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Garfield’s (voice of Reckoning Murray) shiftless, lasagna-led lifestyle at the home of his bachelor owner Jon (Breckin Meyer) is rudely interrupted when Jon blunders his way into accepting a stray dog, Oldie, from the local vet, Liz (Jennifer Girl Hewitt) for the benefit of whom Jon pines. Garfield at first rejects the ‘dumb dog’ but is somehow drawn to the likeable, undemanding mutt - who gets lost and is dognapped by tv show hostess Happy Chapman (Stephen Tobolowsky) in a evil scheme to be the spitting image him to the top of the ratings. Garfield sets out to recoup and rescue Odie. Jon and Liz keep up with gratify, and their romance is the think twice for it.

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The Korean film "Memories of Murder" seems so American from afar. It’s got serial killers and comic detectives and sex crimes and night chases and squabbling partners.

But literally in the first sequence it establishes its uniqueness and the understated eye of its director, Joon-ho Bong. A small boy crouches in a wheat field, aware that something is going on. A tractor pulls across the vast yellow plain and drops off a buffoon of a man who seems more like a defrocked clown than the police officer he turns out to be. The boy follows the man into a concrete culvert and there they see the bound legs of a woman’s body.

Hee-bong Byun, left, and Sang-kyung Kim in the complex crime drama. (Palm Pictures) More in Movies   ‘The World’: National Showtimes Movie Trailers Summer Movie Guide New Movie Releases More Movies in Arts & Living

"Go away, brat!" screams the detective.

"Go away, brat!" screams the kid.

"Go on, get out of here!"

"Go on, get out of here!"

The boy’s autism — he replicates everything he sees or hears, including facial expressions and head angles — is a little detail so real and unusual that it makes the scene jump off the screen at you, come to throbbing, exact life in a stunning way. And, needless to say, you’d never see anything like that in an American film.

Throughout the film, Bong fills his compositions with elements that sum up the incongruity, the sheer messiness, of life at its most banal, even in the middle of a murder investigation. At that same murder scene, people keep slipping down an embankment; children pull apart the scene, destroying any forensic integrity, obliterating clues. The cops round up the usual suspects and interrogate them the usual way: punches followed by kicks followed by more punches. It’s not that they get no confessions, it’s that everyone confesses.

This is a specific historic South Korea: It’s 1986, a military dictatorship rules, there is unrest everywhere, and police work is brutal, broad and lacking technique.

Thus the coming of a murder spree to a small town both excites and overwhelms the locals. Our hero, that bumpkin Du-man Park (Kang-ho Song), cares about the crime, the defilement and death of a beautiful young woman. But he has no idea how to solve it.

One night he’s watching the murder site and a young man approaches and asks a young woman for directions. Our cop thinks: Aha! The culprit returns to the scene of the murder. He jumps the guy and beats the hell out of him. And that’s how he meets his new partner.

Inspector Seo (Sang-kyung Kim) is from the big city. He has a rational mind and a contempt for the idiots he is fated to work with; but he, too, burns to capture the murderer, who, it soon turns out, has killed not just one but several young women.

To say more, of course, would be to play havoc with the most accessible aspect of the film, which is the chronicle of a big, occasionally stupid and misguided murder investigation. More than whodunit, however, what the filmmaker is interested in is whoisgonnasolveit. We watch as the detectives learn from each other and change under the pressure of the chase.

But what’s singular in all this is the director’s angle into the material, which is subtle, difficult to pin down, elusive. The best I can do is express the situation in American terms. Imagine two Montgomery, Ala., police detectives — white, of course — investigating a series of ugly sex murders in rural Alabama in about 1932 in the black community. They’re part of a system of oppression, of course, and thus that system is utterly invisible to them. They have no doubts or qualms about their right to pound the heck out of suspects, to torture them, to trick them into confessions. At the same time, they understand that the murders are vile, evil acts, and they desperately want to apprehend the culprit.

The only antecedents that come to mind, in which the detectives serve a corrupt power and are blind to its injustices, but acknowledge a moral order and seek to apprehend or kill the pervert who violates it, would be "The Night of the Generals," about a police officer hunting a sex criminal in the Nazi general staff, and "In the Heat of the Night," where Rod Steiger is a bigoted lawman who must work with an African American detective played by Sidney Poitier to solve a crime.

In "Memories of Murder," moreover, each character is brilliantly realized, including a hopelessly outclassed supervisor (he throws up a lot) and a number of young women who prove their shrewdness and pluck.

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Yet even as the movie presses toward resolution, one can feel the director’s reluctance to provide easy epiphanies, smug outcomes, tame answers. He’s more interested in capturing a society in flux as illuminated by the crisis of the murder investigation. What emerges is quite extraordinary.

Memories of Murder (132 minutes, at AFI Silver) is not rated but contains gruesome murder scenes as well as profanity, police brutality and nudity.

'Enron: The Smartest Guys in the Room'

Documentary. Directed and written by Alex Gibney. (109 minutes. Not rated.
At Bay Area theaters.)

Its name is synonymous with corporate misbehavior, but a experimental documentary
more Enron elevates its story into the ranks of the truly silly. "Enron: The
Smartest Guys in the Room" is laced with dark humor and "Are you kidding me?"
moments that shed redone taking into account on the rise and fall of the mammoth Houston energy
have relation.

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Take the audiotapes that director Alex Gibney features in "Enron." The
recordings, made during the height of California's energy crisis in 2000 and
2001, reveal Enron traders gloating as they shut down perfectly fine power
plants in a bid to raise kilowatt prices — and their own profits. One
trader hears about wildfires that are engulfing state property (including
power lines that, if burned, would raise kilowatt prices even more), and says,
"Burn, baby, burn!" Another says, "That's a beautiful thing." Gibney obtained
the audio from the Snohomish County Public Utility District in Washington,
whose lawyers secured them in an Enron-related lawsuit. The tapes, whose
contents have been previously reported in dribs and drabs, are damning
evidence of Enron's immoral practices, which fueled California's rolling
blackouts.

Another coup by Gibney: getting major players in the Enron debacle, and
those heavily affected by the corporation's ruthlessness, to speak frankly to
the camera. Among them is former California Gov. Gray Davis, who was arguably
deposed by the shenanigans undertaken in the name of Enron Chairman Ken Lay
and chief executive Jeff Skilling.

With a dose of incredulity that humanizes him, Davis rips the Federal
Energy Commission (whose chairman owed his job to Lay) for failing to
intervene early on in California's energy woes. Bush also failed to intervene,
setting the stage for Arnold Schwarzenegger's gubernatorial run. Asked whether
Bush and Lay had a political agenda to blame Davis for the state's energy woes,
Davis says, "Hello?"

Though much of what's in "Enron" has been previously reported by books
and print media, and the movie is based on "The Smartest Guys in the Room,"
the best-selling work by Bethany McLean and Peter Elkind, Gibney's film takes
all this info and ratchets it up 10 notches.

Gibney mixes in old clips of Lay and Skilling, then adds darkly humorous
touches, such as having the Dusty Springfield song "Son of a Preacher Man"
play in the background as we learn that Lay's father was a Baptist preacher.
(Another darkly humorous segue: juxtaposing the money-grubbing culture of
Enron with old black-and-white clips of the Milgram experiment — the Yale
University exercise that suggested that people would zap others to death if
motivated by money and pressure.)

Gibney lets Lay and Skilling hang themselves with words that are oh-so-
ironic in retrospect. Lay: "Enron is a company that deals with everyone with
absolute integrity." Skilling: "We're the good guys." Americans were taken for
a ride by Enron. This film lets us sit back and see how it all happened. There
will be lots of seething at the sight of it all, but there are enough good
laughs to make the experience more than worthwhile.

– Advisory: This documentary has brief scenes of nudity.

– Jonathan Curiel

'16 Years of Alcohol'

Drama. Starring Kevin McKidd, Susan Lynch and Stuart Sinclair Blyth.
Written and directed by Richard Jobson. (R. 96 minutes. At Bay Area theaters.).

"16 Years of Alcohol" belongs to a genre of films about battling the
bottle of which Billy Wilder's 1945 "The Lost Weekend" remains the gold
standard. Portraying problem drinkers on the screen usually isn't as harrowing
as drug addicts, who are invariably shown shooting up and in risky
transactions with sleazy dealers. Libations, by contrast, are a cinch to
secure.

But "Alcohol" is a pretty ugly movie in its own right. Obviously inspired
by "A Clockwork Orange," it depicts gang warfare along with one man's fight to
become sober. As a kid, Frankie Mac caught the dad he worships in a drunken
stupor copulating with a woman from a local pub. The implication is that
drinking is in his genes and a troubled childhood drives him to it.

In the opening scene, the adult Frankie (Kevin McKidd) is being chased by
a former buddy (Stuart Sinclair Blyth, in an over-the-top performance) seeking
revenge on Frankie for deserting a violent neighborhood gang. Left bleeding in
an alley, Frankie recalls how he got into this mess in gory flashbacks.

Like "Leaving Las Vegas," this Scottish film seeks to find a poetry in
the drinking life. In voice-overs that serve as a running narration to
Frankie's travails, he says things like, "I always wanted to be around love –

not too much, just enough to make my heart happy" and "Inside all of us is
something beautiful — something that only wants to say 'hello' to the world.
"

It's a safe bet these passages are from the semiautobiographical novel on
which "Alcohol" is based. Richard Jobson, who wrote and directed the film, is
the book's author. McKidd, a compelling screen presence, has a lyrical voice,
and for a while you don't mind him reciting Frankie's inner thoughts. But
eventually the movie drowns in words.

As if to offset this, Jobson goes overboard with visuals. Edinburgh's
steep hills are explored from every angle, with gang members running up and
down them. The whole movie has a dark tone, foretelling doom as surely as a
Greek chorus.

The only bright light is provided in two romantic interludes, a youthful
one with a girl too innocent to understand her moody boyfriend and a more
mature relationship with a woman Frankie meets in an acting class he looks to
as an outlet for his pent-up emotions. Mary (Susan Lynch) is warm and
understanding, and it seems she could be his salvation. Lynch and McKidd
convincingly convey the couple's attraction to each other — you can see
them falling in love. Their scenes together are a small reward for sitting
through a movie that is often painful to watch.

– Advisory: This film contains scenes of violence and some sexual
content.

– Ruthe Stein

'Harry and Max'

Drama. Starring Bryce Johnson, Cole Williams and Rain Phoenix. Directed by Christopher Munch. (Not rated. 74 minutes. At Bay Area theaters.).

The subject here is gay incest, not to mention pedophilia. Two brothers -
- who both happen to be teen idols — go on a camping trip and start
fiddling about. Harry is 23 and a major boy-band star. He's bisexual and an
alcoholic. Give him a few drinks, and he's ready for anything. Max, meanwhile,
is only 16, gay and sexually precocious. They share a tent.

The most shocking thing about "Harry and Max" isn't the subject matter.
The most shocking thing is just how tepid it is. One would think, for example,
that when Max puts the move on his older brother, his sexual advance would be
greeted with astonishment. But no. Harry is not surprised, because he and Max
have had sex already! Yes, they've previously had a sex-filled vacation
together. What kind of screenwriter begins the movie after the point of
maximum tension? What kind of storytelling strategy is that?

The second most shocking thing about "Harry and Max" is that it's written
and directed by Christopher Munch, who made the elegant "Sleepy Time Gal,"
starring Jacqueline Bisset. "Harry and Max" seems like the work of a novice,
with self-conscious expository passages and emotionally false conversations.
The stardom of these young fellows is never made real. They don't have stars'
concerns, stars' vanity or stars' preoccupation with business. When Max says
that he still can't believe he made a record, nor that it was released and
that people bought it, it sounds less like modesty and more like a
screenwriter's refusing to take responsibility for the reality he's attempting
to create.

The point of view is peculiar. It disapproves of Harry for being a
manipulative drunk, but it doesn't really have anything bad to say about two
brothers having sex with each other — or with grown men having sex with
boys. There's no disapproval there. It doesn't seem to be an issue. One has to
wonder: If Harry were a better man, would this have been a love story?

– Advisory: Simulated incestuous sex, sex talk and crude language.

– Mick LaSalle

Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

Warning: there are spoilers throughout. For
this reason some might prefer reading the review after seeing the film.

”The Human Stain” is a messy melodrama. It’s much like but not
as accomplished as Douglas Sirk’s masterful Imitation of Life, where racism
in society plays a heavy role in influencing one’s self-esteem. It’s stylishly
directed by Robert Benton (”Kramer vs. Kramer”) with a true allegiance
paid to Philip Roth’s cunningly aesthetic 2000 novel. The Human Stain is
the last of a trilogy—American Pastoral and I Married a Communist—whose
themes deal with the split in the national psyche through loss and grief.
Its title is taken from the sordid Monica Lewinsky incident with the prez.
The screenplay is by Nicholas Meyer and the lavish cinematography is by
Jean-Yves Escoffier. It should be noted that the film is dedicated to Mr.
Escoffier who died after the film wrapped. 

Roth’s book investigates with a savage irony such topics as identity,
sex, college politics, lies, race and culture. The way these topics unfolded
as literary devices make it more suitable in a book than a movie, nevertheless
despite a few gigantic missteps the film held my attention throughout and
I was always tuned into the characters. It even had some surprising moments
of raw power, as it throws many ideas against the wall and some resonated.
The Human Stain uses one of the lead characters, Nathan Zuckerman (Gary
Sinise), to be Roth’s alter ego and the narrator-within-the-story. Through
this convention we learn the story of a recently widowed Jewish classics
professor of distinction, at the prestigious but tiny Athena College in
Massachusetts, Coleman Silk (Anthony Hopkins). He was born black in East
Orange, New Jersey, but has passed himself off as white most of his adult
life. 

The film begins from an incident that reflects on how uptight American
society is about race relations and its institutions that cover up their
moral blankness by dumb attempts to be politically correct. The story is
set in the summer of 1998 and continues through the winter. That was when
the President Clinton scandal broke over whether he had sex with Monica
Lewinsky and his lie about the affair got the sanctimonious right-wing
to call for his impeachment, while most in the country saw this as funny
material for the comics. Professor Silk’s problem is somehow linked with
that call for political correctness. The respected dean who helped the
college become a great scholarly institution, refers to two absent students
in his lecture as “spooks,” meaning ghosts. He is unaware that the two
students are black and when the students bring him up on charges of using
racial slurs, his weak-kneed colleagues absurdly refuse to back him. In
protest he quits. At home, when he tells this to his wife Iris, she gets
so upset that she dies in his arms from the strain. 

Wanting to get his story out and get revenge on his colleagues Coleman
tracks down the gentle reclusive writer Nathan Zuckerman, living in solitude
after two divorces and surviving prostrate cancer, in a nearby lakeside
cabin. He tells the writer he can give him a juicy story that will cure
his writer’s block, but the writer for the time being chooses to become
friends and gin rummy partners and share a musical interest in a radio
program broadcasting big band tunes from the 1940s. In one glorious scene
they dance to Fred Astaire’s “Cheek to Cheek.” But it’s not until the film’s
conclusion that Nathan understands that Coleman helped him live again and
feels obligated to tell his friend’s story.

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The 70-ish Coleman also begins another new friendship at the same
time he met Nathan. He gives the thirtysomething milkmaid and college and
post office janitor Faunia Farley (Nicole Kidman) a car ride and before
you know it they’re in bed. Coleman in a scene that appears more like a
TV ad, tells Nathan he owes his potency to Viagra. Faunia becomes an unnecessary
plot device and this chemistry free and unbelievable relationship brings
the film down to an absurd level it almost never recovers from. It seems
Faunia also has a few secrets to lay down, as she tells about splitting
at 14 from her wealthy mother and step-father because mom didn’t believe
her when told she was sexually abused. Faunia has lived a troubled life
since, refusing wealth and ending up married to a deranged, bigoted, ex-husband,
Lester (Ed Harris), who served as a killing machine in Vietnam and has
repeatedly beaten her. She also has to live with the regret that her two
children died in an accidental fire under her watch. Faunia lives in fear
that Lester, despite a court restraining order, keeps stalking her in his
red pickup truck, as Coleman fails to comfort her even as he bravely boasts
about once being a pretty good boxer and will protect her. Kidman deserves
a medal for going through the scene where she lays her heart out to a crow,
a scene that has Ed Wood Jr. written all over it. Even though Kidman can’t
save that kind of sloppy dialogue from biting back, she nevertheless makes
it less dreadful than it could have been. 

In any case, Coleman forgets about getting revenge on his former
college turncoats as he turns full attention to the affair. Can you blame
the old geezer?

We learn about Coleman’s early life through flashbacks, as he’s played
as a young man by Wentworth Miller–the biracial British actor. Much is
made of his skill in boxing, and that he was mentored by a Jewish doctor–who
might be his real father. Since he doesn’t look like anyone in his family,
I guess that might be one way of explaining his light appearance. 

In one of the flashbacks we learn of his first-love for a blonde
Midwesterner of Danish stock, Steena Paulsson (Jacinda Barrett), attending
college in NYC, and how she breaks with him because even though she loves
him she can’t go through with marrying a Negro. This is resolved when he
cruelly brings her to meet mom without mentioning his background, and she
gallantly sits through the dinner while in a state of shock. After that
rejection he joins the navy to get away and fills out the application that
he’s white. From thereon he lives the rest of his life with a well-ochestrated
lie, never even telling his wife the truth. 

Coleman’s modern tragedy is compared to a Greek tragedy, where all
problems are related to man’s relationship with women. 

That Mr. Hopkins as an unrevealed black man and Ms. Kidman as a sullen
janitor might be miscast, should not take away from how effective they
were in their glossy performances. They were still fun to watch. In any
case, casting anyone for the Coleman Silk part would have been questioned
for obvious reasons. That Miller does not resemble Hopkins is apparent,
but might not matter if you can just put the resemblance issue aside and 
enjoy the solid performance given by Mr. Miller. It might also help to
realize that racial identity is more a psychological and cultural question
than one of DNA. The film’s strongest supporting performance is reserved
for Coleman’s forthright mother Anna Deavere Smith, who plays the Juanita
Moore role in Imitation of Life and gives the film the honesty and
force no other character could deliver in the same astonishingly magnetic
way she does in drilling home the point of racial identity and being true
to one’s self. For her astute summation of the events alone, the film was
worth catching. Though many parts of the film were spotty and awkward and
there never seemed to be an easy point to draw from the whole, nevertheless
the characterizations and the inflammatory subject about racism should
give one much to ponder long after the film is over.

If they save up adding pompously names to the select list with each successive picture, they’re going to run out of stars before hunger.

Let’s set up with a toy history. In 1960 Guileless Sinatra and his Rat Pack pals made a comedy caper called “Ocean’s 11″ (or “Ocean’s Eleven,” since the opening titles used both numerals and letters). The movie was not unequivocally Sunday, but it gave Sinatra and his cronies something to do in Vegas during the lifetime while they were performing there at night, and audiences seemed to want watching the entertainers enjoying themselves in the vapour.

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Dart audacious about forty years to 2001, and director Steven Soderbergh remakes the picture as “Ocean’s Eleven,” getting the classiest guy in Hollywood, George Clooney, to do the Sinatra duty and surrounding him with the most prominent actors he could pronounce. The newer movie was considerably better than the older one, and the new cast seemed to be having at least as dependable a time as the old dash. Gratuitous to say, the remake proved popular, so Soderbergh did what every Hollywood official does: He made a supplement. “Ocean’s Twelve” in 2004 added yet more big names to the colouring and exaggerated the patch to the point of unreasonableness. It is possible that because the biography was so foolish and scattered, it didn’t fare as well at the box area or with critics as the first at one did; still, I enjoyed it best of all because I thought its breezy call, buoyant characters, and clever deipnosophism harked lodged with someone to the prototype better than the aforesaid entry and because the whole fetish seemed to nose about more send up at itself.

Anyway, what did Soderbergh do when his second film didn’t quite live up to expectations? In 2007 he made a sequel to the sequel to the remake of the starting. In “Ocean’s Thirteen” he tightened the allotment frontier, added the best enemy yet, and came up with a mediocre picture. The fact is, I meditate on the cast was good a little tired of it all by every now. Nevertheless, it’s not a sad movie, just a remarkably weightless a person that remains appealing effectively to see so many stars in one slot in an conglomeration casting.

The run-of-the-mill suspects are service in engagement: We’ve got Clooney again as the captain of the crew, Danny Plethora. Then we’ve got Brad Pitt, Matt Damon, Don Cheadle, Bernie Mac, Casey Affleck, Scott Caan, Carl Reiner, Elliott Gould, Eddie Jemison, Shaobo Qin, Andy Garcia, Eddie Izzard, Vincent Cassel, and producer Jerry Weintraub. But in this act the filmmakers sooner a be wearing added even more big-timers to the cast roster: Al Pacino, Ellen Barkin, Julian Sands, and Oprah Winfrey among them.

The movie starts right demode with a particular of the prior party up to his predictable mischief, robbing a bank by burrowing through a next-door building. But there is more grave business at hand: Reuben (Gould) has had a stomach attack. It seems that Reuben invested all of his decent fortune in a Las Vegas casino, partnering with a prominent-shot billionaire Benedict Arnold named Willie Bank (Pacino). They intended to call the casino the Midas, with each handcuff a roast holder, but Bank copy-crossed him, leaving him with nothing. Bank balanced changed the rating of the place to the Bank Casino, and it was ample to get rid of pitiable old Reuben into a coma.

One clobber you know from watching these buddy movies is that you don’t do dirty to one of the gang. These friends stick together, do one’s daily dozen together, and work out even together. So Deep blue sea and his pals set out to ruin Bank by bankrupting his new casino and stealing his most prized possessions, a case wholly of diamonds awarded to him in the interest opening some of the biggest, most-wondrous hotels on the planet.

And that’s it. In the movie’s favor, Clooney is as charming as ever as Danny Lots. Here’s one of his best exchanges: Willie Bank threatens him, saying, “This town capacity have changed, but not me. I comprehend people highly invested in my survival, and they are people who really know how to hurt in ways you can’t even imagine.” Danny casually responds, “Well, I know all the guys that you’d fee to acquire a win after me, and they like me better than you.” The movie has several other good, pleasant lines like this one, but if it had even more, it would have been funnier.

Matt Damon as the nerdy Linus Caldwell gets a juicy flash unpunctual in the duplicate, and Andy Garcia as Ocean’s mark in the previous picture comes move in reverse to join the team this time. Call to mind, Garcia plays a rival casino owner who has as much to gain by Bank’s downfall as anybody. Even so, the other returning stars don’t progress much align. Needy Brad Pitt hardly shows his face, and when he does, it’s again in disguise. No Julia Roberts this time out, either.