By Santa Monica reporter Dan Cohen

“The Ghost Writer,” adapted by Roland Harris from his novel, “The Ghost,” and directed by the 76 year old Roman Polanski, is intelligent, smartly acted and handsomely shot. While it doesn’t have the stylistic élan of the director’s finest works – “Chinatown,” “Rosemary’s Baby,” “Tess,” (among others,); the knowing direction and visual flourishes keep reminding us a master craftsman is in charge.  And yet at the end, the movie isn’t as effective as we’d like it to be.

There’s no way to talk about this movie without some mention of Polanski’s topsy-turvy career.  There’s the temptation to relegate him to the past, say the 70s, when more attention was on his work than his court case. And it’s true that his most trenchant essays on the tortured psyche came in that middle period, before his wife was murdered in one of the most bizarre spectacles of the century. But every once in a while he’s re-established his credentials; in 1994 with a successful adaptation of the dark play “Death and the Maiden,” and then in 2002 with the multi award winning, “The Pianist.”  It’s just that “The Ghost Writer,” doesn’t measure up to his best work.

The set up generates a fair amount of interest.  Taking direction from current political scandals, it takes a fictional swipe at the relationship between George Bush and his British ally, Tony Blair.  And while we’ve seen this played out on the world stage, the movie tries to examine the murkier aspects of what’s on record from a different angle.

A middling writer, (Ewan McGregor) is hired to help a recently retired Prime Minister (Pierce Brosnan,) complete his autobiography after his “ghost writer” washes up on a beach, assumed to be a suicide.  The new hire, saddled with a nearly impossible deadline, is rapidly dispatched to a beachside compound where Adam Lang and his staff have been ensconced get the book done.

At exactly the moment McGergor accepts the assignment, a former colleague accuses Lang of having facilitated the torture of several suspected terrorists. The writer quickly realizes that the book could turn out to be more than predictably self aggrandizing, if he can just get his subject to talk. And, at first, Lang seems wiling.   But as he becomes enmeshed in a growing scandal that brings the threat of criminal charges, the work slows down.  While Lang, his wife, and staff struggle to stave off the press and other hostiles, the writer, mission interrupted, the “ghost” becomes drawn into the circumstances surrounding the former ghost writer’s demise.

McGregor is credible as a resourceful journeyman suddenly immersed in a political intrigue several levels beyond his pay grade.  Brosnan, by now the most seasoned of pros, deploys a host of idiosyncrasies to realize the mercurial Lang.   Olivia Williams, as Lang’s  troubled wife, takes a role constructed from the kind of conventions we recognize the moment she’s introduced, and breathes a bracing if icy life into it.  She’s the real surprise here.

Underused, at least in the US, Williams has the kind of face that transforms from mildly troubled to deeply ravaged with the slightest gesture.  Even though her character is shortchanged in terms of deveopment, sometimes to the point where her mood changes feel improvised, the actress rivets our attention in every scene.

The script is studded with low key wit. And it wastes no time getting started.  But before we get to the real problem a profusion of details, mainly delivered through dialogue, relegate suspense to the back burner.  Miss a few lines and you’re struggling to keep up.  And this is a problem that plagues the entire movie.

It isn’t that the writing isn’t good; it’s that the nature of the material, which originated in a different form, is better served by a leisurely pace.  As a movie, “Ghost Writer” is never less than skillful; it’s just too dense to get really juiced.

Then there’s the issue of motivation. McGregor ‘s first telling clue that all is not well, comes when he goes through the dead writers stuff and finds something that reveals an inconsistency in Lang’s story.  A photo leads him to former associates, which, in turn, brings on the bad guys we know are waiting in the wings.  You’d think at this point our hero would at least smell the trouble brewing, but he doesn’t. Ok, we’ll let that slide because we know he has to put himself in jeopardy in order for the story to continue. But there’s more.

Threatening weather clues us that evil lurks the first time McGregor ventures beyond the gaze of the PM’s security guards.  But we don’t know why or who he’s up against until more than an hour into the picture, again an impediment to the creation of real suspense. The problem is –  we don’t know the real problem.

Then there’s the surprise that comes in the last few minutes, a revelation that while cleverly conceived, is not very revealing.  More than that, it really doesn’t impact most of what we’ve already seen.

“The Ghost Writer” arrives on the heels of two other suspense driven features; “Green Zone,” and “The Crazies,” which is a horror movie, although many of the same elements of filmmaking are present.

The elements in “Green Zone,” are so predictable that we’re ahead of the story at the most critical junctures.  As it follows an inevitable glide path there are simply not enough diversions to keep us from becoming complacent. “Ghost Writers’” problem is exactly the opposite; we’re too much in the dark. As the plot becomes deeper and denser it defies our participation, which keeps us at arms’ length. We’re thankful when the proceedings are goosed by a well mounted chase or a distracting bit of sex, but we’re still iced out of real involvement.

“The Crazies” is little more than a formulaic horror thriller, but it studies its well travelled landscape with several  unexpected speed bumps, and as a result is much more successful in keeping us engaged. We know right from the start that the small town is under siege, but a half dozen inspired set pieces, all of which take place within the movie’s established boundaries, give it a fresh veneer.  If you’re a fan of the genre, you come away from it satisfied.

It doesn’t seem fair when films with serious aspirations are shown up by their poorer relatives, who have nothing on their minds but cheap thrills.  But when writers and directors defy  the rules of suspense so well articulated by the old masters; Hitchcock, Carol Reed, (“The Third Man”)  Don Seigel, (the original “Invasion of the Body Snatchers,” “Dirty Harry,”)  they do so at their peril.

Paul Greengrass’ hyperkinetic take on the boondoggle that launched the Iraq war adds little to what we already know, and is less persuasive than speculative accounts that have been rehashed ad nauseam in other media.  As “Green Zone” screeches to a thundering finale, where a single army officer takes on a helicopter augmented strike team of Special Forces, you wonder not only what its creators were thinking, but who they thought they were talking to.

It’s one thing for a movie to fictionalize recent history, but another for it to render it in the conventions of an overheated action movie.  It becomes even more of a stumbling block when the script fails to tell us more than we already know, at the same time it trumpets its concerns with blaring self importance.

Shortly after the occupation of Baghdad, Chief Warrant Officer Roy Miller, (Matt Damon,) is assigned the risky task of securing the locations where Saddam supposedly stored weapons of mass destruction.  Several costly fire fights later, with nothing to show for his dangerous mission, Miller begins to doubt the accuracy of military intelligence.  When he complains at a briefing, his superiors all but squash him.

Reprimanded and ordered to continue, Miller decides to investigate the reliability of their intelligence on his own.  It soon becomes evident that the information on which the entire war is being prosecuted, originated from a single source.

Sound familiar? In addition to the already mentioned elements, the movie boasts a female journalist who’s alleged to have been tipped off about the whereabouts of Saddam’s WMDs.  Add to that a Baathist General on the run, whose face appears on a set of playing cards that identify him as the architect of the countries’ chemical warfare program.

Matt Damon plays Miller with more than his customary diligence.   Greg Kinnear oozes oil as a mendacious bureaucrat. Amy Ryan and Brendan Geeson, stellar character actors, decorate the scenery without chewing it up.  You yearn to see all of them in more challenging roles.

The opening siege is tense.  Greengrass’ recreation of Iraq in the grip of chaos, reportedly shot in Morocco, is appropriately harrowing.  He quickly establishes a landscape of pervasive upheaval, which, juxtaposed on life in the Green Zone, where women in bikinis casually fraternize with officers and press at poolside, speaks volumes about “multinational” forces.

But the movie isn’t content with the inherent tension of the locale and its tragedy. It wants to reduce the problem of the war and its advocates to a few bad guys with a single agenda.  As it hurtles forward, and that’s the only way to describe the way this one moves, the canvas keeps shrinking, until it seems like Damon is the only one in the country with the moxie to ferret out the truth. As the focus narrows to several characters on a collision course, he starts dodging bullets like a super hero out of Marvel comics.  Though I consider myself sympathetic to the movie’s politics, I found myself increasingly aggravated by its uncomfortable mix of matinee heroics and didactic tone.

Can you blame Brian Helgeland, an accomplished writer, for the way he’s treated the book, “Life In the Emerald City,” on which his screenplay is based? I haven’t read it so I can’t say, but I’ve heard the author, Rajiv Chandrasekaran speak,  and he came off as  far more sophisticated than the script that fronts his work.

Greengrass gave two Bourne thrillers, (“Bourne Supremacy,” and “Bourne Ultimatum,” a veneer of credibility that played smartly against their unlikely action scenes.  Credibility never became an issue, because nothing was at stake; you couldn’t fault the films, even when the camera cheated its way through chases and shoot outs that defied physics.

But “Green Zones’” relentless, hand held camerawork and sketchy lighting are more than distracting; they’re headache inducing.  In fact, most of the protracted action sequence that concludes the movie feels like it was shot from a camera attached to a bungee chord and dropped from a window.  Out of focus, dark, grainy images; pumped up by the bombastic score, insult your intelligence and gravity at the same time.

Last week, as I was composing a mildly negative review of Tim Burton’s “Alice In Wonderland,” the movie was raking in 116 million at the box office.  This, after early industry wags predicted about half that figure. By Sunday night it was the biggest March opening on record.

These numbers, coming at what’s usually a slack period at the theaters, reveal several trends on the ascent:

Theater attendance has increased, moving almost inversely to the negative movement of the economy.  Under the circumstances you’d think people would be more inclined to sit in front of their flat screens at home; but no, they’re showing up at the multiplex with increasing frequency.  One possible explanation; movie tickets are a lot cheaper than weekend getaways.

Disney did an excellent job marketing the film; I knew this the moment I walked into a 9:45 screening at a small town theater in Florida and discovered the place  three quarters full, with mainly adults in the seats.

Burton and Depp are a draw; they’ve made enough films to have developed the kind of fan base that immediately responds to seeing their names together.  But Depp on his own doesn’t seem to mean as much; despite his charismatic lead in Michael Mann’s “Public Enemies,” the movie struggled to break even.

3D is a compelling selling point; people seem willing to pay an extra three bucks for the clunky glasses the theaters insist you buy along with your ticket, that they then request you “recycle” on your way out. Recycle?  Hmmm?  Does that mean they’re going to charge you less the next time a 3D movie screens? I don’t think so.

The industry view is that the positive experience of the 3D “Avatar” created an appetite for more.  But you could see the germ of that earlier in the year, when a number of otherwise standard issue horror titles, distinguished only by spurting blood and body parts, earned substantially more than they should have.

As is rapidly becoming the norm, Alice’s 3D effects were added in post production. According to the editors, the decision to enhance the high def footage didn’t come until mid January, about 6 weeks before its scheduled release date.  Digital images, as it turns out, lend themselves to the illusion of depth.  All it takes is gobs of money and scores of artist/technicians.   Alice was completed in time for its scheduled release, at a reported 200 million, although the studio may have cooked that figure to impress the media. One never knows.

Disney was smart in its placement of “Alice,“ at precisely the moment “Avatar’s” popularity began to wane, although compared to James Cameron’s masterwork, Burton’s movie comes off like a gallery of stills.  The studios are well aware that theaters worldwide have been equipped for the new medium.  But they couldn’t have anticipated the huge cash bounty Avatar called forth. Now that the floodgates have opened, a host of other features, like “Clash of the Titans,” are currently being overhauled to take advantage of the seemingly unquenchable taste for images that float in space

So we can expect in a steady stream of 3D, at least until the public gets sideswiped by a string of bloated losers, almost a certainty.  Or people just grow weary of actors hanging in front of them like super sized lap dancers.

We’ll soon see how word of mouth impacts “Alice’s” second week. I overheard a lot of grumbling on my way out of the theater.   But it doesn’t really matter, as Disney’s second pass at “Alice” has already rung the cash register to the tune of 240 million worldwide.

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

Two remakes this week; a second go-round for Disney with “Alice in Wonderland,” and a polished reworking of 1973’s, “The Crazies.” While “Alice” aims high, the “Crazies” hits harder.

Tim Burtons’  ”Alice in Wonderland,” is actually the third English speaking version of the Lewis Carroll classic made here.  (There have been others, overseas.)  Paramount first tackled this meandering fantasy back in 1933, generating a wealth of publicity in connection with the casting of Alice. They alleged to have auditioned seven hundred professionals and amateurs before settling on Charlotte Henry, a relative newcomer. Debuting at Christmas time, featuring a bevy of well known actors, and incorporating fabled episodes from both “Alice,” and the sequel, “Through the Looking Glass,” it still failed to captivate the mass audience.

Walt Disney was always intrigued by the material, and early in his career produced a couple of shorts with the title character in the lead.  But the real labor went into his Alice from 1951. He was determined to contrive a narrative that honored the satire at the film’s core at the same time it pleased children with its luscious premise; a little girl who falls down a rabbit hole and ends up in an unpredictable “wonderland.”

The Disney artists were given significant latitude in creating the movies’ look. The script, largely episodic, tried to convey the essence of the novels.  But like the Paramount from the thirties, its satire, which had a lot more to do with the 19^th century than the 20^th, proved too remote for audiences.  Disney later conceded that he and his team failed to find the emotional core of Alice, and consigned the film to TV, quite extraordinary, as his general procedure was to broadcast only excerpts from his animated features, like “Pinocchio,” and “Sleeping Beauty,” and then, strictly as a prelude to their re-release in theaters.

I saw Alice, several times, on Disney’s TV show.  Long before seeing it in color I remember being mesmerized by the striking images and the lightning fast editing.  The animated Alice, beautifully realized, seemed adrift in wonderland, which was totally out of synch with anything in my world. The entire experience got “curiouser and curiouser,” without making much sense.

Disney’s  Alice was a noble experiment,  but anchored to impossibly dense material it was probably unsuitable for children and too arcane for many adults. The same can be said for Tim Burtons’ expensive and elaborate update.  This time Alice is 19, awkward lower middle class, and struggling under the yoke of the Victorian social mores in the 1860s. Faced with an unappealing marriage proposal, a subterranean tumble spares her from having to make an unpleasant decision.  It’s a promising set up, and Mia Wasikowska  is an open minded and sympathetic Alice.

The scenes that follow her fall, that detail her drug induced transformations, are captivating as a metaphor and a starting point for her journey.  Tweedledee and Tweedeldum, among her first distractions, happily inhabit a middle ground between the classic illustrations on which they’re based and seamless CGI effects.  Then comes Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter, and Helena Bonham Carters’ Red Queen, probably the films’ most wondrous elements. Depp, a frequent Burton collaborator, and Carter, his wife, get the flashiest parts, and they’re both as puzzling and magnetic as you’d expect.

But then the problem of story intrudes, and the movie stumbles.  Carroll didn’t really care about forward momentum, leaving screenwriters and directors the burden of contriving a middle that moves to a satisfying conclusion.  But the movies’ promising set up, that introduces Alice as a woman struggling with her identity,  is almost cavalierly abandoned.  Alice’s age, verging on adulthood, provides her little other than athletic ability.  As it lumbers forward the lavish design fails to compensate for routine plotting that mimics every other fantasy/ spectacle where a hero or heroine is called to perform on the battlefield.  And it suffers in comparison to most.

The trippier aspects of both the early Paramount and the animated Disney, celebrated by the drug culture of the sixties, are passed over by Burtons’ overly literal storytelling.  Stripped of its satirical brio, the movies’ content isn’t rich enough to captivate adults. And though I’m way outside the demographic, I can’t see the sophisticated, hard edged characters holding the attention of young children. Talking dogs and rabbits are commonplace these days.

Burton, one of our foremost stylists, had an interesting take on “Sweeny Todd,” although I think the film lost something by making its leads younger than the originals in Sondheim’s’ brilliant theater piece.  His early features, “Pee Wee’s Big Adventure,” and “Edward Scissorshands,” work better because the characters complied more readily with Burton’s idiosyncrasies.  His remakes, like “Planet of the Apes,” and “Sleepy Hollow,” suffered because their source material wasn’t as malleable.  “Alice,” among his most ambitious projects, occupies an awkward space somewhere between the tepid remakes and the sturdier, stand alone originals.

As it began I had high hopes that Burton might completely reinvent Alice and her world.  That was probably too much to expect. Now, can we please leave Lewis Carroll’s’ work to the students of history and politics, its rightful heirs?

George Romero wrote and directed “The Crazies” in 1973, at a moment when distrust of the military, stoked by endless bad will from the Viet Nam war, reached an apex.  Now, almost 40 years later, in the wake of another war that’s put a bad taste in our mouths, the movie has been revisited. The story is the same, dressed up with better production values and performances by some very good actors.  And while it doesn’t resonate on levels the best horror films reach, it’s effective as a waking nightmare about military might gone haywire.

When a drunk interrupts a little league game with a loaded shotgun, the local sheriff, (Timothy Olyphant,) is forced to shoot him.  Shortly afterwards the cops wife, (Radha Mitchell,) a doctor, becomes puzzled by the listless behavior of a rural farmer. When the farmer burns down his home, killing his wife and child, the sheriff goes looking for a connection, and soon identifies a problem with the drinking water.  But before he can stop down the local system, his town is set upon by a gas masked strike force.  Things rapidly turn deadly, on a frighteningly large scale.

The situation is hackneyed, but it’s spiked by a host of refreshing incidents. The sheriff is ahead of the audience, which helps.  And as the community faces a full scale assault, the writers have contrived scenes of nerve jangling tension.

After the picture sets up the problem, the issue shifts to escape. It opens up the original, which, budgeted at around $250,000, was limited, even back in the seventies, when money went a lot further. The whole movie is shot with a soft, dreamy focus , complemented by slightly burned colors,  that recall the way a lot of B movies looked in the 70s, in the same way the story more or less mimics Romero’s original.

There’s a terrific scene where a car full of escapees gets stuck in a car wash. The claustrophobic feeling of riding with the passengers as the car slowly progresses through a wash cycle is exponentially amplified by the possibility that “crazies” are waiting at the other end.  A scene where a small boat passes over a large, submerged aircraft is a chilling precursor of the disaster to come.

As the noose tightens on the town, scenes pay off with the sort of bloodletting we’ve come to expect from the genre, so the weak of stomach should be warned. The violence, while unrelenting, is subdued by current standards.  Still, the R rating is well earned.

Romero hit the right nerve when he created his watershed “Night of the Living Dead.” Made in 1968, for pennies, it played havoc with the tensions that beset the nuclear family of the time.  That had been done before, but not with the same cutting brutality.  Exacerbating the nervousness was a nagging bit of racial commentary, that added an additional layer of discomfort.

Romero’s original “Crazies,” liberally borrowed from his “Living Dead.” A lot of it took place in a farmhouse, where the characters faced off against each other at the same time they confronted an onslaught of crazies from their own community.  The remake, while expertly directed by Breck Eisner, is less about personal squabbles and more about the spectacle of a complete breakdown in civil society.

The horror movies that stay with us, from “Dracula,” to “Rosemary’s Baby,” to “The Exorcist,” to Kubrick’s “The Shining”  are bound up with our most intimate  and for the most part, inarticulate anxieties.  As we examine them, we usually find the influence of Freud or Jung on their conceptual schemes. And finally, these dark shadows, that live in the basement of our conscious lives, are what take us by the throat.

The problem with “The Crazies,” is that it’s most disturbing aspects are mainly on the surface, a surface we’ve visited many times before. It’s most effective terrors are the product of the filmmakers’ techniques. We leave the theater disturbed, but for the most part because we’ve been expertly manipulated by professionals who know how and when to goose us.  The fear, palpable in the films’ best moments, is more physical than psychological.  You look over your shoulder, to see if your neighbor might be coming for you, but not to yourself, where the real terror lives.

By Daniel Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

The trailer for Martin Scorseses’ “Shutter Island” comes across like a horror film, and a chilling one at that. But when the release date was changed from late October to last week, rumours suggested the project was having an identity crisis.

It was also assumed that the master’s 21st feature was less than Oscar material, and that it would suffer in comparison to the weightier features distributors slot for the fall, when they’re more likely to be considered for year end awards.

Paramount was smart, not because “Shutter Island” is lesser Scorsese, although it is, but because it’s an oversized B movie that makes no attempt to conceal its origins. Now, amidst the mediocre Valentine’s Day slush and spineless action films currently showing, it’s a stand out.

The distributor was smart because it ruled its’ first weekend, giving Scorsese the biggest opening of his career. Apparently the trailer worked. Still, it’s misleading because the movie is more of a super sized film noir than a big budget scare fest. In fact there isn’t a “boo” moment in its entire 2 hours and 18 minutes. So it’s a tad deceptive, although the real problems have more to do with an overstuffed production, which is disproportionate to the scripts cagey but context bound ambitions.

Teddy Daniels, (Leonardo De Caprio) a federal law officer, arrives on an island asylum for the criminally insane to find out how one of the inmates/patients disappeared. There are portents of bad things to come from the very beginning, as a gallery of twisted faces and bodies seems to warn him that something’s amiss.

Since this is 1954, psychiatry and its practitioners are, to some extent, alien to working class cops. Shortly after their introductions the resident doctors,(Ben Kingsley and Max Von Sydow) confound Teddy and his new partner, (Mark Ruffalo) with their ambivalence toward the investigation. Making matters more distressing are Teddy’s frequent flashbacks to his dead wife and nightmares from his war time experiences.

The atmosphere thickens as inmates warn Teddy about cruel and unusual treatments. At the same time the doctors’ waning cooperation mires the investigation in procedure. Then a storm hits, which, in addition to keeping the cops on the island, threatens the survival of the most dangerous patients, who are kept in a maximum security compound swathed in a mystery of its own.

We’ve been here before; a troubled cop, evasive docs, fearful patients crying wolf, flashbacks to a past screaming for cloture. Working from a novel by Dennis Lehane, whose “Mystic River” and “Gone, Baby, Gone,” made graceful transitions to the screen, Scorsese brings the bounty of filmmaking resources he’s accumulated over the past 40 years. And it shows in the rich production design and fluid story telling.

But fluid imagery is not coherence, and Laeta Kalogridis’ script has a larger investment in Teddy’s disorientation than the whereabouts of the missing patient. And as more hydra like elements come to bear on Teddy, the more fragmented the movie becomes.

The stylized images, from an almost surreal seascape that opens the picture, to our first look at Teddy’s sweaty and pained expression, to the maze of corridors in a labyrinth like hospital ward, suggest that there’s a lot more trouble here than the disappearance of a patient. All of this is absorbing, if just slightly exaggerated. But then Scorsese, who rises to the challenge of keeping us interested in his ultimate intentions, slowly abandons credibility, just as the threats close in on Teddy and his partner.

Scorese did the same thing in his high power remake of “Cape Fear.” As he pumped more and more sexual tension into the plot line Robert DeNiro’s psychopath and the metaphorical storm at the movie’s conclusion became almost surreally overblown. He doesn’t have to go that far here, because a unifying thread pulls a lot of “Island” together in the last reel, but the same problem intrudes.

The heart of the material, rooted in fifty years of scholcky, B movies, (near and dear to so many movie lovers,) is betrayed by self important production and wearying length, that lead us to expect more. And why shouldn’t we, when Teddy’s recollections of liberating the death camp at Dachau, are as elaborate as anything in “Inglorious Basterds?”

The issue is one of weight. It’s not a matter of where we’re directed to place our emotions, because that’s clearly on Teddy, but rather where we are to place our attention. There’s just too much information and too many directions. The issue is further complicated by fishy, mannered performances from Kingsley and Von Sydow, although they’re not entirely to blame; ham fisted dialogue handicaps their credibility the moment they open their mouths. This is intentional, no doubt, as Scorcese is too much of a movie scholar, and an artist, to allow distractions to creep into his movies unintentionally.

Clearly, Scorsese wanted to have fun with the trappings of low budget quickies like Samuel Fuller’s “Shock Corridor,” or facile ironies in Rod Serling’s celebrated “Twilight Zone,” from TV. But most Bs and certainly the TV shows, are short and to the point. At the two hour mark, “Shutter Island” is a bit of a shlog. Characters like Patricia Clarkson’s fugitive therapist, and Ted Levine’s cop, while planted early in the story, make themselves known so late they add more in the way of annoyance than suspense. And yet the movie keeps us amused.

Scorsese has had nothing less than a brilliant career, and we’re entitled to expect more and better films to come. The commercial success of “Shutter Island” will no doubt set him free to follow whatever creative impulse moves him. And at its worst “Shutter Island” is classy entertainment.

So why, finally, is it a bit of a letdown? You can get a clue by looking backwards at several Hitchcock’s, like “Vertigo,” “The Man Who Knew Too Much,” or “Rear Window;” similarly rigged mind benders. The Hitchcock’s, lighter on the surface, are even dark at their core, and reveal more of that core with repeated viewings. I don’t think the same can be said for “Shutter Island.”

The deepest troubles with “Island” have a lot to do with the subterfuge that clouds the movie’s crucial middle sections. Hitchcock was obsessive about the building blocks of his stories. Even when his running times are close to, or more than two hours, there’s almost nothing that you’d cut for relevance. When we total up the sum of watching them, this amounts to the difference between a fleeting and passionate engagement.

Scorsese has given us a stirring opening and a heartfelt conclusion, but not the obsessively marshalled guts that make the Hitchcock’s so compelling. That’s why one trip to “Shutter Island” may be enough.

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

NOTE: The following article discusses themes and events in one of the five foreign language films nominated for this year’s Academy Award. While the film is not plot dependent, and nothing is revealed that would compromise the experience of seeing it, readers should be advised that this review focuses on several talking points that have made it so controversial.

“A German children’s film,” the subtitle of Micheal Haneke’s prize winning “The White Ribbon,” barely hints at the way this film engages its principal subjects. But it points us in a certain direction, and may help us to divine the writer/director’s intentions from its earliest passages, making it a lot easier to follow as it gets more complicated. In any case, this is not to be mistaken as a film for children.

Full disclosure; I arrived a moment or two after the opening titles, completely unprepared for the flood of blazing black and white images, which had the effect of a plunge into an icy stream. And though I’d read about the movies’ win at Cannes, and had a fair idea of the what it was up to, I didn’t anticipate the other worldly ambiance, every bit as startling, in its own way, as “Avatar.”

A small town in rural Germany, 1913. A farming community, generally controlled by its wealthiest landowner and his consorts, a pastor and a doctor, is slowly shaken by a series of inexplicably violent events that arrive without rhyme or reason.

The first few incidents, random and puzzling, are taken into account and absorbed, as if they were accidents. But as time goes by, and they accumulate, it becomes increasingly apparent that the perpetrators are united by an inarticulate but potent rage and that that they will not be stopped. When one member of the community points to the children, he’s identified as a pariah and sent packing.

The story isn’t as straightforward as it sounds. Writer/director Haneke takes his time developing various crosscurrents, providing ample details on the relationship of its people to each other, and almost as important, the land itself. While life is an ongoing challenge, there’s a shared sense of purpose, in spite of the inequities of a nearly feudal social structure. That is, until the town is challenged from within.

Although it lacks a central protagonist, the story is initially narrated by a young school teacher, who, in dealing with the children as a group, becomes the first to sense their restless energy. Eventually the teacher takes a back seat to an omniscient point of view. We see things he couldn’t possibly know about, like a hellish exchange between an unhappy married couple, and the humiliation visited on a well meaning female servant. Since he’s just one of many players it doesn’t compromise the films coherence or power. And while the events are mysterious, this is not a mystery, so little is at stake when the all seeing director abandons the single vantage point.

The script is anything but linear. As he assays the community, Haneke brings us cheek to jowl with an exhaustive catalog of everyday life, from a love affair governed by the strict protocol of the times, to the ripple effect of a fatal accident on a family of field workers. The half dozen stories, which move at the same clip, establish a steady rhythm, which is gradually disrupted by the behavior that defies the best efforts to deny it.

The “white” ribbon of the title refers to an honor bestowed on young people for purity of behavior. Early on the pastor lectures his large brood about the importance of aspiring to the godliness mandated by their belief system. This, at the same time he unsparingly punishes his oldest son for masturbating. We see similar parent to child cruelty as it’s manifested in other families, which sets the stage for a wave of inarticulate rage.

There’s more than a hint of Freud in all this. The aforementioned adolescent is manacled at bedtime . A callous father insists on confining his daughter after a young man proposes to her. Children are held to absurdly strict standards of behavior. The children band together to strike back. But Haneke doesn’t stop there. He shows them terrorizing their peers just as readily as their parents.

When the film first played in Europe there was speculation about the significance of the stories’ time and place. Some took it as an exegesis on the fascist impulse that saw its full expression in the birth to the Third Reich. Others saw Haneke’s intentions as more universal and only coincidentally linked to Nazism.

My view is that he wants to have it both ways. There’s no getting away from the specifics of the period; “The White Ribbon” concludes with the announcement of the assassination that started World War I, the fallout of which set the stage for Hitler’s rise to power. But Germany’s failed economy and the resulting social inequity, (a subsidiary concern in the movie) played a more pervasive role than the simmering evil that haunts the characters here. Haneke seems just as intent on identifying a general heart of darkness as its specific time and place. Still he’s taken full advantage of a moment that moves inexorably toward Nazi Germany.

There isn’t a single overwrought moment in the movie’s nearly two and a half hour running time. The power of the film is in the matter of fact delivery of the most candid details. Nothing is underlined. But even quiet segments are rich with feeling. Among the several that grabbed me: a sequence where a little boy, whose father is recovering from a serious accident, queries his young nanny about the nature of death. The child’s attitude is so guileless it leaves the nanny at a loss to respond.

Another scene, where a boy endangers his life at the urging of a friend, is captured with such dark beauty it almost stops the flow of events.

A great deal of credit goes to cinematographer Christian Berger, who’s already taken several European awards for his luminous black and white images. Berger frames and lights the children with knowing precision. At times his camera seems to pear directly into their souls.

Haneke has a well earned a reputation for his pitiless depictions of human failing. Some have called him a misanthrope. I found the psychological torture of “Funny Games,” (which he made twice, originally in German, then years later, in English,) singularly repellent. But at the same time I couldn’t fault its intentions.

I had similar problems with “The Pianist,” which caused a considerable stir when it came out in 2001, largely due to the way it portrayed a sadomasochistic music teacher, who, from time to time, expressed self loathing by “cutting” herself. I saw it with a standing room only crowd at a large festival. After the first scene of self mutilation there was no problem with seating; half the young women walked out. As for the movie, in spite of its deadly earnest, it came off as both hysterical and pretentious.

“The Hidden,” (“Cache” in Europe) a low key drama about the surveillance of a middle class Parisian couple, doesn’t press any hot buttons, but is far more interesting and complex. Daniel Auteuil and Juliette Binoche play two people with a troubled past in this award winner from2005. It’s a good introduction to themes that Haneke takes up again and again. Like the rest of his theatrical features, it’s available on DVD.

“The White Ribbon” works because it presents characters without pretention or presumption. Each one seems motivated from within. The movie has been cast the same way. The people, and especially the peasants, have faces as weathered as their clothing.

This is the sort of challenging movie whose absence of convention will frustrate some to the point of complete rejection, and keep others asking important questions for quite some time.

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

Although this weekend’s studio releases, “Valentine’s Day,” “The Wolfman,” and a Harry Potter knock off, (the title of which is so unwieldy I can’t get it straight no matter how often I see it in print,) are attracting sizable crowds, my advice is to stay home with a good book and a few DVDs.

Despite record bad weather and mostly bad movies people are turning up at the theaters. Maybe it’s cabin fever.

The big numbers are partially due to the “Avatar’s” continuing popularity, but also the surprising performance of two female friendly titles, (“Dear John,” “Leap Year,”) and the continuing interest in several lauded art house items, including “Crazy Heart,” which is turning into a slow burning hit.  Mel Gibson’s “Edge of Darkness,” has drawn audiences, although the reported budget of 80 million, an instance of studio bloat if ever there was one, may keep the film from turning a profit.

Usually, January, and the early stretches of February, are notorious dumping grounds for troubled studio titles and lame horror films. The studios dump them unceremoniously for quick play offs.  “The Wolfman,” in spite of its intriguing trailer, has been sitting around for almost two years awaiting release.  The John Travolta shoot ‘em up, “From Paris With Love,” a tepid bit of nonsense if ever there was one, is a complete flop.  Advance word on “Valentine’s Day,” is poor, although it has opened very big.  None of these will be remembered come awards time.

Now, a sprinkling of DVDs.

A Serious Man

“A Serious Man” is the latest Coen brothers output, and believe me, had it not been for their recent successes like “No Country For Old Men,” and “Burn After Reading,” the movie would never have been made.  This is the most narrowly focused and personal of their many films, and weeks after seeing it and a host of conversations, I’m still not sure what to make of the vituperative and bitter mood that informs its every frame.

Larry Gopnick, a college professor consumed with worry about an imminent tenure decision, helplessly watches as every player in his middle class, Jewish world, disses him in one way or another. His wife confesses her love for a successful, blowhard neighbor, his kids behave abominably at home and school, his penniless brother camps out in his house and won’t leave, and both colleagues and students unconscionably hector him. There’s nothing subtle about any of this.

Larry’s circumstances, and the debilitating rumination that keeps him from taking action, provide a canvas for the Coen’s scabrous portrait of middle class Jewish life in the Midwestern suburbs of their youth. Is their objective here revenge or sophisticated satire?  Probably both, and more; the movie has ambitions on several levels. It even begins with an emblematic fable from the “old world.”   Regardless or intent, they’ve taken great pains to create a gallery of irredeemably selfish and self important bloodsuckers, driven, in large part, by the need to wreak havoc on poor Larry, a classic, “schlemiel;” (a slang term from Yiddish, for a character who’s unable to cope with adversity, or experience good fortune.)

Roger Deakins’ camera is merciless in capturing every repellent physical detail of both the people and the oppressively flat landscape. Only a sexy, neighbor, who entices Larry with nudity and pot, has any kind of visual appeal, and she’s shown as aimless and bored.

The Coen’s have played their characters for fools before. But sometimes, as in their superior “Fargo,” “Blood Simple,” and “Burn After Reading,” they’ve rigged the scripts with a playfulness that masks the detachment at their core.  Here, contempt verging on outright anger is up front.

You will either be fascinated or disgusted by this ensemble of grotesques. Maybe both, as I was.

Bright Star

Writer/director Jane Campion, opting for lethal solemnity over anything that might be mistaken for entertainment, has concocted a one note love story that wears its seriousness like a hair shirt. And while there may be more truth than fiction in this labored telling of the chaste and doomed affair between the poet John Keats and Fanny Brawne, a kind of Victorian fashion designer, it doesn’t matter. The entire proceeding is so tastefully bloodless it invites a long snooze.

You get a clue as to what the rest will bring the minute the lovely, usually blonde, Abbie Cornish appears in an unflattering frock and matching dark hair.  Her early, chilly interaction with the poet and his grating brother sets the stage for a predictable and flat relationship, built on her blossoming appreciation for poetry and literature.

In the interests of veracity, energy is at an absolute minimum. The sets and locales are spare and hard on the eye.  Ben Whishaw, playing Keats, delivers the poetry with conviction, but the director has failed him by adhering to a strict control over tone that kills any involvement in the story beyond respect for its uniformity.

Whatever happened to the inspired writer/director of “The Piano,” and “Sweetie?” Back in the 90s Campion’s work teemed with visual invention and wit, and picked up a slew of awards both here and abroad. Even when she went over the top, with “Holy Smoke,” you sensed her involvement with the characters. Nothing there prepares us for this.

“Bright Star” goes a long way to explaining why kids show indifference to literature. Its fans, will no doubt, point to the disciplined execution and adherence to reality, but it’s all for naught because you can’t sit through it.

Whip It

This is Drew Barrymore’s debut as a director. It’s a routine but amusing look at women’s roller derby that owes much of its considerable appeal to Ellen Page’s wide eyed performance.

Page, who starred in the altogether winning “Juno,” plays Bliss Cavender, a small town Texan, who, you guessed it, longs to escape the football games and beauty pageants that define the local culture.  So she lies her way into auditioning for a raucous ladies skating team, then struggles to keep up with the rough and tumble competition, secretly defying her mother’s plan to advance her career through the Junior League.

Bliss’ aspirations to downward mobility are underdeveloped in a script that telegraphs its intentions way in advance, putting even more pressure on the actors to rise above it.  Tethered to a PG-13 rating, and all that implies, the movie sorely needed a shot of vulgarity to kick it into high gear.  As it is, the few rough edges are barely enough to keep it, well, rolling.

Daniel Stern and Marcia Gay Harden, seasoned pros, do their best to freshen up the thankless roles of clueless parents. Barrymore adds a bit of spunk as Smashly Simpson, one of the rollers.  Kristin Wiig and Juliette Lewis try to seem bad, as girls who aren’t nearly as bad as they should be.

One of these days Wiig, a comedic chameleon, is going to break out in a part that gives her the space to run wild. Let’s hope it happens before she’s eligible for social security. In the meantime we have to settle for mere glimpses into her hilariously twisted psyche. See: “Ghost Town,” “Adventureland,” and Saturday Night Live.

The Burning Plain

Guillermo Arriaga’s compelling puzzle drama deserved better when it limped into theaters last fall and was met with mostly critical indifference, and some outright hostility. Why it didn’t win more respect is more of a mystery to me than the story line, which demands close attention, but rewards it with ample feeling, and a satisfying ending.

You might know Arriaga as the writer of “Amores Perros,” “21 Grams,” and “Babel,” all of which were directed by Alejandro Gonzalez Inarritu. “Amores Perros,” one of the most riveting of recent films from Mexico, announced the coming of a talented team that was not to be denied a seat at the table of world cinema.

Arriaga applied the same motif to all three of his collaborations with Inarritu; separate but intertwined stories featuring a spectrum of diverse characters, operating at different and sometimes opposing levels of society.  “Amores Perros” struck me as the best served by this strategy. The other two, undeniably urgent, had a whiff of contrivance that blunted their impact.  Also, subtlety is not director Inarritu’s strong suit.

“Burning Plain,” is Arriaga’s debut as both writer and director, and he’s recruited an excellent cast, topped by Charlize Theron and Kim Bassinger.  Theirs are not the only strong performances, but they’re certainly the most erotically charged.  The others, including Jennifer Lawrence, (a real up and comer,) John Corbett, and a host of international players, well serve Arriaga’s intriguing tale of passion, murder, and racial strife.

The movie begins with an explosion and two deaths, and then moves backwards to explain how they occurred.  Suffice it to say that two families were in opposition, along with a love affair that defied economic and racial barriers, powerful anger, and a tragic misunderstanding.

Two stories are developed simultaneously, representing two distinct time periods. They’re neatly intertwined, but to divulge how and why would reveal too much of their surprising connection.

“Burning Plain,” shot by two master cinematographers, Robert Elswit, (“There Will Be Blood,”) and John Toll, (“Gone, Baby, Gone,”) has a rich, appealing look. Apparently it was made as two separate productions, which were then cut into one film.

My guess is that Arriaga intended a lot more than the suspenseful drama that came out in the end, and that critics were disappointed that it was less than a masterpiece.  In spite of that it’s suspenseful and absorbing. Good performances too!

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

Say what you will about the Academy Awards, they’re as reliable as any other year end prizes.   It’s the show that’s really an endurance test. And while the whole enterprise has been derided as a venal and self serving family celebration, there are mitigating factors.

For one, the nominees are selected by professionals in their respective divisions. Actors nominate actors, art directors, art directors, writers, writers, etc.  I think we can assume they know more about their work than we do, so the process seems sensible.  (There are exceptions to this, but only one that’s really significant; the entire Academy votes to nominate Best Picture.)  Once the field is narrowed down to four or five names (in all but the “Best Picture” category,) everybody votes for all categories.

What happens after that has been explained to me several times, but I still don’t understand it. When the final votes come in, Price Waterhouse makes ten piles of ten, placing the top choices in the first pile, the rest in the other nine, in descending order of popularity.  Although what happens next is not secret, it remains a mystery.  Two Academy members of long standing took me through the process, but after a few minutes, conceded that they didn’t really get it.  Nor did anyone else they knew.

In any case, you know that the “race” concludes at a big television event where people are ranked first on whether they win or lose, then on their clothing, and finally on the content of their acceptance speeches. Length, like neatness, is also a factor.  Afterwards they party while we turn to news on our flailing economy.

The recent addition of five titles to the “Best Picture” category has brought hisses from some quarters, cheers from others.  Detractors point to it as a concession to the studios, which, in recent years have taken a back seat to more ambitious, mid budget indies, more than a few of which come from the UK.   According to this argument, the extra slots make it easier for second rate work to get into the running. Supporters take the opposite view, that expansion affords greater variety.

The first year of “ten” favors the supporters’ argument. All ten nominated films have received respectable reviews. They represent most of the popular genres:  Science fiction – “District Nine;” animation -“Up;” studio drama – “The Blind Side;” and low budget drama from Britain – “An Education,” a film that’s grossed less than 5 million.   These in addition a sophisticated adult comedy -“Up In the Air,” a superior genre film – “Hurt Locker,” and the urban indie – “Precious.”

“Inglorious Basterds,” the international hit from Tarrantino, got the nod, as well as the latest Coen Brothers’, “A Serious Man,” which is anything but a hit. And then, of course, there’s “Avatar,” which,  beyond all the commentary it’s generated, both good and bad, resides in a category all its own; biggest box office of all time.

To the expansion, I say, why not? As a culture we seem to be stuck on the idea of ten best lists.  And though the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences is constantly accused of cronyism, nepotism and plain old bad taste, this year’s nominees argue against that.  Below, a handful of random notes on the highlights, none of which will help you win the office pool.

Best Picture

A friend and Academy member recently insisted that I choose between “Avatar,” or “Hurt Locker,” for Best Picture, as the town has pretty well identified these two as best in show.  It seems to me like having to choose between Art and Sports, but then I’ve never been much for picking the best of anything.  As for the others; “Up In The Air,” “Precious,” and “An Education,” provided me with a great deal of pleasure, for very different reasons.  This is the way it’s supposed to be.

“A Serious Man,” an interesting but trying work, has limited appeal; had it not been made by the Coen brothers, it would never have made it to the big screen.  I’ll talk about it when the DVD release happens.) I’ve discussed “An Education” in an earlier column, and I continue to admire it.  “Precious,” another film of high caliber, grossed close to 45 million, more than five times its cost, and came to its success through director Lee Daniels’ uncompromising vision.  Finally, what impresses about these three films is their disregard of tried and true convention. And when I say that I’m referring to more than the endings; I’m talking about the 95 or 100 minutes before the stories wrap.

For those trying to second guess the Academy, there’s this to consider; “Hurt Locker,” is a superior war film, but it’s been labeled “dark” by many Hollywood wags.  Read, “hard to sit through.”  I don’t think it’s any darker than a slew of other highly regarded war films, from Eastwood’s “Flags of Our Fathers,” to Spielberg’s “Saving Private Ryan.”  It just has less dialogue.   “Avatar” is literally its polar opposite, and more of an upper.  You take it from there, but I’d bet on “Avatar.”

Best Actor

Jeff Bridges is considered a lock for “Crazy Heart.”  As I said last week, he’s deserving of recognition, but I’m still haunted by Colin Firth’s quiet but fearless performance in “A Single Man.” Here, a reliable actor showed unexpected wizardry.

Morgan Freeman and George Clooney need no introductions; their careers flourish. But Jeremy Renner, a working actor who’s toiled in relative obscurity, came out of nowhere. War films rarely give actors the latitude to stand out, and “Hurt Locker’s” script is relatively spare, but  Renner made the most of it, then took it one step further.  Good thing he took off his helmet for some of the more daring moments; otherwise we wouldn’t have been able to read the nearly insane determination on his face as he goes about the thankless job of disarming IEDs.

Best Actress

How often do guilds of professionals honor the novices among them? Not often, in my experience.  But this year actresses nominated two of their number who had never appeared in a single feature;  Carey Mulligan  (“An Education,”) an actress from British TV, and Gabourey Sidibe,  (“Precious,”) a woman who’s never been in front of a camera before.  They passed over better known names like Abbie Cornish in “Bright Star,” and Emily Blunt in “The Young Victoria.” Good for them!

Helen Mirren got yet another nomination for “The Last Station,” a film about the aged Leo Tolstoy.  After debuting at Cannes the film struggled to get a distribution deal.  Somehow it also got a nomination for Christopher Plummer.  Once again, the membership went out of its way to honor little seen work.

Best Director

The fact that James Cameron, (“Avatar,”) and Kathryn Bigelow, (“Hurt Locker,”) were married many years ago, has not gone unnoticed by the Hollywood community.  People have said that until “Locker,” Bigelow, who’s made several smart action films, has never been taken as seriously as her male peers. I think it has more to do with her material than her gender. In truth, this is by far the best script she’s directed.  Whether she overtakes “Avatar” or not, she has now entered the major league.

Best Supporting Actress

A host of familiar names appear in this category.  Mo’nique, a comic who turned heads with her volcanic energy, and won a Golden Globe, will most certainly take home an Oscar.  But Anna Kendrick held her own against Clooney and Farmiga in “Up in The Air.” No small feat. The hope is that she’ll find other parts that expand on her talent.

Penelope Cruz must have been nominated for the way she spilled out of her costume in “Nine,” because it couldn’t have had anything to do with the mostly witless lines she read in this misbegotten mess. Why the academy looked past what’s probably her best work to date, in “Broken Embraces,” is beyond me, but it may have something to do with the way foreign films are considered.  As I understand it each country puts forth one film for Academy consideration.  Did that keep them from being able to nominate her for Almodovar’s latest?  This is one of those questions that even my friends in the Academy aren’t sure about.

Best Supporting Actor

There are two unlikely nominees here; Christopher Plummer playing Tolstoy, and Christoph Waltz as the Nazi everybody loved to hate in “Inglorious Basterds.”  I found Waltz’ performance humorous but mannered, maybe because the whole film left me cold.

Best Cinematography

The craft of filmmaking is so far along, and the tools so remarkable, that there are countless striking images set before us each year.  Every movie I liked this year had a look that captured my attention from the first sequence.  But Christian Berger’s black and white images in “The White Ribbon,” went beyond that.  They kept us completely engaged in Michael Haneke’s challenging story about deviant behavior in a small German town back in 1913.  I’ll have more to say about “White Ribbon,” in another column.  At this moment it seems to be running neck and neck with the entry from France, “Un Prophete,” for best foreign language film.

Best Original Screenplay

The writers had the guts to nominate three “difficult” film this year; “The Messenger,” “Serious Man,” and “Hurt Locker.”  They also went against the grain and recognized the animated “Up.”  “Inglorious Basterds,” makes it five.  Apparently the writers weren’t that impressed with Cameron’s script for “Avatar.” Weren’t there any other original scripts out there that merited their attention?  I guess not. I fault the studios for their relentless search for the next Batman.

Best Adapted Screenplay

This has always struck me as an odd category.  It stands to reason that if you start with strong material, from a book or play, you get a strong script.  Countless lousy films have proved the opposite.  This year, “District Nine,”  “An Education,”  “Precious, Based on the novel ‘Push’ by Sapphire,” and   “Up in the Air,” came from novels.  All were successful as film scripts. But there’s one more nominee, another Brit flick called “In the Loop.” I haven’t seen it. Does anyone out there care to comment?

There are scads more categories; music, editing, art direction, etc. etc.. They go on like the show itself, seemingly forever.  Your only hope is that the material written for co-presenters Steve Martin and Alec Baldwin will keep you conscious until the best picture is crowned. While the show starts at 6 PM on the west coast, it doesn’t get rolling in the east until 9.  Good luck.

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

Five minutes into the new Mel Gibson vehicle, “Edge of Darkness,” you understand why the world is in thrall to American filmmaking.  The movies’ sheer craft lulls you into willing submission.  That its problems pile up like cars on an icy highway is almost aside from the point.  Meticulous production and technical credits go a ways to glossing over the large narrative problems the script struggles to contain.  Still, we expected better.

Mel Gibson’s last winning role was in “Signs,” almost eight years ago. M. Night Shyamalans’ superior rethinking of sci fi movies from the 50s provided him with a part nicely divided into two complementary halves. On one hand he was a preacher struggling with a loss of faith, and on the other a father called upon to protect his family during an alien invasion. Gibson was convincing at both.

I don’t want to digress too much, but I think “Signs” is an achievement worthy of Hitchcock. Its unlikely mixture of humor, suspense and feeling, confirms the promise of Shyamalan’s “Sixth Sense.”  Also his shrewd instincts for casting; Gibson was an unusual choice that paid off.  He’s spirited in the early scenes, playing around with his kid and brother, then reflective in the more sober moments, as he uses the memory of his wife’s death to  summon the necessary strength to overcome fear.

After “Signs” Gibson produced and played a supporting part in a misconceived theatrical version of Dennis Potter’s British mini series, “The Singing Detective.”  It was an experiment that didn’t work. Since then we haven’t heard from him, other than the high comic incidents reported in the press. This is unlike “Mad” Mel, who was on a creative tear for over 25 years.

One of the things that first set Gibson apart from his peers was the manic energy he seemed to summon out of nowhere.  But he didn’t show that mercurial temperament in the beginning.  After “Mad Max,” and “Road Warrior,” in which he took a back seat to the action, he won traditional leads in “The Year of Living Dangerously,” and “The Bounty,” directed by fellow Aussies Peter Weir and Roger Donaldson.

Both films called upon the actor to fit a director’s vision.  Gibson was cast as a young and thoughtful everyman who kept his cool under pressure.  Then came “Lethal Weapon,” a 180 degree turnabout where he all but ignited from within.  Playing a cop with a penchant for acts of suicidal bravery, Gibson took an unlikely gimmick and ran with it.  Richard Donner was at the helm, and Danny Glover was indispensable as the partner, but there was no show without Gibson.

“Lethal Weapon” unleashed the “mad” in Mel, but once he had the leverage, shrewd instincts kept him away from becoming stereotyped as an action hero.

What he seemed eager to prove, judging by the roles he took, as “Hamlet,” “The Man Without a Face,” and “Maverick,” was that he could, and would, remake himself from top to bottom with each new movie. The results were mixed, with the exception of Hamlet.  Some said Gibson, in his mid 30s, was too old for the part, but he did justice to the text.  Beyond that, the play was skillfully abbreviated by director Franco Zeferelli, who had successfully applied the same shortcuts to “Romeo and Juliet”

Next he turned to producing and directing. He defied all odds with “The Passion of the Christ,” an audacious, blood soaked phenomenon that divided critics but recruited a world wide audience.  When he announced his intention to direct the film in a dead language, with his own money, Hollywood let out a huge howl.  The movie set box office records.

Next came “Apocalypto,” a quirky epic that recycled the plot of “The Naked Prey,” a cult film from 1965, which was also directed by an ambitious actor, Cornell Wilde.  Both films had unmistakable style and conviction. “Apocalypto,” like “Passion” plays without a word of English. Although it didn’t reach the stratosphere it turned a profit.

Add to that mix the award winning “Braveheart,” a couple of effective action films, “Payback” and “Ransom,” and a passably good romantic comedy, “What Women Want,”   and you see why Gibson won so much respect in the industry.  Now, a little mellower, and deep into his fifties, he returns to the angry cop genre with “Edge of Darkness.”

No sooner does Emma Craven arrive home after a long time away, than she’s brutally slain in what appears to be an attempt to kill her father, a Boston detective.  The detective, Thomas Craven, soon comes to suspect that the hit was actually meant for his daughter, who was working at a nuclear test facility.  Forcing his nose to the ground in typical investigative mode, Craven channels his rage and sorrow into an obsessive search that undermines a complicated attempt to cover up wrongdoing at the highest level of government.

The early scenes, which follow Cravens’ initial attempts to get a handle on Emmas’ secret life, are expert.  Pacing and texture are pitch perfect. After one or two seemingly unrelated killings, there’s a sense that anything can happen, and a resulting overhang of menace.  Middle aged and pitted against a multi million dollar corporation, the cop appears woefully handicapped by the only tools at his command, police procedure.  The tension is palpable.

Then the thing gets shaky. The story, out of necessity, changes point of view, several times.  It has to, in order to show us what the detective is up against.  But we lose the sense of lurking danger as more and more of the plot and its players, standard corporate bad guys, are revealed.  Had the shifts been longer, giving us more time with the characters, both good and bad, the effect would have been to deepen the entire situation.  As it is the second half seems rushed, and at times, rather absurd.

The smart plot degenerates as you start to ask yourself why these guys, with virtually unlimited resources, can’t just pick off the piss ant detective.

“Edge of Darkness” is a two hour adaptation of a six hour mini series.  Martin Campbell, the director, revisits the same material he made for the BBC 25 years ago.  Campbell recently brought a fresh eye to the James Bond reboot, “Casino Royale.”  But in trying to compress his multi part series into feature length the director has taken on an almost impossible task. What’s missing here, above all, is emotional weight.

One example in particular will point to the larger problem.  Midway through, an unseen assailant tries to plow Craven down with a speeding car.   Craven gets right in its path and unloads his service revolver.  The first shots penetrate the windshield.  We then see blood splattering from inside the vehicle.  And a moment later, the inevitable crash.  But we never see the driver, and even if we had, we wouldn’t have been able to make a connection.  Later on his identity is revealed, but for the life of me I can’t remember who it was.  A lot of the film plays that way.  Of course we’ve seen all this before; it’s a predictable convention. But in this case, when something is supposed to be at stake, the scene fails to contribute anything but a bit of violence.

There’s no denying the craft on display.  The robust production design, inviting at first, turns nasty with a commanding jolt.  Several action scenes have the force of a jack hammer.  But tension is dissipated by the nagging feeling that the pieces have been jerry rigged with the single aim of getting to the end.

Ray Winstone, a Brit playing a high priced stoolie, is strong in a part that needed more breathing room.  The same is true of Danny Huston, another stellar performer given short shrift by a thin role.

But Gibson, if anything, is more effective, as an actor.  The lines in his face, which he wears like a badge of honor, have only enhanced his appeal.  He does more with less, especially in the quieter moments, when his slightest gestures elegantly smartly express bottled up rage.  He almost holds the whole movie together.

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

We’re knee deep into awards season, and while the shows may be bores, the movies they’re honoring are anything but.  2009, a year that most of us are glad to be done with, was better for movie going than almost anything else.  We got something good in almost every genre, including several truly memorable titles.

The way I see it, any year we get a dozen solid American movies is a good one. And that doesn’t happen too often.  As a basis for comparison, there’s a more reliable flow of good work from the rest of the globe, (foreign language films.)  There are two basic reasons for this inequity.  The first is the simple matter of diversity; many voices versus one.  The second has to do with government subsidies.

Virtually every film making country, save ours, has a government program that ensures a certain yearly output.  Many subsidized movies are second rate, but since the agencies that decide what gets made have different objectives than our studios, the results are often more interesting. These organizations tend to support the work of up and coming filmmakers, who are often given more than one opportunity to find an audience for their visions.  So, at the very least an attempt is made to make movies that matter.

These subsidies don’t cover the entire budgets, but they provide enough working capital to stimulate other entities (TV stations etc.) to get involved.  That’s why you’ll usually see a number of production companies (from different countries) listed in the credits of foreign films. All of them own the local rights to the movie. So the risk is spread among a number of players.

Back to the current awards season.

The Hollywood Foreign Press Association, the outfit behind the Golden Globes, this year nominated and awarded an impressive selection of features from the US and Britain. They seized on big movies, (“Avatar,”) and small, (“An Education,”) and a few in between, (“Julie and Julia.”)  So talents as diverse as Meryl Streep and Mo’nique got statues.

Most of the films went home with something, from “Avatar” to “Precious,” The others got the exposure they deserved. This is encouraging, and we can only hope it continues.

The Hollywood Foreign Press Association, an eclectic band of US based freelancers who publish overseas, has a voting membership of less than 100.  The Academy, by comparison, numbers about 5500, and draws from 15 professional categories that represent all walks of the industry, from actors to executives.  Given the numbers, and the fact that Academy members are generally engaged in making films (or in some cases, deals that get them made,) it’s surprising how often the Globes foreshadow Oscar nominations. Over the years the overlap has been uncanny.

One of the significant differences between the two is that the HFPA gives out two “best picture” awards, for comedy and drama.  In the past comedies generally reaped the benefits of this separation, because Academy voters didn’t seem to place as much value on humor as they did weightier subjects.  That’s the received wisdom, anyway. It might have been that the dramas were just better—I’m conflicted on the subject.

But in today’s film making landscape, where audiences have shown a decided preference for comedy, the studios have been making fewer and fewer dramas.  If you believe, as I do, that in the end, all these “honors” are about revenue, you can see how the HFPA performs a service to producers of films like “Crazy Heart,”  “Precious” and “A Single Man,” by extolling their work on national TV.

The most significant take aways from this year’s show, a total bore other than the rants and raves regarding female couture, were the several independently made dramas among the nominees. This went hand in hand with the not so surprising defeat of the accomplished “Hurt Locker” at the hands of the steamroller that is “Avatar.”  We can expect to see this revisited when the Academy chimes in.

Avatar’s win for best movie and best direction reminds us that despite the numerous critics’ awards, “Hurt Locker” is small and dark.  And if the general population got enough of anything last year it was darkness. Still, “Locker,” which only grossed 11 million or so, made the race.

After the Academy announces its nominees I’ll provide a more comprehensive overview. But at this moment I want to focus on one Globe winner and one runner up, both of which boast outstanding male performances.

“Crazy Heart,” which nabbed a win for the underappreciated Jeff Bridges, visits well traveled territory.   But it’s a welcome visit, thanks to capable direction, inviting cinematography and Bridges’ smooth and winning performance.

Bridges has been a welcome presence on screen since 1971, when he played a small town athlete in Peter Bogdanovich’s “Last Picture Show.” Over the course of a career that saw him starring or co starring in more than 50 films he’s seen many nominations, but few wins.  Does he need a Globe or Oscar to validate his work? I don’t think so, but it’s nice to see him being celebrated at 60, especially in a genial role that allows him plenty of room to stretch out.

Based on a novel by Thomas Cobb “Crazy Heart” takes us on an unhurried road trip with Bad Blake, a booze soaked country and western singer with a practiced knack for self destruction.  It’s hard to imagine caring about the character, whose downward trajectory seems reinforced every time he opens his mouth, which is usually accompanied by a swig of whiskey, but Bridges renders him with such respect and warmth we can’t help but get involved. It doesn’t hurt that his singing and guitar playing, in the frequent musical interludes, seems to be his own. Whether it’s actually him or another example of digital magic, is aside from the point; it’s convincing.

How many actors can you name who’ve traveled the well worn road of the weary, middle aged alcoholic/entertainer?  In the C & W singer category alone we’ve seen Clint Eastwood, Robert Duvall, Rip Torn, Kris Kristofferson, Sissy Spacek, and George Hamilton, who played Hank Williams way back in 1964. If we were going to list others who played generic alcoholics this piece would turn encyclopedic.

What surprises in “Crazy Heart” is how easily the character and setting seduce us into thinking we’re seeing something new. Part of the credit has to go to cinematographer Barry Markowitz, who keeps the omnipresent Southwest sun from washing out the sensitive color scheme.  He’s chosen to capture the bars, restaurants and homes with clean images that downplay the sordid particulars of Blake’s decline.

Scott Cooper, an actor making his debut as a director helps his case by telling the story like it’s the first time it’s ever been told.

Maggie Gyllenhall, the unlikely love interest, makes the most of a tired role. She’s more like a reliable device than a character with stand alone wit or depth. But Colin Farrell, who appears out of nowhere as the successful country star who made it big by appropriating Blake’s personae, has a subtle complexity beyond the script.  He too, sings and plays with real conviction. Some of the credit for this has to go to T Bone Burnett, who wrote the appealing songs.

Finally it’s Bridges who makes the movie work. He never strains or sweats; he’s just there at the most important moments.

While we’ve seen the elements in “Crazy Heart” over and over, we haven’t seen either the performance of the visual scheme of “A Single Man,” another Globe nominee.  The reason we haven’t seen them before is because until fairly recently the film couldn’t or wouldn’t have been made.

“A Single Man” is a close up and personal account of, what I believe is, one day in the life of a gay university professor, on the first anniversary of his beloved partner’s death.

I say, I believe it takes place in one day, because the movie, a wonder conjured equally of style and substance, transcends its time frame, which becomes immaterial in light of its impact. And while an outline of the events that transpire over its 100 minute running time might make it seem like a downer, it’s not.  It’s alive in every scene, thanks to Colin Firth’s deeply affecting performance and Tom Ford’s visually arresting direction.

The source material for “A Single Man” is Christopher Isherwood’s novel of the same name. The novelist and screenwriter, who died in 1986, is best remembered for his “Berlin Stories,” the basis of “Cabaret,” both the film and the play. This, however, is considered his best work.  All the more reason to fear for its transition to screen. But here is the rare case, the exception to the rule, where the fear is unjustified. The writer/director who’s taken it up has completely thought it through, and met the challenges.

Tom Ford, a fashion designer credited with taking the troubled House of Gucci and turning it into an international juggernaut, hits a home run in his first time at bat as writer and director.  He, like Scott Cooper, was obviously driven to make his film all it could be, although he’s approached it very differently; where “Crazy Heart” sings, “Single Man” whispers.

Although the story deals intimately with loss and its aftermath, it’s richly comic, especially the way it treats every day, random events that fly in the face of our well ordered agendas.

George’s intention, as he rises one morning, is to finally move past the awful loss of his long time companion.  His plan includes a day of teaching capped by suicide.  But the day has other plans for him, including dinner with the woman next door, an alluring Julianne Moore, who has never reconciled herself to the fact that he’s irrevocably homosexual, and a fateful meeting with an infatuated student, played by Nicholas Hoult, a capable TV actor I’ve not seen before.

Like “Crazy Heart,” there’s nothing in the scheme of events that distinguishes the story. It’s all in the telling. But the telling in this case is imaginative on the level of “The Diving Bell and the Butterfly,” Julian Schnabel’s superior drama from 2007, which is similarly evocative.

The task, in this case is a little easier, because Firth’s character is simply more likable. We know how painful George’s life has become and we admire him for the way he carries on in spite of it, with outgoing humor and compelling interest in other people. George, at bottom, is relentlessly civilized.

How Firth expresses so much that’s inside with such small movements on the outside is beyond me, but it’s a testament to the resources of a superior actor.  Eduard Grau’s delicate camera work, complemented by Joan Sobel’s editing, keep the film stylish and moving.  The period recreation, of the early 60s, is meticulous. It helps to convey the difficulty George has integrating his gay identity into a heterosexual world that’s all but oblivious to him.

“Crazy Heart,” will certainly get a local screening.  You will probably have to catch “A Single Man” in Philadelphia.

By Dan Cohen, Santa Monica Reporter

Pedro Almodovar’s distinctive and masterful films have made him Spain’s best known director and a brand name around the world.  While he may be more popular in Europe, he commands a sizable following here.  Over the past twenty years he’s earned a slew of international prizes and two Academy Awards; Best Foreign film for “All About My Mother,” (1999) and Best Original Screenplay for his follow up, “Talk To Her,” (2002.)

A Spanish language film taking America’s top award for screen writing?  Unthinkable, but it happened!

Still, many here find his work inaccessible, like jokes they don’t get, no matter how many times they’re repeated.  There’s no arguing that Almodovar is something of an acquired taste. And that he’s easier to track if you have some knowledge of the Hollywood melodramas that have inspired him.  Also, he’s too much of an artist to want to please everybody.  But if you invest a little time sampling a number of his films, you may be rewarded with hours of pleasure.

That having been said, I think “Broken Embraces,” his latest, is a high point. It may also be a good introduction for those who don’t know him but are curious about all the critical acclaim. It features what is probably Penelope Cruz’ best role to date, a tantalizing story that baits with you sex and intrigue, and a conclusion, that despite all the “broken embraces,” bears witness to the power of enduring personal bonds.  In other words, it’s very satisfying.

But before I “embrace” the movie, a little about “Pedro’s” amazing career.

He started making short films in the mid 1970s, just as the Franco regime’s restrictive grip on Spanish culture began to loosen.  Soon after the dictator died, sex and religion became flash points for a new generation of provocateurs.   Almodovar, an aspiring filmmaker, pretty much self taught, was in the right place ; Madrid.  His films, with outrageous titles (probably best unmentioned here,) with their promises of illicit sex, played late night venues all over the city. His reputation grew.

Features followed. The first few were very low budget. But the emphasis on campy humor and occasionally shocking sex were perfectly in synch with the country’s more liberal posture.  The breakthrough probably came with “What Have I Done To Deserve This,” a cruelly funny comedy about an cash strapped housewife who endures unending humiliation at the hands of her grossly insensitive family.  The movie’s rough charm holds up today.

International acclaim arrived with 1988s “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.”  This fast and funny farce, styled after Hollywood’s screwball comedies, deals with the more affluent group, but once again centers on a wronged wife.  The characters, most of them on a full throttle tear, fueled by high anxiety, are all one step away from the absurd. It’s a rich reflection of a society moving too fast for its players.

Almodovar shrewdly kept the sex under wraps in “Women,”  but cut loose with “Tie Me Up, Tie Me Down,” about a mental patient, a young, red hot Antonio Banderas, who abducts a porn star, a mature but sizzling Victoria Abril. The controversy that surrounded the film’s American release compelled the Motion Picture rating board to change it’s “X” category to NC-17, to lessen the stigma on legitimate films that dealt with explicit sex. In the case of “Tie Me Up” it amounted to, heaven forbid, a shot or two of pubic hair.  That was in 1990. Today it looks a lot tamer.

“Tie Me Up” is my favorite of his films from that period.  Where his prior stories were, to varying degrees, informed by a gay sensibility, “Tie” eagerly celebrates male heterosexual fantasies. With a wink, of course. It came as a surprise to those of us who thought we knew the directors taste.

The banter between Abril and Banderas is, at moments gloriously comic, once again recalling the Hollywood of old. But it’s the film’s headlong narrative intensity and the inspired camera work that really grabbed me; inspired filmmaking.

Almodovar took different tacks with the next several films, and audience response was mixed.  By this time the writer/director had earned the right, both artistically and economically, to experiment with story structure and tone.  In both “High Heels,” (also with Abril) and “Flower of My Secret,” he seems to be developing his own style of melodrama, a freewheeling blend of the serious and the playful, with a pinch of camp.

These elements would seem to clash, but Almodovar eventually found a formula that made them cohere.  As a storyteller he wants us to be fully invested as his characters. And he wants us to respect a broad spectrum of sexual orientation.  But he also reserves the right to leaven his brew with rude humor and humorous digressions that may not, at first, seem to fit to his stories.

From 1991 to 1997 Almodovar remained a presence on the international scene, but rarely held the spotlight.  Then he ignited.  Three out of his next four films “All About My Mother, “Talk To Her,” and “Volver” took festivals, critics, and international audiences  by storm, leaving no doubt that he’s mastered his craft.

In retrospect, what general observations can we make of his prodigious body of work? Here’s a short list.

He’s wild for color, music, and outsized characters. He’s equally empathic to gay and straight culture, and effortlessly integrates the two.  Each of his films features a sequence or two with startling visual impact; if you were to assemble them on one reel they would rival the inventions of any film maker working today. Although his films are stuffed with dialogue, sometimes a little too stuffed, he composes each scene for the camera.  The stories take unpredictable twists and turns, but somehow come to endings that make emotional sense. And that’s a short list.

On to “Broken Embraces.”

Harry Caine, an aging screenwriter who lives and works in Madrid, remains a wily seducer of young women, in spite of the blindness that limits his mobility.  One day he receives news that a wealthy industrialist is dead.  When an assistant opens a desk drawer we see a photo of a beautiful woman.  Right away we know that the three are linked.  Also, that a young gay man, who comes to Harry for help in writing a screenplay, may be linked to them.

Penelope Cruz is the young woman, and after resisting the impulse to talk about her, Harry begins to tell the assistant about his past, in which she plays an integral part.   Thus begins a winding, busy tale of love, jealousy and the challenges of filmmaking, (which might as well be any art form.)

A lot of the story deals with Harry’s attempt to direct a comedy, his first, after a series of dramas. The several scenes from the comedy are taken from “Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown.”  Except that in “Women” they were played by Carmen Maura.  Here they’re played with Cruz.

We see how difficult it is for Harry and his team to make something funny under adverse circumstances. One of those circumstances is Harry’s affair with his lead actress, who is also his financier’s mistress.  While this may sound familiar, Almodovar brings his own sensibility to it.   And though you don’t need to have seen “Women” to get the impact, familiarity with that movie enhances your enjoyment of this one.

Cruz’ beauty is now in full flower, and Almodovar’s camera adores her.  She’s taken supporting roles in three, (unless I’m mistaken) of his prior films, but here she’s the movie’s luminous center.  Playing an aspiring actress, untalented at first, but later vividly alive in front of a camera, she’s simply magnetic.

Cruz has the sort of control over her on screen sexuality that very few actresses with her physical gifts have developed. She can turn it on full volume or quietly tuck it away.  It serves her well in this multifaceted role, because it calls on her to hit a variety of notes and hit them hard.

I had heard complaints that the script was complex and puzzling.  While it moves freely between the present and the past, I didn’t find the transitions a challenge; they struck me as smooth and well calculated.  But the six leading characters are developed with similar weight, to the point where they compete with the plot for our attention. You may wonder why the script goes on at such length about them, but each is compelling, especially as the story comes to its deeply heartfelt conclusion.

Rodrigo Prieto’s camera work is so drenched in color it almost jumps off the screen. The color schemes, especially the reds, contribute dramatic statements of their own.  A sequence on a beach is striking not just for its strange beauty, but for the way it foreshadows the fate of two lovers who seek its refuge. Great stuff.

Alberto Iglesias, who has scored over and over for Almodovar, delivers music that complements the suspense at exactly the right moments.

The other actors, although subordinate to Cruz, are equal to the script’s many challenges.  Their task is made all the more difficult by its frequent moments of incongruous humor, one of Almodovar’s signature touches.  Blanca Portillo, as Judit, Harry’s long suffering manager, is especially effective in a role that requires a delicate balance of different moods. Notice how subtly she ages from past to present.

There’s so much going on in “Broken Embraces” that I’m sure viewers will come away from it with a host of different impressions. And images that linger in the mind.  It’s an adult movie of rare pleasures, written and directed by a man endlessly curious about life and love.

A final note:  This movie, now playing in Philadelphia, is more than worth the trip, It’s an odds on favorite for this year’s Golden Globe, although it may lose to a worthy competitor, “The White Ribbon,” which I’ll talk about in another piece.