Randy Johnson, the future Hall of Fame pitcher, my favorite baseball player, is now a New York Yankee. So, am I suddenly a Yankee fan? No, no more than I’ve been an Arizona Diamondbacks fan for the last five years or so (excepting that wonderful October-November of 2001, of course). Should my pal Newk, a Yankee fan, go ahead and order me that Johnson jersey? I don’t think so. (I’ve still got my Johnson World Series Diamondbacks jersey hanging in the closet, thanks.) But I would say the odds are much better that I might be seeking out a few more Yankee games on DirecTV this summer than I normally might.

And, to be sure, I’ll be tuning in for that season-opening head-butt between the Yankees and Your World Champion Red Sox. Johnson wouldn’t/couldn’t confirm it last night on the Late Show with David Letterman, but can you imagine the combined forces of Theo Epstein, Brian Cashman, Terry Francona, Joe Torre, John Henry and George Steinbrenner, not to even mention the supremely craven Bud Selig, letting the possibility an opening-day match-up between Johnson and ex-teammate Curt Schilling slip through their gnarled, callused and/or well-manicured fingers? God himself would have to come down, take a metal file to Curt’s stigmatic ankle and gouge out the cartilage in Johnson’s reconstructed knee before that potential marquee attraction would get passed over.

I have little doubt Johnson’s intensity and temperament will be a good fit in New York—the “controversy” surrounding his tiff with the WCBS cameraman is, ironically, early proof enough of that, if only that Johnson’s in-game fire will be matched by the mindless ferocity of the local media. (I’m actually a little more interested in seeing how the Carlos Beltran story ends up playing after a season or two—not that I’m expecting or even hoping he’ll wilt, but Beltran is a self-professed quiet type who’s never sweated out the kind of multimillion-dollar hothouse that awaits him in Metropolis.)

Letterman jokingly berated the Big Unit for apologizing to the cameraman at the news conference introducing him as a Bomber, ruminating that he (Letterman) was in town a couple of months before he was forced to apologize for anything. Of course Letterman was right-- Johnson the man need not have said a word. But Johnson the Steinbrenner employee would have done nothing less. The Unit won’t get a free ride in New York, but unless he collapses out of the gate or down the stretch the odds of a cantankerous relationship with New York sports journalists seem slim, and Johnson knows a quick apology now is a small price to pay for being able to concentrate more fully on his job when the season really starts to heat up. On that note, one last bonus on Letterman last night: once again getting to see that grotesquely awe-inspiring footage of Johnson pasting an unfortunate bird with a 98-m.p.h. fast ball a few spring trainings ago. Johnson, who has not been exactly happy to discuss the incident on occasions past, cracked a smile when Dave brought it up last night and said, as definitively as necessary, that it was a classic case of “being in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Johnson need not worry about that being the case for himself this coming baseball season, but I’d bet past Yankee pitchers Jeff Weaver and Javier Vasquez, as well as current albatross Kevin Brown, might understand exactly what he meant.

So I reluctantly bid adieu to Randy Johnson on behalf of the entire National League, and in particular the National League West. I’ll miss not getting to see him on the mound at Dodger Stadium occasionally (or seeing his grizzled mug leaning up against the rail of the visitors’ dugout, watching intensely during those games when he’s not pitching). But at least I’ll know that I got to see this future Cooperstown resident pitch several times in person, and if it means anything to my daughter, when she gets a little older I’ll tell her that she did too. My loyalty has been tested enough already on those past occasions when, to make things even stickier, Johnson was the featured pitcher on my fantasy team, but it’s even worse watching him throw heat at the Dodgers. No matter, though-- my tendency to admire Johnson’s grace and dominance at the expense of the Dodger batting order has been balanced in the past by the Blue Crew’s unlikely ability to knock him around every once in a while, to the Unit’s ever-increasing, and very entertaining, annoyance. But no more of that kind of fun… for a while, at least. There is always the World Series. How does that soon-to-be-nauseatingly-overused phrase go—keep hope alive in 2005? Sayonara, R.J. May the rest of your trip to the Hall of Fame be as full of brilliance on the mound as the years that got you here.

It was Stephanie Zacharek, senior film critic for the online magazine Salon, who was perhaps the only reviewer I know of that waxed enthusiastic for Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy upon its release last summer. But a quick glance at her year-end top-ten list reveals nary a mention of it. (Fellow Salon critic Charles Taylor does find room, however, for Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle on his honorable mentions roster, and Zacharek herself just posted another full-length rave about H&KGTWC today on Salon's Arts and Entertainment section —I just gotta see that movie!)

Therefore, it was very gratifying to read Matt Zoller Seitz, cohabitor of the critic’s chair at the New York Press beside the irascible contrarian Armond White, giving this crazy picture (and its fans, of which there are now apparently at least three) some welcome validation. Here is his brief mention in toto:

“To that already lengthy (top ten) list, I’d add… Guillermo Del Toro’s theologically inflected action picture Hellboy, the remake of Dawn of the Dead… and the cartoon slapstick whirlwind of Anchorman (grounded in Will Ferrell’s impishly inventive performance) just to make a point: It is the duty of critics to seek out and identify good work even if it occurs in films that aren’t clearly stamped “SERIOUS!” by marketers.”

Thank you, Mr. Seitz! You stay classy, San Diego!

Hype generated by movie studio publicists is something to be looked upon with, at the very least, suspicion. Hype, on the other hand, generated as a result of a confluence of critical opinion, particularly in the year-end awards season, might be resisted for other reasons, the overinflation of expectations being prime among them. Right now Sideways is garnering the kind of praise and critics' groups awards that might make you think the enthusiasm for the film was near unanimous. But one glance at the Village Voice Take 6 year-end critics poll* reveals a plethora of alt-weekly wisenheimers who can’t distance themselves from Sideways and the appearance of critical consensus fast enough. And last week, even among the fairly like-minded habitués of Slate magazine's online Movie Club* there was enough dissent on the subject of Alexander Payne’s movie to suggest an honest-to-God backlash against one of the serious contenders for the Best Picture Academy Award.

But there have been enough critics both praising and damning the new Clint Eastwood movie Million Dollar Baby to make one wonder what the inspiration for such a polarized response might be. Supporters and detractors both have been taking fairly remarkable measures to keep the trajectory of the story, about a grizzled ex-“cut man” who reluctantly takes a female boxer under his wing and guides her to an unlikely professional career, under wraps in their reviews. In fact, they’ve been resorting to levels of abstract language designed to be deliberately vague, thus allowing the writers to talk about story elements that some find familiar yet transcendent, and others find fatally mired in that familiarity.

I’d like to think that one can account for that kind of care from even someone who dislikes the film as respect both for the power to be experienced in the story the movie tells, and for the potential audience that might not want their opportunity to experience that power spoiled. A good writer like Salon’s Charles Taylor, whose support of films as far-ranging as Femme Fatale, 13 Going On 30, Mr. 3000 and Hero I continue to value, finds ways to express his discontent over Million Dollar Baby* that preserve the surprises the story holds in store. But even so, many of his observations feel lazy and unconvincing (as they did in his pan of Sideways)*, the product of a writer with a chip on his shoulder rather than an openness to what’s actually on the screen.

Taylor dismisses Tom Stern’s “alleged” cinematography (what does that mean, exactly?) as “dingy,” looking as if Warner Bros. forgot to go out and buy light bulbs. It’s an ostensibly funny line, but one that certainly does not reflect the experience I had with the movie, which mixes realistic and expressive lighting to stunning effect without crossing the line into excessive stylization. Eastwood and Morgan Freeman, as an ex-boxer and Eastwood’s longtime friend, are often seen bisected by shadows, their upper halves lost in darkness, or their faces encircled in light while the rest of their bodies remain hidden, yet such lighting never seems schematic or pretentious because it is remarkably well integrated into Stern’s overall approach. Can this not be taken as a deliberately metaphoric attempt by the cinematographer to visually realize screenwriter Paul Haggis' characters, people on the verge of being swallowed up by their fears? Eastwood and his director of photography also have a practical reason for the look of the film, being that a small, grimy environment like a boxing gym may, at times, be a dingy one as well. Taylor’s mistake is in assuming there’s no purpose to that dinginess beyond its function as evidence of the cinematographer’s incompetence. Why is it that those who find plenty to like in this picture seem to be willing to endure the offensive lighting that so irked Taylor (as well as his wife and fellow Salon senior critic Stephanie Zacharek)? Perhaps those poor, misinformed folks, hypnotized and deadened by Eastwood's galumphing technique, don’t know good cinematography any more than they know good storytelling. Or perhaps it’s just the light bulb in Taylor’s screening room projector that needs attention.

When Taylor begins his rant with lines like “Have any of the critics praising Million Dollar Baby actually ever seen another movie—any movie?”, following up with an entire piece constructed around similar bait lines designed to shut down contrary argument before it’s even made, it’s a good indication that his intent is to score points off of Eastwood and those stupid enough to enjoy his films, not to write a well-considered piece of film criticism. Suggesting Eastwood must be the real Manchurian Candidate—how else to explain the extraordinary praise given his drab, plodding movies?—is, I suppose, clever, but it’s not very inquisitive, and it’s a good deal shallower than the pleasures to be had in Million Dollar Baby that he so humorlessly derides. Dismissals like this one seem to come back-loaded with attitudes about Eastwood that well predate the movie at hand. Of course, one might also say the same thing about some of the writers who rave about his work too—nothing smells quite as bad as a sycophantic film critic. In my own defense I would point out that for every Eastwood-directed film I’ve loved, including Unforgiven, A Perfect World, Bronco Billy, Mystic River and Million Dollar Baby, there’s a Pale Rider, Absolute Power, Honkytonk Man, Sudden Impact and Pink Cadillac lurking in the oeuvre just waiting to be applied as a corrective to too much adulation. Too bad writers like Taylor can’t hold themselves to the same standard when it comes to blanket dismissals of an artist and his audience.

Not that Million Dollar Baby is perfect. Eastwood’s handling of a subplot involving boxer Hilary Swank’s hillbilly family is handled with far less subtlety than every other element of the movie’s narrative, and as a result the typically fine character actress Margo Martindale is left twisting in the wind to an uncomfortable degree. And an incident that changes the entire trajectory of the movie is left partially unresolved—we find ourselves wanting some closure as to the fate of one of Swank’s ring opponents, but neither Eastwood nor screenwriter Paul Haggis supplies it (there’s some more of that protective abstract language for you). But the remarkable emotion and quiet approach of the rest of the film makes those glitches stand out in relief far more than they would in a movie that was rife with those sorts of narrative pockmarks. And Eastwood’s splendidly reticent handling of the mysterious relationship with his own daughter, a distant echo of his relationship with Swank who returns each letter he sends her unopened, has a correlative in Kevin Bacon’s relationship with his estranged wife in Mystic River. Bacon’s wife calls him at several points throughout the film but never speaks, and no matter how Eastwood tries to weight the moment it never comes across as more than a literary conceit. But the simple sight of Eastwood, in Baby, silently opening his front door, seeing the latest letter stamped “Return to Sender” on his living room floor, and filing it away in a shoebox, conveys the same sort of anguish at separation with none of the narrative contrivance that marred those phone calls in Mystic River.

Million Dollar Baby is, to these eyes, a masterful filmmaker's new masterpiece . My assumption with “Movie of the Moment” articles like this one is that if you’re interested in the film you will have either already seen it or will have had plenty of opportunity by now to become aware of enough reviews that the plot will probably already be more familiar than it should be. My suggestion regarding Million Dollar Baby, a remarkably fluid, artfully crafted, old-fashioned work of pure storytelling, would be to forgo reading anything further about it and just go see it, lose yourself in its world of struggle and the possibility (but not the guarantee) of redemption, and reacquaint yourself with what a great film can do—provide exhilaration in amounts equal to the heartbreak held within a seemingly familiar story so well told as to become a soaring, new creation.

(* As soon as I become more familiar with how to provide links to articles that aren't simply long-ass addresses pasted into the midst of an article, I will return to this piece and get push-button connections to the Village Voice Take 6 poll, the Slate Movie Club, Charles Taylor's reviews of Million Dollar Baby and Sideways on Salon.com, and A.O. Scott's rapturous review of Baby in the New York Times. In the meantime, I heartily encourage you to head to these sites and check the writers out for yourself.)

Sometime last summer, out of boredom, perhaps, but also because I was hoping for a good laugh honestly earned, I dragged myself off to a late show of Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy, starring Will Ferrell as the titular head of a fictional San Diego TV news team in the mid ‘70s. Despite my low expectations (I’ve never been much of a fan of Ferrell’s mix of wide-eyed innocence curdled slightly by salaciousness and aggressive absurdity), Ferrell’s performances in Old School and Elf went a long way toward breaking down my resistance, and after a few minutes I found myself grooving happily on the movie’s warped wavelength.

Anchorman goes beyond the polyester fetishizing of a ‘70s nostalgia exercise like Starsky and Hutch—the bad fashions and terrible interior décor are all there, but they’re never the point. The movie has other perversions on its mind, and they’re seated squarely in the lap of its star (or is that tent pole Burgundy waves around at one point just, as he claims, a result of bad pleating?) Ferrell’s work here is the ne plus ultra of his unswerving commitment to the most logically uncomfortable and exasperatingly hilarious extensions of the personas he creates. Ron Burgundy is Ted Baxter without standards and practices, a willfully chauvinist, on-set scotch-swilling anchorman whose entire world revolves around his surreal identification with himself and the rest of his on-air news team as a local variety of celebrity royalty (the glimpses of his audience suggest, in their enthusiasm and awe over his nightly appearances on their TVs, that his fiefdom is at least momentarily secure). It is a fiefdom, however, thrown into tumult by the appearance of an equally ambitious newswoman (Christina Applegate) who eventually becomes his co-anchor and threatens the very fabric of Burgundy’s fragile frat-house worldview. The movie’s feminism is of a certain age as well, but then it’s never really the point anyway. Applegate’s character is allowed her attempts to enlighten these baboons, but she also gets to partake in the horseplay—a hilarious insult give-and-take between her and Burgundy as the credits roll on one newscast is a tribute to her improvisatory spunk. And the “unrated” scenes on the recent DVD release are two worthy and pretty funny additions that detail further humiliations for our hero after the newsman’s VHF Camelot finally crumbles.

As good as Ferrell is here-- his unaffected, and unwarranted, confidence, bizarre utterances (“By the great throne of Zeus!”) and willingness to read from the TelePrompTer without regard (a typo results in a giggle fit-inducing reading of his signature sign-off phrase, “You stay classy, San Diego?”) are the stuff of balls-out comic gold—he’s surrounded by a terrific cast of gamers, including Paul Rudd, Vince Vaughn and Fred Willard, and he’s matched perverse moment for perverse moment by The Daily’s Show’s Steve Carell as a beyond-witless weatherman who cheerfully describes himself as “perhaps mentally retarded.” Carell achieves a kind of deer-in-the-headlights Zen perfection when considering the infiltration of this female into their heretofore unsullied boys club: “I hear their menses attracts bears.” Anchorman sags toward the end, when the necessities of narrative tidiness come calling (not that their call is much heeded anywhere else in the film), but considered whole it would seem churlish to hold an occasional dead spot against a movie with so much commitment to the excesses and misplaced swagger of a man like Ron Burgundy. It ain’t heavy, it’s just hilarious.

Not that you’d know it, though, by the testimony of one single other person I know. Since enduring my hearty recommendation of the movie, I can think of at least five people, in whose instincts for comedic appreciation I hold quite a bit of trust, whose reaction to Anchorman has been either flat-out distaste, disgust and/or confusion over my enthusiasm for it, or a simple inability to endure much more than 15 minutes or so before ejecting the DVD and moving on to another, presumably much more satisfying title. This includes my best friend Bruce, on whom I sprung jackass: the movie last fall with much more success (he has since passed on his enthusiasm for that movie to others who, despite his initial nervousness, have responded with the proper busted-gut reaction).

Bruce and I can usually count on pretty good instincts for knowing what the other will find fall-down funny, but I felt jackass was a shakier limb than most on which to crawl out, and I count Bruce’s response, and our subsequent attempts to divine just what about that madness is so damned funny, as one of the most satisfying movie-watching experiences I had last year. But this year there’s this inexplicable rift in the space-time-comedy continuum: my thumbs-up for Anchorman were quickly lopped off in favor of opposable appendages thrust in the air for Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story, a movie I found, with the exception of Gary Cole in a spot-on of an ESPN play-by play announcer and Jason Bateman as his slacker color analyst, as funny as a direct hit to the groin. But wait a minute—doesn’t jackass feature its share of hits to the groin? Well, yeah, except in jackass it’s funny, see?! And right there, in a nutshell, is why there can ultimately be no further argument between parties who hold movies like Dodgeball and Anchorman as opposing examples in a battle over which one is funnier, or why one is funny and the other is not. More often than almost any other movie genre, comedy is susceptible to the variances of mood of its audience. And when movie comedies like Anchorman or Dodgeball are built more as frameworks from which to hang absurdities and potty humor, rather than for characters to navigate through a rich story that may give even more organic rise to the same elements, mood and personal taste in the audience become even more important. I can with much more ease react well to Anchorman myself or respect why someone else wouldn’t than I could understand the response of someone who felt indifferent to, say, The Lady Eve.

So Patty agreed this past Saturday night to give Anchorman a shot, God bless her. She made it to the 15-minute mark and was still laughing here and there. Ha! I think we’re in! Finally somebody might see what I see in this hilarious mutt of a movie. Sometime around 45 minutes in, she asked me “how much longer this thing has left.” And ten minutes later she got up a fix herself a drink, so I paused the DVD, thinking she might enjoy the scene that was about to begin between Burgundy’s news team and three other local crews who gut out a ridiculously violent rumble in an abandoned warehouse district. I followed her into the kitchen and told her the movie would be waiting for her when she got back. She then admitted to me that she was hoping to duck out and miss a bunch of it so it would be over sooner. Heartbroken, I shuffled back to the TV and awaited her return. I don’t think she laughed once during the big news rumble. And within five minutes or so of her return she’d retreated to the iPod, becoming more and more depressed by what she saw as the movie’s grinding of one joke—Burgundy’s obliviousness—into a fine paste and refusing to just end. Imagine the fumes rising from her skull cap when, oblivious myself to just how much ire the movie had inspired in her, I casually passed through three of the movie’s bonus featurettes before I realized how close to violence the movie had driven her. (She sat poised with a letter opener ready to pierce my left eardrum, and had I not glanced over and then scrambled to shut off the DVD, I’d be writing this from the emergency room.) (A raised eyebrow of disbelief might not be inappropriate here, Dear Reader—Ed.)

Okay, so that’s six for six. Anchorman may, as Patty claimed, be a one-joke movie, but that joke isn’t driven into the ground so much as it is played upon to reveal multiple squiggles and variations on a theme. And it’s a very good joke, no matter how it’s played, and that, for me, this time, was good enough (God knows I’ve disdained many a movie comedy for beating one lame joke into the ground—The Waterboy being one example that many people obviously find to be plenty funny). So, despite my taste being questioned and vilified left and right to the point of persecution (Please see note in previous paragraph re raised eyebrow of disbelief--Ed.), I stand by my recommendation of Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy for anyone who wants to laugh like a hyena for 90 minutes. You know who you are. And if you find yourself sitting stone-faced past the 15-minute mark, what can I say? Maybe you’ll like Dodgeball. Now please excuse me while I go off to lick my wounds by the cathode ray light of Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle…

Patty and I went out a movie this afternoon, and I didn't bring anything but my hat. Paul McCartney certainly didn't say it best, and he didn't say it first either, but for some reason I'm reminded of this song today:

So the next time you see rain, it ain't bad
Don't complain, it rains for you
The next time you see L.A. rainclouds
Don't complain, it rains for you and me

So lay down your umbrellas
Strip off your plastic macs
You've never felt the rain my friend
Till you've felt it running down your back

It’s natural, when talking about writer-director Bill Condon's entertaining and somewhat provocative biopic Kinsey, to speak of Liam Neeson-- the actor has a naturally insinuating and sexual presence, woven with dramatic weight as well as grace, qualities that many of his most recent roles find no room to adequately exploit (Qui-Gon Jinn, anyone?) Neeson, as Kinsey, finds room within that presence to consider the professor’s insatiable thirst for knowledge in light of the relatively fearful exploration of the landscape of his own sexuality. This combination of righteous academic rigor and fumbling toward ecstasy lays the groundwork for the moment when Kinsey moves beyond simple cataloguing of the landmarks of a life and its work toward a somewhat more critical examination of that work, and it is here that director Condon employs his ace in the hole.

After suggesting in previous scenes that Kinsey’s own research team may be becoming uncomfortable with the sexual envelope-pushing within their own little social strata, Kinsey and one of his research partners, Pomeroy (Chris O’Donnell), meet with a colleague of sorts for a one-on-one interview. Kinsey has corresponded with the man, who has engaged in somewhat obsessive reportage and cataloguing of his own sexual behavior, for 10 years, but never imagined the man would ever agree to step out of the shadows for an interview. When he does, the movie’s probing intelligence suddenly snaps into clear focus. Kinsey and Pomeroy, and the audience, are forced to grapple with the darkest implications of the professor’s theories of the natural pansexuality of human experience, absent moral implications, in a manner from which less-courageous filmmakers would likely have fled, out of fear of losing an audience’s empathy for the lead character and his clinical journey. But there simply is no fear in the lesser-known performer who leads us into the dark heart of this scene.

William Sadler has perhaps a perfect name, with its suggestion of a certain proclivity for violent behavior, for a character actor who has spent a good portion of his career exploiting his sharp, hardened facial features and ice-blue eyes for their effectiveness as indicators of evil and villainy. His appearances in innumerable TV shows and in movies, most notably The Green Mile and Walter Hill’s inexcusably overlooked Trespass, would alone be enough to cement his visage in the Snidely Whiplash Hall of Fame. Fortunately, Sadler also has a lighter touch, one that he has exercised to grand effect in such disparate projects as Tales from the Crypt Presents: Bordello of Blood (he was the Cryptkeeper’s mummified card partner), Bill and Ted’s Bogus Journey (his inspired parody of Death, as envisioned by Ingmar Bergman, anyway, was a revelation to those who thought he was merely worthy of bad-guy status opposite Bruce Willis and Steven Seagal), and more recently in the TV series Roswell as a small-town sheriff torn between his civic duty and protecting the cast of smarmy teen aliens (sometimes those two impulses intertwine, sometimes not).

When he enters the room to begin his interview with Kinsey and Pomeroy, we’re somewhat disarmed by Sadler’s affable demeanor as forestry worker Kenneth Braun, and Braun’s claims of the documentation of his own vast experiences. Kinsey attempts a neutral posture, but there’s a distinct bristle upon Braun’s garrulously presumptive comparison of his own studies (and their purpose) to those of the professor’s. And Braun’s wild claim of being able to go from complete flaccidity to erection to ejaculation in 10 seconds flat, which Pomeroy dismisses as physiologically impossible, is fulfilled before their eyes in the movie’s wildest comic scene. As the fast and furious flagellation begins, Condon hilariously cuts to an obviously shocked Kinsey (to say nothing of Pomeroy) who, in his attempts to remain as detached and poker-faced as possible, still remembers to look at his watch in order to verify the time elapsed before Braun’s checkered-flag groans. It’s Harvey Keitel’s big scene in Bad Lieutenant sans the spiritual agony and lurid shock value—Braun does it because he can, and he’s delighted he can, and he’s delighted to do it in the presence of someone who surely will understand. And the audience, audibly grateful for the comic release, has no idea of the queasy glimpse into the abyss that Sadler is about to give them.

Braun (and Sadler) segues with an incredible absence of self-consciousness straight into the business of his own sexual history, and with his first nonjudgmental admission-- of his introduction to sexual intercourse at the hands of his grandmother at age 10-- the scene quietly begins to develop an undertow that Sadler, his affability intact as each new shocking statistic is revealed, nurtures with the mastery of a talented performer who's ready to seize the full opportunity that one rich scene affords him. From a first homosexual act initiated by his father at age 11, to his cataloguing of 17 members of his extended family with which he's partnered and the differing measurements of semen ejaculated in his youth as opposed to the amount produced at age 50, Braun captivates his interviewers, and Sadler the audience, with his sheer genial audacity. Kinsey and Pomeroy, though increasingly uncomfortable, attempt to maintain that precious detachment that the professor values as crucial to the subject's comfort and potential truthfulness.

But that veil of detachment is fairly shredded when Braun, a sudden awareness of added gravity that even he cannot regulate shading his coarsely handsome features, admits sexual relations with 22 different species of animals and over 9,000 separate people, including hundreds of boys and girls. His reference to them in the clinical terms he supposes will placate any outrage in these professionals, as preadolescent males and females, has little of the intended effect, and Pomeroy is driven out of the room in disgust when Braun casually asks Kinsey if he's ever seen a boy orgasm. Sadler tightens the reins on our throats with a brief chuckle after Kinsey responds in the negative, and his response-- "I guess that's why I'm such a catch, huh?"-- is blood-chilling in the actor's insinuation of himself into the professor's, and by extension our, most intimate confidence, with the full expectation of understanding, if not full-on endorsement of these acts as mere natural phenomenon to be catalogued and reflected upon. This insinuation, this drawing in of offender and audience into some kind of uncomfortable pact of fearless honesty, is the great epiphany Sadler affords us as an actor (It's also Condon's canny way, as a gay man, of drawing a line between his own sexuality, which Kinsey's studies ostensibly helped to demystify, even as they remained largely demonized, and Braun's amoral perversions, which some continue to insist even in 2005 are part and parcel of the gay experience.)

When Pomeroy storms out, Braun crystallizes the chasm between Kinsey's intent and the kind of behavior he's often taken to endorse. "I suppose someone like me really puts your beliefs to the test," Braun mutters, more put off by Pomeroy's indignation than embarrassed by it. Kinsey asks how and is visibly shaken by Braun's interpretation of those beliefs: "Everybody should do what they want." Finally, Kinsey allows himself some measure of an emotional reaction and harshly refutes what he sees as the man's disastrous misread of his work, to which Sadler adds a final grace note of resignation, a retreat back to the shadows of his own solitary experience, a place that Kinsey now knows certainly exists, and for many others beside Kenneth Braun. "You're a lot more square than I thought you'd be," Braun sighs, and the interview begrudgingly continues, into presumably even more disturbing territory, beyond the movie's dissolve into its own final scenes. But it's now a movie colored by Kinsey's fresh and stinging realization of the inadequacy of his previous attempts to classify human sexual tendencies and to grapple with sex as something not always separate from other instincts, like power, selfish satisfaction and, ultimately, love.

This scene wouldn't be nearly as smashingly effective without the fine cracks spreading throughout Neeson's rectitude as Kinsey, or the deft writing in the screenplay that uses Kinsey's outrage to comment on the homophobia of Condon's own time. But it is, above and beyond these crucial elements, Sadler's scene to either oversell or retreat from. He does neither, but instead infuses his moment with a fearless attempt to understand evil from the inside, using his own subtle variations on Kinsey's nonjudgmental approach to illuminate, rather than blot from view, the horrific impact and implications of Braun's behavior. That approach is central to how he raises Kinsey's stock as a piece of historical storytelling in this single scene. That he does so in such brilliant, seductive fashion is an indicator of the candor that Sadler routinely brings to the genre roles in which he often finds himself, roles other actors often condescend to and toss off as just another day's work. It's truly exhilarating to see him get the chance, in a film like Kinsey, to really shine in non-genre work and profoundly impact the entire film's trajectory. This actor, who is often paired with fresh-faced kids, doesn't often find himself going toe-to-toe on screen with an actor of Neeson's stature and caliber. But if Neeson has half the sensitivity in real life that he displays in his role as Alfred Kinsey, I suspect then that it is he who is counting himself lucky, especially in these days before the Oscar nominations are announced, to have been in a scene, in that scene, with a talent as alive and kicking as that of William Sadler.

My goodness, but the digital goodies piled up in a big way in my stocking this Christmas, and by way of a big thank-you to those who were so generous, here’s what will be highlighting my DVD Dirty Dishes Cinema sessions (and hopefully some good, old-fashioned relaxing-on-the-couch-with-a-terrific-movie sessions too) in early 2005:

The Blind Swordsman: Zatoichi/Sonatine A wonderful double feature of my two favorite oddball genre thrillers from Japan's Takeshi Kitano, put together in a nicely packaged two-disc set. Zatoichi makes the connection between martial arts and dance choreography implicit, and then disarmingly explicit, while Sonatine moves to a sensuously deadpan rhythm of Yakuza mayhem (and unexpected comedy) all its own. (Thanks, Patty!)

Captain Kronos, Vampire Hunter and Dracula Has Risen From The Grave Two from the Hammer stable, one a genre-bender from the writer-director Brian Clemens, a major creative force on TV’s The Avengers, the other a second luridly beautiful Dracula sequel starring Christopher Lee. (No spitting, Steve-- I mean, thank you, Steve!)

Collateral Director Michael Mann's kinetic paean to the geography of Los Angeles is a sterling return to the kind of muscular and potently visual action film that the director abandoned in favor of the real-life dramas The Insider and Ali, and the DVD showcases its brilliant look remarkably well. Alongside Robert Altman's The Company, this film stands as a landmark in the realization of the cinematographic possibilities of digital video. (Thanks, Patty, Emma and Nonie!)

Dawn of the Dead (Unrated Director's Cut) It borders on heresy in some circles to express a preference for this potent, thoughtful and flat-out terrifying remake of the sludgy George Romero original. But when Stephen King, a big fan of Romero's movie, comes out cheering about the theatrical version, and then claims that the unrated version succeeds in expanding and deepening the impact of the movie's horrors, well, let's just say I'm... intrigued. (Thanks, Patty, Emma and Nonie!)

In A Lonely Place The DVD that was placed highest on my wish list. Humphrey Bogart and Gloria Grahame (swoon) star in Nicholas Ray’s pungent noir of desperation and murder set against a palpably realistic Hollywood backdrop. The DVD transfer is immaculate. (Thank you again, and then some, Andy!)

The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (Extended Version) A spectacular four-disc marathon of amazing fantasy, insightful commentary and intelligent appendices. Patty and I have dreams of seeing all three extended versions back-to-back someday soon (yes, perhaps on that day when Hormel hams take flight), and it’s a nice dream. But I’m grateful enough just for the anticipation that this might, as has been reported, be an even fuller, more exciting experience than the theatrical version. (Thank you, Patty!)

Mr. Show Season 4 The closest thing America has yet produced to rival the surrealistic interconnected tapestry of Monty Python's Flying Circus. And season 4, their last, featuring Bob and David's treatise on the taint, the hilariously inexplicable account of an Everest climb as told by the world's clumsiest raconteur, and the secret joys of that high-toned eatery the Burgundy Loafe, provides the most comic highs per program minute of the show's entire run. (Thanks, Mark and Bev!)

Rancho Deluxe (Sorry, I forgot this one on the original post last night...) I had a broadcasting professor in college who used to start each semester by telling her classes (presumably for the benefit of the newbies) that in order to communicate with her successfully one had to understand that Rancho Deluxe was the best movie ever made. Somehow I graduated while never quite coming to the same conclusion, but this postmodern "Western" with Jeff Bridges and Sam Waterston as slacker cattle poachers shambling along the great plains of Montana in their pickup truck is still a 'tude-filled good time. (Thank you, me-- who else would give me Rancho Deluxe for Christmas?-- well, Montana Todd, maybe...)

Run, Ronnie, Run David Cross and Bob Odenkirk’s feature-length expansion of a popular character from their Mr. Show series hasn’t the furious and surreal conviction of the best moments of that brilliant comedy series—it’s slack and too condescending by half. That said, it has a handful of giddy moments, including a brief turn by unappreciated comedienne Nikki Cox as a buxom beer model who sets her sights on our trailer-trash hero Ronnie Dobbs, and three musical parodies—the targets are hip-hop videos, Mandy Patinkin (deftly skewered by, of all folks, Mandy Patinkin) and the chipper chimney sweeps of Mary Poppins—that are the stuff of Mr. Show's unalloyed brilliance. (Thank you, Paul!)

Shanghai Knights The Shanghai movies are probably Jackie Chan's most delightful American films, and this boldly silly sequel, which puts Chan and anachronistic partner Owen Wilson smack-dab in the heart of London fulfills its promises with verve and cheerful energy. (Thanks, Patty, Emma and Nonie!)

Shaun of the Dead I'd never heard of this wildly funny and scary British romzomcom (romantic zombie comedy) when I created, with my pal Steve, the closed captions and subtitles for the film's home video and DVD incarnation back in April, and from then until the film's American theatrical release in late September I shilled for it to everyone I could think of. It excels as passionate parody, social commentary, giddy genre mutant and effectively moody fright fest. And to top it off, there's Bill Nighy discounting worries over being bitten by one of the undead: "It's nothing! I ran it under a cold tap!" Brilliant. (Thanks, Paul and Brian!)

The Thing With Two Heads/The Incredible Two-Headed Transplant See “Before The Ball Drops: “The Thing With Two Heads” on this blog at http://sergioleoneifr.blogspot.com/2004/12/just-before-ball-drops-thing-with-two.html (Thank you, Bruce!)

2004 World Series My beloved niece Melissa and her family live in Brookline, Massachusetts, a suburb of Boston, and she patiently awaits the day I abandon the Dodgers in favor of the Red Sox. This video presentation chronicling the 2004 denizens of Fenway Park and their improbable triumph over the Yankees and the Cardinals is her attempt to sway me and, though I'm not selling my Dodger gear just yet, I do expect the usual dose of great fun from this latest MLB DVD. (Thanks, Melissa, Cam, Debbie, Sabina and Izzy!)

Undisputed Another strong film from Walter Hill, who proves with this vital and visually breathtaking prison boxing movie, which stars Wesley Snipes and Ving Rhames, that he's still got the stuff that's made him one of America's finest directors of character-based action for almost 30 years. (Thank you, Patty, Emma and Nonie!)

The Wicker Man Christopher Lee again! That’s three for Lee, counting his restored appearance in The Return of the King. And this is the strangest performance of the three, in perhaps the strangest movie on this list, a thriller of a decidedly pagan bent from the pen of Anthony Shaffer (Sleuth) that is also very nearly at times an anthropological folk musical. The Wicker Man is a genuinely odd shocker and should be experienced with as little foreknowledge as possible. (Thank you, Andy!)

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