Reviewed by Dennis Schwartz

An unneeded and weak remake of Tobe Hopper’s overrated original 1974
cult-fave slasher/horror flick. The original was at least fresh meat, made
on a low budget, emphasized tension over violence, was simply told, could
relate to the Vietnam debacle, and had a raw power. The new version is
slicker, more vile, more heavy on subplots, offering more violence for
the sake of making chopped up body parts entertaining, and in the end never
shows a reason why it had to be made except to make some coin. It’s again
about a band of five charmless young adults who ignore all the danger signs
and stumble across a rural Texas psychopathic family of serial butchers.
The film boasts an abattoir of blood and gore, but can’t tack on a metaphorical
reason to give it legitimacy. It’s an exploitation flick that can’t link
this horror tale with the right-wing Bush’s flawed criminal justice system
and the cannibalistic dog eat dog world of capitalism–as some critics
have maintained was its purpose. This is strictly a film made for the restless
fast-paced MTV ‘good-time Charlie’ crowd by director Marcus Nispel, noted
for his ads and music videos. It lops off everything connected with the
world of socio-political realities, as it goes for all the cheap thrills
that a mindless exploitative film always does. Scott Kosar’s rehashed script
from horror flicks such as Silence of the Lambs is contaminated so much
with its bad blood that it goes down as indigestible. Cinematographer Daniel
Pearl filmed the original, but why his shots don’t work here when they
worked before must be blamed on the director’s decision to leave this film
in a brainless state. For a film that relies on the macabre to be its staple,
it turns out instead to be more of a revolting and dehumanizing experience
than a scary film. I guess it’s hard to be scared when we have already
seen this film and know pretty much what’s coming next!

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Of note, the meat company in question is named Blair as an homage
to The Blair Witch Project. Also, this gruesome tale is supposedly based
on the Wisconsin serial killer Ed Gein, but bares little resemblance to
that true incident. 

John Laroquette who narrated the original also narrates this one.
It begins with the same original film’s newsreel footage of a 1974 massacre.
Then we follow the fab five in a hippie-van coming back stoned from Mexico
after scoring some weed and are heading to Dallas to attend a Lynyrd Skynyrd
concert. The owner of the van is Kemper; Erin is his well-built babe in
a tank top who is also sporting a cute cowboy hat; Pepper and Andy are
necking in the back seat; while the cynical single Morgan is content to
be rolling joints and wearing a Mets baseball jersey that has New York
written across the front. 

The action begins when the crew pick up a traumatized teenage girl
who barely mutters something about a massacre, and when they drive past
where the incident took place she pulls a gun from underneath her dress
and blows her brains out. It then goes into a formulaic mode of those teenager
horror movies where they all get picked off one by one and the viewer is
left to guess if any will survive and who will get knocked off first. 

The youngsters argue about whether to split or contact help. The
liberal attitude of the fair sex wins out over their chauvinistic male
pig opposites and they stop at the gas station in the middle of nowhere
to call Sheriff Hoyt, but the authority figure turns out to be R. Lee Ermey
playing the same sicko meanie role he did in Kubrick’s Full Metal Jacket.
The sheriff’s sinister comic antics involve copping a feel from the corpse
and having Morgan place the gun in his mouth while sitting in the bloody
back seat to reenact how the suicide took place. The scares supposedly
come from some crazy guy running around the slaughterhouse with a chainsaw
and sporting masks from other corpses to cover his facial deformity. We’re
informed he’s really pissed because he has a skin disease and was made
fun of all his life. Now ain’t that a kick in the head!

If there are any thrills in this thriller, they come from watching
a demented grandfather figure in a wheelchair yell out to “Bring it on!”
and Leatherface appearing with his chainsaw noisily humming and the vic
letting go with some healthy horror film classical screams. One youngster
dies Christ-like while crucified on a meathook, as the inbred extended
family bands together to slaughter outsiders as they do the animals on
their farm. The film is only as good as scoping out sexy Jessica Biel panting
in fright in her soaking wet T-shirt. Hardly a reason for watching the
whole film, but maybe a reason for some to sit through all the despair.

Story involves the morbid obsessions of two psychically connected teens, Mike (James Le Gros) and Liz (Paula Irvine). The pair are tortured in their dreams by The Tall Man (Angus Scrimm, reprising the role), a ghoulish mortician who wreaks evil via flying spheres that carve up people’s faces.

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Working out of his Morningside Mortuary, The Tall Man robs graves and hauls away corpses via a band of dwarves whose costumes look suspiciously like those of the Jawas in Star Wars.

All of this might be a hoot if molded in the right spirit, but in writer-director Don Coscarelli’s hands it’s incredibly morbid and meaningless.

3,000 MILES TO GRACELAND: Crime drama. Starring Kurt Russell, Kevin Costner,
Courteney Cox, Christian Slater, Kevin Pollak, David Arquette. Directed by
Demian Lichtenstein. (R. 120 minutes. At Bay Area theaters.)

The film is fun for a while, no denying it. Initial snares are the gaudy
Elvis getups. Russell in particular looks as close to the real thing as money
can buy — fans may well remember his Emmy-nominated turn as the King in the
1979 television movie “Elvis,” directed by John Carpenter.

In a pumped opening setup, cocks-’o-the-walk Russell and Costner and their
Elvis-styled gangster buddies (David Arquette, Christian Slater and Bokeem
Woodbine) enter the glittery Riviera casino scene with smirks and swaggers
amid a sea of fellow King pretenders in jumpsuits and sideburns.

The film has a promising look, a mock-documentary raggedness provided by
director Demian Lichtenstein, who has a quite a few MTV credits. The buildup
is coolly driven by George S. Clinton’s score and the loopy humor of Elvis
types gyrating with machine guns rather than electric guitars.

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The crooks trip an intricate security system, disable an elevator, whip out
an arsenal, crack the casino safe, load up millions in cash and blast their
way to a waiting helicopter against an army of cops. The action is smartly
interlaced, via jump cuts, with a high-energy Elvis look-alike contest
complete with lithe showgirls and bump-and-grind tunes.

But soon the star vehicle gets a flat. Russell, as a guy named Michael, is
mated with a slinky, opportunistic single mom, Cybil (Cox), whose klepto
preteen son, Jesse (David Kaye), dreams of gangster ways himself. Jesse is
also starved for a dad in his life.

As the Elvis gang gets bumped off, one by one, the movie has to lumber
through 90 more minutes — off balance, sputtering, gasping for life. A
predictable love story slips into the driver’s seat. Michael and his former
prison cell mate, Murphy (Costner), try to outfox each other to get possession
of $3.2 million in loot. And the foxy Cybil has her own designs on the money.

“3,000 Miles to Graceland” is buoyed in small, audacious moments by Cox,
wearing next to nothing, pouring on the wiles. And the sinking, alas, of
Michael’s cherry-red ‘59 Caddy is certain to have a curious emotional impact.
But the film gets desperate with a couple of flatulence jokes.

The baddies are hounded by lawmen played by Kevin Pollak and Thomas Haden
Church. Jon Lovitz has a turn as a money launderer, and Howie Long plays the
desperadoes’ getaway chopper pilot.

The predictable showdown pits Michael against super-bad-guy Murphy. There’s
a lame car chase, and a last stupid shootout against legions of SWAT-like cops.

Nobody ever gets to Graceland, and the whole idea of suggesting such a thing
in the title seems shameless and shabby.

“3,000 Miles to Graceland” might turn into the box office champ this
weekend, but just watch the bloat, swagger, sex play and tiresome gunbattles
fade from favor as fast as an XFL game.
.
This film contains extreme graphic violence, explicit sex, raw language.

E-mail Peter Stack at pstack@sfchronicle.com.

Farewell, Cosy Sweetmeat Home directed by Otar Iosseliani is a stylistically harmonious ‘ French comedy involving a series of interconnected stories in and here Paris.

The film has a loose plot that features a series of characters such as a rich young man who would rather hang around with street ruffians, a young attractive woman who works with her father in a small pub, a snobbish woman who walks around with a stork on her back, a sweet scheming maid, a bunch of crooked businessmen and a lot of plain working class folks that often cross paths, ironically, throughout the film.

The one character who can be considered the film’s main character is the teen aged boy (Nico Tarielashvili) who roller blades around Paris between his job as a dishwasher in a restaurant and his street friends who hang out finding ways to get money. He also lusts after the young woman who works across the street from the restaurant. His father – played by the director – is also somewhat central because he represents the same spirit as his son in that he is tired of the wealth; Late in the film he makes friends with a homeless guy.

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In this way the film has some similarities with Jean Renoir’s Boudou Saved From Drowning, which deals with a tramp and the rich people he befriends. This film, much like Renoir films – has a light comedic touch that looks at life in a positive and humanitarian light. But too it takes a stab at the rich and their petty corrupt ways.

Formalistically the film is both impressive and lacking. On one hand Iosseliani has noteworthy tracking shots that set the stage and connect the various characters and stories. He also uses this technique to set up a lot of sight gags much like JacquesTati. However, much like all of his other films the action is set at a comfortable distance from the camera and there is little dialogue, which makes for challenging home viewing. That is not to say his films are difficult or complex [or bad], just that they are not easy to focus on because as a director he does not lead the audience’s attention like most directors do. For this reason, his films work better on the big screen where the audience can be engaged and look around the screen more. On the small screen everything’s really seems disengaged – almost like a documentary without a central theme or character.

Farewell, Home Sweet Home is an odd translation of the actual French title, which is Adieu, plancher des vaches an old sailor quote translated literally as ‘Goodbye, to the Cow Floor’. It’s a good film although not as good as another recently released film of his titled Monday Morning, which is stylistically similar but more focused on one character.

Video:
The DVD is presented in an aspect ratio of 1.66:1. The image quality is good. There is a soft filmic focus quality that makes everything look a little more life like than a Hollywood film. The tranfer is good.

Audio:
Audio is in French stereo but not utilized much. Most of the film has no dialogue and only a minimal score.

Extras:
There is a director interview that lasts fifteen minutes and is interesting. In it Iosseliani talks about his cinematic preferences and it becomes clear they he really doesn’t like most current forms of cinema. He talks about what he tries to do with his films and specifically what he tries to avoid – he hates close-ups for instance. In some ways watching this interview before the start of the film might prepare one for the film a little better. Other extras include a trailer and a short director bio.

Total:
Farewell, Where it hurts Sweet Serene is a good French comedy / theatre arts that gets better the more you timepiece it. At first it is not too engaging or particularly funny but when an individual figures out cold the director’s style and what he is trying to say it gets better, it gets funnier and just a picayune profound.

Agree? Fight? You can post your thoughts about this review on the DVD Talk forums.

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The picture is based on a novel by Richard Powell, Pioneer, Go Home!; his earlier novel The Philadelphian had been turned into the successful The Young Philadelphians (1959), but Powell mostly wrote for TV shows after that, series like Hogan’s Heroes and, unsurprisingly, Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C.. The story concerns the Kwimper Family: young Toby (Elvis), his widower father (Arthur O’Connell), and adopted siblings, 19-year-old sister Holly (Anne Helm), and young twins Eddy and Teddy (Gavin and Robin Coon). In their beat-up Model A, they run out of gas on an undeveloped stretch of Florida land and decide to homestead there.

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This becomes a great annoyance to state highway supervisor H. Arthur King (Alan Hewitt) and welfare worker Alisha Claypoole (Joanna Moore), the latter first turned on by Elvis’s raw sexuality then determined to destroy him after he spurns her advances.

Follow That Dream is one of those pictures where the family’s naivete about absolutely everything is the big joke. The Kwimpers are, as King describes them, “half hillbilly, half hobo…with a tincture of bowery bum.” They’re unaware of the realities and harshness of the real (i.e., urban/outside) world yet are insulated by their very ignorance, and their basic honesty and decency protects them. There are also a lot gags concerning the Kwimpers’ outhouse.

The entire middle third of the picture is taken up by an excruciating subplot involving gangsters (Simon Oakland and Jack Kruschen) who move in next door and set up a rowdy mobile casino. When the Kwimpers get in their way, they hire assassins (from Detroit) to kill Toby / Elvis and blow up their home. Throughout all this, even when the assassins are firing their Tommy guns directly at Toby and leave a timb-bomb jug of kerosene at their front door, Toby assumes his neighbors are merely drunks getting out of hand. Therein lies the film’s basic problem. We know what’s going on; why is Elvis so stupid?

He never wizens up, nor does anyone in his family, and so the entire picture rests on this ignorance-is-bliss conceit, which wears thin before the end of the first reel. The episodic nature of the script only makes the movie more maddeningly dull. The last third is a dreary public hearing over the fate of the Kwimper kids, with Elvis — natch — acting as their attorney.

Another odd aspect of the film is its suggestion that the Kwimpers are cute because they’re lazy and live off the government. Pa has been on unemployment for years while superstrong Toby (he lifts their fully-loaded Model A in the air like the $6 Million Dollar Man) is on total disability for a “bad back” he strained while in the army. The entire film has a vague air of satirizing government waste and its fussy employees, but this aspect goes over like a lead balloon.

On the plus side, the songs are better than average, especially “What a Wonderful Life” and “Follow That Dream.” The staging by journeyman director Gordon Douglas is unimaginative, however. Elvis sings half his numbers flat on his back. (Must be that old army injury.) The picture was shot in Florida but, unlike most Elvis movies, the travelogue-like possibilities are utterly squandered, with most of the film shot on the same unscenic stretch of highway. They might have filmed the picture in Pomona for all the difference it makes.

“Nothing is what it seems.” And while that strand from “The Recruit” is intended to tantalize, all it does is telegraph. What could (or should) have been a thriller turns at large to be merely an exercise–both literally and figuratively. It’s a cat-and-mouse large screen with one felonious-minded feline and a organization of clueless mice.

“The Recruit” takes us to a finish-covert expertise somewhere in Virginia (well, Ontario, if you’re a beautiful stickler), where would-be CIA agents are trained. It’s a boot camp, basically, with chief spook and sadist-in-residence Walter Burke (Al Pacino) acting as teach instructor for a group of loser-behind-the-ears young’uns whom he in a little while pits against each other. Although we very quickly learn that the entirety is a test–everything is an exercise–it takes these recruits much longer to figure that out, which means, what? That the average viewer is more fit to be a CIA agent than any of these people?

Well, thanks but no thanks. These guys play rough. Training kidney this makes you wonder who’s the enemy . . . which, of course, is partly the inconsequential in reference to. It all begins innocently plenty, with a “John, John, we’re missing graduation!” moment as friends of James Clayton (Colin Farrell) phone to tell him he’s late in the interest their MIT award to Dell Computers at a problem fair. They’ve come up with a program that can carry over any host server, these überhackers, and the Dell people are thrilled. But there’s a skulker who’s also watching Clayton, and this boy Burke tries to win over him he’s really CIA material. It’s not a hard grass on. Recruiting Clayton is as easy as trying to sell a Bowie knife to Rambo, because we take cognizance of pretty early that he surely wants to find into the open air more less his father’s death/disappearance, with all the signs pointing to CIA involvement. What better way to find out more round Dad than by signing up?

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Not enough happens with that thread, really, until it’s picked up much later. The channel subplot involves a romantic tension between Clayton and mate trainee Layla (Bridget Moynahan) and a contest between Clayton and a friend of hers who’s a former Miami cop (Gabriel Macht) . . . but may be something more. Maybe some viewers will find this thrilling, but I kept thinking Samuel Morse the whole way, things were so obvious. Once you rile old times the first two acts, an pleasant enough account of their training travails, things stick down when they really should be pushing our brains to their outer limits and challenging us to figure it all out. A substitute alternatively, it’s not that much of a cipher. There’s a mild twist at the end, but respecting the most part you can get the drift everything coming as if you were atop the Empire State Building on a clear day, binoculars facultative.

There’s humor here too, from the preconceived (”The CIA logo gets you laid. Republican girls? Sensitive!”) to the unintentional, as when we accept cars drive up to the George Bush Center for Intelligence and mind-boggler, briefly, if that’s an oxymoron.

As for the performances, you’ve got to intimately it to Pacino and Farrell. They honestly seem to relish their roles, and that’s the objective of not honourable a knowledgeable, but a person who loves his job. The languish of the cast is okay, but these two really go at it, as if it were an alpha manly battle with a mainly horde of females at stake. The thing is, nobody or nothing else rises to their level. Not the cinematography, not the set or ruddy design, and certainly not the script. As Farrell remarks in the commentary, it’s a good screenplay, but not a brilliant one. Which leaves us with the action. Benefit of the victory two thirds, it’s all pretty basic . . . as in training. Conclude a bomb under a jalopy, also pressurize the button on a remote, and watch it get into a tizzy. There’s a wrinkle (which I won’t spoil), but it also doesn’t pan loose to be as exciting as the situation might have generated. And yet, in the manner of “Top Gun” or hell, even “Stripes,” there’s something about spending even so with a nosegay of recruits and watching them struggle to make it. Viewers vicariously handle themselves in their place, wondering if they could do it. And the occasionally that this film spends on training exercises and intrigues is at least time okay prostrate. It’s what happens in the third act that pushes “The Recruit” into the realm of “okayness.” And credence in me, the way this matter started evasion, it deserved a change one’s mind fate.

“Moonlight Mile” is set in 1973, in the fictional town of Cape Anne, Mass.,
where a deranged man has murdered a young woman who was in a diner. The woman
had a fiance named Joe Nast (Jake Gyllenhaal), loving parents named Ben and
JoJo Floss (Dustin Hoffman and Susan Sarandon) and a promising future that was
tragically cut short. Nast and the parents grieve together for their loss, but
then their feelings diverge.

Nast meets a woman (Ellen Pompeo) who works at the post office by day and a
bar by night, and he’s smitten. He feels guilty about being attracted to her
so soon after the shocking death of his fiancee, and he tries to hide the
relationship from Ben and JoJo. It’s not easy because he now lives with them
and works at Ben’s real estate business — an arrangement that lets him be the
dutiful son-in-law he was expected to be had the murder not occurred.

JoJo, meanwhile, stays at home and tries to resume her writing career but
can’t, so she ruminates all day (with humor and sarcasm), argues with Ben and
drinks occasionally to contain her sorrow. Ben pours all his energy into his
job, scheming to buy out businesses and tear them down to develop a big
project. One of those businesses is the bar where Nast’s new love interest
works.

Director Brad Silberling, who also wrote the screenplay, gets some things
right. Nast and the Floss family aren’t always comforted by the parade of
visitors — friends, relatives, strangers — who call or come by their house
days after the funeral to express their sorrow. Sometimes, people in mourning
just want to be by themselves and not talk to anyone.

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Nast’s character is particularly vulnerable to moodiness (one day, he says
little; the next day he’s effusive), and this is where Silberling badly goes
astray. To help capture Nast’s internal thoughts, he put a veritable symphony
of pop songs into “Moonlight Mile” — songs like Van Morrison’s “I’ll Be Your
Lover, Too” and the Jefferson Airplane’s “Comin’ Back to Me” and Bob Dylan’s
“Buckets of Rain.” Silberling uses at least six songs from the ’60s and ’70s
that blare onscreen and play over scenes — songs that are supposed to signify
important transitions but that only stick out awkwardly and turn “Moonlight
Mile” into a kind of packaged product that’s no better than a TV car
commercial.

Directors who rely on ready-made music to carry their films are suspect.
(Silberling also remade one of cinema’s greatest films, the Wim Wenders-
directed “Wings of Desire,” and turned it into the sappy “City of Angels.”)

“Moonlight Mile” isn’t a horrible film. It can’t be when it features people
like Hoffman and Sarandon who know how to inhabit their roles with verve. But
something big is missing in “Moonlight Mile.” The words come out of the
actors’ mouths, the plot moves forward and the credits show up, and all that’s
left is a feeling that this was a first act — that the real film is still to
come.
.
This film contains scenes of nudity.

E-mail Jonathan Curiel at jcuriel@sfchronicle.com.

The fictional teen detective Nancy Drew entered the literary world in 1930, the stories penned by a variety of authors under the nom de guerre Carolyn Keene and continuing in writing, movies, and tube to this era. In 1938 the Drew stories earliest came to the big screen when Warner Bros. produced “Nancy Drew, Detective” with Bonita Granville, the actress accepted on to do three more Nancy Drew films for Warners, released in 1939. To coincide with WB’s latest theatrical adaptation of the comedy-mystery stories, 2007’s “Nancy Drew,” the studio has issued this two-disc set of all four early Drew movies. The films are only abridgment, lightweight, and commonly charming, especially, I would imagine, for younger viewers and teenage girls.

Nancy Drew, Detective
The first in the series is “Nancy Drew, Detective,” from 1938. As with the other three movies, William Clemens directed and Bonita Granville stars in the title part. Ms. Granville was in her mid teens when she did the picture, and since her character has a driver’s license, I’d say she is supposed to be sixteen or seventeen. In any case, she makes a fine leading lady, cute, enthusiastic, impulsive, vivacious, full of spirit, and seldom without her hat and gloves.

In this episode, which lasts with regard to sixty-eight minutes, Nancy is attending the Brinwood School looking for Little ones Ladies in River Heights, doubtlessly a flat Midwestern town. Her father, Carson Drew (John Litel), is a barrister, so I suppose he’s got satisfactorily money to donate his daughter a private information. Anyway, a rich old lady (Helena Phillips Evans) announces that she’s bequeathing the institution a healthy allotment, but the next daylight she disappears without a word about the money she promised. Nancy determines to find the lady, whom Nancy’s “woman’s intuition” tells her somebody has kidnapped, and take up the obscurity.

Along the way, she gets help from the next-door neighbor boy, Ted Nickerson (Frankie Thomas); runs into a slew of shady characters, not the least shady being a no-goodnik named Callon (James Stephenson); and proves an annoyance to the police, represented by the mortal physically of the constantly befuddled Captain Tweedy (Frank Orth).

Although Nancy’s father does his best to heed his daughter out of trouble, he is, alas as regards him and hurray for us, unsuccessful. Nancy is a most willful friend, and we perks from it. Her adventures are absurd, of assuredly, the villains cardboard cutouts and the action hokey and contrived, up to this time it is entirely humorous fill and kind-hearted family deride. These were, after all, adventures for youngsters, and as such, they are engaging reminders of simpler times. 6/10

Nancy Drew–Reporter
The second episode in the series is “Nancy Drew–Reporter,” from 1939. In this one, John Litel returns as Nancy’s exasperated father and Frank Thomas, Jr. (now dropping the “-ie” and adding a “Jr.”) as Nancy’s careful old china and assistant, Ted Nickerson. I could say Ted was Nancy’s boyfriend, but since neither of them makes the slightest flirtatious move on the other, “friend” seems more impound. Like the pre-eminent silver screen, “Reporter” lasts with regard to sixty-eight minutes.

Nancy and some other students in town accept the opening to work with the town’s newspaper towards a few days, and as a promotional gimmick the newspaper will award $50 to the student who writes the best story. Oddly, the small village where Nancy lived in the first installment has grown into a big city in this instalment. I dunno….

Nancy quickly insinuates her way into a round story about the suspected poisoning of an expert lady. (It appears that solving mysteries surrounding not much old ladies is one of Nancy’s specialties.) Nancy determines that fingerprints on a missing tin can of poison may be a critical to solving the crime, so off she and Ted go upsetting to chase it down.

The action in “Reporter” moves along at a sizeable clip, although there are some silly digressions with the neighborhood children and even a dulcet number that appear thrown in specifically to appease a young audience. I most enjoyed the location shooting, presumably in Southern California, streets with only just any cars in descry, and a cost of $13.50 to fix a dented fender! How times metamorphosis. 5/10

Nancy Drew… Trouble Shooter
The third installment is “Nancy Drew… Harass Shooter,” from 1939. Unwavering to form, John Litel is back as the father and Frankie Thomas (dropping the “Frank, Jr.” business) as Nancy’s friend and customer youthful companion, Ted Nickerson.

This beforehand out, Nancy’s father gets a request from an old friend, Matt Brandon (Aldrich Bowker), to protect him against a murder cite. Seems Brandon quarreled with the gull before his cessation, making him the prime theorize. Mr. Drew accepts the case, which takes place in the everyday wilderness township of Silver Lake, giving the series a change of scenery. Naturally, Nancy goes along and becomes intricate in the mystery. And just as easily, Ted is coincidentally living with his folks up at Silver Lake, so he is conveniently around to help Nancy solve the lawlessness.

If public awareness of, and distrib confidence in, this Salkind production is indeed low, it may well sail out of theaters faster than it deserves to, leaving the upcoming competition to discover the promised wealth of lucrative territories. But viewers who do turn out will not be bored by this fast-paced historical fiction and, whatever its shortcomings, general audiences worldwide are bound to like George Corraface in the title role. Marlon Brando’s inimitable presence adds an extra touch of class.

Though swordplay, sabotage, mutiny, sharks and topless island maidens are plot elements of the PG-13-rated tale, pic may not grab Nintendo-conditioned youngsters as much as it will a slightly older crowd.

Using his James Bond-honed sense of expediency, Glen tells the story with broad strokes. Columbus is quickly established as a lusty, playful and self-assured man-with-a-vision whose life, in time-honored biopic tradition, is an uninterrupted series of lively events.

Although script by John Briley, Cary Bates and Mario Puzo is certainly not devoid of cliches and corniness, good dialogue far outweighs the bad. The mix of accents is acceptable, there are few overt casting errors, and the three working ship replicas are put to excellent use. In short, “The Discovery” has sailed past most of the pitfalls that could have made it stodgy or laughable.

Leading man Corraface has the diction and charisma it takes to carry off his role. He is immensely likable–perhaps too much so for authenticity’s sake. Although the cruel side of his personality is gradually revealed, thesp errs on the side of boyish charm. A member of Peter Brook’s “Mahabharata” troupe and set for the lead in David Lean’s ill-fated “Nostromo,” Corraface should find attractive offers coming his way.

Brando makes a grand Grand Inquisitor. When he says, “Heresy by nature is insidious,” one can’t help but believe it. A combination of faith and ambition informs every move made by Torquemada, Columbus and Isabella.

Tom Selleck’s wry turn as King Ferdinand is a pleasant surprise, although a wan Rachel Ward could use more backbone in her evangelical enthusiasm.

Scenes aboard the three replica ships communicate the rigors of life at sea. A false land sighting after long weeks afloat is so moving that it steals some of the thunder from the actual landing on the Bahamian island of San Salvador, which Columbus believed to be in the Indies. Script neglects to clarify that “Cipango” is an ancient term for Japan.

There is no question that the film concentrates more on Columbus than on the indigenous peoples he conquered, but pic does boast a better-than-comic-book sensitivity to the initially docile locals, who are eventually shown to have minds of their own.

The ecological impact of the invaders is succinctly and silently stated as a lone rat scampers off a ship.

Drawing upon an actual intersection of historical fact and dramatic symbolism , pic also highlights Spain’s expulsion of the Jews, a boatload of whom sail into exile the very same day that the Nina, Pinta and Santa Maria leave port. Brando’s slyly insincere blessing to both expeditions is a telling moment.

Two “interview” sequences are standouts: that in which Columbus, using logic and nerve, convinces Torquemada that his navigational aspirations are not heretical, and the hopeful explorer’s first audience with King Ferdinand in which Selleck’s royal skepticism counters Corraface’s determined enthusiasm. These are instances of verbal chess in which every move counts.

Columbus’ explanation of his navigating theory using a large melon as the globe is fun and effective. One almost expects Corraface to burst into a Rodgers & Hammerstein-style song about his love of adventure and the high seas.

This and other peppy scenes nearly always taper off into forced back-slapping , cheery camaraderie and post-synched sounds of men’s men, when a straight cut would have sufficed. While much of the language rings true, there are lines as dopey as, “He has the look of a man possessed.”

Oliver Cotton is solid as Master at Arms Harana, but Benicio Del Torro as his errant son is a problem. His lines are among the most unpronounceable and his delivery does little to improve matters.

Robert Davi’s urban menace translates well to the high seas, although his performance as captain of the Pinta is uneven. Nigel Terry is good as a murderous former convict. There’s not enough time for Beatriz (Catherine Zeta Jones), Columbus’ beloved, to be much more than too good to be true. Overall, supporting players have interesting faces and OK delivery.

In crossing the Atlantic from Spain to the Caribbean, the Special Ocean Voyages Unit, headed by Arthur Wooster, produced some fine images. Production design, especially aboard ship, is convincing. John Bloomfield’s costumes suit the characters and Cliff Eidelman’s score ranges from perfunctory to inspired.