Scrappy diverting poke at Old Hollywood

HAIL, CAESAR! (2016)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I love Hollywood satire and there is enough to admire from the Coens' "Hail, Caesar!" but I did wish there was more to chew on. The targets are there from Old Hollywood, from the Cinemascope movies that used to populate theaters back in the 1950's to the traditional movie fixer Mannix overseeing the production of a big-budget Roman tale, to hiding a pregnancy from a known actress, etc. As I said, there is plenty to look at in "Hail, Caesar!" but the film curiously holds back.

George Clooney is Baird Whitlock, a movie star who looks out of place in Roman soldier gear (Clancy Brown looks more appropriate in a fine cameo). That may be the joke of the film yet it is also the fact that Baird is not all that bright. He is kidnapped and sent to a Hollywood executive's home which is a meeting place for Communists who read books like "Das Kapital" and promote their cause known as "The Future." Why Baird is taken to this Communist meeting is beyond me except maybe to indoctrinate the idiotic actor or teach him the evils of capitalism.

Meanwhile, Eddie Mannix (Josh Brolin, exceedingly good), head of Capitol Pictures, tries to maintain several debacles at once, Baird's kidnapping being one. A cowboy star who can sing but can't act (Alden Ehrenreich) is cast in a sophisticated drama where he has trouble saying the line, "Would that it 'twere so simple." The impatient British director Laurence Lorenz (Ralph Fiennes) has an unforgettably hilarious scene where he endlessly tries to help the actor enunciate with proper diction. Good luck with that. Another debacle is DeeAnna Moran (Scarlett Johansson), the Esther Williams of underwater musicals, who is pregnant and has to hide it - the remedy is to tell the press that she has adopted. Oh, we also got two gossip column sisters, Thora and Thessaly Thacker (both played by Tilda Swinton) who try to get the latest scoop about everything, including Baird's alleged homosexual encounter with Lorenz in the production of a past movie. To make matters worse, Lockheed astonishingly wants Mannix to apply for a position, though it is unclear as to why.

I enjoyed "Hail, Caesar!" overall and any movie that has references to colorful musicals, the H bomb, Communism, Roman epics and untalented actors from a bygone era merits special attention. But the movie doesn't bite hard enough, it is content to swiftly move from one wacky situation to another without enough irony. Some scenes enthrall, such as the showstopping musical numbers, and other scenes lay flat such as the climactic submarine scene that looks as fake and staged as the movies they poke fun at. Unlike the Coens' own masterful Hollywood-skewering flick "Barton Fink" from two decades ago, "Hail, Caesar!" doesn't go for the extra mile or the comical punch it needs - it floats but it lacks a central motor. There are many scenes that made me laugh (love the scarf that nearly chokes a film editor played by Frances McDormand) and many that made me smile (Clooney giving a long impassioned speech in one take ruined by forgetting a line of dialogue). I just expected more mileage out of this scrappy though diverting poke at Old Hollywood.

Dispassionate WWII romance

THE END OF THE AFFAIR (1999)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia 

(Original review from Jam. 2000)

Watching the dispassionate World War II romance "The End of the Affair," one is instantly reminded of "The English Patient" considering it starred the same lead actor, Ralph Fiennes. Fiennes does not strike me as a romantic lead - he somehow has an aura that is too cold and stuffy. Thus, "End of the Affair" is a beautiful film to watch but it suffers from Fiennes's presence.

The film begins literally at the end of the affair. A well-known, London fiction writer named Maurice (Ralph Fiennes) coincidentally meets an old friend, Henry (Stephen Rea), during a rainy evening. Henry, a dour civil servant, had not seen Maurice in years and invites him back to his house for a drink. After a while, Henry confesses that his wife, Sarah Miles (Julianne Moore), may be having an affair and has reluctantly thought of hiring a private detective. Maurice takes matters in his own hands since he knows Sarah - he once had an affair with her and may be quite jealous as well. Thus, writer-director Neil Jordan ("The Crying Game") fractures the timeline by showing us the affair and its consequences, and its inevitable denouement, while Maurice walks through the London streets in the present day to uncover Sarah's supposed infidelity.

"The End of the Affair" is bold in its time fracturing structure, particularly in how it takes us back and forth from the present day to the past sometimes within a single scene. Neil Jordan often cuts away to the past during a scene in the present that mirrors the past. One notable example is when Maurice first arrives at Henry's house and walks up the stairs and there is a cut to a woman's legs being caressed by Maurice as they walk up to the bedroom. Not a new device of cinematic language to be sure but Jordan handles it with delicate skill and panache.

There are a couple of problems with the story, however, that are handled with less skill. For one, the romance between Maurice and Sarah never quite makes us feel the passion of their affair, and the casting of the less than smoldering Fiennes reflects that. Somehow, it never bursts forth with the fireworks one would expect from a romantic story (one can conclude that Stephen Rea might have been a better choice since his relationship with "the lady" in "Crying Game" was far more passionate). To make matters worse the scene in the building where after they have had one of many earth-shaking trysts, a bomb strikes and there is a sense of God's intervention, is handled badly and strikes too many false notes.

The redemptive stroke of genius in "End of the Affair" is the dazzling Julianne Moore, who encapsulates Sarah with delicacy, charm and nuance - plus, she makes a fitting romantic lead. Her British accent is also down pat, but you knew that already if you saw "Big Lebowski" or "An Ideal Husband." Though I would not call this one of her best performances, she still manages to hold her own against Mr. Fiennes.

If "End of the Affair" had a better leading man in the role, someone not so suffocated with charmlessness, then it might have been a true romantic tragedy. As it is, it strikes some sad notes but it never breathes with verve or passion.

Obsessed with the voyeur in all of us

DE PALMA (2016)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Reprinted with permission by Steel Notes Magazine

I don’t know if Brian De Palma is a visionary. I am not sure he is the Hitchcock copycat he has often been called, aping the visual style of Hitchcock’s own “Vertigo” and its female doppelganger subplot for most of his career. I never really considered De Palma a filmmaker who exploited women or was any sort of demented misogynist. Sure, an electric drill is thrust through a woman’s body dressed in lingerie in “Body Double.” Yes, a woman’s final scream in the throes of death is woven into the soundtrack of a film-within-the-film in “Blow Out.” Yes, Angie Dickinson’s character makes face with a scalpel in an elevator in “Dressed to Kill.” Then there is the honest depiction of a teenage girl with her period getting pelted with tampons in the famous opening scenes of “Carrie.” I still do not understand the misogyny charge any more than when it could have been applied to Hitchcock with Janet Leigh’s sudden demise in the infamous shower scene of “Psycho” or the numerous birds that attack Tippi Hedren and her perfectly coiffed hairdo in “The Birds” or, well, I could go on.

De Palma might have shown more empathy towards women overall. The Angie Dickinson character in “Dressed to Kill” is seen like a floating apparition in white, walking as if she was floating across the floors of the Museum of Modern Art in endless Steadicam takes. So much attention is divulged on her, from her lovemaking to her husband who abruptly takes off after finishing his business, to listening and talking to her son, to her seeing a therapist (Michael Caine) who admits he would make love to her. Then, very abruptly like Janet Leigh’s Marion Crane, she is taken from us and slashed to death. It ain’t pretty but by then, we love Angie, we feel for her and her revelation that she contracted a venereal disease. We care for her, unlike most of the slasher flicks of the 1980’s that could’ve been charged with misogyny more so than De Palma.

A new documentary called “De Palma” deals with some of these charges by film critics who always seem to sharpen their knives when a new film of his comes along. The director himself calls into question what Hollywood wanted from him and what they expected. I still don’t know if they knew what a talented, stylish director they had whose best films were like extended mood pieces that put you into a quixotic trance. Those long takes in an art museum (“Dressed to Kill”), a spacious, high-end mall (“Body Double” which features “the longest walk in film history” as De Palma claims) or the slow-motion, rhapsodic sense of movement and violence in a train station (“The Untouchables”) made me quiver with anticipation – they were dreams with a hypnotic charge of excitement. No other director before De Palma ever took the Steadicam shots and slow-motion to such a degree. They make standard issue mainstream entertainments seems positively underimagined by comparison.

Ultimately, as De Palma conveys through a personal story from his own youth, his best films are about obsessions. They are voyeuristic obsessions, usually with a woman as its focus. “Body Double” is one of the most pleasurably voyeuristic films of all time, taking a page from “Rear Window” and having its central protagonist getting excited over a woman seen through a telescope in ways that not even James Stewart ever had or would be permitted to. It is sexual excitement, not just some passing romantic notions. Same with “Dressed to Kill” as its main killer in a blonde wig and a black trenchcoat often appears looking through a window or a reflective surface before attacking or maiming a female victim. Yet there is another voyeuristic side to that film – Dickinson’s son (Keith Gordon) sets up a film camera outside of a psychiatrist’s house, hoping to catch the killer. De Palma himself tells the story of how he photographed his own father, outside of a residence, having an adulterous affair and confronting him with it. I would never have suspected that De Palma’s visual style and camera placement in “Dressed to Kill” was inspired by some troubling daddy issues.

De Palma speaks honestly about his cinematic triumphs and failures. He acknowledges that the vanity production “The Bonfire of the Vanities” works if you have not read the book (though I think the film fails whether you have read the book or not). He also acknowledges he was only the replacement director for the insidiously boring “Mission to Mars.” I also love his comments about making the most accessible film of his career, certainly the most popular, “Mission: Impossible,” and how he would’ve been dumb to turn down the opportunity to direct Tom Cruise in a feature film remake of the 60’s TV show. There is also the disaster of one of his earliest films and least known, “Get to Know Your Rabbit” with Tom Smothers that was heavily recut by the studio and had Orson Welles in the cast who didn’t memorize his lines. Oh, and how about Cliff Robertson’s tan coloring that didn’t mesh with a protagonist who was supposed to be pale-faced in the aptly-titled “Obsession.”

For myself, “Body Double,” “Femme Fatale” and “Dressed to Kill” are terrific voyeuristic classics – they are like peeks behind a curtain of sexual tension and women who are sexually knowing. “Scarface” and “Mission to Mars” are his worst films (Sorry Scarface fans but I still cannot get behind Al Pacino’s Cuban drug lord and how his story later connected with the hip-hop community). “The Untouchables” is a nostalgic entertainment with a great score and great performances that somehow ended a little too soon. “Mission: Impossible” is thin on plot but it has some captivating thrill-happy scenes. “Carrie” is atypical De Palma but it does show he had a gift for geeky horror with a sensitive performance by Sissy Spacek (and that final shot still gives me the chills). 

If there is anything missing in this otherwise captivating documentary, it is that De Palma (unlike some of his contemporaries like Martin Scorsese) never quite explains what drove him to make certain films. His most personal  works (“Body Double,” “Dressed to Kill,” “Femme Fatale,” “Blow Out”) seems to evolve from the feeling that life itself is often seen through a lens, a refracted lens perhaps, but one where all sorts of possible outcomes exist. That would be true of “Greetings” (his silliest film with hints of truth about the infamous Zapruder film) and its semi-sequel “Hi, Mom!” where Robert De Niro is the classic De Palma protagonist – a Vietnam vet who likes to photograph his neighbors.  The most telling aspect of De Palma’s work is that many of the characters are more attuned to their cameras and binoculars than they are to actual communication with their photographed subjects. When the male protagonists finally come around to having a conversation, it can work and result in some unexpected connection (“Femme Fatale” is one example, as is “Dressed to Kill”). When it doesn’t, tragedy and chaos result in an explosion of violence (“Carrie” being the most notable example, certainly “Blow Out”).  Either way, here’s hoping that this stunning documentary (directed by Noah Baumbach and Jake Paltrow) results in Brian De Palma getting closer to being recognized as to what he always was – the artist obsessed with the voyeur in all of us.

Supreme Ironic Superhero Movie

DEADPOOL (2016)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Reprinted with permission by Steel Notes Magazine

“Deadpool” is not the standard comic-book movie treatment by any stretch of the imagination. We have a superhero who is no hero at all; he is in fact a smart-ass killer who fires off jokes more often than firing a punch at the expense of anyone he is ready to kill, commenting on the action as he breaks the fourth wall of the fourth wall. In fact, this may be the first super-antihero film where a commentary track by the film’s writers, director and actors on a DVD are not necessary – Mr. Deadpool waxes on through voice-over commenting on the action, including the use of music in a given scene, the film’s budget not allowing for more than two X-Men characters and the way a camera moves during an establishing shot. This movie is the first truly Supreme Ironic Superhero movie.

Ryan Reynolds is a WHAM-loving, former Special Forces operative and mercenary, the kind that goes after a scared-stiff pizza delivery guy for stalking a young girl. This former military man is Wade Wilson and he has a propensity for violence but also a soft spot for love, specifically a sizzlingly sexy prostitute named Vanessa (Morena Baccarin, currently in TV’s grisly “Gotham”). They have heavy sex and it gets heavier and hotter with each passing holiday and with music set to Neil Sedaka’s “Calendar Girl.” But, hey, this is no rom-com with sweaty sex scenes every few minutes nor does it turn into some soapy romance tragedy when Wade discovers he has advanced lung, liver and brain cancer, you know, the kind of mess that slowly kills you (perhaps worse than a viewing of “Van Wilder”). Though Vanessa promises that they will work it out, Wade hastily departs for a procedure at some dingy laboratory where he is tortured and burned severely by a ruthless mercenary and super mutant named Ajax (Ed Skrein). After a series of explosions at the lab and Wade being left for dead, Captain Deadpool, ah, just Deadpool, eventually arises (and make no mistake about it, despite this story having its origins in a comic-book, a lot of this reminded me of Sam Raimi’s fantastic 1990 flick, “Darkman”) and he is out to maim and kill as many people as possible to reach Ajax and find a cure for his cheese pizza exterior.

Nothing that transpires in “Deadpool” is all that unique yet how the story is told sets it apart from the norm. Deadpool resembles a cross between Spider-Man and Ant-Man yet, you know, more profane and full of nasty quips. There are too many jokes and his motormouth skills (Merc with Mouth) and rapid-fire zingers are like quotation marks that fill the screen and make you laugh in spite of yourself. When Deadpool’s legs and hands are broken by a solid hulk of an X-Man named Colossus, Deadpool’s only reaction is to make reference to “127 Hours.” Most superheroes may not care if the supervillain dies but this character is one of the few who doesn’t seem to care too much about himself – of course, that is the joke because cutting off one appendage or breaking a bone only leads to regeneration. Armed with two katanas and several firearms, Deadpool leaves a bloody trail wherever he goes. Though a lot of the hyperviolence can get repetitious, Reynolds’ bravura performance and litany of curses keep the movie afloat. When Deadpool isn’t joking around or killing people, he jumps around like a wired-on-espresso-and-cocaine jack rabbit – the guy cannot sit still for long even when caressing an elderly blind roommate with his slowly regenerating hand. He is one of the few that doesn’t just do a double-take, he does a quadruple take.

“Deadpool” lampoons everything about the movie you are watching – it is like having Deadpool sitting next to you and commenting on the action he is performing on the screen and out of it, a hyperactive 3D black comedy of epic superhero proportions. It is the meta of all metas, the first truly postmodernist superhero movie that tells you, “hey, stop taking these movies so seriously comic-book nerds!” Yet despite its goofiness and self-reflectiveness, Reynolds and Baccarin lend the movie and their characters a touch of humanity and some gravitas and they have unbreakable chemistry. One can’t help but feel remorse for Wade when he discovers he has cancer or when he is tortured to such a grueling degree. This is a superhero movie for people who love and/or hate superhero movies, smoothly directed by an overpaid tool, that is debuting director Tim Miller. As for Reynolds, it is a solid corrective to his bland “Green Lantern.” 

Sexual Sparks are absent

BASIC INSTINCT 2 (2006)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

I was not an admirer of the original "Basic Instinct," a vapidly lurid though occasionally watchable thriller that sprang Sharon Stone to superstar status. I am also no admirer of "Basic Instinct 2," a far more vapid though sometimes watchable thriller that relies on Stone to carry it through. Normally I would say that an actress of such magnetism may be enough to warrant a viewing - if only she didn't seem so bored throughout.

Sharon Stone is Catherine Tramell, a sexy novelist whose specialty is luring men to bed to fulfill her own sexual fantasies for the sake of a story. Of course, an ice pick and going commando might help to accentuate the allure - oh, she is a dangerous bimbo/literary type. At the start of the film, she drugs some anonymous guy (a well-known athlete apparently) and enjoys some sexual fun while driving a car at top speeds, until it crashes through some billboard or storefront and into the Thames (yep, this story is set in London). Catherine can't save the guy, so she saves herself. For "Basic Instinct" fans, this looks like the real Catherine Tramell. She smokes, she claims she can never cum again (good for a laugh), she likes her reluctant new therapist, Dr. Glass (David Morrisey), and she makes new friends in the therapist world. Naturally, Dr. Glass is taken by her as he starts taking notice of women in restaurants. But he has other worries - a magazine writer is about to spill the beans about Glass and his ex- wife, or something to that effect. What Dr. Glass is hiding or why he feels his career is threatened is never made clear. All he can do is boink a colleague while looking at a book cover with Catherine's face on it, and boink Catherine herself.

Had "Basic Instict 2" focused on Catherine's insatiable appetite for sex, the latest case for "risk addiction," and how she influences the good doctor through sex, it might have worked. Certainly the original "Basic Instinct" had that in spades - Catherine's sexuality defined her. But such base instincts are left out of this sequel, thanks to either the MPAA or director Michael Caton-Jones who is not the right director for this material. Caton-Jones seems to think he is making a soft-porn psychological thriller, when the only aspect that survives is the soft-porn aspect and not much of it either. And when Stone, with the exception of the opening scenes, seems indifferent and as bored as the audience would be, then what is left?

Interestingly, "Basic Instict 2" is actually not boring but not much fun, erotically speaking, either. Stone is out cold, but there is some level of interest in the Dr. Glass character - I kept wondering what his fate was going to be. I realized just now that director Caton- Jones did the remarkable "Scandal" back in 1989. That film was based on the Profumo affair, and starred Joanne Whalley as the seductress. If "Basic Instinct 2" had a tenth of that film's smoldering sexuality, it might have ignited some real sexual sparks back into Sharon Stone.

Drugs are big business

TRAFFIC (2000)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Is it me or does director Steven Soderbergh have something akin to a great track record? From "Sex, Lies and Videotape" to "Schizopolis" to "The Limey" to two fairly good Hollywood productions, "Erin Brockovich" and now "Traffic," the latter two released the same year. And "Traffic" is not merely good, serviceable Hollywood entertainment, it is damn near great.

Soderbergh's "Traffic" is concerned with drug trafficking in America and in Mexico, and how the war on drugs from the top has outlived its purpose. Michael Douglas is Robert Wakefield, a Supreme Court justice becoming the newly appointed drug czar of America (an unfilled position in Mexico), who is taking steps to prevent this drug war from continuing. His ideas, however, are met with a cool reception from his staff. Why? Because the war on drugs is a fruitless one accompanied by far too many dangerous parameters - economic is one such factor. Wakefield eventually meets with General Salazar (Tomas Milian), who resides in Tijuana and appoints a clever border cop, Javier Rodriguez Rodriguez (Benicio Del Toro), to raise ire among the cocaine cartels. The questions is: does Salazar have something else in mind or does he really want to bust them and torture them? Is he as concerned about the manufacturing and exporting of cocaine as Del Toro is, or for that matter, the righteous Wakefield?

"Traffic" shifts from different characters and locales throughout, and gradually we see how others are affected by this chain of command in the U.S. and Tijuana. There is the drug lord, Carlos Ayala (Steven Bauer), who is arrested and sent to jail, leaving his pregnant wife (Catherine Zeta-Jones) to fend for his illegitimate business, something she was not aware of. We also see Caroline (Erika Christensen), a top-notch high school student who innocently becomes a sleepy-eyed cocaine addict - she also turns out to be Wakefield's daughter. Then there are the undercover DEA agents (Don Cheadle, Luis Guzman) who bicker and joke, even when arresting a mid-level trafficker, Eduardo Ruiz (Miguel Ferrer) - the job of the dual agents is to protect Ruiz who is likely to be rubbed out. This, of course, would allow the release of Ayala from jail.

"Traffic" is at its most tantalizing when dealing with Del Toro's moral conflict of speaking out on the corruption in his own country, or of keeping his mouth shut in the face of inevitable tragedy. The Tijuana scenes are the most powerful, evoking the futility of drug warfare where no end is seen in sight. Del Toro realizes this, thus being a rat or staying loyal essentially makes no difference. He can only save his own skin. This is also true of Wakefield's own job, which is put into question when he discovers his daughter's addiction. Wakefield himself is not a happy man, living a life of boredom as he calls it with his family and seeking an exit with alcohol. This upsets his wife (Amy Irving), but their relationship is really put to the test with their daughter's problems and the fact that their daughter becomes a runaway. How can Wakefield save the country from drug warfare if he can't even save his own daughter?

Speaking of aesthetics for the time being, "Traffic" temporarily annoyed me with its visual look. As shot by Soderbergh himself, he uses filters for the sepia-drenched scenes in Tijuana and the cool blue colors of Washington, D.C. but these scenes stand out at first for being far too obvious. Just remember what notable cinematographer Nestor Almendros once said about filters: "Any movie that I see that uses filters, I shut off after five minutes because it is too easy." He may have had a point, but admittedly, once the film is on course and speeds along its multi-based narrative, I found the filtering less and less annoying. I still feel I should not have to be reminded where I am - Tijuana, by all accounts, is certainly different from Washington, D.C. A minor quibble.

Soderbergh's real strengths are with actors, and he has quite a stupendous cast on hand to work with. Del Toro is at his most blazingly understated ever, challenging us and keeping us guessing at every moment as to what his thoughts are in contrast with his actions. He is so unpredictable, funny, tense, dramatic, and emotional that it remains the most dynamic role I've seen in all of 2000. Major kudos also go to Zeta-Jones playing a charming housewife, also challenged by the lies from her husband and his business, and it is alarming to see the shift in her character from paranoid to ruthless (still, there is a missing transitional scene or two showing this transformation). Michael Douglas (who shares no scenes with his real-life wife, Zeta-Jones) does his damnedest playing a man pressured by everyone from up above yet showing a tender, sympathetic side when confronted with familial problems.

Also noteworthy are Cheadle and Guzman performing their bickering byplay as if leftovers from a Paul Thomas Anderson flick, and they are so engaging and entertaining that it is hard to forget them. They seem to come from a mediocre action picture but their personalities infuse their characters with humor and sublime restraint. I love the scenes they share with Ferrer, who sees himself as an average businessman and reminds Cheadle that the DEA's job is not only fruitless but it also helps the drug trade. After all, if Ferrer has to pack up and go to jail, someone else can always take over.

"Traffic," based on a 1989 British miniseries of the same title, is not an original crime epic but its treatment of an ongoing problem in America is breathlessly and magnificently executed by the wondrous Steven Soderbergh. Despite a lack of real insight into some of the characters, the film will leave you with a knowledge of how drugs are big business in this country and how many would like to keep it that way. All we can do is protect and nurture our own families from this increasingly hopeless and, yes, fruitless problem.

Sasquatch in the woods with Jack Black

TENACIOUS D IN THE PICK OF DESTINY  (2006)

Reviewed by Jerry Saravia

Getting stoned might make "Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny" more enjoyable for some, but it is not essential. Just like "Fear and Loathing" was essentially a movie on drugs and about drugs, "Tenacious D" is a movie high on pot (though not exclusively about pot). I mean, it is baked and edged with stoner ruminations on rock music and rock band yet it will leave you with a merry, high-pitched glaze over your eyes, reeling from some of the numerous, pardon the pun, pot-belly laughs.

Jack Black and Kyle Gass are guitarists on the rise, or so they think, who find each other accidentally. Black's goal as a kid was to rock the earth with his ear-shattering music and, as foretold by his bedroom wall poster of Dio, JB ventures to Hollywood (not a very bright kid since he ventures to different cities named Hollywood before arriving in L.A.) It is there, on presumably Venice Beach, that he meets long-haired Kyle Gass, who is rocking hard on the streets, playing his favorite tunes from his own alleged band, and a real dude (he turns out to be bald, can barely make the rent, and is not actually famous nor is he in a band). Black still senses a connection between himself and Kyle, so they move in together and the name of their band is formed from their prospective tattoos on their bottoms! Hence, Tenacious D is born!

"Tenacious D in the Pick of Destiny" is not the kind of movie where I should spill too many details. There are various rock music in-jokes here; a few homages to movies like "Mission: Impossible"; LSD or mushroom-influenced dreamlike trances; a rockin' Devil (Dave Grohl), who looks like Tim Curry from "Legend," who can rock and beat those drums better than anyone on earth; an embarrassing moment for Kyle where he has to perform solo for teenagers; a legendary guitar pick carved from Satan's tooth, no less; Amy Poehler as a rude truck stop waitress who has one of the cleverest lines in the movie; Meat Loaf as a stern, religious father; and a Sasquatch cavorting in the woods with Jack Black!

All I can say is that if you can stick with the hysteria and an animalistic Jack Black and you love rock music, "Tenacious D" is the movie for you. If you find Mr. Black and rock music, especially the band's own satirical music, acquired tastes and you need a plot to move things forward, then this movie is not part of your destiny.