After an encounter with a seemingly alien artifact, New Yorker Mitchell Hundred gained the mental power to communicate with and control machines. For a while, he donned a jet pack and a mask and fought crime as “The Great Machine.” But he’s since retired from the vigilante life, and now he tries to save New York City in a different way: as its newly-elected mayor. That’s Ex Machina in a nutshell, the story of a superhero turned politician.

Brian K. Vaughn is my current favorite comic book writer. His work on Marvel’s Runaways has been beyond amazing (that will be another blog entry in the future), and his work on Ultimate X-Men, The Escapists, and especially Y: The Last Man has also been outstanding. The guy has continually been able to create fascinating characters, witty dialogue and twisty-turny plots that keep readers guessing. He’s a major talent with a style of his own and I hope more folks out there check out his stuff.

In Ex Machina, Vaughn makes it look easy. Each line of line of dialogue is so character-specific that I can “hear” the characters’ voices in my head as I read. This super mayor is surrounded by a cast of equally quirky characters, and Vaughn gives each a moment to shine in each story arc. Also, another of Vaughn’s talents is that he’s able to track down all sorts of odd trivia--the guy must be a real research rat--that he uses to punch up the dialogue and the characters. And yet he does this without it ever feeling forced or unnecessary. Like I said, he makes it look easy.

In this fourth volume of the series, titled “March to War,” Mayor Hundred has to deal the aftermath of violence breaking out at an anti-Iraq war rally. Is it a terrorist attack, or has one of Hundred’s old foes come back for revenge? Speaking of old foes, this volume also reprints an Ex Machina special, which is an extended flashback to the time when Hundred, during his masked crimefighting days, met the man who may or may not be his arch-rival, one with powers both similar and different to his own. Both stories show a lot of wit, character development, and surprises. If you’re new to Ex Machina, though, I enthusiastically suggest starting with volume one instead of here. Volume four is some solid storytelling, but you’re better off coming to it already knowing who the characters are.

Those who are familiar with Tony Harris from his work on Starman in the ‘90s know how good he is. His style combines old school art deco with modern tech, making him the perfect artist for a New York story. Chris Sprouse fills on the special and does a similarly excellent job. The change between artists wasn’t jarring at all.

My only complaint about this volume and the series as a whole is that there’s still no answer to the question, “Why doesn’t Mitchell Hundred just ask ATMs for all their money and become a millionaire?” Other than that, it’s pretty much one of the best comics made today. For more info about Brian K. Vaughn, visit www.bkv.tv.

It's been relatively quite over the last few weeks here at the blog, and with fairly good reason. As the end of the year starts peering over the shoulder of the preemptive holiday season, obligations and added responsibilities have kept yours truly out of the local Cineplex. Granted, there really isn't much out there worth gravitating toward (dancing CGI penguins? Computer generated British rats? Another heralded helping of some spy named Bond?). While my personal jury is still out on Casino Royale (I am already quite hype-shy thanks to the one-two punch of The Descent and Borat this year) I may be willing to give this reinvented 007 a shot. All grousing aside, I do enjoy a big budget shoot-em up, and the trailer presented before that so called Kazakhstan comedy 'masterpiece' made the espionage exposition look like as much fun as the explosions. Still, the purpose of this project was to reconnect with the theater going experience. So this time, I left my stack of Academy screeners on the shelf and decided to check out the intriguing outsider horror festival 8 Films to Die For.

What followed was a laundry list of weirdness, missteps and movie going misery that I hadn't experienced ever in the previous six months of this experiment. A little background – we live within two miles of a pair of perfectly decent theaters. On one end is an AMC Megaplex connected to a local high-end mall. It's an immaculately clean, stadium seat loaded example of the nu-entertainment ideal. More like sitting in your living room than spending an evening at the cinema, it represents the typical experience almost everyone has who heads to the theater. But if you travel south the same distance, you run into a slapdash strip center called the Britton Plaza, and its fish out of water facility The Britton 8. Even more backstory – this is the theater that my wife and I saw our first film in together as a couple…which was Halloween, by the way. Yep, since 1979, this small movie house (which converted its one big screen into three, and then the aforementioned octet) has been a local favorite, a reminder of high school double dates and a city long gone from the backwater Florida map.

Imagine my surprise when I entered the facility to see that, in over 28 years, nothing much had really changed. The lobby was still a surreal combination of old fashioned snack bar (complete with popcorn, candy, and…Nutty Bavarian sweetened almonds???) and pre-war tiled bathrooms (purposefully decorated to accentuate Tampa's historic Hispanic heritage). Cracked flooring, stained from thousands of dirty feet, was dull and dingy while the less than contemporary video games sat stoically next to, of all things, a sticker machine. Back when the three screens went 4x4, the Britton took its balcony and converted it into a pair of mini-theaters. The last film I saw in one was Army of Darkness, and I swear I sat there in fear for my life. Nothing is more disconcerting that feeling perched directly over the top of another audience as they laugh and/or shriek along to the feature film below. I imagined that, at any moment, the Britton's second story screens could come crashing down, giving a new meaning to that old '70s in theater gimmick, Sensurround.

I kind of dug the retro feel of the theater, and walked up to the disengaged employee behind the counter (all she required was a mouth full of gum and a finger full of twirled hair to make the cliché complete). I asked for two tickets to the "8 Films to Die For Horror Festival" and I got one of those blank stares that suggested that I was a flatulating butthead. After a subtle scoff, I had my stubs and headed to the last theater on the right. Avoiding massive carpet stains strewn haphazardly down the hall, more than a few resembling the marks left by horses after they uncork their bladder and really let one fly, my wife and I found "Theater 4" and walked in.

The shock was unsettling. Old fashioned hard backed chairs with minimal helpful hinder cushioning. Row after row of bent and broken hand rests. In one seat, somewhere toward the back, what looked like a mummy or a recently reanimated corpse sat sitting, staring blindly at the screen only the occasional movement of its skeleton arm to check the time suggesting any life whatsoever. My first thought was that After Dark, in an obvious attempt to mimic the late great motion picture pitchman William Castle, had hired an actual ghoul to be part of the presentation – kind of like "atmosphere". Ew! Anyway, we found a couple of decent seats in the back, settled in, and hoped that the paranormal patron in front of us had already had its "feeding" for the day.

As the arcane ads for local businesses we'd never heard of played out on a dirty, dilapidated screen, a couple of beefy buffoons came in. High school age, and obviously playing hooky so they could see a really good gorefest, the pair plugged their pieholes with white cherry Icees and popcorn, engaging in a insular conversation loaded with self-serving slang and plenty of private jokes. As they giggled and gorged, the lights came down, and I settled in for a collection of (hopefully) competent genre shorts. As if you haven't guessed by now, I was COMPLETELY off base about what the whole After Dark movie marathon ideal was driving at, and I must admit, it was all my fault. Instead of reading about the anthology each and every time my cursor accidentally triggered the roaring shriek soundclip on that annoying web ad that's been clogging up sites for weeks, I merely cursed the company out loud, promised myself I would be more careful with the mouse, and moved on. Had I taken a moment to play caveat emptor, I would have discovered the truth behind these "too intense" for the mainstream motion pictures.

You see, 8 Films to Die For are actually EIGHT FULL LENGTH FILMS (I know, I hear the "D'uhs" – shut up!). Instead of seeing a collection of horror shorts, my wife and I got to witness one of the "audience favorites" that had been selected over the weekend. See, After Dark required audience to buy eight tickets to see all eight films, and then apparently used its website to rank the offerings. On Monday and Tuesday (11/20 and 11/21), the "best" were given the ever-popular 'encore' treatment. Today's tasty movie morsel was Unrest, a haunted hospital hackjob that was so unbelievably boring that I thought I was watching The Omen remake again. The plot was superficial and silly: a new med student swears she can "feel" the spirit of her classroom cadaver. Through a series of coincidences and standard horror happenstance, she learns the dead body is that of a female serial killer who "won't rest" until her anatomy lesson torso is put to rest.

Within this paltry premise, we get lots of shots of F/X driven vivisection, a couple of completely false scares, and your typical parade of problematic personalities, including the goofy jock and the sensitive foreigner. Director Jason Todd Ipson, who doesn't deserve to use three names, obviously thinks that he's creating something completely brilliant here. His ponderous use of pauses and long, languid tracking shots lack the gravitas he hopes to gain, and a few of this narrative flourishes (a huge tank of formaldehyde where corpses are kept like tacky tropical fish – huh?) ring ridiculous and false. But Unrest's biggest problem is that it's just not scary. Ipson has a way with mood, and there is a nice level of dread dispensed throughout the movie, but the tone is so tenuous, and the logic leaps so extreme, that we barely get our bearings before the movie goes ludicrous, lunging in a whole different direction. By the end, we could care less who lives and who dies. We just keep hoping that the film itself will seize up and stop unspooling.

Again, if this is the example of 8 Films' best, what did their worst look like? Some might suggest that my negative reaction comes straight from having my short films expectations dashed, but once I realized that Unrest was going to be the slim cinematic pickings for the entire two hour running time, I settled in and prepared to be terrified. Frankly, the surroundings, and that elderly "thing" a few rows away were much more frightening than anything onscreen. Truth be told, The Britton would have been a great place to see Saw III. The green and brown optical design scheme used to suggest rot and decay in the film is inherent in every splotch on the theater's walls. One could easily imagine that odd old bat sitting up, pulling off her expressionless wrinkle-filled face, to reveal Tobin Bell smiling out from underneath. It would be the perfect marriage of substance and setting.

The other seven titles – which can be previewed on After Dark's site – don’t seem much better, and frankly, it's hard to see how they could be. Indie horror is going through some incredibly hard times right now, with very little new and inventive coming out of the category. Far too fan-driven and reliant of referencing (better) films from the past, your standard new millennium macabre is a collection of homages and hobbles. Perhaps filmic fate was smiling down on me when I entered that former entertainment stomping ground. I got a nice, noxious case of dreary déjà vu, and I only had to stomach one of the supposedly great eight. Sitting through something like Unrest seven more times would have indeed been something to die for. And as much as I consider the concept, spending my last day on Earth watching lame scary movies is not how I envisioned my death. Eaten by some squirrels, on the other hand…

Unrest – 1.5 out of 5

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Okay, let's get a few things straight right up front. This is NOT the funniest movie of 2006, not by a big, bad long shot. That award goes to Clerks II, with Kevin Smith's scripted genius acting as a far more astute commentary on our 'culture' than an improvising pigeon English shock comic. Hell, this isn't even the funniest mock documentary of recent years. That title would go to Lollilove, Jenna Fischer's brilliant dissection of celebrity denseness and misapplied charitable principles. There are more laughs in said film's first 15 minutes than in the entirety of Sacha Baron Cohen's one-trick pig and pony act. Anyone whose dared argue that, somehow, Borat is one of the wickedest satires ever foisted on the public in the past decade obviously didn't see the psychotically brilliant South Park film. Trey Parker and Matt Stone, noted for consistently delivering the comedy goods on their sensational TV cartoon classic, took nearly every genre of cinema to task in their twisted animated musical, and proved unquestionably that one could actually laugh until it hurt.

These statements are not meant to beat up on Borat or its creator, the obviously talented Cohen. But the truth about this film really does exist somewhere between the pre-release excitement and the actual execution. This is a very uneven motion picture, with long pauses in between the choice chuckles. The opening of the movie is wonderful, setting up the dreamlike world of the phony Kazakhstan that our main character supposedly lives in. Minor moments with the town rapist, the angry neighbor, and Borat's battleaxe of a wife linger longer than confrontational scenes between the character and obviously uncomfortable social stooges. Part of the humor Cohen taps into is that standard surprise material that Johnny Knoxville and his skater stunt rat pals have been milking for almost a decade. In fact, a great deal of Borat feels like Jackass with an agenda. Had those infamous foolhardy fellows created a narrative for their two big screen efforts in which they travel around America getting to know the real country, perhaps they'd be labeled as the next Peter Sellers, instead of knocked as a bunch of testosterone and liquor fueled losers.

And what of that constant comparison to Britain's late great method madman? It seems really naïve to argue for Cohen's place alongside one of the acknowledged greats of comedy when he can barely hold character throughout the film. His Borat changes constantly, altered to fit the mood of the situation and the tone of the response. This may work when comedy is involved, but as an actor, Cohen has a long ways to go to match Sellers in style, substance – and most importantly, subtlety. This is not to say that the movie is a bomb. In fact, it's one of 2006's most light-hearted and warm surprises. It's just not the greatest, most daring, or controversial film in the history of humor. At the time, Blazing Saddles, with its overt racism, was far more scandalous. Besides, Cohen's jokes are just recycled Woody Allen bits (Jews with horns) amplified by unnecessary repetition. Borat works when the material stays away from the dopey (the singing of the mash up US/supposed Kazakhstan national anthem) or the dumbfounding (two grown men wrestling naked is not cutting edge, it's merely scatological slapstick). A scene revolving around a "p**sy magnet" is much funnier than any trip to a Christian revivalist meeting.

As a matter of fact, Borat suffers from some of the same problems that face most motion picture comedies today. Wit is never applicable universally – someone's joke is another man's misery. There will be those who immediately take to what Cohen is doing and declare it to be the revolutionary work that current critical support suggests. On the other hand, there will be those (myself included) who don't simply buy everything in the film and cast a jaundiced eye on many of the movies more infamous moments. Could Cohen really tackle Pamela Anderson like he does without working up something "in advance" with the former Baywatch beauty? Did the high society dinner party people really call the police after their foreign guest tried to give the hostess his bowel movement in a bag? Why did the driving instructor seem so hip and into his sequence while the Atlanta hotel seemed absolutely stunned that someone like Borat would want to check in? Its part and parcel for a film that's overall dichotomy suggests the reasons for its success as well as the issues that keep it so insular. While I know I will probably need a crate of gypsy tears to protect me from the blogger backlash in the making, I stand by my convictions. Borat is a decent film. It is not, however, the shape of things to come…I hope.

6.5 out of 10

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The power of gore…a thing some deplore…cleaning my soul. Nothing gives a grue-loving horror fan like myself a bigger jaundiced jolt than a movie that promises buckets and barrels of blood and then actually delivers in dynamic, drenching deluges. Usually, those of us with a craving for claret have to wait for the ubiquitous "unrated director's cut" DVD of a cinematic scarefest to get our fair share of sluice, especially with the MPAA's determination to snip and clip anything remotely repugnant out of the theatrical experience. Even the hardest "R"s – films like Hostel, etc. – are trimmed of excessive elements to make the parental replacement guardians of generic taste happy. As a result, your film is more easily marketable, especially if you can dry it down to a thoroughly antithetical PG-13. That's why home video has become the safe haven for those of us desperate for decapitations, delighted by disemboweling, and happy whenever a body is hacked, hobbled or otherwise torn into a thousand tasty morsels.

I know, it makes me sound sick, but I don't buy into the psychological dictum that argues for the universal effects of violence on the human consciousness. Will viewing excess splatter cause some people to snap, turning their attentions unnaturally to things dark and disturbing. Absolutely. Should it keep more levelheaded individuals like myself from seeing a good old fashioned zombie gut grinder? Hell friggin' no! Certainly, desensitization and the notion of becoming blasé to massive bloodletting are important ideas for study, but if I'm going to a movie about axe murders, blades better be cleaving skulls. Without the gore, what's the point? That's why I'm so shocked and amazed that Saw III managed to make it into the local Cineplex with so much of its splashy arterial spray intact. It is safe to say that those who'd rather not witness the systematic dismantling of the human carcass should avoid this film at all costs. This is a movie where rib cages are ripped open, arms and legs are twisted in two, and heads are opened so that full blown brain surgery can be viewed in complete disturbing detail.

Credit has to go to the Saw savants Leigh Whannel and James Wan for continuing the carnage they created so successfully with the original Saw. Somehow, they managed to get Darren Lynn Bousman on board as well. After helming the good, if somewhat generic Saw II, the second time is clearly the charm for this directorial newbie. He gets into the splatter spirit early and often. What's particularly fulfilling, especially in light of all the wonderfully disgusting Jigsaw puzzle setpieces in the film, is how rounded and deep the narrative is. Almost all the characters, from serial killer in training Amanda (Shawnee Smith bringing it once again) to desperate, disconnected doctor Lynn go through some major mental changes during the course of the story, and Bousman allows the movie to meander to provide such a potent underscoring. Also, unlike other franchise films, Saw III actually makes an effort to incorporate elements we saw in the first two installments to keep the overall concepts linked and truly fascinating. Considering the way the film ends, it will be interesting to see how Saw IV (yes, it's already tagged for Halloween 2007) keeps the series stable.

This is definitely not a film for all fright fans, however. As a matter of fact, anyone who thinks the original Saw pushed the limits of atrocity acceptability ain't about to cotton to III's numerous nauseating moments. Watching someone smash their own foot into a pliable pulpy mess, witnessing a 'game participant' pierced through several parts of his body, including an incomparably large bull hook through his chin, observing maggot-ridden dead pigs being 'food processed' into a torturous goo, are just a few of the foul moments in a film filled with such lunch launching inducements. Other MPAA addled moviemakers should get themselves a copy of the Saw III cut to argue for their own onscreen splatter. There are facets of this flick that, in retrospect, still cause my jaw to drop. With so many Indie filmmakers promising the pus but completely unable to deliver, it's wonderful to see a legitimate mainstream offering bringing the bile. Saw III may not be the scariest, or most successful horror film ever made, but if you're looking for your pound of fright fan flesh, you'll get a nice craven corpse-full with this shockingly sick flick.

7.5 out of 10

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Sometimes, it's hard for a critic to sum up his or her feelings about a film. It usually occurs on those rare occasions – and they are indeed few and far between – when a movie literally makes you forget all the reasons why you are viewing – and eventually reviewing it - in the first place. The narrative catches you completely off guard, the plotting provides more intrigue and enjoyment than you could have possibly imagined. Even better, the themes and emotional underpinnings which motivate the expertly drawn characters are so involving and deep that, before you know it, you've completely forgotten about deadlines, word count and being a clever cinematic scholar. All you care about is the spellbinding experience in front of you. This is indeed what happened to me as I settled in to take on Christopher Nolan's latest mindblowing masterwork, The Prestige. After 135 minutes of nearly flawless filmmaking, it is safe to say that I had lost all concept of critical impartiality. This film is, without a doubt, one of 2006's greatest artistic achievements.

Nolan, a motion picture non-entity nine years ago when he arrived on the scene with his whimsical short Doodlebug, argues for his place among the seemingly small class of post-modern, post-millennial auteurs with this fascinating, finely tuned effort. With only five full length feature films under his belt – 1998's Following, 2000's Memento, 2002's Insomnia, 2005's Batman Begins and now The Prestige – this amazingly gifted Brit continues to baffle as well as make believers out of fans who just can't figure out how he does it. Before he came along, the murder mystery was seen as an old fashioned b-movie subject. But Memento's backwards narrative audacity avoided obvious gimmickry to redefine the genre and become an exceptionally fine film. Similarly, big budget superhero movies were a dime a couple dozen in the free-spending Hollywood of the last decade, and yet Nolan managed to make Batman viable again by positing The Dark Knight with a real and recognizable psychological underpinning. The result? One of last year's best efforts.

And now we have The Prestige. How does one begin to describe how delicate and demanding this movie is? How to be respectful without resorting to full bore film geek love. It is safe to say that the remarkable ensemble cast that Nolan compiles – including award worthy turns from Hugh Jackman, Christian Bale, Michael Caine and, believe it or not, David Bowie – is matched in majesty only by the brilliant script adaptation that the director and his screenwriting brother Jonathan carved out of Christopher Priest's prized novel. This is not a film about how certain tricks are accomplished (though we do learn a few secrets along the way), nor is it merely the tale of an increasingly antagonist rivalry between two talented magicians. Instead, The Prestige takes its title literally, asking us to believe in the power that stature and esteem has over two dark, desperate men, to witness how far both will go to achieve it for themselves…and more importantly, prevent it from happening for the other. The plot is complex, weaving in and out of obsession, doubt, ovations and despair. In Nolan's completely capable hands, what could have been muddled or melodramatic is monumental – and quite moving.

This is indeed the kind of experience one goes to the movies for. It's escape, but not the pure popcorn and eye candy kind. Like a rich meal or a decedent desert, The Prestige is the kind of motion picture meal you savor, a movie that requires your utmost indulgence to deliver maximum satisfaction. If a cutthroat competition between two incredibly multifaceted men that skips across time and place to deliver its layers of intrigue and eventual decisive denouements leaves you cold, if you would rather see a pretty period piece, unevenly executed and lacking a real feel for the era in question, then by all means avoid The Prestige and pick out something else to spend your hard earned leisure lira on. But if you don't mind a test, if you're up for experiencing the sights, the smells, and the sensations of a turn of the century world, if brilliant acting by performers getting completely lost in their characters fills you with the kind of cinematic joy that's rare in this pre-packaged and focus grouped entertainment environment, then this is the film for you. It is indeed rare when a movie can make your forget the very reasons why you came to the theater in the first place. Like all the elements that make up this stellar motion picture, it is all part of The Prestige's amazing magic.

9.5 out of 10

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