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The Grey

Joe Carnahan’s poetically virile Alaskan survival tale offers up some of the most unpleasant moments you can spend at the movies. I guess that’s the point.

Troubled Liam Neeson (when isn’t Liam troubled? Can somebody get this guy a musical comedy or something?) stars as a man, who thinks himself clearly superior to the working slugs surrounding him on a remote Alaskan work site. During an aborted suicide attempt, our hero spots a glowering wolf approaching the camp and deftly kills it. The next day, he and the motley crew is on a rickety airplane, heading for home. You just know this isn’t going to go well.

Carnahan, who wrote and directed, takes great pains to class up what could have been a more traditional and less poignant thriller. Shooting in the real wilderness, the scenery is terrifyingly beautiful. And the arc of the story, allowing us all to discover the humanity of the survivors slowly, makes their journey all the more compelling for us, sitting in the cool and safe darkness. Neeson, always fine, is here, too. I also liked what the smart actors Dermot Mulroney, Frank Grillo and the terrific Dallas Roberts brought to their roles. But, here’s the thing. This is not a movie about men’s relationships with one another, trudging through snow and making it to Russia (I hear you can see it from there). This is also very much (too much) a movie about Adventure. There are all sorts of smarty pants tricks these guys figure out to make life a wee bit more comfy. In the heat of the moment, are these basically untrained survivalists really going to know how to pull off some of the level, cool headed stuff they do here? And then there are the wolves. These aren’t any old wolves: these are eyes glowing, sharp toothed salivating, huge guys. And they travel in packs. And they’re pissed. Ohoh.

I get it. I see just what Carnahan is going for here and it’s impressive. The results are mixed, as if he (and the people behind this film) are hedging their bets: don’t just go for the masculine mush, make sure there’s lots of blood and guts. Give ‘em what they want: and keep repeating it. Pure gore, up close and personal.

Joyful Noise

Don’t let all that corn-shucking gosh-darn-it stuff fool you: this is one canny movie.

Tapping into the Glory and Glee zeitgeist, Todd Graff has delivered a sometimes silly, but ultimately winning little musical. Apparently, Graff took his own mother’s experiences as a choir leader for a Jewish community group and translated it into a Southern, interracial church setting. Dolly Parton, you would think, would lead the group after her husband (Kris Kristofferson) dies in one of the film’s earliest moments, but Pastor Courtney B. Vance turns over the reigns to Queen Latifah, a mercurial woman who’s got more issues than whether or not the group is fighting her traditional leanings.

There’s a lot of plot going on here: vying divas not withstanding. We’ve also got marital strife, children with Asperger’s, runaway bad boys, young teenagers in love (the fact that one is white, the other black is, interestingly, the least of their families’ worries). The town is nearing bankruptcy; the Church and the choir, which may or may not win a national contest, are all the people have left to hold onto. This may sound like a lot and it is. But I dare you to find a town that doesn’t have its share of all of this these days.

For the younger viewers, there’s a savvy focus on two talented young performers, an appealing Jeremy Jordan and star-on-the-rise Keke Palmer, who gets to lead the choir’s stirring renditions of songs from writers spanning from Michael Jackson, Paul McCartney, and Usher to Dolly herself. Check for a pulse if you aren’t swept up in the truly crowd pleasing musical numbers.

As actors, Parton and Latifah are asked to get into some pretty low bits here: the producers are actually using an ill-advised cat fight as a promotional spot for the film. These are not the ‘Housewives of Pacashau, Georgia’, thank you. But both actresses are game and handle each scene with movie star confidence. And when they get to sing: watch out! Latifah, in particular, has a stunning solo of ‘Fix Me Jesus’ that knocked my socks and boots off.

Sadly, there are screeching, nails on a blackboard moments here; I suppose there were put into this movie in order to appeal to what the filmmakers think “middle-America” likes. Ever the optimist, I think differently. It’s the compassionate touch of reality and mostly the simply great music that really make this Joyful Noise sing.

War Horse

Well, at least it looks great.

Steven Spielberg’s epic drama is technically superb and clearly heartfelt. It is also, I’m sad to say, an odd mix that sometimes soars, sometimes, doesn’t.

Ostensibly, this is the story of a boy and his horse. Against the odds of the times, they conquer. Then, horse (Joey) is taken away, needed by the troops going off to fight World War I. Years pass. Horse goes through hell, boy grows up and enters Army. You can pretty much figure out the rest.

Luckily, Spielberg (and the book and stage play) adds much more to the primary plot. We see the individual struggles against a (gorgeous) backdrop of poverty and then, horrific battle. But it’s almost as if this is two plays in one. The early set up, taking place on a dusty English farm, is told in a chunky almost clomping style, dragging the proceedings down to palatable, kind of family friendly tone. This may be sweetly reminiscent of many early British films for some; for me, it brought to mind what used to be called, and not in a great way, “Disney-fied” fare.

And then there’s the second part: the true heart of the matter. Our horse and his troops go off to war and Spielberg really digs in, reminding us of the power he delivered in such stunning efforts as ‘Saving Private Ryan’. These scenes are emotionally searing and shot exquisitely. Even what could have been a by-the-numbers bit, where an English and German soldier work together to free our equine hero from some barbed wire, works very, very well.

War Horse is such an odd mix of styles, it is hard to narrow down and give the standard critical yea or nay. Audiences who show up for the “war” part of Joey’s tale will grow impatient with the set up. Families trotting along the young ones may love the beginning and fret during the most visceral battles. Spielberg and company have delivered a technically marvelous, but still mixed bag, which is disappointing from a team as fine as this.

The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo

By focusing on the strongest part of the best selling novels, David Fincher and Steve Zallian have delivered a stylish, mesmerizing thriller. In other words, the violent, predictable story takes a back seat to two terrifically drawn leading characters.

Anyone familiar with the Steig Larsson books knows about Mikael Blomkvist and Lisbeth Salander. He’s a disgraced Swedish journalist, brought in to an icy family compound to track the murderer of one of their own. Knowing he’s in over his handsome head, Mikael seeks the aid of the brilliant detective Lisbeth, a leather-bound lesbian whose issues with men make finding the killer of women a task she just can’t resist. Their assignments, and the way the story proceeds, aren’t anything particularly revolutionary in the genre: the two characters, on the other hand, are pretty darn cool.

Daniel Craig brings just the right warmth and confusion to Mikael, but it’s Rooney Mara who steals the show as Lisbeth. Frankly, this is a great, juicy part for a game actress. Noomi Rapace did a great job with it in the Swedish version of the trilogy and Mara, while different, does, too. It’s not often we see a lead female as (properly) pissed off, vengeful and vulnerable. Not only is this a great breakthrough opportunity for the actress, but it offers a whole new area for the talented filmmakers to explore. Most, not all, of Fincher’s best work has been with men. Zallian, too. With Lisbeth, they get to explore, as do we, a woman who’s undeniable on many levels. It’s to the team’s credit we’re all fascinated by her.

Mission Impossible: Ghost Protocol

If Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy was too cerebral for you, this movie should make you very happy. It’s a glossy, snazzy, thrill-a-second spy story, filled with lots of explosions, how’d-they-do-that stunts, great looking cars and exotic locales, no thinking required. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Tom Cruise, at his movie star best, is back as Ethan Hunt. His new mission, if he decides to accept it, is to go from lone wolf to team player, all in an effort to save the world. OK, it’s more complicated than that, but really, when you come right down to it, it’s better not to pay attention to the silly script here and to just buy into the idea that this is all a matter of global life and death and concentrate on all the stunts and cool stuff instead. Jeremy Renner shows up as a mysterious bureaucrat, the snappy Simon Pegg is back as techie Benji and Paula Patton, a special effect onto herself, co-stars as Agent Jane Carter. Agent Jane gets a few action moments (along with a great dress to do them in, which never even creases or suffers a stain), but she also gets to walk in a room, looking gorgeous and ask, “Where’s Ethan?” Cruise, who performs miraculous stunts here, still looks great, too. And that’s nice, but, honestly, I was a bit disappointed to see so little of Josh Holloway (Sawyer on ‘Lost’). He looks good, too, by the way. Just sayin.

Director Brad Bird, whose experience has been in animation until now, does a fine job of mixing all the pieces together and moving it along at breathtaking pace. He insures a tower heist, which was filmed on and in the Burj Khalifa in Dubai is a knockout, but brings respect to each and every stunt, giving the people what they want: a blast. Nothing more and nothing less.

Sherlock Holmes: A Game of Shadows

This is a mass appeal movie that actually appeals. Jolly good.

Robert Downey, Jr. and Jude Law show up again in the signature roles of the world’s most famous detective and pal Watson, reviving the two parts along with the director who helmed the first Holmes picture to put them together, Guy Ritchie. This time, the two are almost out manned by the evil Professor Moriarty (Jared Harris), who is as smart as Holmes but nowhere near as charming. Joining the good guys is Noomi Rapace, who burst onto the international scene with a smashing spin on Lizbeth Salander in the Swedish version of “The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo” and, to a lesser by still memorable extent, Stephen Fry, who steps in as Holmes’s older brother. And he calls Sherlock “Shirley”. Gotta love it.

While it is nice to see some of the actors who were in the first of this series getting a paycheck in this movie, it must be said that none of the players, or the decent enough screenplay, or the smart cinematography, or even Mr. Ritchie’s savvy pacing can hold a candle to the true star of this movie: the remarkable Robert Downey, Jr. It was pretty obvious Downey relished playing (and I do mean playing) Sherlock the last time around: this time, he dazzles in each and every scene he’s in, no matter who else is there or what else is going on. The guy can’t help it: he’s a star. And getting to watch him do his thing here is downright infectious fun.

Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy

Each scene in this wonderfully mounted production is so near perfect, Tomas Alfredson’s adaptation of John LeCarre’s classic Cold War espionage novel can almost be forgiven for not tieing it all together as well.

Gary Oldman is a perfect choice to play George Smiley, the ousted British spy who’s brought back in when the Agency suspects there’s a mole. Given the opportunity to internalize, Oldman keeps Smiley’s wheels spinning, but reactions tamped down. Isn’t that what a good spy does? Keep it all business? Of course, we discover several of George’s co-workers aren’t as neat about all this. They let their feelings get in the way, and ultimately, it destroys them. A dandy collection of fine British actors, including Colin Firth, Mark Strong, John Hurt, and Tom Hardy bring a lot to the table here: all make their battered and bruised agents full bodied men, even as the movie skips ruggedly around to tell their story.

The many strengths of this film include not just the cast, but also the crisp dialogue and evocative feel. We, the audience, aren’t coddled here: you ‘ve got to pay attention. Bits of information are mentioned and, if you don’t catch them, God help you. And, frankly, even if you are paying attention, you might miss a few key things here and there. I am marking that up in part as a salute to the impeccable set design,lighting and camera work.  Parts of the story take place in other cities of Europe, but, primarily, the story Is set in London, circa early 1970’s. And not the mod, shaggy hip London, either. This is the city that is damp, dank and still recovering from the Big War, all of which makes this Cold War story all the more chilling.

I Melt With You

I don’t know who was more miserable: the characters in this movie or me, watching them.

Not that Glenn Porter’s script doesn’t have some interesting ambitions. The action (and boy do I mean action) takes place during a Big Sur reunion for old college buddies, played by Thomas Jane, Jeremy Piven, Rob Lowe and Christian McKay.  Real Life isn’t going all that well for these guys, so they are more than happy to toast, smoke, pop and snort their time with each other away.  It’s a release supposedly, but we also see it’s a great shield to keep them from having to confront their own miseries and each other.

But,  Director Mark Pellington seems to lose control of all that, just as these guys do.  Jane’s ringleader supplies the house and the booze, Lowe’s prescriptions for sale doctor brings every pill he can get his hands on and McKay supplies the depression. We all know damn well, when he mentions early on, as a recognition to his friends’ support, now he can die happy, what’s going to happen. What we may not know is that Piven, the money guy they all kind of hate anyway, is just as miserable. And misery, it seems here, is contagious. Whee.

The four male stars of the film do the best they can to bring empathy to these losers, but it’s hard to warm up guys who are sweating in their own indulgence. And poor Carla Gugino: as the local law, she figures something’s up in that snazzy house on the bluff, but her character is so undeveloped, she doesn’t even get a first name. She does, however, get to stand alone, gazing over the magnificent landscape, pondering the fates of these men who pull one over on her. Honestly, I’m not sure what she was supposed to be thinking by the end of this self indulgent yuck fest, but I do know that I, too, was far happier just looking at the California scenery.

A Dangerous Method

David Cronenberg’s take on the relationship between Sigmund Freud and Carl Jung is not just a fascinating look back at the developments of psychotherapy, but very much a remarkable love story, one between two men and the woman who drove them apart.

Michael Fassbender is having quite a year, starring here as emerging psychiatrist Jung. Inspired by Sigmund Freud (a fabulous Viggo Mortensen)’s “talking cure”, the young doctor applies the psychoanalytic method in his work with an 18 year old patient, Sabina, a young wealthy Jew (an adventurous Keira Knightley) whose illness is as compelling to him as is her bourgeoning sexuality (ohoh). Consulting his mentor for help in the case, the men forge an early alliance. Yet, we are never allowed to forget that Freud is wary of his young protégé. Jung exploits his wife’s wealth, as well as his patient’s dysfunction. Hungry for fame and influenced by mysticism, he grows tired of Freud’s disapproval. The split between the men allows for the development of two schools of analytic thought of course, but also, here, provides profound drama. While we’ve seen plenty of films tell the story of an ill-fated love affair, not so often do we get to see the demise of an historic relationship between two men.

Cronenberg brings his signature touch of dread here too. It’s interesting to note that when Christopher Hampton wrote the stage play he adapted for the screen, he changed the name of John Kerr’s book from ‘A Most Dangerous Method’ to ‘The Talking Cure’. Cronenberg brings back the ‘dangerous’ big time. Sabina is a terrifying presence, ill or not. Visiting patient Otto Gross (a wonderful Vincent Cassel) teeters on the edge of horror. Jung himself is haunted by ghosts. And Freud, who comes off as the sanest of this highly intellectual bunch, several times forecasts that Jews are in for some very scary times ahead. Those lines, almost sneaked in to the dialogue, are perhaps the most chilling of all.

The Artist

This is a movie that sweeps over you like a warm breeze with a self-assured artistry as undeniable as it’s soulful lessons of love.

Michel Hazanavicius has delivered a marvelous movie: the story of a silent movie star whose glory begins to fade as the talkies take the box office by storm. Told in the fashion of the old silent films, complete with the dialogue slates and orchestrated accompaniment, we are first introduced to George Valentin (a wonderful Jean Dujardin) as he, in a movie proclaims, ‘I won’t talk: I won’t say a word’.  Acting a role, he may be spouting dialogue, but that line is a precursor of what is to come: George is a man who refuses to deal with the future. His fear of the microphone is palpable. He insists on staying true to his art, but we all wonder what is really behind his fear of change. Ultimately, it is his devoted team: the loyal chauffeur (James Cromwell) and his young protégé, the woman who loves him, talking movie sensation Peppy Miller, played by a phenomenal Berenice Bejo, who save him.

Yes, anyone who loves film will love this movie. It’s joyous look at the golden days of the screen is pretty irresistible. But you don’t have to be a film historian to appreciate the message here. All of us have a fear of change, to a certain extent. And when times are tough (and Lord knows they are now, just as they were in this Depression Era film), we tend to burrow in. But if we embrace our loved ones and jump into the unknown together, we can face even the toughest of obstacles, and maybe even wind up laughing. And who couldn’t use a reminder of that once in a while, especially when it is delivered as deftly as it is here?

The Descendants

This movie had me the minute George Clooney, as the responsible but not particularly engaged Matt King, describes himself as the “backup parent”. There aren’t too many films, or too many film characters, that will take a chance like that: immediately setting up our hero as maybe not so likeable. Thankfully, Alexander Payne does that a lot. And it’s a fine thing that George Clooney had joined him for the ride.

King is a great role for Clooney: tapping into the angst under the suave exterior. Because by all appearances, Matt’s a guy who has it all: good looking family, nice house in Hawaii, decent law practice and the biggest share of a family partnership that literally owns some very nice pieces of paradise. But, of course, there’s more to it than that and very soon, Matt is letting us know his desire to “fuck paradise”. After all, that is the place where his wife suffered a tragic boating accident, where the doctors can’t save her, where, he also discovers, she was having an affair with a real estate agent whose future might hang on the King family decision about their inheritance. Clooney is so good here, you almost forget he’s acting. And that’s the highest compliment you can pay an actor.

Yes, this is a bittersweet film about many things, but I suppose essentially, it is story about love. Matt loves his two daughters (excellent Amara Miller and Shailene Woodley): he just doesn’t know what to do with them. He also, he finds, loves his wife and, although it seems she was going to leave him, he comes to the realization he wants to do the right thing for her. He even, it seems, loves his in-laws, led by the irascible Robert Foster. Maybe the most interesting revelation, especially these days, is the love King feels for his legacy, the love he has for the land he and his fellow descendants are on the verge of selling off to a hotel developer.

 Payne, as he did in Sideways and the under appreciated About Schmidt, delivers a view of America that is unexpected and more universal than it first appears. While the Kings are literally royalty (or, in more contemporary terms, the 1%), the reality of the lives is as complicated as ours are: harsh, delicate and pretty darn entertaining.

J. Edgar

This is an awfully polite movie about a man who was anything but.

Clint Eastwood’s take on the life of J. Edgar Hoover, the controversial head of America’s Federal Bureau of Investigation for nearly 50 years, is artful and respectful. Shifting from the man’s early days to his most powerful, we see, albeit fitfully, the development of the secretive, fearful leader. Momma (the always spot on Judi Dench) was a strong influence (read shrew). She loved power and hated homosexuals. Not so good as we see John try to woo the young Helen Gandy (a wasted Naomi Watts): he’s so awkward, he can’t do anything but show her his cataloguing system for the Library of Congress. No, it’s not that he’s head over heels: (that’s ok, she’s not either). Real love doesn’t set in until Clyde Tolson (a fine Armie Hammer) walks in the door. Hoover’s partner, both personally and professionally, becomes the next most influential person in his life, but Eastwood and screenwriter Dustin Lance Black prefer to keep the reality of that relationship oh so mysterious.

As Hoover, movie star and fine actor Leonardo DiCaprio has an awful heavy load. In early scenes, where he is not burdened with tons of makeup, DiCaprio brings a fitful energy to the screen, which seems appropriate and compelling. As the years pass (which we see in a rather schizoid pattern of flashbacks and forwards), his body and enthusiasm seem buried under the startlingly thick makeup. A good actor doesn’t need so much “stuff” to tell us his character is aging: it’s especially surprising that Eastwood, who is just turning a very spry 80, doesn’t recognize that. And isn’t it odd that Black, whose work both on and off screen (he won the Oscar for ‘Milk’ and is a founding board member of the American Foundation for Equal Rights and the Trevor Project) has been direct and honest, should choose to present this allegedly closeted cross-dressing homosexual in such an ephemeral fashion? Even a scene where Edgar, in the throws of mourning, pulls his deceased mother’s dress over his head, is presented tastefully. There have been many words used to describe J. Edgar Hoover: tasteful was never one of them.

Tower Heist

Silly and well intentioned, this comic action flick feels like a big overstuffed buffet…boasting a few hearty treats and bloated with a bunch of excessive other stuff.

Ben Stiller stars as Josh, the manager of a swanky New York City condo. His favorite tenant, played by Alan Alda, turns out to be a Madoff-style swindler and counts the building’s staff amongst his victims. Josh is pissed and, feeling responsible, plots revenge. His aides-de-camp? There’s brother-in-law Casey Affleck, the recently down on his luck broker Mathew Broderick, Michael Pena, who says he knows a lot about electricity and a savvy Gaby Sidibe, whose daddy was a locksmith back in Jamaica. Together, they turn to Josh’s old childhood acquaintance, a professional thief played by the irrepressible Eddie Murphy. Oh, and let’s not forget Tea Leoni, who shows up as the FBI agent on the case and Judd Hirsch, who has so little to do, he gets locked in a closet just to give him something!

The premise, tapping into the economic stories of our times, is meaty and director Brett Ratner everything humming along. You might not even realize how much of the air has left the balloon on this one until you’re outside the theater, rehashing a heist plot that makes no sense at all. Still, there are nice moments here: a few good jokes and each performer has his or her turn to shine. But no one shines brighter than Eddie Murphy, who steals every scene he’s in, even if he’s not in enough of them.

The Ides of March

What could have been a devastating morality tale is just an entertaining-enough beach book on steroids.

George Clooney has collected a fabulous group of actors to tell what is basically a coming of age story, set in the smarmy world of contemporary politics. A fine Ryan Gosling stars as Stephen, a campaign director on the rise who has hitched his wagon to Presidential candidate Mike Morris (played nicely by Clooney himself). A true believer, Stephen commits thoroughly to his work, insisting he is married to the campaign and assuming his loyalty will pay off. Guess what happens.

It’s not that Clooney doesn’t have the stuff to have made this a far more potent picture: he does include some sharp jabs along the way, but allows them to take a back seat to the tried and true thriller plot. Even though there are superb actors playing it out, they can’t make a tired story fresh and honestly thrilling.

Marisa Tomei gets a few nice moments as a tough reporter; a totally wasted Jeffrey Wright shows up to play a manipulative politician (shocking!). I was aching to see more of Paul Giamatti and Phillip Seymour Hoffman, both of whom, as usual, make far more of what they’re given.

Ironic: this is a movie about politics that, like most politicians, promises far more than it ever delivers.

50/50

Unsentimental, smart and funny, this dramatic comedy is the best film about illness I’ve ever seen. Honestly. Because Seth Rogen and Will Rieser’s look back at cancer is insistently honest: yes, there’s a vomiting-after-chemo scene (it’s short), but more so, there are wonderful, tricky takes on the interpersonal stuff that goes along with a diagnosis. It’s not so easy being the patient, of course. But it’s also not so easy to be the loyal friend, the not-so-committed girlfriend, or the mother, either.

A fine Joseph Gordon-Levitt stars as Adam, a twenty-something public radio producer who’s told he’s got cancer of the spine. His chances? 50/50. Stunned, he plots how to share his news: buddy Kyle (Rogen), not the most subtle of people to begin with, blurts out a remarkably inappropriate, feel good-ish pep talk, frightened girlfriend (Bryce Dallas Howard) gamely goes along with the role she’s assumed to take, for a while, and Mom (a divine Anjelica Huston) announces she’s moving in. Everybody is trying to do the best they can, but the bottom line is Adam is the one that’s got to go through it. A wordless walk down a hospital corridor betrays his shattering loneliness, even in a crowded room. Some of this is a howl. Some of it is cringingly familiar (who hasn’t known what to do when a dear one is ill?). Some of it is pitiful. All of it hits right to the bone: thank God, much of the time, that bone is the funny one.

Director Jonathan Levine keeps the pace of it all humming along. And every performance (including a messy, shrink-in-training played by Anna Kendrick) is dandy. The two things I liked best about this film though are 1. It’s no bulls**t policy: Adam knows how scared he is, that the platitudes bounced at him by his perky therapist are nonsense, that his unlikely new soul mates, other chemo patients, might not make it. We don’t often see the depth of the fear and anger addressed in a movie that also remembers life does go on around a cancer patient: they want to get laid, too. And then there’s number 2: and that, for me, is the undeniable discovery that Seth Rogen is up to something far more interesting in his career than just stepping into roles that look as if they fit him like a glove. Yes, Rogen has played a laid back slackery guy in a lot of films, and he’s played them to great effect, but here, and in some other pieces he’s also produced and/or written, he expands that persona to greater, more interesting places. It may look casual, but I think there’s a reason Rogen is fast becoming one of the busiest and most surprising filmmakers of his generation.

Moneyball

Like Billy Beane’s 2002 Oakland A’s, this movie may not be a total winner, but it sure offers up a lot of memorable thrills.

Based on the true story of Beane’s remarkable year as the team’s GM, this ambitious drama tries to not just recount the story of how he, along with a trusted aide, molded a (relatively) cheap roster and into one of the most winning teams in baseball history, but also notes the intertwining importance of business, interpersonal relations and the magic of the game. It’s a heavy load and one that, frankly, co-screenwriter Aaron Sorkin handled better in The Social Network, but, even so, the script is, often, right on. Director Bennett Miller, whose best known work so far is the terrific, but far different Capote, shows an impressive, nimble touch here: the best scenes fly by, crackling like the proverbial fast pitch off a swinging bat.

Brad Pitt can’t help it if he reminds us of the young Robert Redford, who, of course, starred in The Natural, one of the greatest baseball movies ever made, and he uses his own natural talents to good effect here. Pitt’s Beane is a smart, frustrated guy: a recruited talent who gave up a hefty scholarship to Stanford in order to play ball. That didn’t work out. As a manager, he’s come close to that Series ring, but hasn’t nabbed it yet. He’s willing to change it up to try, though. And when he sees a young Peter Brand (a fine Jonah Hill) who’s got a math-inspired plan to win on a budget, Beane knows enough to not just nurture the guy, but listen to him, too.

The best scenes in the movie are very “inside” baseball, but are easily translatable to any business scenario. A meeting of the scouts, where a bunch of veterans try to convince the boss they’ve found the right players to replace free agents Damon and Giambi, is a hoot. And, later on, as Pitt and Hill work the phones on the last day of trading, our own hearts start pounding. The two of them, along with some great writing and camera work, deliver what may be the most exciting movie scene of the year, all without special effects, speeding cars or even guns.

Morality tale that it is, Moneyball takes great pains to remind us that, even in an industry that is very much of a bloated budget business, the whole thing doesn’t work if it’s all only about the bottom line. Baseball, we are reminded, is about people, about a love of the game. Beane needs to spend some time with the players before they start winning. And even the programming Brand discovers sometimes you’ve just got to turn off the computer. But, of course I knew he’d have to learn his lesson when, in an early scene, Brand tells Beane that Johnny Damon, based on his percentages, wasn’t worth the 7.5 million the Boston Red Sox paid for him. As we all know, yes, he was.

I Don’t Know How She Does It.

Do you have to be a married, working mom to really appreciate this one? Well, to be fair (one of the basic themes of this comedy), it’s not going to hurt. But even those who aren’t trying to “do it all” can find some fun in this genial, modern day rom-com.

Sarah Jessica Parker stars as Kate, the over-tasking mother of two, wife of one (who’s struggling to develop his own business), and investment banker who is not only good at her job, but loves it, too. She stays up nights, making lists of all the things she must or should do, just to keep all those balls in the air. And while everyone from the snarky class mom (a very funny Busy Phillips, usually seen on the treadmill) to her mother-in-law (Jane Curtin, who must have kind of hated some of the things she was hired to bitterly note) to her perfect assistant (a fine Olivia Munn) are all too aware of Kate’s imperfections, our frazzled heroine is kind of getting a fulfilling kick out of it. Usually. Except sometimes. Like when she misses her son’s first haircut or gets that note about lice in the classroom during a meeting that could make or break her career.

Parker is dandy; Greg Kinnear, as her cutie-pie husband, and the ever suave Pierce Brosnan, the mentor with a crush, do nicely, too. Nobody is set up as a real bad guy, except maybe for Seth Meyers’ Chris Bunce, the conniving co-worker we’ve all bumped into along the way. 

Yes, many of the plot twists or emotional complications that make up this movie (based on Allison Pearson’s best selling novel) are, shall we say familiar. But, as a card-carrying working married mom myself, I can attest, that is because they are true. We do worry (a lot) about our relationships with our husbands, our face time with the kids, our losing pace at work. And yes, we even might kind of appreciate a man who appreciates our intelligence, even if it is fractured by the occasional spit up on the lapel. But most of us, even on those days when we wish we didn’t have to divide ourselves so deep, probably would admit we love our nutso lives. Kate, upon her own reckoning, states, “trying to be a man is a waste of a woman”. I’d love to needlepoint that as a pillow. But, for now, I’ll just have to put that as one more thing on my own to do list. And maybe I’ll get to it. Someday.

Drive

It is with the utmost respect I compare Nicolas Winding Refn’s Drive to some of the seminal movies of the 1970’s….because Drive is as heartpoundingly good as it is slim, stark and hard to shake.

Ryan Gosling stars as Driver, a mysteriously quiet Hollywood stunt car driver whose nighttime job is as a getaway driver for robbers on the run. Driver is a cool cat; he does what he does with precision and a clear head. There are just two things he wants: a stock car to race and the married mother down the hall whose husband is currently serving time. As we all discover, driving is not a job you can do with your heart on your sleeve.

Refn’s staging is sparse and his pacing intense. We can’t help but fall for Driver as soon as the opening scene, where he helms the getaway for some thieves whose ineptitude forces a most creative escape. But once we are introduced to Driver’s “real life”, one filled with shady business men and innocent young things, the deal is sealed. We are all rooting for him to win, even if the game he’s playing isn’t a good one.

Gosling is just great here: it’s a beautifully measured performance. Carey Mulligan and Bryan Cranston are wonderful in support, as is Ron Perlman. But perhaps the biggest surprise is Albert Brooks, whose benevolent kingpin may be the most unexpected and deliciously horrifying work he’s ever done.

Sure, you’ll think of Taxi Driver, Bullitt and even Charles Bronson during this most bloody of contemporary pulp fiction (yeah, you’ll think of that movie, too), but if you can stomach the scenery, you’re in for one hell of a ride.

Contagion

Chilly, but not chilling, Steven Soderbergh’s story of a worldwide pandemic is oddly antiseptic.

A tantalizing handful of stars have been collected to tell what could have been a creepy and fascinating tale. After all, let’s face it: you can have your vampires and other worldly invaders, what can really scare the heck out of us is a world where every doorknob, every coffee cup, is a portal of death. And, for the beginning of this procedural drama, Soderbergh carefully remembers that. Each human touch, leaving behind the most virulent of germs, is noted, wordlessly, but indelibly. It’s enough to make the grimiest of viewers reach for the hand sanitizer.

But that icky feeling is just about the only one that reaches us here. Gwyneth Paltrow, as patient number one, isn’t around long enough for us to mourn her death. And just when we start to ache for her widowed husband (the always fine Matt Damon), the focus turns from his personal drama to that of the scientists on the case. Kate Winslet, sporting the most American of accents, leaves the Atlanta Center for Disease Control for the frosty wilds of Minneapolis, but her clipped demeanor is only notable in contrast to the almost emotionless Marion Cotillard, a doctor from the World Health Organization whose body language is so relaxed, you’d think she was in another movie altogether. Laurence Fishburne has a few nice moments as the strained official with a tad of conscience, as does Jennifer Ehle, who almost has the largest role, as a laboratory scientist. Jude Law, playing a popular blogger who’s out to blow the lid off the story, has the most fun, but the best thing about his part is a moment in which a frustrated Elliot Gould describes the online journalism concept as “graffiti with punctuation”.

The Help

Well intentioned and likeable, I would have loved this one had its take on the women of 1960’s Mississippi been a little less, pardon the expression, black and white.

Emma Stone stars as Skeeter, a college-educated young woman who aims for more to her life than bridge games and handing off the kids to a nanny. Through her gig as a home cleaning columnist for the local paper, our heroine begins to talk, yes, actually talk, to the black women who are “the help”, the ones who clean the toilets, but aren’t allowed to use them themselves. This, of course, not only enlightens but horrifies Skeeter. And all of this gets her in pretty tricky territory with the blonde housewives of Jackson.  Questions abound: Will the women sacrifice to air their plight? Will Skeeter become the big, fancy New York City writer? Will the white trash-y girl earn entrance into the local social hierarchy? Will Skeeter’s cancer-stricken mother ever confess why she lost her own ‘help’? And will Skeeter, amidst the societal shifts and tumultuous civil rights ramifications, ever find an enlightened man who will understand and support her needs? Director/writer Tate Taylor hits all the obvious talking points, but skitters over delicate, more intricate moments that would have made this movie all the more impactful.

There are a few really wonderful performances here. Octavia Spencer, taking the juiciest role of the sassy but abused Minny, bursts forth with work that is sure to make her a star. And I found Jessica Chastain, in a role as different as can be from the internal character she played so well in ‘Tree of Life’, is equally forceful. Bryce Dallas Howard, as the one-note bad girl, Hilly, does nicely, even if her biggest come-uppance is not the pie she mistakenly eats, but the cold sore she develops on her lip. Viola Davis, in the key role of Aibileen, the first of the housekeepers to cooperate with Skeeter, has the hardest work to do here. Much of the beginning of the film has Aibileen, a long suffering woman, moping around. The only times we see even a crack of life in her are when she is playing with the little girl her boss seems to not properly mother or when she, along with a few others, gossips about the white women in the other room. These scenes may not be wrong, but it’s hard to feel great affection for a women with a constantly sour expression on her face. And affection is what carries us through most of this movie. Still, it must be noted, once the script opens up and allows Davis more room, she is terrific, earning for Aibileen not just respect but our hearts.

Rise of the Planet of the Apes

This nonsensical tale, by tapping into our most basic emotions, delivers a science fiction movie that makes profound sense, especially right now.

After all, we do have to give up quite a bit of suspension of disbelief here. We must buy the idea that scientist James Franco, huddled in his lab and caring for his Alzheimer-stricken dad, wouldn’t have a girlfriend. Then, when one moves in (the miraculously beautiful Frieda Pinto), the brilliant veterinarian doesn’t figure out he’s been using his pet ape for scientific experiments in the attic for five years. And then there’s that whole talking monkey thing.

But, effectively, none of that ultimately matters much here. This prequel is not only visually stunning, but also morally intriguing. We watch, horrified, as an ape is captured in the forest, separated from her pack. Of course we understand our researcher’s excitement over possibly finding a cure for dementia, but we are also, unlike him, uneasy as he conducts tests on animals. Should or should he not continue his father’s sad existence by pumping him full of questionable medicines? And, yes, we just can’t help but root for the apes, as they turn the metabolic tables on the humans who have purposely or inadvertently hurt them. Who among us has not felt the all too human, or is it animal, pain of abuse and drive for self-defense?

Of course, the balance gets tipped and we are all left wondering just who the heroes are here. But by that time, an extraordinary team of visual masters have taken the reigns and, by digitally mastering the apes as they conquer the Golden Gate Bridge, created one of the most memorable action scenes of the past several years.

A fine chapter of the series, this one serves up the thrills as well as plenty to think about afterwards.

Cowboys and Aliens

Considering its pedigree, I was expecting (and hoping) for more, but, as it stands, the mash up of genres still entertains.

Daniel Craig wakes up on a dusty desert floor, in the New Mexican territory, circa 1875. He’s got amnesia and one heck of a piece of hardware wrapped around his wrist. Making his way back into town, our mysterious hero meets up with all sorts of standard characters, including Sam Rockwell’s wimpy barkeep, Olivia Wilde’s beautiful neighbor-with-a-story, David Carradine’s (nice to see him, by the way) well meaning Sherriff, and, my particular favorite, Harrison Ford’s rich and cranky landowner, who’s used to ruling the roost until things get so out of control, even he needs a hand. It’s not giving anything away to tell you the aliens have landed and these aren’t the warm and fuzzy E.T. types.

We all know it is never a particularly good sign when there are more than, say, two or three screenwriters on a project. Here, there are nine people credited. Some of those people, incidentally, are among the best in the business: Damon Lindelof (Lost) leading the way. And then there’s the almost never-ending list of producers. There are 16 of those, including Ron Howard, Brian Grazer and Stephen Spielberg. Director Jon Favreau is the man who made Iron Man such a smash. With a collection of such notable talent, why are there so many lulls in this movie, moments in between action scenes where your mind can’t help but wander to the good old days of Close Encounters and even Cocoon?

Perhaps I digress. If you lower your expectations, this movie offers up tons of action, a lot of good old cowboy dirt kickin and even a few laughs. And while the science fiction scenes may not be the state of the art stuff we saw in Avatar, they do the job. For audiences looking for a diversion from the real life news of the day, these cowboys remind us real tough guys do (or did?) exist.

Crazy, Stupid Love

I love this movie. Crazy, smart, loving and laugh out loud funny, this romantic comedy is the best of its kind not just for this, but for many recent years.

Steve Carell and Julianne Moore have been married forever. Leaving the kids at home with the babysitter, they go out for a nice dinner. She’s dressed in heels: he’s wearing old sneakers. What about this picture doesn’t fit? Guess. She wants a divorce; he’s blindsided. And off we go.

Writer Dan Fogelman has created a multi-generational story that not only speaks to the perils of love for adults, but also to young singles and even teenagers. And you don’t even get the feeling he wrote all that to be crassly commercial: he (and the rest of the people involved) treat each age group’s issues with honestly, respect and a good dose of necessary humor. Some of the lines, well, many of the lines were so dead-on hilarious, I couldn’t write them down to quote them to you fast enough. I suggest you just go and discover how terrific they are for yourself.

Also terrific is the cast, all of whom stand out on their own, even though they are essentially revolving around Steve Carell’s mystified Cal. Julianne Moore’s always good, of course, but especially surprising is Ryan Gosling, a great actor who just may become a top popular draw thanks to his slyly hilarious performance as Cal’s new best friend. It seems no one is hotter than the wonderful Emma Stone right now and her work here is proof the camera loves her as much as audiences do. Marisa Tomei and Kevin Bacon show up for short, memorable turns and real kudos to young Annaleigh Tipton and Jonah Bobo, who remind us all how gloriously miserable first love can be.

Directors Glenn Ficarra and John Requa mount all of this with such assured ease, it makes you wonder why more movies can’t flow like this. Sure, the movie may not be perfect, but it sure is perfectly entertaining.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2

This, the final chapter, is a remarkable achievement: as piercingly true as it is astonishingly magical.

Plunging in right where the first half left off, screenwriter Steve Kloves and director David Yates throw in a few short references so we can all get our bearings again. In almost a flash, we know we are about to forge in to the greatest battle of them all, a master showdown between Harry and Lord Voldemort.

You don’t have to be a Potter-head to appreciate this movie. To be honest, as all sorts of legendary references were being tossed about, I found myself blissing out on the jaw dropping sets, the honestly scary action scenes and yes, even the performances themselves. Understandably, everybody who can shows up, if just for a little bit in this finale. How good it is to see Robbie Coltrane, Gary Oldman and even Tom Felton (Draco) again. I can never get enough of Maggie Smith, John Hurt or Alan Rickman, who is just great here. And while Rupert Grint and Emma Watson (Ron and Hermione) don’t get as much to do, it is dandy to see what a full bodied, adult performance Daniel Radcliffe delivers as Harry. His fear becomes our fear, his courage, our own, too. Real acting amongst the ruins and dazzle. Not an easy thing to pull off, but Radcliffe does it, with aplomb.

Call me sentimental, but I found this particular film the most mature of the series, and also the most infectiously emotional. In other words, I cried. Well, just a little. But to be that drawn in by a fantasy, no matter how fantastic? I’d say that just solidifies this Harry as not only a great entertainment, but a wholly satisfying one as well.

Snow Flower and the Secret Fan

This clumsy adaptation of Lisa See’s popular novel may not be the biggest problem Rupert Murdoch’s got on his plate, but it sure isn’t going to help things, either.

Producers Wendi Murdoch (Mrs. Rupert) and Florence Sloan, whom, it is carefully noted in the production bio, graduated from college with honors, have gone on record to say they loved this best selling story of two women in early 19th Century China, but felt that “it needed to come to the screen in an alive, contemporary fashion that would be accessible to today’s audiences and across cultures”. In other words, let’s change the whole thing. And so they, along with director Wayne Wang and three screenwriters (Angela Workman, Ron Bass and Michael K. Ray), did. Now this historical love saga is a bi-generational tale, mostly taking place in modern day, as two former best friends, essentially, break up and find each other once again, all while comparing their relationship to one of their ancestors.

The biggest problem with all this is that even with all the shifting of eras, the parallels of rituals and the insistence upon reminding us of women have always been their own greatest allies in this big, horrible male dominated world, we never feel much real emotion between the two best friends. Li Bing Bing is a beautiful young actress, but in dual roles, slogs through each with a dourness that is supposed to stand in for sadness, anger, devotion and maybe even sexual tension. Gianna Jun gets to have a little more fun, playing the more interesting of the two modern day women, and doing her best as the Snow Flower of the title. And, perhaps as a nod to the international box office, a role has been created for Hugh Jackman. He doesn’t get to do much acting, but is allowed a song and dance number, which wakes things up for a short spurt, if only because it’s just so weird. And, since he’s the biggest globally known star in the bunch, it’s even weirder that his name does not appear in the credits. Wonder what that’s all about?

Much is made of the former horrifying practice of binding a woman’s feet: I did get kind of a kick out a teeny scene where our oh so chic heroine kicks off her Leboutians, and rubs her reddened tootsies. Maybe we haven’t come so far after all, baby.

Horrible Bosses

Would I have really enjoyed this trio-in-trouble comedy if I hadn’t felt it was a force feed of the Hangover formula? Sure. But, even if what could have been a dandy dip into the dark side has been pushed and shoved into what was a winning concept before, this starry package still delivers a few good laughs.

Jasons Bateman and Sudeikis, along with their buddy Charlie Day (he’s the Galifanakis here) are basically decent guys, stuck with the worst bosses in the world. Given the juicier roles of the bad guys, Kevin Spacey and an almost unrecognizable Colin Farrell run with them and yes, even if Spacey can do this kind of thing in his sleep, it still is fun to watch. Jennifer Aniston, as the sex crazed dentist who can’t keep her hands off her newly engaged and straight laced hygienist, : not so much. Yes, she does horrible things, but being forced into sex with Jennifer Aniston? My male friends tell me this is not so horrible. And so it is up to Charlie Day to supply the laughs in this specter of the prism and he does that nicely. Even when the trio decides they have to off the bosses, their gang who couldn’t shoot straight feels affectionately goofy, kind of like, say Danny DeVito’s Throw Mama From the Train, which is deferentially referenced.

The best, freshest joke of them all revolves around Jamie Foxx’s sleezy ex-con, who manages to convince the guys to hire him as a ‘murder consultant’.  I’m not going to give it away, but that one line, explaining Foxx’s past, may be the most spot on and hilarious movie moment of the year. Wish there were more of them, but, hey, this one in total, isn’t horrible at all.

A Better Life

Chris Weitz’s light touch has made this incredibly timely immigrant story especially profound.

We have seen several retellings of the “coming-to-a-better-land-for-the-children” theme and certainly none could be more profound at this particular time in America. An astonishing Demian Bichir stars as a Mexican gardener, working to beautify Los Angeles homes as his own is barely sustainable. His wife dead, our struggling single dad is having relatable (no matter what your heritage) problems with his young teenage son (newcomer Jose Julian), a boy who’d rather skip school and show distain for the work ethic so strongly displayed by his father. The ensuing story winds not just around the father/son dynamic, but also that of what is the life of these landscape workers. It’s not just about making things pretty, but about having a truck. And how can you have a truck, if you can’t get a driver’s license? And what happens if the police find you, driving illegally? What happens to the child you risked all to raise here in America?

Veteran Weitz, whose grandmother is Mexican, comes to the passion of the movie naturally and his is a wise decision to not over play the inherent political issues. We may all see what’s coming, but to let our own hearts pound out the message makes the impact of it all so much more real. And personal. Maybe by reaching not just the minds, but also the souls of the audience, the lessons witnessed may change a few votes as well.

Green Lantern

If, indeed, it is true there are only seven original stories in this world, surely the super-hero comic genre’s got a corner on the market on one of them. Now, even the people behind the mounting of this same-old same-old seem kinda bored by it all.

For the blissfully uninitiated, our unlikely masters of the universe (usually men) are plucked from some kind of tragic Earthly childhood. These guys don’t want to be so special, but hey, the Earth needs saving. Their love interests, (who most often need saving too) are initially freaked out by the situation, then, almost bashfully turned on. There’s a small group of buds who deal, one always-an-outsider-anyway who gets his own dose of whatever the potion is and wreaks what he feels is understandable revenge.  Sound familiar?

Here, director Martin Campbell has delivered a perfunctory version of said story: filling in the blanks with the names of the Green Lantern characters. And he has collected a nice group of actors to do so. Ryan Reynolds cuts quite the figure as the dashing pilot Hal who, of course, is The Chosen One. Blake Lively does her best as the girl, I mean the brilliant pilot business brain who loves him. Mark Strong is semi-disguised as a Lantern leader and the wonderful Peter Sarsgaard slips so comfortably into the role of mumbling scientist Hector, he provides the just about the only real spark to this extensively produced production.

Yes, there are tons of effects. Some of them are even good. But they, too, seem to pop up as if on cue, making sure the steady rhythm of the movie is maintained. The biggest disappointment to me was the lackluster artistry of the Big Kahuna, or whatever that billowing bad guy’s name is, who shows up to dominate the universe or something like that at the end. He’s just kind of ugly.

Interestingly, critics were offered screenings in both 2 and 3-D. I went for the 3, not being one to refuse the opportunity to once again, don those lovely glasses. While there were a few nice zoomy effects to be seen, there weren’t a whole lot of them. Perhaps the filmmakers are as tired of having to use this visual gimmick as they seem to be with these stories themselves?

X Men: First Class

Director Matthew Vaughn has shaken the cobwebs off the franchise and confidently delivered this prequel as a first class blockbuster.

After an initial, harrowing set up which takes place in a Nazi death camp, the action quickly shifts to 1962, in an America caught up in a Cold War. Charles Xavier is recruited by the CIA and, tapping in to those mind reading powers of his, he not only gets what needs to be done, but also manages to collect a few more of his own, “special” men and women. There’s a group of young, unfocused people, led by Charles’s sister-y Raven, but the real guts to this group is the difficult friendship between the calm Charles and his polar opposite, Eric, the man whose unique specialty and tortured soul lead him to become the enemy, Magneto. Seeing how the X-Men school developed is pretty cool (imagine watching the founding of Hogwarts!), but it’s this key relationship which gives not just “First Class”, but the rest of the series its most profound punch.

Tapping into the all-too real fears of the time, including the Russians and the Cuban Missile Crisis, is smart: I hope purists won’t get crazy with the obviously revisionist spin here. Of course it’s doubtful World War III was really averted by these mutants, but by allowing this conceit, we sure do get to see some pretty cool special effects.  As a child of the Submarine Capital of the World, I especially got a kick out of seeing what happens to one of them in this scenario. Wheee!

Adding to the first class story, script and effects is the remarkable cast. Maybe James McAvoy doesn’t look like Patrick Stewart (although there’s a pretty cute joke about that), but he’s wonderfully effective as a leader-in-the-making.  All the buzz about Michael Fassbender is well earned: his Eric is suave, pained and pissed.  In the pretty standard role of the bad guy, Kevin Bacon does some nifty stuff. Jennifer Lawrence is appealing as the wanna be normal Raven and January Jones cuts quite the sharp figure as a frosty nemesis.

Perhaps, when fan boys line up the movies in order, there will be mismatches and discrepancies. I hope not. Because watching the early days of the X Men story is great fun all on its own and, hopefully, also as a key part of a newly re-energized series.

The Hangover, Part II

In this world of give-‘em-what-they-want, the team behind the 2009 comedy hit has reconvened to try and do just that. Too bad it doesn’t work.

Part duh, I mean, two, has Bradley Cooper, Ed Helms and Zach Galifanakis joining up for yet another wedding. This time it’s Stu’s (Helms) and the gang has to travel to Thailand for the nuptials. OK; so far, so good. Cooper’s Phil is still a party-hungry animal toting his baby to the tame bachelor bash Stu has organized at IHOP.  Alan (Galifanakis), now self-described as a ‘stay at home son’, is anxious to the point of anxiety not to be left out. Begrudgingly, he’s invited along and we await the good times to roll.

Natch, it all goes terribly wrong and the guys wake up in some yucky hotel room somewhere. Doug (Justin Bartha) isn’t there (he got off relatively easy last time, too, remember) and now, neither is Teddy, Stu’s soon to be brother in law. Oh oh. Conveniently, Chow, played by Ken Jeong, is and he fills the guys in on the fact that they’re in Bangkok before apparently dropping dead after hitting the cocaine a little too hard.

Oh no? What will happen now?

Anyone who saw the original, very funny film knows. But it’s not just the unoriginal scripting that’s a problem here. The few initial jokes that start the film give way to long stretches where I, and the audience I sat with, barely giggled. What I missed most was what hooked me the first time: the real relationship between these guys, who were honestly desperate in Vegas because they had lives, wives, something to lose. All of that has just kind of fizzled out here, leaving Ed Helm’s frantic jumping up and down seem weird. Not that those children-smoking-dope fantasies and surprise sexual encounter with a transvestite don’t give weird a run for its money.

The Tree of Life

Ambitious and imperfect, stunning and overwhelming, profound and perplexing, Terrence Malick’s mediation on human life and our place in the universe is one of the most arguably exciting movies to come along in years.

Told in the most of non-linear ways, this drama focuses, pretty acutely, on a family in 1950’s Texas. We watch their everyday joys and see how, one by one, they try to cope with not just set backs, but the worst of experiences. Slit into this continuing story is a flash ahead to contemporary times, as one of the sons, now grown, spends a key day shaken by his memories. But Malick is not content to do things the usual way. He also insists on trying to put all of this into perspective, allowing for how this family tale fits into the life of the universe itself. What, he lets them think, is their relationship with God and why does the Almighty allow bad things to happen? And, in the grand history of the planet, what does all of it matter?

Phew.

Counterpointing his spectacularly filmed human story is a string of meditative series of images, visual effects I don’t think that have ever been used to this effect in film before (although at several points,  Kubrick’s 2001: A Space Oddessy did pop to mind). We see what Malick and his team (including scientists from all over the world with his veteran special effects people) post as the beginnings of the world. It’s very cool to think of how they accomplished these jaw droppingly exquisite, state of the art pieces, even cooler to sit back and let them wash over you. Of course, that requires patience. And a big time willing suspension of disbelief, which many traditional movie goers are going to have a very hard time doing.

Besides all that, it should be noted that Brad Pitt gives a remarkable performance as the Father; Jessica Chastian, commanding as the Mother. Some scenes may go on too long, some of the allegorical bits may be off-putting. But while the characters in this story are praying for understanding, I, for one, am just thankful there is a place in this world for an outlandishly, outrageously creative and ambitious film such as this.

Pirates of the Caribbean: On Stranger Tides

I don’t usually like to review a movie through the prism of its budget, but, after spending a reported $200 million, shouldn’t this one be more of a wow?

It’s not that this chapter of the ride-inspired ride of a flick doesn’t have its good points. New director Rob Marshall has brought some new life to the sagging (artistically, if not financially) franchise. Penelope Cruz, as a potential love interest for Johnny Depp, and Ian McShane, the infamous Blackbeard, are fun additions. And, tapping into his theatrical roots, Marshall, who remember brought the musical back to the movies with Chicago, offers up a couple of dandy action scenes, most notably an underwater mermaid sequence that is not just beautiful but downright terrifying as well. Wish there had been more of that quality along the way.

But, alas, that is not to be. The set up for this chapter is land-locked. Captain Jack Sparrow and Barbossa, it seems, are in Londontown, and both assigned to separately seek the Fountain of Youth. While Depp and daddy Keith Richards have a cute moment, the rest of this part of the story is decidedly aimed at the kiddies, with slapsticky humor, if you can call it that. We then proceed to a dullish section, good for taking said kiddies to the restrooms. But things definitely pick up when the legend brings in the mermaids and all that silly repetitive swashbuckling meets its match.

The 3-D effects are ok; so, too, is Hans Zimmer’s swirling score. I liked movie newcomer Sam Claflin (hello!), who is added for a Prince-ly effect. More good news: Geoffrey Rush is given moments to shine (if you pardon the movie-pun) and he does. And then there’s Johnny. Like most of the rest of this series, Captain Jack has been watered down to a more perhaps socially acceptable sort. It’s always great to watch Depp and he’s fine here, but nothing more. Frankly, I liked Sparrow best when, in the first movie, I couldn’t understand half of what he was saying. Now, bowing to the crowd, we discover, it ain’t much.

Bridesmaids

Ask anyone who’s been there: being a bridesmaid is quite the experience. Rich in good intentions, ripe for disaster, I’m amazed no one has centered a movie about it before. But now, thanks to Kristin Wiig, her writing partner Annie Mumolo, Judd Apatow and Paul Fieg, we’ve got a dandy femme-centric, outrageously funny and downright smart comedy that nails one of the most emotionally wrought feminine rites of passage.

Wiig plays Annie, a mid-west woman of a certain age whose best friend forever, Lillian, has just gotten engaged. Suddenly, all those middle of the night booty calls with a marvelously loopy Jon Hamm aren’t so satisfying anymore. And it hurts even deeper that the bakery she so lovingly ran with the ex-boyfriend crashed along with the economy. And who the hell is this new best friend of Lillian’s? The one whose rich husband works with Lill’s intended; the one who can afford to fly the bride off to Paris for the trip Annie always wanted to go on with her BFF? Annie is on a downward spiral. And she’s supposed to be happy Lillian isn’t?

Sure, there’s a lot of over the top silliness here: commercial and too drawn out. But, what makes this movie more than just another fleetingly promising Saturday Night Live skit for the talented Wiig is the wisdom in its very large heart. Real life best buds, Wiig and Maya Rudolph bring an honesty to their scenes that is palpable. Charming Irishman Chris O’Dowd makes Annie’s future seem bright to us, even if she’s a little slow on the pickup. All the women in this movie (including, sadly, the last performance from Jill Clayburgh) are given real characters to play, pretty fully realized even if they are not the center of attention. Outstanding in this regard is the overweight, overbearing sister-in-law, played to perfection by Melissa McCarthy. Even laden with some of the movie’s most potentially embarrassing moments, this assured actress creates a woman to be dealt with and it’s a pleasure.

Everything Must Go

Based on a Raymond Carver short story, this poignant indie has a lot going for it. Not only is there a finely wrought slice-of-life lesson here, but there’s also a wonderful cast playing it out, lead by a surprisingly wonderful Will Ferrell.

Ferrell plays Nick, a sales pro who, in the first moments of the movie, is laid off from his job. After having tried to take some revenge (doesn’t go too well), our hero pulls into his driveway, only to find all his possessions tossed onto the front lawn, the locks on the doors changed. Seems his marriage is over, too. Not a good day. And so he plops into the Barcalounger, slips back, pours himself a few and waits. After all, what left is there to do?

A small handful of people populate Nick’s old and new world, bringing singed memories and maybe even some hope for the future. Essential in this is the new, pregnant neighbor, played with signature elegance by Rebecca Hall. But, while the story is sufficient to keep us engaged and director Dan Rush stages it with a careful lightness, the only real wow here is Ferrell himself. Often, when comic actors, or at least actors who have made their most commercially successful work in comedies, take on a more dramatic role, they over do it, frowning instead of clowning. Ferrell shakes off all that most admirably and gives a performance that quietly, self-confidently pulls us in. His disappointed failure is honest, subtle and at times, even downright dislikeable. Which, of course, makes him ultimately all the more compelling.  Bravo, Will.

Something Borrowed

How annoying is this movie? This watered down chick-flick gives not just chicks, but flicks a bad name.

Based on the best selling novel, what we’ve got here is a cleaned up version of betrayal. It’s a little tacky that 30 year old  buttoned up Rachel would sleep with her BFF’s fiancé on the eve of her wedding, so the ickiness of what made the book more textured than it was sold as, has been polished up for the mainstream movie crowd. It’s ok, you know, because before jumping on each other’s bones in the cab, Rachel and Dex let it slip they’ve been in love with each other since law school. Awww. And come on, we can see Dex couldn’t really love Darcy. I mean she gets drunk (at the surprise birthday party she arranged for said best friend since forever) and wears slinky clothes and well, she kind of looks and acts like, let’s face it, a slut.

The usually terrific Ginnifer Goodwin is swamped here. Not allowed to show the slightest hint of complexity, her Rachel clunks along, sort of romantically holding on in case Dex Does The Right Thing. Or if she and Darcy manage to Rekindle What Made Them Best Best Best Friends. We all suffer through the nonsense, as the gang that seems to loathe one another shares the most perfect Hamptons summer house, eat in fabulous Manhattan restaurants and go for bridal fittings. So fun!!!! Kate Hudson manages to pull out a few nice moments as the Dazzling Darcy, but the only decent charm at all comes from the wonderful John Krasinski, who plays Rachel’s wise man-in-waiting. He’s an actor I probably would enjoy watching in anything. And now I feel as if I have.

The Beaver

Yes, I was fascinated by Jodie Foster’s new, earnest drama, but not for the reasons she may have intended. Were any other actor cast as the depressive alcoholic, intent on self destruction, it would have been easier, or cleaner, to watch the story unfold and review it as such. But Foster brought in her friend Mel Gibson to play the role and it is quite remarkable to watch him act as an angry, bewildered, out of control man.

Walter Black is a chronically depressed husband, father and owner of a toy manufacturing company. Unable to tap into the root of his problems, Walter pushes everyone and everything away, until he is alone in a dingy hotel room, swigging a few before trying to commit suicide. Attempt failed, our anti-hero literally stumbles across his salvation: somebody’s old puppet, a beaver Mel slips over his hand and uses as a mechanism for expressing his feelings. This conceit can only get Walter so far, of course, but while it works, his family, co-workers and the media are not all that unhappy to play along.

Foster not only directs, but co-stars, as Gibson’s anxious wife. Interestingly, it is she who brings the lightest touch here: getting just a bit weirded out in the bedroom, begging the man she loves to go for professional help. The terrific young actors, Anton Yelchin and Jennifer Lawrence are quite fine, too. But all eyes in this movie are on Mel. Sure, his performance is assured and sensitive. Gibson has not been an international superstar for so long just based on his good looks. But I, for one, couldn’t shake the almost overwhelming curiosity of the whole thing I was watching. As filming was taking place, the star was also dealing with his own very public real life domestic drama. And let’s not forget the infamous rage of Gibson’s notorious alcohol infused encounter with an L.A. police officer.(Just as an aside: how did Matt Lauer and Jon Stewart act as interviewers in this movie and not throw down the script and go for what would have been quite the conversation?) Aren’t the lessons learned in this movie ones that might be helpful to the actor, as a man? How can anyone not draw the parallels here?  Could it be that Foster, who has gone on the record as a loyal ally of Gibson’s, made this small, poignant drama about depression and redemption as a gift of love to her friend?

Water for Elephants

Is it damning praise to declare this adaptation a good old fashioned movie? Because director Francis Lawrence’s version of the popular novel is good. And yes, it is old fashioned. And appropriately so.

For those who didn’t read the book, Water for Elephants is a passionate love story, set in the Depression era.  Jacob, a college veterinary student, suddenly orphaned and penniless, finds a new life as he jumps into a passing railcar. Turns out he literally has hopped aboard a traveling circus and he learns quite quickly that world is not all fun and games. Eventually brought in to the “family” and accepted as an intimate of the ringmaster and his animal trainer wife, our young hero enters a dangerous, desperate triangle. Of course, he falls in love with the decent, beautiful Marlena, but he also is all too aware of the power, magnetism and violent power her husband August wields.

Richard LaGravenese’s script strips away some, but not all of the harsh reality depicted in the Sara Gruen’s best seller. The focus here is on love: the love between humans and also between humans and animals. There’s no denying the effectiveness of the performances from the sizzling Christoph Waltz, as well as the quietly magnetic Reese Witherspoon. Robert Pattinson, best known, of course, for the Twilight series, acquits himself very well here, as the struggling young Jacob. But if I, as a viewer, fell in love with anybody, it was Rosie The Elephant, a smart and loyal friend who is often abused by the megalomaniac killer, August. While most of the violence in this story happens off screen, just about no scene ripped into my stomach as the one where Rosie, behind closed doors, is whipped by her furious owner. Psychologists today insist there is a correlation between those who would hurt an animal and those who lash out at people. Never in recent film history has that lesson been made more emphatically than it is here.

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