The answer, the practically direct to video “Trespass,” gets as close to an answer as we’re likely to see. And it ain’t pretty.

No one is shocked to see Cage line up another clunker, but how did Nicole Kidman and director Joel Schumacher get lassoed into this mess?

Cage plays Kyle, a wealthy diamond merchant living in the kind of home that screams .001 percent. He’s clearly hiding something from his beautiful wife Sarah (Nicole Kidman), but we don’t have time to dig through their neuroses before a band of invaders trick their way into Kyle’s compound.

The ruse is so obvious even Barney Fife might have blown the whistle on them, but the story has to start somewhere, right?

Once inside, the invaders demand Kyle open his safe and give them all of his diamonds and loot. Kyle refuses, and a poorly calibrated cat and mouse game begins. The wild card may be the couple’s daughter (“Trust” star Liana Liberato), who fled the house earlier in the evening and is expected home soon.

It doesn’t take long before Cage is contorting his face and doing what he does best – pretending he can elevate material with his Herculean acting gestures. But now it’s Kidman and the rest of the cast following suite. Ben Mendelsohn, the picture of wicked restraint in “Animal Game,” catches Cage Fever early in the film as one of the home intruders.

Schumacher, for all the heat he took over “Batman & Robin,” isn’t a hack by any standard. But it’s hard to argue otherwise here. The film’s over-emoting could be singled out as its undoing, but you could also point a crooked finger at the silly flashbacks or a script that delights in implausible twists.

The villains in “Trespass” are dumb and inconsistent, their various back stories cluttering the screen to negative effect. They threaten to shoot Kyle and Sarah if they don’t do as told, and then they threaten them again after they resist … and then it happens all over again. They’re robbing the house under a serious time constraint, but they let things linger until even Kyle is probably thinking, “I hope you kill me before the clock strikes midnight. Sheesh.”

A sexual subplot can’t even get the film’s pulse racing. Or even running in place.

The home invasion genre is sturdy enough to withstand plenty of abuse, but that was before Cage and co. got their hands on it.

But 99.5 percent of terrible movies are just … terrible. That’s especially evident with the following five features, a quintet which cost millions to produce and yielded very little in return.

Dishonorable mentions include “The Change Up,” “Green Lantern,” “Larry Crowne,” “Sucker Punch” and “A Good Old Fashioned Orgy.” But these five movies went above and beyond the call of duty in draining precious hours from our lives.

1. “Just Go With It” – Wow. Just wow. The laziest comedy in who knows how long wastes not only the talents of stars Adam Sandler and Jennifer Aniston but also bit players Nicole Kidman and Dave Matthews. Sandler can challenge us (“Punch Drunk Love”), make us smile (“The Wedding Singer”) and even give us some grand guilty pleasures (“You Don’t Mess with the Zohan”). But with this sorry remake of “Cactus Flower” shows he can arrive on a movie set, recite dialogue less thought out than a Mad Libs sheet and call it a day without doing some rigorous soul searching.
2. “Dylan Dog: Dead of Night” – Insert your own Superman crashes back to Earth gag here. Poor Brandon Routh received precious little career buzz from his underrated work in the 2006 Man of Steel reboot. Five years later, he’s reduced to starring in this wannabe horror comedy about an undead hunter trying to … well, is there any point reciting such a sorry excuse for a plot?
3. “Your Highness” – Danny McBride is not a movie star, James Franco isn’t the next Steve Martin and Natalie Portman should know better than to appear in a fifth-rate “Monty Python” sketch stretched beyond the breaking point. Best suited for teenage boys jazzed to see their first R-rated movie no matter how painful the experience may be.
4. “The Human Centipede – Full Sequence” – “Fear Factor” contestants should be forced to watch this on an IMAX screen. Every criticism unfairly lobbed at the first “Centipede” hits the mark in this gross and mindless affair. The concept – a “Centipede” fan wants to emulate his favorite movie – might have worked had writer/director Tom Six not decided to eschew the storytelling prowess he flashed in the grisly original.
5. “Apollo 18” – It’s amazing how many scares Hollywood has wrung out of the found footage genre, from “The Blair Witch Project” to three chilling “Paranormal Activity” films. That means we were bound to endure a mega-bomb like this outer space claptrap.

* Note: My schedule did not allow me to view other potential clunkers like “Jack and Jill,” “Bucky Larson: Born to be a Star” and “Dream House.”

(Reuters) – Quoting from “The King’s Speech,” the Oscar-winning movie about his great-grandfather, Prince William projected his royal voice to woo the Hollywood power crowd in a bid with wife Kate to promote young British talent.

He in black tie, she in a pleated lavender Alexander McQueen gown, the young newlyweds on Saturday night set a tone of classic elegance for the most high-profile event in their three-day visit to the United States.

Hollywood royalty — from actors Tom Hanks, Nicole Kidman, and Barbra Streisand to studio mogul Harvey Weinstein — turned out for the couple of the moment at the $25,000 a table gala organized by British Academy for Film and Television (BAFTA), of which William is president.

“I would like to thank Colin Firth for my perfect opening line — I have a voice,” William joked with the crowd, quoting one of the most famous lines in the 2010 movie about King George VI, the father of Queen Elizabeth who overcame a stammer.

Alas, Oscar winner Firth was not there nor were many established British actors. William and BAFTA instead wanted to introduce 42 emerging British actors, producers, writers and videogame designers to the movers and shakers of the entertainment capital of the world.

“Please give them the opportunities that you have always extended to some of the brightest and best that Britain has to offer,” William told the gathering at the Belasco, a restored theater in downtown Los Angeles.

“When American and British creative talent gets together, magic happens. Let’s continue the winning formula.”

British actor Stephen Fry praised the idea to promote Brits in Hollywood while fascination with the royal couple was at its height following their April wedding.

“Royalty creates a glamour, prestige and luster that trumps anything Hollywood can produce,” Fry said.

Full article here.

As a long-time fan, it pains me to open this article talking about Urban’s demons and but for their impact on his musical direction it would be none of my business.  It is also too bad that it was under this cloud that his name became more recognized outside his original fan base, for this is a man who has struggled harder, suffered more setbacks, and yet all along possessed more raw talent and musical virtuosity than most artists in any musical genre, let alone country music.  That he was a transplanted Aussie trying for years to break into the parochial Nashville scene beyond doing session work (for which he was renowned), and all the rejection and frustration this implies, makes his ultimate achievement of music super-stardom that much more worthy of praise.  It also explains his tortured past where drugs and alcohol were often all he could turn to during the lean, lonely years. The contrast of his years of clawing his way to the top of the music scene vis-à-vis the coronation of twenty-something American Idol insta-stars needs no comment.  I mean no disrespect to Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood among others, for they deserve their accolades.  But Keith’s success has come through the old-fashioned dues-paying route and so garners more respect in my book.

One can follow his personal journey of ups and downs through his many albums, starting in 1999 with his eponymous first solo release that contains such soul-searching tunes as Out on My Own and his first hit But for the Grace Of God.  His work is, in fact, a mirror held up to himself.  He even tackles his own battle with addiction in the haunting You’re Not My God (from his second LP, Golden Road).  Urban’s anthology also offers us happier glimpses of the bubbling optimism that exudes from his persona in Live to Love Another Day, Better Life and the wonderful God’s Been Good to Me (my favorite tune from my personal favorite 2004 album, Be Here).

A rather dramatic moment came in February of 2007 when Urban, fresh out of rehab, appeared on Saturday Night Live. He stood before us a contrite looking, humbled man, with a genuine desire to right any pains he’d caused those closest to him.  Belting out his passionate rendition of  Sarah Buxton’s  introspective Stupid Boy from his aptly titled Love Pain & The Whole Crazy Thing it was clear that this was a man on a mission to live a better life.

And so he has.  Urban has shown that indeed love conquers all.  He will tell anyone who cares to listen that his wife Nicole “saved his life” and he means that quite literally as well as metaphorically.  His latest release, Get Closer, is a series of love letters to her.

Get Closer is a solid album with great guitar work (naturally) and some pleasing melodies, but it is not without demerits. Mainly, after three or four songs in a row in which he professes his love for his wife, and, well, just being in love, it gets a little much.  Certainly I would caution diabetics to listen at their own risk.  I mean, it wouldn’t have killed him after finishing Put You In A Song, Without You, and All For You to lay down a few tracks that talk about trucks, trains, or antlers, would it?  He is, after all, a country singer.  Even such a cool tune as Georgia Woods, in which he echoes the Marshall Tucker Band in his wailing guitar work, is somewhat diminished by it being, yet again, a love song.  Come on bro. You’re still a man, man!  Hit me with another Where The Blacktop Ends or Who Wouldn’t Wanna Be Me once in a while. Don’t forget your fans who still got a pair.

Maybe I’m just not a hopeless romantic, but in this latest CD which seems an extension of his penultimate Defying Gravity (they could have been a two-record set even) I sometimes wonder if he’s putting himself too much out there.  A man has to keep a little bit of himself for himself… if anything to prevent from being too vulnerable during the inevitable rough patches that all relationships encounter.  Life can still be harsh as Urban of all people should know.

But Keith has defied the odds his entire adulthood so if anyone can make what he describes as a “happy place in my life” last, it’s him.  He owes his wife a life debt and he knows it.  This is a powerful incentive to put her above himself, which he clearly does if his music is any guide.  And she in turn seems to have found serenity in the arms of a man who, by all accounts, is a very affable guy who has found true love after all these years.

It is rare to encounter such talent, humility, and decency among the super-star elites.  Perhaps that is the medium of Country Music, which by its nature is more approachable, but I think it’s just the way Keith Urban rolls.  So keep rolling on, brother, and enjoy the well-earned ride.  Good on ya, mate.

—–

[On a personal note: my wife and I can attest to what a  down-to-earth guy he is.  During her birthday present concert, Urban took time out from his set to acknowledge her special day and even give her a congratulatory hug while a very secure husband (so she thinks) looked on in gratitude.]

I’m not sure which I admire most about writer/director Alejandro Amenábar’s beautifully crafted haunted house spooker, how well he executes the ingenious concept of telling his story from the point of view of ghosts who don’t know that they’re the ones haunting the house or the mind-blowingly effective sound design that adds a subliminal layer of tension and suspense to everything, including the seemingly innocent actions of a door closing or key turning. Regardless, this is one of the rare modern horror films that earns its considerable scares with no onscreen violence of any kind. That distinctive quality, combined with pitch perfect performances and a thoroughly engrossing mystery all told in a tight 101 minutes, makes for the kind of frights the whole family can enjoy.

Set in a remote mansion on the Channel Islands just after the end of WWII, Grace (Nicole Kidman), a tightly wound woman whose husband never returned from the war, always appears to be on the verge of losing it as she attempts to hold on to a semblance of normalcy for the sake of her two sickly children, Charles and Anne. Any light brighter than a candle might kill both children and so, as she explains to her three new servants, the house must be treated like a submarine with each door locked behind you in order to compartmentalize the light and ensure the children aren’t accidentally exposed.

With the arrival of these servants – who may or may not be part of the problem – comes a series of inexplicable and unsettling occurrences. Anne swears there’s someone else in the house, spirits in the form of a boy named Victor and his family who want the place for themselves. When a thorough search turns up nothing and no one, Grace is not only faced with the possibility that Anne might be right, but also a crisis of her devout Catholic faith. Eventually this will all lead to a number of troubling revelations, the least among them being that our protagonists are the spirits, not Victor and company.

For my money, this is the last truly impressive performance of Nicole Kidman’s career. The Academy Award-winner knocks it out of the park as a woman you very much want to sympathize with even as you can’t quite get a grasp of who she really is. The importance of this performance in paying off the film’s final reveal can’t be under-estimated. Also, at the risk of being accused of ad hominem, this is also the last time Kidman looked, well, real. An actor’s physicality is as important a part of their arsenal as anything else, and whatever it was that so plasticized Kidman’s delicate beauty has become something of a distraction ever since.  

From the moment of the terrified scream that announces the story, “The Others” not only wraps you up in its damp and creepily quiet atmosphere, but along the way takes the time to examine the many unanswered questions of faith and God and what happens after we die for our sins without hitting you over the head with trite answers. In a word, Amenábar delivers an intelligent story, one that’s even better the second time around.

—–

What didn’t make the countdown: A Nightmare on Elm Street (1984)

When first released during the winter of ’84 I was a high school senior, the demographic writer/director and horror legend Wes Craven was targeting, and hit the target he did with an incredibly successful venture that would spawn a ton of sequels and horror icon Freddy Krueger (Robert Englund). For whatever reason, Freddy just never did anything for me. In fact, I find the story of a child killer who stalks the dreams of attractive teens (Johnny Depp among them) more fun to watch today than I did at the time. Though never scary or even suspenseful, Englund infuses the chaos with a nice sense of humor and because it wasn’t self-consciously created to work as one, “Nightmare” is pretty effective as a wayback machine to those halcyon days when Ronald Reagan ran America, Van Halen ruled the radio, Redd Foxx was still alive, and we still had ”Married With Children” to look forward to, to help us through life after high school in the real world.

Sadly, the new musical “Nine” – despite having a stellar cast of multiple Oscar winners including Daniel Day-Lewis, Marion Cotillard, Penelope Cruz and Nicole Kidman – won’t be burning itself into film fans’ collective memory. Despite an $80 million budget, spectacular Italian scenery and zestily performed choreography (including an unbelievably sexy number by Cruz – ok, that one might stick in the brain), the film is packed with characters, situations and song topics that are unrelatable to most people and often downright unlikable.

Day-Lewis is the central figure around whom “Nine” revolves, playing an Italian film director named Guido Contini who’s in the midst of a personal and creative crisis with ten days to go before shooting starts on his new film. He hasn’t written one word of his script down, and is creatively paralyzed by the fact his last two films have bombed. When faced with a high-pressure press conference in which reporters start to catch on that he is devoid of ideas and headed for disaster, Contini sneaks out and flees to a getaway hotel, where he sorts through his crisis via real and imagined encounters with the numerous women – from his mother (Sophia Loren) to various lovers (Cruz and Fergie of the Black Eyed Peas), his wife (Cotillard) and muse (Kidman) – who have had a profound effect on his life.

“Nine” is based on the life of the legendary director Federico Fellini, whose semi-autobiographical and surreal film “8 1/2” offered a far more fascinating and vibrant look into the mix of genius and madness at the heart of any great artist. “Nine” itself began as a smash-hit, Tony Award-winning Broadway play in 1982 and has been a dream project for countless Hollywood stars and producers in the nearly three decades since.

It’s easy to see why Hollywood types would be so enraptured by the play’s concept, as it’s centered on spoiled, whiny people who have the world on a string and still can’t find happiness – equating their creative blocks with epic tragedy. I’ve dreamed of working in Hollywood my entire life and I still couldn’t stand Guido’s incessant moaning about his career, so I can’t even imagine what people who just want to hear some fun songs and don’t have any particular fixation on show business will make of this. I would give anything to see this with an audience of Texans or Arkansans among whom I spent my formative years, because they’ll likely greet these characters with catcalls and hilarious commentary if they bother to attend at all.

The musical numbers in “Nine” are mostly lacking in magic as well. When the big showstopping number is “Cinema Italiano” and involves an admittedly smokin’ hot Kate Hudson incessantly singing “Guido, Guido, Guido” about 50 times at each chorus, we’re not exactly talking tunes that will stand the test of time, like “My Favorite Things” in “The Sound of Music.”

Director Rob Marshall, who brought the movie musical back to life after decades of neglect with his Best Picture-winning “Chicago” in 2002, also has a weakness in both films for making too many numbers feel artificial and stage-bound, rather than organically blending into the real world the way the Von Trapp family climbed real mountains or “Mary Poppins” danced on rooftops (even if they were fake rooftops, at least they weren’t blatantly bare stages).

“Nine” has several numbers that take place on Contini’s main soundstage, and no matter how hard the dancers are working it, the false sets are tiresome and detract from the magic. Marshall also hurts the potentially transcendent qualities of the songs by cutting in and out between the characters singing and dancing in their imaginations or subconscious states, and the often-drab real-world scenarios they’re in. For instance, Guido has one of the few relatable songs in the film with his own opening number about his lifelong desire for artistic greatness, but his terrific vocals and dancing prowess are constantly broken up by shots of him looking anguished at his press conference.

Ultimately, “Nine” – which opens widely on Christmas Day – is like an elaborately packaged fruitcake brought to a holiday dinner. Glossy on the surface with impressive wrapping, it might appear to be something worth tasting, but take the shiny surface away and you’re left with something that nobody will truly savor.

There are a lot of films that scared us as kids, and still scare us. Many of the films today are far too graphic for my tastes. Heck, most of television is, too, for that matter. So, I should say right at the outset that I’m not a fan of gore, not in any way shape or form. I know some folks out there are big on the stuff, but not me. Sure, I’ve seen some, the classic Herschell Gordon Lewis, Romero and Savini works, but none of the modern multi-sequel films that grace our theaters with single word titles. I don’t mind being scared. As most would agree, we all need a good scare every now and then. It’s good for you. It’s thrilling. But gore isn’t thrilling for me. It’s sickening. I like to be thrilled, I don’t wish to be sick. Besides, I’ve seen enough of the footage and descriptions of films like “Saw” and “Hostel,” which I rebel against, regardless of how “intelligent” or “clever” they are reported to be.

So, as I began to write this essay, as the wind and rain hit my window, I started to think on things that scare me. Matt Damon came to mind. Not because he’s scary or anything, of course, but because I noticed just the other day that the popular actor announced, quite out of the blue, that he’s not interested in working on films that have gratuitous violence in them.

He said, “I always look at the violence (in a script). I don’t want it to be gratuitous because I do believe that has an effect on people’s behavior. I really do believe that and I have turned down movies because of that.”

Wow.

I had to stop for a second after I first saw that, since I associate him with films which contain explosive, deadly violence. Right now, there are very few characters more lethal than Bourne for their efficiency in killing people to death, at least in the main stream. Obviously I wasn’t the only one who noticed the incongruity between his words and his roles. Damon’s statement that aside from Bourne, he has turned down many-a-script that contained violence could very well be true. I have to take him at his word, since I’m sure he receives tons of scripts every day that have him climbing, kicking and wrenching the feathers out of very bad good guys from Finland to Fuji. So, I asked myself why would he take this suddenly public stand? This was the first time I had seen an A-list actor, a very liberal A-list actor, at that, confessing such a view in public and to a news outlet, no less. Stunning. No other word to describe it.

Two days later, I saw a small news piece where Nicole Kidman was basically saying the same thing, not that she turns down violent scripts, but that she believes media influences behavior:

“Asked if the movie industry has “played a bad role,” Kidman said “probably,” but quickly added that she herself doesn’t. “I can’t be responsible for all of Hollywood but I can certainly be responsible for my own career,” she said.

Wait a minute.

So here were two very big stars, stating in no uncertain terms that media influences behavior, and can do so in bad ways, two days apart. This, after years and years of denying it and ridiculing those who believe media plays a huge part in influencing behavior, our culture, they come out with this. Two days apart!  As long as I can remember remembering, I’ve read and heard from professors, media experts, authors, artists and filmmakers, from friends and foe alike that media doesn’t influence. Period. End of story. Get over it, etc.

To be fair to those two actors, they didn’t deny it or ridicule others, but their industry, Hollywood, has made that denial, that firm stance, the unmovable rampart against the charges that their product, their message is increasingly detrimental, that it’s screwing up our kids and us.

So, I had to wonder why would not one, but two big celebrities come out with very similar statements mere days apart. All I could think of was they want to be on the right side of the facts when some soon-to-be-released study by an organization embraced by Hollywood, such as Harvard, Yale, or Jon Stewart hits the net or news stands. Who knows? But, as I looked out through the glass at the dark foreboding skies, I suddenly remembered something. I remembered the recent news on severely declining box office receipts and DVD sales. I remembered John Nolte’s essay and all the others on the subject. And then it all clicked. “I know what’s going on here,” I said to my reflection in the window. Fear is what’s going on here.

Which leads me to something almost as scary as Hollywood actors making statements to the press. A movie that scared me with very little more than fear. No blood or violence or graphic anything. Just good old fashioned fear.

I’m not a huge fan of “The Blair Witch Project,” but I do give the filmmakers kudos for their idea, for their execution of it, and for their spunk. I hate spunk (No, just kidding, I love spunk, but I can’t hear that without thinking of Lou Grant’s famous reply to Mary). Anyway, the filmmakers of  “The Blair Witch Project” mentioned some of the things that inspired them in their “fresh approach” to producing their now famous hoax film. Among the lot was an overlooked little film of the 70s.  I had noticed the similarity of the film that they mentioned and their own hugely successful project right off the bat. I noticed it minutes into their wooded project. So, I was glad to see they acknowledged it at least.

The Legend of Boggy Creek

This little gem scared the dickens out of me as a kid.  For those who haven’t seen it, I won’t ruin it, if that’s even possible, with any spoilers. But I will give you a very brief rundown of it, just so you know where I’m coming from and why.  To a boy, it aroused tremendous fear; to an adult, I wonder about where that fear comes from.

The film starts out with a disclaimer that “This is a true story.” Right there, you got me. I’m already hooked. I’m not sure why that is – undoubtedly an expert psychologist can explain it with some long words that will take another expert psychologist to interpret. I’ll leave the business of that to them and just be satisfied with knowing it’s a swell gimmick with a set-up that can’t lose.

After a few dark, and yes, boggy images of a swamp, dead trees and scenes of late Autumn, a scene Andrew Wyatt or Charles Sheeler might paint on a depressing day, we get a young boy in denim overalls, the kind Opie would wear, and looking like a lot of kids looked in the 70s, running across a golden, sunlit field. He’s not goin’ fishin’ and he’s not havin’ fun. In fact, he looks terrified. We hear howls and hoots of various animals echoing off in the distance as he runs along. He makes it to a country store where the local gentry, the older men are sitting around chin wagging. Out of breath, he blurts out that his mama sent him to get help, because “there’s some kinda bayou man down by the woods and the creek.”

The men laugh it off and send the boy on his way, certain it’s just the overactive imaginations of mother and child. He runs back home across the same fields with the sun now setting and the spaces between the trees getting gloomier by the minute. Suddenly, he stops when he hears a sound echoing in the distance. We hear it too. It’s the angry howling of the beast.

In a narration reminiscent of Earl Hamner Jr., a comforting male voice-over describes his little town and how it was when he was a kid, that kid. The scenes are of pleasant fields, trees, and woods. It’s a picturesque though remote “neck of the woods.” Playful country music is used to make us feel at home, down home in this place known as Fouke, Arkansas, population 350. This, he tells us, is his recollection of what happened to that town back when he was seven years old. The comforting voice of the narrator goes on to welcome us in, in a neighborly way, describing the post office and the gas station, the school, garage, motel and a couple of cafes “where the men stop-by to discuss the fish they caught, or the duck, quail or deer they’ve hunted.”  He then introduces some of the good sturdy folk of Fouke and how most are “farmers or ranchers.” Not exactly the kind that scare easily. Again, a good set-up.

He sums it up with the killer line: “Fouke is a right, pleasant place to live… until the sun goes down.”

What happens after that isn’t so picturesque at all. We get a documentary style format showing a variety of the characters, real or imagined, that the story presents as true. All sorts of recollections of dead animals, mauled hogs, pet dogs and others that were either found scared to death, ripped apart like rag dolls or just plain disappeared. The characters whose names are displayed on screen all seem trustworthy and basic, simple folk, not the kind who want publicity. And it’s all shot as if it came off the same reel as that Paterson big foot footage we’ve all seen.

We are then treated to a variety of episodes where the creature, the Fouke Monster, as it came to be called, terrorizes the locals in various ways. These “reenactments” based on our trusted narrator’s words along with the very amateur quality of the production add to its realism. Descriptions by farmers of 200-pound hogs carried over barbed wire, dogs and cats slain wet our appetite setting us up for the real big hit, which doesn’t really strike us so much as it dampens, like wet socks or a soaked sleeping bag on a camping trip.

The narrator further sets the tone with his ominous, “I doubt if you could find a lonelier, spookier place in this country than down around Boggy Creek.”

Sure, there are some sudden shocking moments, some classic fright magic, but it’s all a consequence of the set-ups we were treated to. Without them, the frights would not last much longer than the frames they took to show, which are minimal. The film really doesn’t show much at all, actually. But the implication of what is “out there” and “running on two legs” is clear and never far from our minds. A monster is stalking the woods at night. Is it man or beast? What does it want? Is it going to hurt us?

There’s no teen angst, no sex scenes and no hot tubs. There are no rowdy bullies who get their just desserts after picking on the cute couple. No car chases or explosions. No special weaponry or resourcefulness to make any. There isn’t even a gruff and disbelieving sheriff who always finds out the hard way how wrong he was to dismiss the whole thing. Nope, none of that stuff. What there is are very average, simple, vulnerable people in cabins or mobile homes, far from telephones or neighbors who all alone, or in small groups, get the stuffing scared out of them by something outside. There’s also fierce hunting dogs whimpering and turning back at the first whiff of the monster, motorists narrowly missing the creature as he runs across the road and more vignettes adding to the overall feeling of fear. There’s also a very odd musical segment that might very well be the scariest thing in the movie! The entire film is really nothing more than a loosely connected string of “documented” incidents described in a fashion not unlike a darker episode of
“In Search of…” (which by no strange coincidence was another inspiration to the filmmakers of “The Blair Witch Project”).

I saw this film with my brother and sisters. I was a small boy, not unlike the lad depicted. And even though I exited the theater into a hot, hazy and bustling normal afternoon in the city, bereft of anything wooded or rustic, I was still very anxious to get home as fast as possible. I was certain that the Fouke Monster, that “huge hairy creature watching from the shadows” was somewhere out there, behind a parked car or hiding in a dark stairwell waiting to rip my neck out like he did those dogs, which we never actually saw him do. I really didn’t see much, did I? But, boy did it scare me. And perhaps, sometimes, when the sun goes down and the wind howls, like the now all grown-up little boy says in the film, “and it scares me now, too”

Now Kidman, like many Hollywood stars who want to prove that they’re more than just pretty faces, is involved in A Cause. Like Meryl Streep’s concern about healthy produce and Heather Graham for ObamaCare, Kidman wants to Save Something. To that end, she is the goodwill ambassador for the UN Development Fund for Women, known as UNIFEM and in that capacity, recently testified before Congress to plead for more support for the program (read: cold, hard cash).

The big story that came out of that appearance was Kidman’s concession that the film industry might play a role in violence toward women by portraying them as weak. That may be true, but it’s a topic for another day.

 Kidman’s desire to help women in need is admirable. But she might want to consider an outlet other than the UN to do this good work.

The UN is not only one of the most corrupt and inept organizations in the world, but one with highly questionable values. Here’s a sampling of the UN in action:

• UN Agency Calls for Teaching Children 5-8 Years of Age about Masturbation
• Congo observers slaughtered after 6 days of unanswered pleas to UN for rescue
• Worldwide Taxes Come One Step Closer
• Committee: UN Allowed ‘Corrupt Behavior’ in Oil-for-Food Program

And this is the organization that tries to tell everyone else what’s what? The one that do-gooders like Kidman want so desperately to be a part of because it’s “respected?”

But perhaps one of the most egregious stories to come out of the fetid cesspool that is the UN is this one:

With the United Nations already under fire for the Oil-for-Food mega-scandal and other corruption, sensational allegations of rampant sexual exploitation and rape of young girls and women by the U.N.’s so-called “peacekeepers” and civilian staffers in the Congo is dragging the global body’s reputation to an all-time low.

In a new report referring to the widespread sex scandal as “the U.N.’s Abu Ghraib,” the London Times provides some specific examples, including:

• A French U.N. logistics expert in the Congo shot pornographic movies in his home, in which he had converted his bedroom into a photo studio for videotaping his sexual abuse of young girls. When police raided his home, the man was allegedly about to rape a 12-year-old girl sent to him in a law enforcement sting operation. As the Times reported, a senior Congolese police officer confirmed the bed was surrounded by large mirrors on three sides, with a remote control camera on the fourth side.
• U.N. officials are worried that the scandal. which already has nettedd 150 allegations of sex crimes by U.N. staffers, will explode if the pornographic videos and photos, now on sale in the Congo, becoming public. “It would be a pretty big problem for the U.N. if these pictures come out,” one senior official told the Times.
• Two Russian pilots paid young girls with jars of mayonnaise and jam to have sex with them, the report adds.
• U.N. “peacekeepers” from Morocco based in Kisangani – a secluded town on the Congo River – are notorious for impregnating local women and girls. In March, an international group probing the scandal found 82 women and girls had been made pregnant by Moroccan U.N. staffers and 59 others by Uruguayan staffers. One U.N. soldier accused of rape was apparently hidden in the barracks for a year. Congo’s Minister of Defense Maj.-Gen. Jean Pierre Ondekane told a top U.N. official that all U.N. “peacekeepers” in Kisangani would be remember for would be “for running after little girls,” the Times reported. 
• And at least two U.N. officials – a Ukrainian and a Canadian – have been forced to leave the African nation after getting local women pregnant.

Most of the sexual abuse and exploitation, says the report, involves trading sex for money, food or jobs. However, some victims say they were raped, but later given food or money to make the incident appear to have been consensual – “rape disguised as prostitution.”

Nice. And the abuse wasn’t limited to the Congo:

The United Nation’s “sex-for-food” scandal continues to spread. As the human rights group Save the Children documents in a new report, U.N. peacekeepers in the war-torn, refugee-rich Liberia have been accused of selling food for sex from girls as young as 8. They are the latest victims in a growing tragedy that includes girls from Burundi, Ivory Coast, East Timor, Congo, Cambodia and Bosnia, proving correct a prediction made last year by the assistant secretary-general at the United Nations for peacekeeping operations. “We think this will look worse before it begins to look better,” she said last May after efforts to investigate peacekeepers in Congo had fallen short.

The report found abuse at all age levels from 8 to 18, though the victims older than 12 were identified as being “regularly involved in ’selling sex’.” But “all of the respondents clearly stated that they felt that the scale of the problem affected over half of the girls in their locations,” the report said.

How much has changed since these scandals were unearthed? I have no idea. But if libs have no trouble continuing to vilify the Catholic Church for its sex scandals years after their exposure and the Church’s attempt to finally do something about them, I have no problem continuing to vilify the UN for its disgustingly dirty laundry. Especially when that organization tends to see itself as the world’s moral arbiter, and demands plenty of money for its continued corrupt existence from nations it constantly lectures on matters of morality and fairness - like the US.

Until the UN cleans house, that organization’s lecturing and moralizing should be taken with a very large grain of salt.

Then there’s the small matter of UNIFEM of Canada honoring Louise Frechette, former Deputy Secretary of the United Nations. What’s the problem, you ask? Well, there seems to have been “a systematic attempt by the Deputy Secretary-General, Canadian Louise Frechette, to block results of audits into the Oil-for-Food program from the Security Council”.

What a great organization!

It’s nice that Nicole Kidman wants to help women around the world. I wish her well in her efforts. But she should give as much care and research to the organizations with which she affiliates herself as she would to a role in a movie.

Last year Miramax released “Doubt,” a high-profile piece of Oscar-bait starring Academy Award winners’ Meryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman. Streep plays a puritanical nun on a moral crusade to expose a Priest (Hoffman) who she believes is sexually abusing a 12 year-old boy. Both characters are portrayed as unsympathetic (especially Streep’s) but in just a couple scenes the boy’s working-class mother (Mrs. Miller, played by Viola Davis) is established as the moral center of the film – the only one truly interested in the welfare of her child. When Mrs. Miller’s informed that her son’s being molested, the Moral Center Of The Film responds that her 12 year-old boy is gay, a social outcast, and beaten regularly by his homophobic father … so maybe the best option for him is a sexual relationship with a forty-something child predator.

Starring Aaron Eckhart, Maria Bello, and written and directed by Oscar-winner Alan Ball, last year’s “Towelhead” is a film Roman Polanski might have seen many, many times while wearing a rain coat. The protagonist is 13 year-old Jasira (played by the then barely eighteen Summer Bishil) and the story surrounds her sexual abuse at the hands of a number of men, including Eckhart’s Gulf War Vet. Rather than the repeated abuse damaging the young girl, the filmmaker portrays the rapes and molestations as a healthy and sexually liberating experience. More than once the audience is “treated” to lingering shots of Jasira’s bare legs as she discovers the joys of the orgasm while masturbating to photographs of naked women.

Kate Winslet won last year’s Best Actress Oscar for her role in “The Reader,” in which she plays a “sympathetic” Nazi guilty of mass murder who seduces and then engages in a steamy sexual affair with a 15 year-old boy. The sex scenes between this mature woman and a child lean heavily on the erotic, as opposed to the creepy. (The “sympathetic Nazi” issue we’ll save for another post.)

Yes, in just one year, Hollywood released three films that in one way or another portrayed sex with children as potentially healthy or their molester as sympathetic. And these aren’t fringe, indie films either. All three involve name stars and Oscar winners.

Unfortunately, this is not a conspiracy. Hollywood deviants never gathered together to plan for a slate of films aimed at a drip-drip campaign designed to dull our moral outrage towards the most heinous crime imaginable. It’s worse than that. We’re up against a culture; the same culture that can’t quite grasp why a child rapist should have to serve prison time for a crime he’s confessed to.

And this is how cinematic propaganda works. Whether the filmmaker’s motivations are good or evil, the idea is to get decent and thoughtful people to start second guessing themselves as they’re enveloped in the dark and held captive by the powerful sound and fury of the moving picture. First we’re led to identify and sympathize with a particular character, then that character does something designed to challenge our belief structure. This can range from, “If John Wayne opposes racism, maybe I should,” to, “Well, if a loving mother is okay with it, maybe I need to get a little more nuanced and tolerant about this whole child-rape thing.”

On its face, that may sound laughable, and maybe it is, but that doesn’t mean our eyes are lying to us. Last year merely topped off a campaign targeted at our children that began some time ago.

In 2006’s “Notes on a Scandal,” Academy Award winner Cate Blanchett plays a school teacher engaged in a steamy sexual affair with one of her students. Like “The Reader,” the sex scenes between a mature woman and her student strive for the erotic and never once does the story stop to examine how such a destructive affair might psychologically affect a teen-aged boy. That same year, in “Little Children,” Jackie Earle Haley was Oscar-nominated for his support work as a molester just released from prison who’s the victim of that favorite Hollywood whipping boy, suburban hypocrisy. Just two years earlier, Kevin Bacon’s heroic molester in “The Woodsman” not only saves the day and wins the pretty girl, but in his valiant struggle to “reform” he’s presented as a kind of “civil rights” metaphor as policemen and “intolerant” co-workers torment him.

The award for Most Unsettling, however, must go to 2004’s “Birth,” where Academy Award winner Nicole Kidman stars as a widow convinced her dead husband has returned in the form of a 10 year-old boy. If watching a near-forty year-old woman exchange longing looks with a little kid isn’t creepy enough, wait till they end up naked in a bathtub together.

Whether it’s true or not that seventy-five years ago Clark Gable nearly bankrupted the t-shirt industry by not wearing one in “It Happened One Night,” what is true is that billions of dollars are spent annually by advertisers convinced sound and images can alter behavior. You’d have to be a fool to make an argument against the persuasive powers of moving images, but those fools do exist. Most of them are liars.

The Hollywood Left is many things but they’re not fools and they fully understand the power of the medium under their control. Certainly, damning everyone who works in the entertainment world would be unfair, but this is also a culture where only a handful of “names” were willing to speak out against the pro-Polanski movement – including many Leftists who have never been shy about speaking out in the past.

The film industry has a history to be proud of when it comes to opposing racism, homophobia and anti-Semitism. Unfortunately, the most vocal from this current crop seem all too ready to tarnish that legacy as they target our children for profit and worse.

Is it too much to ask of the Hollywood Left that they show as much intolerance towards the sexualization of young children as they do towards conservatives and Christians?

That question has already been answered.

And if you’re Tom Cruise, that means you are not only qualified to advise women on how to deal with postpartum depression, but you are also qualified to act as marriage counselor.

That’s right – Tom “Couch Commando” Cruise is, out of the goodness of his heart, David and Victoria Beckham’s new “relationship guru” – because you know with all of their money, they can’t afford a certified therapist:

After an evening with David, Tom decided to have a friendly chat with Victoria about the family’s future, saying it was because he cared so much about all of them,” revealed a source.

“They love each other dearly but Tom is a big believer in talking about issues . He could see they were both worried about the future and what it might hold.”

The Mission Impossible actor is understood to be concerned that the former Spice Girl – who runs a successful fashion empire from her home in the US – will want to stay in Los Angeles while her husband, 35, heads back to Europe.

“He talked to her about David ageing, his football career, the pressures of disgruntled fans, his loneliness when away from the family and how time apart is how marriages can fall apart,” adds the source.

That’s kind of creepy. Tom Cruise giving marriage advice? The man whose current wife is on such a tight leash she can’t even go to work without him there, watching her every move? The same man who, according to reports, rarely lets ex-wife Nicole Kidman see the children they adopted when they were married? The guy whose first wife, Mimi Rogers, reportedly split with him because he was seriously thinking of becoming a monk and felt he had to remain celibate?

Wow, that’s the man I want giving me marriage advice, for sure.

But Cruise is more than just a good friend; he’s a big cheese in the strange world of Scientology and is given credit for the “conversions” of Will Smith and Jada Pinkett. He’s also planning a big recruitment drive while he accompanies Katie on a four-month movie shoot in Australia, which begins this month. (There he goes again, not allowing Katie out of his sight. What, is he afraid she might find someone her own age?)

Remember the Scientology recruiting video starring Cruise, where he claims that Scientologists have “the ability to create new and better realities and improved conditions”? Is this the guy you’d really want giving you advice on anything, let alone how to keep your marriage together?

Run, David and Victoria, run…before it’s too late.