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Posted Apr 11th 2008 11:02PM by Scott Weinberg

If Steven Spielberg’s Poltergeist opened today, it would almost definitely earn a PG-13 rating. Earlier this year we were treated to a very entertainingly creepy monster movie called Cloverfield — which was also rated PG-13. So we know it CAN be done. Despite what the horror fans have been conditioned to believe recently, it IS possible to make an effective horror movie that’s not rated R.

But it sure as hell won’t happen this week, as the latest no-effort PG-13 remake to lurch off of the assembly line is called Prom Night, and it’s easily one of the flimsiest movies I’ve ever seen. The entire film absolutely reeks of corporatized product, and nobody involved in the flick (from director Nelson McCormick and screenwriter J.S. Cardone to just about every bored actor onscreen) seems even remotely interested in making, y’know, a half-decent movie. No, Prom Night exists for one reason only: To snatch some of that babysitting money from the 15-year-old girls of the planet. (I should know. I sat behind nine of ‘em as Prom Night unspooled, and not one of ‘em was paying as much attention to the screen as they were their cell phones.)

It’s pretty obvious that the schlock-makers over at Screen Gems needed only three things: a trailer, a poster and a title like “Prom Night.” The final product could be one of the worst movies ever made, and it’s still guaranteed to make money — because kids like to go to the movies, period. Basically, to call Prom Night a horror movie is to call chewing gum a cheeseburger. And I’m perfectly fine with the idea of movies being made for a 15-year-old female audience, but it really bugs me when I see so little effort put forth — especially when we’re talking about something that’s supposed to be a horror movie.

Related to the 1980 Paul Lynch slasher flick in name only, the new Prom Night is about a girl who has survived a horrible attack, but (get this) her terrorizer has recently escaped from an asylum, and he plans to slice his way through prom night to get at our lead idiot. Toss in a half-dozen clumsy exposition scenes (courtesy of the two dumbest movie cops ever born), a whole LOT of endless banter that’s supposed to sound like actual conversations, and (finally) a bunch of stunningly inept kill / stalk / scare / loud noise sequences. (Also, feel free to drink a beer every time one of the main characters leaves the prom to visit their hotel room. Seriously, for a minute I thought the projectionist was showing each reel twice.)

The movie is too lazy to dole out even one half-decent subplot, it has no idea how to make its killer come off as scary, it telegraphs every one of its meager thrills, and it’s packed with characters so generic they’d be better off wearing white sweaters emblazoned with “JOCK,” “BITCH,” “VIRGIN” on the front. Prom Night can’t even succeed at the ol’ “enjoy the character actor” game because reliable folks like Idris Elba, Ming-Na Wen and Jessalyn Gilsig are given nothing to do. And the less said about Johnathon Schaech’s performance, the better. He’s a very cool actor, but it takes more than a vacant glower and a black hat to create an effective stalker. The ironic highlight of the cast has to be James Ransome as the universe’s most unconvincing detective. Nothing against the actor, but if you can buy this guy as a hard-boiled authority figure then you’ll buy anything. (Like a ticket to this movie.)

Prom Night knows precisely two tricks: The loud “misdirection fake scares” that come standard in just about every lame-ass horror movie, and the howlingly amateurish “POV cheat.” (This is when the director, using very simple film grammar, indicates that the camera lens is temporarily standing in for the killer’s perspective — but when a different character looks in “our” direction … they see nothing. It’s evidence of a director aping some well-worn conventions without having any reason or skill.) McCormick uses these generic tricks about seven times each, and every time we’re set up for another sadly ineffective jolt, the movie sinks deeper and deeper into the swamp of awfulness.

The bland and generic cast is done no favors by Cardone’s witless screenplay. (The lead girl looks like an Olsen Twin and “acts” accordingly.) Had Prom Night been a spoof, perhaps the ceaseless litany of pre-packaged dialog could be played for laughs. Unfortunately Prom Night is not a spoof; it’s a horror movie with no horror, a listless, lifeless, bloodless slasher flick with a ridiculous villain, and easily one of the most worthless films in a long line of worthless films. It’d be easy to just trash the movie for being watered-down remake crap, but you could do that without having seen the flick. Truth is, they could have thrown in a lot of R-rated gore at the last minute and changed the title to Hotel Prom Masscare — and it’d still be one of the crappiest horror movies in years.

Source: Cinematical

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Street Kings Movie Review

James Ellroy, the self-described “demon dog” of American crime fiction, writes in a baroque, pulp prose style that hurtles along the page like a speed freak in a rocket, an image that I probably lifted from one of his books. In his fiction and nonfiction he rushes forward fast, fast, fast, pausing regularly to do a little scat singing (“a hypodermic full of hyper-hazy, health-hazarding” stuff, from a 1998 short story called “Hush-Hush”), or to blow a hole through the page. He’s a demon dog, all right, with a bite as sharp as his bark.

Other than Curtis Hanson’s 1997 elegant page-to-screen translation of Mr. Ellroy’s novel “L.A. Confidential,” the movies have generally failed to capture the true tone and texture of his dark places. Certainly that’s the case with David Ayer’s absurd if accidentally entertaining potboiler, “Street Kings,” based on a story by Mr. Ellroy, who also shares screenwriting credit with Kurt Wimmer and Jamie Moss. The premise — the existence of an ultraviolent gang of cops operating inside the Los Angeles Police Department and wholly outside the law — has a vintage Ellroy tang, though it also pointedly summons up a host of that city’s authentic police corruption scandals, from the 1930s through the 1990s.

Keanu Reeves plays Detective Tom Ludlow, a prime cut of beef who’s part of a cultish, multicultural wrecking crew run by the silkily smooth Capt. Jack Wander (Forest Whitaker). A loner by violent disposition and tragic (dead wife) history, Tom bursts into the film, breaking any number of laws, and immediately enters a hell on earth (that would be Los Angeles) with bullets, blood, shattered bone and underage sex slaves. Good times! More seriously, and this is nothing if not a deeply serious movie (I think), there are nothing but bad times ahead, with even more blood — smeared, splattered, splashed and sprayed — mixed in with vivid night photography, thumping tunes, boyz in the hood, ornamental women, casual racist insults and a lot of manly shouting.

Mr. Ayer, who wrote “Training Day” and directed “Harsh Times,” invests his work with palpable energy — his films feel urgent and at times, interestingly, close to desperate — but he has next to no idea how to control or channel all that manic intensity. Much as he does in “Harsh Times,” he starts this new film in overdrive and keeps it there all the way to the exhausted, exhausting end, piling violent moment upon violent moment. And much like “Training Day” (in which Denzel Washington plays a swaggeringly corrupt cop) and “Harsh Times” (Christian Bale doing the wigged-out war veteran thing), this film pivots on a man who, having been schooled in violence and rewarded for lessons too well learned, has become captive to his own brutality.

Trained as a pit bull, stripped of fear and almost without any pity (especially for himself), Tom has no sense that he’s fighting for someone else’s gain. Mr. Reeves, his face and body somewhat thickened, perhaps by age or the role or both, looks like a middleweight boxer who’s reached the end of a very hard and long road. (Robert Ryan had a lock on this type in the 1940s and ’50s.) Mr. Reeves’s natural sobriety works well for the part, as does his ability to play it stiff and straight and a touch stupid. Tom’s slow-dawning awareness of the world he inhabits and his awful place in it is terribly obvious, as is his metamorphosis, but neither is it devoid of pathos.

It’s easy to laugh at “Street Kings” for its bigger than big emotions, its preposterously kinky narrative turns and overwrought jawing and yowling, but there’s no doubt that it also keeps you watching, really watching, all the way to the end. The film can be unintentionally, often grotesquely, funny, nowhere more so than during the grandiose finale when Mr. Whitaker — never what you might call a quiet actor to begin with — cuts crazy loose and starts popping his eyes and sputtering the spit. What Mr. Ayer doesn’t appear to have realized — a mistake shared by Brian De Palma in his unfortunate adaptation of Mr. Ellroy’s crime novel “The Black Dahlia” — is that you don’t need to gild a 24-karat lily. It’s plenty shiny already.

“Street Kings” is rated R (Under 17 requires accompanying parent or adult guardian). Blood and bullets.

Source: NYTimes

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