Cinematical

Steve Coogan, 42, is perhaps best known for his TV persona, the part-arrogant, part-clueless sports announcer Alan Partridge. And though Coogan could go on playing him forever, he has instead used his budding American film career to branch out, try different things. His collaborations with "serious" director Michael Winterbottom were a good start; 24 Hour Party People (2002) and Tristram Shandy: A Cock and Bull Story (2006) earned rave reviews here in the States. He appeared opposite big stars such as Jackie Chan (Around the World in 80 Days) and Ben Stiller (Night at the Museum, Tropic Thunder) and answered the call of a handful of cult directors, making small appearances in films by Jim Jarmusch (Coffee and Cigarettes), Sofia Coppola (Marie Antoinette) and Edgar Wright (Hot Fuzz).

His name appears alone above the title of his new film, Hamlet 2, in which he plays Dana Marschz, a washed-up American actor now teaching drama at a Tucson high school. To save his class and his career, he writes a sequel to "Hamlet" that causes a huge ruckus. (Hint: it has something to do with "Sexy Jesus.") The one connecting factor with all these movies is that Coogan's characters are more or less awful, but compulsively watchable, people. Coogan -- who is conversely very nice in person -- recently chatted with Cinematical about his new movie.

Cinematical: How did your gallery of humorously annoying characters come about?

Steve Coogan: I don't know. It just sort of happened. I'm just attracted to playing people who are ostensible unlikable. That's not to say that there's something in there that makes you care. It might be that you just find them so awful that you just can't stop watching, like a car crash. And they're not self-aware. I think somehow, whenever I see a character on screen who I feel is trying to get me to like them too much, it has the reverse effect. It kind of puts you off. It's: "Quit looking at me with those doe eyes. I want to kill you." It's not like I've thought this through. It's just, you do stuff often enough and you see patterns. You see them, and I see them too. Sometimes they're not self-conscious. I guess that's why I'm probably doing it.

A couple of weeks ago I was in Safeway and I spotted a cheap DVD, a double-bill of The Fugitive (1993) and U.S. Marshals (1998), and I impulsively bought it. I already owned The Fugitive on laserdisc (that old thing) and had seen it many times, but I hadn't ever seen U.S. Marshals. I know it's supposed to be awful, but the cast of Tommy Lee Jones, Robert Downey Jr. and Wesley Snipes suddenly appealed to me. I decided to re-watch The Fugitive before I settled down to the sequel. I liked it as much as ever; it's a rare example of everything in the Hollywood machine coming together in the right way at the right time and working perfectly. But this time, something new struck me.

Last week I wrote a defense of Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (184 screens), which I determined has been judged more by its hype than by the actual content of the film. But I didn't get much of a chance to talk about the film's star, Harrison Ford, who is an integral part of the film's success. I'll be the first to admit that Ford is an exceedingly limited actor. One of his failings is his seeming lack of humor and spontaneity in certain roles, exacerbated by the fact that, in person, he comes across just as humorless (though it could be that he merely mistrusts journalists). But ironically, one of his best attributes he shares with the comic actor Jackie Chan: a reluctance to enter into the action.

It's too bad that more movies don't have the courage to explore faith and spirituality in a direct way; studios are usually too worried about appealing to all religions -- and all pocketbooks -- to be very specific about the subject. The other reason is that it's difficult for Hollywood movies to wrap up their neat, bow-tie happy endings with everything resolved, since the idea of faith is based on lack of proof, lack of finality. One of my favorite movies is Dreyer's The Passion of Joan of Arc, which uses an unconventional, off-kilter visual scheme to document some exciting, endlessly fascinating arguments: which side is God on and what does He really want with us? The new Henry Poole Is Here bucks the trend with the appearance of a "miracle" in the life of its ordinary, everyday character. Does it raise any interesting, life-changing questions? Sadly, no. The film is too bored and lackadaisical with its subject to change much of anything. It's too uninspired to be inspirational.

Henry Poole (Luke Wilson) is a man with "movie disease." This means that he's going to die, and he'll have absolutely no symptoms until he does. Sometimes "movie disease" comes with a cough, but not this time. Sometimes "movie disease" has a name, like "brain cloud," but not this time. In preparation for the dark day, Henry buys a house in his old neighborhood, loads up on booze, doughnuts and pizza and waits. Meanwhile, his nosy neighbor Esperanza (Oscar nominee Adriana Barraza, from Babel) brings him tamales and pokes around his backyard. (Her late boyfriend used to live in the same house.) She notices that a badly done stucco job has produced a water stain, and that the water stain looks a bit like a familiar guy with a beard. The picture even produces a drop of blood.

With Toy Story (1995), a studio called Pixar blew the lid off of animated movies as we knew them. Thirteen years later, the other studios have yet to even approach that early level of excellence, let alone match the advancements Pixar has made since. Oddly similar to the most recent clunker Space Chimps, the new Fly Me to the Moon looked infinitely more promising in that it was based on an actual idea: the 1969 Apollo 11 mission as seen through the eyes of three stowaway flies -- in 3D! But sadly it proves itself as technically dull and as creatively stifled as Space Chimps as well as nearly every other non-Pixar movie.

After a totally useless, noisy black-and-white prologue, we get a very cool establishing shot. The camera flows smoothly through the back lots behind Cape Canaveral in Florida. It swoops into a patch of dirt and a tangle of weeds, through some bits of discarded junk, to the world where our little flies live (like humans, in little dollhouses). During this and other traveling sequences, the 3D works beautifully, engulfing us comfortably in this tiny world. But as soon as we meet the characters, the movie starts to sputter. In real life, houseflies can zip across the kitchen pretty darn fast relative to their size, but these flies drift lethargically from place to place, and the movie bogs down in their lackadaisical pace.

If you believe what you read on the message boards, Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull (262 screens) is just about the worst movie ever made. There are a few recurring comments, which I will hopefully address one at a time. But first I just want to say three things. One, I loved the film. I saw it twice, and it made me very happy both times. Secondly, I'm not working for George Lucas or Steven Spielberg, and they're not paying me to write this. (If they were, I'd probably be vacationing right now.) Thirdly, I want to argue that most of the disappointed reactions to the film had to do with two elements that are not actually in the film. (More on this later.)

Released in 1981, 1984 and 1989 respectively, the first three films are high on my list of the greatest summer movies of all time. I love them dearly; I yield to no one in my love for them. Raiders of the Lost Ark is certainly the best of the series, but truthfully, beyond an unmatched level of craftsmanship and enthusiasm, it's not exactly a work of art. It doesn't have much to say about the human condition except possibly for something about the juvenile repression of grown men -- but even that much is indirect and unintended.

The second and third movies lost the serious, professional edge of the first, and concentrated a little bit more on cartoonish non-reality. Pauline Kael made a passionate defense of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom in her 1984 New Yorker review, arguing that Spielberg opened himself up more and directed it with more unbridled, infectious fun. But whereas Indy's relationship with Marion Ravenwood in the first felt grounded, Indy's relationship with Willie Scott in the second is straight out of bad screwball. The Last Crusade makes improvements with the additions of the "Young Indy" character (River Phoenix) and Indy's father (Sean Connery) but adds an even worse female lead (Alison Doody) and even more bad jokes; it feels even less "realistic" than the second entry.

In May of 1970, Neil Young quickly wrote a song called "Ohio," hotly responding to the Kent State shootings, during which the National Guard killed four students and wounded nine others. He recorded it with David Crosby, Stephen Stills and Graham Nash, who had just come off a hit record from the previous year, and the song peaked at #14 on the pop charts. Over the years, Young has recorded several such protest and/or political songs, including 1967's "For What It's Worth," 1970's "Southern Man" and 1989's "Rockin' in the Free World," which slyly took a stab at then President George H. W. Bush by mentioning his campaign speech staple "a thousand points of light." Young is now in his 60s and once again something pissed him off to the point that he has gone back to the recording studio. This time though, there's no beating around the bush (so to speak). No more messages hidden inside innocuous song titles. This time we get "Let's Impeach the President."

It's all about The Dark Knight this week. Part of the hype is the twin performances by Christian Bale and Heath Ledger, which is not undeserved. But both Bale and Ledger belong to a certain school of acting, and it's worth discussing the other schools, especially since one type tends to overshadow the other. When it comes time for acting awards to be doled out, I'm afraid that these two performances will blot out others, especially Robert Downey Jr.'s in Iron Man (375 screens). Actors use many different methods in their craft. One is what I'll call the "Brando" school. When Marlon Brando exploded onto the movie screen in the early 1950s, he brought a new style that was dubbed "raw" and "sensual." He used his entire being in his performances; his study of the "Method" taught him to reach deep into his own experiences to find real emotions to adapt to his characters.

The other school is the "always plays himself" school, of which John Wayne was probably the most pre-eminent member. Wayne had a very limited range and couldn't play all the various characters that Brando could, but he had a very specific onscreen personality that was emotionally satisfying all on its own. Moreover, within his small range, not even Brando could beat him. No one could have been better in The Searchers (1956), for example. Robert Downey Jr. belongs in this second school. Although he happens to possess the skill to play a wide range of parts, he remains chiefly true to his own personality. When you see him, it feels like you're visiting him again, rather than seeing a whole new person. His hijinks in Iron Man are wonderfully energetic and hilarious, but they bear a resemblance to his similar, wiry performances in Home for the Holidays, Two Girls and a Guy and other films.

Six years have passed since "The X-Files" went off the air after nine seasons; fans agree that it left with a whimper rather than a bang, and ten years have passed since the first and only feature film. So the question of the day is: why a sequel? Why now? But perhaps a better question is "why not?" The fact is that FBI special agents Fox Mulder (David Duchovny) and Dana Scully (Gillian Anderson) always had vats of chemistry; they arguably outstripped and outranked any other male-female couple in the history of television. Their pairing was perfect: Mulder believed -- or wanted to believe -- in the supernatural while Scully was a scientist, a doctor and a Catholic who believed in God but looked for reasonable, logical explanations in everything. In each episode, the team was called in to investigate some kind of paranormal activity, and they debated and discussed the various possibilities behind each. In the end, hardly anything was ever proved or disproved.

Occasionally Hollywood cobbles together random members of the A-list to play family members on film, even if their genes obviously come from opposite ends of the earth. If the actors are good enough or if the chemistry is there, sometimes the combo can work, such as Ethan Hawke and Philip Seymour Hoffman as brothers in Before the Devil Knows You're Dead or Colin Farrell and Ewan McGregor in Cassandra's Dream. Other times, it stretches credibility, such as Adrien Brody, Owen Wilson and Jason Schwartzman in The Darjeeling Limited. My all-time favorite oddball casting is in Sidney Lumet's Family Business (1989), with Sean Connery, Dustin Hoffman and Matthew Broderick playing grandfather, father and son. (Huh?) At the same time, there are actor combos out there who just scream to be paired up in a family capacity. Remember Julia Roberts and Kyra Sedgwick in Something to Talk About? Well, neither do I, but that pairing was perfect. Here are a few others that could work:

1. Helen Hunt & Leelee Sobieski

They're so similar it's spooky, from their hair and foreheads, right down to the tonal quality of their voices. Anybody check the hospital records for mixed-up babies? (Helen is about 20 years older.) Not too long ago, both careers hit a peak: Helen won an Oscar while Leelee was working with Stanley Kubrick and playing Joan of Arc on TV. Now they're both in decline. For some reason, whenever Helen's name comes up, I hear "I HATE Helen Hunt!" And Leelee's last movie was for Uwe Boll. Now would be the perfect time for these two to team up in a mother-daughter drama. If they cooked up something along the lines of Terms of Endearment, with a good, solid writer and/or director, it could be interesting. Or better yet, how about something really strange and kooky with Spike Jonze or Harmony Korine? (Note: apparently the two once went head-to-head on "Celebrity Death Match.")

Gallery: Actors who could play relatives

Watching Jacques Nolot's Before I Forget, I couldn't help thinking of my friend Arthur Lazere, the late film critic and creator of the still-operational site culturevulture.net, ("Choices for the Cognoscenti"). Arthur was gay and in his 60s when he succumbed to a long illness in 2006; he loved movies but he rarely found one that pleased him, or rather spoke to him in particular. The Barbarian Invasions (2003) was one of his favorites, I remember, and I enjoyed talking to -- and arguing with -- him about it and many other films. I wish I could have talked with him about Before I Forget, a film about a HIV+ gay man nearing his 60s. I admired the film all on my own, but Arthur would have got it.

That's actually one of the best things about Before I Forget, which was selected as one of last year's ten best films by Cahiers du Cinema; it's the uncompromising work of an artist making a film for himself, rather than targeting a demographic. Jacques Nolot mainly works as an actor, with roles in films like Claire Denis' Nenette & Boni (1996), Francois Ozon's Under the Sand (2001) and many André Téchiné films, including The Witnesses from earlier this year. He has written and directed three feature films, all starring himself: L'Arrière pays (1998), Porn Theater (2002) and this one. The three films are certainly homosexual and appear to be at least partly autobiographical, and even if they're not, Nolot still opens himself up totally: in an early sequence, his character Pierre wakes up, throws up, pops some pills makes some coffee and walks around his apartment, naked. His thinning hair and thin moustache are perfectly placed, but his sagging belly shows a losing battle with age.