Stand Up Guys (2013)

It’s a kick to see Al Pacino, Christopher Walken, and Alan Arkin play off each other in “Stand Up Guys,” a comedy about aging gangsters who can still -– as stated repeatedly -– kick ass or chew gun, and no one has any gum. That joke gets repeated. Our three acting gods make it work. Mostly. What they cannot save is the stick a needle in a hard cock joke, which De Niro already suffered through with Ben Stiller. And not even Brando in his prime could save the WT-holy-F gang rape victim bit which has the trio finding a bound, gagged, and naked assault victim in the trunk of a car they have stolen. Get her to the hospital? Is she traumatized? Injured? No. Our heroes take the lady out for dinner, find the perps, and layout violent justice, hooting and hollering along the way. Seriously. Really. Actor-turned-director Fisher Stevens is so busy making these guys woo-ha cwazzy that he never makes them dangerous, so much so that not even the notion of Walken’s assassin being forced to kill Pacino’s crook makes a slight dent. Irony: Despite the deluge of dick jokes, “Guys” has no balls. C+

Side Effects (2013)

Steven Soderbergh’s (apparent) final big-screen bow takes on big pharma and the need for Americans to dope up to get through the day, be it anti-depressants, anxiety pills, uppers, downers, or whatever. And what of the “Side Effects”? Limp libido? Exhaustion? Murderous sleep-walking fit? That’s the ticket here as a married couple (Channing Tatum and Rooney Mara) rocked by hubby’s prison stint for Wall Street sins are reunited only to see the wife slip off her plates after an apparent suicide attempt. Caught in the middle of all this, taking money from on high and prescribing pills to the low, is Jude Law as a psychiatrist, who begins Boy Scout and becomes … less so. I can’t give away anything more, because Soderbergh and writer Scott Z. Burns (both of “Contagion”) take a turn that hit me, well, like a drug at first -- euphoric love, but then a quick and lowly crash as I contemplated all that I saw. How not to spill the pills? Let me say this: The ugly ridiculous denouncement is Family Research Council approved. Pure 1950s. Got it? Mara is great. Tatum, ehh. Catherine Zeta-Jones plays another head shrink, and Pacinos the scenery. B- 

GoodFellas (1990) and Heat (1995)

Watching Robert De Niro burn his unparalleled talents in shit such as “Little Fockers” or “Righteous Kill,” it’s unbelievable that just 20 years ago he had two of the best films in his storied career and of the decade under his belt. “GoodFellas” – directed by Martin Scorsese – and “Heat” – directed by Michael Mann – are crime genre classics, eternally re-watchable and endlessly fascinating. The man is a monster in both films, of cinematic talent, and of men’s character. 

“GoodFellas” opens with this line, spoken by Ray Liotta as Henry Hill, a Bronx-born hood who was mobbed up by age 14: “Ever since I can remember, I always wanted to be a gangster.” Wow. This is Hill’s story, from rise to vast rule to ketchup and egg noodles in the Midwest. De Niro is his mid-level mob boss. Joe Pesci costars in an infamously profane and violent performance so shocking, it’s bewildering to know the man he plays was far more dangerous. The film is flawless, so amazing good and detailed (the food alone!), it’s a thrill to behold for a 15^th viewing. My words do not do it justice. 

In “Heat,” De Niro is a master criminal of a high-end gang (Val Kilmer and Tom Sizemore co-headline his crew) being chased by an obsessive detective (Al Pacino, also scraping bottom in “Righteous” and “88 Minutes”) in Los Angeles. We also follow the cop’s home life as Mann’s three-hour epic film spreads far and wide, almost too wide – an icky serial killer plot thread goes nowhere. The actions scenes are you-are-there-real and spectacular, including a long finale outside the Los Angeles airport that boomed in a theater.

De Niro is the star of both, the ballast holding each film together, keeping the madness, violence, crazy details, and other actors (Pacino goes “PACINO” a few times) cemented and whole, but let it be known these worlds are the creation of, respectively, Scorsese and Mann, both in unmatched top form. Know this: “GoodFellas” was based on a true story, but “Heat” inspired a criminal duo to pull off a daring bank robbery that eerily mimicked the mid-section scene here.

GoodFellas: A+ Heat: A

Jack and Jill (2011)

“This must never be seen.” Al Pacino says this at the end of “Jack and Jill,” a degrading Adam Sandler flick that has the “SNL” vet playing twins, one Jack, one Jill, with Pacino (!) lusting for the latter. Sandler does drag as Jill and also as Jack in drag as Jill. That’s the plot. So, yes, Pacino continues his late-career burnout by playing himself in a way that can only be called turkey bacon. It’s beyond ham. He raps an onscreen Dunkin’ Dounts commercial, and it’s awful sad. At least Katie Holmes looks embarrassed as Jack’s autotron wife. Not Al. Sandler has been making brain-fuck films for years, to bore us and get rich quickly, and his self-satisfied smirk shows how much he cares. He spends 80 minutes mocking Jill as an overweight, sweaty, techno-clueless, socially inept wreck of shrill Jewish stereotypes, before going life-lesson soft, asking us to fall in love with her (him) as a person. I don’t know which is worse, that Sandler thinks he’s creating message movies, his constant product hawking, or that he thinks diarrhea is still funny. D

The Recruit (2003)

When a brilliant hotshot (Colin Farrell) is recruited to join the CIA and his trainer/boss/mentor looks and sounds and does that whole wiggy Al Pacino thing, and is, in fact, Al Pacino, something must be wrong. “I got a bad feeling about this” wrong. And, that’s “The Recruit,” a spy thriller from Roger Donaldson, who made the terrific 1980s mind-screw “No Way Out.” You know the way out here, though, because … did I mention Al Pacino? In a literal spotlight at one point? Sporting a goatee? This is by-the-numbers with every twist underlined by a loud music cue, but it’s not a terrible affair. Pacino overacts with zeal, having fun showing the whipper snappers on set (Farrell, Bridget Moynahan) how you spook the guys behind the cameras and holding the boom mikes. Drinking while watching? Take a shot every time Farrell loses the American accent. And, yes, I skipped a plot summary. (Al Pacino.) C+

Dog Day Afternoon (1975)

In the opening seconds of Sonny Wortzik’s daring daylight robbery of a Brooklyn bank, it all goes wrong. Sonny – played by Al Pacino, when his legend was unbeatable – can’t even get his rifle out of a flower box correctly. He fumbles. Then one of his two accomplices flees, and then Sonny finds out the truck already picked up the money. Dude is left looking at less than $1,500. This is the start of Sidney Lumet’s classic drama-thriller “Dog Day Afternoon,” a film about a damned lost soul, so desperate to change, for a chance, that he destroys the thin string he hangs by. Based on an incredible true story, “Dog” is Pacino’s acting showcase -- a maladjusted Vietnam vet in a sexual pickle too riotous to explain. Just watch. His Sonny seems closer to real criminals, as we call them, than 99 percent of the flicks out there. (I covered enough crime at newspapers to know.) Lumet’s clockwork precision plays well, the movie seems to spin out in real time, in a throbbing, sweating, raging New York City long gone. John Cazale plays Sonny’s hard-case accomplice, an unhinged guy not afraid to kill or be killed. One of the best films from the 1970s. A+

Serpico (1973)

The ultimate police corruption drama, “Serpico” is another winner from the late Sidney Lumet, a director who never let flashy camera angles and high-jinks get in the way of an amazing story. And this tale, based of fact, is amazing. Newly minted NYC patrolman Frank Serpico quickly learns that Blue Blood is thicker than the red kind, and that an honest cop is the least trust worthy man on the job. Serpico is that honest cop. The film opens with Serpico being rushed to a hospital after being shot in the face at point-blank range. Fellow policeman relish the chance to see this guy six feet under. The rest of the film is a flashback as Serpico goes from joyful cop to a man hunted by his own brothers. The film’s pitch is not perfect: Early scenes with Frank’s family are scored to a painfully maudlin piece of music, but it’s a small sin in a deep and exciting flick. The once great Al Pacino plays Serpico, and his performance is among his greatest output – “The Godfather” films and “Dog Day Afternoon.” A

Insomnia (1997 and 2002)

“Insomnia” was first made as a Swedish/Norwegian crime noir in 1997 with Stellan Skarsgard, and then remade in 2002 as an American thriller with Al Pacino. Remakes suck, right? Well, in a rare miracle, maybe a one-time miracle, the remake is as nearly strong as its predecessor. Both will keep you up at night.

The 1997 film is bleak, moody and has an ambivalent ending that sticks to the inside of your brain. It also packs a powerful example of low-key, but excellent acting from Skarsgard. The 2002 version is equally stark yet takes us deeper into the cracks behind Pacino’s protagonist, and presents a more formidable opponent.

Both versions have the same set up: The murder of a teenage girl in a small burg near the Article Circle (Norway in 1997; Alaska in 2002) demands the experience of a big-city homicide investigator (Skarsgard; Pacino). Each town is experiencing what is known as midnight sun, therefore it is blazing daylight 24/7. The lack of darkness wrecks havoc on each detective’s already damaged psyche, and all senses crumble. Fast. A fatal FUBAR shooting during a stakeout empowers the respective murderer above the policeman and derails the investigation.

1997: Skarsgard plays Jonas Engstrom, a man with no apparent emotional attachment. When he speaks to a high school classroom about the need to bring forth information about the murder, he does so blandly. The only certainly in life, he tells the students, is that they will never see their dead classmate again. He shoots a dog point blank with a pistol. He shoots his partner. It gets worse. Engstrom also has eyes and hands for young girls. The man is repugnant, immoral, and the killer (Bjorn Floberg) quickly sniffs that trait out. As the investigation further crumbles and sleep alludes Engstrom, he becomes more cut off emotionally, stone silent, his pupils and his psyche shrink into nothing. Yet he’s still obsessed with the case, solving it to prove he can, to snag a better job, or to bring the killer to justice, or maybe all three. Director/co-writer Erik Skoldbjaerg creates a powerful and disturbing film, exploring the moral lines men cross, knowingly or unwittingly. A

2002: Christopher Nolan directs Pacino as lead detective Will Dormer and Martin Donovan as his partner, Hap Eckhart. Dormer is no junkie for young girls, but he is a shady, “F” the rules veteran cop about to barbecued by I.A. back in L.A. When Eckhart dishes that he’s going to sell Dormer to the bosses, their friendship shatters. On the stakeout for the killer, Dormer shoots Eckhart. By mistake? No. Just before firing, Dormer changes guns. That’s the murky ice pool that Nolan and screenwriter Hillary Seitz pushes us into. Pacino is all jitters, off-kilter senses and dropping eyelids. As in “Memento,” where the protagonist had no memory, Nolan plays with flashbacks, senses and truths. Images of past and present sins haunt Dormer like a killer. And Pacino looks hunted. Robin Williams, creepy as hell in a fine performance, plays the killer and game master. The definitive ending, good as it is, doesn’t forge inside the head as does the original’s murky question mark. And Hilary Swank's young cop is under-written, and a bit eager college girl for my taste. But, wow, a great film in its own right. A-

Righteous Kill (2008) and King of Comedy (1982)

"Righteous Kill" was supposed to give true film fans the Al Pacino/ Robert De Niro reunion they've been itching for since the Michael Mann-directed 1995 classic "Heat." Sadly this thriller is a crap dud from director Jon Avnet (who made crap dud "88 Minutes," also with Pacino) and has all the heat of a bad "Scooby Doo" episode mixed with old tired cliches about old tired cops that stank when "Hill Street Blues" was on the air.

The plot: Veteran NYC cops Turk (De Niro) and Rooster (Pacino) are on the hunt for a serial killer who's offing the city's most notorious scumbags. (Like cops would care.) Blame falls on seething fireball Turk, but ... did he do it? The answer is so brain dead simple, I kept hoping I was wrong. I wasn't.

De Niro looks like he has a kidney stone. Pacino at least keeps his "hoo-ha" acting on low broil. For awhile. Carla Gugino ("Karen Cisco") plays a forensics cop with a rape fetish who's bonking Turk. Her character, transplanted from a bad Sharon Stone film, is the most interesting mug on screen, even if she is a sick male fantasy.

A few bits of sharp dialogue in the script written by Russell Gewirtz help, but not much. The climax is as obvious, noisy and silly as the ending of "Heat" was stylish, understated and epic. The days when Pacino and De Niro were exciting are gone. They just need to quit. D-

But, De Niro is a god -- a delusional, pathetic, mamma's boy god -- in the brilliant "The King of Comedy," a 1982 pitch-black dark comedy jewel from director Martin Scorsese. De Niro literally morphs his body and larger-than-life essence to play the dweebish Rupert Pupkin, a wannabe comedian who plays to an audience of cardboard cut outs and wall art in the basement of his mother's house. Pure sick joy this film is.

Pupkin longs to be on a Johnny Carson-like show hosted by Jerry Langford (Jerry Lewis), the God to Rupert's Job. Kicking out a rabid "fan" from Jerry's limo, Rupert inserts himself into the life of his idol and seeks advice on how to win fame and glory. The kicker: Jerry is a lonely prick who cares for no one but himself, and when he blows off Rupert, our anti-hero is too dense to notice.

Instead, Rupert marches on, in love with Jerry and fame. The obsession turns nasty when Pupkin recruits his friend, the rabid fan (Sandra Bernhardt), from the limo, to help kidnap Jerry. The film is madly funny and nails the psyche of a deranged man who believes the world owes him and needs him.

Whole scenes, quite possibly the entire finale, take place inside Rupert's twisted sewer pipe mind, where he is loved and adored. De Niro gives a fully fleshed out performance, one that he would later piss away in the god-awful "The Fan." Pupkin is certainly all that I have described, but he's not to be hated. He is our deranged hero.

It's Lewis' acid blood Langford who's the true villain here. Lewis is a great actor. And what a great film to get us to root for a perv sicko. This is a sick mind screw of a film, worthy of a dozen viewings. A

Dick Tracy (1990)

The live action all-star "Dick Tracy" is pure eye candy -- fun and silly. Let's get it out in front: The plot stinks. Bad. Rotten. But that's beside the point. Warren Beatty directs and stars as Tracy, helped by Al Pacino, Dustin Huffman, Glenne Headly, William Forsythe, Kathy Bates, Paul Sorvino, Dick Van Dyke and a bunch more. Pacino is the stand out as Big Boy Caprice, a hysterically incompetent Al Capone clone with a Hitler haircut and no sense of history or leadership. For once, Pacino's gift for over-acting works in his favor. It's comedy brilliance. The whacked makeup, eye-popping art direction and giddy costumes all invoke the feel of the Sunday morning comic strip. It really is a beautiful-looking fun film. And wonders of wonders, Madonna, as a lounge singer, is good. The awkward sexual asides belong in another film, though. I fondly recall my younger brother wanting to be the kid (Charlie Korsmo) in this. Gingers they sure as hell stick together ... B+

88 Minutes (2008)

Al Pacino looks creaky and old in the creaky and old thriller "88 Minutes," a supposed twisty flick that doesn't have the balls to provide any suspense. Pacino is Dr. Jack Gramm, a haggard forensic psychiatrist who works as a university professor. Here, his week is worse than tenure rejection: A serial killer (Neal McDonough) he helped put away is headed for the death chamber when low and behold a serious of crimes matching the killer's own MO start popping up all over Seattle. Did Jack put away the wrong guy? Hmm, gosh, snore. The whole film is a painful chore, topped by an endless montage where Jack frantically uses his cell phone while driving a taxi across Seattle as the slack-jawed cabbie watches from the backseat. Director Jon Avnet tries fast-paced editing, a flock of obvious red herrings and a wandering camera to gussy up thrills, but he can't save this cable-ready Z-grade whodunit. Bigots who think "God hates fags" will be among the film's fans. Anyone with a soul will flee. When did Pacino become so boring? D-