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Avatar

Imperfect as it is, Avatar is still essential viewing for anyone who cares about the future of the movies. Because Jim Cameron’s visual epic presents effects we’ve never seen before,  not just offering thrills but setting the bar for the genre: making your daddy’s special effects now just a pretender in today’s new world.

Yes, there is a story here. Jake Sully, (Sam Worthington) a former Marine, now confined to a wheelchair, is recruited to Pandora, an otherworldly outpost where there’s a mineral to be mined that just could save the Earth. Because the environment on the alien world is toxic to what we call people, the humans must go through some kind of complicated scientific process, allowing them to temporarily adopt Avatar bodies, infiltrate the natives and get that much needed ore. That’s the plan, anyway. When Sully is reborn, his first emotional awakening is to the pleasure of being able to walk again. Then, as he is taught the spiritual lessons of the indigenous Na’vi, and, of course, he meets the beautiful local princess, our hero must decide which of his two worlds is worth saving.

If only Cameron had invested 1/100th of the creative energy he and the animators from Peter Jackson’s WETA Digital company put into the look of the thing toward the script, boy, what this could have been. But, as obsessed with perfection and knock your socks off visuals as the Avatar team is, they also allowed for a pretty formulaic storyline to hook it to. We’ve seen this plot countless times before but, who knows, maybe that was the thinking: we don’t have to take our eyes away from the dazzle to worry about silly little things like memorable dialogue.

OK, so it isn’t perfect. But those effects are amazing. I found myself audibly gasping at the sparking 3-D, the beautiful floating mountains, those incredible horses and flying Banshees. And the actors, all CGI’ed, look pretty cool, too. Visually, the movie seems to top itself, scene after scene. Technology buffs can have a field day here, wondering what happened to make all these remarkable breakthroughs. But I, for one, was just as entertained, not constantly asking, “How’d they do that?” but just simply marveling, “wow: they did that!”

Crazy Heart

Sometimes you don’t have to reinvent the wheel to steer right into the heart. Scott Cooper’s Crazy Heart does just that.

We’ve seen the story of the washed up country singer many times before. But never have we seen Jeff Bridges play it. And it’s been worth the wait. As the struggling Bad Blake, Bridges brings a slow hum of anger to his alcoholic has-been. Bad knows he’s too talented to have wound up playing bowling alleys, puking up the booze he scored from the star struck small town liquor store owner. And yet, here he is. Haranguing his agent, Blake finally gets an offer to open for a younger, bigger star. But there’s history between these two and, as desperate as he is, Bad just can’t get out of his own way.

Then, in walks Maggie Gyllenhaal. She’s there to interview him, but we all know what’s gonna happen here. And it’s good, too. But is Bad a good enough man to keep it going?

Full confession: I have always loved watching Jeff Bridges’ work. From the quintessential Dude, to the wide eyed Starman, Bridges’ has always endeared me with his ease, confidence and smarts. There’s always much more going on in his performances than what immediately hits the eye. And his Bad Blake is no exception. This is a guy whose fury is a slow burn: when it explodes, he’s afire. But, when he’s performing, you know he knows he’s home. His surprise at falling in love is even more enchanting to behold. And, in perhaps her best work to date, Gyllenhaal is just as winning. She had me from the minute she appeared on screen. It’s always nice to see Robert Duvall show up (he produces, also), but perhaps the biggest surprise here is Colin Farrell, who, in a small but key role, doesn’t just keep it grounded and interesting, but, heck: he sings too! And well!

Which leads us to the music. T-Bone Burnett, whose film credits include the spectacular music of Brother, Where Art Thou?, has done it again. There’s not a lot of songs here, but what there is, is great stuff. Kind of like this small, but shining movie.

The Lovely Bones

When I first heard Peter Jackson was to direct the film version of this delicate best seller, I was, shall we say, surprised. After all, he of Lord of the Rings and King Kong fame, is not known for his light touch. However, when I saw the actual movie, I got it. Jackson wanted to play with heaven.

In case you don’t know, The Lovely Bones was a hugely popular novel about a murdered teenager, watching as the world below tries to comes to grips with her death. While it certainly enraptured those comforted by the idea of our ability to maintain some sort of relationship with those who have passed away, the book also was notable thanks to its delicate handling of what is a perfectly awful situation. Let’s not forget a young girl was brutally butchered before all the heavenly fun could begin.

Jackson never lets us forget. Fran Walsh and Philippa Boyens screenplay veers the story right toward the murder. We spend as much time with young Susie before her untimely demise as we do afterwards, insuring we are as  devastated as are her parents when she is lured into the underground crime scene. Once Susie does ascend, Jackson, who has told the story up till that point with a surprising traditional approach, goes for broke. His dreamscape of what heaven looks like is as imaginary as are any of the sets in the Rings pictures. But, almost dazzlingly bright, especially in contrast to the dim look at Earth, we almost feel as if we need sunglasses to watch.

Young Saoirse Ronan, who was such a smash in Atonement, does a fine job as the child, stuck in a netherworld, hoping for revenge upon her killer. And as that horrifying sicko, Stanley Tucci gives an astonishing performance. It’s not just his look that he’s changed, it’s his voice, his walk, his attitude. As fascinating as it is to see his work, I, for one, found myself cringing every time he was on screen. The movie seems weighted toward him, which not only doesn’t follow the book, but also dumbs the piece down, making it almost like an ordinary who done it, albeit with very fancy art pieces about what’s upstairs.

Invictus

Clint Eastwood has developed an almost ego-less directorial style that is quite remarkable: he stands tall, tells the story and gets out of the way. With Invictus, Eastwood’s got quite the story to tell.

When Nelson Mandela was elected the first black President of South Africa, he inherited quite a mess. (Sound familiar, anyone?) Given a political mandate, the leader was faced with the legacy of apartheid. Even the blacks and whites in his own administration didn’t trust each other. How could the country succeed when its own citizens carried the intrinsic fear of their fellow countrymen? Mandela, savilly, began to notice the whites’ concerns about their future paralleling their disappointment in the national rugby team. Recognizing an opportunity, he decided to do something about that.

Yes, Invictus is a movie about the South African team winning the 1995 Rugby World Cup. But, of course, it is also about so much more. Told almost in bullet points, we see how Mandela came upon his inspiration, nudged the team’s captain toward success both on and off the field, dealt with his own personal heartaches, went to international summits hours after collapsing from exhaustion, had an eye for the ladies and relished being in the spotlight of his people. The only time Eastwood gets emotional is when he allows a few unnecessary songs to play, telling us all too specifically what we should be feeling. The film would have been much better off had he taken a few extra minutes to fill in the blanks, give us all a little flavorful downtime in between chapter headings.

And yet, you can’t help but do the math yourself, watching this true and inspirational story. It is remarkable to see Mandela’s brilliant political instincts at work, even when those around him are trying to get him off his oh so determined track. And, thanks to two fine leading performances, we do get the emotion of the thing. Matt Damon has served up two very different, excellent characters on screen this year. He’s just great in The Informant and he’s as far from that guy, but equally as terrific, here. And then there’s Morgan Freeman as Mandela. And yes, he is every bit as good as you’d think he’d be. Freeman and Eastwood, after several spins around the movie dance floor together, are clearly on the same page. Be the man. And when the man is as strong, smart and interesting as Nelson Mandela, being that man is pretty remarkable all on its own.

Up in the Air.

It’s almost impossible to imagine this bittersweet love story hitting the screen at any other time in recent history and yet, word is, director Jason Reitman started adapting Walter Kim’s novel about the frequently flying some five years ago. The world, as you may remember, was a pretty different place then. Today, this story of people who are hired to fire other people brings a timely punch to the gut that, almost by accident, adds a resonance that’s hard to shake.

George Clooney has been suave and charming in movies before (in probably all of them, actually), but he has hardly ever brought the sense of vulnerability he betrays here. Women will swoon; guys will admire his got-it-all-figured-out shtick. After all, his impeccable Ryan isn’t just really great at laying off the laid off, he’s also amazing at working the system. The business travel system, that is. This is a guy who’ll do anything for the mileage, who knows how to always book the swankiest room and the where the free breakfasts are. He’s got goals: to make the airline’s top flying rank and to be invited to present his theory of life (it’s got something to do with an empty backpack) at the best convention going. But then two women show up. There’s Alex (Vera Farmiga), a woman who confesses she’s just like him, but “with a vagina” and young Natalie (Anna Kendrick), the smart kid who’s trying to revamp the company’s system and therefore, ruin Ryan’s oh so well organized life.

Good taste precludes me from telling you what happens. But I’d love to talk to you about it. What is admirable about the three main characters in this film is how beautifully drawn and acted they are. The supporting characters? Not so much. But there is a conversation to be had about what makes both the women, very compelling cookies, do what they do and I’d love to have it. But not now: gives too much away.

It is, however, perfectly appropriate to share just how smart, sad and true much of this movie really is. Clooney gives his most complex romantic performance to date, Farmiga and Kendrick make their co-leading ladies as interesting and of the moment as is the rest of the best of this very grounded movie.

Everybody's Fine

In this remake of a 1990 Italian film (Stanno Tutti Bene), Robert De Niro stars as the recently retired widower, living a lonely life in upstate New York. It sums up a lot to say that this former maker of telephone wire, the material that carries communication between people, cannot communicate with what’s left of his own family. Some might say poetic. Some might say, “oh please.”

Most of the people who attended the screening I went to left the room choking back tears, confessing shyly out of the corner of their mouths, “You don’t understand. That’s my father!” And for those who can relate to this crisis upon crisis melodrama, there will surely be affection for the old guy. After all, when DeNiro wants to turn it on, nobody can wrench the heart strings better. He even got me loving the young Don Corleone, when he just gazed at his ailing baby son. Remember? So you can just imagine how it works now, stooped just a bit, grizzled puffy cheeks, trying to get someone to talk to him as he waits for a train to see the children who were all too busy to come see him. Even after he bought the steak and the most expensive bottle of wine the grocery store sold.

Turns out, of course, there’s more to it all than just that the kids weren’t interested. There’s a Problem. And it’s a big one. Bigger than the unmentioned divorce, the disappointing career choice, the sexual screwups that are the everyday stuff of his estranged family. And let’s not forget: Dad’s got his own problems. What with the bad lungs and heart, after all.

Kate Beckinsale, Sam Rockwell and especially Drew Barrymore each have some lovely moments, playing one on one with the legendary star. And perhaps as a holiday film, bringing out the violins and hankies before heading off to a family reunion isn’t such a bad thing. But while everybody in this film might be fine, I can’t help but think that everyone in the audience would have been better served with a little less schmaltz.

The Road

Let’s be honest: go to see this apocalyptic drama, you’re not going for a good time. Based on Cormac McCarty’s best seller, this desperate and determined story of survival isn’t the super effected tilt-a-whirl of, say, the hugely popular disaster epic, 2012. It is, however, one of the most starkly beautiful and poignantly human films of the year.

Joe Penhall’s script is, for those who read the book, surprisingly faithful to what seemed on the page to be a story almost impossible to film. And yet, under John Hilcoat’s unsentimental direction, somehow, it works. We are, after all, some 10 years after the Big One hit (who knows what has wreaked such devastation: it is never made clear in the either the novel or the film). Those left alive are still struggling for water, food and their own sanity. One young mother, played here by Charlize Theron, has lost her battle. Before walking into the suicidal darkness, she begs her husband to take their only son and make towards the water, thinking no one could survive another winter where they already are. And so, bereft and committed, The Man (a wonderful Viggo Mortensen) takes to the road, The Boy (Kodi Smit-McPhee) in hand.

Chris Kennedy’s nightmarish (and I say that in a good way) production design and Javier Aquirresarobe’s photography are exquisitely on track The world surrounding the two is filthy, devastated and lonely; the look of it all here is almost shockingly evocative. You can almost feel the grit, shudder under the filth. The usual 3-D tricks are hardly this effective.

And then there is the sheer power of the story itself. Stripping away all the science fiction/survivalist stuff, The Road is, at heart, a tale of a father and son, not taking no for an answer, doggedly pushing forward against the odds life has left them. The strength of their love gets them through the worst the world can offer. That, and a little duck tape.

The Private Lives of Pippa Lee

One of the happiest surprises of this woman on the verge delight is that Pippa Lee’s private lives are not what you’d think they are. So those nay sayers, the ones who sneer, “I’ve seen these middle age crisis things already” might just want to button it because this Pippa’s quite a pip.

Writer/director Rebecca Miller has created, or shall I say recreated, a woman here who, in the initial scenes, looks very familiar. The devoted wife of an older and very accomplished publisher, Pippa dutifully carries through with the duties expected of a loving mate, a patient mother, a wonderful hostess and kindly friend. Yet, when her already failing husband’s health is called into even more serious question, Pippa finds her world turned upside down. The results are full of life and all the wonderful little messes that involves.

Miller has cast an impeccable group of actors to give voice to her smart and funny script.

I am (full disclosure!) a big fan, quite honestly, of Robin Wright Penn and she is just dandy in this star turn. While this beautiful actress has always delivered nifty, precise performances, here, for the first time in quite a while, she betrays a saber sharp sense of comic timing. Who knew? And, speaking of funny, she is wonderfully supported by Alan Arkin, Julianne Moore, Keanu Reeves and Winona Ryder. Maria Bello, who appears in flashback as Pippa’s mother, is remarkably vivid. Blake Lively, who has risen to a certain stardom with her work on TV’s Gossip Girl, has smartly expanded her rep here, making the young Pippa a lot more interesting than is her older counterpart. In the beginning, that is.

I could make a sad little note of regret about the movie’s final scene: in truth, it is, though, very much in character for this Pippa to do what she does. I just wish a movie as smart and sensible as this might have gone for broke and introduced the idea that a woman without a man is still a pretty fine thing.

Broken Embraces

Not every time a filmmaker and his muse collaborate is it going to be a cause for celebration. Broken Embraces is a perfect example of that disappointing truth.

The wonderfully talented Pedro Almodovar works so beautifully with Penelope Cruz, it is almost as if their shorthand transcends everything else that surrounds it on screen. Here, Cruz stars as a central figure in what becomes a tragic three-way love affair. Beholden to a rich man who adores her (Jose Luis Gomez), it’s not so easy for our heroine to break away, yet, she cannot deny her yearnings for the other man in her life: the film director who not only is making her a star (in a movie paid for by the rich guy), but who also loves her in a way Mr. Not So Pretty cannot.

In an homage to the Hollywood film noirs of the ‘40s and ‘50s, Almodovar tells his tale in flashback. The filmmaker (Lluis Homar) is now blind – a metaphor that could have, but is not, handled heavily here. When a collaborator shows up to pitch him a project, it is understandable, eventually, why the man is terrified and repelled.

 Especially considering all the drama of the story, Broken Embraces is a surprisingly cold little movie. There’s certainly enough angst and passion floating around to heat things up and yet, we never feel drawn in to the sadness, anger or desire. Even when the luminous Cruz is photographed close up, adorned in jewels and furs, thinking she is dazzlingly happy, we recognize how pretty she is, but aren’t as pulled in to her dilemma as we should be, to make this potentially hot little number sizzle the way it should.

2012

“Don’t you see the signs?” a small boy foreshadows as his family hops over a forbidden fence to check out the scenery. In Roland Emmerich’s disaster movie designed to end all disaster movies, there are signs aplenty. The world is coming to an end and we, popcorn and soda in hand, can enjoy it all unfold before us, thanks to a ton of CGI and a two and a half hour running time.

If that’s your kind of thing, you might get a kick out of this everything-including-the-kitchen-sink extravaganza. Emmerich and his gigantic special effects team have basically taken every imagined manifest of an apocalyptic disaster, including all the ones we’ve seen in other movies before, ramped them up as much as they could, and shoved them into this endless epic. Some of them look pretty good: others? Not so much. But, as they pile on, one on top of the other, they do impress, if only by sheer numbers.

Based on the Mayan prediction the world will end in December, 2012, and marginally explained by the inclusion of some scientific catchphrases, not only do we get to watch as the Earth literally cracks up, but we also see the people do so, too. There’s a nice collection of actors here: the ever charming John Cusak gets the key role of a divorced dad and commercially failed novelist. Chiwetel Ejiofor brings a lovely honesty to what is a standardly dumb role. Amanda Peet, Oliver Platt, Thandie Newton, Woody Harrelson and George Segal are just some of the other name actors who go for the ride on this universally orchestrated list of characters. That’s ok; historically, these humdinger disaster movies have always included parts for actors of all ages and back rounds: remember Shelley Winters screaming in The Poseidon Adventure? O.J. Simpson in The Towering Inferno? Gloria Stuart in Titanic? Formula is formula for a reason, after all.

Like all its predecessors, this carefully choreographed entertainment offers nothing new. But there sure is a lot of it.

The Men Who Stare at Goats

Satire is never easy. The promise of this wartime comedy made me pine for classic movies such as Catch-22 and Mash: two savvy armed service send-ups that hit the mark all the way.

Not that Grant Heslov’s directorial debut doesn’t come close. Adapted from Jon Ronson’s bestselling book of the same name, this rollicking military movie starts out quite well and is especially pungent because, as it states in an early slate, “More of this is true than you would believe”. Ronson conducted extensive research into what was a pretty hushed up part of the U.S. Army: the effort to tap into New Age thinking, to create warriors who would kill with their minds.

Playing the journalist here (some names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent, it seems), Ewan McGregor does a dandy job slipping into a mid-western accent and innocence. But he’s basically the straight guy for the co-stars who get to do the fun stuff. George Clooney, Heslov’s production partner in the more consistent Good Night, and Good Luck, headlines as the mysterious, and often hilarious, Lyn Cassady, a psychic warrior, trained by the best: Bill Django, joyously embodied by Jeff Bridges, seeming to have as much cross-eyed fun here as he did playing the memorable Dude with the Coen Brothers. It’s a hoot watching the experimental unit play its cards within the oh so straight military. And then Kevin Spacey shows up.

It’s not Spacey’s fault he ruins the fun. As a mean spirited psychic, Larry Hooper, that’s his job. But, in a parallel downer, as soon as Hooper hits the screen, the air starts to leak from this high flying entertainment. Pretty soon, we’re all grasping at straws, wondering where not only the fun, but the story went. The production notes state several of the characters in the movie are compilations based on real people in the original book. Maybe this time, they should have stuck with the actual story. To paraphrase another military movie: we could have handled the truth.  Not only would it have unfolded more clearly (hopefully), but sounds to me like these guys were cool enough to hang with for an hour or two, at least on film.

Precious

I was all set to enjoy a good sob over this one. Amazingly enough, I, who cries at commercials, didn’t shed a tear.

The title of this inner city drama, it should be noted, is actually Precious: Based on the Novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire. And like its title, the traumas here go on and on and on. Our young heroine, Precious, is not just an obese,  illiterate teenager in Harlem, circa 1987: she lives with an astoundingly abusive mother. And she’s pregnant. With her mother’s boyfriend’s child. The first child she also had with that man is mentally disabled. It’s all pathetic and seemingly, like a whirlpool, inescapable. But then, a surprising thing happens. Because of her “condition”, Precious is placed in an alternative school. In the bosom of her closely knit new classmates, and their devoted teacher, Precious learns there is a world outside her hellhole of a home.

There are some stunning aspects to Lee Daniels’ harrowing drama. Shot in almost gritty colors, seemingly all blacks, grays and browns, Precious’s world feels appropriately dirty. How could someone living in such blackness ever see the light about themselves?

And the immaculately cast actors bring almost as gritty a reality to their work. Newcomer Gabourey Sidibe makes the character of Precious so her own, it is impossible to imagine any other actress playing her. The beautiful Paula Patton is wonderful as the stubbornly optimistic teacher and Sherri Shepherd will delight her talk show fans with a smart performance here, too. But the ones who knocked me cold were Mariah Carey, stripped down and outstanding as Precious’s social worker and then there’s Mo’Nique. All the buzz you’ve heard about this comedienne turned actress turned talk show hostess, at least in terms of her work as Precious’s shockingly horrible mother, is true. This is a performance you watch and know, in your heart, it’s got Oscar written all over it. While this sad story sets out to tell us all just how hard life can be, it winds up also, almost by accident, reminding us, too, of it’s rewards. After 20 years on the boards, Mo’Nique delivers such resonating terror, fury and confusion, she deserves all the good stuff she’s finally earning.

This Is It

Irresistible on so many levels, this rehearsal documentary delights, fascinates and frustrates.

There’s no question Kenny Ortega has done a remarkable job, piecing together footage shot as part of the concert, during rehearsals and for the planned behind the scenes teaser that, I suppose, was going to be released to promote the tour. Even though he had a lot to work with, it couldn’t have been easy. This film, like the tour itself (in Michael’s words), is primarily designed to please the fans. In fact, an early title slate says just that: this is for the fans. And they, no doubt, will be pleased. Sure, we get the weepy, prayerful tryouts, the costumers backstage showing us how they sew buttons on Michael’s Beat It jacket, but this film is very much about Michael himself, or, as we all come to call him, MJ.

And MJ is a knockout here. Even when he, in an effort to save his voice for the actual performances, tones it down or did I see some lipsyncing going on?, Jackson was at his most magnetic. Even in people filled shots, where he is with tons of dancers, musicians or production people, your eye just automatically goes to Michael. He was, and I guess still is, that kind of guy.

He was also the kind of guy who couldn’t, it seems, sit still. Maybe he doesn’t sing each number, but he sure does dance to them. While standing, discussing choreography, the feet are moving; the hands are too. And when he puts it all together, moonwalking, crotch grabbing, jumping, flying across the stage, watch out: what an incredible performer Michael Jackson truly was.

Of course it is sad this film had to be made, that the actual concert could not have gone on and had that work speak for itself. But it should be noted that the timing of a release of this kind is pretty auspicious. The public loves behind the scenes stuff, as long as it’s limited and prettied up as it is in, say, the Idol programs or on the new tv hit, Glee.

And that is precisely the level of artistic insider stuff we get here: we get one shot of some dance masters yelling, a few seconds of Jackson complaining his audio feed is too loud, a glance or two at Ortega shooting the new Thriller film that was to be displayed on the screens during the live performances. But just as often we get reaction shots of off-stage dancers, watching in awe: thrilled to just to be in the presence of the Thriller himself.

We don’t need to be told this was a superstar, blowing away his fellow artists with the flick of his wrist, do we?

For those morbidly interested in the physical stuff: yes, Michael looked great. Healthy, but pretty thin. Of course, you do all that dancing, it’ll take some poundage off you.

What I found the most interesting was that in this, his announced last hurrah, Jackson seemed to put away the creepy stuff. Gone was that eery falsetto speaking voice. Here, he analyzes, conducts, encourages and dominates with a very sure tone. The contrast between his “normalcy” and his almost other worldly talent makes his very special gift all the more remarkable.

Where The Wild Things Are

The first half hour of Spike Jonze’s stunningly emotional adaptation of the Maurice Sendak classic is as fine a cinematic portrayal of childhood as you are likely to see. Too bad there’s another hour to the movie.

As written by Jonze and Dave Eggers, this fantasy works best when it is at its most real. Max is a lonely little boy. His teenage sister chooses the neighbor guys to hang with instead of him. His mother, balancing a floundering career and a potential new boyfriend, doesn’t always step up when he needs her attention. Accused of acting out, Max, covered up in his wolf costume, takes off for the wilds of the neighborhood underbrush. In his very active mind, he has gone to the land Where the Wild Things Are.

It’s a neat, almost retro conceit in this digital age, that Jonze keeps the “wild things” as actors in costume, as Max is. While the animal inspired creatures are beautifully designed, they are also soft and touchable, bringing not just Max but all of us into their world. Max positions himself as King of the leaderless furry gang. And that’s where the trouble, both in the story and in the movie begin.

Perhaps it was more engaging in the Sendak children’s book to roll through repetitive action sequences (after all, the pages offer far far less dialogue), but here it becomes exhausting, at least for those of us who’ve outgrown an 8 year old’s endless enthusiasm for war games. While some of these exercises offer good excuses for the wild things to offer up their own personal dramas, shadowing what’s going on in Max’s real life, they also pound on and on. Maybe that’s what real little boy fantasies do, too, but hey guys: this is a movie.

According to the press notes, the 12 year old star, Max Records, likes “Star Wars” and text messaging. Catherine Keener, as his pooped but well intentioned Mom, is, as always, a delight. Jonze has also assembled a dandy voice cast: Lauren Ambrose nails the hip melancholy of KW, Catherine O’Hara’s a hoot as the outspoken Judith and Chris Cooper resonates as the group’s conscience, Douglas. But the unofficial leader of the wild things, and the most outstanding of the voice actors, is Carol, as played, and I do mean played by James Gandolfini. From his boyish enthusiasm to his pitiful sighs, Gandolfini gives a full bodied, emotional, and damn near three dimensional star turn.

The Damned United

Do you have to love soccer to love this movie? No. You just have to love good acting.

Based on a true story, this English production recalls what happened when a brash young manager came in to take over the country’s reigning championship team, back in 1974. Hint: it’s not pretty. The good news is that the film, basically, is.

Peter Morgan’s screenplay is mounted by Tom Hooper, whose most familiar credit in this country was the HBO series, John Adams. Morgan and Hooper have worked together before, but the key to the success of this project is the addition to the team of Michael Sheen, the superb British actor who simply becomes more and more impressive with each new release. Sheen, best known in arty circles for his canny work in both The Queen and Frost/Nixon, is also going mainstream with appearances in Tim Burton’s Alice in Wonderland as well as in New Moon, the newest in the Twilight series. His  performance as the infamous, legendary-in-Great Britain Brian Clough here, though, is an interesting mix of the mainstream and sophisticated. Clough, we are told, was a household name, bringing verve and guts into sleepy “football” towns, where the teams were pretty darn low in the rankings. Brought in to replace the departing coach of the Leeds United, the longtime champs of the leagues, Clough winds up way in over his swelled head. Although some of his instincts are spot on, this is one player who winds up learning you must play with the team in order to win.

The flashback sequencing of the story is, at times, jarring, which is a detriment to the otherwise solid and actually interesting plot. Wonderful character actors, Timothy Spall, Colm Meaney and Jim Broadbent, add colorful support, but what makes this movie something far more than just the ordinary bio-pic is Sheen’s masterful star turn.

An Education

This coming of ager resonates: that’s not an easy thing to do with a tried and true formula, either.

Director Lone Scherfig brings an assured yet light touch to this, her English-language debut. And her cast is terrific: we’ll start with Alfred Molina, who’s dependably good in everything. Molina, here, brings a marvelous mixed emotion to this fatherly character: of course he’s worried about his young daughter. Dating such an older man? But, well, this is a man of such sophistication, such elegance, such money!

Emma Thompson has a few key scenes as the voice of reason (i. e. the school headmistress), but it’s the always just-this-side of creepy Peter Sarsgaard who shines as the mysterious wooer. Using his unique vocal patterns to great effect, Sarsgaard nails both the charming and distrustful aspects of this curious suitor.

But the performance that will knock your socks off is from Carey Mulligan. Previously primarily a British television actor, Mulligan bursts onto the big screen with a remarkable performance. Teetering on the dangerous brink of young womanhood, her girl in love with the fine life is the kind of performance that creates a star.

It’s also a perfect fit to have had Nick Hornby adapt Lynn Barber’s memoir. After all, Hornby, in his novels, has proven to be not just a dandy chronicler of British social life, but also a savvy entertainer. His stuff is fun, even when it is at its most serious. So his take on this pretty creepy teenager-seduced-by-older-man scenario is filled with a marvelous understanding of the swinging ‘60’s of London, as well as the tantalizing allure of a mysterious lover.

An Education is, sadly, a rare thing: a fine, well made movie for adults. There are no special effects, no one gets blasted away before our eyes. But this very relatable story, so beautifully told, will haunt you for days.

The Invention of Lying

Ricky Gervais’ elegant and ambitious comedy is profoundly funny. While not perfect, its sheer inventiveness makes this one a true treat.

Set in a world where people cannot tell a lie, we begin by seeing how hilarious life can be when people say exactly what is on their minds, no filters in place for politeness.  Grown men and women seemingly just blurt out the most intimate, honest things because here, they have no choice. Some of what they say will have you gasping hysterically. But, as we are told, this truth and only the truth deal isn’t so much fun when you look like Ricky Gervais. Short, pudgy and with a squished in nose, Mark is a loser, both personally and professionally. He can’t help it that he’s got a crush on Jennifer Garner’s Anna: who wouldn’t? But Anna, in this universe of honesty, just can’t reciprocate: sure, he’s fun and eventually her best friend, but marry and have his children? When they’d look like him?

Truth be told, that little love story isn’t all there is to this picture. A parallel story line, where Mark innocently discovers how to lie, whirls into a not so subtle swipe at religion, gullibility, manipulation, and good intentions. Not all of this works as it might, but the mere sight of Gervais, as Mark, addressing an anxious crowd, reading the 10 rules of life (as he was told them by a big all powerful man in the sky), taped to Pizza Hut boxes is, happily, not the stuff of your usual rom-com. Not to worry, though: there are even more moments of dizzy silliness. Gervais’ version of the movie industry is dandy; Edward Norton, as a heavy accented Massachusetts cop, enjoys his game cameo just as much as other stars who show up for small, delicious moments along the way.

As he did with the original The Office and Extras, Gervais melts his devastating wit with an irresistible sweetness in this, his directorial debut. He’s shared that vision smartly with Garner, Louis C.K., Tina Fey and Rob Lowe, all of whom handle their supporting roles with a wide eyed twinkle. Terrific stuff from and for all.

Whip It

Oh my, ladies: how our fairy tales have changed! According to Drew Barrymore’s frothy new coming of ager, a great way for a teenage girl to find her true identity is through roller derby: a league of rough and tumble women, skating, fighting, competing and whipping their art through otherwise terribly ordinary lives.

Ellen Page, who so memorably burst onto the scene as the smart alecky sweetie in Juno, almost seems haunted by that performance here. Her lead character of Bliss, a high school senior torn (not really) between her mother’s local pageants and her love of skating in the big city, is surprisingly sweet and almost too naive. As Bliss goes through the usual finding herself stuff, we may all be able to relate. But we need to see why this girl instinctively identifies with the grrrls of roller derby: their tattoed muscles, their furious drive, their need for speed, even if its only a few nights a week on an Austin indoor rink.

What is most impressive is how Barrymore works with her actors in her directorial debut.

There’s a uniformly terrific cast: famililar faces like Jimmy Fallon, Daniel Stern, Eve and Zoe Bell are spot on. Barrymore herself, in a few hilarious and game moments, is a hoot. Particularly outstanding are the young Alia Shawkat and Juliette Lewis (who nails her Queen of the Other Team with astonishing percision). Kristen Wiig, who so often is asked to repeat alot of the shtick she uses so effectively on Saturday Night Live in her film gigs, gets to actually ACT in one, albeit short, scene. She’s dandy; hope we get to see more of that. In what is the toughest role in the movie, Marcia Gay Harden is dowright sensational. Of course we know her hard-ass mother is going to come around, but this beauty queen turned postal worker has a smart heart under that driven-for-her-daughter verneer. With one glance, even a turn of her head, Harden makes this potentially terrorizing mother figure a woman we’d all like to have in our corner, cheering us on.

A Serious Man

The Coen Brothers have dusted off the grime of No Country and plunged deep into the heart of their own childhoods with this remarkable film. By looking back, they have also expanded upon some of the themes they’ve played with in their most personal work before: this time, in a more mature, more evolved way.

The movie opens with a quote: “Receive with simplicity everything that happens to you.” Of course, no one does, either in our own daily lives or in this movie, which , even though it is set in a very particular world (a small midwest Jewish community, circa 1967), makes this mantra all the more relevant and haunting. Our central character, Larry Gopnick, appears a nebbish, yet we discover he is a man like so many others, trying to do well while his world is crashing around him. His kids suffer teenage angst, his wife wants to run off with Sy Ableman, his brother has troubles with the law. Receive all that with simplicity! Not only can Larry not go graciously into the whirlwind of his days, he wraps himself up in professional studies of The Uncertainty Principle. Not certain myself what that means, but hey, talk about adding salt to the wound.

As they so often do, the Coens have chosen many “new” faces for this film. Michael Stuhlbard, best known for his extensive theater work, is spot on as Larry. Sari Lennick is also a find as his conflicted wife. Yet the real kick of the casting is getting to see two actors, familiar faces, get to run with two long earned juicy roles. Fred Melamed is a hoot as the officiously slimy Sy Ableman; Richard Kind is wonderfully heartbreaking as the befuddled brother.

Also, as expected, the production values of the Coens glow. There isn’t a Jew alive, who was around during the 60’s especially, who won’t relate to the transistor radios, the haftorah records, the slurping of the soup. But you don’t have to be Jewish to dig into this film with relish. Funny is funny: profound is, well, profound, even if it spoken by a Swami, a Rabbi, a schmuck or by nature.

Bright Star

There’s undeniable romance going on in this based-on-history love story, but what won my heart was not what I expected. Because the brightest star in this leisurely retelling of the truth behind one of John Keats’s most famous poems is not what it says, but how it looks.

Jane Campion’s films are often beautiful but Bright Star is even more so. Set in the Victorian London countryside, the tragic story of Keats and his three year passion for Fanny, the more wealthy girl next door, is rich in color, lush in flowering meadows and immaculate in spectacular fashion. Everybody looks great, be they sobbing over an undelivered letter, visiting a boy dying of consumption or whipping up a dinner in a surprisingly spare basement kitchen.

Another bright moment comes from the dandy supporting cast. The idyllic looking Edie Martin lights up each of her scenes as the angelic young sister; the best performance in the lot comes from American Paul Schneider, who dons a Scottish brogue to play struggling poet, and jealous friend, Charles Brown.

The also beautiful Ben Whishaw and Abbie Cornish star as the ill crossed lovers. Both young actors do the best they can with roles that are surprisingly spare: we are told society would disapprove of these two marrying (he’s not earning big bucks for his slim volumes of poetry), but, as time passes, and Keats refuses to tie down the woman who insists she doesn’t care about the money, scenes keep repeating themselves. The star crossed couple may hang in there, but we find ourselves wandering out those leaded paned windows, staring at that gorgeous scenery.

Disgrace

Of all the people one might think of, watching this appropriately disturbing film translation of Nobel Laureate J. M. Coetzee’s heralded novel, I never imagined I’d be thinking of Michael Vick. But there you have it.

Director Steve Jacobs has cast the always fascinating, if often icy, John Malkovich as the middle aged South African professor of Romantic Literature. As usual, this slippery talent gives an astute if somewhat convoluted performance. In this case, though, that choice is frustratingly perfect. After all, this is a man whose own amorality comes to haunt him: or does it? It does, I must say, sure do a number on us.

Among the outstanding aspects of this harrowing drama are the cast, which features a wonderfully magnetic newcomer, Jessica Haines, as the professor’s daughter. Lucy is a strong person who insists on making her way as a white woman in the wildly dangerous South African countryside. Her father fears for her, yet barely understands his own behavior echos that of the men he does not trust to live near his child.

There is yet another part to this film which may make it virtually impossible for some viewers to take. As it was in the book, there is a subplot of dog euthanasia. Interestingly, while so many of us have become somewhat innured to the horrors of watching people harmed in film, taking that as just another part of the entertainment, most of us do not feel so hard hearted about animals. Watching the compassionate killing of unwanted dogs, which happens in several scenes in this movie, drew noisy squirms from the audience I shared a screening room with, just as Michael Vick was being reinstated in professional football. Considering how Coetzee incorporated the disposal of dogs in his own Disgrace, I can’t help but wonder what he would have to say about the heralding of a man who abused them for fun and profit.

Taking Woodstock

I suppose in a perfect world, it would be lovely to afford prestige filmmakers the opportunity to relax once in a while, to make a small, lightweight feel good movie in between all the prestigious, heavy weight stuff. But this is not a perfect world and Ang Lee’s take on Woodstock is nothing short of disappointing.

Based on a book by Eliot Tiber, the young man who brought the iconic music festival to his struggling Upstate New York hometown, this is affectionate film. As played by a surprisingly uncharismatic Demetri Martin (whose signature charm works so beautifully in his standup comedy work), Eliot is a sad but wide eyed innocent. He almost accidentally winds up being the architect behind bringing the bounced about festival to town that doesn’t want it, we are told. It is the stuff of legend that no one really expected “Woodstock” to become “Woodstock”, but as for Eliot’s complete naivety? I’m not buying it: this was a guy who lived in New York City, came home, albeit with his tail between his defeated legs, and somehow became a public force locally without even trying. The fact that his family’s nearly bankrupt motel gets to thrive, too, is just another happy who’d-a-thunk-it bonus.

Lots of other stories are told here, too. Notably, there’s Eugene Levy, as the savvy Max Yasgur, who opened up his farm to “the kids”, not just with an open heart, but with pockets open wide, too. Emile Hirsch continues to impress as the just returned Vietnam Vet, whose flashbacks scare not only himself but those who try to care for him.  Liev Schreiber waltzes in as a transvestite security guard and steals the whole movie.

While this picture seems to think you can make a movie about Woodstock without focusing on the music (generously, I’ll assume rights problems account for that), you can’t make a movie about Woodstock without focusing on the drugs. There is an embarrasingly silly psychodelic scene as Eliot finally tears himself away from his family’s suddenly successful motel and winds up sharing a tent and a few other things with an already stoned young couple. But that was nothing in comparison to what happens when Eliot’s straight laced, downtrodden parents get a hold of some Alice B. Toklas brownies. Their jig in the backyard mud is greeted with a beautific smile by some: I was cringing.

It is fun, in parts, to watch the development of what would become one of the most important social events of our time. And there are some lovely performances tucked in along the way. But, when you’re dealing with talents as profound as Ang Lee, and events as legendary as this, Taking Woodstock should have been taken more seriously.

Inglourious Basterds

Like all Quentin Tarentino movies, this feverish Jews-take-out-the-Nazis-during-World-War-II movie is really all about Quentin Tarentino. Not that that’s necessarily a bad thing.

With all his film-geek swagger and cock-sureness, Tarentino has dreamed up a pretty irresistible plot here: a loosely knit group of Jews work both on the lam and undercover to bring down Hitler and his armies. These aren’t just your traditional brave but valiant heroes, either: our good guys are a motley mix of women scorned and muscle bound guys with a penchant toward up close and personal blood letting. Yet, as wild as his lead characters are, the structure, style, and sense of the piece are very much an homage to a whole bunch of things: spaghetti westerns, florid 1940’s melodramas and esoteric film references. In addition to casting Brad Pitt as the drawling Lieutenant in charge, the casting people worked overtime: bringing together a fine group of international veteran actors making, in some cases, their first English language movie.  It’s Quentin, folks: you can get caught up in the encyclopedic whirl of it all or just let it fly and go for the ride. Usually, his movies work either way.

Basterds, I hate to say, does not. While I am in awe of the “smartness” of this hip piece, for the first time, I didn’t get the emotionally entertaining satisfaction I have come to expect from Tarentino’s movies. Who didn’t get a thrill from countless scenes in Pulp Fiction? Or cheer inside as Uma Thurman kicked butt in the Kill Bills? I even laughed out loud as the team of women wreaked havoc in Grindhouse. Here, I’d think rooting for somebody, anybody to take out Hitler would be a no-brainer. But, not so fast. It’s neat to watch Pitt wrap his oh so handsome jaw around some Southern slang, but are we really to find relief watching Hostel director Eli Roth, as the “bear Jew” get off on beating his Nazis to a pulp with a baseball bat? And, perhaps due to the insistence upon editing, (IB has been sliced reportedly almost in half to a running time of still some two and a half hours) we don’t spend enough time with several of the rest of the gang to relate to them, so that when their moment in the blood comes, we don’t feel their thrill.

And yet: there are terrific things in this movie.  A mesmerizing Melanie Laurent plays a haunted movie-loving French woman beautifully; there’s a spectacularly filmed denoument and Austrian actor Christoph Waltz is just fabulous as the snake charming German officer who weaves his way into most of this overlong film. There’s great music, the funniest excuse of having the European characters speak English ever and, in my book, any script that includes the line “facts can be so misleading” can’t be all bad.

District 9

Aliens and robots will get tushes in the seats, but what makes this blockbuster so outstanding is decidedly human.

Like all good science fiction, this otherworldly thriller starts out by setting invaders against mankind. Several decades ago, we are told, a massive spaceship appeared over Johannesburg, South Africa. Stranded, the locals conducted a “mercy” mission, rescuing the aliens and placing them in shabby internment camps. Told in a documentary style, we enter into the story just as a somewhat bumbling middle management type is assigned to lead a relocation effort, forcefully transferring the alienated aliens of District 9 to a new and more prisonlike encampment.

While the screenplay (co-written by Neill Blomkamp and Terri Tatchell) takes great pains to infuse moral philosophy into the non-stop violent action, it can be argued that it is no more inventive than the rest of the better-then-average sci-fi scripts out there. After all, there is a standard arc to these things: aliens come to earth, we think they’re awful, only after learning the hard way, we discover they’re not so bad after all. What makes this story great, though, is how it’s been told. Blomkamp, a virtually unknown South African commercial director, stages and shoots with the assuredness of an accomplished veteran. His eye is spectacular, using the camera to not just show us what’s happening, but allowing us to feel it all, too. The intended graininess, as well as the bumpy hand-held immediacy keeps us riveted, our hearts pumping even when the looming R rated violence is at bay. And anyone with a moral compass at all will appreciate the message of tolerance that is not overplayed, but never given short shrift here, either.

And then there’s the star: Sharlto Copley. Leading a cast of previously unknown to the rest of the world South African actors, Copley, a film and commercial director, makes one of the most auspicious acting debuts I can remember. As Wikus, the sweetly incompetent beaurocrat, Copley brings an immediate recognizability: almost channeling Steve Carrel’s best work in The Office. But, as the stuff literally starts to hit the fan, and Wikus suffers irreparable damage, Copley seamlessly evolves into a classically tragic action hero.

Especially after what has been a most ordinary summer at the movies, District 9 comes blasting into theaters, not just entertaining, but reminding us of how thrilling the discovery of fresh new talent can be.

Julie and Julia

Like a fallen soufflé, this movie delivers flavor but not the dizzying deliciousness it  promises.

Go-to charming leading lady Amy Adams plays Julie, a frustrated New Yorker, who tries to find herself by not only recreating iconic chef Julia Child’s legendary French recipes, but by blogging about it, too. Not only do we follow Julie’s process, but we get to witness how closely her life shadow’s her mentor’s. The legendary Meryl Streep plays Child with lust and relish.

Full disclosure here: not to get all Julie/Julia or anything, but, when I was just out of college, I, too, was looking for heroes. I found mine in Nora Ephron, who, of course, wrote and directed this movie. I loved her writing so much, I bought collections of her essays when I was out of work and had no money. And I bought them in hardcover! I defended her honor on the radio when a snarky gossip item appeared about her in a local paper. Her father, the late screenwriter Henry, who was listening at the time, wrote me a thank you letter (yes, I still have it). I thought Nora knew everything: about life, what it was to be a woman and, of course, food. Nora, no matter what was going on, managed to compare it to, solve it or at least make it better by writing about food. So I figured her, taking on the story of  two women, discovering their own paths in life through their love of food had to be a perfect match.

In some ways, it is. Ephron has made the third lead here not the women’s wonderfully supportive husbands (Stanley Tucci and Chris Messina), but the food itself. The cameras gaze longingly at the baguettes, butters, ducks and chickens. A beouf bourguignon looks so divine, I swear I heard swoons in the audience. And the character of Julia, thanks to what I can only assume was a tantalizing collaboration between Ephron and Steep, is a hoot to spend time with. If only the whole movie had been more about this complicated, charismatic woman.

It is probably not Amy Adams’ fault her Julie is anything but compelling. And yet, the character of the young writer never draws us in. We don’t care if she completes her mission of recreating all the recipes on deadline; we aren’t even all that convinced she’s in as much love with the food as we are.

Streep, on the other hand, continues to amaze me. My particularly favorite moment in this film is an unlikely one: as we watch Julia introduce her sister (a terrific Jane Lynch) to French cheese. On paper, the line is “Yes. Yes. Yes”. The way Streep reads it is something that should be seen by all drama students and lovers of great acting. Those three little words alone made me want more, more, more.