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Alice in Wonderland

Like Alice, Tim Burton uses his trip down the rabbit hole to reassert his “muchness”. There is much to look at, as a result, but not much about which to wonder.

Using the classic story as a starting point, Burton and company spin, essentially, their own adaptation. Great (and not so great) directors have been doing the same with, say, Shakespeare, for years. Here, Alice (Mia Wasikowska) is 19 and just about to be married off to a wealthy but pretty icky young man. Budding feminist that she is, despite the pressures of her family and Victorian era social structures, our Alice is not too thrilled. So, when a bouncing rabbit beckons, she’s off, falling into what we all discover is a place she has been before.

There’s never been any question Burton is one of our most visually compelling filmmakers .As expected,  his vision of Wonderland is initially tantalizing, and impeccably mounted. The bulbous Red Queen’s froggy court is grand, Tweedledum and Tweedledee are eggishly appealing. But it’s the Mad Hatter, brought to vivid life by the singular Johnny Depp, that’s the centerpiece of this ohso surreal place. Sweetly mad but wonderfully protective of Alice, this Hatter whips up some great headpieces and, when imprisoned, inspires Alice to find her inner mojo.

All of this is presented, in some theaters, in 3 – D, the newest “must-have” for studios to pump up theatrical attendance. The effect here is neat, but occasionally fuzzy and nowhere near as sharp as Avatar. It’s probably not Burton’s fault, but it’s comparisons like this we all knew were coming when James Cameron’s state of the art precision debuted just months ago.

While much of this “Alice” is downright interesting, it is not a whole lot of fun. This is not a fairy tale for children: it’s much too violent for that. And Burton’s signature sense of the macabre doesn’t leave a whole lot of room for emotional engagement from us, either. It’s fine to interpret Wonderland with a lemony twist, but what happened to the tale’s timeless and irresistible sense of awe?

Brooklyn's Finest

Intense. That’s what Antoine Fuqua does best and his fast cutting, depressed cop story is nothing if not intense.

A handful of good actors show up here, playing New York City police officers, stuck in particularly gritty jobs. Ethan Hawke, assigned to a grisly drug bust group, loves his family and can’t help but wish he was earning enough to buy them a better house. Don Cheadle, undercover, questions his own integrity when walking that thin line between good and bad guy. And Richard Gere, bloated and beat up, can’t wait till his last day on the job. We’ve seen all these guys before and in better movies, but these three smart actors manage to inject something inherently watchable to each of them here.

You also, of course, know pretty much what’s going to happen to them. Pretty, happy endings don’t make action pictures, do they? But Fuqua, whose best work was the nail biting Training Day, has a way with keeping us on the edge of our seats anyway. And, as he did with the Oscar winning Denzel Washington in that film, he also manages to elicit something strong, almost unexpectedly fresh, from his actors. Here, the biggest (and happiest) surprise is Wesley Snipes, whose terrific film presence has been abused in dumb cartoony vehicles the past decade or so. In a supporting role as a recently paroled drug kingpin, returning with an unsure bravado to the neighborhood, Snipes digs in to give his best and most promising performance in years.

Shutter Island

Up for having a master filmmaker mess with your head? Then this is the movie for you.

Channeling his inner Hitchcock, Martin Scorsese taps into the Gothic hipness of Dennis Lehane’s psychological mindbender. The equally game Leonardo DiCaprio stars as U.S. Marshall Teddy Daniels, summoned, along with his new partner, played by Mark Ruffalo, to an eerie offshore psychiatric hospital when one of the patients, a brilliant and beautiful young murderess, has gone missing. During a hurricane. Teddy is onto the weirdness of the place early on; Scorsese, through a marvelously static opening sequence, enhanced with Robbie Robertson’s dandy score, sets us up for some bizarro stuff, too. There’s more going on in here than meets the eye: or is there?

The impeccable Scorsese is clearly having a ball, tapping into the kind of stark, Cold War era fear that runs through the most profound of thrillers. Everything is remote, suspicious, yet nothing clear or distinctly threatening. As he weaves through a colorful cast of characters to interview about the case, Teddy becomes more and more muddled. He is, after all, trying to get the truth out of crazy people. Isn’t he?

Unfortunately, as the story winds on and on (like most of Scorsese’s work, this one runs on just a tad too long), the fun fizzles. We discover the truth and, as written in the original novel, that truth is nowhere near as entertaining as is the trip getting there.

Still, there is a lot to enjoy here. For the most part, the savvy production values shine. And the supporting cast, including the terrific Max von Sydow, Patricia Clarkson, Emily Mortimer, Michelle Williams, and Ben Kingsley, are right on the money. Not earning co-starring credits, but delivering dandy work all the same, are Jackie Earle Haley and Robin Bartlett. While we, and the movie, are exhausted by the end, the ride to it is a real trip.

The Wolfman

While some legends never die, maybe there should be a moratorium called on those incessant unnecessary big screen remakes of them. Because when all you can deliver is an expensive, effect-heavy horror flick that’s just plain boring, it’s time to rethink things a bit.

Joe Johnston’s insistently classy spin on the classic Victorian rich-guy-bites-those-who-feed-him tale goes for the wrong goal. There have been very few really lush gore fests that have actually ripped the heart as well as scared the bejesus out of people (Francis Ford Coppola’s Dracula pops to mind, but that was, let’s face it, helmed by the master of engrossing lush himself). We’re usually better off with a leaner, meaner spin: one that remembers horror movies are supposed to be fun. The fun is lost in the all-too-thick sauce here.

Benicio Del Toro stars as the black sheep of a wealthy English family, called home when his brother goes missing. Turns out, there’s something viciously attacking the local citizens: something that rips into the flesh with gusto, just about once a month, when there’s a full moon. Hmmm....I could make a joke about those monthly blues, but I’d be the only one having a good time. The chunky script, credited to Andrew Kevin Walker and David Self, takes itself and its story much too seriously for anything purposely light (although the audience I sat with did seem to find a few moments of unexpected hilarity). Like Del Toro, the supporting stars, all fine actors, aren’t given a chance to shine. Hugo Weaving is the detective on the case; Emily Blunt, the brother’s widowed love. Anthony Hopkins does have a few effective moments as the wacky Dad, but we’ve seen him do these same line readings before. I suppose it’s kind of like “if it ain’t broke don’t fix it”, but Hopkins has too much to offer as an actor to be straightjacketed into delivering repetitive performances.

Valentine's Day

Charm will only get you so far. In this case, even the most charming (and huge) cast can only do so much with this corny compilation.

For this ensemble, Garry Marshall has collected a sweet bushel full of actors he’s worked with before and some who are new to the family. Julia Roberts, Anne Hathaway and perpetual Marshall go to guy, Hector Elizondo show up, along with newbies including, but not limited to: Jennifer Garner, Jessica Biel, Topher Grace, Jamie Foxx, Shirley MacLaine, Queen Latifah, Taylor Swift and, in her feature film debut, Taylor Swift. The intertwining Los Angeles based love stories pretty much revolve, though, around Ashton Kutcher, who spends his Valentine’s Day running his florist shop and in between the two loves of his life. As he discovers The Meaning of True Love, so do all the rest of these characters. The hope, I’m sure, is that we do, too.

It’s not that I’m not a mushball when it comes to these kind of things. I’ve watched reruns of The Love Boat along with everyone else. But when the expected silliness is “enhanced” (?) with embarrassing scenes of the very talented Anne Hathaway speed talking her way through phone sex, a mother asking some nuns to hold her baby for a second with the warning “You should know we’re Jewish”, and a worried mother calling to the naked boy running from her daughter’s bedroom, “Cover your ho-ho”, well, need I say more?

The surprise, if there is one here, is that just about all the starring performers come through with enough durable sweetness to make all of this grow on you. A bit. Show winners like Julia, Ashton and Jennifer falling in love and, come on, resistance is futile. But just when I thought I’d fallen for this not so great valentine, I was shaken right back into reality. Ambitious reporter Jamie Foxx runs off to a press conference, hoping he can nab “an exclusive”. Word to the wise: press conference and exclusive: that’s a contradiction in terms.

From Paris with Love

John Travolta kicks that pesky schizophrenic script out of his way to serve up yet another, perfectly entertaining badass. This time, bald and pierced, he steals the show as CIA special agent Charlie Wax, an “unconventional” CIA special agent who shows up to partner with an ambitious play by the rules operative, played decently enough by Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

Director Pierre Morel, teaming with producer Luc Besson, keep the rather pedestrian story line filled with enough shoot’em ups and car chases to not only secure an R rating, but also to keep audiences who enjoy this kind of thing happy. While I lost count of the number of bad guys blown away about half way through the 95 minutes of this movie, there is a body count estimation thrown in: Wax, getting quite the chuckle out of it, believes he’s downed at least one guy an hour, over the last 24 hours. Even I can do that math. It should be noted, though, those scenes are smartly choreographed and edited. While the audience I watched with was pretty civilized about the whole thing, I could just hear in my head a wilder crowd, swearing with delight while having a bloody good time.

Travolta, too, seems to be having a lot of fun. Shaving his head, donning a few earrings and a remarkably supple leather jacket (which never seems to restrict his athletic action), his Wax is a guy, for the most part, who’s a few steps ahead of everybody else and digs it. Why should he fill his new partner in on what he’s doing, when it’s so much more fun to mess with his head? But, as the script wanders from slick action to warm odd couple buddy stuff, we not only lose the smarts, but the edge, too. It’s much more, well, maybe not much, but at least a little more interesting to watch these two different lead characters go at one another than to share giggles and wine over dinner.

Edge of Darkness

The most interesting component to this Mel Gibson vehicle happens off screen. After all, the script must have had something to make Gibson, who’s been pretty busy not acting lately, choose to return to work on camera after seven years. The production notes state Mel thought the story was “intriguing”. I’m not buying it. Because, at least in how it turned out, this is a totally thrill-less thriller.

Based on what was a popular British miniseries 20 years ago, the edgeless “Edge” is now set in Massachusetts. The only adult daughter of a single father, who happens to be a Boston detective, is quickly gunned down upon her somewhat mysterious visit home. While it’s natural to think she was just the collateral damage on an intended attack on her dad, he knows better. She must have been involved in something.

Off we go on a standard, dully told chase. There’s a not so trustworthy boyfriend, the malevolent boss, a  sitting duck of a well intentioned friend. That would all be ok, if it were staged with finesse. But director Martin Campbell brings none of the gritty elegance or sense of timing he infused in Casino Royale this time around. That’s especially curious, considering this is Campbell’s second go at the project: he directed the miniseries, too.

And then there’s Mel. Perhaps he just wasn’t all that into what he was doing here, but, in the past, Gibson has given some fine performances in productions that were and were not so great. In this picture, he’s all facial expressions. There’s no use of the rest of his body; the arms often just hanging there, lifeless. I was far more intrigued as to what was behind that disconnect between body and head than I was by anything else in this all too ordinary movie.

The Book of Eli

Ready or not: here it comes. The first kick ass apocalyptic action flick, designed for both the comic book and True Believer set.  Well, you can’t say this decade in movies hasn’t started out with a bang!

Denzel Washington brings a remarkably intriguing gravity to the mysterious role of Eli, a man left roaming the devastated landscape of America, some 30 years after a religious war and blinding flash. The few survivors, and their scrappy, if uneducated offspring, are wreaking havoc, scrambling for whatever’s left. But Eli has a mission. He’s taking his book, yes, it’s the Bible and headed west. Nothing’s going to stop him, either. He’s amazingly invincible, but, boy, what trials he’s to endure!

Frankly, as the Hughes Brothers’ camera first panned the opening scene, allowing us to watch as a cat munches a fly crusted corpse, I was pretty miserable. Just what we need: yet another end-of-the-world gross out. But, shrewdly, Gary Whitta’s screenplay won’t just settle for the standard. Thanks to Washington’s star wattage and acting smarts, we find ourselves drawn to this strange traveler. And once he bumps into Gary Oldman’s megomaniacal fellow reader, things really begin to get interesting. For sure, there’s tons of heated action, but there’s a chilling moral struggle that’s just as much a part of the reality here, too.

I’m not going to oversell this, but, I, for one, was surprised at how this movie grew on me as it forged along. I found myself actually caring about Eli and impressed at how ambitious the story line and production values were. And no, I’m not going to give it away, but, yes, there is a goodie bag of an ending that just might knock your socks off and give you a lot to think about as you head back into this paralleling bone chilling cold of 2010.

Sherlock Holmes

It’s not going to rock your world, but Guy Ritchie’s take on the classic detective series has got a lot going for it. Most notably, of course, it’s got Robert Downey, Jr. and that’s just fine with me.

Downey is a perfect fit for a modern day revival of the venerable Arthur Conan Doyle series. Sliding almost effortlessly between wide eyed curiosity and snarling superiority, Downey gets the push-pull of the Detective perfectly. He also understands the man’s vulnerabilities: his depressions, substance dabbling and very real reliance on his best friend, the good Dr. Watson. And Jude Law brings just the right touch of irritated understanding to that character, torn between sticking with his irresistible friend, or going legit and getting married. Not to worry: Holmes has his lady, too, a smarty pants not so good girl played gamely by Rachel McAdams. It’s also nice to see Eddie Marsan show up, in a decent supporting role.

While the story here is pretty average stuff, the set design and effects are of a higher caliber. No movie currently in theaters is going to match Avatar for knocking your socks off with the look of the thing, but Sherlock’s no slouch, either.

All the while I was screening this determinedly fun for the family kick off to what was obviously conceived as the first in a series, I couldn’t help but think of one of my favorite TV shows: House. Not just because Gregory House, like Sherlock Holmes, solves crimes while ticking people off, but because House, also like Sherlock, has his Watson: Wilson, played marvelously by Robert Sean Leonard. I would think fans of any of the procedural programs, the CSIs or even Law and Orders, would go for the process stuff that’s at play in this movie. But, at its most elementary,  my dear, this Sherlock is very much like Dr. House: neurotic, brilliant and great to watch, from a distance.

It's Complicated

Really? Complicated? Nothing so complex going on here at all, in what is essentially another chapter in the Nancy Meyers brand.

In Nancy world, middle aged women are smart, a little soft around the middle and charmingly, just a little bit insecure. Not about their professions, mind you: those have been successful enough to afford said women great clothes, substantial cars and, most notably, the most fabulous houses. It’s the love life part that’s got our ladies a tad dizzy. But not to worry: scratch the surface and all these size 10’ers are really irresistible to the most yummy of men. And there are lots of supportive girl friends who are happy to drop everything and gather round for a glass or two of an excellent pinot noir to cheer on the inevitable.

This time, it’s Meryl Streep’s turn to star as Nancy’s woman on the verge. A divine baker and loving mother to three grown children, our heroine lives what she thinks is a perfectly nice life in the most wonderful house in Santa Barbara. (Nancy’s ladies always live in expensively cool, but never ostentatious places). Then, after running into her ex a few times, like at the building where his and his new wife’s fertility clinic is, she begins to feel those old feelings. Said girlfriends urge her to get, shall we say, physical, with someone. Anyone. But, at their son’s college graduation, turns out the revived attraction is mutual. And away we go.

Streep, as always, elevates her material here. Alec Baldwin, paunch and all, is as funny as he can be in this played out role. And Steve Martin, neutered down for his sweet third wheel part, is, well, sweet, too. All even survive potentially embarrassing sex and pot smoking scenes.

As is also an essential in Nancy world, there are moments of self doubt and introspection. Those flashes used to signal something savvy in the Nancy brand; here, they are stuck in as if by habit.

Fans of Meyers’ films won’t be miserable or anything watching this movie. It is ok. Enough. But, those of us who remember the smarts of Diane Keaton pushing a baby carriage in a business suit, or the heart rendering basketball scenes between Steve Martin and his daughter, will yearn for something more. Until then, the Meyers brand is alive and full of nifty decorating tips.

Nine

Coming off his spectacular Chicago, Rob Marshall has hit the wall with this musical version of Frederico Fellini’s autobiographical 8 ½.

Nine, as a Broadway show (first staged by the genius Tommy Tune), has been a hit several times. A whirling dreamlike fantasy, enveloping a legendary director coping with writer’s block, this string of show stopping numbers was charming, sexy and sad. As a film, where we watch a tremendously self-absorbed man twirl between nine key women in his life, the fun is sporadic. At best. And the magic, the ethereal other worldliness of the piece, hardly ever reaches off the screen to pull us in.

Daniel Day Lewis stars as Guido and, for me, his casting is an essential problem. There’s no denying Lewis’s talent and he is game here: going for broke, singing and dancing. But Lewis’s signature intensity brings a gravity to Guido that, while it may be attractive to some, can also be a ton of work for others. We’re supposed to love this guy, through all the stuff he pulls. And here, that’s not so easy.

Still, there’s a glorious bevy of women surrounding him, at least in the story. Penelope Cruz is luscious as the sexy mistress, Judi Dench, terrific as his costumer, Kate Hudson snappy, playing the American journalist come for her interview. Nicole Kidman and Sophia Loren aren’t given all that much to do and neither is Fergie. However, when the pop star sings, which she does extremely well, she puts all the other vocal performances to shame. The best performance in this uneven collection is that of Marion Cotillard, who is stunning as Guido’s patient and not so patient wife. This Oscar winner, who also stole the show away from Johnny Depp in Public Enemies, just gets more impressive with each new turn.

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.