She Likes to Watch

Two women find love and lust in “Vicky Cristina Barcelona”

Welcome to the sexy world of Woody Allen.

You read that last sentence right. Woody Allen, the director of “Bananas” and “Bullets Over Broadway,” wants to woo you. Sex you up. Smoove you, as it were.

His latest campaign is “Vicky Cristina Barcelona,” an affectionate portrait of two beautiful women spending the summer abroad in Spain’s most gorgeous city.

As an unnecessary narrator explains, our stars are close friends with very different personalities and agendas.

Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) is a free-spirited artsy type in search of romance and adventure. (She’s also looking for artistic inspiration, the narrator informs us, having just finished a 12-minute film that she hates.) No-nonsense Vicky (Rebecca Hall) is there to study Catalan culture. The closest we get to an Allen surrogate, she hides her insecurities with 10-dollar words and a white-knuckled grasp on reality.

So the two women sightsee. They snap photos. They sip wine and hold long, heartfelt conversations about art and love.

Then one balmy summer night, they catch the eye of Juan Antonio — a painter (Javier Bardem) who sets out to seduce each of the women in turn.

Much of the movie’s heat comes from Bardem, who succeeds in proving why he was a Spanish heartthrob long before playing a scary serial killer in “No Country for Old Men.”(That tint of creepiness lingers, however. Every time Bardem moves in for a seductive whisper, you almost expect him to growl “Call it, friendo.”)

The film’s female stars are equally winsome, with Scarlett recalling her wistful turn in “Lost in Translation.” Ms. Hall, a tall brunette most recognizable as Christian Bale’s “other woman” from “The Prestige,” has to struggle not to upstage her.

Yet for all its promise, “Vicky Cristina” lacks passion. All sex scenes are shot from the neck up and the much vaunted encounter between Johansson and Penélope Cruz — playing Juan Antonio’s troubled ex-wife — is brief and rather bland.

Allen saves his energy for Spain itself, depicting every quiet courtyard, country road and Gaudí fantasy in lovingly sunwashed shades. It’s easy to see why he finds the region — and Barcelona in particular — so attractive. After 20 minutes or so, I too was dialing my travel agent.

If only Woody Allen had paid as much attention to his characters as to the luscious backdrop. “Vicky Cristina Barcelona” might have been a far more successful seduction.

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Photo courtesy of MovieWeb.com.

Spy Story: The Coen brothers are back with “Burn After Reading”

For a movie about espionage, blackmail and extramarital affairs, “Burn After Reading” is rather pleasant.

The Coen brothers’ latest foray is not a somber serial killer thriller like “No Country for No Old Men,” nor a psychedelic freakout like “The Big Lebowski.” No, this twisted spy tale resembles one of the filmmakers’ lighter, sillier comedies — say, “Intolerable Cruelty” — complete with snappy dialog and a couple corpses, of course.

“Burn” opens with the firing of a CIA systems analyst named Osborne Cox (John Malkovich).

As luck would have it, snobby Osborne has a lot of enemies in Washington D.C. — including his cold wife (Tilda Swinton) and her self-absorbed lover (George Clooney). But his greatest nemeses may be two dimbulb gym employees (Frances McDormand and Brad Pitt), who discover a computer disc containing Ozzy’s state and financial secrets and see it as the answer to their wildest dreams.

That’s when the plot really gets rolling.

As Chad and Linda try to find a way to make their discovery pay (blackmail Ozzy? sell it to the Russians?), the middle-aged lovers struggle with problems of their own — the sticky kind of situations that arise when you play “musical beds.” There’s talk of cosmetic surgery. Internet dating dalliances. And, like any good spy movie, suspicious suit-wearing men in black cars.

The Coens have assembled a mature, familiar cast for “Burn After Reading,” most of them well-versed in the brothers’ brand of madcap comedy, unexpected violence and dizzying word play.

Brad Pitt, the youngest major castmember at age 43, is one standout.

He’s positively adorable as Chad, a sweet-tempered trainer with more brawn than brains. (Every so often, I see a flick that makes me appreciate Brad Pitt as an actor, not just another pretty face. “Fight Club” and “Babel” were two such films. “Burn” just joined the list.)

The rest of the cast performs admirably, if predictably.

Malkovich plays another of his delightfully loathsome jerks, and Clooney stars as a guy so vain he contemplates whether he can “get in a run” immediately after coitus. As for Francis McDormand, she’s back in “Fargo” territory — playing a meaner, more selfish version of the amiable Midwesterner.

It’s said that the Coen brothers wrote parts of this film — their first original script since “The Man Who Wasn’t There” in 2001 — while working on “No Country for Old Men,” and “Burn” certainly has that flavor. It’s a pleasant diversion about unpleasant people, a sharp-edged little comedy that conjures up its share of solid laughs.

We — like the bemused and befuddled CIA — can only sit back and wonder.

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Lest I forget: “Burn After Reading” has a Central Coast connection.

In one scene, Brad Pitt’s character slurps down a jumbo smoothie courtesy of Jamba Juice — the very company originally created as a Cal Poly senior project and founded in San Luis Obispo. Coincidence? I think not.

“Death Race” is boring.

In fact, compared to “Death Race 2000″ — which starred David Carradine and Sylvester Stallone as two of the baddest bastards to chew pavement — it’s downright dull.

Instead of a coast-to-coast race across America, the schlubs in “Death Race” are competing on a closed course. Instead of a fearsome hero with “a one hundred percent red-blooded American sense of humor,” we get some bald, British dude.

Where the 1975 original was schlocky fun at its finest, this remake is surprisingly milquetoast.

Jason Statham plays Jensen Ames, a retired race car driver whose crappy life is about to get a little crappier.

After mysterious masked strangers invade his home and knock him out, Ames wakes up to find his wife murdered and infant daughter missing. (He was framed, of course!)

Forget due process or a fair trial. Ames heads straight to Terminal Prison, where prisoners compete in pay-per-view “death races” in armored muscle cars.

Survive the race and you win your freedom. Lose, and you lose your life.

The whole thing is overseen by Warden Hennessey (Joan Allen), who — when she’s not condemning men to death — seems to spend a lot of time stomping around in tailored suits and stilettos.

Turns out, Ames isn’t there by accident. Hennessey needs someone to take up the mantle of popular racer Frankenstein, and Ames — who just happens to be a former NASCAR superstar — fits the bill.

His steed? The Monster, a converted Ford Mustang with James Bond-style gadgets and a wicked set of wheels. His co-pilot? A cleavage-baring Latina (Natalie Martinez).

Ames’ toughest foes are also the stuff of stereotypes: “Tokyo Drift”-style racers, Russians, Arabs and Machine Gun Joe, a homicidal gang banger who happens to be gay (Tyrese Gibson, reprising his role from “2 Fast 2 Furious”) .

We know Joe is gay because somebody mentions this fact in EVERY STINKIN’ SCENE. Plot points aren’t hinted at in “Death Race”; they’re sent by semaphore.

“Death Race” comes to us courtesy of Paul W.S. Anderson, the guy behind “Mortal Kombat,” “Event Horizon” and the “Resident Evil” movies.

As you’d expect from such a pedigree, Anderson favors flashy action over plot exposition and dialog. That might be a good thing where alien uglies and martial arts fighters are involved. But when you’re dealing with a movie that brushes against such social issues as modern entertainment standards and the penal system, some introspection might be nice.

The cast isn’t much help, either.

Joan Allen spends the movie in brainless bitch mode, her lipsticked mouth in a permanent pursed scowl. Statham spends more time flexing than acting. Not even Ian McShane, the mean ol’ cuss from “Deadwood,” can bring much bite to “Death Race.”

Worst of all, for a R-rated movie produced by Roger Corman, there’s surprisingly little gore — only a couple unpleasant car accidents. Whatever happened to running down pedestrians for 20 points a pop?

I want to see luckless convicts spattered on the pavement. Mangled bodies. Blood. Twisted hunks of metal.

This ain’t no “Death Race.” This is a stroll through through the frikkin’ park.

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Photo courtesy of MovieWeb.com.

Yes, that really is Robert Downey Jr.

I’ll admit it.

I chuckled when Robert Downey Jr. launched into his speech about “Rain Man,” “Forrest Gump” and other tearjerkers about “simple folk” in “Tropic Thunder”. Okay, I actually laughed out loud.

“Tropic Thunder” has everything we’ve grown to expect from 21st century comedy — racial stereotypes, fart jokes and the unsavory sight of Jack Black in his undies.

Many of the jokes tow the line between foul and funny. But as offensive as the film can be at times, it’s not all shock-and-awe.

Directed and co-written by Ben Stiller, “Tropic Thunder” sends a gleeful salute to “Platoon,” “The Deer Hunter” and “Apocalypse Now.” It also boasts pitch-perfect parodies of Hollywood players and some well-placed cameos.

Director Damien Cockburn (Britain’s Steve Coogan) has set out to make the ultimate Vietnam War movie, based on a book by a grizzled vet (Nick Nolte).

He’s got a wild Southeast Asia setting, a huge budget and monumental amounts of explosives.

Unfortunately for Cockburn, his cast consists of an action star turned flop (Stiller, surprisingly ripped), a comic battling drug addiction (Black), a energy drink-peddling rapper (Brandon T. Jackson) and a crazed Aussie so dedicated to his craft that he’s undergone “pigment surgery” for his African American role (Robert Downey Jr.).

When the self-important celebrities find themselves cut loose in the jungle, however, it’s time for the actors to start acting like men.

Starting with a slew of fake trailers, “Tropic Thunder” sets out at a roaring pace and only picks up speed with appearances by Tom Cruise and Matthew McConaughey. Unfortunately, the movie bogs down just as our reluctant heroes finally step into action.

Although many of the bits get old, there’s plenty of humor here — including some rather nasty one-liners. (The only clean one I remember involves Mother Nature “wetting her pantsuit.”)

Downey Jr. is one of the factors that makes “Tropic Thunder” so unexpectedly enjoyable.

He inhabits two roles — a Russell Crowe look-alike chasing his next Oscar, and a salty black sergeant who craves crawfish and quotes “The Jeffersons” theme song. It’s a sharp satire that would not be out of place in a Spike Lee movie.

Like Downey Jr.’s performance, “Tropic Thunder” is at times brilliant and downright cruel.

On one hand, it’s Hollywood excess at its best, a mega-budget blockbuster with the best cast money can buy, matched by an audacious script and an off-kilter premise.

On the other, it’s a mean, manic product of the Perez Hilton era.

Here’s my advice:

See “Tropic Thunder” for the foibles of the rich and famous — not all the stereotypically fat, black, Asian and mentally challenged people that the movie so ludicrously mocks.

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Photo courtesy of MovieWeb.com.

Take a good look at this “Hellboy” sequel

Move over, Hancock. You too, Incredible Hulk. There’s a new superhero in town.

Hellboy is back in “Hellboy II: The Golden Army,” a thoroughly entertaining mix of high fantasy and humor that blows the competition out of the water.

There’s so much crammed into this heavenly sequel that it’d be a shame to give it all away. So here’s my brief, hopefully spoiler-free take on “Hellboy II: The Golden Army.”

THE BIG GUYS: Just like the first “Hellboy” movie, this sequel bears the hallmarks of director Guillermo Del Toro’s fanboy fervor and “Hellboy” comix creator Mike Mignola’s fertile imagination. It’s not “Lawrence of Arabia,” but it’s a hell of a lot of fun.

THE CAST: Could there be a better Hellboy? Ron Perlman again dons several square feet of latex to play Hellboy, the hard-hitting, cigar-chomping demon who loves kittens and light beer. Perlman captures Big Red’s working man vibe perfectly. He’s an average Joe, a blue-collar hero who just happens to sport a tail and sanded-down horns.

Meanwhile, Doug Jones –who did double duty as the Faun and the Pale Man in “Pan’s Labyrinth” — is priceless as Hellboy’s amphibious pal, Abraham Sapien.

THE CREATURES: Del Toro’s love of monsters apparently knows no bounds. There are golden-haired elves and brutal trolls, ancient gods and cute-but-deadly tooth fairies. Not to mention a ectoplasmic dude in a old-school robo-suit. Perhaps the most stunning creature is the terrifyingly beautiful Angel of Death, whose massive wings are studded with unblinking amber eyes.

THE SETS: Speaking of creatures, I could spend hours exploring every nook and cranny of the elaborate, exotic Troll Market under the Brooklyn Bridge. Like the market, much of “Hellboy II” — BPRD headquarters, downtown Manhattan, the hall of the Golden Army — invites loving scrutiny.

THE FIGHTS: Don’t worry, kids. Hellboy’s stone Hand of Doom delivers yet another bone-crushing battle royale. Bashing, smashing, swordplay, gunfire — it’s all here.

THE FX: Unlike some obsessed with computer-generated gimcrackery, Del Toro is one of a few Hollywood directors - Jon Favreau of “Iron Man” being another - who does things the old fashioned way. The team behind “Hellboy II”  uses makeup, prosthetics, wire-work and other tricks to create special effects more stunning and realistic than much of the CGI competiton.

THE MUSHY STUFF: Two love stories and a friendship are at stake here, although I won’t say whose. Suffice it to say that “Hellboy II” mixes its darker, more dramatic moments with a light, funny touch.

THE CAMEO: Your ears do not deceive you. The voice of bossy German know-it-all Johann Krauss is indeed provided by Seth MacFarlane, creator of “Family Guy” and “American Dad.”