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Europa Europa is an excellent film based on a true article with regard to the incredible survival tactics of a litter German Jew during World War II.

A teenage boy named Solomon Perel (Marco Hofschneider) gets torn away from his family and escapes to Poland and he is taken into a Communist Youth orphanage where he becomes a first-rate Communist. The Nazis attack the orphanage, everyone runs but he is caught. Before they can uncover his Jewish heritage he announces that he is a German gentile who got stuck in Russia. They buy his plea and he becomes a translator for the Nazis.

In a couple of humorously ironic moments Solomon (who takes the name Joseph) ends up becoming the Nazi battalion’s favorite soldier – including one homosexual officer – and later he is credited with helping them win a key battle against the Russians.

Solomon is sent to a Nazi school where he is decorated with honors as a Hitler Youth and manages to fool everyone – including a young Anti-Semitic woman (Julie Delpy) – that he is full blooded German. This is particularly difficult to do because he has to hide the fact that he has been circumcised.

The film, directed by Polish filmmaker Agnieszka Holland and released in 1990, is a quick-paced, earnest drama that manages to be heartfelt without being sentimental and well-acted and directed without being obvious. The film is full of fine set pieces and magnificent individual scenes. What’s remarkable too about the film is the way Holland humanizes all of the characters – even the Nazi characters seem human.

Best of all the Europa, Europa shows the remarkable lengths one young man went to survive the Holocaust. In this case, he changed his identity and used opportunistic tactics to stay alive, which in turn helped him find his true identity.

“Miss Miina! You violated Love Combination Rule No. 1!”

THE LEAD

See, this is why fewer Japanese teens get pregnant. If American teens got laid as often as the characters of Please Twins, nobody would be a parent before the age of 21.

In Please Twins, two girls move in with a software designer. All three own the same picture, showing the house they’ve moved into with a brother and sister in the front yard. Both girls – and the local school teacher, and a gay guy at the school – are infatuated with our boy Mike. One of the girls, Miina or Karen, is Mike’s sister, and none of them are getting in bed together before this situation is resolved.

This third volume opens up with a shocker: We find out the flaming gay kid, who’s been practically dry-humping Mike this entire time, isn’t quite so gay. And it’s the teacher he’s infatuated with now. I think he swings both ways, or this is just a momentary relapse into heterosexuality. If Please Twins was based in San Francisco instead of an out-of-the-way Japanese town, Shimazaki would have a support group to help him get that touch of lavender back. Instead, Miina and Karen encourage this new “relationship.” Hey, less competition for them.

Mike’s good-looking senpai has been keeping Mike after school, either to find out if Mike is hot for teacher, or to just find out what’s been going on with Mike and the roommates. Her and the strange class president play more of a role in this third volume, though not enough to distract us from the key players.

We get a lot more in the way of sexually uncomfortable situations. This time the little silly alien finds itself in a bad state when it interrupts Karen and Miina bathing together, which they do at least once an episode. Hey, it saves water.

The (prequel) Please Teacher! fans will catch on to a lot of the references about Mizuho’s husband, and have known what the alien backdrop is about since episode one. The alien fun that was the basis of Please Teacher! is only seen – so far – in Please Twins when the little guy with the inner-tube pops up. The “hidden” alien element of this series should be resolved in volume four.

By the end of this third volume, we get some background on where Miina comes from. And we find out that the picture all three are concerned about has some secrets to reveal. This third volume does manage to progress the story of Please Twins! a bit and has a few funny parts. A good romance anime continues, but with only a few episodes left, a lot needs to be resolved in a short period of time.

THE DVD

VIDEO

A little subdued, Please Twins looks pretty at points. The DVD looks fine, with good colors and simple character definition. I couldn’t find any digital flaws that took away from the show. Really, though, there just isn’t much special about the animation of this series, with lots of simple, bland backgrounds, simple, bland character design and movement, and simple usage of the color palate. Full screen presentation.

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AUDIO

Simple 2.0 Japanese and English language options, with simple use of the soundstage, Both language tracks are good, though I’m sticking with my first opinion that the Japanese language track rings off the ears better, The best part of the audio in Please Twins is the music, which is beautiful. Lots of fast-moving, melodic piano and keyboard, with a few slow guitar riffs thrown in for the contemplative scenes.

SPECIAL FEATURES

Once again, little going on in the special features area, with three image vocals, or music videos, for the episodes, a textless opening, trailers and credits. Commercials for the CD soundtrack – and the music is pretty good – are included, but really, Bandai should have added some special features relating Please Twins! to its prequel, Please Teacher!. A postcard is also included.

Jack Nicholson’s eyes are hooded by brows that leap into circumflexes on command: At his whim they turn the actor’s face into a rictus of demented glee or a reptilian death mask. In “Anger Management,” Nicholson’s collaboration with the comedian Adam Sandler, he adds a black beret and sunglasses to the mix, creating the physical persona of a demonic aging hipster.

Nicholson plays an anger management consultant named Buddy Rydell, who meets Sandler’s character, Dave Buznik, on an airplane and then proceeds to foment a confrontation between Buznik and a flight attendant. The altercation escalates until the woman’s arm is broken, and Buznik is assigned to an anger management program that is administered by — who else — Buddy Rydell. Rydell then insinuates himself into Buznik’s life, moving into his apartment, moving in on his girlfriend (Marisa Tomei) and ultimately goading and provoking Buznik into confronting his past and getting over the psychological issues that have held him back all these years.

In a weird way, Dave Buznik is an unfunny, less interesting analogue to the character Sandler played in his breakthrough performance last year in Paul Thomas Anderson’s “Punch-Drunk Love.” A mild-mannered get-along guy, Buznik is occasionally given to violent outbursts of frustration, like pounding his telephone on the office desk. Except that what’s eating at Buznik isn’t rage so much as shame, a small detail that makes “Anger Management” a mere shaggy-dog story, albeit a loud, crude and frenetic one.

But by this time it can be fairly surmised that Adam Sandler fans don’t come to his movies for the taut narrative line. And in the case of the cannily packaged “Anger Management,” viewers are presumably supposed to be drawn to the prospect of watching the interplay between Nicholson and Sandler (together at last?). A more inauspicious pairing could hardly be conceived: Next to Nicholson’s wild mugging and unhinged expressiveness, Sandler’s blank, doughy countenance seems duller than ever. His chief thespian instrument is his voice — an unpleasant, nasal croak — that trills into a baby-talk falsetto during the movie’s set piece, a duet with Nicholson on “I Feel Pretty.” The scene is sandwiched between all manner of rank jokes about bodily functions, sexuality and violence (a joke involving the molestation of a mentally ill teenager is just one example of the scathing wit on hand).

Trying desperately to draw attention from the absence of a screenplay or coherent direction, “Anger Management” trots out cameo after cameo: John Turturro plays a manic Grenada war veteran, Woody Harrelson is a Teutonic drag queen, Bobby Knight and John McEnroe turn up as two of Rydell’s clients, Heather Graham delivers a heart-rending turn dressed in a Red Sox bra with brownies smeared all over her face, and John C. Reilly plays a Buddhist monk who winds up two cheeks to the wind after a monastery brawl. They all deserve better — even Bobby Knight — but perhaps nothing in “Anger Management” is as dispiriting as the sight of Rudolph Giuliani in the film’s climactic scene at Yankee Stadium, yelling “Give her a five-second Frencher!” Not exactly a Churchillian moment for the man who saw a nation and a city through their direst hour.

It’s a remarkable, if appalling, spectacle of self-abasement. But of course, that’s Sandler’s specialty — he’s among the chief purveyors of bread and circus to mass audiences who get their kicks from other people’s humiliation and their own infantilization. There are those who provide the same service with at least a modicum of warmth — the Farrelly brothers come to mind — but Sandler might be the most arrogant and cynical of them all. At a recent screening, I noticed a perhaps inadvertent self-referential twist early on in “Anger Management,” when Buddy guffaws idiotically at a movie in which two men struggle with an errant garden hose. Later, while watching Sandler go through the enervated motions of what is essentially the same derivative humor, actual viewers delivered the exact same laughs. Perhaps no one in Hollywood today has made such a success of despising his own audience.

Anger Management (101 minutes, at area theaters) is rated PG-13 for crude sexual content and language.

Fearless

Stelvio Massi
Not Rated
Drama

More information from


Fearless

668 10-28-93

Two traumatized planecrash survivors, played by Jeff Bridges and Rosie Perez, teach each other how to live again. It sounds like one of those inspirational made-for-TV weepies you'd rush to avoid. But

Fearless

resists glib categorization. Despite a few lapses into clichT, this darkly comic and emotionally bruising film is alive with fresh provocations. It's an original.

There's a notable resistance to pandering in the trenchant debut script by Rafael Yglesias, adapted from his 1993 novel. And director Peter Weir shows no fear about unsettling an audience. It's a return to form for the Australian film-maker (

Picnic at Hanging Rock, Gallipoli

) after a brief wallow in the Hollywood schmaltz of

Dead Poets Society

and

Green Card.

In

Fearless

, Weir crafts a visionary and haunting film that is packed with astonishing images of beauty and terror.

You feel disoriented from the outset. It's bright daylight in a cornfield. A man appears incongruously dressed in a jacket and tie. He is carrying an infant and holding the hand of a small boy. The scene looks eerily serene. Then sounds begin to filter through — a deep rumble, a high wailing noise. As the man moves into a clearing, we see the remnants of a plane, an incinerated body still strapped to a seat, a woman screaming as a rescue crew drags her away from the wreckage.

The facts are soon sorted out. The man is Max Klein (Bridges), an architect who was flying from San Francisco to Houston on business. His partner has been decapitated in the crash. The screaming woman is Carla (Perez), whose 2-year-old son — she called him Bubble — has also perished. When approached by authorities, Max denies he's a passenger. He takes a cab to a motel, checks his body for bruises and goes to bed without calling his wife (Isabella Rossellini) and son (Spencer Vrooman) to tell them he's not dead. Looking in the mirror, Max can hardly convince himself.

These early scenes, stunningly shot by Allen Daviau (

E.T.

), establish a heightened reality that recalls the mystical imagery of Weir's

Last Wave.

Max rents a car and drives wildly, as if tempting fate. He returns to the scene of the crash, staring at the effect of a raindrop on a speck of dirt. Everything seems magnified to Max, including his own sense of power. He feels invincible. An allergic reaction to strawberries nearly killed him as a child; now he devours them. When the airline tracks him down and offers him a train ride home, Max forgets his lifelong fear of flying and hops on a jet.

In San Francisco, Max listens as his lawyer (Tom Hulce, in a savagely funny caricature of a shark) works out a plan to milk the insurance company. "I know, I'm terrible," says Hulce, delighting in his own trickery. But the new Max won't lie, even to help his partner's widow and kids.

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While the media hail Max as a good Samaritan, his family grows alienated by a journey into self-discovery that shuts them out. A never-better Rossellini is forceful and passionate as the wife who can no longer recognize the caring man she married. But we can — not in the scenes with Max as an alien at home but in his moments with Carla, as he tenderly draws her out of her guilt about letting go of her son as the plane crashed. Perez explodes off the screen in a vibrantly touching performance. "I feel an overwhelming love for this woman," Max tells his wife, who wrongly sees a sexual threat. Max wants to save Carla.

His god complex is part of what Bill Perlman (John Turturro), the therapist hired by the airline, calls post-traumatic stress disorder. Max walks boldly into traffic and stands on high ledges. Though Perlman says some combat veterans suffer from similar delusions of omnipotence, Max dismisses him as a quack. He doesn't want to be a case study. Neither, thankfully, does the movie, which focuses on the spiritual links between characters — something exceedingly rare in American films.

Bridges is a marvel; he may be the most underrated actor of his generation. How else do you show the range he does in

American Heart, The Fisher King, The Fabulous Baker Boys, Tucker

and the trip from

The Last Picture Show

to

Texasville

and still not have an Oscar? He blends subtlety, ferocity and humor into a portrayal that ranks with the year's finest.

Watch him cut to the heart of the scene in which Max takes Carla shopping to buy presents for the dead; she for Bubble, he for his father. Max sees himself and Carla as ghosts, adrift in a parallel universe since the crash, which is shown in flashback. It takes another near-fatal accident to wrench them back into reality. Though the details of both accidents are jolting, they tend to ground the film.

Fearless

soars highest on the power of suggestion. Out there flying blind with Max, Weir creates something unique and spellbinding.

Fearless

Stelvio Massi
Not Rated
Drama

More information from


Fearless

668 10-28-93

Two traumatized planecrash survivors, played by Jeff Bridges and Rosie Perez, teach each other how to live again. It sounds like one of those inspirational made-for-TV weepies you'd rush to avoid. But

Fearless

resists glib categorization. Despite a few lapses into clichT, this darkly comic and emotionally bruising film is alive with fresh provocations. It's an original.

There's a notable resistance to pandering in the trenchant debut script by Rafael Yglesias, adapted from his 1993 novel. And director Peter Weir shows no fear about unsettling an audience. It's a return to form for the Australian film-maker (

Picnic at Hanging Rock, Gallipoli

) after a brief wallow in the Hollywood schmaltz of

Dead Poets Society

and

Green Card.

In

Fearless

, Weir crafts a visionary and haunting film that is packed with astonishing images of beauty and terror.

You feel disoriented from the outset. It's bright daylight in a cornfield. A man appears incongruously dressed in a jacket and tie. He is carrying an infant and holding the hand of a small boy. The scene looks eerily serene. Then sounds begin to filter through — a deep rumble, a high wailing noise. As the man moves into a clearing, we see the remnants of a plane, an incinerated body still strapped to a seat, a woman screaming as a rescue crew drags her away from the wreckage.

The facts are soon sorted out. The man is Max Klein (Bridges), an architect who was flying from San Francisco to Houston on business. His partner has been decapitated in the crash. The screaming woman is Carla (Perez), whose 2-year-old son — she called him Bubble — has also perished. When approached by authorities, Max denies he's a passenger. He takes a cab to a motel, checks his body for bruises and goes to bed without calling his wife (Isabella Rossellini) and son (Spencer Vrooman) to tell them he's not dead. Looking in the mirror, Max can hardly convince himself.

These early scenes, stunningly shot by Allen Daviau (

E.T.

), establish a heightened reality that recalls the mystical imagery of Weir's

Last Wave.

Max rents a car and drives wildly, as if tempting fate. He returns to the scene of the crash, staring at the effect of a raindrop on a speck of dirt. Everything seems magnified to Max, including his own sense of power. He feels invincible. An allergic reaction to strawberries nearly killed him as a child; now he devours them. When the airline tracks him down and offers him a train ride home, Max forgets his lifelong fear of flying and hops on a jet.

In San Francisco, Max listens as his lawyer (Tom Hulce, in a savagely funny caricature of a shark) works out a plan to milk the insurance company. "I know, I'm terrible," says Hulce, delighting in his own trickery. But the new Max won't lie, even to help his partner's widow and kids.

Download The Fratellis free mp3

While the media hail Max as a good Samaritan, his family grows alienated by a journey into self-discovery that shuts them out. A never-better Rossellini is forceful and passionate as the wife who can no longer recognize the caring man she married. But we can — not in the scenes with Max as an alien at home but in his moments with Carla, as he tenderly draws her out of her guilt about letting go of her son as the plane crashed. Perez explodes off the screen in a vibrantly touching performance. "I feel an overwhelming love for this woman," Max tells his wife, who wrongly sees a sexual threat. Max wants to save Carla.

His god complex is part of what Bill Perlman (John Turturro), the therapist hired by the airline, calls post-traumatic stress disorder. Max walks boldly into traffic and stands on high ledges. Though Perlman says some combat veterans suffer from similar delusions of omnipotence, Max dismisses him as a quack. He doesn't want to be a case study. Neither, thankfully, does the movie, which focuses on the spiritual links between characters — something exceedingly rare in American films.

Bridges is a marvel; he may be the most underrated actor of his generation. How else do you show the range he does in

American Heart, The Fisher King, The Fabulous Baker Boys, Tucker

and the trip from

The Last Picture Show

to

Texasville

and still not have an Oscar? He blends subtlety, ferocity and humor into a portrayal that ranks with the year's finest.

Watch him cut to the heart of the scene in which Max takes Carla shopping to buy presents for the dead; she for Bubble, he for his father. Max sees himself and Carla as ghosts, adrift in a parallel universe since the crash, which is shown in flashback. It takes another near-fatal accident to wrench them back into reality. Though the details of both accidents are jolting, they tend to ground the film.

Fearless

soars highest on the power of suggestion. Out there flying blind with Max, Weir creates something unique and spellbinding.

From the first frames of “The Color of Paper money,” you feel, almost physically, the presence of a man singularly obsessed with the romance of movies. In this movie, Martin Scorsese enters a remodelled period in an already extraordinary career. It would be strenuous to exaggerate the complex pleasure and wonderment that “The Color of Money” conveys.

The film is a sequel of sorts to Robert Rossen’s classic 1961 film “The Hustler,” with Paul Newman reprising his role as Fast Eddie Felson. Once the top pool shark in the country, Fast Eddie is older, richer and not all that fast anymore, a liquor salesman given to cashmere and Cadillacs. Delivering his sales pitch to an appreciative pool hall owner (Helen Shaver), purring the virtues of his cheap bourbon with a lulling detail (he’s not just selling, he’s seducing), Fast Eddie is interrupted by the crash and clatter of a “sledgehammer break,” the calling card of Vince Lauria (Tom Cruise). Vince is a thoroughbred pool player, a natural, and once again, Fast Eddie Felson is captivated by the allure, and the money, of big-time pool.

A self-styled “student of human moves,” Fast Eddie sets about maneuvering the naive Vince — screen writer Richard Price artfully captures the drama of psychological manipulation, as Fast Eddie plays on the kid’s insecurities, particularly with regard to his girlfriend Carmen (Mary Elizabeth Mastrantonio).

But what makes this drama so powerful is the way Scorsese has pioneered a visual vocabulary uniquely suited to the story he’s telling, moving the camera along the precise line of the emotions of a scene. As Scorsese’s camera looks first this way, then that (without a cut), you’re seeing the world exactly the way the people on the screen see it, and as he aggressively dollies and zooms into close-ups, he seems to be not only entering the characters’ minds, but invading them, almost ruthlessly exposing their hopes and fears. But there’s also a gentleness to “The Color of Money,” unusual for Scorsese — a warmth, and a sense of forgiveness.

Some of that emotion comes through in the way the fleeting presence of the women in “The Color of Money” highlights the loneliness of the men; otherwise, the movie really isn’t interested in them — it’s just two guys and a pool table. Scorsese gets you inside the game in a way most sports movies never hint at. In both sound and image, “The Color of Money” is explosively edited, to the point where you feel, with a physical jolt, like one of the balls on the table; and Scorsese adventurously explores the game’s rhythms, sometimes allowing the action to unfold languorously, sometimes chopping it up. Scorsese accomplishes visually what Rossen accomplished with words, in the scene in “The Hustler” where Newman explains to Piper Laurie what it feels like to be the best at something; as Scorsese draws you in, you feel what it’s like, not just to watch pool, or to play pool, but to love it.

And Scorsese uses the pool sequences to tell you something about the players: When Newman bends over the table and sees his own reflection in the eight ball; or another, when Fast Eddie himself breaks the balls for the first time in 25 years and Scorsese smashes into a close-up that takes your breath away.

What you see in that close-up, that single look of Newman’s, is everything that’s happened to Fast Eddie since “The Hustler” began. Here is one of those Zen-like performances in which a veteran actor distills an entire life into an attitude. Newman’s confidence in his own instincts gives Fast Eddie a remarkable gravity, so that Newman can accomplish with the slightest of intonations, or the choice of a simple prop (like the tinted glasses he wears), or an almost indetectable shift in his eyes, what would take another actor the course of a movie to attain.

And what makes Newman’s relaxation doubly effective is the room it gives to Cruise, whose portrait of Vince is big and bold, tempera paint in primary colors. Cruise knows how to make his props work for him, too — the silly, ’50s-style pompadour, the shirt from the toy store he works at with “VINCE” in big block letters, the playful way he wields the pool cue. He’s not afraid to color Vince, to show you how he’s vain and impulsive and even a little stupid, because he knows that the gusto with which he dives into the role will wash over everything.

One of the subtle achievements of both Cruise’s and Newman’s performances is that you feel that both of them are genuinely top-notch pool hustlers, and that’s Scorsese’s achievement as well. “The Color of Money” never strikes a false note. It creates a vivid sense of place through setting (real poolrooms), dialogue (screen writer Price is a virtuoso of street talk) and an eclectic score — ripping, wailing rock-and-blues music composed and compiled by Robbie Robertson.

Scorsese mines the drama in the conflict between Vince and Fast Eddie, as the young hustler learns the pleasures of corruption, and the old hustler relearns a pure love for the game. You can also sense Scorsese playing with Newman’s and Cruise’s off-screen personas, as he cuts in supertight close-up from yesterday’s matinee idol to today’s, and their blue eyes collide like billiard balls.

But in the final third of the movie, the real drama takes place within Fast Eddie himself, as his dissatisfaction with what he’s become almost imperceptibly grows, and he tries to decide, in middle age, who he wants to be. That involves a shift in the movie’s focus to Newman alone; and if what’s lost is the excitement that Newman and Cruise had generated together, what’s gained is a kind of depth another, simpler story wouldn’t have had.

The left turns in the last third of “The Color of Money,” the rejection of “Rocky”-style audience manipulation, shows Scorsese searching for a new way to tell a story. And by the end, “The Color of Money” is suffused with a sense of acceptance, and of self-forgiveness, that sticks with you. If the very end of the movie is enormously unsatisfying (which it is), it’s at least partly because you can’t wait to see what comes next. You want another Scorsese picture, right away, right now.

“The Color of Money” is rated R and contains profanity and sexual themes.

Diehard dOc readers by now know by a long way close by my little man crush on Vittorio Storaro, and so while this is a terrific movie in many respects, I’m starting with a celebration of its cinematographer. In recent months we’ve been blessed with tremendous DVDs of some of his most excellently work shooting films like Reds and Apocalypse Now, but his cinematography here may be his very finest hour; having to choose develop into them is out of the question. (It’s liking for deciding between Greg Toland’s detail on Oppidan Kane and The Grapes of Wrath.) Storaro’s work is unbelievable, but it’s not a check; it’s always in the air force of Bernardo Bertolucci’s impeccably told story.

As the title suggests, the film, based on a blockbuster by Alberto Moravia, is about a man who more than anything so desperately wants to be normal. But he’s not&#8212Marcello Clerici is pressed into overhaul by the Mussolini management, in 1938, and his pre-war honeymoon in Paris doubles as a mission of oecumenical espionage. But this isn’t a story in the manner of John Le Carré, but rather a surveil storytelling that tells us about the suffocation of one man’s human being. He seems to be stifled at every turn&#8212by his demanding mother; by his father, whom he visits in an psychotic asylum; by his in rut fiancée and her vainglorious quest for middle-class status. Bertolucci is happy to bounce around and give us backstory when a more conventional videotape would go all cloak and dagger on us, so we revisit, for instance, 13-year-old Marcello’s fatal interaction with a chauffeur, and witness the disappointment of the lecherous cleric receiving his confession because the story isn’t more titillating.

Much of the silver screen can be headspinning, and on first viewing you’re never certainly sure where the story is headed&#8212it’s almost like Bertolucci is cultivating that sense of imbalance in us, and we’re culture more about Clerici and his world than we always would in a more habitual narrative. You always sense his struggle&#8212he wants to blend in, to be like everybody else, but he cannot rise first of all his interior life of dreams and memories. It’s like he wants to be a comrades irons, but can’t suppress his individuality sufficiently, which, to each other things, doesn’t fall upon him a very nice Fascist. Although Bertolucci is strong on the power of crowds, too, such a essential element to the rise of Mussolini and his henchmen.

Along with Storaro, Bertolucci has assembled a marvelous company of collaborators. The costumes, by Gitt Magrini, and the production design, by Ferdinando Scarfiotti, press in perfect closeness with Storaro’s camera. Jean-Louis Trintignant conveys Clerici’s inner turmoil without endlessly tasteful either self-pitying or bombastic; it’s a thug central task, a guy almost pathologically unable to rapid what it is that he wants, making Trintignant’s work that much more of a triumph. Stefania Sandrelli is occasionally gigantic as Giulia, his affianced, but not at any time so much so to make us spring back. And Gastone Moschin is a sober presence as a Fascist operative, allowing he may be more familiar to Godfather fans as Don Fanucci, litter Vito Corleone’s first rival for supremacy in Hardly ever Italy.

Cedric the Entertainer (Cedric Kyles), one of the initial “Kings of Comedy,” is a pleasant, genial comedian who came to prominence on the big screen in “Barbershop” in 2002. Since then, however, Hollywood has so far to find a moral starring vehicle for him, saddling him with clunkers corresponding to “Johnson Genus Vacation,” “Man of the Put up,” and “The Honeymooners.” I’m afraid 2007’s “Code Name: The Cleaner” is no better, a quite silly and humorless affair that beautiful much wastes Cedric’s jocose talents.

Cedric plays Jake Rodgers, a janitor. Or a super spy. Or a janitor. Or a wonderful spy. He, and we, are not quite trusty. Jake wakes up sole morning in a strange inn chamber, with an true level stranger disused guy in his bed. What’s more, the guy’s got a bullet in him, and there’s an attaché case full of greenbacks on the floor, which Jake ascertains at a glance contains a ninety days of a million dollars. Don’t ask. Jake can’t remember a thing about the night before, or his usually life anterior to, a bump on his head having given him amnesia. He can’t even remember his own name until a sexy blonde (Nicolloette Sheridan) introduces herself to him as his spouse, drives him to their mansion in the country, and shows him their sane of exotic cars. Sounds twin a act to me, but for reasons unknown, Jake seems concerned connected with all this. Admittedly, the dead guy is tough, but….

Anyway, from this promising beginning, the movie gets irresponsible in a disquiet, yet with virtually no laughs. I mean, the studio bills it as a comedy, and Cedric the Entertainer is largely a comic actor, so, yeah, we might wish a few guffaws, cackles, chuckles, chortles, grins, or smiles along the way. But, no. Not a single moment of facetiousness works. Flatter than a week-valued soda and staler than the sandwich you forgot underneath the heart of your crate along with it.

It’s tuneful amazing, really, to think that the facts could be this dull. I mean, didn’t anybody read the script before moving ahead with the shoot? The covering is rated PG-13, and there is nothing particularly crude or inexcusable almost it, so perhaps that’s what the filmmakers were going fitting for in the first give: something as mild and innocuous as feasible. I don’t separate. Or conceivably it was all the fault of impresario Les Mayfield, whose sometime films were “Flubber,” “Encino Gazabo,” “American Outlaws,” “Blue Streak,” and the equally insipid “The Man.” Certainly with that track record, we might not expect the world’s funniest movie from Mayfield. Or perhaps the director and screenwriters thought that Cedric could save even the dreariest story by improvising some business and lines. Again, I prepare no suggestion what goes through the heads of filmmakers who must know they’re starting with nothing. Not fifty-fifty the location shooting in Vancouver, B.C., helps, since much of the picture takes place indoors. The film’s only sortie scene, a automobile track, occurs in a parking lot. Unoriginal budget, I guess.

OK, Jake may be a wee slow-witted, but it doesn’t take him all that big to figure out that maybe, just maybe, somebody is up to no good, so off he goes on his own to find unlit who he literally is, with the enforce and a gang of baddies lickerish on his track. Along the way he meets an old girlfriend, Diane (Lucy Liu), whom he also doesn’t remember, working as a waitress. She, too, goes along on the adventure. Then there’s the head vile guy, Erik Hauck (Mark Dacascoes), a looming character who gets long way too little playing time; an tumbledown friend, Riley (Will Patton), who gets even less playing heyday than Dacascoes and as usual wastes Patton’s talents; and a fast-talking janitor, Ronnie (DeRay Davis), who practically steals the show. Davis’s character is the only one who displays any signs of life, so, not unexpectedly, the filmmakers don’t give him more than a few minutes playing time.