“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?

“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.

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.

“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.

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.

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.

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?

I was out of the country most of December, but as I left I did a quick inventory of the years’ noteworthy American theatrical films.  It wasn’t much of a list; “The Social Network,” “The Kids Are Alright,” “Cyrus,” “Inception,”  “Winter’s Bone,” and Clint Eastwood’s underappreciated, “Hereafter.”  Just below that were several others, good enough to keep you out of trouble on a Saturday night; “The Town,” “Unstoppable,”  “Easy A,” and, with some reservations, “I Love You Phillip Morris.” But not much else.

“Inception” is the undisputed roller coaster ride of 2010, and in its category nothing else comes close. The others, produced for comparative peanuts, exist on an entirely different plane.  But even with a list this short, there are caveats. I admired “Winter’s Bone,” more than I actually enjoyed it; it was less compelling that 2009’s “Frozen River,” in more or less the same genre.  “Philip Morris,” is uneven, and really belonged to 2009, when it played at Sundance. Bottom line; for American movies, 2010 was disappointing.

I came back to an entirely changed landscape.  A half dozen theatrical features had found favor with both critics and audiences; “The Fighter,” “Black Swan,” “True Grit,” “Blue Valentine,” and the unexpected blast from Britain, “The King’s Speech.” (I’d add “Casino Jack” to that list, but it didn’t catch on.) Each of these titles is high end entertainment, and each had accumulated close to triple its production budget. (I don’t mean to snub the documentaries, in a year with several standouts; I just consider them in a class of their own.)

There were other, more predictable developments. Several big studio films bombed horribly, including a couple of pricey comedies that nobody seemed to love, an overpriced, effects driven sci- fi, and the usual tepid sequels; all of which were struggling to break even.

Understand one thing about the American movie business; big budget action flicks and star driven comedies pay more salaries and studio overhead than any of the low budget, scrappy dramas that audiences are currently responding to in large numbers. And none of them has a shot at a gross like “Inception,” which worldwide, has corralled about 825 million, not counting the DVD, which has to be huge. Warner’s shelled out 160 million just to get “Inception” in the can, before they spent dollar one on marketing.  But even if you add another 100 million to the production budget, the film is a phenomenon.

Before I start on the separate virtues of this happy handful, which you may have already seen, let’s do a comparison between their cost and. theatrical gross, using very basic numbers. Keep in mind; these figures do not include the coming revenues from DVDs or TV, which, although downplayed by the industry, are very significant.

“The Kids are Alright” Cost: 3.5 million.  Gross: 20 million.

“The Fighter,” Cost: 25 million. Gross: 80 and climbing.

“Black Swan,” Cost: 13 million. Gross now approaching 100.

“True Grit,” Cost: 38 million. Gross: 148 and still climbing.

“Blue Valentine,” Cost: 1 million. Gross: 6 million, and still going.

“Winter’s Bone,” Cost: 1 million . Gross: 4 million.

Let’s add to that the Brit hit, “The King’s Speech,” with a negative cost of 15 million that has so far piled up 80 in the US, and is quite likely to reach 100 before the Academy’s big night. “Speech” is likely to make its distributor, The Wienstein Company, which has had its share of big losers the past couple years, (remember “9”?) profitable for some time to come.

Each of 2010’s awards nominees boasts a distinct voice and style. Each features well known actors, (other than “Winter’s Bone,”) who most certainly took less than their agents’ quotes, if for no other reason than to work in projects driven by a vision, in both style and content.

In terms of audience appeal, the films are vastly different. But each is the sort of movie that movie lovers tend to seek out; distinctive but at the same time, familiar.

It’s no surprise that every one of them works first as entertainment.  But the sort of entertainment that requires the viewer to pay attention to what’s happening on screen. Even the remake of “True Grit,” which sprouted in the shadow of John Wayne’s classic, has been realized with a unique style that sets it apart from the original.   And ironically, each is rooted in the kind of narrative filmmaking pioneered by the studios, the sort of storytelling they’ve more or less abandoned in the obsessive drive to generate Spider Man sized profits.

The studios distributed these smaller movies, and they’ll make money on them.  But they’ll also fail to make money on most of their bigger budget projects.

In order to understand why things go wrong you have to understand that the studios are more about business plans than filmmaking. And their main target is teenagers.

They dream that if the young demographic turns out en masse the rest of us will follow suit, if for no other reason than curiosity. But it hasn’t worked that way lately.  Teenagers do show up on opening weekend, eagerly plunking down expendable cash for the latest 3D thrill machine.  But when it stinks halfway through, they take action, tweeting and texting others of their tribe, warning them off. In that way, they can dampen enthusiasm for a movie more effectively than the fussy and largely aging critical establishment.

It’s not that there isn’t a healthy appetite for another installment of the “Fokkers,” or “Narnia,” or the reboot of “Tron.” It’s just that there isn’t enough of an audience for those films to make a profit when production comes in between 120 and 200 million.  And that’s not including marketing, which on a big studio release has to come in north of 20 million.

The next biggest audience for studio films is the overseas market.  On paper at least, big action movies like “Green Hornet,” (120 million,) “Tron,” (170 million,) and “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice,” (150 million,) have a chance of recouping their production costs on foreign soil.  The thinking is that the masses of non English speakers are even less critical than our masses.

Sometimes this strategy works… especially when the big studios cut deals with foreign distributors ahead of production, or send the movies out under their own banners, (thus collecting a larger share of revenues.)  But when the movies are so oversized, like “Gulliver’s Travels,” (112 million,) “How Do You Know,” (120 million,) and “Prince of Persia, (200 million,) and fail so miserably, it’s hard to see how the studios stay in business.

“Prince of Persia,” is a good example of how a big budget can overwhelm even a successful theatrical run. A Disney product, made by super producer Jerry Bruckheimer, this fantasy/ adventure,  intended to kick off a franchise, brought in close to 95 million here in the US; a disaster considering its cost.  But overseas the film was huge, raking in what looks like a phenomenal figure; 235 million.  But considering that the studios only get half of that, the film, with a reported negative cost of 200 mil, was still a bomb.

That’s the business, and there’s little chance it’ll change in the near future. Not until they get burned over and over will studios refrain from throwing huge amounts of cash at projects like “Green Hornet.”  They will spend huge sums getting these concept movies made and then spend almost as much trying to create the desire for teenagers to see them. Hoping and praying to birth the next “Spider Man.”

I endured twenty minutes of this hapless bore in a theater the other night, while waiting for “Blue Valentine,” to start.  No one asked for “Green Hornet,” and the handful of kids whose parents had deposited them there, probably while they were shopping, didn’t seem to care for it either;  they ran through the aisles like lab rats.

I know this sounds tired; I promise to refrain from this kind of rant for at least a couple of months. But at this point in the new year, in the afterglow of some really good movies, what we’re getting instead, is the worst of the worst. This week alone, two national releases; “Sanctum,” and “The Roommate” have been pronounced dead on arrival.

I was actually looking forward to “Sanctum.” James Cameron’s name appeared above the title. The trailer was promising. The locales were intriguing. But after a hail of boos that greeted its arrival, and the dismal results of the first exit surveys I can’t force myself to see it.

Next week I’ll return to a discussion of what makes this year’s Oscar contenders worth the time and struggle that went into their creation. Until then, either catch up on them yourself, or hold your breath.

Anne Hathaway’s spirited performance is the best reason to see “Love and Other Drugs.”  Otherwise, the movie, in spite of its multple ambitions, is a mess. Not unlikeable, just unsuccessful.

The beginning is promising.  Writer/director Ed Zwick, and his co- screenwriter Charles Randolph, capably sketch a complicated family heavily invested in the medical arts.  George Segal and the late Jill Clayburgh appear, happily, as the clan elders.  You know right away there’s ample intelligence steering the events, in the writing and performing.

The characters seem part of a well functioning family with ongoing ambivalences to each other and their careers.  But the elders are quickly abandoned as the picture settles on the travails of the middle son, Jamie, (Jake Gyllenhall)  a med school dropout who seems uncomfortable with both his compliant sister, a doctor, and  his younger brother, a successful software entrepreneur.

Zwick understands Jamie’s ambivalence, and his resulting lack of a center.       A lengthy sequence that follows the opening, in which Jamie is indoctrinated into the corporate culture of  pharmaceutical giant, Phizer,  peeks into the workings of a corporate juggernaut with both curiosity and skepticism. At this point the movie plays like a perky satire.

Shortly after he begins a tentative career as a salesman, Jamie is introduced to Maggie, played by Anne Hathaway. They meet cute, in a way that almost guarantees there’ll be sparks between them. And there’s a health issue, which portends trouble. All of this follows a predictable pattern.

But the movie has much more on its mind than the relationship. It wants to talk about business ethics, brotherly disaffection, the introduction of Viagra, and the plight of doctors in the go go world of the mid 90s. Mostly this plays as comedy. But then the problem takes over, and we’re asked to change gears along with the movie.

It’s not that the jumble of elements are at war with each other; it’s just that they fail to reinforce the most important one, the stuff between Jamie and Maggie.

The movie becomes a kind of juggling act, certainly difficult for the editors, that struggles to keep the love story front and center at the same time it wants to satisfy the several constituencies a big movie like this needs to recruit a mass audience.

There’s one more problem, perhaps larger than the many others that nag at you as the story continues to deviate from its center. That is, a lack of real chemistry between the two leads.

I’m going to digress here, because the issue of chemistry is highly subjective. But I think in cases like this, comparisons to other moves can be telling.

Shortly after seeing “Love and Other Drugs,” I happened on a Belgian thriller called “Left Bank,” from 2008, (available on DVD,)  that deals with a troubled relationship between two athletes. Never mind that it’s a different genre; the same problem obtains in any romance.  Here, a young woman at first resists, then succumbs to the advances of a persistent and seductive male.  So we’re not really dealing with apples and oranges.

When they do get around to having sex, fairly early in the story, you can feel the heat between them.  There’s real tension in the willing seduction, which is no more or less graphic than what occurs between Hathaway and Gyllenhall. But there’s a big difference, in the portrayal of genuine desire.

It’s largely a matter of direction; how the characters interact, their physical  being, and finally where the director has elected to place them in the frame.  The director of “Left Bank,” Pieter Van Hees, keeps the camera at just enough distance for us to observe the peculiar body language that makes the attraction between his two lovers so strong.  Zwick, for better or worse, has given us glossy close ups that are overly familiar. Yes, body parts are in full view, and they’ve made a big deal in the press about a little bit of skin.  But the lighting and rather generic angles are hardly provocative, even as flesh is bared.  Sex scenes, at this point in movie history, have to be about more than skin.

Beyond that there are the issues of story.  The point is made that when Maggie and Jamie first get together it‘s mainly animal attraction, which is fine. But it doesn’t get much beyond that. The script tries to make more of it. The script harps on the disease and both characters resulting ambivalences.  But for a number of reasons, some having to do with the way Jamie is sketched in the beginning, (as a kind of feckless lothario,) you never really see Hathaway surrendering to him.  The result is that not much is at stake.

Because she’s got the winning appeal of the young Julia Roberts, who held audiences in thrall for almost two decades, any project with the Ann Hathaway gets our attention. She’s no less potent a star presence here than she’s been in any other of her recent roles. She’s just not enough to make the movie really sing.

Equally comfortable with comedy or drama, Hathaway has the kind of physical magnetism that commands your attention. On top of that she can act. You’re always wondering what part of her psyche she’s going to dredge up next. But she easily overpowers men who aren’t as strong in their own way.

Gyllenhall has charm and looks. But with this material he comes up short. The easy outs the script has given his character ultimately fail both the actor and the movie.

But it isn’t entirely his fault.  Hathaway is so resourceful she’s  become a formidable challenge to both sexes. We saw that in the terrific “My Sister’s Wedding”, where she made the rest of the cast, with the exception of Meryll Streep, almost disappear. Here, there just isn’t enough solid material to create the kind of tension that forces us to care.

I Love You, Phillip Morris

At this point in his career who would have expected Jim Carrey to play a blatantly gay con artist, a character modeled after a real person, who, at this moment is serving a life sentence in federal prison.

Even when Carrey has gone out on a limb, in performances that put him in a special category, a third sex, which resists the more conventional categories, you can’t imagine him as an aggressive homosexual. He mostly seems more interested in being nuts than actively sexual.  But here he is, in “ I Love You, Phillip Morris,” aggressively gay. And there’s no mistaking the drive that moves him in any number of close encounters with Ewan McGregor, the object of his affection. For most of the movie’s running time, it’s right in your face.

The movie starts rough, because its makers, Glenn Ficarra and John Requa, have trouble establishing a consistent tone for their unlikely, but largely true story.  Playing a brilliant but disturbed sociopath, Carrey begins large and is matched by the movies sledgehammer style.

But for those who can accept the way the character goes from straight to gay, and from honest to pathologically dishonest, the movie pays off.  Here, the story finally wins us over, as insane as it seems on the surface.  After a while, the well rigged plot devices overwhelm us because Carrey’s character has a center, and an unquenchable thirst that persists, in spite of our initial instinct to resist it.

This is a case where more, instead of less, finally wins out.  The several turnarounds, one in particular regarding fatal illness, wrest us from any lethargy induced by clumsy filmmaking in the first half hour. It’s a shame it’s taken almost two years for this film to get into any kind of release. It’s an oddly chaotic, but frequently hilarious tall tale, that luckily for us, happens to be true.

Unstoppable is a 100 million dollar B movie. Its plot line, and every digression from the device that drives it, a runaway freight train loaded with hazardous chemicals, feels like it was cribbed from an undergraduate screenwriting text.  There isn’t a single beat that isn’t telegraphed from miles down the track. And still, the movie is exciting.

Fox, the studio responsible, was wise in recruiting Tony Scott to pilot the project. Brother of Ridley, and a partner in Scott Free, one of Hollywood’s best production houses, the veteran director avoided the by now glossy but predictable computer graphics studios routinely employ in the service of their mid level action films.  Instead he went for a gritty, industrial motif that adds to the tension. How much is computer generated and how much actually staged?  You can’t tell, and that’s good.

Scott was also wise to keep the back stories, which are mired in predictable domestic strife, as far in the background as the labored script allows. You never really care about the wives, daughters and others who watch from the sidelines. Nor should you, since they’re never in any jeopardy.  The movie is about mistakes, collisions, heroics, and star power.

But none of this came cheap. Consider this: each minute of  “Unstoppable’s” running time cost about a million bucks. The talent; Denzel Washington, who commands 20 million a movie, and Chris Pine, a newly minted superstar from the rebooted “Star Trek,” raise the projects profile, but also the financial stakes.  Years ago the studios birthed a couple dozen of these movies a year. Now they’re the tent poles they rely on to keep them solvent.

Word from inside alleges that Fox squeezed five million from Washington’s usual take, which they probably mitigated with the promise of a big slice of the box office, from dollar one. Scott, a big ticket talent with a long string of hits to his credit, from “Top Gun,” to “Man on Fire,” no doubt added considerably to the price tag. But they both perform reliably.  Pine, now married to a deathless sci-fi franchise, is here saddled with the kind of colorless role a half dozen upcoming actors have played and survived; fielding Washington’s sarcasm.  He bears up reasonably well.

Before they even set up shop at the rust belt Pennsylvania locations, the tab for this production was probably well over thirty million. Happily the rest of the money is on the screen, in the large scale wrecks that goose the audience for almost the entire hour and forty minute running time.

It helps that the basic situation, inspired by a near catastrophe in 2001, feels and looks truthful.  The problem is that the manufactured dramatics, from Chris Pine’s marital woes, to Denzel’s retirement issues, contribute little or nothing to the tension. They’re as irritating as the near to real names given the small towns and cities menaced by the rampaging steel beast. “Scranton,” for example, has been recast as “Stanton,” and repeated ad nauseum in the endless foreboding speeches and newscasts, which are supposed to increase the tension, but actually make it feel synthetic. For some reason, probably legal, screenwriter Mark Bomback, author of the most recent in the “Die Hard” series, has mashed up Pennsylvania with Ohio, where the real story occurred. This is a needling distraction to those of us who know the state.

When it sticks to the rails “Unstoppable” runs hard and fast.  But back in the offices, where the lovely Rosario Dawson and the underused Kevin Corrigan are tethered to desks and video monitors, it defuses.  There’s also a risible, totally unnecessary detour involving a train full of school kids. Going into this, does anybody really think this ill timed field trip is going to end in a large body count?  Let’s see a show of hands.

A note:

Clint Eastwood’s remarkable, under loved “Hereafter,” continues on at least one local screen. So you still have a chance to see one of the best adult dramas of the year in a proper movie house, where it belongs.  I’ll discuss this movie at length, either in a year end wrap up, or as part of a dvd review. But for now, go see it.