"Every time it rains I get wet," sings Ace of Base. "Every time I smile I get my way," sings Mei Pin Phua.

LET THE OSCAR BUZZ BEGIN

The Insider opens in theaters today, and it officially gets the Oscar race underway. After all, the Oscar race officially begins once three worthy Best Picture nominees have opened (that's totally an arbitrary definition, but who cares!). So you have The Insider, American Beauty and Three Kings starting all the buzz, and you can look forward to a boatload in upcoming weeks. The Talented Mr. Ripley (starring Matt Damon as the "talented" asexual murderer), The Green Mile (from the director of The Shawshank Redemption starring Tom Hanks), The Hurricane (with Denzel Washington in the controversial lead role), Snow Falling on Cedars and Magnolia (flying frogs!) all open in the next two months. So start getting to that movie theater to catch up on all the ones you've missed (if you haven't seen American Beauty yet, you're certainly not in the [k]now). Because just like your Gov 10 reading, once you're behind, you're behind for good.

MALKOVICH!

Being John Malkovich is wack. And I don't mean that it's incomprehensible--like Mission Impossible or The Thin Red Line. The movie is so deliberately logical and well thought out that you find yourself nodding with your mouth wide open in shock. (You gotta love Spike Jonzes. First came that prank he pulled on the MTV Video Music Awards as a slightly retarded "dance troupe" leader, then came the scene-stealing in Three Kings and now prancing Malkoviches! He might single-handedly move us out of the Adam Sandler/Farrelly Brothers gross-out comedy era.) Critics are comparing it to Alice in Wonderland, but that's misleading; Wonderland was always either a) the product of Alice's dream b) a series of psychedelic hallucinations or c) an exercise in wordplay. Cameron Diaz' and John Cusack's tortuous journey inside the head of Mr. Malkovich is no Wonderland. This is for real.

I was a little antsy after the movie, so we made a quick detour into Uno's to grab a midnight snack. I half expected to see John Malkovich in the bathroom mirror. "Hey, remember me?" said a kid standing in front of the bathroom door as soon as I exited. "Yeah, we went to camp together in seventh grade," I said, shocked that I could recall this guy's face on the spot. "Yeah. It's so funny how we keep running into each other. Camp, then Harvard Summer School, and now..." "I didn't go to Harvard Summer School," I answered. He shrugged and walked away.

Now if only I could find that portal into the brains of everybody else....

MEL G

In a week where John Malkovich is the subject of intense psychological deconstruction (Let's Go should be pondering a budget guide for Malkovich's head), I wonder why Melanie Griffith wasn't considered a worthy subject. After all, everyone thinks she's just the epitome of a blond but no one ever really bothers to see her movies or read her interviews to find out what's really going on underneath all that frizz and collagen. So I come across this quote the other day from our darling Mel G: "I always wanted to go back to school, you know to major in something like philosophy. Do they have that? You know, like majors in, like you know, philosophy?" I change my mind. No need to go in Melanie's head. Insert brutal punchline here. (I still think Gwyneth Paltrow is the devil!)

TRENDORAMA: THE FIFTH BUSINESS

Here's a hip new term for you. It seems that Robertson Davies' 1992 novel The Fifth Business (part of the Deptford Trilogy) is becoming all the rage again--specifically the meaning of that cryptic title. The Fifth Business refers to that all important character in a dramatic form that causes all the action to spiral out of control--without realizing it. Thus, you have the four "businesses"--the protagonist (Clinton), the antagonist (Starr), the love interest (Monica) and the figure presiding over the resolution (Hillary). And then you have the "fifth business"; in the Clinton scandal, it would be the secretary who unwittingly gave Monica Lewinsky that first file to deliver to a horny Bill. Look back at a past incident in your life. Or your favorite book on the shelf (Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are the ultimate "fifth business"). It's trendy lingo for your table talk.

THE BITING IRISH

We were invited to a preview performance of Riverdance this past week (now playing at the Wang Theater through Nov. 9). Riverdance is one of those things that everyone instinctively makes fun of without ever having experienced (like Titanic, Melanie Griffith, etc.) But it's an unfair judgment--the dancing is phenomenal. Skipping and clicking across the stage like gazelles, these performers are among the most talented in the world. Riverdance deserves its success. But I worry. See, the dancers can really only last 10-15 minutes at a time because the intensity and energy required for a particular number is excruciating. So the rest of the time is filler--often thuddingly, anachronistic, cliched, diluted filler. At one point, a blues singer launches into almost a mini-opera about liberation from bondage (I confused it for a Civil War hymn at first)--it entirely changes the show's tone. Seconds later, of course, the bouncing Irish return to claim their stage. But the most egregious offense comes a few acts later. A group of African-American dancers saunter onto stage wearing black (get it! get it!) and start to boogie--and I mean exaggerated, highly offensive, stereotypical "boogie-ing"--to the generic beats of a sunglasses-wearing saxophone player. A second later, a group of beautiful blond Irish dancers all wearing white (aha!) enter stage left to start a little friendly competition with these upstarts. It's embarrassing. But the audience ate it up. Even more embarrassing.

Questions, Comments, Complaints?

E-mail schainan@fas