I had a mental note to watch the movie Bait. I didn't remember when I made it or why: I just knew I had a mental note. So when I signed up with a streaming service and saw it available, I jumped at the chance to watch it.

From the first shot in the first minute I knew I was in trouble. Usually I love experimental movies, but sometimes it seems like they're purposely annoying. It's the same reason I have trouble with concerts: while I'm a big fan of art, I also believe you should give people what they want. Musicians have gold records for a reason, so when we pay hundreds of dollars to see them live I don't think the first words out of their mouths should be, "I'm really bored with singing my hits, so tonight I'll stick to songs by Blink-182."

In the case of Bait, I'm pretty sure the director didn't hear a ton of cinéastes demanding, "Just once in a film, I'd like some close-up, black-and-white shots of sedated lobsters."

I also like atmosphere, but at some point I like a story. Dialog. Characters. An hour into Bait, I'd heard three lines of dialog and saw eight hundred gruff sailors in rain slickers tie something with rope. I guess it was atmosphere. And I guess real art is supposed to leave you with questions. I'm not sure, though, that question should be, Why the fuck do sailors have so many different knots?

I mean, either knots work or they don't. They stay tied or they come loose. They've not like spray paint or glue, where one type works on metal, one on paper, and one on cement. Can't they make one master knot that'll work with everything? Because if we can put a goddamned man on the moon, we sure as fuck shouldn't have sailors in rain slickers looking at a thick rope and a wooden pier and saying, "I believe this calls for a double-sheep-shank twisting French Handstand."

With minimal dialog and hundreds of gruff sailors, it was just too hard to follow Bait's flimsy plot. I'm not particularly stupid, but if every movie followed the rules of Gilligan's Island, the world would be a far better place.

First, there's the character introduction. The singer declares, "There's Gilligan...", while they show Gilligan on the screen. Sure, showing a lobster tying a knot would be artier, but these guys really want you to be able to follow along. "The skipper too. The millionaire and his wife. The movie star. The professor and Mary Ann." And you know what? Years ago, instead of that last line, the song used to end with, "And the rest." Why did they change it?

BECAUSE THEY WANTED TO MAKE SURE YOU KNEW WHICH ONE WAS THE PROFESSOR AND WHICH ONE WAS MARY ANN.

I mean, one's in button-down shirts and the other has pigtails, a blouse tied above her waist, and Daisy Duke shorts on. But somewhere in Hollywood some brave executive said, "You know what? I still think it could go either way." Isn't that thoughtful? I mean, it's not a mistake that I would make, but there are adults who wear backward baseball caps.

Second, Gilligan's Island had a diverse assortment of characters, even though they were all white. (The Harlem Globetrotters showed up at some point, so I'm thinking they got all their People of Color points in one episode.) The producers and writers used different archetypes for each character. It's like Laurel & Hardy: you're never going to get confused and whisper to a friend, "Wait, which one is Stupid again?"

There's a blonde and a brunette. There's a fat guy and an idiot, a smart guy and a millionaire. Is there a problem telling them apart? Not a chance! Who's the millionaire? Oh, I don't know: maybe the dude in the BERET? Who's the Professor? Maybe the MONOCLE will give you a clue. Who's the glamorous actress? Gosh, I'm thinking maybe it's ... the BLONDE?

In a perfect world, every character would wear a name tag. I don't know about you, but if there are three middle-aged blondes in a film and they aren't introduced Gilligan's Island style, I'm going to assume there's just one lady going through some crazy shit.

Aside from confusing me, I don't understand how it happens. The director casts two young white women for his film. He gets the whole crew together, looks them over, and gets a pensive look on his face. "Wait," he barks. "I think we need another young white woman." In fact, my definition of hell is a movie where every character is young and white, and the dialog is just two lines, repeated: "Hey, I just got a haircut! What do you think?" and "Look, I bought a new outfit! Is it cool or what?"

It's why I can't watch Friends: just when you're up to here with young white people, another one walks in. At some point it goes beyond annoying and makes the viewer wonder if there's a hidden agenda. It's like when you're watching a Woody Allen movie and the gorgeous teen runs into the crotchety old man. I don't know about you, but I scream, "OH NO! NOT ON MY TV!" while literally pounding my fist on the remote control in hopes some button will make it go away.

So, I developed a system for everything I watch. Whenever a new character shows up, I give them a nickname so I can remember who's who. It usually works fine, as long as nobody changes clothes or gets their hair cut. In Bait this worked for roughly eight seconds, when Gruff Old White Guy With a Beard Who Wears a Rain Slicker All Day II showed up.

All of a sudden it hit me. This must be that arthouse film where Robert Pattinson and some grizzled old dude live in a lighthouse and act like five-year-olds play Very Dangerous Games. I've never actually seen a Robert Pattinson film, though, so I try to figure out which one he is in hopes it'll make further identification easier. The problem is, I don't know what he looks like. I spend the next few minutes trying to decide if he's GOWGWBWWRSAD I or GOWGWBWWRSAD II. Nothing happens in the movie so it's not like it's a horrible mistake to suddenly take up a hobby. After another fifteen minutes, though, I decide his transformation from hot young vampire to either GOWGWBWWRSAD I or GOWGWBWWRSAD II is absolutely astonishing, so I pause the movie and turn to Google for help.

He's neither of them. Google says that movie is The Lighthouse. This is Bait. Apparently there's a whole genre of Gruff Old White Guys With Beards Who Wear Rain Slickers All Day. It's not that crowded in the Non-Heterosexual Cowboys genre.

So, GOWGWBWWRSAD I catches fish. He sells some to the local restaurant, but he also puts some in bags and ties them to peoples' doorknobs. This is the problem with Movies Too Artsy To Have Voiceovers: I assumed he hated everybody and showed his disdain with the old dead-fish-on-a-doorknob prank. Online reviews later informed me that this actually meant he was a nice guy, because this is England's version of Hello Fresh.

GOWGWBWWRSAD II, his brother, has sold out the family business. Instead of catching fish, now he takes tourists on harbor cruises. Apparently in England this is like Jackson Pollock guest starring on Mama's Family.

"Tourists destroying age-old ways" seems to be the movie's theme. Next we see the ancestral family home that GOWGWBWWRSAD I was forced to sell. Director Mark Jenkin pulls no punches in showing us what horrific city slickers the new owners are. They actually redecorated the seaside cottage to look like -- shudder! -- a seaside cottage.

Yeah. That's what I thought too. Over the fireplace they've installed a fishing net, a couple buoys, and a porthole. GOWGWBWWRSAD I sees this and nearly loses his mackerel, but I look at it and think, "Couldn't they find any little plastic dolphins?"

As the second piece of evidence that Tourism Is Bad, there's a shot of a bachelor party boarding GOWGWBWWRSAD II's boat. One man is wearing a full-length penis costume, and my mind is off again.

It's full-length, from head-covering hood to shoe-skimming shaft. It's ridiculously unsafe. I don't know about you, but GOWGWBWWRSADs yell at me if I get on a boat and I'm not wearing an inflatable vest and don't have a whistle in my mouth.

I ask myself if this costume actually exists or if it was made by the filmmakers to bolster their argument. I've never seen anybody wearing one, and I've been to Prague. I can't imagine a logical buying process. I mean, I'm assuming the purchaser is heterosexual, since no gay man would wear such a thing. But how do you put it on and ask your friends how it looks? Any reply at all, from "It's too short" to "It's too thin” to "It's too veiny, and it has a weird bend toward the root" will make everyone involved look gay. Therefore, no such thing can exist.

GOWGWBWWRSAD I finally snaps. He breaks into the ancestral cottage and in a fit of inexpensive fury he breaks the glass in the porthole. "They pulled down mother's pantry!" he wails defeatedly.

Or maybe, "They pulled down mother's palm tree." I neglected to mention I think all the actors are faking Maine accents even though they're in England.

The two brothers then get on a boat and sail off. The film freezes on a closeup of GOWGWBWWRSAD I looking gruff. Since it's his only facial expression, it could mean he's thinking about the devastating effects of new money on ancient culture or he's picturing Vanna White naked. Then the credits roll and I realize I've missed the point of the movie by missing the very last line.

I narrow down the possibilities:

1. The newcomers pulled down mother's pantry. Maybe it was a building that meant a lot to mom. Or maybe there was a restaurant called Mother's Pantry and the cheddar biscuits were really good.

2. The newcomers pulled down mother's palm tree. Maybe she planted a coconut when the brothers were young and they watched it grow over the years and now it's gone.

I decide it doesn't matter.

But what about the boat? Did that mean anything? It looked like GOWGWBWWRSAD II's tourist boat, but with the signs removed -- which is the nautical equivalent of a haircut and costume change. Does it mean he's given up tourists and returned to the old way of life?

I decide to give nicknames to boats whenever they show up in movies. And if anybody asks me how their penis costume looks, I'll give them the Usual Gay Critique:

"If I can see your shoes, it isn't long enough."

Movie Review: The 33 (SPOILERS)

I wasn't looking forward to The 33, the new film about 33 Chilean gold and silver miners trapped by a cave-in starring Antonio Banderas. Set almost entirely underground, how could the film not be claustrophobic? With an all-male cast, how could it explore humanity? And with the ending already known, how could there be any suspense?

I needn't have worried. Director Patricia Riggen has shown a masterful hand in alternating the bleaker scenes with lighter stories that oftentimes elicit more about the human condition than the times that try men's souls. While some may quibble with the liberties Ms. Riggen has taken with the story, one can hardly argue with the result.

One somewhat-fanciful subplot involves Gonzalo, a frustrated chef who'd turned to mining to support his family. Faced with mutiny in the face of yet another day of dehydrated food, he breaks out his knives and hits the burners. Working day and night -- and alienating friends and family in the process -- he discovers his true self in the face of adversity and leaves us on the edge of our seats as we wonder if he could possibly succeed in his quest for that elusive third Michelin star.

Though the mature souls in the audience chafed, the teens cheered wildly when some of the men started a cappella singing groups and made it all the way to the Underground Grand Nationals. It certainly added a light note to an otherwise dark tale, but I personally could not have cared less when the Cave-in Canaries finally bested their rivals, the Slowly Asphyxiating Swingles.

Those worried that the film would be a cold-blooded study of mortality will be heartened to hear of a recurring thread where Montanares, an aloof, confident miner, ties the other thirty-two to a bed to explore the thin line between pleasure and pain. Is S&M still fun when it's a rough working man who's submissive? Don't ask: just look at the cat o'nine tails fashioned from battered workboots and the grin on Coquimbo's face.

My favorite character may also prove to be the most controversial. Valdivieso, a withdrawn bachelor from the slums of Antofagasta, barely said a word before the cave-in. In the face of death, though, he blossomed. He worked day and night chiseling out a vein of rhinestone to transform his overalls into a glamorous gown, then entertained the men at night by lipsyncing to disco classics. Sure, some stalwarts in the audience will grumble that hitting a rock can't actually sound like cowbell, but there were definitely tears in my row when the drill broke through the wall of mud and sunlight hit those sparkles. Even the most macho of the miners resisted the urge to rush out to his anxious loved ones long enough to share those final, redemptive lines of "We Are Family."

In the end, the film's brilliance is in taking what could have been a claustrophobic caveat and transforming it into a life-affirming epic. When you finally see sunlight again, the film's lessons will stay with you: family comes where you find it, real homes don't need front doors, and even when you're facing silicosis you can still be fabulous.

Movie Review: "Maleficent" (SPOILERS)

Maleficent opens with the happy young fairy living alone and ruling an Edenic world. On the sexism scale, it's maybe a five out of ten: Maleficent protects stuff, which is empowering, but it's just flowers and fairies. In today's terms that's kind of like opening a cupcake shop.

A boyfriend backstabs Maleficent, turning her bitter while simultaneously making him king. She casts a spell on his daughter: at the age of 16, she will prick her finger on a spinning wheel, and only true love can wake her up. The king orders his soldiers to kill Maleficent, but she has magic on her side. She casts another spell that surrounds the moors with a mile-high wall of thorns. Aside from changing Maleficent into a nice but spurned young fairy, Disney has also modified spells. They used to be wordy, like this one in Macbeth:

Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt and toe of frog,
Wool of bat and tongue of dog,
Adder's fork and blind-worm's sting,
Lizard's leg and howlet's wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.

Crazy, huh? And that's just eight of 38 lines. If I was the intended victim, about halfway through I'd be screaming, "HOLY GOD, JUST SHOOT ME NOW!"

By the time Bewitched came around, spells were four lines, max. Here's how Samantha Stevens turned a statue into a man:

Though of marble you are carved,
for a woman you are starved.
So back to flesh and sinew,
the fairest of them all will win you.

Of course, we've got cellphones and Kardashians now, so we're not going to sit through all that shit. If Maleficent wants to turn a dog into a cow, she just points at it and says, "Into a cow!" Now we're ready for the 21st century, though one hopes Maleficent avoids phrases like, "After lunch I went into a drugstore!" or "Rub some lotion into my feet!"

To protect Aurora, the king has his soldiers destroy every spinning wheel in the county, and he sends her to live in the forest. It's a little like worrying your kid will join a gang and sending him off to live in East L. A. One day, though, an attractive young man rides by. He doesn't have much going for him, giving off a wimpy vibe. They exchange a couple lines of dialog, but there are no sparks. Maybe this is feminist -- a girl doesn't fall for the first guy she meets -- but maybe this is weird. An audience should not be left thinking a movie would take a drastically different turn if somebody lived in the Bronx.

Of course, all-powerful Maleficent finds the girl, and before she knows it she learns to love her perky innocence. Which is lucky, because aside from that the girl's just got perky feet. Since she can't revoke the curse, she takes Aurora into the moors to protect her. Aurora discovers that Maleficent was the fairy who cursed her, so she runs back to the castle and her father, once again causing audience members to shout, "HEY, WASN'T THERE A FUCKIN' WALL OF THORNS?"

The king puts Aurora in a tower for safekeeping, just until her birthday is over. Unfortunately, though, she stumbles upon that big room where the king has kept all the semi-destroyed spinning wheels. Aurora pricks herself and falls asleep.

It's an incredibly intense two minutes before Maleficent finds Attractive Horse Dude and he's pressing himself up against the comatose stranger. She doesn't wake up, which leaves AHD confused, like it's good news and bad news. Before you can say "unwanted sexual advances," Maleficent kisses Aurora goodbye -- and that wakes Aurora up.

See, Disney has also updated "true love." It doesn't have to be a soulmate now! Which is good news, because between Grindr and autocorrect I'm losing boyfriends after a week or two. Now it can be some old lady who watches you from afar. That curse is a whole lot easier to counteract, though I don't envy the mental checklist that your friends and family members will have to run through: "Well, did he ever say 'Hi!' to the mailman?"

In the end, Aurora is named queen of both the kingdom and the moors, forever to be known as "Sleeping Beauty." Yup. A little weird: I mean, if I'd been nicknamed for something I did for two minutes, right now I'd be saying, "And that's another Movie Review from Mr. Puking Shrimp."

Julie & Julia (Plenty of Spoilers)

I was really startled by how annoying Julie & Julia was. I'd read a couple reviews, but nobody mentioned the obvious:

If they'd cut out all the scenes where somebody talked with their mouth full, it would have been two minutes long.

I'll admit it: I'm a little squeamish about seeing -- and listening to -- people who talk when they eat. I think it's disgusting. You know how Chekhov said if you show a gun in the beginning, somebody's got to fire it by the end? Well, every time they showed Julie's husband he was chomping on something and talking. Food was flying. You could watch entire three-course dinners spin around his mouth like it was a little glass-windowed Whirlpool dryer.

He's just sickening, the sensitive viewer thinks, and that feeling is confirmed when, while Julie slaves over a hot stove, he's shown drinking wine, laying around, and sweating. According to Chekhov, this has to end with her dumping this loser and finding a dude who doesn't just shove his entrée into his cheek before he speaks.

Instead, he leaves her, in a scene that goes something like this:

JULIE'S HUBBY (gnawing a hamhock in one hand and holding a suitcase in the other): It'th alwayth about YOU! YOU YOU YOU! You have to be the thenter of the univerth. You go to work, you come home, you do the laundry, you cook dinner. YOU YOU YOU!

He grabs an emergency serving of pot roast and then storms out.

Needless to say, Julie is distraught. Suddenly she realizes how selfish she's been, working eight-hour days and then coming home and making food. She calls Hubby and apologizes. He agrees to come home, possibly because he finished that pot roast eight minutes ago and now his teeth are feeling cold. He's back and unpacking when Julie gets a phone call.

JULIE: What? Huh? She said THAT?

She hangs up the phone and rolls around on the bed sobbing for the forthieth time that day.

JULIE'S HUBBY (gnawing on a sausage): What? Who thaid what?

JULIE: Julia Child! She heard about my blog and she hates me.

JULIE'S HUBBY: Doeth thee hate you becauthe thee's read your blog or becauthe you're uthing her?

JULIE: She didn't say. WAAAAAH!

And then, believe it or not, the movie ends. We don't find out why Julia hated Julie. (We're guessing the words "whiny doormat" were batted around.) We're left wondering if movies about food have to be disgusting, because if nobody talks while they're eating they'd be eight hours long. It closes with that crawl that's attached to all movies that weren't written right.

Paul Child died in 1993 at age 91.

Julia Child died in 2004 at age 92.

Julie's book was made into a film.

Which, you know, is a little self-referential for my taste. It's like Kim Kardashian saying she must be famous because she's always on TV. Still, we're relieved this little piffle is over. We're happy we got to see Meryl as an incandescent Julia, but we thank our lucky stars that better filmmakers didn't take the easy way out. I mean, imagine if The Diary of Anne Frank ended this way:

Anne died believing that people were basically good at heart.

Her book was published to wild acclaim.

And then this movie was made about her and it grossed $17,729,824 on opening weekend in limited release! WOOHOO!

Capitalism is slapdash, unfocused, and not particularly funny. Vast portions are as forgettable as a Jessica Simpson record. For every bull's eye he hits, Michael Moore has two near misses and four arrows in the ground.

One confusing section tells us that major corporations buy life insurance on employees without their knowledge. He tells us about a Wal-Mart associate who died, leaving her husband and family distraught but earning Wal-Mart over a hundred thousand dollars. Instead of corporations wanting you to work hard and live long, these days they want you to die, he says.

First, I doubt the corporations see it that way. Second, is he trying to tell us that investing in life insurance can be profitable? If so, doesn't that mean life insurance companies should simply raise their rates?

He also wants us to sympathize with people who lose their homes to foreclosure. He shows us an old Countrywide Funding commercial that told homeowners to treat their homes like banks, withdrawing the equity to spend. People followed these instructions, then found themselves losing their homes.

Two problems with this. One, these people made tens of thousands of dollars on escalating property values, and they took a chunk of this cash from a bank with refinancing. Did they think the banks were just giving money away? And two, is Mr. Moore really complaining that -- gasp! -- TV commercials don't always advise what's best for us?

Much of this movie will be familiar. I knew the America our parents lived in was dead. I knew about the myth of upward mobility. I knew our country's current reputation is based less on fact than propaganda. I didn't know that FDR proposed a "second Bill of Rights" that guaranteed all Americans a good job, an affordable home, health care and a pension. I didn't know that Europe and Japan have this Bill of Rights. I didn't know Jonas Salk gave the world his polio vaccine free of charge, in stark contrast to health care discoveries today. I didn't know about the leaked Citibank memo that describes America as a "plutonomy," controlled by the rich and threatened by the anarchic, unruly poor. I didn't know our Treasury Department was pretty much run by Goldman Sachs.

If Mr. Moore could organize his thoughts, delve deeper into problems, or find and implicate harder targets with more evidence, he could make a great movie again. Still, Capitalism provides food for thought, evidence for prosecution, and unites us unruly poor with a mandate to either fix the system or tear it down. That's far more of a return on your investment than you'll get from 99% of the movies today.

Titanic was the biggest movie in the history of the world, so director James Cameron's followup has to be big. Avatar has all the ingredients: it's a mix of live action and animation, it's in a brand new type of 3D, and it's cost $200 million so far.

Avatar is being released in December, which means it's time for the hype to start. 20th Century Fox showed sneak previews of part of the film for a few random million, including just about any blogger who's got more than four faithful readers.

What can I tell you? I lied.

The film looks pretty terrific, though the 3D isn't substantially better than what we've seen before. (When the camera moves, you might as well just shut your eyes until it stops.) The main problem is the script and story seem to be absolute crap.

Jake Sully is a Marine who was disabled in combat. He's selected to participate in a secret program where he's transformed into a giant animated cat, then sent to a mysterious land for some unspoken mission. The problem appears right after Jake's transformation: as he awakens in his new body, he's overcome with emotion. He can walk! He's whole! He's a fuckin' giant cat! He levels half the laboratory before he breaks out.

Now, it's an electrifying scene, and the 3D is extraordinary. But if your brain synapses are firing, you'll think something, like "Wow, you know, government research scientists should really perform psychological testing on people before they send them off on vital missions."

NASA does it, to avoid scenes like this:

MISSION CONTROL: Congratulations, Lunar Module 1. You are now on the surface of the moon.

ASTRONAUT: Roger, Mission Control. (PAUSE) Now I'm gonna fuck . . . shit . . . UP!

Unfortunately James Cameron doesn't, so we're stuck in some bizarre hybrid we can't reconcile. Jake is young and stupid and dripping with testosterone, and whereas five years ago he was a naive youth ready to defend his country in war, now he's physically and mentally damaged -- so add "bitter" to the pile and you've got a protagonist straight out of Brian De Palma. And he's our ticket into this faux-Jurassic Park where dinosaurs romp in My Little Pony day-glo purple wonderlands.

It's like Scarface's Tony Montana wandering into Alice in Wonderland and mowing down playing cards with an AK-47. We wonder if George and Martha from Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf? will turn up next.

MARTHA: Look, George, we're giant animated cats! And we're in 3D! Ooh, everything's poking out at me -- except your loincloth, of course.

GEORGE: Oh, shut yer yap, you stupid cow. It's a good thing this movie is G-rated, because there ain't enough yellow in China to paint those saggy tits.

MARTHA: Why, you insignificant little twerp. Why don't you help Jake fight the natives, like a real man? What, is big George afraid of the kitties?

GEORGE: If I was afraid of stretched-out pussy, I'd never have married you.

Jake's love interest is an allegedly-beautiful warrior cat. (I say "allegedly" because it's hard to attach the word to something that looks like my own little adorable Pumpkin, except it's on two feet and has Barbie's waist and tits.) Neytiri calls Jake on the carpet for his behavior, and our hearts sink as we think, Oh God, if she falls in love with this loser and her love and innate animal wisdom prompt Jake to realize the error of his ways and become a complete, fulfilled human being, this movie really will be the worst pile of crap we've seen in years.

Still, I know none of this matters. You've seen Transformers and X Men Origins and G. I. Joe. So go see Avatar the second it comes out. It's got angry dinosaurs and giant flying lizards and fighting cats, and man, they really fuck shit up.

Did you hear about the latest romantic comedy to come out of Hollywood? A quirky and confident protagonist finds true love, but throws it aside in pursuit of fame and fortune. Will the lovers eventually get together? Will ambition forever keep them apart?

One last question: Did you know this is Brüno?

The gay community has been divided for years over how we're portayed in the media. One side says our "embarrassing" members -- assless-chapped leather daddies, drag queens, Tina'ed twinks in metallic hotpants -- should stay away from our Pride Parades so they don't end up front and center on the Kansas evening news. The other side says, hey, fuck 'em. If hetero America won't accept everybody in our community, they're not getting any of us.

Sasha Baron Cohen probably doesn't give a damn about any of this. Instead, he's created the most ridiculous fringe figure the gay community has ever seen, and set him as the sympathetic star of a film.

Take that, Bruce LaBruce.

Brüno sets out to push the envelope in outrageousness. You cringe in your seat, sure the next stunt is going to get Sascha Baron Cohen killed. He has the balls to confront terrorists, to antagonize angry crowds, to hit on a septuagenarian Ron Paul. In the end, though, you realize he's pulled off something far more subversive.

He's made an audience fall in love with an "embarrassing" gay man.

Some critics are complaining that a few scenes seem set up, that some of the victims must be in on the joke. Who cares? Call this a scripted comedy that occasionally ventures into real life. Some say Brüno reinforces stereotypes. Frankly, nobody with a double-digit IQ will believe for a second that this is anything other than a character played by a comedian. And, I'll repeat, a sympathetic character. There was no reason to complain about Borat, and there's no reason to foam at the mouth over Brüno either. Making the message crystal clear, the film's homophobes are equally challenged with both brains and teeth.

Brüno is a landmark gay film. For the first -- and probably last -- time in history, an audience roots for a flamboyant gay man to shuck off his conversion therapy and go chase that boyfriend, a sentiment that seems positively anarchic considering an hour earlier he was getting reamed by a bicycle-powered dildo.

Let me be the first to ask Mr. Cohen: next year, could Brüno lead our Pride Parade?

See Brüno proudly, and laugh your chapped ass off. This is a terrific film. In the immortal words of Snoop Dogg, "He gay. He gay. Okay."

Last night I dreamt I married Johnny Depp. He was handsome and sweet and filthy rich, but on the honeymoon I realized I'd made a horrible mistake. He was also deadly dull.

"Honey," I told him, "why don't we play a little game? Every day you pretend you're somebody else."

He protested, but I held firm and he caved. After that life was wonderful again. One day he pretended he was a pirate, and it was the funniest thing I ever saw. One day he pretended he was Willie Wonka, and I nearly laughed myself sick.

Then one day he pretended he was John Dillinger. "Bang bang!" he'd yell. "Take that, coppers! Your pathetic little jails can't hold me!"

I watched for about five minutes before my eyes began to droop. "Sweetie," I said with a yawn, "why don't you hold these scissors for a year or two?"



There are exactly two interesting things about John Dillinger. One, every time he heard music or watched a movie, it made some kind of comment about his life. He danced with a gorgeous stranger and the lyrics described the woman. He listened to the radio and the song described his mood. At the movies he was confronted with scenes that uncannily presaged his downfall.

And two, everybody thought he had a giant dick.

The first phenomenon, I'm guessing, is an invention of Public Enemies, Michael Mann's latest gangster film. A coda to the film says it's "fictionalized," which means the truth is so boring they had to make stuff up, but this little fiction sticks out like a sore thumb in a supposed biography. If this same phenomena afflicted me, in fact, I'd have listened to the Velvet Underground's I Can't Stand It Any More during most of the screening last night.

The second phenomenon is supposedly also a legend, sparked by this morgue photo of Dillinger:


The photo made the newspapers, gossip spread, and pretty soon everybody believed that Dillinger had such a whopper the Smithsonian chopped it off and kept it in a long, skinny jar full of formadehyde. Laugh if you want, but I know eight thousand people who'd go see that exhibit over a painting of an Italian chick with a mysterious smile.

Me, I'm leaning towards believing the story, if only because I don't see any other explanation for the photo. Dillinger wasn't fat. Arms don't hang that low. Men aren't usually buried with zucchinis in their pants. Plus it gives me the happy ending I like to see. Because though Mr. Dillinger's life was short and violent, it sure does look like he died happy. And he left us a picture that's far more interesting than Public Enemies, a picture that will spark conversation long after the movie is gone.

Is it possible? Could it be?

And who put The Look of Love on my iPod?

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is a direct descendent of Forrest Gump: an odd central figure who almost seems mentally stunted charts a timeline through history. Look, there's World War I! Now Pearl Harbor! Look, it's the Beatles, and hippies!

It's almost the opposite of The Wrestler: sprawling, epic, big budget. Where a writer could have rendered The Wrestler brilliant, in Benjamin's case we wonder what an actor could have done with the title role. It's calculated and mass-market, but somehow it's still got vision and heart. The diversions add texture and depth to the film, as opposed to the confusing, jarring tangents The Wrestler almost seemed to ad lib.

It's sweet, it's sad, it's sappy, it's terrific. One of the best films of the year.

Two small quibbles, though. One, my hopes for a finale featuring a giant fetus with boyish dimples and six-pack abs ascending into space à la 2001 were dashed. And two, Brad Pitt's supposed to pass for a middle-aged dude just by painting on wrinkles and tousling his hair?

Really, you need the incessant farting, too.

Coulda Been a Contender

Has there ever been a wrestling match where the camera didn't linger long and lustfully on the contenders' perky pouches, ostensibly filming the man-on-man sport but also pretty well documenting just about every bobble of the spandex-clad trunk meat?

There is now. Darren Aronofsky's new film The Wrestler has just about everything else you want in professional wrestling: action, headbanging music and hair extensions. But zero loving updates of What The Protagonist's Willy Is Up To Now.

How strange, we think. UnAmerican. It's like having a picnic and forgetting the fried chicken.

In a better film, we wouldn't have missed it, but in The Wrestler there's a giant hole waiting to be filled. It could be a great film, though it's not exactly a new concept. Cut to commercial:

GIRL: I want to see the veteran wrestler deal with his body's collapse!

GUY: I can't wait to see Marisa Tomei, similarly aging in a youth-obsessed occupation, strip while she's depressed!

We get restless waiting for one of our cliches to do something interesting. We wait in vain. Mostly, they just age, and follow the teachings of Screenwriting 101.

We're treated to a near-naked Marisa Tomei, struggling to act. We're truly impressed by Mickey Rourke's full-throttle portrayal, though we occasionally wonder if a real down-and-out athlete would look like a bulked-up Joel Grey.

But we want more, and we don't get it. The meat is missing from our sandwich. We've got two main characters who barely connect, and a half-hearted attempt to go for something deeper, with Jesus tattoos and quotes from The Passion of the Christ. Seriously, dude? A guy strips almost naked and wrestles with other dudes, and you see religion in it? That's preposterous.

Priests don't go back to their corners when you count to three.

"The Golden Compass" is Badly Protracted

The first rule of fiction is to set high stakes. "The Golden Compass" opens with a boy being kidnapped and forced to write a letter home.

This isn't torture: it's summer camp. What, next they'll make him glue macaroni to a board?

The movie, then, becomes less a drama than a series of errands to be run. You get two minutes of Daniel Craig -- sitting at a dinner table, then at a desk. Six minutes of Nicole Kidman -- when you'll wonder what the hell happened to her. Like she took a picture of Michael Jackson to her plastic surgeon and said, "Give me some of that!" The voices of Ian McKellan, Ian McShane, and Kathy Bates -- which make you sad they didn't sign on to a real movie.

Save ninety minutes of your life and read this condensed version instead.

LYRA is a poor but tough British girl, meaning by the end we'll find out she's really a wayward princess. Judging by her accent, her societal status lurches between a Cockney and Madonna. Her best friend is named Roger, even though there are no Rogers in England because it's like naming an American kid "Buttfuck."

LYRA: Roger, I promise if anybody ever kidnaps you, I will rescue you.

ROGER: Gosh, Lyra, you're my absolute bestest -- ULP!

LYRA: Roger? Roger?

Forgetting all about him, LYRA sneaks into a castle where she meets her uncle, DANIEL CRAIG. After someone tries to poison him they decide to stay for dinner, presumably because the food looks really good. LYRA sits across from NICOLE KIDMAN.

NICOLE KIDMAN: Hello, little girl! I'm going on a trip. You want to come?

LYRA: Sure! I trust you completely even though your dress is transparent and you can't move your face.

WIZENED OLD MAN: You know, little girl, there's only one Golden Compass still in existence. It knows all the mysteries of the universe, and will answer any question you ask. You want it?

LYRA: Yeah, sure!

At NICOLE's house, while they prepare for voyage, the Golden Compass tells LYRA that something's wrong. She rummages through the trash and finds a crumpled piece of paper that seems to confirm its warning: "I'M THE ONE WHO'S BEEN KIDNAPPING ALL THE KIDS," the paper reads. "SIGNED, NICOLE KIDMAN." LYRA flees and encounters a friendly WITCH.

WITCH: The prophecies have long foretold a special little girl who will change the course of history, and methinks you're her! Prove it to me: use that Golden Compass to describe the last guy I boffed.

LYRA: Sure. (Spins Golden Compass.) I see butt-ugly.

WITCH: You are the enchanted one! But hey, he used to be hot. If you ever need me in the future, I will race to your assist! Not including the forthcoming bridge collapse.

Next LYRA runs into the COWBOY.

COWBOY: Hello, little girl! Want to see my enormous zeppelin? Look at how big and swollen it is, and how it lurches about. I'm old and unshaven and slightly creepy, but I can follow you around if you want. Wait! Don't go! At least go ask the Coca-Cola bear if he'll accompany you on your journey.

LYRA runs off to find the bear.

COCA-COLA BEAR: Hello, little girl! I should be the Bear King, but I was tricked out of my rightful throne so now I make documentaries about global warming. I mean -- now I'm an alcoholic. I'd like to help you on your journey, but I can't even find my armor!

LYRA: (Spins the Golden Compass.) It's over there.

CCB: Oh. Whaddaya know?

The bear gets his armor back and accompanies LYRA. They run into a narrow ice bridge that spans a mile-deep crevass, but it cracks under their feet.

CCB: You go first. I mean, because my weight would probably break it.

LYRA is halfway across the bridge when it snaps. She scurries across the disintegrating ice cubes to the other side.

CCB: Don't worry! I'll find another way to get across that'll make everyone wonder why we didn't just go that way in the first place.

LYRA: I don't know where we're going and I'll freeze to death if I get lost but I think I'll wander on ahead.

LYRA finds the bear kingdom, then CCB reappears. He fights the king to regain the throne. LYRA watches in horror while everybody in the audience wonders why she doesn't use the Golden Compass to see how it ends. CCB wins.

CCB: I win, so I'm king now! Hurrah! Okay, what else do you wanna do?

LYRA: We have to find Buttfu-- I mean, Roger.

LYRA pulls out the Golden Compass and sees Roger is nearby. She rescues him, but then the bad guys literally appear out of nowhere. Just when things look bad, everybody she's met in the last eighty-nine minutes shows up. The COWBOY. The WITCHES. A wandering troupe of GYPSIES. In fact, everybody short of the VILLAGE PEOPLE and the TRAVELOCITY GNOME.

They fight. It's like all the characters from SHREK suddenly turning into ninjas. The good guys win. Everybody hugs.

ROGER: Okay, what should we do now?

LYRA: Gosh, there's so much! We have to save DANIEL CRAIG! He's in horrible danger, and I'm not just talking career. There's a parallel universe that the bad guys will destroy if -- Wait, ninety minutes is up and everybody in the audience is asleep, so let's talk about this in the sequel.

ROGER: Oh. Okay!

Cue LYRA'S THEME by Kate Bush to sum up exactly what we've seen:

Lyra,
Lyra
Your heart, it burns like fire-a.
Lyra,
Lyra
This song is really dire-a.
Lyra,
Lyra
The plural of "papyrus" is "papyra."
LYRA!

THE END