As regular readers of this blog have surely realized by now, I grew up in the 90s, which I am convinced was one of the greatest decades to be a kid. What you may not know is that I spent most of my childhood in the greatest possible place to be during the 1990s: Chicago, Illinois. Now, I’m sure there are plenty of well-adjusted people out there who had lovely childhoods in other locales. But Chicago was the best, not because of our museums, skyscrapers, or the accomplishments of Richard J. Daley, but for one simple reason: basketball.

You see, I lived in Chicago during the three-peat repeat, those magical years where the Chicago Bulls managed to win three consecutive NBA national championships not once, but twice in one decade. Everyone on the team was practically a national hero due to their supernatural abilities. But one player stood above the rest: Michael Jordan. He was beloved the world over, but he achieved a godlike status at home. Every kid in my elementary school had a Bulls jersey, and either owned a pair of Air Jordans, or desperately wanted them. In our eyes, the man could do no wrong.

So when “Space Jam” came out in 1996, things kind of exploded.  There wasn’t a Chicagoan child or parent out there who didn’t see this movie at least three times after its release. It opened at #1, and grossed $100 million when it came out on video. The soundtrack, which helped catapult R. Kelly to stardom, went platinum six times. I have no doubt that most of that revenue came from northeast Illinois. At one point, I had practically every line of this movie memorized, and knew almost all the words to “I Believe I Can Fly.” For a good two years between the ages of 8 and 10, “Space Jam” had its flag planted right at the top of my pop culture brain.

The movie, for those of you who may have forgotten it, combines Jordan’s star power with the undeniable lure of the Looney Tunes, who were also going through a surge in popularity at the time. The story is this: A bunch of puny aliens from a space theme park called Moron Mountain want to capture the Tunes to use them as a star attraction. The Tunes, led by Bugs Bunny, challenge the aliens to a game of basketball, saying they’ll go with them if they lose. However, the aliens cheat by stealing the talent of a bunch of NBA stars (90s greats Charles Barkley, Muggsy Bogues, Patrick Ewing, Shawn Bradley and Larry Johnson) and using it to morph themselves into the freakish, dominating Monstars. With the stakes high, Bugs “recruits” Jordan’s help by sucking him down a hole on a golf course into the cartoon universe.

As you may have gathered from the terribly silly premise, “Space Jam” doesn’t hold up very well 16 years after its original release. But believe it or not, Jordan isn’t what’s bad about the movie. He’s actually pretty good at playing himself. He’s affable, and has good chemistry with his cartoon co-stars. It’s the writing. The cartoon sections play at a pace that resembles a seven-year-old on a sugar high. The generally lame jokes come fast and furious. The introduction of Lola Bunny as a “strong female character” is itself kind of a joke, since she only has a handful of lines, and most of them are repeated at least twice throughout the movie. She’s mostly just there as an object of lust for Bugs.

But there are some high points, one of which is the bizarre—but welcome—appearance of Bill Murray in this movie. He plays himself as a golfing buddy of Jordan’s with dreams of being a pro NBA player. It’s a testament to Murray’s own amazing talent that the movie’s instantly funnier when he’s around. Not only that, but it almost seems like a movie that’s worth watching. Murray doesn’t seem to find it beneath him at all to be in a flick where he’s playing basketball with a bunch of cartoon characters. In fact, he seems to be enjoying it.

The other (unintentionally) entertaining aspect of “Space Jam” is that it’s an hour-and-a-half long ode to how great Jordan is. The whole affair starts off in biopic mode, with Jordan as a kid, shooting hoops in his backyard and telling his dad of his dreams to go to school at North Carolina, play in the NBA and then move on to pro baseball. This is followed by a montage of Jordan realizing his goals as the title track blasts in the background. Even though Jordan’s a terrible baseball player, his teammates are unfailingly positive about him because they’re just excited to have him around. He’s also frequently referred to by nicknames like “His Royal Airness,” and treated accordingly by everyone around him. It’s to the man’s credit that he never lets it go to his head. Or perhaps he just knows the excessive compliments are warranted, so he lets them slide.

90 minutes of praise for a man who didn’t need any more of it feels over-the-top, but it absolutely encapsulates the way people felt about Jordan at the time. That’s probably what’s kept “Space Jam” from being an enduring family-friendly classic. It’s a movie that doesn’t make sense in any other cultural context than mid-90s Michael Jordan mania. Kids today probably have no clue who Jordan was, or why he was so important.  And other than MJ being MJ, “Space Jam” just doesn’t have anything else to stand on. Still, for nostalgic purposes, it’s kind of fun to watch the movie and remember how it felt to grow up during that time, to listen to R. Kelly singing about touching the sky, and recall the one man on earth who actually seemed capable of doing it.

Random observations:

I should note that while “Space Jam” got iffy reviews elsewhere, it got good reviews in the Windy City. Both Roger Ebert and Gene Siskel gave it thumbs up. Perhaps it was Jordan’s star power clouding their judgment, but more likely it’s because they’d have been lynched if they said they didn’t like it.

For all of the hoopla about Jordan being the world’s greatest athlete, in terms of career record, he’s only third-highest, behind Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and Karl Malone, who was playing for the Utah Jazz at the same time Jordan played for the Bulls. Go figure.

A couple of announcements this week. The first is that I won’t be posting next Wednesday, as I’ll be attending the UN Commission on the Status of Women in New York. It’s going to be a great experience, but unfortunately it will keep me away from the computer for a while.

The second is that my most recent review for Kansas Public Radio aired last Friday! It’s over “The Secret World of Arietty,” and you can listen to it here.

It’s Oscar season! The big ceremony is February 26, and I thought that I’d take the opportunity this week to talk about the documentary category, since this week is a “Non-Fiction Section” week. The Best Documentary Feature category is really interesting this year, and I think it does a decent job of showcasing a great year for documentaries.

I usually have a lot of beef with the documentary category, if not for the nominees then almost always for the winner. It’s usually used as an opportunity for Hollywood to show off its politics by nominating documentaries that deal with controversial political subjects, then picking the most outspoken, liberal one of the bunch to get the award. Not to downplay the importance or quality of movies like “Inside Job” or “Taxi to the Dark Side,” but more often than not, the Academy misses a big opportunity with the choices they make. Picking the right movies for Best Documentary Feature can introduce viewing audiences to the unique power of documentary storytelling, and show that they’re not just dry historical pieces, or radical political rants. The Academy finally got it right a couple of years ago when James Marsh’s wonderful “Man on Wire” won the category. It’s the kind of movie that should be nominated more often—documentaries that people will actually want to see, and might just make them want to see more.

While there are loads of great documentaries that weren’t nominated—some of which didn’t even make the short list of potential nominees—the films that were nominated are a diverse group, and most of them represent serious achievements in the medium. What this tells me is that 2011 was an extraordinarily good year for documentaries. It was a year that gave us Marsh’s latest, “Project Nim,” as well as “Tabloid,” the latest film from the legendary Errol Morris, and “The Interrupters,” from “Hoop Dreams” director Steve James, among many others. And these aren’t even the nominees. Here’s a little bit of information about the movies that made the cut, as well as ones that didn’t, but are worth a look.

Notable nominees:

Pina: “Pina” is an incredible achievement in documentary filmmaking, partly because arthouse great Wim Wenders is behind the camera, but mostly because it’s shot in 3D. That’s right, a 3D documentary. And you know what? It’s actually worth shelling out the extra dough for those dinky glasses. “Pina,” a performance documentary showcasing the work of the late choreographer Pina Bausch, is gorgeous, accessible, and surprisingly fun to watch, mainly because the use of 3D really engages the audience in a way you might not even get during a live performance.

Paradise Lost 3: Purgatory: This is the latest in a series of films about the West Memphis 3, three young men who were falsely accused of the murder of three young boys. The “Paradise Lost” documentary series follows the men’s trial, and examines the case in-depth. During the making of this final film, the men were actually released from prison, and directors Joe Berlinger and Bruce Sinofsky were lucky enough to catch the end of their ordeal on tape, as well as get a definitive ending for their series.

Hell and Back Again: A documentary about a soldier’s post-war readjustment. Director Danfung Dennis follows Marine Sergeant Nathan Harris, who has trouble fitting back into civilian life both physically and emotionally. Harris’ leg is severely injured in combat, and he becomes addicted to painkillers upon his return home. Given the way the Academy tends to vote in the documentary category, this film and “Paradise Lost” are the two most likely choices to win. One is a political documentary that points out the horrors of war, and the other represents the real-life power of documentary storytelling.

Notable snubs:

The Arbor: Clio Barnard’s film about the life and death of playwright Andrea Dunbar is easily one of the most creative uses of the documentary format in the last year, and it’s a real shame it isn’t being recognized by the Academy. Barnard uses a series of audio interviews done with Dunbar’s family and artistic collaborators, and plays them under footage of actors who lip-sync the words. It allows for some fascinating interpretations of the stories told in the interviews, and onscreen drama that becomes its own kind of visual art. Looming over the whole thing is Dunbar, who appears in stock footage like a manipulative ghost. It’s creepy, touching, and incredibly well thought out.

The Interrupters: Steve James’ latest documentary tells the story of a year in the life of CeaseFire, a group of reformed former gang members in Chicago that have dedicated their lives to stopping gang violence in their city. James and producer Alex Kotlowitz follow members of the group as they monitor gang violence in their neighborhoods, talk to members of the community, break up fights, and counsel gang members. At times harrowing, but always touching, “The Interrupters” is a solid example of documentary filmmaking that not only highlights the problems of modern society, but shows what people are doing to help.

Buck: “Buck” actually made the academy’s shortlist, and I was a little shocked to see it didn’t make the nominations, since it’s a total crowd-pleaser in the mold of “Man on Wire.” It’s the kind of film that would make even the least enthusiastic audience member want to check out more films like it. “Buck” is about Buck Brannaman, an acclaimed “Horse Whisperer” (he was the real-life basis for Robert Redford’s character in the 1998 movie). A victim of abuse as a child, Brannaman uses his experience to relate to difficult horses, who are often victims themselves. Director Cindy Meehl brings audiences along with Brannaman in the field as he trains horses, consults with owners, and more often than not offers therapy to animal and owner alike. One of the highlights of last year’s True/False Festival was having Brannaman on site. He was a great guy to be around, and came off exactly the way Meehl portrays him in the film.

So there you have it: three notable movies that made the cut, and three that didn’t. There are plenty more documentaries from 2011 that are worth checking out, but these are as good a starting point as any if you’re just beginning to get interested in documentaries.

Why you know him: Cedar Rapids, Enchanted, Pieces of April, Rubicon, 1408, 25^th Hour, Chappelle’s Show…Oh yeah, and “The Wire.”

Lots of “That Guys” have roles that follow them their whole career. Jeffrey Jones, for example, will always be Principal Rooney from “Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.” Stephen Tobolowsky will always be Ned Ryerson from “Groundhog Day.” And, thanks to his iconic stint on “The Wire,” Isiah Whitlock Jr. will always be Senator Clay Davis.

Warning: This video contains language

In most of his roles, Whitlock isn’t exactly noticeable. He’s kind of doughy and unremarkable. But as Clay Davis, the actor not only introduced a new term to our collective vocabulary, he created a character that’s gone down as one of the most memorable in modern TV history. The association has even carried over into his work post-“Wire.” Check out this in-joke from “Cedar Rapids:”

While sometimes a single memorable role can haunt an actor for years, Clay Davis seems to have been just the thing Whitlock’s career needed to get to the next level. He may not have stood out much before, but thanks to that one role, you notice when he appears elsewhere. And it seems like he’s been showing up more and more since the series, especially in the last couple of years, with higher-profile roles, and parts in buzzed-about movies like the public school drama “Detachment” and Spike Lee’s latest movie, “Red Hook Summer.” In fact, between that movie and the new dramedy “Predisposed,” Whitlock’s got a Sundance twofer this year. It’s all thanks in no small part to HBO, David Simon and one long, impossibly drawn-out expletive.

After you spend a certain amount of time watching bad movies, you start to feel like you’ve seen everything. There are certain depths of crappy movie perfection that just can’t be surpassed. I mean, how many “Hercules in New Yorks” or “Gymkatas” can there be in the world? Finding good candidates for “Plan 9 Cinema” isn’t an easy job, folks. You have to wade through an awful lot of straight-up junk before you find something that’s even worth making fun of. I was starting to wonder if I’d ever find another bad movie worth dissecting for this blog. Then I saw “Teen Witch,” and my faith in bad movies was restored. “Teen Witch” is a perfect bad movie. It’s bizarre, inexplicable, at times inappropriate, and was a total failure at the box office.  How much of a failure? The budget was $2.5 million. In its opening weekend, the movie grossed just shy of $4,000. Now that is a bad movie.

Like lots of people, I was only vaguely familiar with “Teen Witch” through other cultural references made to it. For example, this scene from 30 Rock:

In fact, “Top That” is kind of the “Teen Witch” legacy. Even if you haven’t seen the movie, the chances are good you’ve at least seen that clip.

But it turns out “Teen Witch” isn’t any one-note bad movie. It’s spectacularly bad on multiple levels. That infamous rap battle is just the tip of the iceberg.  “Teen Witch” has creepy performances by the busload, a really horrible soundtrack, random musical numbers, and choreography so bad that Martha Graham would run screaming from the theater in search of the nearest chiropractor.

“Teen Witch” is the story of Louise, a brainy misfit who just wants what every girl in high school movies wants: to be the most popular girl in school. Unfortunately, she’s at the bottom of the social ladder. Her teachers taunt her, her demonic little brother torments her, and Brad, the object of Louise’s affections, barely knows she’s alive. All that changes one night when Louise meets Madame Serena, a diminutive psychic who gives Louise a magic amulet that solves all her troubles.

Right from the start, the message of “Teen Witch” is that the ultimate goal in every girl’s life should be to attain maximum popularity, a fantastic wardrobe and a hot boyfriend, brains and academic potential be damned. But feminist qualms aside, there are plenty of other disturbing features in this movie. One is the cast. Madame Serena, for example, is played by Zelda Rubinstein, who you’ll probably recognize as the organist from “Sixteen Candles.” Rubinstein’s also got quite a history in horror movies and TV, like “Poltergeist” and “Tales from the Crypt,” and her particular talent for being tiny-but-menacing only serves to make “Teen Witch” weirder. She’s incredibly creepy.

Louise’s little brother Richie is the same kid who played Homer, the creepy man-child vampire from “Near Dark.” He’s basically giving the same performance in this movie, and it doesn’t work as well here. In Kathryn Bigelow’s movie, it was impressive. Here it feels bizarre. Check out the way he enters the movie, snarfing cake under Louise’s bed:

Not exactly the way one would choose to wake up.

But better than Richie or Madame Serena are the bizarre, painful-looking dance numbers. There are several. This is what a typical school dance looks like for the high school students in “Teen Witch:”

Most of the moves are done from the hips up, and they involve an awful lot of flinging. The kids who didn’t snap their spinal cords probably ended up with really sore necks after they finished filming.

Plus there are strange elements that just don’t seem like they belong in a kids’ movie, but are casually thrown in as though they’re the most natural things in the world—if you saw the clip above, you’ve already got a taste. In one scene, Louise makes a voodoo doll of her awful English teacher (who’s already breaking school policy like a dry twig), and uses it to make him disrobe in front of the class. A drama teacher not only shares inappropriate personal information with her students, but chooses to abandon her career and run off with a mysterious Argentinian aristocrat (I swear I am not making this up). And Louise’s obsession with Brad hits some pretty hilariously fetishistic heights. “Teen Witch” definitely crosses some lines, whether it means to or not.

In closing: if you love bad movies, you owe it to yourself to see “Teen Witch.” It does everything a bad movie should, and it has some catchy musical numbers to boot. Its growing cult revival is richly deserved. After years of cable TV obscurity, people have finally realized that when it comes to bad teen movies, you just can’t top that. Seriously.

Random Observations:

Best line of the movie: “I like you. I like your cute little Punky Brewster face.”-Madame Serena, meeting Louise for the first time. Classic.

Remember what I said about this movie being inappropriate? Well, here’s the scene where Louise and Brad finally get together:

Not only is this just weird, but note that they are meeting in an abandoned house, Louise isn’t wearing shoes, and Brad only has on a cutoff t-shirt. Those kids better have been immunized for tetanus, that’s all I’m saying.

Special note: I’ve passed 100 posts! Hooray! Thanks, everyone, for following this blog through its various stages of development. It means a lot to know that someone other than my mother reads this thing.

Good morning, friends! My review of “Man on a Ledge” aired on Kansas Public Radio this morning! It sounded great, and there was even a nice little mention of this here blog. I’m hoping it will be the first of many. In case you didn’t get a chance to listen this morning, here’s a link to the audio.

Thanks to Laura Lorson at KPR for giving me the opportunity to do this for the station!

Something I’ve noticed the more I’ve been writing about movies is how often themes of religion, morality and spirituality show up in film. I’m sure that part of this is because I consider myself a religious person, and that I’m actively looking for it in the movies I watch. But honestly, I don’t think I’m seeing things that aren’t already there. Something that’s particularly interesting is how often these themes are applied to movies about crime. Think, for example, about a movie like “Layer Cake,” ostensibly about the corrupting, unpredictable nature of supposedly organized crime, or “The Hit,” a Zen-like exploration of mortality, the afterlife, and whether or not you can stick to your beliefs when a gun’s pointed in your face. Crime movies are often the movies with the most to say about the world at large. It turns out that “The Night of the Hunter” is another of these. It’s a movie with plenty of interesting things to say about the different forms belief can take, for better or worse, and the nature of the relationship between adults and children.

In the film, a phony itinerant preacher named Harry Powell (the amazing Robert Mitchum, more on him later) gets thrown in jail for stealing a car. His cellmate is Ben Harper (Peter Graves! From “Airplane!”), who’s on death row for killing three people while he robbed a bank. When he’s not busy carjacking or conning the faithful, Harry’s other past time is killing widows and taking their money, so naturally he starts getting interested when he finds out Ben’s hidden thousands of dollars somewhere in his house. After Ben is executed and Harry’s released, Harry goes about romancing Ben’s wife, Willa (Shelley Winters), and trying to charm—and then torture—the whereabouts of the loot out of the two kids, John and Pearl, who refuse to tell.

Now, from that synopsis you might assume that “The Night of the Hunter” is all about Harry. But it’s not. John and Pearl are the real focus of the story, especially in the film’s last half. Despite some subject matter that is definitely not suitable for kids, “Hunter” is told mainly from the children’s perspective. John and Pearl eventually run away from home, and travel on the river Huck Finn-style until they’re taken in by Rachel (Lillian Gish) a kind-but-feisty old lady who plays foster mother to a gaggle of kids. The rest of “Hunter” is devoted to the relationship between Rachel and John, as she teaches him to trust adults again, and he begins to recover from the massive betrayals he’s experienced.

“Hunter” is a movie in two distinct acts: the portion before John and Pearl run away, and the portion after they escape and take to the river. But the two parts are tied together securely by Mitchum’s terrifying presence. He is brilliant here, capable both of moments of sheer terror and cartoonish villainy, often within the same scene. It helps that Charles Laughton, who directed, also throws in images reminiscent of those old Universal monster movies—you know the ones, Wolfman, Dracula, Frankenstein, and the like. In several scenes, Harry casts a long shadow over his victims from an open doorway. In another, he chases the kids up a set of stairs with his arms reaching out in front like Frankenstein. There’s even a mob armed with pitchforks and torches. It’s all to drive the point home that while Harry may not have supernatural powers, he’s absolutely a monster.

Laughton also uses the movie to comment on religion, but not necessarily Christianity so much as those who practice it. The first example we get is Harry, who may be using his preacher guise to murder and steal, but whose belief definitely isn’t fake. He finds justification for all his dirty deeds through a warped sense of faith. He spends time in whorehouses and peep shows so he can kill off loose women in the name of the Lord, slitting their throats with a switchblade. After marrying Willa, he refuses to have sex with her for pleasure, claiming that the only time to have sex is when you’re planning to beget children, and you’re not supposed to like it. He leads prayer meetings, and sings hymns. In his psychotic brain, he’s God’s messenger.

That image is contrasted with Rachel, the foster mother, who’s also a Christian, and reads to the kids from the Bible. Rachel is a nurturer, and she’s determined to practice her own brand of social justice by protecting children who’ve been done wrong by the world. She’ll go to impressive lengths to do that, too. Here she is staring down Harry with a shotgun:

Rachel is my kind of Christian. She’s the kind of person who stands by her beliefs with courage and modesty. She does good not because she wants the attention, but because it’s the right thing to do. Unfortunately, because of that quiet assurance, Rachel’s not the kind of person who’s widely recognized or influential. The kind of Christians the world is used to seeing are people like Harry, loud showmen with a screw loose who wildly misinterpret the word of God to justify their actions. And to make sure you won’t miss the point, Laughton starts the whole movie with Rachel warning the kids to beware of false prophets, mere moments before we’re introduced to Harry.

As with “Peeping Tom,” it seems critics and audiences weren’t ready for “The Night of the Hunter” at the time it was released. It was a critical and box-office failure, and Laughton never got the chance to direct again. It’s actually not hard to see why. “Hunter” is an ambitious piece of filmmaking that’s got a lot on its mind, and some troubling images that are upsetting even today. But fortunately, it’s gained lots of acclaim the longer it’s been around. It’s also been hugely influential. You can see elements of this movie in everything from “The Stepfather” to Lemony Snicket’s “A Series of Unfortunate Events” books. But what makes the movie remarkable isn’t its recognizable themes. It’s the film’s impressive and thoughtful exploration of what a false prophet looks like, and just how scary they can be.

Special announcement!: I’ll be on Kansas Public Radio tomorrow, reviewing the new movie “Man on a Ledge.” If you’d like to hear the review, go to kansaspublicradio.org and listen to the online stream between 6 and 9 a.m. CST tomorrow morning, or if you live in Lawrence, tune in to 91.5 FM. The audio from the review will also be posted online after broadcast, so if you’re not an early bird, you can also find it there later.

Terry Gilliam is the reason I started loving movies, and “Time Bandits” is the movie that did it. I remember the first time I ever saw it. I was about seven or eight, sitting in my cousin’s basement, eating fast food burgers from Hot ‘n Now. I only saw the last half of the movie, but even though I didn’t really know what was going on, I knew I loved it, and I had to see it again. Which I did, countless times. It was a movie that wasn’t just funny and exciting, it was smart. It was a children’s movie that treated the kids watching it as clever, and as capable of picking up on subtle themes as they were capable of laughing at funny little men in weird hats.

“Time Bandits” is the story of a bright schoolboy named Kevin, who is stuck with a pair of gadget-obsessed parents who just don’t get him. One night, his bedroom is invaded by the titular gang of bandits, a bunch of creatively-dressed dwarves with a map of holes in space-time that they’re using to travel between historical periods to steal valuable loot. Turns out Kevin’s room is located right on one of these holes. He joins the bandits in their exploits, and tries to escape the clutches of both the Supreme Being and the Evil Genius, both of whom are after the map.

As a kid, I loved this movie because it played directly to my fantasies. As a bookworm who regularly devoured stuff like the Narnia and Redwall series, I felt like Kevin a lot of the time, like nobody else saw the world the way I did. I even liked that Kevin’s parents are completely oblivious to everything that’s happening throughout the film. It makes the magic of the movie appeal even more directly to children, as though they’re the only ones who can fully comprehend it, because they’re not yet jaded by reality.

It was a feeling I’d forgotten until I watched the film this week. As an adult, the effect had worn off through a combination of multiple viewings, and just a different approach to the way I watch movies. But something changed for me this time around, maybe because I was looking specifically for that spark that made me love the movie in the first place. Not only did I remember how I felt the first time I watched the film, but I started to really pay attention to “Time Bandits” in the context of the rest of Gilliam’s career. This was his third full-length film (and his second non-Python outing), and what really stands out in this movie are early hallmarks of the style and themes that would characterize Gilliam’s later films, while still maintaining a lot of the same elements that showed up during his days animating for Monty Python’s Flying Circus.

Gilliam made “Time Bandits” while “Brazil,” the movie that would come to define his career, was stuck in development. He basically made it as a way to boost his profile and get funding for his dream project. As a result, a lot of the themes that appear in “Brazil” show up in simplified form in “Time Bandits.” The idea of technology as the tool of ultimate evil, of higher powers represented as bureaucracies, and mindless consumers as unwitting contributions to the problem all show up here, then get developed to the extreme in “Brazil.” The visuals, too—bombed-out cities, apocalyptic wastelands and the like, show up in practically every movie Gilliam’s ever done. In this way, “Time Bandits” is actually a great introduction to the director’s work, since it’s not only accessible, but provides a great primer for his other films.

But here’s something I’ve always found a little troubling about the movie, something that bothered me further still this time around: Gilliam’s representation of the Supreme Being. He’s played by Ralph Richardson as a kind of doddering old man who’s smarter than he looks, but isn’t all there. He also doesn’t hold humans in very high esteem—not even clever, resourceful little boys. The last shot of the film starts with Kevin, who’s just been abandoned in front of his house, his future completely uncertain, then zooms out to show him as a tiny speck on the map of the universe, which the Supreme Being then rolls up and takes out of the frame. It’s done as a clever end cap, but the message it conveys is a little depressing, especially for a family film: we’re all just cogs in a machine. Sometimes bad things happen, but it doesn’t really matter to God. He’s perfectly able to help us out, he just doesn’t care to. As a person of faith, I find that to be rather a defeatist attitude, and one that isn’t exactly consistent with the themes of Gilliam’s films post-“Brazil,” where creativity and the supernatural overcome the oppressive forces of reality.

But overall, “Time Bandits” is still a fun movie, one that’s got just enough balance of social commentary and whimsy to appeal to viewers of all ages. It still holds a very special place in my heart. It may not be the most straightforward or consistent of movies, but that’s really not important. It is, after all, a movie for children, and probably one of the best there is.

Random observations

-Another inconsistency: Kevin finds photos in his pocket of his adventures—meaning they must have really happened—but if you look at his room, it’s obvious that all the scenes are built around the toys scattered on the floor, which doesn’t quite make sense. But again, children’s movie. Consistency isn’t the point.

-Somehow I managed to write a complete review of “Time Bandits” without mentioning the great cameo performances. John Cleese, Sean Connery, Michael Palin and Shelley Duvall are all great, but Ian Holm’s Napoleon is the standout, perhaps the only portrayal of a Napoleon with a Napoleon complex.

Link: For a much less biased (but still good!) review of this movie, check out Matthew Dessem’s post on Criterion Contraption. While you’re there, feel free to waste a few hours reading his articles, as they are all pretty great.

Scott Walker is the best musician you probably haven’t heard of. That’s more or less the driving point behind the documentary “Scott Walker: 30 Century Man,” dedicated to telling the story of the reclusive meticulous artist. After watching the film, I don’t think I could agree more. The documentary makes a solid case for Walker’s entire catalog, including some of his more disjointed, recent work, through Walker’s own recounting of his career, and interviews with producers and musicians he’s worked with, as well as countless artists he’s inspired—artists who are plenty influential in their own right. “30 Century Man” works very well as an introduction to the wide and varied world of Walker’s music, as well as enumerating the reasons as to why we should care about it.

Before watching this film, my only exposure to Scott Walker was (I assume like most people) this doc’s titular song, “30 Century Man,” through its use in the soundtrack for “Life Aquatic.” I soon learned that Walker’s best-known tune was not at all representative of the man’s work. I’d try to describe Walker’s output (both solo and with the Walker Brothers), but it’s really better if you just listen to it.

It’s this kind of unique music that occupies space between Jacques Brel, Serge Gainsbourg and the films of Lindsay Anderson. It’s easier to get a hold on when you put consider all the other musicians who obviously picked up a lot from this stuff. You can hear the intersections in the music of The Divine Comedy, Antony and the Johnsons, Blur, the Smiths and the Magnetic Fields. It’s the kind of music you want to put on your record player, and listen to while lying on the floor, eyes closed.

The film does a great job of showcasing Walker’s music as much as the artist himself. It helps that the filmmaker has firsthand information from the man himself. Although Walker is described as “reclusive” by everyone else in the film, and there’s plenty of evidence to support that fact (most photos have him wearing dark glasses or a ball cap), the artist goes on camera in what seems to be a very open, stress-free interview. Walker never looks uncomfortable, and seems very self-aware.

But, while all this context is nice while the audience listens to Walker’s songs, the really interesting parts are the interviews conducted with contemporary artists who see Walker has a major influence. Director Stephen Kijak talks to artists as varied as Soft Cell’s Marc Almond, the Smiths’ Johnny Marr, Jarvis Cocker, Damon Albarn and David Bowie (who also produced). All of them turn out to be knowledgeable—and surprisingly hardcore—fans of Walker’s work, and have a lot of insight as to why they find his music so compelling, and how it’s influenced their own artistic output.

The only part of “30 Century Man” that doesn’t quite work as well as the rest is the part dedicated to Walker’s output from the 80s onward, which gets really deconstructed both musically and lyrically. By the time the documentary catches up with him in 2006, his music more resembles disturbing performance art—like the soundtrack to a Francis Bacon painting rather than the operatic mini-dramas he did earlier on. I may not like this part of the movie because I just didn’t like what I heard of Walker’s later work, but the film never really discusses what the artistic choices were that led him there, opting instead for simplistic explanations like “he started writing more of his own songs,” which dodges the question entirely. You also get the feeling that this music is where the movie’s heart truly is, which I wasn’t too big on. It makes Walker’s earlier, more palatable work seem trivial by comparison.

“Scott Walker: 30 Century Man” is a documentary clearly made by music lovers, for music lovers. It exists for the sole purpose of introducing viewers to the music of a guy who could use more recognition, and in that way, it’s very successful. It never condescends, or assumes that the viewer already knows something about Walker’s music. It merely functions as an overall introduction, and an in-depth look at an artist who’s been largely forgotten. It certainly worked for me—I plan on becoming much more familiar with Walker’s catalog in the coming weeks.

Where you’ve seen him: Over 100 films and TV shows including “Ghost,” “Fast Times at Ridgemont High,” “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest,” “Buffy the Vampire Slayer,” “Amadeus,” “A Little Princess,” “Taxi,” “Better Off Dead,” “The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8^th Dimension,” “Batman Returns,” “Man on the Moon” and “Tomorrow Never Dies.”

In 1997, Vincent Schiavelli was named by Vanity Fair as one of America’s top character actors, despite the fact that of the 100-plus movies he appeared in, he was rarely anything more than a bit player. While I’m sure it has something to do with Schiavelli’s great acting and commitment to even this silliest of parts (see “Death to Smoochy”), I think it’s got equally as much to do with his instant recognizablity. Even if you never knew the guy’s name, you know who he was. There’s absolutely no mistaking that long, skinny face, with its big nose, bald forehead and impossibly huge droopy eyes. And at roughly six-and-a-half feet, he tended to tower over his fellow actors. These are features that made Schiavelli particularly desirable for creepy, off-the-rails characters. Characters like “Ghost’s” Subway Ghost, the hostile specter that teaches Patrick Swayze how to operate in the spirit world.

But, as with the likes of other great “that guys” like Wallace Shawn, Peter Mullan and Stephen Tobolowsky, Schiavelli’s professional life wasn’t only limited to acting. He was just as accomplished in a different area: food. He wrote three cookbooks, and contributed articles on food to numerous magazines and newspapers. The man definitely knew his stuff, winning the James Beard award for food journalism in 2001. Born in Italy, he also died there in 2005, six years ago yesterday. I have no doubt that if he were still alive, he’d have beaten out Tobolowsky for most appearances onscreen. He was a unique actor who lent a sense of gravitas (and, occasionally, unhinged craziness) to whatever movie he was in, a professional “that guy” to the very core.