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DEUCES WILD

It’s the summer of 1958 and Brooklyn’s Deuces are at war with a rival gang. Because -- as you see in a distressingly hysterical opening scene -- Deuces leader Stephen Dorff’s first brother died of a heroin overdose, now he’s especially keen to protect his not-so-bright baby bro, Brad Renfro. Renfro falls for the rival gang leader’s kid sister (Fairuza Balk, who looks fine in ponytails and saddle shoes, but has as hard a time as anyone making this hoary story seem relevant). The guys argue, posture, and fight, and in between, they comb their hair. Tensions increase when local kingpin (Matt Dillon) wants to cash in on developing drug traffic in the neighborhood. Dorff protests strongly (while trying to make time with his Barbie-doll girlfriend), Renfro throws himself fully into his newfound romance, Balk wants to move her crazy, Christmas-carol-singing mom (Debbie Harry) out of town, and Frankie Muniz shows up as a local kid in need of a father figure. A rumble ensues. Director Scott Kalvert is best known for Basketball Diaries, but this film teeters from one cliché to another. --Cindy Fuchs (AMC Andorra;

AMC Orleans

;

UA Cheltenham; UA Riverview)

NINE QUEENS

It’s so redolent of House of Games writer-director Fabián Bielinsky had better put a few pesos in reserve just in case David Mamet comes a-calling. But even if it’s obvious from the get-go that Nine Queens is the kind of movie where everyone is fucking everyone else over, you still have to figure out how, and that’s the fun. With obvious parallels to the recent history of Argentine corruption, Bielinsky creates a world where no one can be trusted, and even the most strait-laced citizen gets a little on the side. It would be a much better movie without the last 90 seconds (where the twist we knew was coming comes), but Nine Queens is still a nifty twist on an old genre, enlivened particularly by the performances of Gastón Pauls and Ricardo Darín (also in the upcoming The Son of the Bride). --Sam Adams

(Ritz Five;

Ritz 16

) See Cindy Fuchs’ interview with writer-director

Fabián Bielinsky on p. 31.

PAULINE AND PAULETTE

A agreeable little mushball of a movie, Pauline and Paulette has a few savory moments, but ultimately wafts away like a breath of sea air. In Lieven Debrauwer’s modest fable, three Belgian sisters are brought into uneasy contact when a fourth sister dies, leaving the mentally retarded Pauline (Dora van der Groen) without a caretaker. Neither of the remaining two wants to take her in, but the late sister’s will stipulates that her inheritance will only be divided equally among them if one of her two sisters takes Pauline in; if she goes into an institution, Pauline will inherit everything. Living in the same small town as her sister, Paulette (Ann Petersen) takes Pauline in, but the arrangements do not go smoothly, and Pauline is shuttled about until a compromise is found which makes each content, if not happy. Barely over an hour and a quarter, Pauline and Paulette can hardly be accused of overstaying its welcome, even if it’s forgotten before the door slams behind it. --S.A. (Ritz at the Bourse)

SPIDER-MAN

Think of Spider-Man as Batman in reverse. Tobey Maguire makes a perfect Peter Parker, the rare actor who looks more at home playing the alter ego than he does the super-hero. But once billionaire military contractor Willem Dafoe samples his own strength-enhancing drugs, is driven mad, and becomes the scowling, villanous Green Goblin, it’s all over but the spidey-sobbing. Director Sam Raimi, who’s floundered film by film ever since leaving the world of low-budget genre satire behind, finds the perfect mix for the movie’s first half, an aw-shucks populism that’s both tongue-in-cheek and utterly affecting. David Koepp’s script spoons on the schmaltz, but coming out of Tobey Maguire’s wide-eyed visage, you almost believe it. (Love interest Kirsten Dunst fares less well, looking more vapid than vampy.) Unfortunately, and bewilderingly, Dafoe is allowed no room for camp, which means his Goblin is all scowl -- at least, what you can see of it behind his cool-looking but ultimately self-defeating helmet. (At times, his dialogue might as well be dubbed in Japanese.) Raimi’s self-deprecating touch works wonders without being disingenuous, but eventually, genre requirements win out, as they always do. --S.A. (AMC Andorra;

AMC Orleans

; Cinemagic; UA Cheltenham; UA Grant; UA Main St.; UA Riverview; UA 69th St.)

TRIUMPH OF LOVE

Clare Peploe’s blithe adaptation of Pierre Marivaux’s 1732 Le Triomphe de L’Amour touches on familiar themes of the period, from cross-dressing to philosophies of love to battles of the sexes. And, shot by Fabio Cianchetti in the Italian countryside, it is very pretty. Unfortunately, its opening scene sets up a breathless playfulness that the rest of the film doesn’t sustain: riding in a carriage, a princess (Mira Sorvino) and her maid (Rachael Stirling) strip one another and then debark into the sunlight disguised as boys. Their mission, to get the princess inside a villa where her love object, Prince Agis (wan Jay Rodan, introduced from her secret POV, naked) has been raised by a strictly rationalist philosopher (Ben Kingsley) and his scientist sister (Fiona Shaw), taught to despise women and love. Posing as male and female, Sorvino makes everyone fall for her, throwing the anti-love campaign into disarray, until she’s found out, of course, when all must be put right and all the players come out singing in their 21st century clothes to underscore the film’s understanding of gender and romance as theater. With broad, most uncampy performances, the film goes through the motions; aside from Shaw’s apparent invention of electricity, there are no sparks in sight. --C.F.

(Ritz at the Bourse;

Ritz 16

)