NEWS

Mickey Rourke

Richard Kuklinski is one scary dude! A long time contract killer for the mafia he is the kind of guy that makes you cross the street and walk on the other side to avoid him. If you have not seen the HBO special the Iceman Tapes and feel your getting to much sleep check it out and rest assured you will not rest so easily for a week.

Mickey Rourke has been cast to play Richard Kuklinski in the upcoming biopic about his life as a contract killer. Although Mickey Rourke doesnt look the part or have the level of menace that Richard has its a good casting choice and definitely a step up from the earlier casting choice of Channing Tatum.

The film is written by American History X penner David McKenna and is a film I will definitely be keeping a close eye on. If you want to see snippets of the Iceman Videos you can see them on youtube but be warned they are very disturbing.


Conan the Barbarian  News

Arnold Schwarzenegger still owns the role of Conan the Barbarian, even after abandoning it more than a quarter of a century ago. The success of the Conan reboot will depend on whether fans of musclebound men with lots of hair and little clothing find Hawaiian-born Jason Momoa (of TV’s “Game of Thrones” and “Baywatch: Hawaii”)—a relative unknown, but no more so than Schwarzenegger was three decades ago—equally charismatic as Robert E. Howard’s noble savage.

Momoa, who was all of three when larger-than-life bodybuilder Schwarzenegger first slipped into a pair of itty-bitty leather go-go shorts (loved the cunning fur trim around the thighs) and conquered the moviegoing world, is a better actor than his predecessor. Granted, that means little more than that he can act and is unencumbered by either a Hollywood-Nazi accent or muscles so massive as to make him lumber like a water buffalo when called upon to run. But those things add up to something: Schwarzenegger looked fantastic in the stills from John Milius' 1982 version, but his performance—and I use that term loosely—verged on locker-room camp.

The new Conan’s screenplay begins with the inevitable portentous prologue, which tells of a darkly magicked mask so evil that the ancients’ ancients broke it into pieces and entrusted far-flung warrior clans with making sure the parts were never reassembled. Then it’s on to the future one-man-army being cut from the womb of a dying warrior princess, raised by his hard-but-just father (Ron Perlman) and orphaned as an adolescent (Leo Howard) by warlord Khalar Zym (Stephen Lang), who’s ruthlessly acquiring the mask's scattered pieces in hopes of yoking its power to his overweening ambitions.

The movie ends when Conan has vanquished the dark demons that chain him to a vengeance-driven past, and it’s a perfectly structured series kickoff, if not one intimately rooted in the source material, to judge by the “based on the character of Conan as originally created by Robert E. Howard” credit. But whether that’s what it takes to make this new version resonate for 21st-century moviegoers as Milius’ slice of cartoonish Nietzschean bombast did in the greed-is-good era of dog-eat-dog corporate raiders remains to be seen.
Most of the story—admittedly slight between the arc-defining opening and climax—concerns itself with young Conan of Cimmeria’s transformation from a thick-skinned, thoughtless vagabond who lives to loot, kill and carouse with pirates, thieves, slaves and wanton women to a man who could be king. The impetus is vestal virgin (for a time, anyway) Tamara (Rachel Nichols), the vessel of a pure, all-but-extinct bloodline that holds the promise of either a bright future or the onset of Hell on Earth. Khalar Zim and his witchy daughter, Marique (Rose McGowan)—whose relationship is way too close for comfort—intend to sacrifice her to sinister gods, reactivate the power of the mask and bring on the darkness.

There’s nothing conspicuously wrong with this new Conan, beyond the fact that that there’s nothing particularly right with it, save a mid-film fight sequence involving a horde of warriors conjured out of sand: Its inventiveness faintly echoes Jason and the Argonauts’ skeletal army spawned by dragon’s teeth. Director Marcus Nispel and screenwriters Thomas Dean Donnelly, Joshua Oppenheimer and Sean Hood, whose collective credits comprise such remakes, sequels and pastiches as Sahara, Halloween: Resurrection, The Crow: Wicked Prayer, A Sound of Thunder, the new Friday the 13th and other competent but undistinguished genre efforts, understand the mechanics of pulp fiction while being collectively deaf to the throbbing of its thrillingly vulgar heart. And that's a shame, because the graceful, faintly feral Momoa could grow into a truly compelling Conan given another movie or two within which to refine his characterization. Arnold Schwarzenegger still owns the role of Conan the Barbarian, even after abandoning it more than a quarter of a century ago. The success of the Conan reboot will depend on whether fans of musclebound men with lots of hair and little clothing find Hawaiian-born Jason Momoa (of TV’s “Game of Thrones” and “Baywatch: Hawaii”)—a relative unknown, but no more so than Schwarzenegger was three decades ago—equally charismatic as Robert E. Howard’s noble savage.

Momoa, who was all of three when larger-than-life bodybuilder Schwarzenegger first slipped into a pair of itty-bitty leather go-go shorts (loved the cunning fur trim around the thighs) and conquered the moviegoing world, is a better actor than his predecessor. Granted, that means little more than that he can act and is unencumbered by either a Hollywood-Nazi accent or muscles so massive as to make him lumber like a water buffalo when called upon to run. But those things add up to something: Schwarzenegger looked fantastic in the stills from John Milius' 1982 version, but his performance—and I use that term loosely—verged on locker-room camp.

The new Conan’s screenplay begins with the inevitable portentous prologue, which tells of a darkly magicked mask so evil that the ancients’ ancients broke it into pieces and entrusted far-flung warrior clans with making sure the parts were never reassembled. Then it’s on to the future one-man-army being cut from the womb of a dying warrior princess, raised by his hard-but-just father (Ron Perlman) and orphaned as an adolescent (Leo Howard) by warlord Khalar Zym (Stephen Lang), who’s ruthlessly acquiring the mask's scattered pieces in hopes of yoking its power to his overweening ambitions.

The movie ends when Conan has vanquished the dark demons that chain him to a vengeance-driven past, and it’s a perfectly structured series kickoff, if not one intimately rooted in the source material, to judge by the “based on the character of Conan as originally created by Robert E. Howard” credit. But whether that’s what it takes to make this new version resonate for 21st-century moviegoers as Milius’ slice of cartoonish Nietzschean bombast did in the greed-is-good era of dog-eat-dog corporate raiders remains to be seen.
Most of the story—admittedly slight between the arc-defining opening and climax—concerns itself with young Conan of Cimmeria’s transformation from a thick-skinned, thoughtless vagabond who lives to loot, kill and carouse with pirates, thieves, slaves and wanton women to a man who could be king. The impetus is vestal virgin (for a time, anyway) Tamara (Rachel Nichols), the vessel of a pure, all-but-extinct bloodline that holds the promise of either a bright future or the onset of Hell on Earth. Khalar Zim and his witchy daughter, Marique (Rose McGowan)—whose relationship is way too close for comfort—intend to sacrifice her to sinister gods, reactivate the power of the mask and bring on the darkness.

There’s nothing conspicuously wrong with this new Conan, beyond the fact that that there’s nothing particularly right with it, save a mid-film fight sequence involving a horde of warriors conjured out of sand: Its inventiveness faintly echoes Jason and the Argonauts’ skeletal army spawned by dragon’s teeth. Director Marcus Nispel and screenwriters Thomas Dean Donnelly, Joshua Oppenheimer and Sean Hood, whose collective credits comprise such remakes, sequels and pastiches as Sahara, Halloween: Resurrection, The Crow: Wicked Prayer, A Sound of Thunder, the new Friday the 13th and other competent but undistinguished genre efforts, understand the mechanics of pulp fiction while being collectively deaf to the throbbing of its thrillingly vulgar heart. And that's a shame, because the graceful, faintly feral Momoa could grow into a truly compelling Conan given another movie or two within which to refine his characterization.


Spy Kids                   All the Time in the World in 4D

Life is too short for Spy Kids: All the Time in the World in 4D. The ability of the story's villain to speed up time, the better to hurry the day until Armageddon, merely makes you wish you had access to a fast-forward button to shorten the misery, just as the countless fart jokes and dismal fourth-dimensional Aroma-Scope (the same scratch-and-sniff card used by John Waters for Polyester 20 years ago) create an intense desire to get out into the fresh air without delay. Arriving eight years after the lame third installment in Dimension's profitable series, this seems like far too little way too late.

Decorously but absurdly encapsulating the contemporary notion of the working mom, bulgingly pregnant secret agent Marissa Wilson (Jessica Alba) uses a zip line and engages some enemy goons in a martial-arts contest just before checking into a hospital to give birth. A year later, the villainous Time Keeper (whose face is an old-fashioned mantle clock) is a tick away from stealing time from the rest of the world. So, with Marissa sidelined with her gaseous little tot, her tiresome stepchildren (Rowan Blanchard and Mason Cook), in the company of a chatty dog (voiced by Ricky Gervais at his least amusing), jump into the breach to do battle with the time bandit's helium-voiced henchman against a backdrop of cheap-looking visual effects, which are often dominated by giant turning clock gears in this digital age.

The incessant banter spewing from the mouths of the two child leads is both puerile and dull, with writer-director Robert Rodriguez seemingly far more interested in airing banal views about how busy parents and kids could arrange to spend more quality time together than in creating anything resembling a coherent plot or suspense. Once upon a time a promising filmmaker, Rodriguez still works frequently but to ever-diminishing returns, exhibiting laziness as a writer and slap-dash tendencies as a director.

Alexa Vega and Daryl Sabara, who played the title characters in the first three franchise entries, 2001-3, are back but all grown up now playing secondary agents for the spy outfit OSS. Jeremy Piven essays the head of the organization as well as two other roles, but he, like all the others here, is just marking time and cashing the checks. Everyone's time, that of the filmmakers as well as the audience, is worth more than this. Dimension chose not to press-screen the picture, and all of three people were present for the 12:01 a.m. show caught.

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