Terminator Salvation

If there’s something McG wishes he could retcon out of the original TERMINATOR, it must be Kyle Reese saying, “The Resistance was winning. We were overrunning SkyNet when the machines sent back a Terminator to kill you before you could bear John Connor. And John Connor sent me back to save you.”

See, TERMINATOR SALVATION is all about an assault on SkyNet. And we know that the Resistance doesn’t overrun SkyNet until Kyle Reese is at least in his late twenties. So it can’t work, right? Right?

Still forget that niggling complaint. And forget the facts that CGI stunts are (by definition) dull, one of the heroes is a murderer, and Christian Bale’s “gruff guy” schtick is getting old. Anton Yelchin and Moon Bloodgood have great screen presence, and Sam Worthington makes for a fun hero even if his role forces him to retread stuff that Battlestar Galactica did three years ago. The goods balance the bads in this picture, leaving us with a reasonably effective action picture that achieves its goals of (a) blowin’ up stuff real good and (b) giving us all another opportunity to bask in the glory that is Michael Ironside.

So, y’know, TERMINATOR SALVATION is ok. Not great, not terribly bad, and worth the money if you see it for free. I’m not complaining. I got what I paid for.

Crank: High Voltage

I’m not gonna tell you that CRANK: HIGH VOLTAGE (CRANK 2, henceforth) is a good movie. I’m not gonna tell you that I liked it anyway. But I am going to tell you that I respect it.

CRANK 2 is loud, jumpy, vulgar, violent, sexist, racist, crude, and offensive in nearly every imaginable way. I respect its absolute dedication to loudness, jumpiness, vulgarity, violence, sexism, racism, crudeness, and offensiveness. CRANK 2 does nothing by half measures: it goes so far over the top that it forgets where the top is and shoots for the moon.

As faithful fans may recall, CRANK ends with its hero (Chev Chelios: what a great movie name!) falling 1000 feet out of a helicopter. And blinking. CRANK 2 goes from there to a world of kaiju heroes battling in a world of miniatures, severed heads kept alive in aquariums (with voice synthesizers that say, “$^%& you, Chev Chelios!”), and ridiculous amounts of nudity and violence that I’d term gratuitous if nudity and violence weren’t the whole point of the movie.

If this sounds like your thing, have at it. I saw it for two reasons. First, it was free and I had nothing else to do. Second, I grudgingly respected the first installment for its dedication to being just plain wrong. So I’ll be there for CRANK 3. I know it’ll be bad. I know it’ll be offensive. But some train wrecks I just can’t help watching.

All About Eve

I’ve been expanding my horizons.

I’ve noticed that I see an inordinate number of guy movies. Advertise something in which some stuff blows up real good, or somebody kicks somebody else in the face, or someone intones, “I’m getting too old for this $#!^,” and it’s likely to find a place in my rental queue. Some of them are quite good. But it’s not enough to only seek out that which seeks us out. Thus, I’ve queued up a number of films that skew female. And I’ve learned that most chick movies go on my nerves.

So many chick movies, particularly romantic comedies, aren’t about women at all. They’re about stunted children, little girls in women’s bodies who still believe in ridiculous, destructive Brontean romanticism. How does that not get old?

Imagine, then, the thrill, the delight of seeing ALL ABOUT EVE for the first time. Here’s a movie about women, actual women, the kind of women you can sink your teeth into, the kind of women who can sink their teeth into you. Bette Davis, in the performance of a lifetime, is Margo Channing, a queen of Broadway and monarch in life. She’s smart, she’s proud, she’s tough, and she knows the ropes. She’s also too old to play the romantic lead much longer: her cheeks are starting to sag and all those cigarettes are catching up with her. Anne Baxter is Eve Harrington, who begins the story as what we’d refer to today as a stalker. She’s pretty and young and bright. She worms her way into Margo’s life, studies her, becomes her. Fasten your seatbelts. We’re in for a bumpy ride.

Pawns and victims include critic Addison De Witt, played by George Sanders in an Oscar-winning performance; Celeste Holm; Hugh Marlowe; Thelma Ritter; and even a very young (but already sparkling) Marilyn Monroe. These people feel like real people, with real problems and agendas of their own. Seeing them clash and jostle in the wake of powerhouses Davis and Baxter adds depth and texture to the story, making every minute of this film’s 2:18 length feel vital and real.

Movies about women don’t have to be chick movies. ALL ABOUT EVE proves that. Bring on the next.

State of Play

STATE OF PLAY is a political thriller, a journalism thriller. It begins with two deaths, which lead to more deaths, which lead to two reporters racing against time to uncover the byzantine twists of a story which isn’t what it seems even after they’ve realized that it isn’t what it seems. It’s a good story, well told, with sophistication and surprises; and it makes Washington as exciting as it seemed when I first moved here.

Russell Crowe, who Can Do No Wrong, and Rachel McAdams play reporters from the fictional Washington Globe. He’s an old school, ink-stained bastard of the highest order, and she, well, she writes the blog. Helen Mirren is their publisher, Jeff Daniels is the Minority Whip, and Ben Affleck and Robin Wright Penn are a straying congressman and the wife who stands beside him at the Press Conference of Shame. Why bother telling you this? Because these are high caliber performers, the kind who merit putting a film on the rental queue for their names alone. There are some weaker performances farther down the credits list, but don’t let them pull you out of the story.

For that matter, don’t let the story pull you out of the story. Early on, you may think it’s just another jeremiad against the political punching bag of the day. But give it time. Let a surprising Jason Bateman performance work on you, and see where things go. I think you’ll be pleased.

I understand that STATE OF PLAY is an adaptation of a BBC series with Bill Nighy and Kelly MacDonald, among others, so I’ll end with a question: have you seen it? Should I?

A Dirty Shame

A DIRTY SHAME is a comedy, I think. It isn’t funny, which kind of works against it, but it is outlandish. So if outlandish is your thing, there you are.

It’s a sex addiction farce that centers on sexual practices in which, to the best of my knowledge, no one engages. The sexual practices are supposed to be outlandishly funny, but they’re actually just ridiculous. There are some practices in the film in which people actually engage, but they’re handled with such wide-eyed wonder that it seems like the picture was made by people who’d only read about sex in books. This is the kind of sex comedy an early adolescent may find amusing because he or she doesn’t know any better.

Yes, there’s a heavyhanded lesson about tolerance and, yes, the film does have a sweet, sweet heart, but it failed to pass the first test of the comedy. It failed to bring so much as a smile to my lips.

Maybe next time, Mr. Waters.

The Aura

THE AURA is about a guy, a simple guy, kind of a sap, who gets in way over his head. There’s a girl, of course, and guns, and money. Lots of money.

In other words, it’s a noir picture. It’s also Argentine, which is pretty cool since that makes it the first Argentine noir picture I’ve ever seen. The sap is sufficiently sappish, the girl is sufficiently girlish, and so forth, and the whole thing really catches fire in the last 45 minutes. Problem is, it’s a two hour long picture. Act One takes forever and Act Two takes nearly as long. Act Three, that last 45 minutes, is solid, but even it could have been a bit shorter. Here’s a movie that has all the elements it needs but that could have benefitted from one more, supertight, edit.

It’s that edit that keeps this film from excellence and renders it, instead, to the vault of pretty-goodness. Still, if you like noir, and you’re interested in seeing an Argentine take on the genre, THE AURA ain’t bad.

Words and Music

"Ella Fitzgerald Sings the Rodgers and Hart Songbook" is the soundtrack of heaven. I discovered it in the CD collection of a girl I was dating in 1989. I married the girl and, twenty years later, we still have the CD. So when I heard that there was a Rodgers and Hart biopic and that it was pretty doggone good, into the queue it went. I wanted to learn about these guys and their music.

I learned that the music is good, but it’s really the performer who makes it live.

WORDS AND MUSIC follows the Rodgers and Hart career arc, but it's more a retrospective, with moments of story serving mostly to segue between performances by distinguished artists of the day. But here's the problem: in the hands of wrong people, R&H's music goes from smart and sly classics to dated pop. Lena Horne is great and all, but her rendition of “Lady is a Tramp” in the film just can’t stand up to Ella’s on disc. June Allyson’s “Thou Swell” is a wet noodle compared to Nat King Cole’s in “Live at the Sands.” And don’t even get me started on comparisons with Sinatra.

Don’t get me wrong: the movie’s ok, particularly if you’re interested in even a fictionalized biopic of Rodgers and Hart. It’s just that nearly every time someone sang, I found myself comparing the performance with that of a better artist. All things considered, I prefer to remember Rodgers and Hart with the help of Fitzgerald and Cole and Sinatra, not the folks behind this picture.

Written on the Wind

Sooner or later, I had to get to Douglas Sirk. This is a director of influence, discussed and referenced decades after his passing. I've been putting him off because he worked in a time (the early Technicolor era) and a genre (melodrama) that doesn't appeal to me. But his work is seen as multilayered, with pulp for the matinee audience and cutting social commentary for the dinner-and-drinks crowd, and any student of the art form has to see him sometime. So what did Douglas Sirk have to say to me?

He had to say that America really, really needed rock 'n roll.

WRITTEN ON THE WIND's surface gloss is one of vapidity. It's shallow, finding joy in glittery handbags and hand blown glassware and gauzes and mind-numbingly plastic choral music - it's trying too hard to buy class, when real class comes from within. But look beneath the polish and you'll find all those old needs and emotions which have colored human drama since we figured out to get a steady supply of food, water, and shelter. You can't live on polish - it's too slippery. You need the grit of humanity, the anger and the love and the biology and all the rest. You need to embrace it, because it's the only way to get any real traction.

That's where rock and roll comes in. America needed it because it needed to put aside the postwar happy face and get back to the hard business of living. It needed Berry to remind it how to dance, Elvis to remind it how to love, The Beatles to rejuvenate it, and The Doors to help it find the dark places of its soul. All these things that Sirk criticizes, all these attitudes he laments, all the silliness he lampoons, they needed rock 'n roll to clean them out and ground America in reality once again.

Sirk had a lot to say. I'm glad I took the time to listen.

The Counterfeiters

THE COUNTERFEITERS (Die Fälscher), is the story of Salomon Smolianoff, a real-life convicted counterfeiter who, with along with other Jewish inmates of Sachsenhausen concentration camp, were forced to carry out Operation Bernhard. It's based on the memoirs of Adolf Burger, another prisoner who plays a critical role in the film.

Operation Bernhardt was directed by, and named after, Schutzstaffel Sturmbannführer (SS Major) Bernhard Krüger, who set up a team of 142 counterfeiters from inmates at Sachsenhausen concentration camp at first, and then from other camps, especially Auschwitz. Beginning in 1942, the work of engraving the complex printing plates, developing the appropriate rag-based paper with the correct watermarks, and breaking the code to generate valid serial numbers was extremely difficult, but by the time Sachsenhausen was evacuated in April 1945 the printing press had produced 8,965,080 banknotes with a total value of £134,610,810. The notes are considered among the most perfect counterfeits ever produced, being almost impossible to distinguish from the real currency. (Wikipedia: Operation Bernhardt)

It's the best history lesson about this particular episode of the War that has been committed to film. Unfortunately, it isn't a particularly gripping film. The picture's framing story tells us that its protagonist will survive, so the next hour and a half is merely an exercise in seeing how he does it. Sure, his conscience evolves. Sure, there are ethical dilemmas about the merits of saving one's own skin versus throwing a wrench into the Nazi war machine. But there isn't much we haven't seen before, and the film never fully captures our imagination.

If you're a history buff, I recommend this THE COUNTERFEITERS for its depiction of Operation Bernhardt. Otherwise, while it's a good film, I wouldn't counsel you to go out of your way for it.

The Lady Eve

The Lady Eve has the wrong title. The title should be Barbara Stanwyck Kicks Ass and Take Name for an Hour and a Half. Well, perhaps that's a bit much. How about Barbara Stanwyck is Better Than You, or Hey Moron, Why Aren't You in Love with Barbara Stanwyck Yet?

Whatever you call it, Preston Sturges's screwball comedy about a naive millionaire and the fraudsters out to fleece him is utterly, delightfully, hilariously brilliant. This is a movie that works spoken, physical, and character-based comedy into every scene, creating laugh-out-loud moments from sophisticated banter, pratfalls, and even simple moments like the unguarded shuffling of a deck of cards or the presentation of a lei.

Henry Fonda is the millionaire, a child of privilege on the return voyage from a long expedition up the Amazon. He's young, he's clumsy, he's idealistic, and he's so ridiculously, adorably, unstoppably in love that if you, dear reader, don't root for him, then you have an iron heart. Barbara Stanwyck is one of the fraudsters, the pretty girl who specializes in lovestruck rich morons. I've been crushing on Stanwyck since I saw Ball of Fire in 1982, and I've gotta tell you that her performance in this film eclipses even that classic. Stanwyck dominates every moment of The Lady Eve. She steals every scene she's in, and she steals every scene she's not in because even when none of the other characters are talking about her, they're talking about her. Her energy, her charisma, her combination of looks, brains, and balls (There's really no other way to put it: this dame's got big brass Bill the Goat balls.) sells Fonda's slackjawed lovesickness and sells her character's wit and audacity.

Toss in spot-on supporting comic performances from hall of famers Charles Coburn, Eugene Pallette, William Demarest, and Eric Blore, perfect direction, editing, and scoring, and you have as good a screwball comedy as anyone has ever run through a projector. And, again, Stanwyck. What a performer. What a performance.

What a movie.

The Mutant Chronicles

Where do you go after a movie like 8 1/2? When you've just had a gourmet meal, what do you eat the next time you get hungry?

You go to a genre picture like THE MUTANT CHRONICLES for the same reason you go to McDonald's after that gourmet meal. When you've had a transcendent experience, you need to reset. Otherwise, you won't give perfectly fine but otherwise average fare its due. You'll be measuring it against that masterpiece, and it'll come up short.

And THE MUTANT CHRONICLES is as greasy a burger as you could want after the feast of 8 1/2. It's poorly written, poorly edited, poorly scored, poorly acted, and poorly conceived. It's an uncomfortable mishmash of WWI, zombies, and apocalyptic science fantasy set in a steampunk world that doesn't understand that automatic weapons create more and worse tissue damage in less time than swords. It has lame prophecies, halfhearted fu, and John Malkovich reading his lines from the back of a prop. It's just plain bad in every way, a nice counterpoint to 8 1/2 and a good way to ensure that the subsequent pictures on my Netflix queue get a fair shake.

So, yeah, I'm recommending it, after a fashion. If you spend all your time in the best restaurants, you need to remind your palette what bad tastes like. THE MUTANT CHRONICLES does the trick.

8 1/2

8 1/2 may the best film ever made.

If not, it is the best film about art ever made. Released in 1963, it would have been as relevant in 1889, the year after ROUNDHAY GARDEN SCENE, as it would be if it premiered tomorrow. It's a film that encompasses everything that art is about, or at least is supposed to be about. It's about the tension between truth and fiction, between art and commerce, between awareness and narcissism. And it's about everything that life is about. It's about commitment and betrayal, about memory and currency, reality and fantasy. It's about who we are and who we want to be, about ourselves and our self-constructs. It is, simply put, magnificent. It is the apotheosis of film and the indictment of the thin gruel we, as filmgoers, so regularly accept.

OK, so that's what it looks like when my mind is blown.

But this feels like a film I could see a thousand times. Not only is it a multisensual feast, but it probes, really probes, into the beating heart of life in a way no film I'd previously seen ever has. The photography complements the music complements the finely crafted story complements the performances complements the ideas that form the core of the work. 8 1/2 reveals Fellini at the height of his power, grappling with elemental dilemmas that have confronted man since he became self-aware. Mastroianni is incomparable. Cardinale and Aimée are revelatory. Every single thing about this picture is perfect. My only regret is that I've waited this long to see it.

The Spy Who Came in from the Cold

The Great War was supposed to end all wars. World War II was supposed to finish the job and put a stop to the Hun threat once and for all. Then the Cold War settled in, like a damp winter day, and it was Germany Germany Germany all over again.

This is the world of John le Carré, of George Smiley, of THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD. It’s always winter here. Disillusionment permeates everything. Spies don’t drive sports cars, win at baccarat, and jump speedboats over islands. In the words of Alec Leamas, the film’s protagonist, “They're just a bunch of seedy, squalid bastards like me: little men, drunkards, queers, hen-pecked husbands, civil servants playing cowboys and Indians to brighten their rotten little lives.”

Richard Burton is Leamas, Section Chief of MI6’s Berlin bureau. He keeps losing men to Hans-Dieter Mundt, his opposite number in the Stasi. Perhaps it’s time for him to come in from the cold, to take a nice desk job in, say, the Banking Section back at Headquarters. Besides, George Smiley has an idea …

And so begins two hours of weary, bleary, tension. Of technicians who see the world not in shades of gray, but in varying levels of darkness. Of too much alcohol and too much time, of too much conscience or not conscience enough. Richard Burton, at the center of it all, is a world-weary force, a man who has been so long on the job that he can’t even tell if it’s a job any more. He’s magnificent, and the film is a marvel of care and maturity.

THE SPY WHO CAME IN FROM THE COLD works. It works on every level. I feel weary just thinking about it. I think that’s good.

Mortal Kombat

Recently, a friend asked whether all films I like make me suspend belief. I responded that I hesitate to say that all films I like do one thing or another, but that yes, that’s generally the case.

MORTAL KOMBAT is among the reasons why I hesitated. This film is so poorly acted, so lazily choreographed and shot, so lame in so many ways that it requires an act of conscious will to suspend one’s disbelief for its running time. I love it anyway.

Here’s why: there’s a bit during which Johnny Cage, who is essentially Jean Claude Van Damme, is fighting a villain who can make lizard heads on chains fly from his palms. The fight begins in a beautiful grove, then magically transports to a kickass set that appears to be made of old sailing ship parts, plaster skeletons, cobwebs, and red gel lights. Cage lays down the fu just fine, but then he finds a pullup bar conveniently placed near a platform. He goes on to do a full Tribute to Gymkata, flips onto a platform, then does a nifty jumpkick to the villain’s head. That’s just awesome. Later in the fight, the villain turns into a flaming skeleton, a la GHOST RIDER, which is also awesome. Then Cage finds a way to blow up the flaming skeleton and does a classic “leap away from the rear projection fireball.” Among the debris that comes fluttering down is, you guessed it, an autographed photo of Johnny Cage, inscribed to his “Biggest Fan.” I say that if your biggest fan is a recently exploded flaming skeleton, then your career is going GREAT!

So yeah, it’s lame. Christopher Lambert is a lousy Basil Exposition. Robin Shou spends too much time on his hair. Bridgette Wilson, Talisa Soto, and Cary-Hiroyuki Tagawa are terrible actors. The fu isn’t good enough to merit long takes. But Linden Ashby (as Cage) acquits himself well; the creature design, particularly for the multiarmed warrior Goro, is quite good; the sets and locations are fantastic and beautiful; and the soundtrack is thumpin’.

All things considered, MORTAL KOMBAT is way more fun than it has any right to be.

Hotel for Dogs

HOTEL FOR DOGS is an innocuous, pleasant family entertainment that will have special appeal for the dog lovers in your clan.

Here’s the setup: two kids stumble into a deserted hotel that they convert into a shelter for the neighborhood strays. While this sounds like a recipe for disaster, one of the kids is a brilliant inventor who comes up with a thousand ways to keep the canines entertained, fed, cleaned, and housebroken.

That’s pretty much it. There are jokes and silly villains and your standard three-act structure. There’s even The Great Don Cheadle, who is clearly there to make a movie he thinks his kids will enjoy.

It worked. My kids enjoyed it just fine. What more do you want?

Inglourious Basterds

Lots of people love INGLOURIOUS BASTERDS. They say that it’s one of Tarantino’s best films. They say it’s one of the best movies of the year.

It’s the first Tarantino film to really bother me.

The inconsistent tone, bouncing between excruciating suspense and neo-‘70s hip, kept me from settling into its groove. The performances, particularly Pitt’s painfully false Appalachian accent, Christoph Waltz’s affected silliness, and Eli Roth’s jarring presence, never felt organic. And most importantly, Tarantino’s imagining of a unit of Ike’s Army as being more despicable than Al Qaeda in Iraq, coupled with his invitation to root for this unit’s tactics as though being “on our side” made them excusable, felt like a betrayal of the American ideal. I got the feeling that Dick Cheney would have loved this movie.

The International Red Cross, the Geneva Conventions, the Law of Armed Conflict, they all exist for good reasons. They exist because of the all too human tendency to see outrages committed by “Team Us” as permissible and even commendable, particularly because “Team Them” has it coming. The reality, of course, is that combatants aren’t masterminds. Often, they’re just guys who got drafted, or who thought that signing up would be a good idea, or who were faced with the choice of putting on a uniform and maybe getting shot or refusing to wear one and definitely getting shot. INGLOURIOUS BASTERDSes ignorance of or contempt for these laws and traditions, its glorification of brutality, was just too much for me to stomach.

Now, there are some great things about this movie. Tarantino crafts an image with smoke and light that may be one of the great shots of movie history. There’s some wonderful misdirection and a refreshing willingness to defy some rules of storytelling economy.

But I just couldn’t get past the film’s ideology. It felt deeply, profoundly wrong. It felt un-American. It really bothered me.

Sense and Sensibility

SENSE AND SENSIBILITY is just plain great. Emma Thompson penned the adaptation and Ang Lee directed it, which is pretty much everything you need to know right there. But take a look at this cast: Thompson, Alan Rickman, and Kate Winslet, all of whom Can Do No Wrong, in the three primary roles; Tom Wilkinson, Hugh Grant, Imelda Staunton, and Hugh Laurie among the supporting players. Patrick Doyle pulled down an Oscar nomination for the music. Thompson won an Academy Award for her writing, and the picture garnered further nominations for Thompson’s and Winslet’s acting, plus nominations for Best Cinematography, Best Costume Design, and Best Picture (it lost to THE ENGLISH PATIENT).

Ok, but you knew this was a good movie. I knew it was a good movie: I recall loving it upon its initial release. Seeing it again, however, I was struck by just how good Thompson is in it. Don’t get me wrong: Winslet and Rickman are literally great, but Thompson does so much with her part, conveys such a deep and rich personality beneath her character’s practiced decorum, that she makes herself a marvel to behold.

While watching the film, it occurred to me that Winslet is now old enough to play the Thompson role. Then it occurred to me that Winslet seems to be growing up to be Emma Thompson. A person could do much worse.

The Adventures of Buckaroo Banzai Across the 8th Dimension

I remember seeing THE ADVENTURES OF BUCKAROO BANZAI ACROSS THE 8TH DIMENSION when I was a kid. I remember liking it and have always had a special place for it even as I've grown fuzzy on the details of what it's actually about. By the time I fired this film up again last week, all I had to go on was a general feeling of goodwill, Jeff Goldblum in a cowboy shirt, and John Lithgow hamming it up. How would the film stand up to adult eyes?

Quite well, I'm happy to report. BUCKAROO BANZAI is that most difficult of creations: whimsy, pure and simple, that avoids being overcome by itself. The film lines up Peter Weller, Jeff Goldblum, Ellen Barkin, and Clancy Brown on one side and John Lithgow, Christopher Lloyd, Dan Hedaya, and Vincent Schiavelli on the other, tosses a Maguffin between them, and then gets silly. It layers sight gags over character gags over situational gags, keeps the villains just villainous enough to serve as foils for the heroes, and generally invites its audience to sit back, grin, tap its feet, and groove along.

I enjoyed the heck out of it, and I can't wait to see it again in another twenty-five years.

Adventureland

ADVENTURELAND is a coming of age story about a guy who really really wants to be played by Michael Cera. The would-be Cera takes a job in an amusement park and has your standard coming-of-age experiences, and everything pretty much rolls along as you'd expect.

This isn't a film with big laughs or big ideas or big anything. It's just a story about a guy living through an important episode in his life. It has the feel of a fond memory, one that retains some of the prickly bits even if it has taken on a nostalgic sheen. I wouldn't go out of my way for it, but I was stuck in coach and there it was and it made two hours roll by.

I Love You, Man

I LOVE YOU, MAN, is a romantic comedy about two men. Yes, it's about two heterosexual men, but that doesn't stop it from hewing to the romantic comedy formula. That's part of its charm: this movie knows exactly what it's doing, exactly how it's subverting convention, and it's having great fun doing it.

Oh, and it's funny. Really, really funny. Laugh out loud funny.

Paul Rudd's a guy who has always gotten along better with women than men. That's a problem because, when it's time to get married, he has no close male friend - no best man. A normal guy would just choose a relative, but pay no attention to these technicalities: we're setting up a romantic comedy here! Desperate for a friend, Rudd has a meet-cute with Jason Segel (who wrote and starred in FORGETTING SARAH MARSHALL, one of the few films that actually occupies space on my DVD rack) and asks him out on a man-date.

And there's your setup. The rest of the movie puts its characters (played by, among others, Jane Curtin, J.K. Simmons, and Andy Samberg) through the gears of the romantic comedy machine, which really serves only as a chassis on which to hang joke after joke after joke. The jokes are funny and well played, and this film kept me laughing from the opening to the closing credits.

I'm not going to write that I loved it, man. But I just did. I feel cheap.

Duplicity

Universal Pictures let DUPLICITY down. The studio clearly didn't know how to market the movie, going with advertising that hammered on the theme of "sexy sexy sexy." Yeah, well, we have the Internet now. We don't need to go to the movies for sexy. The marketing theme should have been "story story story."

Clive Owen is a Bond manque (as usual) who seduces Julia Roberts at an embassy party in swinging Dubai. She drugs him, steals some documents out of his briefcase, and disappears. That's the opening credits, and that's your setup for a charming spy vs. spy story that's a touch THOMAS CROWN AFFAIR and a touch ADAM'S RIB. Writer/Director Tony Gilroy knows how to create mature, enjoyable dialogue and situations, and he knows which actors to keep in check and which to let run. There are some supporting players here whom you will know but who didn't make the marketing the effort, and they flat-out steal the show. In fact, days later, I'm still chuckling at one of them.

DUPLICITY isn't laugh-out-loud funny, and it does cheat a bit at the end, but it's clever, it's fun, and it's a pleasant way to spend a couple of hours. Throw it on while folding laundry and your chores will be over before you know it.

Marnie

WARNING: SPOILERS AHEAD

MARNIE is the film about a poor, helpless felon who needs a repulsively self-satisfied man to trap her, rape her, and control every aspect of her existence until he cures her through the power of his manly will. It’s like THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, but in this version, both combatants are horrid criminals. Marnie’s signature line is, “Oh, Mark. I don’t want to go to jail. I’d rather stay with you.” That, kids, is romance.

The film stars Tippi Hendren as a woman who is so disconnected from her true self that she appears more blonde automoton than an actual human being. Or perhaps that’s just Hendren’s acting technique. Sean Connery plays the repulsive, sadistic rapist as, basically, Sean Connery (Interesting side note: his character, Mark, is from Pennsylvania, yet he has a Scottish accent. His father has an English accent. So much for the Pennsylvania Dutch!). These people have never been less interesting.

Alfred Hitchcock directed MARNIE, yet the film has all the polish of a poorly made rerun from Sunday Night at the Movies. Between the annoying use of red filters to show Marnie’s near-total paralysis at the sight of the color red (Really, what does this woman do when she menstruates? Curl up in a corner and scream for four days?) and its ridiculously amateurish in-n-out zooming at a moment of moral crisis, one can only forgive Hitch by assuming that he was on heavy psychotropic drugs throughout the process of making this movie and give him a pass.

Some people love MARNIE. But hey, some people love balut. I don’t ever need another go at either.

Watchmen

The print version of WATCHMEN always struck me as Reagan-era sour grapes hippie bullshit. Sure, it was famous for its deconstruction of the superhero comic, but I don’t care about superhero comics, never having collected ‘em as a kid. So I was wary of the filmed version of the story. After G.W. Bush’s parody of conservatism and THE INCREDIBLES’ brilliant study of the superhero genre, what did WATCHMEN, in any form, have to offer?

Not much, really. It’s still hippie bullshit and its “post-heroism heroes” conceit has nearly become a genre staple. But y’know what? It’s really good hippie bullshit, and it’s really good genre criticism. It looks great, hits its marks, and moves right along, and it does something the print version doesn’t: it actually makes me care about Rorschach and the Night Owl and Sally Jupiter and all the rest. The reveals feel less forced. The characters feel more organic. The political and artistic commentary works as part of a unified whole.

Had this film been released ten years ago, it may have been revolutionary. It’s too late for that, politically or artistically, but WATCHMEN is still a good story well told. Peace out, bro.

Waltz With Bashir

WALTZ WITH BASHIR is a visually striking, deeply personal film that did nothing for me.

The film, which makes brilliant use of animation to shift between times and places, follows the journey of a man who doesn’t recollect much about his time in the Israeli Army during the 1983 Lebanon War. As he interviews old friends and colleagues and fleshes out his memories, we see what he sees and experience his revelations.

I think the film didn’t work for me because I happen to have a sound knowledge of this particular conflict, having studied it in graduate school. Its revelations revealed nothing to me; I’d already plumbed its dark secrets. Even its devastating closing montage only revisited material I’d seen before.

But I think this film could be quite effective for the viewer who is unfamiliar with its subject matter. Filmmaker Ari Folman poured his heart into the production, and it shows. I respect WALTZ WITH BASHIR, even if it didn’t speak to me.

He's Just Not That Into You

Look , I get that HE’S JUST NOT INTO YOU was not made with me in mind. I didn’t expect to see any stuff get blown up real good, nor did I expect to see anyone kick anyone else in the face. But I sat down for it anyway: a friend recommended it, and I like to tell myself that I don’t believe in guy movies and chick movies, but only good movies and bad movies.

This movie begins with a “girl talk” voiceover about the nature of relationships that effectively announced that not only was it not made with me in mind, but it was made with a mind to specifically exclude members of my gender and orientation. This movie was just not that into me.

And that’s ok. I’ve been out with my wife and sat drinking my coffee while she talks with her female friends or relatives. I get that things don’t need to cater to my tastes to have value. But while HE’S JUST NOT INTO YOU is professionally written, photographed, and acted, it’s an intellectually dishonest film that spends 7/8 of its running time advocating for a world view that it abandons when it’s time to put smiles on faces before the closing credits.

I can forgive a film many flaws, but that kind of dishonesty is not among them. HE’S JUST NOT INTO YOU is a liar. Don’t get into it.

Valkyrie

VALKYRIE is the saddest film I’ve seen in ages.

Had the conspirators depicted in VALKYRIE succeeded, Germany could have thrown off the shackles of Nazi oppression and redeemed itself. It could have saved countless lives in the camps and on the battlefields. It could have prevented millions from living and dying under the boot of the Communists.

But, of course, the conspirators failed. Modern Germans still wrestle with the legacy of Nazism. Memorial walls carry the names of the countless victims of Nazis and Communists alike. Eastern Europe still struggles to catch up with the West.

Amazingly, VALKYRIE infuses this elegy with sympathy and tension, keeping us engaged and hoping, though we know how things end. It does so through the canny use of all-star casting, leveraging the recognizability of players such as Carice Van Houton, Bill Nighy, Kenneth Branagh, and Tom Wilkinson to build instant rapport with and sympathy for a cast so large it might be easy to lose track of who’s who. It does so through the efforts of Tom Cruise, a man who has been criticized for his offscreen behavior but who remains among the most gifted and charismatic stars of his generation. It does so by leveraging our knowledge of the broad outlines of history against our ignorance of the details: we all know things went wrong, but wmost of us don't know how.

This film largely succeeds in portraying its time, its place, its people, though it missteps in failing to recreate the paranoia that the all-seeing Gestapo engendered at the time. Its period details feel right, as does its grasp of German culture. While VALKYRIE, with its serious subject matter and foregone conclusion, may not appeal to everyone, it meets it goals.

If only its subjects had met theirs.

Happy-Go-Lucky

Here’s a review of a film that happened while I was writing it. I opened a blank page thinking that I knew what I was going to set down, but once the writing process forced me to give HAPPY-GO-LUCKY serious consideration, the film grew and turned into something quite remarkable. I liked HAPPY-GO-LUCKY when the credits rolled. Now that I’ve thought it over a bit, I see it as a laudable achievement.

Poppy (Sally Hawkins) is one of those people who chooses happiness. She’s quick with a smile and a laugh and a silly quip, and she borders on irrepressible. She’s so relentless that, for a while there, I thought there was something wrong with her. If there weren’t more to Poppy than meets the eye, HAPPY-GO-LUCKY wouldn’t be much of a movie. In revealing her, however, the film doesn’t go where I thought it would: into an inner world of pain or sorrow. Rather, the film does something marvelous: it explores the depths of her goodness and the reach of her will to happiness.

Think about that for a minute. Think about the difficulty of the art of joy. How many films focus on desperation, or revenge, or depression, or greed, or fear, or any one of the myriad traps we may encounter on our lives’ paths? How many filmmakers (and audiences, for that matter) confuse darkness with maturity, desolation with wisdom?

Depression is easy. Anyone can write the blues.

But happinesss, real happiness, is hard. It’s hard to live and it’s especially hard to create in film. In HAPPY-GO-LUCKY, Mike Leigh doesn’t give us an idiot or a stunted human being (though we can see how some may regard her as such). Rather, he gives us a woman who sees the world as it is and responds to it with an almost Christlike compassion and love. He does this through a barely perceptible dramatic arc, inviting us simply to spend time with Poppy and her friends, to observe her and those whom she touches. He puts Poppy in a world of bright, inviting colors, surrounds her with cheerful music, gives her real conversations with real people, and watches her try to find what joy there is to be found. Poppy doesn’t always succeed, and she may occasionally have to walk away. But that’s life. The point is, Poppy gets it. How often do we see that?

Mike Leigh has created a wonderful film here. If you haven’t yet seen it, give it a spin. You’ll be happy that you did.

X-Men Origins: Wolverine

What would you rather see: yet another movie in which an indestructible superman unflinchingly walks away from a rear-projected fireball, or a film in which a girl stands atop a file cabinet, unbalances it, then somersaults down the slope while it falls to the ground? Would you rather see yet another CGI-heavy revenge picture, or a movie with real stuntmen about an autistic kid who's trying to get money to pay for her mom's medicine?

If you chose the former two out of two, then X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE is the movie for you. I'm sure real stuntmen and real explosives guys and real pilots and such were used in the making of this movie, but the fact is that there's less drama and less entertainment value in animated supermen destroying stuff than there is in real people doing things like sliding under tables and doing backflips.

Unfortunately, limp action setpieces are all this movie has to offer. The gifted Hugh Jackman and Liev Schreiber are given little more to do than snarl and be thankful that the Actor's Guild doesn't require urinalysis, and the film even manages to take the voice away from the consistently funny Ryan Reynolds.

X-MEN ORIGINS: WOLVERINE simply has nothing going for it. What a waste of time.

Chocolate

Oh my God.

Oh. My. God.

Ohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygodohmygod.

Who is this woman, JeeJa Yanin? She has the physical presence of Johnny Depp. She nearly has the onscreen grace of a young Jackie Chan. She works her butt off: two years in training preproduction, two more years during production, and it shows. Muy Thai, Kung Fu, Jeet Kun Do, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, Kendo, gymnastics, rail fu, chair fu, knife fu, glass table fu (c’mon – there’s always glass table fu), sign fu, ledge fu, ice fu, even neuromuscular disability fu: this woman can do it all.

CHOCOLATE, directed by Prachya Pinkaew of ONG BAK: MUY THAI WARRIOR and TOM YUNG GONG fame, continues the Thai eclipse of the hoary Hong Kong martial arts thriller. Featuring eye-popping stuntwork that’ll make you go “Wow!” showcased by direction and editing that give us space to marvel at the skill and craftsmanship of its performers, and complemented with a score that underlines the action beats just so, CHOCOLATE is a worthy successor to Pinkaew’s earlier work and a must-see for fans of martial arts pictures, dance pictures, and plain old action thrillers.

CHOCOLATE: it’s the second-best film, after FROZEN RIVER, that I’ve seen this summer. It has movie has absolutely everything you could want in an action picture: it looks great, sounds great, features phenomenal stunt work, and just plain rocks. Bring on the JeeJa Yanin / Tony Jaa teamup picture. I’ll be there.

My Best Friend's Girl

MY BEST FRIEND'S GIRL is an affront to God and man. It's a romantic comedy that is neither romantic nor funny.*

It's _Cyrano de Bergerac_ with Dane Cook as Christian, Jason Biggs as Cyrano, and Kate Hudson as Roxane. At least, that appears to be the structure that the film rips off. It deviates from the straight Cyrano story, which is fine, but it fails to give us any reason to care whether any of its annoying, shallow characters live or die, much less find love.

This film's cinematography is boring, its dialogue is boring, its story is boring, and its actors are boring.* I saw this movie for free (It was playing in the background in the place where I'm using the computer), and I still want my money back.

MY BEST FRIEND'S GIRL can take a hike.

*Except when Alex Baldwin is onscreen. When did this guy turn into a comic genius?

Knowing

There are two kinds of people in this world: DARK CITY people and THE MATRIX people. DARK CITY has atmosphere; THE MATRIX has gunfire. DARK CITY has style; THE MATRIX has fetish wear. DARK CITY reveals; THE MATRIX tells.

Yeah, I’m a DARK CITY guy.

You know what else I am? A Nicolas Cage guy. Ok, not enough of one to sit through NATIONAL TREASURE 2, but enough to forgive him for BANGKOK DANGEROUS. VALLEY GIRL can earn a man a lifetime of cred, as far as I’m concerned.

Thus, when Alex Proyas (the director of DARK CITY) puts Nicolas Cage in front of a camera, I’m there. In KNOWING, Proyas directs Cage as an MIT astrophysicist who unlocks a terrible secret and races to discover its ramifications. Cage is fine in the Nicolas Cage Dressed Up as a Professor role, but what makes this film so enjoyable is its Proyas style. KNOWING just plain looks great, even if it does go full Emmerich at times. Proyas knows how to get solid performances from even his child actors, and he knows how to build a world whose every detail serves to advance his story.

Is this as fine a film as FROZEN RIVER? Few are. Is this a solid thriller with strong supernatural and science fiction elements? Sure is. Is it also better than THE MATRIX? Oh, oh yes. If Proyas and Cage are your cup of tea, you’re sure to enjoy KNOWING.

Taken

A group of actors is about to become unemployed.

There’s a certain kind of actor out there – you know the type. A thespian like Mark Dacascos, say, or Steven Segal or Jean-Claude Van Damme. This guy is a working actor, he’s paying the bills, and he’s turning out one direct-to-video feature after another. In one film, he’s an ex-soldier out for revenge. In another, a kung fu master come down from the mountaintop to get the precious MacGuffin. In yet another, he’s a cop, or a spy, or an accountant who works out a lot. It’s all the same, and it all pays the bills: the actor sneers, he shoots, he kicks people in the face. Then he goes home, cashes his check, and everybody’s happy.

And then, a Liam Neeson comes along. An Academy Award nominee. A marquee name. Darkman, for Pete’s sake! And he makes a movie like TAKEN, in which he plays an ex-CIA agent who is both Out for Revenge and Getting the MacGuffin. Not only does he act the pants off of everyone else in the genre, but it turns out he’s got some pretty good moves in the stunt department, to boot. Hey, Liam, bit of advice: it’s unwise to enter these guys’ territory. They may be desperate men.

TAKEN, then, serves as an exercise in the farfetched: what happens when you take a capable, respected actor, surround him with stuntmen, and tell him to go kick some ass? I’ll tell you what happens: asses get kicked, and they kicked by a guy whose conviction the audience never thinks to question. Liam Neeson takes TAKEN, your standard, DTV-type revenge / MacGuffin thriller, and elevates it to something more: a study in desperation, in love, and in high-class ass-kickery the likes of which you’ve never seen before.

In the process, however, TAKEN calls the entire future of the DTV thriller into question. Will Judi Dench soon play an edge – of – retirement assassin out to do one … last … job? When can we expect Sean Penn to show us his chops as an idealistic former cop who must kickbox his way through a corrupt police force to avenge his former partner? Personally, I’m holding out for the mother lode: Kate Winslet as a post-apocalyptic savior, preferably one with a totally awesome car, or maybe eyes that blink sideways.

It’s only a matter of time. But when that day comes, a certain class of actor will be out of work. It’ll be Neeson’s fault. Perhaps he can hire a few members of the old cadre as bodyguards.

Torn Curtain

Casting is TORN CURTAIN's blessing and curse.

It's a blessing because Julie Andrews and Paul Newman are strong, magnetic performers with whom we feel a natural affinity. It's a curse because Julie Andrews is too powerful to convince as the devoted lover who'll follow her man to the gates of Hell, and Paul Newman is too fundamentally decent to convince as the kind of guy who'd take her there. But hey, give yourself a little extra nudge in the suspension of disbelief department, and you're in for a tight little thriller.

Here's the setup: Newman is a physicist who has been working on anti - ballistic missile project, since cancelled. Andrews is his devoted assistant and squeeze (there's some talk about a wedding date, but most of it's from Andrews). They're attending a conference in Denmark when Newman gets a coded message, grows cold, and departs in a rush with a lousy explanation about a job in Sweden. Andrews, no fool, checks his tickets and discovers that - gasp - he's on his way to East Berlin. Is Newman actually a communist spy? What's going on?

Since a movie like this relies on twists and turns, I'm not going to say much more about its story. I will say that Alfred Hitchcock, the film's director, could generate tension in his sleep. Even as he chooses sets and photographic techniques that remind us he's merely spinning a yarn, the guy knows how to do it. TORN CURTAIN clips right along, maintains a sense of adventure and danger, and generally does what it sets out to do. Even if it isn't entirely successful, it at least gives us an opportunity to spend a couple of hours with Andrews and Newman. And that ain't bad.

Frozen River

"For me, the human face is the most important subject of the cinema.” -- Ingmar Bergman

Observe the face of Ray. No. First, observe the toe of Ray. It sports an old tattoo, a remnant of wilder times. Now, observe the face. It’s lined; worried. The eyes, bordered in basic mascara, don’t blink away the cigarette smoke wafting from the downturned mouth. They do blink away tears formed in flicker of despair. The face, so near to crumbling, pulls itself together and Ray Eddy straightens, goes back into her single wide, and does her best.

Courtney Hunt, the writer and director of FROZEN RIVER, understands that Bergman was right. Hunt knows how to build a story, inspire pathos, pace a scene, and create near-unbearable tension, and she does it by focusing on faces. Whether we’re watching Ray, brought to life in an Oscar nominated performance by Melissa Leo; Lila, played with quiet assurance by Misty Upham; or the people who need them; we care about them because their faces compel us to do so.

Because of this, FROZEN RIVER takes a place among the most compelling films I’ve seen this year. This film hooked me in its first five minutes through the extraordinary power of the human face, and it hasn’t let go of me yet. Its dilemmas, its characters, its milieu feel absolutely real as I dwell on them, and I find that its power grows with greater consideration.

This is Courtney Hunt’s first film, and it’s a masterpiece. IMDb tells me that her next feature will be called Northline and, though I have no idea what it’s about, I plan to see it. This is a woman who knows what she’s about, and who understands that it’s all in the face.

Winning

WINNING is a lousy movie. It’s poorly constructed, features a show-stoppingly bad performance from a major supporting actor, and fails to excite even in its centerpiece racing scenes.

The film, set in the world of stock car racing, begins with Paul Newman winning a race. He has a few drinks at the victory party, wanders around town, and charms a local floozy. Three or four scenes later, they’re married, and the rest of the film depends upon my investment in their relationship. But here’s the thing: for a love story to work, we have to fall in love (even if it’s just a little) with the characters. With WINNING, I don’t even know who these people are, much less have a reason to care whether or not they make it as a family. There’s your weak foundation. The film is poorly shot and edited; with jagged and wobbly camera movements competing for your distraction with montages and transitions of such jarring mediocrity that it’s hard to believe this is a feature film. Finally, Dave Grusin’s dead-jazz score is so limp that it distracts us with its mediocrity.

While Paul Newman, Joanne Woodward, and Robert Wagner are all as fine and professional as you’d expect, Richard Thomas (in his debut role, playing Woodward’s son) is remarkably bad. Now, I like Thomas. Some years back, I saw him do a “King John” in which he absolutely nailed the role. But here, just starting out, he so overacts that I felt like it was all the more seasoned professionals could do to refrain from smacking him.

So you’re got your bad construction and your distracting performance, but it’s a racing movie, right? The racing must be pretty good. Nope. It’s just a bunch of shots of cars and closeups of eyes, with an announcer telling me what’s actually happening. I admit that I’m not a race fan, finding the sport to be even more boring than golf. But a good racing movie should have drawn me in nonetheless, made me feel the rush when the good guy passes the bad. Nope. I fell asleep during the climactic race.

As performers, I like Newman, Woodward, and Wagner. I’d have loved to see them together in a better film. Unfortunately, this isn’t it. WINNING is a loser.

It Happened One Night

Actually, it happened over a series of nights. But that's not important right now.

IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT (Capra, 1934), is a romantic comedy / road movie starring Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. Gable's the hard-drinking reporter whose dissolution hasn't yet caught up to his body and mind. Colbert's the spoiled society girl out to spite her father by running off to be with some pansy gyrocopter pilot. Circumstance throws them together in the back of a bus, with Gable telling Colbert, " Excuse me lady, but that upon which you sit is mine." "I beg your pardon?" Well, it will be soon enough.

The two most interesting things about IT HAPPENED ONE NIGHT are the dialogue (Colbert to Pansy: "Promise me I'll never get off." Bet on it, sister!) and the power dynamics. Released just months before rules requiring new releases to have the Hayes Code seal of approval came into force, this film seems innocuous, but has some real adult humor going on just beneath the surface. The power dynamics are an interesting combination of gender and class conflicts, with one message sent to women (Submit!) and another to proletarians (Revolt!). Just get a load of this line, spoken by Gable's "man of the people" to the Colbert's millionaire father: "What she needs is a guy that'd take a sock at her once a day, whether it's coming to her or not. If you had half the brains you're supposed to have, you'd done it yourself, long ago." Dominance and insouciance, apparently, made for successful mainstream entertainment back when the Greatest Generation was in junior high.

But hey, don't watch this picture for material to gripe about at your next meeting of the Working Woman's Collective. Watch this picture to see Gable and Colbert, performers at the top of their respective games, bang out dialogue with near-scientific precision. Watch it for Joseph Walker's cinematography and marvel at the way light plays off a white silk dress in glorious black and white. Watch it for Capra, who knows how to get the most out of even his bit players. Most of all, watch it because it's funny. Watch it with a loved on and bring down the walls of Jericho.

Underworld: Evolution

UNDERWORLD: EVOLUTION is impressive. It boasts imaginative set, costume, and makeup design. It weaves CGI and practical stuntwork into a rousing whole. Its set pieces are creative and interesting and, while it never manages to rise above being a bunch of actors and stuntmen hamming it up on increasingly complex movie sets, it’s a bunch of good actors and good stuntmen hamming it up in a fantastic (if barely plausible) world that’s an entertaining place to visit.

I first mentioned the set design because it really is remarkable. From the rustic inn where the first film’s Scott Speedman learns he can no longer eat normal food to the functionally baroque headquarters of franchise newcomer Derek Jacobi to the multilayered, rich-with-possibility crumbling ruin of the climax, every inch of the screen is filled with detail and imagination. Well done.

While I still can’t get past the idea of the leather corset as functional combat wear (Where does Kate Beckinsale hide all those weapons, anyway?), the leatherwork has details that relate to the decorative flourishes in the costumes of heroes and villains, suggesting a deeper mythology behind the story of this film. It’s neat, carefully crafted stuff, and indicates an attention to detail far beyond what one might expect in a vampires vs. werewolves movie.

The makeup, particularly that of the villain in full monster mode, is not only scary and convincing, but also bears marks of the costumer’s design sensibility, with patterning in the monster’s back that, you guessed it, shows up in the corset, Jacobi’s coats, and even the film’s Maguffin. It’s crazy; it’s lavish; it’s just the thing.

The action sequences (which comprise most of the film) build from the exaggerated to the just-plain-crazy, but that’s not their best quality. Not only do they blow lots of stuff up real good, but they actually advance the story and keep us in the loop of who’s doing what to whom and why. Sure, they defy the laws of physics and aerodynamics. So what? It’s a v vs. w movie. I went with it.

The whole thing combines to make for a film that’s better than its predecessor. It doesn’t share insight into the human condition, no, and it doesn’t make us laugh or cry. But it looks great, it sounds great, and it’s great fun.

I can’t believe I’m writing this, but bring on UNDERWORLD: RISE OF THE LYCANS.

Just Another Love Story

JUST ANOTHER LOVE STORY is one helluva thriller.

No, it's not one of those movies where cats jump out of closets or knives make a sshhhhkkktt sound when they're pulled from a block. It's a movie with a supertight screenplay, spot on performances, and a score that makes notice its beauty without pulling you out of the film.

I hesitate to write much about the screenplay, other than to say that though it was written in Denmark and produced in 2007, it would have felt right at home in the Hollywood of the '40s and '50s. It's good noir, as good as you're likely to find, with dangerous women, crafty villains, and men who should now better.

Rebecka Hemse plays Julia, a good girl gone bad, with just the right combination of vulnerability and danger. Nikolaj Lie Kaas is Sebastian, nothing but trouble and charm. And Anders W. Berthelsen is the crucial element so many noirs, the sap. It helps that I hadn't seen these actors before, but not for a moment did I not believe them or believe in their challenges.

"Ok," you're thinking. "I've never heard of this movie and you've given me nothing to help me decide whether or not to queue it up." Problem is, I really don't want to tell you anything about it other than to say that if you liked OUT OF THE PAST, if you liked DOUBLE INDEMNITY, if you liked STRANGERS ON A TRAIN; then you're gonna like JUST ANOTHER LOVE STORY. Take a chance, give it a spin, tell me what you think.

I can't wait to hear.

Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

First, a note about the trailer for 2012: not even Chiwetel Ejiofor's name on the poster will put my butt in a seat for that one. Second, a note about the following comments: I assume that, by now, you know who the established characters are. Consequently, I'll not try to bring you up to speed.
HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE begins with Harry Potter, bloody and exhausted, facing a media onslaught in the aftermath of the battle of the Ministry of Magic. Professor Dumbledore puts his arm around the boy, shepherds him away.

And then we're off, swooping through London with the Death Eaters, in a dazzling and frightening sequence that sets our hearts to racing even as it defines the stakes of the coming war between the forces of Voldemort and Dumbledore.

Back to Harry now, on a personal level as he navigates the currents of late adolescence and learns that, yes, he's pretty good at flirting, too. But Dumbledore appears and there's work to do.

The rest of the film is about a number of things, the story not least among them (Um, Spoiler Alert: Voldemort's up to something and it's up to Harry and friends to stop him.). And that's fine - it's a perfectly good story. But what makes the film worth watching, what makes it race right by, is the way it's also about finding oneself both in big and small ways, about the immediate pain of adolescence and the continuing process of growing into onesself.

Of course, there are a number of movies that address similar themes, and many do it well. What makes HPHBP unique is that it's a Harry Potter movie, a movie that lets us wander around fiction's most marvelous real estate and dazzles us with magic that ranges from mundane to whimsical to downright epic. Additionally, it lets us wander around with a group of actors we've come to think of as our own nieces and nephews; cute kids who are growing up all too fast, even as they make us proud. It supports these young actors with brilliant adults, including at least one who Can Do No Wrong. And it revels in its composition, unafraid to make the fantastical fantastic.

For these reasons and many more, HARRY POTTER AND THE HALF-BLOOD PRINCE is a flat-out great time at the movies. This one is worth catching on the big screen.

W.

W bounced on and off my Netflix queue a number of times. I knew that Oliver Stone is a major director, but I didn't particularly care to sit for a two-hour tomatofest directed at our 43rd president

Yep, I expected a hatchet job, and some blademarks are clearly visible: Dick Cheney's Strangelove moment in the War Room, the mannequin that stood in for Condi Rice. But the movie got at what I perceive to be the fundamental nature of its subject: a good man out of his depth. Josh Brolin was phenomenal, making us believe in his character at every step in his journey, and taking all those Bushisms and weaving them into the natural language of a guy whose brain often outpaces his mouth.

While watching the film, I wondered why it needed to be made in 2008. I think there's a difference between a sitting president and and an alumnus, no matter how recent. As the Obama team has learned with the lack of traction of its "blame Bush" public strategy, unless the last guy in the job was a towering figure, he may as well be Jim Garfield. W was urgent during 43's presidency because then, he formed a member of our perceived "circle," those people in our daily lives who have the greatest impact on us. Now, he's like a member of that circle who has since moved away. He's a person in whom we're still interested, but that interest lacks the immediacy it once had.

Immediacy aside, W is still a film worth watching. It's a take on a man and a time by a master filmmaker with a surprising point of view. It looks great, most of the supporting cast is terrific, and it was over before I knew it.

Beyond Hypothermia

BEYOND HYPOTHERMIA is a bad, bad film.

Wu Chien-lien is an assassin who falls in love, wants to change, but must complete one … last … job. Ching Wan Lau is the love interest. Complications ensue. Which is fine, really, and has served as a rough outline for films ranging from ghastly (NAKED WEAPON) to serviceable (BANGKOK DANGEROUS) to pretty doggone good (SO CLOSE). A movie like this isn’t about the setup. It’s about the delivery.

The delivery here is all wrong. BEYOND HYPOTHERMIA gives us no reason to care about its assassin (Sorry, honey. Being good looking just isn’t enough when you kill people for a living.), its love interest (Buddy, you’ve got to know when to fold ‘em.), or especially its poncy villain (complete with silly hair) who is supposed to provide the suspense and danger. The dialogue is stilted, the photography and editing elementary at best, and the stuntwork uninspired. Though this film was a product of the 1990s glory years of Hong Kong action, it lacks the style and creativity that mark the period.

When a film fails to engage us on any level, when it doesn’t tell an interesting story or give us interesting characters or even look particularly good, there’s only one word to describe it. That word is horrible.

That word applies to BEYOND HYPOTHERMIA. What a waste.

Underworld

I'm not UNDERWORLD's target audience, really. I'm not a gun, leather, or goth fetishist. In my action pictures, I like to know who's shooting whom, and why. And I hate having to constantly adjust the volume on my headphones so I can hear the dialogue one minute without blasting out my eardrums through gunfire and explosion the next. But I liked it anyway.

I mean, c'mon, Bill Nighy and Michael Sheen hamming it up in a vampires vs. werewolves movie? Y'know, the kind of movie in which everyone has machine guns but the big battles are all hand to hand? The kind where the bad guy is named Kraven and everyone's a fashion model who spends a minimum of three hours in the gym every single day? How can that not, at least at some level, speak to you? What, you don't like wirework? You don't like contact lenses? You don't like extremely loud and extremely bad rock music? You must like it when the good guy gets thrown through a wall and falls to a puddle below, and the masonry that hits the water with him floats. No? What's wrong with you?

Well, I thought it was silly fun, just the thing to pass the time while stuck in an airport lounge waiting for the weather to clear. Sometimes, that's all that's required.

The Wrestler

Darren Aronofsky doesn’t make bad movies.

PI, the feature that brought him to my attention, was odd and engaging and unforgettable. REQUIEM FOR A DREAM, his followup, ranks among the best movies I never want to see again. THE FOUNTAIN is one of only two DVDs I purchased that year.

THE WRESTLER, Aronofsky’s latest, does everything that movies are supposed to do. It introduces me to people and places that exist entirely outside of my experience and makes me care about them. Then it builds on that foundation to tell me a story that captures my imagination even as it breaks my heart.

In the film, Mickey Rourke plays “Ram” Robinson, a ‘roided out wrestling superstar who is well past his prime. Ram’s a decent guy, and he loves wrestling. But what do you do when the thing you love falls out of love with you?

This material could be an after school special or a DTV movie, but Aronofsky uses it to meditate on love and mortality and even honor, in a way. He evokes memorable and truthful performances, and his empathy for his people and their lives resonates with us well after the credits roll. In this director, we’re encountering a serious talent, a guy whose movies are worth seeking out. THE WRESTLER is a fine addition to his resume, and I recommend it without reservation.