I WANT A NEW DRUG

By Greg Walton

Click the Pic for the official 'Blow' Website!

Johnny Depp oozes cool.  He's a pretty boy with rebellious panache, a gaunt

ghoulish icon of sexuality.  But the ultimate proof of his coolness comes

from the consistently anti-cool choices he makes as an actor.  From his

ridiculous self-parody in John Waters Cry Baby to his frequent

collaborations with director Tim Burton, Depp always goes out of his way to

embrace the bizarre, twisted, or just plain quirky characters.

 But in BLOW, a scrapbook screenplay adaptation of the life of George Jung,

America's cocaine kingpin of the late 70's, we find Depp already dressed

for success, strutting through a film that's counting on his off-screen

reputation to bleed through on-screen.  This is Depp the image not the

actor.   And BLOW greedily sucks him dry in a film that borrows attitude

from every source it can - leisure suits, classic rock, and Pee-Wee Herman

- but never finds a rhythm of its own.

  

Starting with George's humble beginnings as a dope-dealing beach bum in

California, the film continues in its best Goodfellas shorthand to unravel

a decades-spanning, continent-hopping tale of opium blues, familial

breakdown, and personal disgrace.

After a few years of making contacts - but only making chump change -

George goes from a bachelor of marijuana to a doctorate of cocaine. He

eliminates the middleman and turns America on to the wonders of

high-quality nose candy direct from Columbia.  But as his childhood fears

of poverty are laid to rest with more cash than he can count, his family

history comes back with a vengeance in the form of his new wife, Mirtha

(Penelope Cruz, in a role unfit for an up-and-comer such as herself).

And all the fatherly advice dished out by Dad (Ray Liotta) can't stop

George's empire from crumbling from within.

Right from the opening titles, with Keith Richard's jagged guitar riffs

tearing up the soundtrack, BLOW seems like a movie with potential.  Maybe

because the 70's have become the ultimate nostalgic film era for cultural

freedom and fun loving excess.  But unfortunately for director Ted Demme,

the well seems to be running dry.

BLOW has the clothes, the hair, and the songs (although not nearly enough

of them), but is lacking any sense of joy, exuberance, or titillation

towards the illegal but glamorous lifestyle its central character leads.

Goodfellas made you want to be a gangster.  Boogie Nights convinced you to

pursue a career in porn (OK, I'd already made up my mind on that one).

 But BLOW never shows us the high times, never revels during George's brief

stint at the top of his game, never shows us why a man would risk

everything for one line of coke and a dollar bill.      It's simply not

fun.  Which is fine for an introspective film like Traffic, another recent

take on America's drug culture, but BLOW follows a different model.

Demme, a middle of the road director at best, throws in everything he can

to get the party started - freeze frames, awkward zooms, dramatic lighting

schemes - but nothing sticks.  His actors put on a good game face though,

especially Franke Potente (Run, Lola, Run) as George's stewardess

girlfriend whose 'get-out-of-customs-free card' is an important stepping

stone to their success.

But no amount of posturing can hide the fact that after 2 plus-hours, BLOW

simply details the rather uninteresting rise and fall of a rather

uninteresting man.

Even a guy who oozes cool can't do much with that.

GRADE: C+

SEX AND THE SINGLE GIRL

Apparently there is something worse than being single and 30 something;

being single, 30-something, and a woman.  As next-generation liberated

media like Sex in the City would have us believe, the gentler sex have it

rough looking for a qualified candidate (men are either jerks, boring, or

gay...frequently all three) - but even rougher competing with each other.

Bridget Jones' Diary, based on the best-selling novel by Helen Fielding,

proves that things are tough all over, even on the other side of the pond.

 Starring Texan Renee Zellweger (Jerry Maguire) as the very British

Bridget, the film chronicles her life, loves, and lonely nights in the

heart of London.  There's the good-looking bad boy (Hugh Grant) and the

average looking, nice guy (Colin Firth) who both end up vying for her

affections.

Betrayal, disappointment, and misunderstandings ensue.  If only single life

was really that exciting.  But I guess Hot Pockets and Nick at Night

marathons aren't for everyone.

As it is Bridget Jones' Diary fits the classic romantic comedy mold;

pleasantly good-natured and a lot of fun to watch.  Most of that is due to

Zellweger's standout performance as the slightly befuddled, always

sympathetic Bridget.  She's much more well rounded than the cold icons of

modern womanhood on Sex in the City, and it's not just the extra 20 pounds

she put on for the role.

There's a tenderness that flashes between every bad date and public

embarrassment.  As she chooses between thong panties or tummy tuckers, you

actually believe that this is an important life decision.

 Hugh Grant steals his scenes as an oily playboy, but he's so predictably

charming it's hard to dislike him for long.  In fact, everything about

Bridget Jones is predictably enjoyable.  It's like that well-groomed blind

date that buys you dinner, tips the waitress 20%, opens the car door, and

doesn't try to cop a feel.  The only diary entry that seems false is the

unapologetically sappy ending, with Bridget wrapped in some man's arms on a

snowy city street corner.  But isn't that what every single-ton  hopes for

anyway?

 That or those new Lean Pockets and a good episode of Mary Tyler Moore.

GRADE: B+