The Groans of Academe

How I wanted to like Wonder Boys! Directed by Curtis Hanson, who did so well by L.A. Confidential, it concerns the absurdities of academia of which, long ago, I had my share. I even taught briefly at one of the Pittsburgh universities, which may be the one where the movie, adapted by Steve Kloves from the Michael Chabon novel, takes place. Yet, after initial benevolence, I felt overfed and, finally, fed up. Too much cute, fey merriment, ostentatious absurdism, crazy coincidences, and incidental craziness. And barely a thimbleful of reality.

Grady Tripp, a beloved English prof, once wrote a major novel; years later, he is floundering with his second. On this day, the beginning of the school's literary weekend, his wife has just left him. His paramour, Sara Gaskell, the university chancellor who happens to be married to his department chairman, tells Grady she is pregnant by him and considering abortion. Grady's star student, James Leer, a brilliant writer and dazzlingly compulsive liar, is making trouble as usual: He threatens to shoot himself, but, finding Sara's blind dog furiously biting Grady's ankle, shoots the pooch instead. Terry Crabtree, Grady's editor, shows up for the university's literary festival, to nudge along Grady's endlessly gestating novel and sign up James's finished and terrific one. Terry is accompanied by his outrageous transvestite lover, whom he promptly drops for the willingly seduced James.

The two manuscripts, Grady's and James's, prove always misplaced or migratory; the dead dog enjoys quite a posthumous odyssey; Grady is discreetly pursued by Hannah, his likewise gifted student and tenant, in her trademark red cowboy boots. He himself is almost always wearing a marijuana haze from the pot package in his glove compartment-much of this peripatetic movie cruises about in cars. And I haven't even mentioned the tuba, Marilyn Monroe's wedding jacket, or Grady's blackout spells. The dialogue is discontinuous, illogical, archly oblique; 112 minutes of this age you by many hours.

Michael Douglas is a believably befuddled, shaggy Grady. Tobey Maguire, though good as the off-kilter genius James, relies on too many recycled cutenesses. Katie Holmes is delicious as Hannah, but Robert Downey Jr., as Terry, steals the show with his amiable cynicism and breakneck throwaway delivery. Inexcusable, however, is the Sara of Frances McDormand, who carries on in a way ill-befitting her role, looks, and age. Not for a moment do we believe her as Grady's yearned-for love object. But then, do we believe a writer who single-spaces thousands of pages, and is singularly indifferent to their being blown away by gusts of wind?

--Insidiously likable is The Whole Nine Yards, about a Montreal dentist, Nicholas "Oz" Oseransky, whose horrid wife, Sophie, keeps hiring people to off him, so she can collect on his life insurance. Jimmy "The Tulip" Tudeski, a hit man in hiding from a Chicago crime family, the Gogolak gang, moves in next door. Pretty soon he, too, is stalked by killers, Sophie having ratted to the Gogolaks for prize money. The jittery Oz and the relaxed Jimmy band together, and all is well until Oz, yielding to the promptings of his pretty assistant, Jill, to get himself a girl, falls for Cynthia, Jimmy's estranged wife, and ends up, along with her, on Jimmy's hit list.

Oz gambles his life to save Cynthia, who, hardened as she is, surprisingly finds herself reciprocating his feelings. Things get marvelously entangled and hilariously resolved, as we know they will be, and still, between laughs, we actually worry about the characters.

Matthew Perry, as Oz, excels at comic timing and physical comedy. But his emotional pratfalls are just as amusing and winning as he holds his frenetic own against Bruce Willis's charmingly cool comic persona, garnished with a smile poised midway between bonhomie and menace, as is his slightly hooded voice and split-second agility.

Rosanna Arquette's Sophie is overdone, but the other two women are as good as they are gorgeous. Natasha Henstridge is distant and chilly as Cynthia, but both initially and when she finally melts, enough to die for. So, too, is Amanda Peet, who superbly blends sexiness, comedy, and disturbing undertones. There is staunch supporting work from Michael Clarke Duncan and Kevin Pollak. Mitchell Kapner's script cascades smoothly, its comic effervescence never self-indulgent. Jonathan Lynn has directed with a canny blend of bravura and geniality, and the Montreal setting, unobtrusively picturesque, contributes handsomely.--A group of Danish filmmakers signed a vow of chastity, called "Dogma 95." All shooting is to be done on location, with no smuggled-in props. The sound must always be simultaneous with the images, not added later. The light must be natural, the camera handheld. The unsensational action must take place here and now, and the director must not be credited. This may seem excessive, but some of it is strangely fruitful. Certainly, Soren Kragh-Jacobsen's Mifune is a heartening success.