all-consuming that it turned Wallace into a fellow traveler with racists, and made of him one of the most destructive and most hated American politicians of his time. Sinise, who seems doomed to be underrated for his acting talents, captures memorably both the corruption and the belated search for redemption. Frankenheimer shows off all his skill with a story line, working through a series of flashbacks from the 1972 assassination attempt and weaving together real and constructed black-and-white footage. The pace does stumble; in the end, the movie is half an hour too long. But you get sucked in by the period feel, the accents as thick as grits, and the many excellent supporting performances. Especially notable are Mare Winningham as Wallace's long-suffering first wife, Clarence Williams as his servant Archie (a somewhat questionable fictionalization by Frankenheimer), and Joe Don Baker as his mentor and predecessor in the governor's mansion, Big Jim Folsom. Frankenheimer, Sinise, and Winningham all won Emmys for their work, and the film won the Golden Globe for Best Mini-Series or Motion Picture Made for TV. --Richard Farr

James Clavell's heartfelt film of paradise found and lost in the midst of the bloody Thirty Years War, a senseless religious conflict long since degenerated into a rabble of looters preying on peasants, is a triumph of passion over style. Michael Caine stars as the Captain, a happily tolerant leader whose army of mercenaries, a mix of Protestants and Catholics, murders, pillages, and rapes side by side for whatever faction is paying more this month. Omar Sharif is Vogel, a lone refugee whose flight from the marauding band leads them all to a beautiful village in the mountains. The Captain and Vogel make an unlikely pair, the shrewd mercenary with the dream of peace, and the philosopher peasant hanging on to his own life in the face of certain death, and their alliance to preserve this Eden and her people stands in contrast to the soldiers who soon become splintered by greed, lust, and religious zealotry. Clavell isn't exactly subtle, but his sense of irony is biting: one Christian soldier is ready to lead an mob in righteous battle after a perceived blasphemer, and in the next scene attacks and rapes an innocent Christian maiden he's sworn to protect. The film falters in clumsy battle scenes and awkward dramatic staging, but Caine's complex characterization of the guarded Captain and Sharif's haunted performance keep the story alive, and the beautiful photography sets the film like a jewel into its setting. --Sean Axmaker

A high-profile action/exploitation thriller set in the present, The Siege is really a fantasy that extrapolates from major terrorist attacks. Denzel Washington is FBI special agent Hubbard, "Hub" to his friends, whose anti-terrorist task force must track down the terrorist cells responsible for a spate of bombings in New York. His partner is an FBI agent of Arabian extraction (played convincingly by Tony Shalhoub), proving not all Arabs are bad guys--a point the film should be lauded for making again and again. Thrown into the mix is a CIA spy (played almost kittenish at times by Annette Bening), whose ties to the terrorists appear to be at the center of the conflicts. When the bombings escalate out of control, the President institutes martial law, sending in General Devereaux (played with impenetrable countenance by Bruce Willis) with tanks and troops to ferret out the terrorists. Echoes of Japanese-Americans in internment camps ring out as Arabs, including the son of the Arab-American FBI agent, are herded into a stadium. Periodic audio-montages of "man in the street" sentiments anchor the material in the present and show how serious and relevant the material is. But finally what we have is a taut and entertaining popcorn movie, giving itself the humanistic nod when it can. --Jim Gay

A high-profile action/exploitation thriller set in the present, The Siege is really a fantasy that extrapolates from major terrorist attacks. Denzel Washington is FBI special agent Hubbard, "Hub" to his friends, whose anti-terrorist task force must track down the terrorist cells responsible for a spate of bombings in New York. His partner is an FBI agent of Arabian extraction (played convincingly by Tony Shalhoub), proving not all Arabs are bad guys--a point the film should be lauded for making again and again. Thrown into the mix is a CIA spy (played almost kittenish at times by Annette Bening), whose ties to the terrorists appear to be at the center of the conflicts. When the bombings escalate out of control, the President institutes martial law, sending in General Devereaux (played with impenetrable countenance by Bruce Willis) with tanks and troops to ferret out the terrorists. Echoes of Japanese-Americans in internment camps ring out as Arabs, including the son of the Arab-American FBI agent, are herded into a stadium. Periodic audio-montages of "man in the street" sentiments anchor the material in the present and show how serious and relevant the material is. But finally what we have is a taut and entertaining popcorn movie, giving itself the humanistic nod when it can. --Jim Gay

You'd be hard-pressed to find a modern-day couple as impossibly glamorous as Rupert Everett and Madonna; their casting as common folk in the gay-parenting drama The Next Best Thing is just one of the film's myriad problems. (One thing we never needed to see was these two pushing grocery carts in a supermarket. It's just unnatural.) Best friends in sun-dappled L.A. (he's a landscaper, she's a yoga instructor), Abbie (Madonna) and Robert (Everett) fall into an amorous embrace on a fateful Fourth of July after a few too many martinis. Robert's gay, which complicates things; even more complicating is Abbie's confession a few weeks later that she's with child. Six years later, Robert, Abbie, and their son Sam are all living together peacefully and happily--that is, until a hunky investment banker (Benjamin Bratt) starts making eyes at Abbie, throwing their carefully constructed dynamic into disarray.

Lazily directed by Oscar-winner John Schlesinger (Midnight Cowboy) with an eye towards his actors' muscle tone rather than characterizations (even the kid does yoga), the faults in The Next Best Thing aren't solely on the shoulders of its miscast stars, but rather the painfully inept screenplay by Tom Ropelewski. With cardboard dialogue that sounds like bad first-draft material--including wailing by Madonna about how she can't find a man (ha!) and a gym-buffed Everett complaining about gay male body image (double ha!)--the movie stumbles from domestic comedy to custody-suit tragedy when it takes a bizarre left turn in the third act. Any statements about new definitions of family are buried underneath these dubious events, which (of course) provide teary courtroom outbursts for both leads. Everett has a quick way with a one-liner, and Madonna is more relaxed than she's ever been in a film, but Schlesinger just tosses them in front of the camera with no help whatsoever; the supporting cast, including Lynn Redgrave, Neil Patrick Harris, and Illeana Douglas, is also left to flounder inexplicably. There's a thoughtful and provocative movie to be made about gay parents, but The Next Best Thing certainly isn't it. --Mark Englehart