Breakdown
- DVD widescreen fomat
Louis B. Mayer ran the studio, and boy wonder Irving Thalberg! supervised production. However, another strong-willed producer, future Gone with the Wind CEO David O. Selznick, was responsible for guiding a pair of highly enjoyable Dickens adaptations, both released in 1935. David Copperfield is a wonderful condensation of the sprawling novel, crammed with memorable evocations of Dickens' roster of eccentrics. Freddie Bartholomew, who became a star with this role, plays the young David; equally indelible are W.C. Fields as Mr. Micawber, Basil Rathbone as Murdstone, and especially Edna May Oliver as Besty Trotwood. Director George Cukor's empathy and craftsmanship keep the movie humming with Dickensian wit. A Tale of Two Cities followed shortly thereafter, with Ronald Colman in one of his signature roles as the drunken romantic Sydney Carton, whose throttled love for the beautiful Lucie Manette leads to the French Revolution's guillotine. Jack Conway directs in tight, brisk fashion, and once again the supporting cas! t (Oliver and Rathbone return from Copperfield) is flav! orful. < p> The French Revolution also figures in the rather preposterous Marie Antoinette (1938), an eye-popping production about the bride of Louis XVI. The project was a pet of Thalberg and his wife Norma Shearer, and MGM proceeded with the overstuffed production even after Thalberg's early death. Marie gets an extramarital affair (with the young Tyrone Power) and an incredible parade of gowns and wigs, but not too much blame for the peasants starving. Robert Morley steals the show as Louis XVI, with John Barrymore in rascally form as his grandfather. Shearer's ordinariness somehow fits her out-of-it character.
Treasure Island (1934) casts Jackie Cooper as young Jim Hawkins and Wallace Beery as that one-legged seadog, Long John Silver (the pair had scored a huge hit in The Champ three years earlier). This is a lot of people's favorite adaptation of the marvelous Robert Louis Stevenson novel, and Victor Fleming's manly directing approach manages to take s! ome of the sheen off the MGM house style (by the way, art director Cedric Gibbons, credited on all these films, is one of the stars of the box set).
Pride and Prejudice (1940) is a respectable take on Jane Austen's oft-filmed novel, with Greer Garson as the headstrong Elizabeth Bennet and Laurence Olivier as the difficult Mr. Darcy. MGM liked to corset Garson in fine-lady roles, but here she lets some of Elizabeth's sauciness come through; actually, Olivier's elaborate performance is the movie's too-theatrical weak spot. But boy, does this movie tell a good story--and that's rather the point of these (Marie excepted) solid literary adaptations. --Robert Horton
Reach fell, and when hope seemed lost, humanity stood face-to-face with the possible extinction of all life in the galaxy and lived to tell the tale.
But that was just one epic battle, and the war rages on . . .
The Covenant shows no mercy as they continue to assault every human world they can find, but in their way lies humanityâs great champion, Spartan-117, the Master Chief. Together with his AI companion Cortana and the last remaining Spartans, the fight continues on two fronts.
One takes a crew of Spartans to the charred surface of Reach, the only planet theyâve ever known as home.  But beneath the surface, Dr. Halse! y has discovered an ancient secretâ¦one that could alter the course of the war. Â
Meanwhile, Master Chief and Cortana head towards a gathering of Covenant warships because the UNSCâs worst nightmare has come true:  the Covenant has discovered the location of Earth and is forming a massive fleet to destroy itâ¦and all who oppose the will of the Prophets. Â
This second book avoids middle-volume doldrums by introducing a vast onslaught of still tougher and memorably unpleasant nonhumans who even the villains must oppose. Meanwhile, various characters skirmish on different parts of the map, and the hero struggles with unreliable power! s conferred on him when he was chosen as Earth King to save t! he land and humanity--or maybe only a tiny part of each.
Farland maintains a steady flow of new situations, reversals, gambits, and surprises ... it's a real shock when one chap who has incurred a dreadful penalty for virtuous reasons is not spared (as expected in the normal chivalry of fantasyland) but rather pays the full, eye-watering price. One small criticism: the writing contains occasional sloppiness and repetition. Nonetheless, this is a rousing, painfully gripping story. --David Langford, Amazon.co.uk
Nine years ago, Jessie was in a car crash and died. After she was buried, she awoke and tore through the earth to arise, reborn, as a zombie. And there were others-gangs of undead roaming the Indiana woods, fighting, hunting, hidden. But when a mysterious illness threatens the existence of both zombies and humans, Jessie must decide whether to stay and fight or flee to survive...
It started with George Romero, but then it almost always does. Friday night, October sometime in the mid-1990s, and the original 1968 Night of the Living Dead was the only thing on television. I'd never seen it and had no particular interest in zombies, but the only alternative was my contracts law textbook so why not? And from the moment poor doomed Johnny solemnly intoned "They're coming to get you, Bar-buh-rah!", the movie had me, and it kept me, and the ending was a punch in the gut. The grainy black and white, the clumsy acting, the slapdash storyline and foolish self-destructive characters and almost nonexistent special effects weren't deterrents, they were the whole point. It all looked like ancient footage from some amateur documentary, and real people act foolish at the worst possible times. I never saw the remake, or any of the sequels: It wasn'! t the idea of zombies, themselves, that had me, it was that particular story. I didn't seek out any other.
Flash forward to 2003, and Carnival of Souls. More cheap black and white, shot on a shoestring in the middle of nowhere, and when Mary Henry's hand emerged from the depths of a Kansas lake long after she should have drowned they had me, again. Were those technically zombies, though, or were they ghosts? It had to be the former, for no ghost appears in the flesh as she did, walks among the living almost but not quite one of them, inspires their unwitting yet visceral disgust: They could, so to speak, smell the decay all inside her. That fascinated me, as did the titular carnival at the Saltair Pavilion. Zombies like to dance, it turns out, to eerie, calliope-style music that seems to come from nowhere. Interesting.
What George Romero started Herk Harvey finished, and I couldn't get zombies, themselves, out of my mind. They! were ubiquitous, actually, when you started paying attention,! but the more I learned about zombies and the popular imagination the duller and less satisfying it all was. Zombies, it turned out, were nothing but a joke. Talk funny. Walk funny. Ugly. Smelly. Filthy. Can't speak English right. Eat disgusting food. Spread disease. Mentally inferior. Lights on, nobody's home. They'll steal and devour everything you hold dear, including yourself. Shoot them. Kill them. Cleanse the earth of their kind. It's a moral imperative.
I was urged at every step, in this particular mythology, to ally myself with The Good Guy, the clean upright English-speaking human alpha male and his ragtag gun-toting buddies who were making the world safe for the One True Species, one bullet-riddled skull at a time. The hell with that. Zombies--actually, Jessie's absolutely right, let's dispense with that misappropriated West African word--the undead are nothing but people who died. Your mother, "Good" Guy, your spouse, your sibling, you! r child, your friend, your neighbor, you yourself, and what if you only think they're all monsters? What if dead people still have minds of their own, can laugh and fight and form friendships and love each other and grieve--and kill, as you do, for malice and sport as much as from hunger? What if the moans and groans you hear are an actual language? What if the undead have a "life" span, slowly aging and decaying and crumbling into dust just as inert bodies do in the coffin? What if the creature in your crosshairs still remembers you, loves you, can't plead for what you once were to each other before you pull the trigger?
(For that matter, what if your incredibly tedious guns don't even do the job? That's the first determination I made when I sat down to write Dust, that there would be no Deus Ex Firearms whatsoever. Fire itself, that'd work to kill them, but then fire has the disadvantage of spreading like, well, wildfire. As does bio-weapo! nry, but then we're getting ahead of ourselves.) If Dust! i> could be summed up in one sentence, it would be a lyric from Stephen Sondheim's Sweeney Todd: "The history of the world, my sweet, is who gets eaten and who gets to eat." It presupposes a world where the living dead are not some new aberration but have existed alongside the humans they once were for thousands of years, an uneasy harmony occasionally broken up by unfortunate incidents such as, say, the famous Pittsburgh Massacre of '68. Other elements came into play: the Greek myth of Erysichthon, which haunted me since I first read it as a child, about a man the gods punish for his hubris with a hunger so insatiable he ultimately devours...himself. Luc Sante's beautiful, unsentimental prose poem "The Unknown Soldier," in which the forgotten dead assert their right to speak for themselves. The eerie photographs and morbid newspaper clippings from Michael Lesy's Wisconsin Death Trip. The unsettling banjo music in the end credits of the cult horror film The L! ast Broadcast, which inspired the notion that the undead express their strongest emotions through telepathic music: "brain radios." That and eerie waltzes in Carnival of Souls inspired the spontaneous psychic dances, the only moments of true peace and harmony the undead ever enjoy.
Eating, in this world, is identity: The living eat dead meat. The dead eat meat so recently living that it's still warm and pulsing with life. The dead find the living's dietary habits as abominable, disgusting, taboo as the reverse. Every human alive, in our world as well as theirs, pins a far greater part of their self-image than they realize on what goes into their mouths. It was a joke then that Jessie, the fervent vegan in life, began a ravenous flesh-hunter in death, and yet it was also entirely to be expected.
Armed with the facts--such as they were--in September 2003 I jotted down a sparse page of disjointed notes: character names, story l! ocales (the Calumet Region of northwest Indiana, besides being! my easi ly accessible home geography, was both underserved in fiction and had enough urban-suburban-rural-industrial variety to make it interesting), a little folkloric rhyme the undead liked to sing amongst themselves but never made it into the book. The slang--"hoo" for humans, "rotter" and "feeder" and "bloater" and " 'maldie" for each other--also came early because it was fun to think up. Jessie simply walked in right at the start and announced herself, an angry, lonely girl abused in life, abandoned in death, yearning for love and acceptance but furious at the world. It was inevitable she'd take instantly to the jarring, aggressive, insatiably hungry culture of the undead, also inevitable that she'd write off her human family entirely only to have them return to be her undoing. Joe started as a parody, one of those "teen angel" hoods-with-a-heart-of-gold from the fifties pop songs who dies in a drag race gone wrong, and then he surprised me by showing himself as lonely and ! yearning as Jessie, if not more so, under the brutal surface. It was inevitable, again, that they'd both fall in love. Florian, a literal walking skeleton, was always meant to be the paterfamilias of Jessie's surrogate family, but I never expected him to turn out gentle, genuinely wise, the only true parent she ever really had.
Actually they all surprised me, as I worked little by little on draft one, draft two, draft three through 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007. Renee, the lamb thrown into a pit of snarling wolves, grew up amazingly fast and became not just Jessie's friend, but her ally. Linc--only kindhearted from Jessie's perspective, no human would want to run into him--was supposed to be merely Joe's foil, the "geek" to his "jock," but then quietly, stubbornly, relentlessly worked his way up from the margins of the story to the center. Teresa, the gang leader, was even more selfish and cruel that I'd imagined. (The rival gang the Rat Patrol were exac! tly as selfish and cruel as I'd imagined, so at least I ha! d some c ontrol over the proceedings.) Lisa, Jessie's neurotic mess of a human sister, proved she could be there for Jessie in death as she never was in life. Jim, her brother, began as the most cardboard sort of villain, missing only a mustache to twirl, then I remembered that the truest antagonists are those who genuinely believe they're acting out of kindness and love. Only when Jim tried to "save" Jessie, did it become clear how much he--like all Good Guys--utterly feared and despised what she'd become. Death him/her/itself, the trickster, the demon, the angel, the destroyer, the salvager, was there from the beginning, though he didn't announce himself right away to me any more than to Jessie: Like any trusting parent, he first and foremost wanted to let his undead children try and fend for themselves.
Since the first inspiration for Dust was a pair of B-movies, other midnight drive-in fixtures seemed entirely appropriate: The meteor that causes extraterr! estrial chaos upon landing. The semi-secret laboratory with "noble" purpose gone horribly wrong. The pandemic plague--but why just consider what would happen if the living became undead, why not consider what might happen if the undead were brought back to life? Untouchable life, even? What if Death the trickster, in his eagerness to consume the earth, thus ultimately ended up tricking himself?
It's all well and good to talk about Herk Harvey and banjos and falling meteors, but what truly inspired Dust was of course my own fear of death. There's another song, by the musician Exuma, that embodies it: "You won't go to heaven, you won't go to hell/You'll remain in your graves with the stench and the smell." What if the "afterlife" took place right on earth, and you rotted slowly, inexorably, feeling the first bugs nest and hatch on your body? What if you actually had to watch your loved ones grieving you, as Jessie and Renee both did, a! nd be yards away and yet an eternity removed, unable now to be! anythin g to them but a monster? What if pain, fear, longing, grief, the hungers of the body don't stop when life stops? What if Death isn't an angel of mercy, but a real live son of a bitch?
As it turns out, then, for me as for everyone else the undead were an embodiment of fear. But they surprised me, yet again, by becoming embodiments of hope as well. Life doesn't end after death, not really. To become something new, alien, unimagined, is not to lose oneself, one's identity and thoughts and needs and wants, they just express themselves a little differently. Nobody's lost to anyone forever; if there is no afterlife, there is at least the "eternity" of memory. To lose one family is to gain another. Betrayal by loved ones can lead to new, stronger bonds that are about real trust. Nearly everyone's stronger and more capable than they imagine, when put to the test. Flesh is just flesh and if it rots, well, that's only natural.
But that's all ! very Hallmark Hall of Fame and ultimately it was also about having some fun whistling in the graveyard. Dust was a chance to play with all sorts of notions of life and death: ordinary mortal existence, living consciousness trapped in dead decaying bodies, seemingly "live" flesh rotting and dying from the inside out, invulnerable immortality through the back door. As Jessie says, "How many kinds of living and dead and living dead and dead living had I been in just these few months, these few days, after the stasis of plain old human living and dying? I deserved some kind of existential medal." Tell me about it, it was hard to keep up. It also felt like finding the pulse of something real, and true, about life and death under all the campiness of traditional zombie mythology. Both the B-movie folklore and the insomniac anxieties inspired the book in equal measure, and both deserve their due. It starts with a silly story, some actors shuffling around si! deways in worn-out clothes, and ends with real people, real fe! ars, rea l hopes. But then, it almost always does.
--Joan Frances Turner
Standing by him through it all is Mark's childhood buddy, Mike Schank, who is the strongest weapon against drug use a task force could ever hope for, and Uncle Bill, begrudging financier of Coven, who appears to be wasting away before our very eyes. In less perceptive hands these two could easily become caricatures--the burnt-out stoner and the crotchety old coot--but through director Chris Smith's lens we see why Mark loves them, why they love Mark, and why each of these stories is uniquely compelling.
Winner of the Grand Jury Prize at the 1999 Sundance Film Festival, the film h! as been compared to Spinal Tap and Waiting for Guffm! an-- two unquestionably hilarious mock-documentaries--and, indeed, American Movie has plenty of laugh-out-loud moments. But in the spoofs, we feel encouraged to point and giggle at the poor slobs trying to get a piece of the action. Smith, however, offers us a funny and overwhelmingly affectionate portrait; you may sit down expecting to laugh at Mark's pie-in-the-sky hopes, but you soon find yourself bursting with admiration. "The American dream stays with me each and every day," Mark says, and by the end, we want nothing more than for it to come true. (The DVD version includes the complete short film "Coven.") --Brangien Davis This limited edition, special collectors' DVD set celebrates 25 years of the Sundance Institute. It contains ten ground-breaking films that embody the sprit of independence, creative risk-taking, and diversity that define the Sundance Film Festival. Bonus materials include a booklet and an 11th disc with behind-the-scenes footage from the Sun! dance Institute Labs and never-before-seen interviews with filmmakers and founder Robert Redford.In this hilarious, critically acclaimed arcade showdown, a humble novice goes head-to-head against the reigning Donkey Kong champ in a confrontation that rocks the gaming world to its processors! For over 20 years, Billy Mitchell has owned the throne of the Donkey Kong world. No one could beat his top score until now. Newcomer Steve Wiebe claims to have beaten the unbeatable, but Mitchell isn't ready to renquish his crown without a fight. Go behind the barrels as the two battle it out in a vicious war to earn the title of the true King of Kong. The stuff of gladiatorial battle is here: good versus evil, right versus wrong, nerd versus... super-nerd? At any rate, it's a more entertaining showdown than most fictional movies can muster. The King of Kong is the saga of Steve Wiebe, a Redmond, Washington dweeb who sets a new record in the video game Donkey Kong, only t! o see his accomplishment challenged by the grand poobahs of th! e gaming establishment. And if you don't know how pernickety the grand poobahs of the gaming establishment can be, well, one of the pleasures of this movie is finding out about this collection of oddballs. It seems Wiebe has toppled a score that has stood since 1982, when eminent "Gamer of the Century" Billy Mitchell set it, and Mitchell isn't too happy about being overthrown. A black-mulleted showboat, Mitchell provides the perfect counterpoint to Wiebe's mild-mannered family man, and the smaller fish around him are no less colorful. This is one of those movies you watch in delighted disbelief, marveling that such people exist--and that they gladly allowed themselves to be filmed. Director Seth Gordon does an important thing in presenting this world of eccentrics: he doesn't mock them, or provide editorial nudging; he simply lets them be. The result is an ingratiating classic. --Robert Horton
Expandable Add-A-Gauge Technology
The ScanGaugeII has been redesigned with expandable Add-A-Gauge (aka XGauge) technology. Add to the original 12 gauges by customizing the ScanGaugeII to monitor up to 25 more--depending on your specific vehicle's sensor design. Four gauges can be ! displayed simultaneously and can help determine fuel consump! tion rat es, allowing you to adjust driving behavior and save gas. At the same time, keep an eye on coolant temperature, engine speed, and much more in real time. If there is a young driver in the house or friends borrow your car, the ScanGaugeII can record speeds of up to 158 mph and store the information for you to view later, so you will know just how fast your young driver or friend was going last night. If the unit was disconnected, you'll know: An indicator will be displayed in the trip data.
ScanGaugeII mounts easily to your dash. |
Gauges include:
ScanGaugeII makes diagnostics easy. View Larger |
Multifunction Trip Computer
Four sets of data are automatically recorded on the trip computer: Current, Today, Previous Day, and Tank Trip. The "current" trip restarts after the engine has been off for more than 3 minutes. The "today" trip restarts after the vehicle has not moved for 9 hours, and the data from "today" is moved to "previous day" when you restart the car, so you don't have to reset the computer every time you begin a trip. "Tank trip" resets when you fill up the tank. It can provide you with "to empty" data and other useful information, which can be viewed any time during the trip. The trip computer also integrates information from the Cost Per Mile gauge. Simply enter how much you paid per gallon or liter of fuel, and the ScanGauge will aut! omatically calculate the cost of your trips as you drive. The ScanGaugeII features 12 individually stored parameters, including:
ScanGaugeII features 63 backlit colors. View Larger |
Not at all a musty relic of the early-sound era, the original Mystery of the Wax Museum (shot in a soft, trial version of Technicolor) is saucy, pre-Code fun. As corpses disappear from the morgue, Lionel Atwill's wax museum adds to its displays. Coincidence, or the work of the hideously deformed fiend stalking the Manhattan night? Most of the snappy dialogue comes courtesy of reporter Glenda Farrell, a vintage wisecracking dame. --Robert HortonHouse of Wax tells the story of a group of friends who fall prey to a sinister plot while passing through a small town on their way to a college football game.You know the one about the group of horny kids who get offed one by one? Yeah, so do director Jaume Collet-Serra and his screenwriters, who have updated an old Vincent Price fli! ck and sandwiched it between hearty slices of The Blair Wit! ch Proje ct and various Friday the 13th films. Lots of WB and Fox network hotties--including 24's Elisha Cuthbert, One Tree Hill's Chad Michael Murray, and, well, Paris Hilton--have car trouble and stumble onto a town populated by real killer personalities. The R-rated result is fairly gruesome and, though no one ever quite looks frightened enough, Collet-Serra knows his way around a jolting suspense sequence or two. Cuthbert and an unintentionally funny Murray (striking ludicrous poses as some kind of real toughie) act more like angry ex-lovers than the fraternal twins they're supposed to be; Hilton acts bored while her real-life video scandal is exploited for ironic kicks; and the film heads shamelessly over-the-top with each new twist. As an exercise in bloody mayhem, it has a few novel touches, but you can easily find better scares. --Steve Wiecking
The film is so cheerfully raunchy, so fiercely crude, that the humor becomes as intoxicating as the mind-altering substances. The standout in the ensemble is Zach Galifianakis, who is alternately creepy and hilar! ious. Ed Helm (The Office), in addition to his memory, ! loses a tooth in uncomfortably realistic fashion, and Bradley Cooper (He's Just Not That into You) has deadpan comic timing that whips along at the speed of light. "Ma'am, you have an incredible rack," he blares to a pedestrian from the squad car the guys have "borrowed." "I should have been a [bleeping] cop," he tells himself approvingly.
Director Todd Phillips brings back his deft handling of the actors and the dude humor that worked so well in Old School, as well as the unctuous Dan Finnerty, memorable as a lounge/wedding singer in both films. But it's the nonstop volley of jokes--most cheerily politically incorrect--that grabs the audience and thrashes it around the hotel room. Just watch out for the tiger in the bathroom. --A.T. Hurley
The bulk of the story, told in flashback, portrays 13-year-old Tom (Anton Yelchin) as a quick-witted prince of his neighborhood, a delivery boy who knows every eccentric on his bicycle route and a Catholic school kid fond of playing pranks on his clueless French teacher and soulful principal (Frank Langella). His best friend is the school's mildly retarded, 41-year-old janitor, Pappas (Robin Williams), and his advisor on matters o! f the heart is Lady (Erykah Badu), a prison inmate whom the fa! therless Tom (or Tommy, as he's called in 1973) can neither see nor touch. Tommy's vivacity is an asset at home, where his mother (Tea Leoni), a grieving widow with a mounting addiction to pills, is slipping away from her son's ability to help. Duchovny's screenplay sometimes borders on the precious: A number of scenes are enamored with their own boldness and originality, as if Duchovny has been squirreling away lots of colorfully expressive storytelling details for years, and unloaded them here. But that flaw all but disappears in the glow of House of D's emotional resonance and honesty, not to mention several exceptional performances. Among these is Zelda Williams's work as Tommy's sage-beyond-her-years girlfriend, Melissa, whose name offers a suitable excuse to work a rather lovely Allman Brothers song into the soundtrack. --Tom Keogh
The president, unsatisfied with the success of his "war on drugs," decides that he wants some immediate success. But after John Clark's covert strike team is deployed to Colombia for Operation Showboat, the drug lords strike back taking several civilian casualties. The chief executive's polls plummet. He orders Ritter to terminate their unofficial plan and leave no traces. Jack Ryan, who has just been named CIA deputy director of intelligence is enraged when he discovers that has been left out of the loop of Colombian operations. Several of America's most highly trained soldiers are stran! ded in an unfinished mission that, according to all records, never existed. Ryan decides to get the men out.
Ultimately, Clear and Present Danger is about good conscience, law, and politics, with Jack Ryan and CIA agent John Clark as its dual heroes. Ryan relentlessly pursues what he knows is right and legal, even if it means confronting the president of the United States. Clark is the perfect soldier, but a man who finally holds his men higher than the orders of any careless commander.
Along with the usual, stunning array of military hardware and the latest techno-gadgets, Clear and Present Danger further develops the relationships and characters that Clancy fans have grown to love. Admiral James Greer passes the CIA torch to his pupil, Ryan. Mr. Clark and Chavez meet for the first time. Other recurring characters like Robert Ritter and "the President" add continuity to Clancy's believable, alternate reality. This is Clancy at his best.! --Patrick O'Kelley