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MOVIE: PROOF (2005).
A woman grapples with the death of her brilliant and beloved mathematician father. Adapting a play for the movie theater is a tricky job, and Proof does it well. But it sure cuts things close, dangerously skirting all the common pitfalls of stage-to-screen transition. The fire and drama of plays, for instance, must be dialed down for the more subtle medium of film. And neglecting to take advantage of film's potential for physical narrative leaves the play adapter at risk of creating merely a large-scale daytime soap, in which bickering characters are confined to static and claustrophobic sets.

But let me say again: Proof is a good movie. Ms. Paltrow plays the tortured daughter with admirable (but at times whining) intensity; Mr. Hopkins masterfully conveys the heartbreak of a brilliant mind succumbing to madness. No one can deny that a single good play contains greater poetry than all of (say) Steven Spielberg's films combined, and indeed the avid playhouse-goer could argue that films over-fetishize the virtues of wordless action, or the power of a single, sustained image, to poetry's neglect—and they'd be right. Which is why Proof is such a breath of fresh air compared to the stark pragmatism of cinema. Sure, people don't talk like the players do on stage; but after hearing the beauty of the father's final mathematical proof read aloud, you feel nothing but awe. And a little shame, too, for having doubted that anything good could exist outside the current culture's obsession with realism.

Let X = the cold.

 
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MOVIE: THE CORPSE BRIDE (2005).
A reluctant groom-to-be stumbles into the forest and mistakenly weds an abandoned corpse. There's not much more to it than that, really. This Corpse is a bit of a puzzler—at first glance, it feels like a throwback to the inventive holiday smash-up of Nightmare Before Christmas. Why, then, even attempt another work in the same inimitable genre? But then I thought: Mr. Burton did just pull off that very feat by remaking Charlie & the Chocolate Factory, so maybe he's on to something.

Alas, for every Dangerous Liasons there's a Valmont, and for every Romeo + Juliet there is a lesser, embarassingly titled Tromeo & Juliet twin; likewise, The Corpse Bride feels like the pitiable me-too abomination that should have never been allowed any further than straight-to-supermarket-DVD purgatory. The bizarre and shocking difference, of course, is that in this case the same people were involved. Aside from the animation, a sad little masterpiece of largely academic brillance, everyone—and I mean everyone—who helped make this film also makes an ass out of themselves. Alt-punk visir Danny Elfman, having just polished the soundtrack for Charlie & The Chocolate Factory to a high gloss, has scrawled a series of moronic ballads that, frequently at a loss for words, resort to tautology. The team-doctored script leaves a nonsensical story line. And absent is Mr. Burton's charming vision of the macabre; viewers are left to chew on leathery old gags involving skeleton bowling and puns ("Play dead!"). Not even the children in the audience could stifle their sighs. I gorged myself on popcorn to compensate. It helped, but not much.

It's a wedding! A wedding! A wedding, wedding, wedding!

 
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