Men (and women) behaving badly

Sex and science fiction dominate the fall film slate

By Jeannette Catsoulis

The summer of 2004 may forever be remembered as the summer of the documentary, but as the days grow shorter, the fall of the biopic is upon us, with no fewer than seven famous--and infamous--dead men getting the Hollywood treatment. First up is Taylor Hackford's Ray, a lovingly thorough look at the against-all-odds life of Ray Charles (played by Collateral's Jamie Foxx). An accomplished pianist, Foxx's movie eyes may be prosthetic but his fingers are real; and with lots to squeeze in--including adultery, heroin addiction and rehab, as well as all that singing--Hackford can be forgiven the film's 2 1/2-hour running time. We're hoping the result is more Chuck Berry than Proof of Life.

Foxx playing his own piano is one thing, Kevin Spacey crooning "Mack the Knife" is quite another. In Beyond the Sea, Spacey directs, stars in and warbles through the story of Bobby Darin, the hugely successful entertainer who died at age 37 of a heart condition. The challenge for the 45-year-old Spacey--who's still recovering from Albino Alligator--will be to convince us he's the 23-year-old son of Secrets and Lies' Brenda Blethyn, in real life only 13 years his senior. Not even Omar Sharif would bet on that.

Around the time Darin was becoming one of Las Vegas' most visible celebrities, Howard Hughes was becoming its most reclusive. The Aviator, Martin Scorsese's long-awaited take on the brilliant but troubled man, mostly avoids the OCD years to focus on Hughes the pilot-cum-movie producer-cum-starlet hunter. Star Leonardo DiCaprio is reportedly relieved that the script called for his character to spend more time chasing Ava Gardner than solving complex mathematical equations, though he feels the scene where Hughes--a connoisseur of well-endowed women--designs a bra for Kate Beckinsale's Gardner fully warranted the five-day rehearsal.

Hughes might have found some enjoyment, not to say enlightenment, in Alfred Kinsey's notorious 1948 study, Sexual Behavior in the Human Male. In Kinsey, Liam Neeson plays the scientist doing the studying while Garden State's Peter Sarsgaard is his, er, research assistant. Questioned about his switch-hitting scenes with Neeson and Laura Linney (who plays Kinsey's wife), Sarsgaard will only reveal that, when it comes to kissing, Neeson "isn't even in the running." I am beyond crushed.

Homoeroticism has, of course, been sneaking past the sword-and-sandal censors ever since Tony Curtis and Laurence Olivier shared a bathtub in Spartacus. This grand tradition, inexplicably neglected by Wolfgang Petersen's prudish Troy, is thankfully restored by the not-so-prudish Oliver Stone, whose Alexander has Colin Farrell's King of Macedonia gleefully conquering Persia before turning his attention to Jared Leto. No word yet on whether bathtubs are involved.

Child's play

Unspoken sexual preferences also lurk, like giant crocodiles, beneath the wholesome veneer of Finding Neverland, a determinedly glowing and sentimental look at the life of Peter Pan creator J.M. Barrie. But Miramax, all four Weinstein eyes firmly on Oscar, has steered its movie well away from anything remotely unsavory in Barrie's extreme fondness for the four young boys he all but adopted (two of whom, as adults, would commit suicide). Johnny Depp is superb in another of the man-child roles at which he excels, playing up Barrie's Scottish accent while playing down the mother issues.

The work of another famous children's author, Daniel Handler, is represented this fall in Lemony Snicket's A Series of Unfortunate Events. Based on the first three books of Handler's dark, Edward Gorey-esque series about three wealthy orphans preyed upon by weird relatives, the movie stars Jim Carrey as the evil Count Olaf and Craig Ferguson as a "person of indeterminate gender." If this sounds too traumatizing for the young'uns, you should probably stick with The SpongeBob SquarePants Movie, whose boxy hero leaves Bikini Bottom on the trail of King Neptune's stolen crown. SpongeBob may be porous, but hey, at least his gender is determinate.

Just mention the word "gender" in connection with movies and no one springs to mind as rapidly as John Waters. Baltimore's incorrigible son returns to taunt the MPAA with A Dirty Shame, another NC-17 extravaganza about ordinary folks inconveniently transformed into sex addicts by a variety of head traumas. Tracy Ullman leads the uninhibited cast as a desiccated housewife compelled to perform stunts more commonly seen in the back room at Cheetahs. Only a corpse could keep a straight face through this one; but Waters--for whom the sexual is always political--has also blown a wildly successful raspberry at those who want to legislate against pleasure itself.

Also politically active again is indie hero John Sayles with Silver City, another beautifully shot ensemble drama starring Seabiscuit's Chris Cooper as a Dubya-inspired gubernatorial candidate who accidentally pulls a corpse from the Colorado River. A river also features prominently in director Jacob Aaron Estes' magnificent first feature, Mean Creek, a compassionate and shocking look at the intractability of adolescent cruelty. And the kids are far from alright in the R-rated Undertow, the second feature from All the Real Girls' David Gordon Green, as two young brothers are menaced by a sinister uncle.

Restricted ratings are everywhere this fall as seasoned directors--and talented tyros--tackle unusually delicate topics. Britain's Mike Leigh (Topsy-Turvy) returns with Vera Drake, a thought-provoking drama about a woman in 1950s England who quietly breaks the law to help women end their unwanted pregnancies (a reminder of Claude Chabrol's amazing 1989 film, A Story of Women). American director Nicole Kassell makes a risky debut with The Woodsman, in which a convicted pedophile returns to his hometown--and his wife--after 12 years in prison. Real-life couple Kevin Bacon and Kyra Sedgwick play the leads, and early word says Bacon is sensational. And Spanish bad boy Pedro Almodóvar (Talk to Her) faces his childhood demons with the intensely personal Bad Education, a powerful noir thriller based on the director's Catholic school experiences. Y Tu Mamá También's Gael García Bernal gives a mesmerizing performance as a transvestite abused by a priest.

Adult education

Bringing to life the poster that's still a dorm-room staple, Bernal returns (without the drag) to play a soulful Che Guevara in The Motorcycle Diaries--kind of an Easy Rider with lepers instead of rednecks. Based on Guevara's journals, the movie recounts his experiences as a 23-year-old student crossing South America with his best friend (Rodrigo de la Serna)--a trip that would be instrumental in diverting Guevara from practicing medicine to leading the Cuban revolution. Brazilian director Walter Salles (Central Station) films in a gritty, verité style that perfectly captures both Guevara's emotional turbulence and the scenic majesty of Latin America. Watch for a sudden spike in Steppenwolf downloads.

The other half of Y Tu Mamá También, Diego Luna, is also around this month in Criminal, a Mamet-esque con caper that's actually an inferior, English-language remake of Fabián Bielinsky's Argentine hit, Nine Queens. John C. Reilly and Maggie Gyllenhaal struggle against painful miscasting as a mumbling petty hood and his ice queen sister, but Luna's considerable charm carries the movie over the rough spots. Criminal may be unnecessary, but Alfie? In one of his six roles this fall, overexposed Jude Law resurrects the Cockney Lothario who natters directly to the camera (a daring move back in 1966) between bouts of detached bonking. Though I may go just to see whether Susan Sarandon or Jane Krakowski has taken the Shelley Winters role, this Swinging '60s sexual triathlon will forever belong to Michael Caine, who was so grateful to the movie that made him a household name that he called his autobiography What's It All About? We might ask the same question.

If Alfie had bumped into Bridget Jones, she might have been tempted to discard both weaselly Hugh Grant and stuffy Colin Firth. Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason finds Bridget four weeks into her relationship with Darcy (Firth) and already grumbling about his right-wing politics and leggy new intern. Renée Zellweger, who can't possibly need the money, once again had to hit Taco Bell to achieve the body of a flabby neurotic. Luckily, a between-seasons James Gandolfini was able to assist with the personal training.

Chick flicks are thin on the ground this season--although, personally, I would count Ocean's 12 in this category. The heistmasters are back, with a mysterious addition, and who cares what they're stealing or how many European countries they have to visit to do it? (Between this and Bourne, Matt Damon's passport must be thicker than Bridget Jones' ankles.) As long as Clooney and Pitt keep taking their shirts off--those vaults are hot--and Julia Roberts and Catherine Zeta-Jones stay out of the way, I'm there. Probably twice.

A respite from Roberts is perhaps too much to hope for; and, sure enough, here she comes again in Closer, locking lips with Jude Law in Mike Nichols' adaptation of Patrick Marber's successful stage play. A claustrophobic couples drama, the movie may demand more intelligence than is usually required of Roberts--though that has never stopped her in the past. Much more interesting to watch is the sensational Hope Davis (American Splendor), a consistently under-appreciated actress who'll play Gwyneth Paltrow's sister in yet another stage adaptation, David Auburn's mournful romance Proof. Directed once again by Shakespeare in Love's John Madden, Paltrow plays a woman so bereft by the death of her father she can't connect with Jake Gyllenhaal. Now that's some serious grief, Gwyneth.

Blinded by science, horror

Vying with Lemony Snicket for Most Unwieldy Title, Sky Captain and the World of Tomorrow has Paltrow as a plucky 1930s reporter looking for missing scientists while battling giant flying robots. With her other hand, Paltrow protects herself from the attentions of--you guessed it--Jude Law, while Angelina Jolie hangs around wondering if she'll ever get another decent script. Composed almost entirely by computers, the movie has a Flash Gordon sensibility and, most important, lots of cool outfits.

On the other end of the budget spectrum, poor Samantha Morton sweats gamely in a variety of hemp and plastic ensembles for her role in Code 46, a futuristic romantic thriller from eclectic director Michael Winterbottom (In This World). Like Ridley Scott did with Blade Runner, Winterbottom imagines the city of the future as a crowded, messy, Asian metropolis, inbred and emotionally cold. When Morton's factory worker falls fatally in love with Tim Robbins' insurance fraud investigator, the pair break a rigid genetic law and go on the lam. Hauntingly atmospheric, Code 46 touches on a variety of fears--cloning, viruses--while never losing touch with its central romance. And the ending, when it comes, is devastating.

Science fiction fans can also look forward to The Final Cut, a startlingly different movie set in a society where babies are implanted with microchips to record their lives. Robin Williams stars as a "cutter"--someone who removes the chips upon death and edits them into video obituaries, conveniently omitting the nasty bits. The Machinist, however, has almost nothing but nasty bits. The disturbing story of a lathe operator (American Psycho's Christian Bale) plagued by chronic insomnia and a body that's inexplicably wasting away, the movie is a tense psychological puzzle driven by Bale's frighteningly committed performance. Director Brad Anderson is a genius with dread; like his Session 9--about five asbestos workers trapped in a haunted mental hospital--The Machinist is a small masterpiece of understated horror.

But if you prefer your horror coated with humor, you can't do better than the latest British indie import, Shaun of the Dead. Billed as "the first rom-zom-com," Shaun's protagonist (a wonderfully deadpan Simon Pegg) is an unambitious TV salesman with a desultory relationship and a social life restricted to the local pub. When the folks in his low-income neighborhood--London's Crouch End--begin to change into flesh-eating zombies, it takes a while for Shaun to spot them among the usual druggies and alcoholics. A hilarious and loving Romero spoof, the movie features Love Actually's Bill Nighy as--literally--the stepdad from hell and Penelope Wilton as Shaun's mum, who has a novel way of dealing with the undead lurching through her yard. "I'll just close the curtains," she tells her concerned son. A very British solution.