The Screengrab

When it was announced recently that Peter Bart, who has been editor-in-chief of the trade bible Variety for the past twenty years, has been kicked upstairs--his new position if "vice president and editorial director", from which office her will "report directly to [Reed Business CEO Tad] Smith, assisting him in furthering Variety's editorial mission in print and online and expanding the brand's position in new revenue streams"--all hell broke out on-line. One of those leading the charge was Nikki Finke at her Deadline Hollywood Daily blog, who summed up the changes at Variety this way: "Hollywood can now safely ignore Bart. [Editor Tim] Gray is the guy to suck up to there." Finke and other bloggers have been laughing in the face of the "official" story that Bart had long planned to give up control of the news division this year, and that Gray had long ago been out in place with plans to step in for him when he moved on.

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Ari Karpel reports on recent developments in the field of remaking major feature films for foreign audiences. When talkies first came in, it was standard practice at many Hollywood studios to shoot foreign-language versions of new movies at the same time the English-language releases were being made, sometimes with the original stars babbling their dialogue in phonetically learned Spanish. In some rare cases, such as that of the Spanish-language version of the 1931 Dracula, directed by George Melford and starring Carlos Villar as the Count, these instant remakes have shadow reputations among cultists who hold that they're more cinematically inventive than the movies they were spun off from. But the practice died out as soon as some genius invented dubbing. But, writes Karpel, "As film industries in China, Russia, Japan and India have grown exponentially, particularly when it comes to homegrown fare, United States studios have taken the phrase 'Think globally, act locally' to heart. Nearly every studio has set up an international operation for producing and distributing original movies made in local languages. Now a handful of those studios are scouring their catalogs, seeking films (box-office smashes and middling performers alike) to remake for new audiences." For a start, the "Walt Disney Company is turning its High School Musical franchise into a cottage industry, redoing the teen song-and-dance phenomenon one country at a time." The real trick, though, is finding solid material that can be translated into something appealing to foreign audiences but that wasn't such a megaton international hit the first time around that seeing it again with a local cast would strike filmgoers as redundant. Taking that into consideration, a movie like Titanic is less tantalizing than something like the crackerjack 2004 thriller Cellular, with Kim Basinger and William H. Macy, which was recently turned into a a Chinese film called Connected. And then there's Sideways, Alexander Payne's much-loved, middle-aged road comedy starring Paul Giamatti as a failed novelist and alcoholic wine connoisseur and Thomas Haden Church as a TV actor hell-bent on enjoying one last fling before his wedding. A Japanese remake, still called Sideways but with the lead characters' names changed from Miles and Jack to Michio and Daisuke, is currently in production.

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The death of Paul Newman cuts our movie culture's last ties to a generation of 1950s leading men. Newman himself had long since transcended his film debut, The Silver Chalice (1954), a terrible performance in a terrible movie that he, typically, loved to make fun of. A paragon of classical handsomeness and unostentatiously fit-looking, with eyes that people wrote songs about, Newman arrived on the scene at the same time as Method firebrands such as Brando, James Dean, and Montgomery Clift, though at first he looked to have more in common with such male mannequins as Rock Hudson and Robert Wagner. He wound up casting a shadow as long as any of them, and better sustaining a career than any of them, by taking his work seriously and endeavoring make it mean something. As Richard Corliss writes, ""Instead of leading his talent in weird and wayward directions, like Brando, or smashing it to pieces on a California highway at 24, like Dean, he just kept getting better, more comfortable in his movie skin, more proficient at suggesting worlds of flinty pleasure or sour disillusion with a smile or a squint." At the same time, he never seemed to be in danger of letting a little thing like being the best-known movie star and sexiest man in the world go to his head.

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Will Elder has died at the age of 87, after a battle with Parkinson's. A commercial artist and cartoonist, he spent much of his life all but joined at the hip to the great Harvey Kurtzman, who created Mad for EC Comics in 1952. Elder, who had been a classmate and collaborator of Kurtzman's from years before, became the defining artistic voice of Mad in its comic book period; he and Kurtzman had similar senses of humor, and when Elder illustrated Kurtzman's scripts eviscerating such cultural touchstones as Mickey Mouse, Sherlock Holmes, and Archie and Jughead. After Kurtzman left Mad in 1957, Elder followed him loyally through a string of short-lived humor magazines: Trump (a Garden of Eden for print humor of the period, and one that lasted all of two issues), Humbug (which is set to be republished in its entirety later this year by Fantagraphics), and Help!

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Hollywood private investigator Anthony Pellicano has been found guilty of 77 out of 78 charges including racketeering, racketeering conspiracy, wire fraud, and identity theft. (He was acquitted of a single count of unauthorized computer access. He still has a racketeering-related charge yet to be decided.) The case attracted much in show business circle because of the high-profile nature of some of Pellicano's clients, and also some of his victims. Among those who hired him included Brad Grey of Paramount Pictures and Michael Ovitz. Pellicano's downfall began with Ovitz hired him to "handle" a reporter named Anita Busch, who contacted the FBI after she "walked out to her Audi outside her home to find a dead fish under a pan, a hole in the windshield, and a note saying 'STOP.'"

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To celebrate the success of Iron Man, which apparently does a much better job of realistically depicting how a man might go about turning himself into an armored guilded missle than, say, Spider-Man did in its speculation on the probable effects of being bitten by a radioactive spider ("Mommy, hiw come he's not turning brown and lying crumpled on the floor weeping?"), New Scientist has compiled a list of "five science fiction movies that get the science right." This is one of those areas where we'll just have to take their word for it, along with whether the kids in Spellbound got those words spelled right or not, or what circumstances would make it possible for a strange man to flirt with Julia Roberts on the street and not wind up in traction. It may be no surprise that 2001 leads the list; it is, after all, an acknowledged masterpiece of the genre whose "strikingly realistic depiction of space travel" was forged in a collaboration between a serious sci-fi author and a cerebral, perfectionist director. And besides, it always puts us to sleep, just like science class.

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Have you been sitting there staring at CNN thinking, I wish someone would translate the political debates of the day into terms I can understand, such as classic '70s movies? Good news! In an article in the journal National Interest, John C. Hulsman and A. Wess Mitchell use The Godfather and the conflicting approaches suggested for dealing with the threat from Sollozzo and the Tataglia family to explain the thought processes of what the authors identify as tht three main currents of American geopolitical thought following September 11, 2001. It is Tom Hagen (Robert Duvall), the consigliere and family diplomat, whp represents "liberal institutionalism"; his mantra is "we oughta talk to them." "First, like many modern Democrats," write the authors, "Tom believes that the family’s main objective should be to return as quickly as possible to the world as it existed before the attack. His overriding strategic aim is the one that Hillary Clinton had in mind when she wrote in a recent Foreign Affairs article of the need for America to 'reclaim its proper place in the world.'” He butts heads with Sonny the hothead, who is the voice of neoconservatism, brandishing a big stick and quick to accuse anyone who expresses a lack of enthusiasm for seeing him swing it of disloyalty to the family.

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Donnie Darko (2001), the long-gestating cult hit from writer-director Richard Kelly, is about to get an ugly little brother. Or maybe a stepbrother, or just somebody who got ahold of its credit card number and is charging pizzas to its account. The planned sequel, S. Darko, begins shooting next week and is going to be shopped around at the 2008 Cannes Film Festival. The film's title refers to the character of Samantha Darko, who was Donnie's sister in the original film and was played by Daviegh Chase. The plot will involve a road trip the now- eighteen-year-old Samantha takes with a friend, a trip that becomes complicated when they begin to experience "bizarre visions." (Spoiler alert: Donnie himself, played by Jake Gyllenhaal, did not survive the conclusion of the first film.) Daveigh Chase will reprise her role in the new film, and that's as close as it has to an actual, breathing connection to the original Donnie Darko. The $10-million production will be directed by Chris Fisher, who directed and co-wrote Dirty, a crooked-cop drama starring Cuba Cooding, Jr., and horror flicks about real-life murderers Richard ("Night Stalker") Ramirez and the Hillside Strangler.

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Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull makes its official debut with a press screening at the Cannes Film Festival on May 18, four days before it opens wide theatrically. The picture has been immersed in a protective bath of secrecy; Steven Spielberg likes his intended surprise to, you know, surprise. But, perturbingly enough, the first reviews have started trickling in, thanks to that bastion of cutthroats and jacka;s known as the Internets. The initial "quick reaction" was posted to Ain't It Cool News last Thursday evening by "ShogunMaster." The spoiler-heavy review reports that Harrison Ford "has a few lines that work and a million that don't", trashes the other performers, laments the last of tension or suspense "During the whole of the movie, there was not a single moment that I thought our hero ... was in any sort of peril or even significant inconvenience. In most cases, you were so many steps ahead of the characters that it was really just an arduous wait for them to get through it.. He just never shows signs of worry or distress."), and sums up the proceedings with the judgement that this is "the Indiana Movie that you were dreading."

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Poultrygeist: Night of the Chicken Dead, a film directed by Troma's Lloyd Kaufman, opens in theaters this weekend. Which is kind of weird, because it already opened in New York a couple of Christmas seasons back, and then had a belated general opening last year. Apparently the always-innovative Kaufman has decided to keep opening it at periodic intervals until somebody notices. (We noticed, Lloyd. You can stop now.) What's also unusual about Poultrygeist is that, by making a film about "chicken zombies," Troma has opted to make a movie that will probably not be the worst movie of its kind ever made. With the Toxic Avenger series, Troma all but cornered the market in bad franchise films about a superhero born of toxic waste. No sorrier examination of the phenomenon of fat guys going nutzoid exists than Fat Guy Goes Nutzoid; all surf Nazis films are surpassed in lousiness by Surf Nazis Must Die. But without having seen Poultrygeist--a state of virginal innocence that I fully intend to maintain for the remainder of my days on Earth, so that it'll be a fresh experience for me if they want to show it to me in Hell--I feel confident in my belief that his film will pale in ghastliness to the immortal Blood Freak, co-directed in 1972 by Brad F. Grinter and the picture's star, Steve Hawkes. Lloyd is getting on in years and has been at this a while now, and certain things benefit from the enthusiasm of youthful amateurism.

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"To the left, Wayne has always been close to a comic-book version of American power in all its swaggering crudeness. That his screen persona was neither swaggering nor crude hardly mattered." So writes Charles Taylor in the latest issue of the pinko-liberal publication Dissent. While the above statement can be taken as definitive proof that Taylor has never seen McQ, it'll stand for the performances that Taylor cites as among Wayne's best, such as those in Stagecoach, Red River, The Searchers, and the one he's here to preach about tonight: Howard Hawks's Rio Bravo. As Taylor writes, "The inspiration for Rio Bravo came from perhaps the most praised of Westerns, Fred Zinnemann’s 1952 High Noon. High-Minded Noon it might have been called. Existing for no other reason than to impart a lesson in good citizenship, High Noon was a transparent metaphor for the failure of Americans to stand up to Joe McCarthy. Hawks hated it. Narratively, Hawks felt it made no sense for Gary Cooper’s sheriff to spend the movie soliciting the townspeople’s help to fend off the killers coming for him only to prove, in the end, that he didn’t need help. Hawks was offended by the idea that a sheriff would endanger the lives of the people he was meant to protect by trying to recruit them to save his skin. So Hawks made a movie in which Wayne’s sheriff turns down the help offered him, and needs it at every turn... Part of the beauty of Wayne’s performance here is the way, even when Chance is refusing help, he never undervalues others.

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When Roman Polanski won the Academy Award for Best Director for The Pianist, he became the first filmmaker to win that Oscar while a fugitive from U. S. justice. In 1977, Polanski was arrested and charged with rape and drugging a minor after Samantha Geimer (or Samantha Gailey, as she was then known), a thirteen-year-old girl who he wanted to photograph for French Vogue, claimed that he had plied her with champagne and quaaludes and then assaulted her at the private shoot he had arranged at Jack Nicholson's house. Polanksi, who has always maintained that he was set up as part of a scheme by the girl's mother to blackmail him, arranged a deal to plea to a lesser charge, only to flee the country after being advised that the judge intended to set aside the plea bargain and throw the book at him. (He faced a possible prison term of fifty-years.) He hasn't been back to the States since, though Samantha Geimer, interviewed in the wake of The Pianist's release, said that as far as she was concerned, "Straight up, what he did to me was wrong. But I wish he would return to America so the whole ordeal can be put to rest for both of us."

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It has come to our attention--mainly because they sent us a press release about it--that Stride Gum, the ridiculously long-lasting gum, has jumped on board the anti-Uwe Boll bandwagon. To do its part, the company has pledged to dole out a million packs of gum if the petition urging Boll to shred his Directors' Guild card reaches the required one million signatures. (Meanwhile, deep in the bowels of the underground lair he sublets from the Monarch, Paul Clark shakes his black-gloved fist.) Who knew the CEO of Stride Gum was such a movie geek? Actually, it appears that this is the company's way of declaring its allegiance to the video-gamers it sees as an important part of its demographic. “Since gamers are one of our most supportive groups, we’ve been looking for ways to return the favor,” said Gary Osifchin, Stride North American Marketing Director. “And what better way is there to get gamers’ backs than by helping them rescue their cherished videogames from the clutches of Uwe Boll?” Osifchin added, "Look, it's nothing personal against the guy. Maybe his non videogame-based films are unbelievable!" (Uwe Boll has made non-videogame-based films? I guess it's possible--Wes Craven once made a music appreciation movie starring Maryl Streep, and then there's that Bill Murray remake of The Razor's Edge--but it still seems wrong.) If the petition racks up its millionth signature between May 7 and May 14, 5 P.M. EST, each signer will receive "a digital coupon for a pack of gum, downloadable on May 23, 2008," which is the day that Boll's Postal, featuring Verne Troyer in the challenging dual role of "Himself" and "Voice of Krotchy", is set to hit theaters.

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If you're one of the many ticketbuyers who saw Iron Man this past weekend, Marvel Studios thanks you: you helped get the comic-book company's plans to produce its own line of self-generating comic-book movies off to a soaring start. (The name "Marvel Studios" has appeared in each of the movies based on Marvel's licensed characters going back to the 1998 Blade, but Iron Man is the first that wasn't a "co-production" basically funded by a major studio.) But those who declined to stay until the end of the voluminous closing credits missed Iron Man's final scene, which is not so much a revelation as a marketing tie-in. As seen in this YouTube-posted video, which judging from the crowd noise on the soundtrack may not be entirely copyright-protected, Iron Man ends with Robert Downey, Jr.'s Tony Stark, who is already known to make a drop-in appearance in the forthcoming The Hulk, receiving a visit from Colonel Nick Fury, played by one the few living American actors who might convincingly chew nails, who seems to be out on a late-night recruiting drive for the Avengers. The Avengers, the ever-shifting superhero team whose core membership has included Iron Man, the Hulk, the mighty Thor, and that dipshit Hawkeye, have been slated for their own movie next year; Iron Man's Jon Favreau has expressed an interest in directing.

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Scarlett Johansson and Ryan Reynolds are getting hitched, and we here at the Screengrab haven't been this proud and excited since our guppies mated! These are two of our favorite people: Reynolds, because he's a likable fellow who's shown himself to be a reliable, capable actor whether he's flexing his chops in bad comedies (Van Wilder), bad action movies (Smokin' Aces), bad horror movies (The Amityville Horror), or bad unintentionally comic action horror movies (Blade : Trinity); Johansson, because she was once in a good movie (Ghost World) without doing it much harm, because Tom Waits isn't too proud to cash the royalty checks, and because every time we run a picture of her, such as this computer-generated simulation of what she'll look like in her wedding outfit, our page numbers go up for some reason. (Also, her name is Scarlett, but she's a blonde! How trippy is that!?) Interestingly, though both of them keep very busy, the 23-year-old Johansson and the 31-year-old cradle-robbing bastard Reynolds have never worked together before. (IMDB lists their only shared credit as 101 Sexiest Celebrity Bodies on TV, which we haven't seen--we're waiting for the opera---but we have a hunch it would stretch the definition of "working together.") But if this marriage is going to work, and I think we can all agree that the thought of it failing is just too morbid to contemplate, then they're going to want to explore the possibility of co-starring vehicles to increase their volume of quality time together. (It worked for Julia and Kiefer, right?) Because the kids must have their hands full with wedding plans--registering at Sears, negotiating to rent out a bowling alley for the bachelor party, trying to get Survivor's Boston Robb on the phone to ask if he'd still lobby for the surf and turf buffet--they might not have a lot of time to flip through scripts, so we've taken the liberty of offering a few suggestions:

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In the latest chapter of Amy Winehouse's well-oiled sorrows, producer Mark Ronson has publically taken himself and the singer out of the apparently fierce competition to draft a theme song for the next James Bond film, Quantum of Solace. It is not clear how close the pair ever were to a firm commitment from the movie's producers; Ronson said that there are "loads more really famous people" in the race, but that they had been "approached" to try their hand at it and had gotten as far as cutting a demo that, Ronson avers, "sounds like a James Bond theme." (Considering that "James Bond themes" run the gamut from swoony ballads performed by Louis Armstrong and Carly Simon to chaotic, weird attempts to rock the house by Duran Duran, that's a categorization that leaves one a lot of wiggle room.) Ronson also blamed the stalemate on Winehouse's well-publicized personal issues, including those with the demon rum, though the BBC reports that a spokesman for the singer insisted that "the decision was taken because she had 'other ideas' about how the song should be developed." (No one was prepared to comment on rumors that the real problem was that neither Winehouse or Ronson could think of any words that rhymed with "solace.")

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The Australian film Bitter & Twisted, a first film by the writer-director Christopher Weekes, is about a family that hasn't yet recovered from the suicide, three years ago, of the oldest son, Liam. Jordan (Steve Rodgers), a gentle, morbidly obese salesman as "Carn's Car Yard", spends part of each day eating lunch while visiting Liam's grave. Jordan has shut down sexually, and his wife, Penny (Noni Hazlehurst), is in desperate need of being made to feel that she's still desirable. When her period is late, Penny is flustered at the thought of becoming pregnant at 53, then horrified to learn that she isn't pregnant, she's menopausal. She takes her unhappiness out on her teenage daughter, discovered a childish, scribbled love note in the girl's pocket and barging into her room to ask, "Are you having sex!?" Weekes himself plays the younger son, Ben, who keeps showing up at the doorstep of his dead brother's girlfriend Indigo (Leeanna Walsman) and asking her if she'd like to go for a walk. (The sexually ambiguous Ben is being courted by a male friend who keeps a dead pet in the freezer in a plastic bag and recalls that he froze the animal "at the moment he was dying, just as he was reaching up for the light.") Indigo herself, when not humoring Ben with their walks, has taken refuge in an affair with an older, married man (Gary Sweet) and has just learned that she's pregnant. When she confronts her lover and her tells her how "complicated" things are, she replies, "This is something people say when they want to fuck you over and forgive themselves for it."

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One function of film festivals is to provide a home for movies made by well-placed industry insiders who are under the mistaken impression that we're waiting to see what they'll do when they "stretch." Festivals give them a chance to show off their little art projects to a receptive or at least indulgent audience, including fellow insiders and aspirants to insiderdom who will at least make a big show of getting the in-jokes. ("That gross, disgusting security guard character--do you think it was supposed to be Harvey!?") Finding Amanda was written and directed by Peter Tolan, who wrote Analyze This, co-wrote America's Sweethearts, worked on various TV series (Murphy Brown), and is the creator and co-producer of Rescue Me, a crime against humanity that is sometimes miscategorized as a TV show. His new movie stars Matthew Broderick, whose opportunities for leading movie roles are contracting as his neck expands, as a once-promising TV writer who smashed his career up on the shoals of a triumvirate of addictions (drugs, booze, and gambling) and has now managed to crawl back to a job writing a third-rate sitcom. (The at-work scenes come complete with a self-deprecating cameo appearance by Ed Begley, Jr.)

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The central figure of the ESPN documentary Kassim the Dream, directed by Kief Davidson (who co-directed The Devil's Miner), is a light middleweight boxer, Kassim Ouma, who was born in Uganda in 1978 and forced into army service when he was six years old. At eighteen, he escaped and made his way to the United States, where he discovered a gym ans started honing the skills he had developed on the army boxing team, as well as picking up the skills he'd need to get by in America--his new buddies at the gym didn't find out that he was homeless until he'd mastered enough of the English language to tell them. Like some of the other documentaries that ESPN lugged to the festival, it's a movie about a clash of cultures. When Kassim, who has one small son in Uganda and another smaller one in the States, holds the toddler in his arms and asks him, "Are you a Ugandan baby or an American baby?", the kid seems to answer by sticking his Mickey Mouse doll in the camera lens.

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From Within is a good, nasty little horror picture about a mysterious rash of apparent suicides in a small town setting. The ingeniously twisted script, by Brad Keane, involves an occult spell that is used to punish some judgemental fundamentalists for the consequences of their superstitious paranoia, which is just the kind of logical inconsistency that makes for classic nightmares.

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The Zen of Bobby V, one of a number of ESPN sports documentaries in this year's festival, stars Bobby Valentine, a former player and manager in major league baseball who's currently well into his second stay in Japan, managing the Chibbe Lotte Marines. Directed by Andrew Jenks, Jonah Quickmore Pettigreu, and Andrew Muscato, the picture is a friendly, puffy profile piece that makes the most of its subject's personable charm and low-pressure style. (Valentine to a player doing badly at batting practice: "It's okay, it's not like you're totally stinking out there." Player: "I am stinking out there!" Valentine: "Yeah, but not totally!") Valentine's wife turns up to tell the camera that when his team is winning, her husband is a pleasure to be around and "all right's with the world." The filmmakers, who kept him company over the course of a full season, stays close to him when he's winning and keeps a respectful distance when he isn't. (One quick montage of Valentine in smashing-rampage-tantrum mode is included, but it isn't made clear how many water coolers he goes through during the average losing streak.)

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The eye-opening documentary Lioness, directed by Meg McLagan and Daria Sommers, deals with one of the least-covered aspects of the Iraq war: the role of American women in combat. Technically, there supposedly aren't any, because government policy expressly forbids it. In actual fact, the "nature of this war" has meant that, as one of film's interview subjects puts it, women soldiers in Iraq "have been forced to violate their policy in order to do their jobs," especially if you consider it part of their jobs to not get their heads blown off. (The military has been finessing the matter by playing games with the definition of what officially constitutes a "combat situation.") Lioness, which takes it title from the nickname of a women's unit in Iraq, pinpoints the April, 2004 siege of Ramadi as a turning point in the history of the use of women in combat. That day, Sgt. Ranie Ruthig and Specialist Shannon Morgan were on assignment with a Marine unit that was ambushed by Iraqi gunmen. As an officer tells the camera, there had been no intention to send the women into combat, but "combat found them." At one point, Shannon Morgan, who was standing in the street being fired on, looked around and realized that she was a lone target, the guys who had been standing there with her a moment earlier having retreated to cover without telling her. The officer describes this as "not an ideal situation." Or as Morgan puts it, "I kicked the squad leader right in the nuts."

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Trisha Zitt and Luis Lopez's documentary Chevolution may be the closest thing you'll ever get to see to an episode of Behind the Music or E! True Hollywood Story about an image. The movie stars the face of Ernesto "Che" Guevara, as it was captured in a photograph taken in 1960 that was mass reproduced in poster form on its way to turning into an iconic fashion and advertising image. (One of Guevara's most sympathetic biographers, Jon Lee Anderson, appears in the film sitting at a table with a coffee mug adorned with Che's kisser.) The most fascinating information in the movie is about the man who got this avalanche rolling, Alberto Diaz, popularly known as Korda. Korda had been a high-flying fashion photographer before developing a political conscience during Castro's war against the Batista dictatorship, during which he became a photojournalist vowing to use his skills to serve the revolution. (He wound up serving as Castro's personal photographer.) But he retained the eye and the instincts of a fashion photographer, and that's what made his news photos continue to stand out. They were certainly in evidence in the photo of Che, which was taken when Guevara showed up at the docks after an explosion aboard a Belgian cargo ship delivering a load of munitions.

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The German film Seven Days Sunday marks the feature directing debut of Niels Laupert, a 33-year-old director of TV commercials and music videos. Laupert seizes on the true story of a couple of sixteen-year-old boys whose alienation and general confusion turns them into thrill killers for a night. One thing you can't accuse Laupert of is glamorizing psychopathic violent behavior. The way he tells this story, the two anti-heroes Adam, (Ludwig Trepte, who looks like Seth Cohen from The O.C. after a personality transplant with a woodchuck) and Tommek (played by Martin Kiefer as a scrawny-legged sweeb with a John Hinckley haircut, a tattoo on the side of his neck, and a pathetic smirk that seems intended to come across as threatening), are driven to kill out of sheer boredom, and to really hammer than point home, Laupert overloads the movie with some of the deadliest, most overextended scenes of just sitting the fuck around ever captured on film.

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It has been suggested that, after the box-office (and, largely, critical and artistic) failure of the big, dramatic "Iraq war" films of yesteryear, the next step at dealing with the great issue of our times in movies will be through satire. But still, Harold and Kumar Escape from Guantanamo Bay? It's good to know going in that they escape, but still, is everybody sure that Jon Hurwitz and Hayden Schlossberg--who created the characters played by John Cho and Kal Penn in their screenplay for the 2004 Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle, and who co-wrote and co-directed the new movie-- can be trusted to address the subject of "post-9/11 paranoia" with the right tone? Speaking to Dennis Lim, Schlossberg was quick to insist, “It’s not that Guantánamo Bay itself is funny.” Okay, that's a good start.

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ABC's Gig Stone has a report on the increasingly inventive (i.e., desperate) measures theater owners are taking to try to lure patrons out of their homes and away from their Netflix subscriptions. "In the early 1950s," she rights, while President Eisenhower twirls a hula hoop while listening to Bill Haley in the background, "before televisions were common, the average American went to the movies nearly 20 times a year. Today, according to the National Association of Theatre Owners, it's down to around five times a year." Everyone agrees that the best way to address this problem is to make the movies better. Nah, just kidding. Everyone agrees that the best way to address this problem is to make the movies seem better by getting the customers plowed." The Cinebarre theater in Asheville, North Carolina, which is about to open new theater-cum-eateries in Charleston and Denver, "has a full bar and waiters that will serve patrons a three-course meal and drinks while they're watching a first-run movie. " (This approach is not fool-proof. Back in New Orleans in the 1990s, we used to have this place called Movie Pitchers, which would hand you a generous swill-cup of beer to make your viewing experience that much more interesting as you settled back into one of their comfy couches. Unfortunately, they had rats. I once saw one the size of Lassie casually licking the foam off the top of the refreshing beverage that one patron had set on the floor beside his sneakered feet. I would have leaned over and whispered to him that he'd paid for two drinkers, but waiting to see what would happen if he reached for his beer while the rat was still there was a lot more exciting than watching the movie.)

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A fresh wave of media attention, including a profile in Time magazine by Rebecca Winters Keegan and a New York Times piece by David Carr, make it clear that this summer is penciled in to be the one that takes Robert Downey, Jr. to the next level. It is hard to think of a reason to root against him. Downey, who was born in 1965, first appeared on-screen in movies directed by his father, who didn't used to have be called Robert Downey, Sr. to avoid confusion: the 1970 Pound, in which the actors pretended to be caged dogs and young Bob was supposed to be a puppy, and the 1972 Greaser's Palace, in which he was a shot dead in a Western setting, and for which he was prepared form his challenging role with a speech about how he was being pressed into service because dad wasn't really into the child-labor laws. In 1985, he was invited to join the cast of Saturday Night Live at the insistence of the then-hot Anthony Michael Hall, who Lorne Michaels wanted badly for the show, and who Downey subsequently smoked. In the fall of 1987, he starred in James Toback's The Pick-Up Artist, which confirmed that he could carry a lightweight comedy on the strength of his talent and charm, and played the fast-sinking buddy of the hero in Less Than Zero, which confirmed that he could take on a thinly written role in an unwatchable mess of a movie and use it to burn an indelible mark in a corner of the screen.

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It's common knowledge that American movie stars who don't want to be thought of as common product shills here at home will pick up a quick check doing TV commercials for the overseas market. Still, it's a little surprising to learn that professional bad boy director Harmony Korine has been hired to shoot commercials for Budweiser that are being aired on British TV.

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Mark Harris dips into "Volume 3" of Warners' Gangsters Collection DVD box sets and decides that it's all about the minor James Cagney pictures. A taste for Cagney, who who credited by obscure film geek Martin Scorsese with inventing "modern screen acting" when he wasn't dancing like a son of a bitch, is always a mark of superior taste and probably evidence that one's mom was real pretty. The first set in the Gangsters series was stuffed with the movies that chart the evolution of Cagney's gangster persona: The Public Enemy, which made him a star (and where he was originally supposed to play the leading man's best friend, before the director, William Wellman, saw the two men acting side by side and thought, well, that's fucked up); Angels with Dirty Faces, in which he went to the chair like a yellow rat as a favor to his buddy, Father Pat O'Brien, so that the Dead End Kids wouldn't get the wrong idea about a life of crime being glamorous; The Roaring Twenties; and the later, primitive-Freudian White Heat, which closes with a death scene that Rasputin wouldn't want to have followed.

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