The Terminal, Movie Review

This is one flight that should never have been cleared for takeoff. Like Howard Hughes infamous "Spruce Goose" airplane, The Terminal looks great on paper, but never reaches cruising altitude, despite A-list credits that include Stephen Spielberg, Tom Hanks and Catherine Zeta-Jones. What could have been an intriguing Kafka-esque drama of man versus bureaucracy is instead a silly romantic comedy, less exciting than a two-hour layover in Salt Lake City.

The Terminal is the lightly turbulent tale of Victor Navorski (Tom Hanks), a traveler from the fictional Eastern European country of Krakozhia whose government is overthrown while Navorki's plane is en route to New York City. Now stuck at a New York City airport because of a glitch in the immigration matrix, Victor is a man without a country, won't be allowed into the United States until the government is restored in his homeland and for the next year has to make a new home for himself at the airport.

An interesting enough premise, for the first reel anyway, as Victor attempts to unravel his ball of red tape, outwit his bureaucratic adversary, Frank Dixon (Stanley Tucci), and reach his ultimate destination – the Manhattan Ramada Inn. For tacked-on love interest, and here is where The Terminal's design flaws start to emerge, Navorski tries to join the mile-high club with flighty flight attendant Amelia (Zeta-Jones). Kudos to Zeta-Jones on her stylish yet sensible look and affected American accent, so reminiscent of Dianne Lane that Spielberg should have shaved a few million and hired Lane instead. Hanks for once doesn't have to lose half his body weight to get into character, but alas, so little is known about Victor Navorski all he appears to be is Tom Hanks with a Russian accent. Despite Victor's ingenuity at making a home at the airport, it isn't long before he wears out his welcome with airport officials as The Terminal does the same with its audience.

Amelia jets to and from Terminal's Saltine-thin story line, trying to decide between her new Russian friend and the married pilot she has been seeing on the side, for dipping, for the past fifteen years. But the major dip in The Terminal's flight plan is when we learn the secret of Victor and his unwavering quest to get to the Ramada Inn on Lexington Ave. When the sappy truth be known, it's even schmaltzy by Spielberg standards. So by the time The Terminal finally comes in for a landing, the audience is left less satisfied than if they'd had airline food for Thanksgiving dinner.

Avril Lavigne, Under My Skin, CD Review

More angst-ridden pop punk from perpetually perturbed sk8er appreciator Lavigne who vacillates between confused, really upset and heartbroken on the dozen downtrodden ditties that follow 2002's mega-platinum Let Go. While Avril's voice hits all the right notes and delivers with requisite vitriol, unfortunately Under My Skin's lyrics are more irritating than a rusty tattoo needle. One after another, an endless parade of butthead boyfriends do nothing but disappoint the pissed-off punkette and consequently leave all but the most self-absorbed listener wishing Avril would lighten up, go shopping or maybe head to Vegas for a quick wedding/divorce weekend.

On the talk-show circuit recently Avril seemed much more fun to be around, reminiscing about being grounded for years and getting into trouble for drinking beer on a girl's field-hockey team road trip. So perhaps her fearless, but forlorn attitude, embodied by the big red X she wears instead of a heart on her sleeve, on Under My Skin's cover, is just a well-choreographed act. No less scripted than Britney, or Jessica Simpson's relentless bubble-headedness.

Meanwhile, back in the CD player, big guitars and interesting effects abound through Skin's expansive, dynamic production especially on the ironically entitled "My Happy Ending" (what is it with Canadian chicks and irony?). And though there's nothing as catchy as "Sk8er Boi," Avril's anthem to alpha-males and alpha-numeric spelling, "He Wasn't" punks merrily along in a Green Day kinda way with Miss Lavigne so pissed off (surprise!), she's going to clean up her room. At last punk rock even a Mom can love.

Not exactly the album to throw on after a tough day at work, or while getting ready to hit da club. But if those mean girls from homeroom have been picking on you again and that skate punk from the teen center keeps canceling your second date, just cause you didn't let him get to third base, Under My Skin is just the CD to bite your nails to while waiting for him to call, just so you can yell "F- you!" and hang up.

Spring Broke (powerHouse Books), Book Review

Photographs by Nathaniel Welch, Introduction by Evan Wright, Essay by Steve Appleford

Missed Spring Break this year (damn that house arrest!), but still Jonesing for a few beer bongs, cocoa-buttered co-eds and a bit of the ol' projectile vomit? Fear not, for photographer Nathaniel Welch has captured America's high-spirited, 151-proof youth hard at play on the sun-stroked shores and no-tell motels of Daytona Beach, Florida. For those who were there – and those who wanted to be but couldn't cash in enough empty deposit cans – Welch's 90 color pictures vividly constitute, and occasionally reconstitute, a 120-page vacation in the land of Miller Lite and Honeys.

High-brow intellectualizing by Evan Wright and Stephan Appleford attempts to put the sordid succumbing and goings in some kind of social perspective, elevating Spring Broke above its voyeuristic rocks-off kind. But whether you feel sympathy or a more devilish emotion, it's Welch's pictures that wag the tale best. Never mind the morally bankrupt subtext, Spring Broke is all about keg tossing, co-ed showering, and hangover-inducing fun. At least until someone gets hurt, handcuffed or forgets to declare a major. But hey, that's what first-aid tents, bail bonds and summer school are for. Say cheese!

Chronicles of Riddick, Movie Review

Sorry sports fans, Chronicles of Riddick is not the tragic but sordid saga of Riddick Bowe, once undisputed heavyweight champion, turned convicted kidnapper of his first wife and children. But sports crime's loss is sci-fi's gain as Chronicles of Riddick is an epic and entertaining sequel to 2000's Pitch Black cult hit about space castaways dependent on an escaped killer to save them from annihilation by unseen night creatures on a remote asteroid. Pitch Black hardly shed new light on the genre, but was carried out with the same conviction and style that director David Twohy brings to Chronicles along with a budget that is light year's beyond Pitch Black's bankroll.

Recreating the role of gravel-voiced, photosensitive, escaped-con Riddick is multi-cultural muscleman, ex-bouncer and native New Yorker Vin Diesel (Fast & Furious). Vin, in true Eastwood/Schwarzenegger style makes the most of tag-line ready dialogue like "You're not afraid of the dark are you?" Clearly, a rocket scientist nor Dionne Warwick is needed to predict the outcome of Riddick's battles with the Necromongers (half man, half machine, all evil). It is a wonder though, where Riddick finds the time to keep his head so ball-bearing smooth. An action hero's work is truly never done.

And so Chronicles carnage continues with Riddick calmly being chased, captured and vanquishing mercenaries, armies and assorted Watchtower salesman from the frozen tundra of one desolate planet to the boiling surface of another. All in a reluctant quest to save humanity, and cutie-pie Kyra (Alexa Davalos), from enslavement and extinction at the undead hands and weaponry of the Necromongers. A future-fascist empire, literally Hell bent on converting all in their interplanetary path to the ways of the "Underverse" where the Ted Nugent-like "keep what you kill" is the law of the land. Fine philosophy: assuming you have a really big meat locker.

From Buck Rogers to Star Wars and every Dune in the Matrix, Chronicles is the timeless story of the anti-hero forced to save humanity when all he wants is to be left alone and work on his triceps. The theme has been covered and recovered like a sofa on "Trading Spaces." But thanks to Diesel, Davalos, director David Twohy and a Roman-legion-sized CGI team's singleness of mind and respect for their characters, Chronicles maintains a serious sense of purpose. And while entertaining, it never gets too cutesy or slapstick a la Van Helsing. So the summer of 2004 is saved, for one opening weekend anyway, from the sticky sweet clutches of wholesome animated ogres Potter-mouthed adolescents and the relentless onslaught of brainless Ben Stiller guffaw fests. Even a jaded, freebie mongering critic type person like myself, however, would pay to see Riddick take on Stiller in Dodgeball II. Oh well, there's always next summer.