YOU KNOW MY NAME: It's easier to discuss Casino Royale by noting what it doesn't have:

• Ludicrous gadgets. Cell phones and laptops are used frequently, a couple of small GPS devices play a major role, and Bond's car has a hiding place for medical supplies and a gun, but no missiles that pop out of headlights, tuxedos with built in parachutes, or laser watches. No Q or R at all. Marshall J. Flinkman would be disappointed.
• Ludicrous deathtraps. No cages suspended over shark tanks or laser beams that are positioned to slowly slice Bond in half. Sure, there's a nasty little bit involving a chair with the seat cut out and a large rope with knots in it.
• A villain with bizarre and/or incomprehensible motivation and bizarre physical tic. Yes, Le Chiffre has a condition in which he cries tears of blood, but no "former Korean general who's had plastic surgery to look like a British aristocrat" or "man with bullet lodged in his head so he feels no pain" here. And what does he want? Money. And not in a "I'll start World War III for the ratings!" sense, but just he wants his money.
• A lengthy pre-credits action sequence. We get about five minutes of black and white before the credits, and you have to wait for the ludicrous (and brilliant) action sequence until after the credits (a foot chase involving a construction site and "free running" that's astounding to watch).
• The traditional Bond movie ending. No "Christmas comes but once a year" here.

It's brutal, effective, and jarring. Well worth your time. Be forewarned that the comments are a spoiler zone, since I expect some people will have comments on the third act of the film, which serves as a pretty big departure from traditional Bondism.

BIG BLUE TRIUMPHS OVER RED IN HISTORIC FOOTBALL RIVALRY; CLAIMS RIGHT TO SAY 'WE'RE NUMBER ONE': For the first time since 2000, Yale beat Harvard -- this time, convincingly -- for a share of the Ivy title. That's what you thought the headline was about, right?

THE POLICE ARE HERE TO PRESERVE THE GREATEST HITS OF THE '80s: Chicago police, not a group usually known for their sense of humor, today wrapped up a three-month infiltration of an open-air crack cocaine market located on the city's southwest side at 63rd Street and Mozart Ave. Not generally the kind of news we mention in these parts, except the police called their investigation "Operation Rock Me Amadeus."

I GUARANTEE THAT LOVE WILL FIND YOU: The Broadway adaptation of The Wedding Singer has a couple of big problems. The first stems from how the adaptation is structured. The show opens with an incredibly fun and high energy number for the whole company called "It's Your Wedding Day," built around a simple hook and beat, and we don't reach that height again in songwriting. There are a number of fun production numbers later on ("Casualty of Love," "Saturday Night In The City," "All About The Green") and a decent ballad ("If I Told You"), but none are particularly memorable from a musical or lyrical standard. By shooting the production's wad early (indeed, a reprise of "Wedding Day" is the finale), it hurts.

The second problem is endemic to the source material. Heroine Julia Sullivan is given a sum total of one personality trait--"adorable." Perhaps this was exacerbated by the fact that the standby for Julia went on tonight rather than the ordinary performer, but while the actress sings nicely and gazes wistfully a lot, there's no "there" there, which makes it difficult to get attached to the character and the relationship. If you're going to make changes to the film script (and changes are made, including a reworked finale and the dropping of many well-known bits, including both "Things that could have been brought to my attention YESTERDAY!" and "I have a microphone, and you don't, so you will listen to every damn word I have to say!"), it should address this structural problem. This problem is made worse by the fact that the wonderful Amy Spanger is relegated to the role of Holly, Julia's slutty buddy, and imbues her role with spark and sass throughout (why hasn't this woman gotten to originate a lead on Broadway yet?). Hell, the show itself recognizes that Julia is kind of boring, giving the big Act I finale number to Holly.

Not all is bad. In addition to Spanger, Stephen Lynch, as Robbie, makes the smart choice and makes Robbie his own rather than trying to play Adam Sandler playing Robbie. Rather than a rageaholic, Lynch's Robbie is more affable and authentic, which could have made the Robbie-Julia relationship more tender if Julia had been given a personality. Felicia Finley, as Robbie's ex, knocks her two numbers (both written as 80s hair metal) out of the park, and the most pleasant surprise is Constantine Maroulis, who plays Robbie's buddy and bassist with just the right amount of winking and sleaze without reaching the point of being loathsome. It's not a perfect musical, but it got my toes tapping and left me smiling, and for those of us who've already seen Hairspray, it's good fun. Expect to see it as a fairly common high school musical choice in 5-6 years--opportunity for big ensemble, no particularly complicated sets needed, and lots of featured roles for guys and girls alike.

'YOU LIKE?' IS THE NEW 'I'M RICK JAMES, BITCH' IS THE NEW 'ISN'T THAT SPECIAL' IS THE NEW 'YOU LOOK MAHVELOUS' IS THE NEW 'AMAZING CINDERELLA STORY': I've seen a bunch of these on the YouTubes and the Defamers and what not, so let's just get to the point quickly. If you're not waking up every morning next to Isla Fisher, your Borat is NOT FUNNY.

MR. WHEAT? The notoriously press-shy Eddie Murphy will be appearing on Inside the Actors Studio next month. If you had the opportunity to interview him, what would you ask?

THE LIGHTS OF L.A. COUNTY LOOK LIKE DIAMONDS IN THE SKY: I've been meaning to blog this for days now, but there's good news and bad news from up above Los Angeles. The good news is that the Griffith Observatory has finally, at long last, reopened, and it looks fantastic. In a city whose most prominent architectural landmarks are frequently shiny, empty shells, confrontational one-liners, decaying and figuratively buried treasures*, and grotesque kitsch, the Observatory stands alone. It is an elegant, period-appropriate piece of WPA-era (but privately-funded) deco work that perfectly embodies both its function and its aspiration. It's nice to see it all gussied up.

The bad news is that in fixing and expanding the building, the city made some unfortunate choices. First, you can't just drive there. You have to make a reservation to take a shuttle from several miles away. This is a disaster. The Observatory was a great place to go on a whim with kids or out-of-town guests, even if you weren't going in. Nice grassy lawn, unparalleled views of the city. Plus, how am I supposed to play chicken for Natalie Wood's affections now?

Second, the Observatory has turned its back on its historic role as the birthplace of the laser rock show. I saw my first Laser Floyd show in Seattle when I was in the seventh or eighth grade, and I saw many thereafter -- and Laser Rock, and Laser Zeppelin, and even Laser Billy Squier too -- and have good memories, bad memories, and lack of memories of those nights. I guess I'm just sad that there wasn't room halfway between the Sunset Strip and the Milky Way for a fewscore teens looking for the right visual and musical accompaniment (chemical accompaniment sold separately) to a listless Friday night.

*This one's getting an expensive restoration too -- apparently paid for in part, and in true Hollywood fashion, by roles as Jack Rudolph's dining room in the S60 pilot and as Ellen DeGeneres's yoga studio in the Amex commercials.