I thought the show was one of the best in many years, if not the best.

The movies, as I wrote, were good, but not great.  I think “The Artist” is fun, but amounts to little

There were a lot of good documentaries showcased that will go on to do well in video and TV.

I liked Meryl Streep in “Iron Lady.”   And Viola Davis in “The Help.”

“A Separation” was a good choice.  There was a lot of intelligent entertainment last year.

I think I missed one major award: I thought they’d give it to Davis;  they gave it to Streep. No big deal.

The criticism that the Academy skews older is okay by me; IFP, the Independent  Feature Project, which has its show the day before, skews younger.

Actually older people, 45 plus, go to the movies more than younger,  and consume more DVDs.

Dan Cohen

By Dan Cohen,

NewsLanc’s Santa Monica Reporter

Last time I talked about Oscar qualifiers I admired, but with reservations.  The following are those I admired with few if any qualifications.

My Week with Marilyn

On its surface this slice of movie lore, probably as much fiction as fact, appears no more substantial than an after dinner mint. But I found it more amusing and thoughtful than the far weightier prestige films of the year. Because the script is so faithful to its original intentions and so finely tuned to its characters, it actually reaches deep into a little understood phenomenon; the power that fame, and the few icons who command it, wield over the rest of us.

Michele Williams, who channels the spirit of Marilyn Monroe with wit and delicacy, doesn’t have a prayer to win the Oscar. First, her movie underperformed at the box office, for reasons beyond my limited understanding. And second, because it appeals to the generation that experienced Marilyn Monroe as a movie star first hand, while she was still alive and engaged with her public.  Monroe remains an icon, whose films are never far from repertory or cable, but sixty years on it’s hard to appreciate the power she held as both personality and a movie star.  Suffice it to say she was one of a kind.

Playing “Marilyn”, especially as she struggles to make her mark in a bad movie, seems on its face, a fools’ errand.  Even in the best of times Monroe’s personality was something of a mystery; the task of getting under her skin during an awkward period seems even more daunting.

When Williams first appears your impulse is to dismiss her entirely.  Her physical resemblance to Monroe is on a par with the kind of casual impersonator you see at a costume party.  Complicating the effort, Williams has a very different physical profile, which impacts the way she carries herself.  Monroe, at her height, affected an almost delirious caricature of the feminine ideals of the period, the late 50s and very early 60s. There’s no way to make that impression today; it requires time travel.   But ten minutes in, you’ve dropped all reservations and surrendered to Williams’ strategy of evoking an impression of Marilyn from the inside. In this she’s truly exceptional.

The same can be said of Kenneth Branagh’s Laurence Olivier.  Everything from the voice to the body language fails to jibe with our recollection of Olivier, a great actor who disappeared into his roles and was almost invisible apart from them. But Branagh brings so much conviction to the lines that, in a short while, the real Olivier ceases to exist.  The central parts are complemented by a gallery of spot on supporting players; Eddie Redmayne, Julia Ormond, Emma Watson, Toby Jones, and a bunch more. Nobody disappoints.

But the movie is more than equal to its performances. The script is tartly funny and knowing from the first minute to the last.  Simon Curtis, a veteran of British TV, directs with clarity and confidence. Cinematographer Ben Smithard employs a gentle color palette that eases the immersion into the low budget period recreation without drawing attention to it.

The unlikely events, the stars’ dalliance with a young writer, are set during Olivier’s attempt to hitch his theatrical fame to Monroe’s exploding movie fame.  The vehicle he’s chosen to produce, direct, and star in, is a period drawing room comedy that almost everyone but Olivier recognizes as an artistic and professional misstep. After a troubled shoot “The Prince and the Showgirl,” sandwiched between the touching “Bus Stop” and the sidesplitting “Some Like It Hot” failed on every level.

What “My Week with Marylin” does so well, and so effortlessly, is to simultaneously make fun of and respect the public’s nearly slavish devotion to great icons.   The Marilyn of this movie is a tortured performer at work and a selfish narcissist the rest of the time, but someone whose huge appeal simply can’t be denied. Not that there’s anything simple about that; it’s way too complicated to fully understand.

Only a few actresses have held as profound a sway over the general public as Monroe; Garbo at her height, Ingrid Bergman and perhaps Katharine Hepburn for a time. But there was a peculiar fervor around Marilyn Monroe; a collision between her personae and the period that resulted in the kind of idolatry that remains with us today.  Somehow this small movie addresses that issue, without underlining it.

There’s a great scene at the midpoint, when the character played by Eddie Redmayne, the narrator, delivers an unspoken truth about the movie that’s collapsing around them, that everybody but Monroe and Olivier seem to realize.  “You’re a great star trying to be a serious actress” he says, “and he’s a serious actor trying to become a great star; and this picture isn’t going to do that for either of you.” This is one of the best written lines of the year in one of the few really well written movies of the year. You savor every funny/sad minute of it.

A Separation

It’ll be no surprise if “A Separation” wins the Oscar for best Foreign Language film of 2011; it’s  one of the few genuinely compelling dramas of the past few years, in any language.  Movie lovers who stay away on account of the film’s setting, Iran, and its’ current status on the world stage, are denying themselves of one of the most satisfying experiences in recent memory.

In their rush to sell it to audiences, some critics have described “A Separation” as a kind of thriller, which is a misrepresentation.  The movie is suspenseful, and rivets your attention, but suspense, that is, the narrative’s ability to make us want to know what happens next, is the marrow of all drama. It’s just that there are very few modern dramas rigged well enough to hold our attention the way this one does. So it gets mistaken for another genre.

A youngish man and woman sit before a judge to air complaints about their marriage. Their diction and expressions speak volumes about their middle class roots. The woman, stylish and well made up, wears a scarf that covers her head, so we know the two are probably Muslims. In the early scenes we may be tempted to compartmentalize them, even though they live with modern conveniences, in what appears to be the upper middle class section of Tehran. But as the story unfolds, over a full (and at times breathless) two hours, becoming ever more complicated and perilous, we can’t help but identify with each of the main players.

There’s a feeling of real flesh and blood at the heart of writer/director Asghar Farhadi’s script.  This is his fifth feature as director and about his tenth as screenwriter.  I haven’t seen the others but the story here is so smartly rigged that it could serve as a blueprint for a class on screenwriting.  The filmmaking, from the acting to the cutting, to the cinematography (which I believe is digital) keeps us focused on the ever escalating tension. The direction, of the fluid sort sometimes referred to as “invisible,” is anything but. This is the craft of storytelling at its highest level.

The initial problem has to do with the custody of a teenager, but the conflict ultimately extends to a handful of other people and problems. Complicating matters are cultural and religious issues, all expertly developed and explained.  One of the more compelling characters is a municipal judge, who is called upon to function as a detective, psychologist, and civil authority at the same time. As he struggles to sort problems and handle them with both restraint and respect for the law, we fully understand his patience, expertise, and the difficulties he faces every day.

“A Separation” has been outlawed in Iran, which is ironic because it’s more than sympathetic to the people and place.  I don’t why it ran afoul of the government; maybe because it refuses to tow a party line. Regardless, “A Separation” is a terrific movie.

Pina

I don’t know a thing about dance, but I do know that “Pina,” is a stellar performance film in a class of its own, and like “A Separation,” a completely satisfying evening at the movies.  If I had to rank the great films driven by dance, this one would be close to “The Red Shoes,” although is a kind of documentary. I say a kind of, because it plays more like a dream than non-fiction.

As a matter of fact, I have attended a handful of dances and ballets over the past twenty years or so, enough to appreciate the level of director Wim Wenders inspired homage to the late, celebrated choreographer Pina Bausch.  It’s been reported that he and Bausch talked about a film project for more than two decades.  But if the stories are to be trusted, Wenders couldn’t find a way to film Bausch’s work until 3D was perfected.  It sounds like he instinctively sensed that the creative use of 3D might capture the energy and excitement of Bausch’s distinctive choreography. The amazing thing is, by using 3D as a character, he’s almost created a new genre.

Most of the movie’s running time is devoted to actual dances, some shot on a stage, some on locations, and some cut together from both.  Since Bausch choreographs like an architect, regardless of where she sets her pieces, the 3D creates the kind of visual spectacle that even the theater can’t quite deliver.  Not that the two can be compared; they can’t. Theater is live and spontaneous; movies are canned and calculated.  But “Pina” is a thing apart from anything you’ve seen on a two dimensional plane. The vivid, space busting camera work, is a worthy substitute for the ambience of a live performance.  The clever editing, adjusted to accommodate for three dimensional images, finally marries the subject and content, almost like it did in the ground breaking “Avatar.”

The movie proceeds as a series of set pieces, mainly highlights from Bausch’s better known shows. There’s a long section from Stravinksy’s “Rite of Spring,” pop pieces like Jun Miyake’s catchy jazz number “Lillies of the Valley,” chamber music, and several standards; a completely eclectic program, although you rapidly become confident that whatever comes next will be accompanied by eye popping choreography.

The characters in most live action 3D movies, (as opposed to animation, a category unto itself) have mostly seemed like moving two dimensional cutouts, as opposed to representations of actual flesh and blood. I’m thinking here about titles like “Alice,” “Hugo,” and the glut of 3D horror and sci- fi the studios have been grinding out to goose box office.  3D calls for a rethinking of moment to moment film grammar, and most directors (other than the animators) have shucked that responsibility. Their results have been mainly tiring.

What “Pina” accomplishes, is to bring the viewer into intimate contact with the dancers and their energy.  The 3D camera, which seems to have a mind of its own, captures the elegance, humor, drama, and the relationship between the dancers and the spaces they inhabit.

On some level “Pina” plays like a cerebral sci fi. The only dialogue appears as voice over to images of various members of the company.  Bausch, who died midway through production, also appears, adding an additional poignancy to remarks by her dancers/collaborators.

“Pina” is so charged with dynamic movement and music I’m sure it’ll play as a normal DVD, but trust me, the 3D theatrical is transporting.

Will Oscar play a role in the future of these three outstanding movies?  “Pina” is a possible in the doc category, “A Separation,” likely in Foreign Language slot. “My Week With Marilyn,” is a long shot at best.  “A Separation” is also nominated for best screenplay, which it fully deserves. But I won’t be hurt if Woody Allen wins for “Midnight in Paris.”   Concerning the others;  my hope is that by the end of the inevitable three plus hours of tedium, Viola Davis and Octavia Spencer will have gotten their just rewards, although I’m not holding my breath.  And my best  guess is that “The Artist” will have taken more than its share of Oscar.

Movie alert!

“Chronicle” is the best movie of 2012, so far.  Unless you absolutely despise teenagers I highly recommend it. It’s a nimble sci fi about teenagers that transcends teen age. When was the last time you heard a 17 year old carry on intelligently about the ideas of Schopenhauer and Nietzsche?

By Santa Monica Reporter Dan Cohen

I wasn’t motivated to make a ten best list for 2011. After looking over a survey of world critics in “Sight And Sound,” (the journal of the British Film Institute,) I was even less inclined. The overwhelming majority chose “Tree of Life” as their best or second best.  And then the much appreciated “A Separation,” which wasn’t playing in this country at the time.   As much as I admired Terence Malik’s idiosyncratic memory piece it struck me as having more in common with art installations than narrative filmmaking.

Just to avoid a certain type of argument regarding what does or does not qualify as  a feature film, I’m going to sidestep the relevant issues regarding “Tree of Life,”  and get back to the problem I had making up a ten best list for 2011.

It was a year with a fair number of good films, distributed pretty much over the entire year. Even though the distributors would like you to think the best and most important came out in the last quarter, it was not the case in 2011.  “The Help,” “Midnight in Paris,” and the underappreciated crime drama, “The Guard” were released mid-year.   The Sundance Film Festival debuted “Win Win,” “Beginners,” and “Martha, Marcy, May, Marlene,” back in January; their releases were peppered throughout the year. And let us not overlook the hilarious low jinks of “Bridesmaids,” which dropped late spring.

So here we are, facing  the Academy Awards with the Golden Globes in the rear view mirror. Where does that place the major contenders, most of which saw wide release mid winter?  Here are a few comments on the handful I liked, but for one reason or other, couldn’t quite love.

“The Descendants”

We owe a debt to writer/director Alexander Payne for “Election,” “Sideways,”  “Citizen Ruth,” and maybe even “About Schmidt.”  But his latest, a good enough comic drama with the endlessly likable George Clooney, doesn’t breathe the same rarefied air.  It’s notable for its modulated ensemble and consistent tone, but it lacks the rude energy that takes his best work to a higher level.   Shailene Woodley, who, as I understand it, cut her teeth on TV shows (“The Secret Life of An American Teenager,”) is nothing less than outstanding as Clooney’s daughter. And Clooney, who exercises admirable restraint, delivers his lines with sympathy and insight.  Still, the material never cuts loose; it’s almost obsessively good natured and even tempered, to its detriment.

Writer/director Payne, who noted in interviews that he hadn’t directed a feature since the 2004 award winner, “Sideways,” said that he was scrambling to find material when he took up “The Descendants.” Hmmmm. In any case, I wanted to like it more, but kept comparing it to his better work.

“The Artist”

You no longer have to wonder how a “silent movie” would play in an era when the sound of Dolby and THX routinely blast you out of your seat.  If awards were given for most charming writing, directing and performing, “The Artist” would take them all, dialogue or no.

Director Michel Hazanavicius, up to now virtually unknown in this country, goes where only Mel Brooks’ “Silent Movie,” and Chaplin’s “Modern Times” have gone before, completely foregoing dialogue at a time when dialogue either makes or breaks most movies. The Globes” rewarded his daring with a best picture award in the “Comedy or Musical” category, which is interesting because the film is neither.  A quick look at the other nominees in that category, “Bridesmaids,” “My Week with Marilyn,” and “Midnight in Paris,” shows that when Hollywood falls in love it forgets its own rules.  In this case, it seems that the Hollywood Foreign Press, an organization of less than a hundred, was reluctant to put “The Artist” up against another of its faves, “The Descendants,” which they awarded best picture in their drama category.  They probably should have reversed  their placement  which leads you to wonder what they were thinking. Here’s a hint: that’s why they’re called the Hollywood “foreign” press.

Chaplin released his “Modern Times,” as a non-talking feature in 1940.  No producer in his right mind would have faced such a headwind at the same time “Gone With the Wind,” was playing to mobs, but Chaplin did, and found an audience. Mel Brooks, fresh off successful parodies of westerns, (“Blazing Saddles,”) and horror movies, (“Young Frankenstein,”) took a different approach, setting  his anarchic sensibility loose on the form of the silents, with the aim of savaging their mannerisms. He was only partially successful.

“The Artist,” is nothing like Chaplins’ brilliant commentary on technology or Brooks’ raucous slapstick. It’s a light drama that affectionately mimics the conventions of the period with a touch of schizophrenia. It isn’t really a silent movie, it’s more like the shadow of a silent movie, informed by history and hindsight. “The Artist” has been called  an “homage” to silent film, and in the sense that it couldn’t have existed without them, it is.

Hazanaviscious, a Paris born director who saw success with two Bond style thrillers in France, steers clear of parody. He shoehorns as many conventions of silent cinema as can be comfortably fit into one screenplay then shoots like its seventy years ago.  “The Artist” works, but  isn’t quite as affecting as the films it’s about. Which is ok, I suppose, because very few of us  live with those films anymore. Having said that, I do wonder what the Gloria Swanson of “Sunset Boulevard” would have thought of it.  My guess is, not much.

The Iron Lady

Regardless of what you think about Margaret Thatcher’s politics, you can’t help but love Meryl Streep playing her.  No matter what your expectations are, you’ll be confounded by her performing wizardry.  And while there’s no arguing the film sidesteps the controversy over Thatcher’s conservatism, it never sets itself up to make the case for or against it in the first place.

The script, which moves swiftly over fifty years, focuses more on Thatcher’s coming of age than her conservative roots, although they’re referenced throughout.  The movie is more interested in how Thatcher developed the strength to become the UK’s first female prime minister.   The philosophy that guided her takes a back seat.

It begins with Thatcher in retirement, struggling to control the ravages of dementia.  Haunted by the presence of her long dead husband, she refuses to back away from day to day challenges that would diminish her status as the elder statesman.  Deeply committed to the iron that sustained her career, she goes to great lengths to keep face.

There’s a great scene where she engages in a bit of cat and mouse to keep an intrusive doctor from seeing the depths of her illness. The script is remarkable for showing how Thatcher calls on long held reserves of strength to keep the man at arms’ length. It’s poignant but not the least bit sentimental, like the woman herself.

The brilliance of Streeps’ performance is that she’s able to indicate her inner turmoil with the most subtle alterations of physical make up.  Her voice is a big part of it, but there’s a lot in the eyes and the body language.  She gets able support from Jim Broadbent as the husband who continues to spar with her, even in death.

Finally, since the story is so intimately bound up with the period and the tumultuous changes Thatcher brought to the country, the last thirty minutes or so feel threadbare. The treatment of the Falklands war is so sketchy it leaves a bitter after taste. All in all, though, it moves gracefully through her remarkable life, with little apology or sentiment.

A further note; “Iron Lady” recently opened in the UK, to strong business. The reviews, however, were scalding. By and large they criticized the movie for failing to address Thatcher’s politics. One writer, hardly a fan of the former PM, called it “rubbish.” They willfully failed to acknowledge that as an impressionistic work it couldn’t possibly uphold standards better applied to book or documentary.  Or maybe they were just haters.

“The Help”

I didn’t get interested in this movie until Melissa Hart Perry, a commentator on CNBC, delivered a lengthy rant about it on the Rachel Maddow show. I realize that was back in early summer, and seems like a million years ago, but I can feel her anger like it was yesterday. Up to that time the trailer had me convinced “The Help” was another tepid memory piece from the Disney factory.  But Perry made me think that there might be more to it, for better or worse.

I was surprised at how complicated and enjoyable it was, and how effectively the large, ensemble brought their parts to life.  “The Help” is a movie about another era, but it’s more like a movie made in another era. It recalls the better work of directors like Martin Ritt or Norman Jewison, or Stanley Kramer, who worked within the studio system making films that addressed the social issues of their time.  On balance I think Ritt was the most interesting. His best films include “Hud,” “Norma Rae,” and “Hombre.”   At its best moments Tate Taylor’s direction  recalls the strengths of the esteemed Ritt, and  I’m eager to see what he comes up with next.

“The Help” aggravated commentators like Perry because it’s view of racial inequality during the early sixties is seen through the eyes of a young, privileged white woman, played by the spirited Emma Stone  Among other things the film has been criticized for devoting more time to the issues of its white protagonist than the murder of Medgar Evers.  It’s a good point but the movie is only tangentially about the latent civil rights movement, and more about the relationships between a group of middle class southerners and their black help.

The expectation that movies will conform to any particular standard of truth telling is bound to be disappointed. The narrative medium is impressionistic; It’s unreliable and untrustworthy even when it appears to represent reality. Let one good example suffice; the portrayal of war versus the real thing.

Dramas generally reach us by evoking emotion, and by explicating human foibles through action. They work by showing, not telling. Their relationship to books, articles, and even documentary is tangential at best.

“The Help” is a good natured, sprawling entertainment, elevated by the stellar performances from Viola Davis, Octavia Spencer, and Jessica Chastain. Their heartfelt work is supported by a host of others in the cast; Stone, Allison Janney and Bryce Dallas Howard. I enjoyed every minute of my time with them.

Next time: 2011 movies I really liked.

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

“GAMES OF SHADOWS”

Any resemblance between “Game of Shadows,” Robert Downey, Jr.’s latest turn as Sherlock Holmes, and the first installment, from two years ago, is purely coincidental. Where the first was witty and fleet footed, this one is dull and flat footed. It’s an extravagantly expensive mess, sure to bore the same audience that was delighted by its antecedent.

I was fooled by the dynamic trailer; “Game of Shadows” looked liked an extension of all that was puckishly charming about director Guy Richie’s first run at the Holmes canon. And he aims for the same tone, only the script falls short, leaving him to grapple with long winded dialogue that lumbers where it means to skip before devolving into action scenes that are overlong and overblown. I say overlong because we’re better off wanting to see just a little more than being force fed too much.  But this is a trap that Hollywood finds hard to resist.

There are inspired moments; Holmes unexpectedly appearing in drag or cleverly camouflaged as a part of the décor in his study.  The lush interiors support the illusion of period creation. And no expense has been spared to goose the many locations. Downey, Jude Law, and Stephen Fry, as Holmes brother, do their best to make it seem like they’re having fun with every new threat that comes at them.  But with the exception of Jared Harris, who’s equipped with a fair degree of wit as Holmes’ arch nemesis, Moriarty, the cast struggles to prop up a fussy screenplay rife with self conscious devices that feel like elements that might have been rejected from the first outing.

Way too much is made of the homoerotic slant that colors Holmes and Watson’s relationship. Last time it was set in opposition to Holmes’ dalliance with perky Irene Adler, played by Rachel McAdams.  Sadly, McAdams appears only briefly this time around. Without her the script keeps returning to the ongoing joke of the two male leads’ campy codependence, a strategy that is no longer novel.

It’s ok to goose an audience with explosions and stop motion editing, but there have to be clearly defined story points to make them really sing. Too often the set ups for the action is explained after the fact.  In the stories Arthur Conan Doyle was constantly putting Holmes in the position of explaining his reasons after the fact. But the page is different. The all important elements of suspense are better served when explanations are delivered before the action instead of afterwards. After is often too late for us to be truly involved.

I’m sorry this movie doesn’t work, I really am. I hope that if the series survives to see a third episode, the creators will recover and deliver something as diverting as their first effort.

“YOUNG ADULT”

Charlize Theron is a terrific actress.  Is there anyone who’d argue that? In spite of an indelible physical presence she can make us see her any way she wants. If you saw the entirely superior “Monster,” or the uneven “Life and Death of Peter Sellers,” you know exactly what I mean.

But she doesn’t have to add thirty pounds or dental implants to keep you involved.  She’s a stunning movie star with awe inspiring control of her gifts.  She can let you know what she’s thinking or how she feels with the flick of her eyebrow or any other feature on her remarkable face. She’s bigger than the supporting roles she’s played in “2 Days in the Valley,”  “The Italian Job” and “Hancock.” Just by showing up she makes a movie better.

In the Diablo Cody written “Young Adult” Theron brings a willfully superficial character to life with detail and nuance.  She’s found the feelings between the lines, expressing them in her face and body. If only the material was up to her skills.

This is the latest effort from director Jason Reitman, who delivered three outstanding comic dramas in a row; “Thank You For Smoking,” “Juno,” and “Up in the Air.” An impressive acheivement. When it comes to comic drama his only serious competition is Alexander Payne, the director of “The Descendants.”

Mavis Gary is a Minneapolis based writer of “young adult” novels, but they don’t carry her name; she’s ghosting for the writer who conceived the series.  Right from the start we find out the franchise has run out of steam, and Mavis is behind in completing the last volume. Instead of working she spends most of her time drunk or sleeping with a guy for whom she shows little or no interest.

For reasons that are unclear she goes back to the small town she came from, with the aim of retrieving her high school boyfriend, (Patrick Wilson,) now married with an infant daughter.  After crashing in a local motel she mounts an ill conceived campaign to “liberate” him from his middle class mooring.  Along the way she latches onto another former classmate, (Patton Oswalt,) a partially disabled victim of a hate crime who she leans on whenever things go wrong.

The movie details several passages that show Mavis physically remaking herself, to better tempt Wilson’s married man. At the same time it exposes her condescending attitude to her hometown and everybody in it. At bottom she’s little more than a sick drunk with problems that go way beyond the movie’s limited scope.

Reitman showed a great affinity for Diablo’s intimate and funny “Juno.” You felt like he gave the actors enough space to exploit every innuendo in the understated problem comedy about a pregnant but endlessly resourceful teenager, the break through role for Ellen Page.  With Theron  on board there was every reason to believe the Cody/Reitman team would make something special out of the troubled character in “Young Adult.”

The movie might have worked better if the script was darker and funnier; if it had been goosed by a fusillade of acid dialogue, or if the characters were allowed to wreak serious havoc on one another, the way they do in “Bridesmaids.” But writer Cody has chosen to keep the people grounded. She wants us to believe in Mavis although she doesn’t want to venture into the messy depths at the bottom of her troubled psyche.  Mavis goes deep into her delusions, but without the sort of conflict that would increase the tension or our involvement. Her story plays more like a bicycle crash than a train wreck.

Theron works to keep Mavis alive in every on screen moment, and you want to cheer her on, even as the movie lulls you into apathy. Patton Oswalt, struggling with a part that, at least in theory, is even more difficult, adds depth and a few moments of levity. But the movie gets to a point and then more or less stands still.

There’s a great scene near the end, where Oswalt’s damaged sister, (Collete Wolfe) and Mavis, sit across a table and blurt out their respective truths. It’s an exhilarating moment when two people from different planets suddenly connect with unexpected candor. It’s electric, but too late to make the movie as compelling as the effort the actors have put forth trying to make it breathe.

“ HUGO”

“Hugo” is an ambitious experiment that languishes for too much of its running time, in spite of the best efforts of the great Martin Scorsese, and his storied collaborators, editor Thelma Schoonmaker and production designer Dante Ferreti, among many others.

The story line, taken from a well known childrens’ novel, deals with the meeting of the aging cinema pioneer Georges Melies, and a young orphan who keeps the clocks running in the Paris train station.  The movie is a lavish super production that lumbers when it should tiptoe.

Part of the problem, but not all, can be laid at the altar of the mercilessly oppressive 3D technique to which so many studio executives have come to worship.  What they’re doing, in cases like this is, anchoring a heavy weight to an already cumbersome property and then sending it into heavy storms when they’re barely seaworthy to begin with.

Hugo, (Asa Butterfield,) is a penniless urchin who lives in the clock tower above the Paris train station sometime during the ‘30s. Orphaned by a fire that killed his father, (briefly played by Jude Law) he lives by his wits, mainly stealing, although the movie doesn’t do a good job of showing this. Right from the start it’s overly concerned with its bona fides as a “family” film. When the elderly owner of a toy shop, (Ben Kingsley,) catches him pilfering, the boy forfeits a valuable notebook owned by his departed dad. Thus sets in motion the clockwork plot that eventually reveals the old man to be the famous film pioneer, George Melies, and the subject of his notebook, one of his greatest creations.

There are a dozen intricate vistas before the title credit. For the most part they’re breathtaking. The problem is you’d rather be inside them than sitting in the theater, watching. Right from the start the 3D becomes the real subject of the movie; it works better as a travelogue than a narrative.  Then the characters start talking, and the movie’s real problems begin. Since they float in various distances on a plane thatchanges with every shot, they seem to be talking at instead of to each other. This is especially true as Hugo forms a tenuous relationship with the little girl whose grandfather has taken his notebook. The 3D images seem to be at odds with the development of any chemistry.

Sasha Baron Cohen, famous for “Borat,” appears as the station Gendarme, in a part that’s way too big for its importance to the real stakes. At his best Cohen seems stiff and uncomfortable, probably because he’s directed in some of the movie’s most awkward physical comedy. There’s more than one close up where he appears alone in the frame, dangling in front of you, with nothing to do.  The talented Emily Mortimer, playing a flower girl he covets but can’t talk to, has fewer than a handful of lines, so we never learn much about her. The two of them add little to the movie, beyond length.

About midway the two children sneak into a movie house where Harold Lloyd’s famed “Safety Last” is screening.  Scorcese cull moments from the great clock tower scene, one of the many stunts Lloyd performed without the benefit of CGI or a stunt double. These short bits, graced by Lloyds unique persona, are more fluid, energetic, and joyful than half the contrivances of the super production that bookends them. When the story finally gets around to George Melies and his wondrous work in the early silent period, Scorcese delivers some truly enchanting moments.  But by this time, about 90 minutes in, we’re already soured on the movie as a whole.

Many movie lovers have surrendered to “Hugo,” because it’s intended as a loving homage to the lifeblood of a great film artist. I wanted to join them, but couldn’t, in spite of my high regard for Scorcese. There’s just too much baggage from the source material with all its contrivances. And you have to wonder what the producers were after. Did the really think they could evoke the magic of Melies, conjured long before the establishment of actual movie theaters, then package it and sell it to the video game generation?

In light of “Hugo,” and so many others, I’m not sure what to make of 3D. Whether it’s going through a difficult adolescence or proving itself unsuited to anything but animation or sports, I haven’t a clue. On a case by case basis, however, I’ve seen it fail more often than succeed. The images are mostly too dark, the editing too slow, and the individual scenes overly burdened with detail.  In a way the 3D seems to be a character itself, in need of the kind of directors who have not yet come of age.

As “Hugo” struggled through so many predictable turns of plot I wondered what Melies, who’s primitive but inspired special effects still tickle the imagination, would make of today’s CGI and 3D?

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica reporter

“The Skin I Live In”

When Hitchcock’s “Psycho” was released, back in 1960, it was such a radical departure from his forty or so prior films it felt like it came from another planet. For one thing the main character, played by Janet Leigh, met a grisly end 43 minutes in. The real identity of the other central role, played by Anthony Perkins, remained in doubt until the last few minutes. So it was almost impossible for audiences to invest in either of them, like Jimmy Stewart in “Vertigo,” or Cary Grant in “North By Northwest.”  And yet the film was a huge hit.

It took years for critics to get past the shocks, like the shower sequence or the climax in the basement, to see the black comedy at the heart of “Psycho,” and how it related to the rest of Hitchcock’s work.  Still, the movie stands apart for its refusal to provide a solid, emotional center.

Only a master story teller can defy an audience’s need for a place to put its emotions. Few directors are willing to go that route, because it usually ends in both critical and commercial failure.  Now comes Pedro Almodovar, challenging his many admirers with the cold but skillful “The Skin I Live In,” a movie that drags us around by the nose but keeps us at arms distance from its principal characters.

Antonio Banderas plays a doctor/experimental scientist who keeps a beautiful young woman, (Elena Anaya,) imprisoned in a secluded villa on the outskirts of Toledo, Spain.  The tone is quickly set by the stark contrast between its stately exterior, and the modish, clinical interior. The entire lab is dedicated to a single patient, the stunning and morose Vera, who we are led to believe, is being treated for some kind of exotic disease.  The almost wordless opening follows a pattern we’ve seen in many other thrillers.  And it grabs you right away.

But it’s not quite what it seems. The doctor is using the woman to perfect a new, radical form of human skin. For a while it seems he’s got it all under control.  Then a guy in a Halloweeny tiger suit, with an almost absurd bulge in the groin, breaks in, restrains the maid/caretaker, and rapes the girl. Turns out this criminal, with a hideously scarred face, is the doctor’s half brother.  Things get more complicated as the film spins back six years, when the real trouble began.

The girl’s true identity, and her part in the ongoing psychodrama, has as much to do with the doctor’s past as his current experiments. There’s an undercurrent of dark comedy in all this, which occasionally surfaces through an offhand aside. For the most part, however, the tone is studiously dark, almost like a B movie from the fifties. Except “Skin” is way better directed than the typical genre item.

The visual style is at once striking and matter of fact.  Cinematographer Jose Luis Alcaine, who shot “Volver” and “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown” (among others) delivers the vivid color palate that’s become one of Almodovars’ several signatures.  And while there are few moments of fantasy, highlights of many of his earlier films, the moment to moment direction is inspired and assured.

The larger problems have to do, not so much with the plot, but the underpinnings that drive it; they’re sketchy at best.  Sixty years ago Norman Bates dual identity was enough to hang an entire story.  Since then movies have exploited every conceivable human perversity.  At this point we need something more substantive than a gender twist to satisfy us.  This latest Almodovar keeps to plot, with few of the personal digressions that have made the scripts for “Broken Embraces,” or “Talk to Her” so interesting. It’s also lacking in the self reflective humor that warmed even his darkest films.

More than once I thought that the icy mechanics of “The Skin I Live In” might work better in an opera.  The score (by Alberto Iglesias, another Almodovar regular), as stirring and elaborate as any I can remember, seems to invite the characters to break into song.  But they don’t, and the movie’s twists and turns fail to deliver an emotional core.  Still, it has energy to spare.  I didn’t love it, but I was hooked from the first frame.  Even the minor work of this great filmmaker is compelling.

MARTHA, MARCY, MAY, MARLENE
This is the most off putting title of the year.  But the movie is intriguing; a low budget thriller of sorts, with a genuinely disturbing edge.  It premiered at this years’ Sundance festival.  Now it’s making the rounds at the art cinemas.  Meaning, you may have to see the DVD.

Right from the first shots writer/director Sean Durkin makes it clear that he’s in no hurry.  But his movie isn’t slow as much as deliberate.  There are few fast cuts to jerk up the action or to imply jeopardy when there is none.  And he maintains that level of integrity throughout.

The farm we see in the first sequence is some kind of commune. Its’ members seem to go about their chores with cheerful resolve. But at night, the half dozen female residents sleep in the same room, a sign that something’s not quite right.   Then, one of the women, Martha, (Elizabeth Olsen) slips away just before dawn.  She’s followed by a male resident who tries to get her back. She refuses. Why, we’re not sure.

Martha uses a public phone to call for help; the absence of a cell phone is another troubling sign. Soon she’s staying with her older sister Sara and Sara’s British husband who are spending the summer at a lakeside rental.  The sisters haven’t seen each other in a while, so their relationship is muddy. That’s one cause of tension.  Then there’s her more recent history.

The movie toggles back and forth between her liberated present and her subjugation on the farm, under the thumb of a quietly manipulative leader, effectively played by John Hawkes.  Hawkes made strong impressions in “Winters’ Bone”, “You, Me, and Everyone We Know”, and TV’s “Deadwood.”  He’s like a scruffy, younger Sean Penn, but a lot more laid back, especially when it comes to expressing menace.

Durkin takes chances with the narrative.  Marthas’ problems started long before the story begins, and no attempt is made to backtrack far enough to get much insight into how or why she became bonded to Hawkes’ wily dictator.  But we’re teased with increasingly disturbing moments, as her erratic, uncontrollable behavior becomes a threat to not only the sister and her husband, but herself.  Through it all we’re alternately attracted and repelled, but always involved.

In a key sequence Martha crawls into her sisters’ bed while she and her husband are having sex.  When confronted Martha doesn’t seem to understand the level of her impropriety.  But is that a function of her time at the commune or a more basic malfunction in her personal makeup?  The script doesn’t say.  But the frequent flashbacks, which comprise close to half the movie, suggest the kind of perversity that continues to impact her wounded psyche.

Elizabeth Olsen’s performance has received well deserved attention.  Her open, round face, especially at rest, hardly suggests the terror that can suddenly distort it.  Sarah Paulson is sympathetic as the sister, struggling to make peace with a damaged sibling at the same time she to figure out how much of it is her own fault.

The ending, which comes abruptly, has proved difficult for most audiences.  For my taste it could have been edited better, but I’m with it in spirit. In any event it hardly detracts from the pleasures of this unsettling movie.

Keep your eyes open for a play date at the local art theater.

The Twilight Saga: Breaking Dawn, part 1

Teenagers of all ages, who have been salivating for the moment when the vampire and human flesh of Edward Cullen and Bella Swan finally commingle, get their hearts desire in the fourth installment of the unstoppable “Twilight” series, “Breaking Dawn.”

True fans already know what happens; they long since gobbled up Stephenie Meyers ‘tweener’ novels. But seeing Bella and Edward consummate their smoldering passion, embodied by Kristen Stewart and Robert Pattison, is what they’re really after.  If at this point you don’t know what I’m talking about, you should probably skip the rest of this.

“Breaking Dawn, part 1,” isn’t as compelling as the first “Twilight,” which had the advantage of novelty and Catherine Hardwicke’s imaginative direction.  But it isn’t as clumsy as the second, or as uneven as the much improved third.  Director Bill Condon, the maker of “Gods and Monsters,” and “Kinsey,” was a smart choice. He isn’t a wild card like David Slade, who put an idiosyncratic stamp on the prior installment, “Eclipse.”  Condon is more dramatist than stylist, a good choice considering where the series was headed.

The actual wedding, an elaborate set piece that consumes almost half the movie’s running time, seems more akin to the kind of party studio executives contrive than a ceremony Edward and Bella would have chosen.  But alright, it gives the excellent supporting cast a chance to dress up, and for the living and living dead to break bread together.

A threat arrives, in the form of the spurned suitor/werewolf played by Taylor Lautner.  But at this point it’s become painfully evident that Lautner, whether due to bad lines or limited abilities, never had a chance to separate Stewart and Pattison. As icons and performers they’re playing in a different league.

Bella and Edwards’ vows are just the prelude to the voyeur’s real interest, their honeymoon. And this one is straight out of reality TV. It’s here that “Breaking Dawn” tiptoes, with great relish, to the very limits of its PG-13 rating. Condon is up to the challenge; he’s respectful of the key moments between the two and wise enough to season them with a smidgeon of wit.

The life threatening consequences, which follow rapidly, suggest that either Bella throws all caution to the wind, or that vampire sperm trumps birth control.  No explanation is given, but I would have paid double the ticket price to hear what the teenagers sitting next to me made of it.  In any case, the movie builds to a suspenseful cliffhanger that will not be resolved until “Breaking Dawn, part 2” comes out, in about nine months.  We’ll be waiting.

Four years after his breakthrough role in “Knocked Up,” Seth Rogen finally has a project equal to his talents. And though he’s not the lead in “50/50,” the movie would be way less appealing without him, despite its other considerable merits.

Rogen has been on fire a while now. He came out of the cult TV series, “Freaks and Geeks,” expanding with co-writing and performing credits for “Superbad,” “Pineapple Express,” and “Zack and Miri Make a Porno,” among others.  Over the past ten years he’s voiced characters in animated features, “Kung Fu Panda,” taken big and small parts in Hollywood movies, “Step Brothers,” “Funny People,” and become a reliable comic presence on late night TV.  But a lot of his stuff, like “Green Hornet,” and “Observe and Report,” was so uneven as to leave a bad taste in viewers’ mouths. Still, Rogen has seen a lot of success for a thirty year old.

It’s not that his part in “50/50” is that much of a stretch. He’s still the soft around the edges loudmouth who is alternately unwilling or unable to think before he speaks. It’s the same character who impregnated the curvy battleship Katherine Heigl played so well in “Knocked Up.”  A guy who proves that engaging in unprotected sex is the least of his failings. Of all the raunchy voices in his overcrowded head, Rogen’s ego remains the dominant player in this latest comedy. But here the material is just stronger.

“50/50” has been somewhat stigmatized by its premise; the leading character has cancer. The young audience at which it’s directed has balked at instead of embracing it. Yet it’s still holding on in theaters, and you should see it with an audience.

The script has no stake in poking fun at a potentially fatal disease. A handful of well observed moments, like an early scene where a doctor can’t bring himself to spell out the prognosis to his 27 year old patient, clearly address the darkness at the stories heart.  But it lets loose on the way people react to the dilemma with unsparing comic force.

Joseph Gordon Levitt takes the lead, and he’s spot on, as a 27 year old suddenly slammed with a rare, life threatening disease, that nobody seems to get better than him.  Bryce Dallas Howard and Anna Kendrick are two young women who pull at him in opposite directions. And Angelica Huston shows up as the traditional overbearing mother. The parts may be familiar on the surface, but they’re handled with unerring wit, probably because the script is based on writer Will Reiser’s own brush with a life threatening disease.

Levitt is clearly the movie’s center, but Rogen keeps the comic tension high. He can’t help but interject himself into the most awkward moments, usually where he doesn’t belong. With mostly hilarious results. And that gives the movie the adrenaline needed to keep it sharp through the more predictable episodes.

It doesn’t hurt that the ancillary characters, like Levitt’s Alzheimer stricken father, (Serge Houde,) who barely speaks, make strong impressions. Or that Phillip Baker Hall and Matt Frewer, veterans who raise the bar with their every line, keep the film alive in scenes that could have just marked time.  Director Jonathon Levine, who showed promise with “The Wackness,” keeps “50/50” balanced and light on its feet.  This is good work, all the way around.

Even though the heat isn’t completely gone, summer is really over. And with it the movie season that’s supposed to be about the obsessions of teenagers, at the expense of all others.  But this year’s output, while dominated by the predictable action and fantasy blockbusters, delivered a surprising number of stylish entertainments that cater to adult sensibilities.

Here’s the short list; “Midnight in Paris,” “Beginners,” “Bridesmaids,” “Rise of the Planet of the Apes,” “Buck,” “The Guard,” “The Help,” and “Tree of Life.”

By Santa Monica reporter Dan Cohen

There were plenty of indie disappointments; “Last Night,” “One Day,” uneven comedies; “Horrible Bosses,” “Crazy, Stupid Love”, studio bombs;  “Cowboys and Aliens,”  “Green Lantern,” and  the latest in the “Transformer and “X Men” and “Fast and Furious” franchises. You might have avoided the latter three on principle alone, but they’re very well crafted.

I haven’t weighed in on the more controversial aspects of “The Help,” the completely rethought, “Apes,” or “The Guard,” a terrific B movie from Ireland, but I will as they arrive on DVD.  My point for now is that any three month period that delivers eight interesting movies must have done something right.

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

“Cowboys and Aliens,” outside of the last Harry Potter, is this summers’ most eagerly anticipated blockbuster. Judging from the casting, it looked like it was intended as much for adults as to the all important teenage demographic.

Jon Favreau, who directed the first “Iron Man” with wit and energy, delivers the goods suggested by the title. But that’s about all he does, and in a market place overstocked with high power thrill rides, the movie fails.

From the very beginning the movies’ strategy is clear; mashing the conventions of potboiler westerns with the equivalent devices from B level science fiction. The problem is the filmmakers haven’t added much more to the mix. The plotting is predictable, the aliens have been swiped from a dozen better junk movies, and the dialogue does little more than get us from one scene to the next.  So even though the movie comes on like a risk taker, it’s so safe that it hardly quickens your pulse.

Considering that a half dozen writers are given screen credit, you have to believe the producers got the movie they wanted. What’s maddening is that their other work, including the “Star Trek” reboot and “Iron Man,” is so much sharper.

Do I have to concede that C and A has a “look.” The New Mexico scenery is stunning. And it’s impossible to spend 100 million without getting good effects.  Still, it’s not enough.

The same material might have worked had it been produced on a tiny budget with tacky, smile inducing effects. Or if the producers had gone the Tarantino route, and spiked the story with comic digressions and ironic asides.  But every element goes in the exact opposite direction. The result is nonsense delivered with a poker face.

Daniel Craig takes his cues from Clint Eastwood’s fabled “man with no name,” but without the redemptive, low key charisma.  Harrison Ford gives his all to the lines, but like everybody else, he’s just part of a machine that has no use for personality. The rest of the large, familiar cast suffers a worse fate; it’s nearly invisible.

Olivia Wilde, whose striking eyes seem to leap off the pages of glossy magazines, is finally given a central role in a big movie.  The trailer makes a point of teasing us with a provocative shot of her half naked in front of a bonfire.  The actual scene is completely cold, as is the rest of her part. I won’t bother trying to describe her murkily conceived character; it’s not her fault and it’s not worth the effort.

It may be helpful to point to a similar movie that works much better.  At this moment, the obvious comparison is to the latest “Transformers.”  Although critics hate it, Michael Bay’s third in the series has proved a huge success both here and abroad.

Two weeks ago, responding to crabby letters from readers, the two chief critics from the New York Times, A.O. Scott and Manhola Dargis, carried on about the movie, at length. The readers complained about Bay’s violence, militarism, and the fact that his style has been revered not just by audiences, but certain critics who appear compelled by the high level of filmmaking.

As a reluctant fan of this latest “Transformers,” I would add to that the gleeful and cracked humor that sets the tone. And tone makes all the difference.

I’ve yet to see the first “Transformers”, but I found myself amused by the second, “Revenge of the Fallen.”  I found it directed with a knowing humor that, along with Bay’s awesome technical expertise, ranked it best in breed.  Sure, this kind of film making, at its heart, is disposable, and does nothing to elevate the mass consciousness.  But it was a thrill ride in the best sense, with a canny balance of humor and character that generally sustained it through the two hour plus running time.

I expected less from “Transformers 3, Dark Side of the Moon,” but had little choice but to see it; my uncle, a veteran character actor, provides the voice for two of the “Autobots.” Let me qualify my admiration; unless you’re in on the Transformers phenomenon you’ll find the latest installment maddening and incoherent.  It would be the same as being set down in front of the last Harry Potter without any knowledge of what came before. So, viewer beware.

Back to a comparison between “Cowboys,” and “Dark Side of the Moon.”

The first half of Bay’s movie, a satiric rethinking of the whys and wherefores of the space race, takes us back to the days of Sputnik, when the Russians had the edge on the US. The movies outlandish premise is that the space race began when something alien crashed on our moon, setting off competition between us and the Soviets to discover the who and why.

Bay quickly establishes a breathless pace, studding the landscape with a variety of off kilter characters, including John Tuturro, John Malkovich, Frances McDormand, and Patrick Dempsey, with more to come as the movie proceeds. Shia LeBouf returns, but with a new British girlfriend, Rosie Huntington-Whitely, who’s dressed and shot like she’s auditioning for a 70s soft core.

After an hour or so of comic intrigue the movie settles into a series of awesome set pieces pitting alien robots (bad), against  earth based robots (good),  with Washington first, then Chicago, serving as battlefields. An extended sequence that comes near the end, featuring the destruction of a massive skyscraper is as witty as it is spectacular. It’s absurd and virtually bloodless, but rigged with the sort of ingenuity that keeps you amused throughout.

Bay knows that this is all nonsense, but he’s smart enough to know that even the most spectacular visuals need a sense of verisimilitude in order to keep us interested in what happens next.  This he delivers, with imagination and technical panache.

It may seem silly, and almost perverse, to engage in a discussion over the relative merits of one disposable movie over another. But style makes all the difference, and it’s always made the difference, whether the director was Alfred Hitchcock or Michaelangelo Antonioni.  And at bottom this is why those of us who love movies are capable of enjoying a diverse range of movies, from the ridiculous to the sublime

As for the indignant readers of the “Times,” one wonders what they’re doing at “Transformers” in the first place. That they didn’t know what they were getting into when they bought their tickets is more worrying than anything that they endured on screen.

“Buck”

Buck Branaman was a character just waiting for a filmmaker to come along and tell his story.  And the documentary that celebrates him is now an indie hit. After playing most of the major cities to enthusiastic crowds it continues to run in Harrisburg. If there‘s any justice, it should make an appearance in Lancaster, sooner or later.

On one level the movie is familiar, functioning in a comfort zone populated by a library of similar, character driven non fictions.   But what’s been added to the predictable brew, beyond the depth the filmmakers achieve in telling Buck’s story, is a level of technical achievement that until recently, was not in the non narrative tool box. In this case, the tool is first rate, and occasionally beautiful images.

Branaman has been called the original “horse whisperer,” because he worked with Robert Redford on the movie of the same name. Branaman seems to get into an animal’s head, in a way that defies human perception.  But he’s a psychologist who understands humans just as well as animals. And he’s blessed with wit.

Branaman teaches humans how to make enduring connections to their animals. And he does it with a shrewd understanding of both species.

I was skeptical at first; I just don’t care about horses.  But the man’s presence is so compelling, his voice so clear, that it quickly overcame my indifference. The movie itself breaks no ground in terms of style, but it doesn’t have to.  The material and the solid direction are enough.

The latest generation of digital cameras has gifted low budget filmmakers with a new range of options.  They could always go out and shoot nature in a way that inspired a sense of awe.  But it took time and money. Stories about extraordinary humans, most of them made on miniscule budgets, were generally shot with inferior cameras that, at best, delivered images akin to that of network news broadcasts. They got the intimacy but at the expense of the sensual.  No more.

The better digital imagers allow filmmakers to follow their subjects and get detailed and vivid images that rival what we’ve come to expect from feature films. And Buck is one of several beneficiaries of the technology.  From the very opening the environment is a major player. But above all, you’ll leave the movie feeling better that Buck Branaman lives and breathes.

by Dan Cohen, our Santa Monica Reporter

Recently “Sight and Sound,” the world’s foremost English language film journal, boasted a cover story on Woody Allen.  The article, timed around the UK release of “You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger,” was titled, “In Defense of Woody Allen.”

Strange.  Crazy, even. How could anyone conceive of Woody Allen’s career in need of defense? Like it was our foreign policy?

As it turned out the article was a generally positive review of his most recent output, tepid by the magazines usual standards. The accompanying interview was far more interesting, mainly for Allen’s matter of fact candor about the day to day tasks of writing and directing.

But just for fun let’s do a quick review the man’s awe inspiring output, more than fifty features, decade by decade.

After a string of fitfully funny comedies in the 70s, that made him a kind of urban legend, Allen widened his appeal with the serio-comic “Annie Hall” and “Manhattan;” multi award winners.  In the 80s his features included “Starlight Memories,” “Broadway Danny Rose,” “Hannah and Her Sisters,” “The Purple Rose of Cairo,” and “Crimes and Misdemeanors.”  The last two are arguably among the best of the decade.

The 90s saw “Husbands and Wives,” “Everyone Says I Love You,” “Sweet and Lowdown,” and “Deconstructing Harry.” He gave us both quality and variety. And he stretched.  In the last decade, working mainly in Europe, he turned out the acclaimed drama “Match Point,” the richly comic, “Vicky Christina Barcelona,” and the sober, “You Will Meet a Tall Dark Stranger.” These were the high points. There were others, some well received, some not. But there were also plays, short stories and short films.  Along the way he’s been showered with every conceivable award

Has anyone, with the possible exception of Martin Scorsese, delivered as much high quality work?  Has anyone shown the same mastery of comedy?  Even if you disqualify every film where Allen took a leading role, where his presence is deemed a distraction,  there are still a dozen without him, that brought acclaim and/or won awards to a wide array of performers, from Mia Farrow to Martin Landau to Sean Penn to Penelope Cruz. What would Diane Keaton’s amazing career have looked like without him?

Has he made missteps? Of course. Anyone who turns out a movie a year is prone to failure. Hitchcock, who made more than 60 features, had his fair share of losers, both commercially and artistically.

Allen has reinvented himself time and again.  He might not have hit his marks with the first drama, “Interiors,” (1978,) which owed a stylistic debt to Ingmar Bergman, but he took chances and struck out in a totally different direction. Finally it helped him to find his way to a different level. Several years later, with “Hannah and Her Sisters,” he wove a unique fabric of humor and comedy that took three Academy Awards and became the template for a quiver of arresting ensemble dramas, including the highly regarded “Husbands and Wives,” and “Crimes and Misdemeanors.”

Does Woody Allen seem like an artist who needs to be defended? And who’s got the credentials to cover him?

I, a lifelong admirer, hope Allen keeps the work coming until he’s 100. But right now we have “Midnight In Paris,” which has already become, in the first few countries of its release, (France, Germany, and the US,) an international hit.

The idea is simple on its surface, but rich with irony just below.  A dissatisfied screen writer, (Owen Wilson,) happens upon a portal to the twenties, where he encounters the fabled writers and artists of his dreams. Hemingway, the Fitzgeralds, Gertrude Stein, and Picasso, among others.

Along the way he’s joined by a provocative French woman, (Marion Cotillard) equally restless, but whose yearnings generate from a different vantage point.  The differences between the two become the fulcrum for a series of comically ironic revelations.

“Midnight In Paris,” is a departure from Allen’s most recent successes, “Match Point” and “Vicky, Christina Barcelona.”  Both these earlier films teased their stories from subtle, realistic dialogue, frequently at odds with the characters’ true intentions. In that way they’re thoroughly modern and natural.  We’re both disarmed and reassured by their familiarity because they fit into the world we live in.

“Midnight” works differently. The legends Wilson encounters speak like advertisements for their reputations, like they just stepped out of the Cliff notes summaries of their work.  In this way they seem to have been conjured from the writers’ dreams.  They seem to speak in slogans.

It’s a humorous device, a little jarring at first, but one that pays off in the end.  You see, after a bit, that Allen isn’t working in a realistic context; he’s spinning a fable. His eye is somewhat jaundiced, but leavened with a bit of melancholy, and finally, sympathy for his leads.

It’s been said elsewhere, but I’ll say it here again. Owen Wilson is the perfect proxy for the young Woody Allen, who undoubtedly would have played the role had the film been made when Allen was Wilson’s age.  But it wasn’t, and I’m not sure Allen saw things the same way when he was in his thirties. So the only relevant thing is that Wilson is well cast.  More than that; he’s his own man, with a distinctly quirky manner; likable even in the most callow moments. Can we hope for a reprise?

Allen’s direction is nothing if not assured.  The camera keeps its distance; I can’t recall a single close up. None is called for because the movie isn’t about dramatic moments; it’s about the settings and the interaction of his people and their goofy, backwards movement.

Almost nothing is made of the time travel. The device is stated and thrown away like a one liner. The script is layered with literary asides and in jokes that culture vultures will appreciate, but you don’t have to get all of them to find the movie pleasurable.

“Midnight In Paris,” isn’t Allen’s best, but it doesn’t have to be.  It’s witty, adult and smart; the equivalent of a dry wine you savor over a late night snack.

“Beginners” is director Mike Mills second feature; a completely beguiling look at the life and loves of a complicated man and his mortally ill father.  Taking its cues from Mills’ complicated relationship to his long departed parents, it pays little respect to conventional narrative devices and comes up a winner. In that way, it’s a truly independent film.

The story jumps around in time, a risky strategy that usually wears out its welcome early on. But Mills’ solid instincts prove over and over that he knows what he’s talking about and how to present it.

The movie is quiet but deeply ambitious.  It goes way beyond the level of caricature, dealing with Mills mother, his childhood, his struggles as a commercial artist and his tentative love life. The writer/director understands that you can accomplish a lot in an hour and forty five minutes, as long as you use every moment to deliver intimate and fresh information.   It must have been hell to edit; the tone and focus are constantly shifting. Mostly it works.

The script has more than its share of sharply funny lines and certainly owes a debt to Woody Allen. But who, working in a modern context doesn’t? The surprise here is how much feeling is expressed, and how little sentimentality.

One of the most distinguished pros in the business, Christopher Plummer, steals the many small moments he’s given. The role has a built in quirk appeal; after the death of his mother and 35 years of marriage, Mills’ father embraced his gay identity. The relationship that preceded, between a closeted man and his stoic wife, is detailed with a mixture of sensitivity and humor that pays homage to the dignity of both parents.

Mary Page Keller, a veteran of many high end TV shows, is touching and complicated as Georgia, Mills mother. This is a case where an actor has delved into the part and found an identity beyond the dialogue.  Will she be remembered at awards time?

Ewen McGregor, a chameleon like actor who changes his persona from within, scores because the part calls for a wide range of reactions.  Melanie Laurent, the French actress who made the best impression in “Inglorious Basterds,” plays an actress with a wistful sense of regret not entirely defined. It doesn’t matter; she projects enough personality to put her beauty in flattering perspective.

Mills has also taken time to talk about the period he grew up. There are moments when the film seems to veer into documentary.  But then a dog will appear, speaking his mind through subtitles, and we’re reminded that what we’re witnessing is a quiet but daring act of imagination.

I know a lot of this sounds like it’s been done before. It has, but not as well. “Beginners” is worth the road trip to a Philadelphia art house, or high up on your net flix list.

I’m pretty sure that almost everybody who wanted to see “Bridesmaids,” already has, and that many of those filling seats at this point, are returnees.  Understood.  There are many side splitting moments.

As a narrative the movie is a bumpy ride, but it’s nearly hysterical depiction of class warfare is so naked it kind of shakes you up.  There are a half dozen nearly uncontrolled moments where frustration and anger reach a boiling point, but an extended scene of Kristen Wiig, at the end of her wits, letting loose and wreaking havoc during an excessively indulgent engagement party, will remain in my mind for many years. It’s a fierce, icy blast of resentment, especially in the context of our current economic woes.  And yes, when it hits video, I’ll take another look. Probably more than one.

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

It’s been hard to find a couple of decent movies to write about from the first part of this year, especially after the bumper crop of Oscar contenders that played through the early months of 2011.

There’s been no standout release from Januarys’ Sundance festival, with the possible exception of “Win Win.” A gently comic drama about a high school wrestling coach who gets a lesson in life from a teenage runaway, the movie is another step forward for writer/director Thomas McCarthy, (“The Station Agent,” “The Visitor.”)

McCarthy, who began as an actor and continues to take supporting roles in features, has a knack for creating large moments out of small events. He gets the best out of an eclectic cast, led by Paul Giamatti, and newcomer Alex Shafer, an actual high school wrestling star, who’s been gifted with remarkable presence. We’ll be seeing a lot more of this young actor.

McCarthy has a fine eye for detail, but lives in the shadow of directors like Alexander Payne, (“Election,”) and David O Russell, (“The Fighter,”) who work the same territory but deliver a higher quotient of irony and wit. But there may be more and better where “Win Win” came from.

Another Sundance comedy, “Cedar Rapids,” starts well, but turns so painfully redundant by the middle, it becomes an endurance test. This one got a significant release, and performed beyond its means.

Sadly, nothing on the order of “Juno” or “Little Miss Sunshine,” has yet to appear. “Submarine,” well received in the UK, “Beginners,” with Ewan McGregor, and “My Idiot Brother,” starring Paul Rudd, may change that. They’re coming soon. But the consensus view of the festival was that documentaries carried the day. So far this year there have been so many good ones they’ve crowded the market place, making it hard for any single title to rise above the rest. More on that later.

What we had, in abundance this spring, were adult oriented thrillers. Trumpeted by engaging trailers and promising concepts, they opened well, but then struggled to find a big following. Modest budgets insure they’ll be profitable, especially after international runs, but the slightly sour taste of missed opportunity lingers over all but “Source Code,” which maintains a high level of invention from beginning to end.

For those who wait for DVD releases, (most of us,) here’s a quick inventory, with an eye to keeping expectations in line.

It was hoped that “Unknown,” with the sympathetic presence of Liam Neeson, would cash in on the surprise success of “Taken.” But “Taken” was lean, mean, (especially the unrated DVD,) and unapologetic; a brutally effective action flick.

“Unknown,” based on a novel, is a cleverly rigged thriller of the lost identity variety,  that relies more on story points than body counts. But its crafty plot is marred by two absurdly overpowered car chases, that test our patience and the story’s credibility. January Jones’ icy performance keeps her relationship to Neeson’s befuddled scientist at arms’ length. This is not entirely her fault; she’s leashed to the script, which takes an interesting turn in its third act. Diane Kruger is lovely as the bystander who helps Neesom find himself, but her role, to be kind, is overly familiar.

“Adjustment Bureau” gets a boost from Matt Damon’s solid presence, but the idea is thin. A mysterious cult that works beyond the scope of human perception,  to keep mankind on course, suffers a setback when one of its subjects gets a glimpse of their shadowy netherworld.  The concept might have passed muster as a half hour installment of the old “Twilight Zone,” but there isn’t enough material in director George Nolfi’s script to sustain a feature. This, in spite of its roots in a Philip K. Dick short story.

Emily Blunt, whose provocative gravity commands your attention, has almost no chemistry with Damon, further complicating matters. It’s not that the part isn’t well constructed; it’s that the script, beyond its trigger, lacks fire power.

“Limitless,” is another idea that strains to fill its running time. Bradley Cooper, of “Hangover” fame, happens on a pill that boosts his intelligence beyond his wildest dreams. In the early going, screenwriter Leslie Dixon, a Hollywood stalwart, (writer of the excellent remake of “The Thomas Crown Affair,” has fun with a landscape she obviously understands; Cooper is a writer at a loss for inspiration. That carries us about halfway through the movie, to the point where the drug becomes more liability than asset. But the movie’s second half mirrors the first without adding much. The threat level is pushed, but the same devices are called upon, over and over. The result; audience exhaustion.  Abbie Cornish, an inspired actress from Australia, has been all but neutered by bland dialogue and a makeover as an American.

The trailer for “Hanna” captivated me from first frame to last. Director Joe Wright is a first rate visual stylist. But the full length movie, a humorless revenge thriller, simply held me hostage.

After her mother is slain, a little girl, (Saorise Ronan,) born as the result of an ill conceived experiment, is obsessively trained by her father, (Eric Bana,) to seek out the perpetrator. Wright and cinematographer Alwin Kuchler, (who delivered extraordinary images in Danny Boyle’s “Sunshine,”) have exploited the wintry settings for maximum impact.  It’s just that the characters aren’t deserving of their efforts.  The little girl, a pre pubescent killing machine, is basically flat, a problem with the idea at the movie‘s core.

I believe “Hanna” was derived from a successful “graphic novel,” but as a film, with flesh and bone actors, it lacks a pulse. Cate Blanchett plays the villain with a campy wink that might have amused in a movie like “Kill Bill,” where the director is working on several levels at once. Here the acting just draws attention to itself, with no objective other than to stave off our boredom.

The exception to this series of misses is the satisfying and energetic “Source Code,” which takes a familiar idea and plays joyful havoc with it.

We don’t know why Jake Gyllenhalls’ fighter pilot is forced to relive the same train wreck over and over, but the information is revealed with an eye toward maximizing suspense. It’s “Groundhog Day,” but with dire consequences. And it works. While none of the actors are challenged, Gyllenhall becomes more likable as he’s forced run the same race against time over and over. Michele Monahan, an actress capable of much more, ably supports him

“Source Code” is a movie that gleefully inspires goose bumps, not by graphic violence, but by devilishly clever manipulation of plot points. Director Duncan Jones, whose “Moon” created a critical stir two years ago, juggles a laundry list of elements, teasing the audience with personal quirks that serve the central sci-fi premise with wit and invention. The film panders at the end to our desire to see things come out just so, but points have been raised, elegantly, along the way. We accept the final manipulation, even if it raises questions the script never answers

While you’re waiting for these titles to debut in home video, you might seek out an amusing and thoughtful documentary called “How To Live Forever.”

No, director Mark Wexler’s ambitious exploration of aging isn’t an instruction manual, even though the subtitle states, “results may vary.” What it is, is a fast moving global travelogue of the elderly, the industry that’s sprung up to serve them, and the resourceful ways they cope, for the most part, in spite of it.

The movie was shot over several years, so a few of those who bear witness, like Jack LaLane, have since left us. But most of the centenarians, and those close to their hundreds, appear vigorously engaged in life sustaining activity.

It begins as you might suspect, with the director’s acknowledgement of his own middle age…And his predictable mixture of resentment and helplessness. But from there it takes off, both physically and psychologically. Wexler travels the four corners, looking for clues to longevity.. Almost everything you’ve ever thought of about the later stages of life is touched upon, much of it from radically different points of view.

F. Scott Fitzgerald famously described a first rate intellect as having the ability to consider two hold two contradictory ideas at once and still function. Wexler’s film presents us with multiple points of view. The movie continually surprises, not with its information, but with the endless resources of our quirky species. Wexler unloads a fusillade of conflicting ideas, lets their proponents have a say, and leaves us to use whatever inspiration we’ve found to better live our lives.

Next: Woody Allen’s latest.

by Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

The 2010 movie year concluded with an unusually dull Academy Awards broadcast, lacking surprises on every possible level. I suppose we should be thankful for the movies they honored, which were so much better than the show. Still, the images from “Titanic,” that flashed numerous times throughout the more than three hour debacle, spoke volumes.

Early in the evening somebody bragged about the worldwide audience of a billion or so. They do that every year. But this time I stopped to wonder what that billion or so thought about this slow train wreck.  Here, we tend to take Hollywood’s folly in stride. But what about France or Germany? Or India?  Do they find any of this entertaining? Or does the network edit out the in jokes and unexpected gaffes that, in previous years, have given the show at least the illusion of a pulse? This year the talent gave them little to worry about. Does the rest of the world like it better that way? Are the pricey gowns and celebrity mash up enough to keep them engaged?

Anne Hathaway and James Franco made photogenic hosts, but were married to a bland script.  After a witty opening, that seamlessly integrated them into scenes from the 10 best picture nominees, the show settled into a plodding rhythm. Neither actor showed an instinct for improvisation. Sorely missed was that sense of the unpredictable that comedians bring to the proceedings.

For me the most compelling segment was the annual tribute to the recently departed. Seeing their smiling faces, still bigger than life, evoked the purely irrational affection so many of us (myself included) carry for this contrived world of fantasy.

As regards the best picture nominees, here are a few random observations, organized around the winners.  Do I need to say that what follows is highly subjective?

Scratch the surface of “The King’s Speech,” (Best Picture, Best Actor, Best Director, Best Original Screenplay,) and you’ll discover the dynamics of a traditional buddy movie, but made special by David Seidlers’ evocative and agile script.

Lacking Tom Hooper’s impeccable direction the movie might have felt stage bound. But he and cinematographer Danny Cohen, (no relation) brought it to stirring visual life.  The many interiors were both varied and striking. And the several exteriors were shot in a way that made the period almost seem like another planet.

Colin Firth, an actor who keeps reaching new heights, tapped a reservoir of feeling we haven’t seen before.  Here I’m mainly thinking back to his subtle, complex, and heart rending work in “A Single Man,” from two years ago. Geoffrey Rush took what is arguably a more challenging role, as it has no real problem to anchor the performance.  This is probably the first Oscar that owes a debt to stuttering.

And yet I find it hard to rank it above “The Social Network,” which went in places most main stream films fear to go.  Aaron Sorkins’ lightning swift script embraces ambiguous motivation, and regards rapacious behavior as a given instead of a failing to be quieted by love or struggle.  And the movie hits all its marks with unfailing humor.  The result: it lost for all the reasons that made it such a superior work.

About halfway into awards season “Social Network” gave up the forward momentum that made it an early favorite. The Producers Guild, the Directors Guild and even SAG came out for “King’s Speech.”  Just consider for a minute; the American guilds favored a UK production over a distinctive and innovative film made by their own members.  The obvious takeaway: for reasons unknown to me, people hold a grudge against director David Fincher. And perhaps “Networks’” super successful producer, Scott Rudin.

But there’s more to it than that.  In spite of the onslaught of inspired TV ads, “Network” couldn’t wring much more than 100 million out of the US box office.  People outside of the younger, urban demographic simply weren’t interested.  The King, with its warm relationships and comfortable conclusion, has benefited from the Weinstein Companies ambitious ad campaign which gave rise to excellent word of mouth.

Still, both films have been enormously profitable. In guiding “Social Network” to the screen, Producer Rudin, Sorkin and Fincher delivered a work of clarity, precision and integrity.  As for “King’s Speech; the last remark of the evening revealed more than its speaker intended, when he proudly thanked the UK film council for backing it.  Our films have no such Government champions.

Christian Bale and Melissa Leo were odds on favorites for their spirited roles in “The Fighter.”  There are far more blows exchanged between family members than boxers in this terrifically entertaining movie, and a large audience has embraced it.  Mark Wahlberg, as producer and star, generously gave other actors the space to keep the action percolating, while he remained its grounded center, even off camera.

“The Fighter” reminds me of freewheeling Irish comedies like “The Snapper,” and “The Van,” that, while focused on a central character, find time for the development of several others. The script soars with raucous comedy throughout, as a half dozen supporting players are given the screen time to flesh out their issues with humor and feeling.  A triumph for the idiosyncratic director David O Russell, “The Fighter,” amounts to more than the sum of its many pleasing parts.  The Academy took note.

“Black Swan,” which was championed by many when it first appeared in festivals, fell victim to second thoughts, as many aired reservations during the gestation period leading up to the awards. A number of them seemed genuinely embarrassed by their initial enthusiasm. I’m not sure why

“Swan,” owes a debt to Polanski’s “Repulsion,” and “The Red Shoes,” (probably the best dance film ever made.) But it stakes out its own territory. It’s a psychological thriller that relishes tawdry sex and dysfunction like an overheated B movie.  I guess some felt buyers’ remorse for celebrating a script where a beautiful dancer starts out on the wrong foot and missteps all the way to the end. The simple reality is that Darren Aronofsky remained true to a singular vision, directed with vigor, and helped Natalie Portman take a giant step forward.

While Academy voters skew older, and were expected to honor Annette Benning for her poignant work in “The Kids Are All Right,” there was no resisting Portman’s intense, frontal assault on the part. Watching her go to pieces is disturbing, but audiences have been drawn to it like moths to a bug zapper; one more testament to the voyeuristic appeal of movie going in general. Hitchcock was the master of this, and Aronofsky has learned the lessons well.

“True Grit” is the Coen brothers biggest hit to date. It has grossed four times its 40 million dollar budget.  The Academy was not compelled to coronate the movie, although Roger Deakins outstanding cinematography received a deserving nomination.

As much as I enjoyed this flinty and violent romp, I felt more for an ill fated horse than I did for any of the human characters. The Coens have the precision of neurosurgeons, but also a kind of Olympian detachment. Still, it was amazing to see fourteen year old Hailee Steinfeld held her own opposite Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon, and Josh Brolin.  When she gave notice she’d rather produce and direct I thought, why not?

“Blue Valentine” was made on a miniscule budget, like “Winters’ Bone,” (which I wrote about earlier this year.)  But the small scale works in its favor since it’s about interiors.  The story is told in a style that used to be called “cinema verite,” because it appears to focus on the truth of human nature, as opposed to the contrivances of a script. It’s by no means a new approach, but here it suited the material.

The movie details a relationship on the decline, in almost perversely painful detail.  Along the way it plays games with time, which, if nothing else, keeps the audience on the alert. Director Derek Cianfrance, who comes from the documentary world, is relentless in emphasizing the quotidian, which tried my patience in the early episodes.  One example; the fate of a family dog is used to represent the deteriorating relationship, a tired metaphor if ever there was one.  But midway I surrendered to Ryan Gosling and Michelle Williams, whose nakedness, (in more ways than one,) force us to share the particulars of their endlessly sad predicament.

“Blue Valetine” was never going to be a hit; it’s way too dark, but it has currently grossed ten times its cost, and found and audience, which will no doubt be much larger when the film comes to home video.

“127 Hours,” Danny Boyles’ take on Aron Ralston’s true tale of survival, was a movie I resisted until there was nothing else to see at the local multiplex.  Anybody who pays attention to such things knows that it’s about an overly confident young athlete who pays a gruesome price for his carelessness.  James Franco is arresting in what’s basically a one man show, but it’s really about an unfortunate mishap, and little else.  What sets it apart from the average TV movie are the visuals.  Boyle, the acclaimed auteur of “Slumdog Millionaire,” “28 Hours Later,” and “Trainspotting,”  does his best to elevate the material, but it’s never more than a bad trip that ends with a big sigh of relief.

I have nothing to say about “Toy Story 3,” because I couldn’t get interested in the subject matter. I’m in the minority on that.  But that, along with “Inception,” discussed here this summer, makes ten; ten strong movies, all different, all quality entertainment

And now, the point I’ve been driving toward, through both parts of this piece.

A couple years ago the Academy expanded the Best Picture category from five to ten. The reasons, as stated in their press material, included making the competition more inclusive.  It wasn’t clear whether they were feeling the heat from The Spirit Awards, which at least nominally, is devoted to honoring lower budget productions, or taking fire from the studios, whose movies were being edged out by more modestly made “independent” features, movies like “Juno,” or “Little Miss Sunshine,” which became studio pick ups after they were made by outside producers.

It’s never been clear to me which was the more pressing imperative. In any case, here we are, a couple years in, and we have the Academy picking 7 films from the so called Indy world, one low budget studio film, and two more traditional productions.   And of the two big budget films, one comes from Hollywood’s highest horse, Pixar.  The net effect of the Academy’s new posture has been to honor more, even smaller movies like “Blue Valentine,” and “Winters’ Bone.”  And fewer, not more, studio product.  What does that say about the films they’re making?