You can be sure I began this experience with zero expectations, given all the reservations I had at the outset:

1. I don’t like space movies, except for the original three Star Wars films.
2. I’m not a huge Sandra Bullock fan. (George Clooney saved the day, however.)
3. Annoying liberties that filmmakers have to take with the science part of space movies is, well, annoying.

So, I wasn’t expecting much at all. Imagine my delight at being pleasantly surprised.

“Pleasantly” is probably a bad word choice. There are very few pleasantries in this story. Clooney and Bullock play astronauts on a repair mission, when their shuttle (their ride home) is completely obliterated by flying space debris from an exploded satellite, leaving them stranded in the abyss, the sole survivors of an already-dangerous undertaking gone horribly wrong. They must make their way to the Chinese space station a hundred kilometers away if they are to have a snowball’s chance of making it back home alive.

Bullock is damaged goods, having lost her four-year-old daughter to a head injury. Clooney plays the heroic, country-music-lovin’ space cowboy to perfection. Their interactions, however borderline silly at times, don’t seem to stand in the way of the plot, which at *all* times, reeks of impending doom. Kudos to the producers, too, for casting Ed Harris as the voice of Mission Control in Houston. Well played.

SPOILER ALERT – DO NOT CLICK THE UPCOMING REVIEW LINK IF YOU DON’T WANT TO KNOW THE ENDING.

I like this picture because Clooney totally channels Buzz Lightyear.

There was some bad science, although there just about has to be, in every space movie. The Thriller and I almost simultaneously asked the question out loud, “How can they grab onto something going 17,000 MPH and hang on, when they’re obviously just floating about at orbit velocity?” We don’t know anything about astronomy, so maybe we’re mental on that score. But the folks at Bad Astronomy know all about it, and their (SPOILER!) review pointed out several interesting breakdowns that were, again, necessary in order to make the movie palatable for an audience, and indeed, worthy of an Oscar nomination for Best Picture. 

Still and all, we were riveted from the get-go, and I can guarantee you won’t want to look away for one moment. The special effects guys alone should (and likely will) win an Oscar; the portrayal of depth and enormous expanse — even in a 2-D viewing — was magnificent, and often unsettling. Completely entertaining. That, to me, indicates a great movie experience, and beyond worth the $7 to rent it from the On Demand menu.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give Gravity:

The movie theater was crowded yesterday afternoon when Kay and I went to see the latest Disney movie, Saving Mr. Banks. But it didn’t matter. Regardless of how many of us were stuffed in that room, I’d have still come away totally pleased with this beautiful, poignant — and at times, powerful — story.

Yes, yes, insert here the obligatory snappy snark from the hip-to-hate-Disney naysayers. Did we bawl? Absolutely! Did it tug at the heart at all the right moments? Of course. I still have no idea what’s wrong with that. I swear, my fuse gets shorter by the year with prissy, pretentious critics who wouldn’t be caught dead putting a stamp of approval on anything remotely formulaic — especially when the formula features Disney’s stamp. Into the trash heap with them, anyhow.

As you probably know, the story chronicles the culmination of a 20-year quest by Walt Disney to persuade the irrepressibly demanding Pamela L. Travers (played perfectly by Emma Thompson) to relinquish the rights to her Mary Poppins book series so Disney could make the film. What develops is an oddly endearing friendship between two larger-than-life people who were, in their individual ways, chained to — and driven by — formidable childhood memories.

The story, as the title suggests, centers around the realization by Disney that Mary Poppins came not to save the young Banks children, but to save their father — Travers’s father by extension in this case, played by the always-dreamy Colin Farrell in beautifully acted flashback scenes. 

While delving into the reasons why the authoress is so dead-set against releasing the rights to her stories (and in effect, her father, who was a beautiful dreamer with a gargantuan drinking problem), Disney himself comes to a point of self-discovery regarding his own past. It’s all smoothly done, and before you know it, you’re swept up into the emotional drive towards the end you know is coming. It was all irresistible, and we loved it.

Paul Giamatti, one of my all-time favorite actors, was beyond sweet as the Disney employee assigned to drive Mrs. Travers around Los Angeles on her visit. The scenes with Disney artist Don DaGradi (Bradley Whitford of West Wing fame) and the fantastically talented songwriting team of Robert and Dick Sherman were especially funny. The fact that the finicky Travers insisted that all their brainstorming sessions be tape-recorded is surpassed in coolness only by the fact that the tapes still exist in the Disney archives. What a treat it was to hear her actual voice during the credits.

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry — it’ll be better than Cats. (But what isn’t?) Yes, you should expect the standard Disney feel-good aspects; they abound, for sure. And of course, the Disney franchise comes off looking pretty squeaky clean; any identifiable “weaknesses” manifest mostly in Travers’s character and not Disney’s. Even with these predictable turns, however, the storytelling is believable, and the visual experience is top-notch.

The only shame is that the Oscar nominating committee completely skipped over this project (with one exception: Thomas Newman is nominated for his original film score). No matter, though. Good films are made all the time, and many are snubbed by the Academy. For my money, it was a lovely afternoon of forgetting about the upcoming stresses of the work week for both Kay and me — and I’ll bet it would do the same for you. It’s an enchanting story, delightfully told.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give Saving Mr. Banks :

Formulaic, totally predictable, outrageously unrealistic, kind of creepish in places — but sort of fun.

Two aging (aged? — De Niro is 70 and Stallone 67) boxers have a 30-year-old score to settle, and where better to put things to rights than in the ring, yes? Add into the mix a complicated past relationship (Kim Basinger, looking all awkward and basically unlikable with her potty mouth and constantly bewildered/angry facial expressions), a grown son and his 8-year-old boy (insert standard-issue, precocious, smiley-faced, sing-songy-voiced cherub with the vocabulary of a Harvard grad), and you have what most critics are calling a dismal failure.

But, as usual, what the cinesnobs pan, we generally enjoy. Ha. Go figure.

Maybe it’s because we’re “older” and these two actors were very much a part of our young adult lives. Rocky and The Deer Hunter were the first memories I have of these former box office giants. I still think they’re great, and maybe I channel too much of that nostalgia into my overall opinion of their more recent work, which, by many barometers in the business, has been labeled substandard.

But hey — qui s’en soucie? Psh. We like what we like. So what if they should’ve hired Chris Rock to “do” himself onscreen, rather than the poor imitation floated by Kevin Hart? So what if you could have seen Alan Arkin playing the curmudgeonly old trainer with a heart of gold trick from a hundred miles away? So what if it was borderline creepy to watch two rather leathery, wrinkled dudes go at it in slo-mo in the boxing ring? (I always look away on the slow-motion punch shots…eww…)

Rocky Balboa and Jake LaMotta they weren’t, trust me. But the premise was kind of kitschy and throwback, you know? Like a private joke between them and those of us who remember going to the theater to see Rocky and Raging Bull back in ’76 and ’80, respectively. Both men retained part of their boyish charm, even if some of the obviously improvised patter in a few of the scenes seemed a bit forced.

Could have completely done without Kim Basinger, however. First, she struck me immediately as too young for the part she played (former lover of both men), even though she is only seven years younger than Stallone in real life. Second, her face rarely changed from appearing honked off or confused. Come on, people; show us at least one redeeming factor to make us want these two to end up together.

OK, enough snarking already. It was what many movies are designed/destined to be: a harmless romp with some laughs for an afternoon at the matinee. We liked it. Oh, and that guy from Walking Dead  is in it, too.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give Grudge Match:

Bryan Cranston as Walter White

It’s been many, many years since I’ve been *this* caught up in a television show. Not only is Breaking Bad the absolute best-written show on TV — ever — but it’s getting unbelievable press from every possible source, with everyone from TV critics to celebrities to regular bloggers like me trying to predict what will happen in the two final episodes of the series (“all bad things must come to an end”).

Believe me, I’m depressed about that.

That’s why it is urgent that you watch this series. Good fiend and RtB commenter Tom Hanks said it best last night, and I will paraphrase: Breaking Bad is an American tragedy, and we don’t have too many of those. People are taken prisoner by both the horror and the truth of it; it’s probably the same effect that gripped those who first watched Shakespeare, 500 years ago.

I agree; and add to that the outstanding writing, featuring layers upon layers of signs, signals and subliminal import, and you have an all-too-rare instance of the perfect play. If Vince Gilligan and his team of writers don’t sweep the next Emmy ceremony, I will be shocked and dismayed.

Caveat: the show is not for watching with your kids. But you can’t be left behind on this. Get on Netflix (or whatever service, free or otherwise, that you can find) and start with the pilot, and binge-watch through all five seasons. You must. If you don’t, you’ll be one of the few who have missed the most important, shocking, outstanding storytelling in the history of the medium, seriously. And I’m not alone in that thinking.

So, assignment. If you haven’t started BB, start it. Soon. I promise that from the very first episode, you will be hooked — and outraged, and horrified, and transfixed.

Ready, steady, go.

Last night was movie night with Bob and Kay, and we rented this rather “interesting” Francis Ford Coppola project.

What, never heard of it? Yeah, me neither.

This film could almost be considered a satire on (or tribute to? I have no idea) every low-budget, straight-to-video B-movie ever made. I don’t know, maybe that was Coppola’s intent, but even at that, it was bizarre. From the opening lines by narrator Tom Waits (using a spooky voice and channeling the whole it was a dark and stormy night vibe), to the absolutely clichéd-beyond-clichéd characters, to the scenes of the protagonist walking through a foggy woods to a haunted hotel in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night, you know you’re in for a long 90 minutes. And heaps of raspberries on Coppola’s capo for the screenplay, which rips off every line from every cheesy groanfest you’ve ever endured.

The description hails it as a “terrifying horror film.” As someone who usually refuses to watch horror movies (I get too scared, and I hate the infuriating, ubiquitous “jump-out-and-BOO!” device), I was not even close to creeped out. Not even remotely ooky one single time.

Pretty much the look on their faces for the entire film

That said, there are some amusing parts. Val Kilmer and Bruce Dern, who must have either A) wanted to do a film — any film — for Coppola, or B) needed a quick paycheck, were entertaining in spots. The scene (likely improvised) where Kilmer does several impressions of other actors while trying to come up with an opening for his new novel is funny. And Dern is, well, Dern: eccentric and loud, with a bit of psychotic thrown in, constantly referring to himself in the third person. And for those who are fond of cinematography, you’ll like some of the scenes with respect to color and vantage point.

Still, it was a stinker, unless you and your friends wanted to entertain each other with snide running commentary, which we did. Not once were we inclined to care about any of the characters — not even for the grieving, guilt-stricken father who’d lost his daughter in a boating accident due to his own negligence.

BooOOoO, she’s a ghostie

Actually, we rented it because a friend of ours had a small part in it. (Lisa Biales plays the clerk at the soda fountain and at the haunted hotel. She also plays guitar and sings in it; what you hear is really her voice and playing.) At least now I can say I’ve seen her in it, and that’s pretty much the best thing I can find to say about it.

I thought about giving it two cheeses, you know, for its comedic value — but the “squint your eyes and shake your head” value trumped all.

On the Rat-O-Meter scale of five cheeses, I give Twixt: