The good news about Rob Zombie’s Halloween II (a sequel to the remake, not a remake of the sequel) is that it amplifies the strengths of its predecessor, a film I lightly panned upon first release, but have since come to appreciate more even despite its shortcomings. The bad news, then, is that those shortcomings have also been amplified. Like the original Halloween II, Zombie’s film picks up the torch just after the conclusion of its predecessors October 31st bloodbath, here to detail the escape of the Michael Myers as his seemingly deceased body is transported from the scene of the crime. Approximately one year later, Laurie (Michael’s little sister, still unaware of her familial roots) is still trying to cope with the loss of her adoptive parents, while Dr. Loomis (Malcolm McDowell) is distastefully promoting his published account of the Myers killings. As the monstrously sized Myers (Tyler Mane) continues to leave a trial of human destruction, these two threads find themselves on a collision course that culminates on (you guessed it) Halloween night. First, the good: this film might be the most artfully rendered slasher sequel ever made, each slaughter portrayed with a revelatory intensity that suggests far more carnage than is shown outright, the jagged camerawork and muddled visuals evoking an existential meeting between predator and prey. As one overzealous fan of Dr. Loomis states it, Myers "eats at the core of the victims soul”.

Alas, Zombie’s dark poetry only goes so far without more substantive justification, as the dreamlike images of Myer’s mother (Sheri Moon Zombie) and his childhood self (Chase Wright Vanek, replacing Daeg Faerch) don’t pry deeper into his pitiless, carnivorous psyche so much as they flaunt said perversions (a ravishing sequence shot in the vein of silent-era German expressionism ultimately proves the tip of a nonexistent psychological iceberg). Similarly unsubstantiated is the subplot of Loomis’ controversial book, which has garnered him death threats for the purported exploitation of Myers victims (of which Loomis had already nearly joined the ranks); save for the doctor’s own course personality and the flaunted gullibility of a media-saturated audience, this narrative thread ceases exploration at the surface level. Maybe that’s the point – that we’re droll cattle unwittingly lining up for the slaughter – but even if one is to embrace it from so nihilistic a standpoint doesn’t better the flat execution (all potential for satire croaks upon the utterance of an Austin Powers riff that’s been gathering dust for over a decade). The emotional anchor provided by the always-great Brad Dourif proves something of a saving grace during the final act, but it's not enough to correct the entirety of the preceding aimlessness. Let’s hope that Zombie’s next project cuts the filler and jettisons him back to Devil’s Rejects levels of greatness.

With the possible exception of Planet Terror, Dead Snow might be the dorkiest zombie film ever made, and I say that in praise, not detriment. While the pre-credits opening – a hilariously self-aware, subversive chase scene scored to “In the Hall of the Mountain King” – stands as an easy comedic high point, that the rest of the movie holds up in comparison further underscores the overall stability and sly invention of the genre-riffing glee that is to follow. One of the few existing members of the Nazi zombie subgenre, this otherwise traditional tale revels in both the archetypal and schematic even as its violent means of dispatching both villains and protagonists proves more unpredictable than not. A group of medical students – played by an able cast, wisely straight-faced against the surrounding absurdity – finds themselves under attack during a weekend getaway at an isolated cabin deep in the snow covered mountains of Norway. Though well-equipped with movie-centric knowledge on how to survive such a confrontation – provided via a cinephiliac character whose T-shirt of choice proves an ominous bit of foreshadowing (all that’s missing is a baby) – they prove too heavily outnumbered by the squadron of the undead (which still operates according to rank, a humorous touch sadly not maximized to further effect) to simply stay put. Modestly ambitious and highly successfully within its chosen territory, Dead Snow proves to be one of the punchiest horror flicks in recent memory and one of the more capable within its low-budget constraints; the silent, lifeless landscapes make for a chilling tension-builder between each over-the-top set piece, while a memorable third-act shot of a character trapped beneath the snow is more nightmarishly claustrophobic than anything in The Descent. For the title of Best Zombie Comedy of 2009, Zombieland has a worthy competitor.

Family Guy - Disney Style - The best home videos are here

Until I've found some time to commit my thoughts of late to the screen, here's the inarguable online video of the week. Now I may actually have to watch Family Guy again. Also, reviews for the effective but ultimately underwhelming Paranormal Activity and the latest season of NBC's The Office.

In the meantime, here are links to my recent publications, which I've roundly failed to keep posted here. Now that the internet is at my household fingertips (cue hallelujahs on high), more routine updates can be expected (which is to say, more than once a month). My plan is to dish out a little something on everything I see, whether in the form of a quickie capsules for less deserving titles (see below for an example) or stream-of-consciousness updates on whatever shit is on my mind. Upcoming theatrical experiences I'm hopeful will transpire include District 9, Paranormal Activity, A Serious Man, Surrogates and the Toy Story 3D double feature. Be on the lookout.

While one typically expects awful movie experiences to incur only wrath for their creators, the inexcusable Year One stands apart in that the only thing that can be mustered up for the whole sorry enterprise is pity. Maybe Harold Ramis - the sly genius behind 1993's still-overlooked masterpiece Groundhog Day (you probably know him better as Ghostbuster's Dr. Egon Spengler) - needed a paycheck badly, or had simply reached the bottom of his creative well. Whatever the actual case, watching this prehistoric would-be comedy (imagine a braindead SNL take on Mel Gibson's Apocalypto), my first urge was to track down the writer-director and give him a much-needed hug, for so banal and unfeeling is this thrown-together shack of tiresomely contrasting comedic archetypes (though funny in manner, Jack Black and Michael Cera can only do so much with so little) and juvenile biblical anecdotes (if you're not laughing by the time Cain and Able start throwing "suck" around, you can be sure that your time could be better spent) that nothing less than an impassioned declaration from Ramis himself could convince this mind that the man gave more than the slightest damn about this project from conception onward. Black's an inept hunter and Cera an unpopular gatherer; when the former eats of the forbidden fruit and incurs the wrath of the village, both leave the in hope of a better life. The cast hardly seems aware they're in a comedy, lollygagging about as if but waiting for a promised bailout. Already vanishing from our collective memory, let's hope this is but a temporary dark patch for creative forces clearly capable of more, which is to say, anything whatsoever.

This past month has been a journey, to put it lightly. The light is visible at the end of the tunnel, however, and once out of it, it shouldn't require a bend-over-backwards amount of stretching on my part to update this place on at least a semi-frequent basis (seriously, if you want to truly appreciate the internet, go without it in your place of residence for five months). Some additions and updates are in the works, including a "Support The Projection Booth" option for those who find themselves interested (I won't be prying for donations, which makes me feel uncomfortable; more on that later). Until next time...

A preview to an ongoing e-mail exchange between myself and Jordan Pedersen regarding Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen. Or as he brilliantly encapsulates it, TransRevFall. In case it isn't clear from the text below, I've done a whopper of a 180 on this thing. Yes, critics can be "wrong" (although I don't think that word doesn't really applies as long as it's an honest mistake). To my own incredible surprise, I'm happy to have taken a second look at Bay's latest monstrosity - something I can now say is a good thing.

To the director, I owe an apology - my review was knee-jerk, mob-happy and more than a little harsh. Even asinine. We've not always fared well, but if this is the direction you're going in, keep going. Of the discussion, more to come, soon.

"...treating something like this as if it were the be-all end-all of anything (death of cinema, lowering of culture, etc.) only empowers the greed associated with it even more (which is to say, the industry outside of the picture). I didn't remember until just recently, but my basic defense of Transformers 1 was to point out that it was essentially a live-action Saturday morning cartoon. Silly. Nonsense. Stupid. Of course. Better Bay work here than in things closer to real life (I took a look at Bad Boys II again recently - it's still awful, but I can stomach his visuals a bit better after two rounds of Irreversible), and RotF is nothing if not an incredible distillation of his macho-splosion insanity. I'm not sure what classic Transformers fans feel about the direction he's taken things, but as for a total abandonment of serious pretenses, I love the whole race of robots complete-with-curmudgeony-old-war-heroes-thing. Why waste spleen?

A bit of introspection is necessary, I think. I wouldn't say I was wrong with my review of the film so much as incredibly misguided. Yes, I hated the film when I saw it opening day. Hated. And I'd be lying to myself if I said that the negative reviews I read beforehand weren't some kind of influence (ditto the 2012 preview - Christ I hated Emmerich's exploitation of disaster), one I now wish I had been without (is it too strong to compare RotF to Rodney King?). But probably no more than a day after posting it at The House Next Door, I started to feel that twinge of uncertainity - seeing the film again last night, I was certain I'd preemptively closed the door on the film too soon (cue Anton Ego's climactic Ratatouille confession).

I still take offense, though, to the idea that liking any "fun" film, Bay-made or not, mandates turning off one's brain. Hardly. That's where this ridiculous pastiche of pop mayhem is most enjoyable - the key, I think, is to not take it so effing seriously. Sure, there's stupidity within - the twins, the totally unnecessary sideplot of government antagonism, etc. - but I think that's more of a mirror than a reinforcement thereof. My only real complaint after a second viewing was overlength, but even that might be more a matter of my having attended a 10:15 pm showing than any actual flaws in the movie. It's a ridiculous drug of pure savage excess, like something William Hurt would've taken in Altered States. And I want it again."

Harry Potter films - such as they must exist, given their tentpole status for Warner Brothers - seem to require certain concessions from everyone outside the core target of Fans of the Books. Rather than attempting immersion on purely cinematic levels, a consideration of these films seems fair only when hinged on such "under the circumstances" attributes; only the bold Alfonso Cuaron totally broke free from studio oversight (or at least felt like he did) in Prisoner of Azkaban, the third film. Now three films worth of aesthetic recoil later, The Half-Blood Prince comes to us encumbered by similar issues of narrative balance as the majority of its predecessors - what matters to making this a good film versus what matters in selling this to a zealot-like audience? Personally, I prefer coming to these films as I always have - fan of the books, but with only faint memories of reading them (I've only read the first more than once). Tellingly, the best of the films have been those that made me feel least like I was re-reading their source material on the screen, and so I found Prince's almost whispy, broad-stroke handling of the plot more satisfying in the manner of pure cinema than that of a tedious connecting of the dots. Not every decision made in streamlining this story was wise, however - the climax is foreshadowed for virtually the entire film, first breathtakingly subtle (in an opening pre-title scene with Harry and Dumbledore) , but only to go directly into thuddening blatancy. Visual and verbal wit reignsas the specials of the day, however (yes, this is how some high schoolers talk); thoughtfully expressive compositions, in their vast, almost embracing depth, suggest a silent film made today, while the effects are less annoyingly "ooh-ahh-special" than I'd come to anticipate - instead, they're more texturally banal so as to ground the proceedings in a believable habitat in which magic is a simple fact of life (as opposed to box office pandering). Were the film more consistently awe-inspiring (a madhouse chase through a wheat field suggests the Days of Heaven climax by way of Lynch), or the cast but a sliver more emotionally game (while quite honed and precise in their ever-deepening displays, these veterans nevertheless seem a little tired, even if such is otherwise appropriate given the long-term status of their characters' plights), and this might have been the most sterling Potter entry to date. Such as it is at first glance, it comes damn close.

Thank you, Roger, for bringing this clip to my attention. As I'm mounting a review of The Rock (proof that Michael Bay can be talented when he wants to), it's a much-needed bit of hilarity in the wake of Transformers 2.

If Miami Vice was Michael Mann's freestyle celebration of identity and the need for spiritual release, Public Enemies is that work's paralleling, appropriately somber meditation on mortality - a harrowing rattle from its opening scenes of shackled prisoners marching in unison through the subsequent, episodic exploits in which legendary gangster John Dillinger and his cohorts fall to the determined lawmen in pursuit. Comparable to Heat's cop/criminal plot structure in surface details only, Enemies' primary characters aren't defined so much by existential hang-ups as they are by hunger for life. "I want it all, right now" tells Dillinger (Johnny Depp) after wooing lower class beauty Billie Frechette (Marion Cottilard); Christian Bale, effectively correcting his egotistical turn in Terminator Salvation, siphers off any trace of movie star charisma with exquisite understatedness as FBI agent Melvin Purvis, head of the team assigned to capture Dillinger. Though less ravishing than Vice, Public Enemies again finds Mann forging new ground in the digital arts; heavy grain emphasizes an anti-romantic view of material typically overshadowed by its own cinematic mythology, a subversive choice that comes full circle when Dillinger attends a Clarke Gable gangster film on the night of his death. Public Enemies diminishes one's expected visceral distance - every gunshot and bloodstain bears the heft of an unfolding present tense, none more cage-rattling than the chilling image of Baby Face Nelson (Stephen Graham) firing erratically as bullets riddle his chest, collapsing only to exhale a final, frosty breath.

Iain Stott of The On-Line Review is asking critics and film-lovers to compile lists of their choices for the "fifty greatest films". For my own purposes, I made this as much of a balance as possible between personal favorites and - as near as anyone can objectively tell such a thing - the actual "best" films I've seen. Many that I weren't able to include damn near broke my heart; apologies, in no particular order, to James Cameron, Charlie Chaplin, Sergio Leone, Luis Buñuel, Dario Argento, Michael Mann, Milos Forman, Paul Thomas Anderson, Wes Anderson, Jonathan Demme, F.W. Murnau, Quentin Tarantino, Abbas Kiarostami, James Whale, Harold Ramis, Sophia Coppola, Hiroshi Shimizu, Peter Jackson, and many more. I'd rather not have anyone think of this as a definitive selection, but rather an in-the-moment representation of the works that I consider most important and influential to myself (even then, I'd probably have had to include another 50 just to cover all the essentials). Below is my photo essay top ten, followed by 40 unranked honorable mentions.

1. 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968, Stanley Kubrick)

2. Ikiru (1952, Akira Kurosawa)

3. McCabe and Mrs. Miller (1971, Robert Altman)

4. Citizen Kane (1941, Orson Welles)

5. Dr. Strangelove, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Bomb (1964, Stanley Kubrick)

6. Aguirre, the Wrath of God (1972, Werner Herzog)

7. The Searchers (1954, John Ford)

8. Assault on Precinct 13 (1976, John Carpenter)

9. Breaking the Waves (1996, Lars Von Trier)

10. Night of the Living Dead (1968, George A. Romero)

I’m sick of this notion that movie critics don’t like to have fun. Like any broad accusation, it's pure cop-out, especially when founded on the basis of but a handful of films, as is usually the case. Though a minority opinion in my circles, I liked the first Transformers. It was big, loud, and dumb in that manner that recalls the childhood ambition of instilling life in one’s toys. More importantly, it stayed just behind the line of headache-inducing excess that stands as the starting point of this new film. Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen is to its predecessor like a medieval torture chamber to a playground, but that won’t keep many from swallowing it hook, line and sinker, quickly and indiscriminately. I can only hope that my feelings here are the general consensus – not just for critics, but for human beings. Few elements of Fallen are completely odious unto themselves, but rolled together it becomes a wave of inescapable proportions – a literal tsunami of shit.

Recently, some disputes (i.e. comments from people with nothing better to do) have arisen regarding some of my designations at Rotten Tomatoes. How dare I change my "fresh" status of Up to "rotten" - the nerve! I won't deny the satisfaction that comes from a much-commented upon post (34 and counting), and surely, being only one of five green splotches out of 200 does make one stand out. But whereas I left the screening of Up feeling a bit let down (deflated?), it wasn't until a few days later that the overall distaste became more apparent. It was at this point that I decided to let my less-than-pleased voice be heard. Admittedly, I prefer to leave reviews untouched once they've been published, but when so very little is required to tip the scales, methinks a short amount of hindsight should be allowed to creep its way in. (I hope to see Up again, and soon. It is not lightly I say the film disappointed me, and what was good was so good that I sincerely hope the rest of it goes down smoother next time.)

Which leads me to the thought of how ridiculously silly the whole fresh/rotten concept is when taken to the extreme, however necessary it may be to the marketability of criticism (even Roger Ebert, who patented the thumbs up/thumbs down system, has lamented the constrictions it imposes). Anyone to have even somewhat frequently visited this site beyond the recent past will surely have noticed the complete visual overhaul (thank you, Ryan), part of which includes the removal of assigned ratings on individual reviews. This has undoubtedly been the greatest of several anxiety-reducing reliefs I've enjoyed as a result of this process (for the record, though, I've retained high and low ratings on RT for the sake of my best- and worst-reviewed film pages, which I consider excellent resources). What better way to kill a discussion of the arts than to flatten a numeric or alphabetical key and call it a day?

Recently I met a girl who told me their boyfriend only saw those films with an 85% or higher Tomatometer score (best pronounced tohm-muh-tom-me-ter); it took every ounce of sociability in my being to not rag on that hideous bit of flawed logic. Sure, something that appeals to almost everybody stands a chance at actually being good, but even though I enjoy The King, the cliche is true: 50 million Elvis fans can be wrong. Such attitudes speak volumes about the diminished role of opinion diversity in today's culture, both for movies and at large. They also ignore the fact that a movie that everyone only kind of likes will easily score higher than a movie that divides audiences into categories of equal love and hate; so much for challenging ourselves or that adventurous virtue of trying new things. More often than not, I'd rather see what's sparked conflicting discussions than mere praise, and it's no surprise that some of my favorite films from recent years are all of rotten status, or nearly so.

Anymore, it means more to simply like or dislike something than to express why one feels the way they do - a surface-bound approach that is superficial at best, aggressively regressive at worst (as Medfly Quarantine's Ryan Kelly aptly puts it, "this ADD wave of film criticism"). Just look at what pigeonhole-obsessed modes of thought have done to our political health: if you're not with us, you're against us, red state/blue state, rightwing nutjob or baby-killing liberal. It's a form of logic I can't stand because it forgoes progress for pride and perpetuates the notion that it's better to "be right" in the moment than to work together in order to approach a long-term solution. Quotes Roger Ebert, "It is not enough to like a film. One must like it for the right reasons." The same applies to all aspects and walks of life. Of course, I will still use Rotten Tomatoes, as both a critic and user; the problem here is not the tool, but how it has been wielded. Some might be happy with the red and green offered by that titular fruit. I want the whole god damn rainbow.