#24 | December 18-29, 1997  

If you are reading this, chances are good that the new James Bond flick, Tomorrow Never Dies, is now playing in Moscow. I don't really have much of an opinion when it comes to Bond movies, but I know how you kids today just can't get enough of 'em. I haven't had a chance to see the thing myself but our very own Minister of Information has, and he described it as "quality cinema." Apparently, Jonathan Pryce is a media tycoon trying to start a third world war in order to boost sagging subscription rates. Sounds good to me. Golden Eye wasn't too super, but I can see Pierce Brosnan growing into a respectable Roger Moore-type Bond. And all you youngsters will be excited to know that this one has TV's Lois Lane, Teri Hatcher.

One word of warning, though. The theme song is sung by hideous puppet-wench Sheryl Crow (who is now doing her best to look like Alanis Morrisette instead of the no-longer-phat Liz Phair) and sounds exactly like a Mariah Carey hit from a few years back. This represents a real all-time low in the annals of Bond themes, and I think that conscientious citizens will want to think twice before supporting this sort of thing. At least you would if you were at home. In other movies-I-haven't seen-yet news, L.A. Confidential should also finally be playing this weekend. Mr. Taibbi dug this one, which should be more than enough to convince the average eXhole to fork out eight bucks. It's been billed as a new Chinatown and even though it's not quite that cool, this Raymond Chandleresque crime story does have Kevin Spacey.

This weekend you can also watch Julia Roberts. I'm not saying that I recommend doing so, I'm just telling you your options. There seem to be two kinds of Julia Roberts movies out there. In some, she stays mostly in the backgroundÑ-this kind has the potential to be watchable. But in most, she's the very big deal starÑ-this kind has been known to induce vomiting.

Conspiracy Theory is a rare example of the former. Fortunately for everyone involved, the real star of this Richard Donner-directed paranoia fest is Mel Gibson, an actor who is almost always at least interesting, even if never quite stellar. The Donner factor is interesting as it essentially means that there won't be anything too subtle or deep going on. It's not hard to imagine a more serious director attempting to make Conspiracy Theory into a probing psychological thriller, complete with annoying voice-overs. It's also not hard to imagine such a film coming out worse than Wim Wenders' End of Violence The nearly-no-brainer action genre is where this one belongs, and thankfully it stays there.

With the exception of a silly horseback-riding subplot, the Julia Roberts factor is practically non-existent. She doesn't say too much, and her hair is a lot less out of control than usual. Patrick Stewart, as the bad guy, gets part of his nose bitten off (by Mel) and wears dark suits. He's mostly pretty good, and you're not even tempted to yell "Make it so" at the screen when you see him. I can't say I approve of the fun the movie pokes at The Catcher in the Rye (owing to its popularity among homicidal lunatics), but I'm willing to let that slide. That's really all there is to say about this one. Technically, it's not really playing right now (it used to be at the Pushkinsky), but it will probably be back real soon.

A movie that is playing now is My Best Friend's Wedding. And Julia Roberts is definitely the star. She's full of spunk and human foibles, and I guess we're supposed to say to ourselves, "Ain't she a swell American?" All I could think to say is "Ain't she stupid?" And her hair is way out of hand. But this one would bite even without Julia as star. The best part of the 100-odd minutes I spent in the theater was the preview for Alien Resurrection (which looks to be OK; Sigourney gets a whole bunch of Schwarzenegger-type action movie one-liners this time around). That's no exaggeration. Actually, the brief Harry Shearer cameo might have been better.

My Best Friend's Wedding is nothing less than a perfect cinematic rendering of the essence of The Oprah Winfrey Show. This congruence helps to explain why the movie was the sleeper hit of this past summer. It also explains why it made me cringe.

For the most part, the Oprah connections are too oblique to really put your finger on, but the climactic women's-room argument scene is an exception. A collection of warts-and-all American women look on (and put in their unaskedfor two cents, of course) as Julia and nemesis Cameron Diaz nearly have a catfight, air their gripes, and eventually claw their way to the truth--which, needless to say, is that they're actually more alike than they think and, what's more, destined to become the best of friends. Now I know that Cameron Diaz is supposed to be adorable and all that, but all she does here is scream like a goddam sorority girl. I realize that she is one, but who in hell wants to watch a sorority girl?

Dermot Mulroney, perhaps the biggest tool working in film today

The women should probably be thankful that they get to be annoying. The men are made of cheap plywood. Rupert Everett, as Julia's obligatory gay friend, appears to be here for no other reason than to remind the viewer of Hugh Grant in Four Weddings and My Underwear. And Dermot Mulroney, as J's best friend, is just a hopeless dork. I have nothing against hopeless dorks, but this character is not supposed to be one. You can probably guess what I thought of the campy musical intrusions. The worst of these by far is the opening credits themselves. If you make it through that without gagging, chances are pretty good that you'll actually like this movie. There is safety in numbers.

The most depressing thing about this movie is the way it makes it painfully clear that even a character actor of the caliber of Coen Brothers regular M. Emmet Walsh has to spend most of his career acting in movies like this. I wonder if he ever wishes that he'd gone into textiles?