The opening scene of Shrek declares the film's intentions as explicitly as is possible in the nonverbal realm: after reading the first few pages of a fairy tale in his outhouse, the eponymous ogre promptly wipes his butt with them. Bathing in his pond, a fart slips out and kills the resident fish, then a herd of maggots swarm the screen and configure themselves to help spell out the opening credits; clearly Shrek hopes to establish its own terms as a post-fairy-tale fairy-tale, or more accurately, this being a motion picture, a post-Disney fairy tale. When the tyrannical Lord Farquad, who harbors a distaste for the fantastical, rounds up all the magical creatures in his kingdom and moves them to a "resettlement facility" in Shrek's swamp, the solitary monstrosity is less than pleased, and bargains with Farquad to reclaim sole occupancy of his domain if he journeys to rescue the beauteous Lady Fiona from a dragon-infested castle and deliver her to Farquad for marriage.

Take the gross-out factor (Shrek extracting earwax for candles), add Eddie Murphy as a loquacious donkey among Shrek's uninvited bogmates, and impressively detailed computer animation (down to donkey hairs blowing in the wind) that keeps one foot each in both the realistic and the cartoony, and we've got a spectacle that can't help but appeal to youngsters. What proves surprising are all the visual references to characters and properties we all thought belonged to Disney; clearly all these legendary creatures must be public domain, but the digs at Walt's empire are undeniable, and undeniably funny. (It's arguable, though, that Disney does a better job at poking fun at itself, as last year's The Emperor's New Groove's self-referential cleverness indicates.) The exteriors, the lighting, the lava, and the hair are stunning in their verisimilitude, but actors hardly have to worry yet of digital competition stealing jobs. At least Shrek's creators didn't get lazy and assume the visuals can replace a good script; the Riverdance, The Matrix, and other assorted pop-culture parodies are welcome surprises.

It's Baz Luhrmann who instead commits the grand oversight in the script department in his chaotic Moulin Rouge. Luhrmann hopes the songs will carry the load in communicating all the major plot points and character development, and he couldn't be more wrong. Very rarely does anyone ever talk in Moulin Rouge; more often than not someone's breaking into song, and somehow in the course of the number we're supposed to believe people have suddenly fallen into eternal love. The songs, to Luhrmann's credit, are a stroke of genius: eighties pop songs translated into show tunes (his rendition of "Like a Virgin" is certifiably insane). As an aural spectacle it works brilliantly, but without the songs the film is nothing, like pornography without the sex. (Skip the movie, and go buy the soundtrack, with Nicole Kidman's opening medley completing the implicit connection Madonna hinted at during her platinum phase, a combination of "Diamonds are a Girl's Best Friend" and "Material Girl.") Thus we get painfully romantic duets, but when not singing we never feel any actual feelings or chemistry between our stars, Kidman and Ewan McGregor (who surprisingly has one hell of a voice - Kidman is a great sport, and holds her own within a more limited range). But when the crux of the plot hinges upon a love between the two that we can't believe for a second when not supported often by the orchestral swells, we realize we're only watching half a movie.

With Hollywood properties being the latest source of hit Broadway shows nowadays, and Luhrmann himself staging a production of La Traviata on Broadway currently, one wonders how Moulin Rouge would translate to the stage, seeing as this particular creation is entirely cinematic; Luhrmann can't leave a single scene of the film untouched, interrupting choreography, cutting away constantly, even slowing movement almost imperceptibly, as if he's terrified to just let the performers do their thing. Any emotional connections are all too often sabotaged by his obsessive manipulations. The standard melodramatic plot, with consumptive courtesans and the usual "the show must go on" declarations and possessive Dukes, would all be seen for what it was if we weren't constantly bombarded with Luhrmann's frenetic ideas, I suppose, or simply manipulated by the music; the ultimate effect is artificial and false, as the actors become little more than toys in his hands in a story filled with far too many reversals and emotional inconsistencies. Before I am labeled a complete curmudgeon, however, let me add that very little of this detracts from what is a uniquely entertaining experience. Moulin Rouge succeeds in forging a near-unclassifiable path despite, or because of, all its excess. It's also to its credit that Ewan is so completely radiant in his yearning vulnerability; carrying the entire lovable mess on his shoulders, he's a rare treat that makes all the rest eminently forgivable.

If Moulin Rouge is an anti-musical of sorts, then Sexy Beast qualifies as an anti-heist film. At face value, you'd think this is your standard caper flick where a retired thief is recruited for one more bust, and the tension hinges on will he or won't he get out this last job without harm, but this one evades all your expectations by first refusing to proceed at a typical pace and second by making the crime itself almost completely inconsequential. Ray Winstone is "Gal," now living the sunny good life in Spain with his spoils, his woman, and his gorgeous villa complete with pool, who finds his tranquility shattered when none other than Ben Kingsley ("Malky") comes to visit to try and persuade him to come back to London and help empty some high-class safety deposit boxes.

As the ads warn, this is no Ghandi or Itzhak Stern who comes to Gal's door. Malky is unbelievably crass, more than a little psychotic, clearly capable of anything, and he's not taking no for an answer. Everyone is plainly terrified of him, funereal from the second he arrives, and Gal endures a steady stream of abuse even while hosting this man in his own home. Kingsley's thuggish accent and rapidfire speech is a thing of wonder, as is Gal standing up to him, but when we suddenly find Gal in London without Malky we're left wondering exactly what happened back in Spain. That's what constitutes the tension in Sexy Beast's second part, and the crime is incidental as we try and ascertain what Gal's so nervous about. It's a short, unclassifiable movie, quite possibly more amusing than suspenseful, and definitely worth a look when you're open to a cinematic curve ball. At least it's a foreign film not pretending to be more than a solid diversion.

My favorite pen died on me while watching The Anniversary Party, so unfortunately my reactions are largely from memory. And my memory is of a film that, unlike Sexy Beast, overreaches just a smidge. Writer/director/ actors Jennifer Jason Leigh and Alan Cumming had a great thing going when they set up this ensemble piece about a relatively shaky marriage's wedding anniversary being celebrated in their modern L.A. home with all their closest friends, all of whom have something to do with the film industry, but when they chose to sandwich a painfully melodramatic scene straight out of a high school drama contest among the festivities, with ugly marital confessions, tearful screaming, and the usual face-slapping and recriminations, it's clear their self-indulgent project has taken a step too far. If it ain't broke, say I, don't fix it.

The Anniversary Party shines when the various characters, from Kevin Kline and Phoebe Cates to Gwyneth Paltrow and Jennifer Beals, are just allowed to interact in very modest, very real ways, and numerous scenes are priceless. Life is most often not hardly as dramatic as the movies present, and the love communicated between characters suggesting vast shared histories, the awkward moments between Cumming and Leigh and their neighbors (who are invited despite a lingering feud over their dog running freely), or the various guests betraying their individual neuroses in very believeable ways, that's when the film becomes a thing of beauty (even as shot on digital video). It's this pathological need for a pinch of Drama-with-a-capital-D that briefly brings the picture down to the level of any ordinary production, but happily the story recovers and we're back in the company of personnages we enjoy immensely. Maybe the outburst in the middle is truly representative of life in La-La Land, a land populated with drama kings and queens; is it any wonder, then, that after film school I went back to the Midwest?