The autumn harvest has brought us a crop of worm ridden apples : “Lakeview Terrace,” “Eagle Eye,” “Bangkok Dangerous.” The art cinemas have shown a lot of low hanging fruit: “Flash of Genius,” “The Duchess,” “What Just Happened,” mostly main stream also rans that weren’t going to cut it in the suburban multiplexes. There isn’t a single title that’s really captured the public’s imagination, except for maybe “Beverly Hills Chihuahua.”

But at the same time our plates have been filled with high drama. There’s the knock down drag ‘em out battle of the titans, Obama and McCain, the edge of your seat disaster movie about our economy, the nearly surreal farce starring Sarah Palin. These are the media events of the moment, against which the movies are poor competition. Why? On a case by case comparison they’re more compelling stories.

And while the movies may be little more than distractions from the main events of the moment, people are going. The audience has been showing up in modest numbers for derivative thrillers, “Eagle Eye,” predictable romance, “Nights in Rodanthe,” and comfort food comedies, the aforementioned “Beverly Hills Chihuahua,” which will probably turn out to be the biggest hit of the fall, given that Disney didn’t have to pay very much for the animated title character. Still these are studio productions, and hardly bargains to make.

The real winners of early fall are a few low budget features aimed at specific demographics, like the horror movie “Quarantine,” Bill Maher’s religion bashing documentary, “Religulous,” and its polar opposite, the Christian themed drama “Fireproof.” These films have drawn audiences much larger than their costs, where “Righteous Kill,” with De Niro and Pacino, will barely return a third of their budgets, at least in theaters.

“The Women” is another example of a modestly budgeted production that found it’s audience. The powers that be at first balked at releasing this remake of a classic from 1939. Word was, critics were going to hate it, which was right. But women went to see it, and it’ll probably be profitable before it goes to DVD. Ironically, had it not been for the box office smash that was “Sex and the City,” “The Women,” might have been sent straight to cable.

My point is that currently, the movies are performing like a slew of scruffy cable channels. The Networks appear to be out of favor; narrowcasting is in.

Still another example; “Nick and Norah’s Infinite Play list.” Never heard of it? Well, your 15 year old daughter has. Budgeted at 10 million, the movie has grossed twice that in two weeks of release, and will probably gross 30 before a hugely successful video release, after which it will probably haunt TV forever.

“Nick and Norah” isn’t a great movie. Save for the requisite gross out jokes, (yes, vomiting is once again used for comic relief) and predictable car wrecks, it moves very slowly. For most of its running time the characters chase around late night Manhattan looking for a legendary band that plays hide and seek with its fans. The dialogue is sometimes insightful but more often labored. And yet the characters are lightning rounds for teenage aspirations and anxieties, remarkably divined from the ether of the moment. And for this, its creative team, and the novel they’ve mined, deserve credit.

Nick, (Michael Cera) is a middle class senior from Hoboken; a melancholic nerd/musician who pines after Tris, (Alexis Dzienza) a spoiled, prep school sexpot who thrives on refusing his affections. Norah, (Kat Denning,) a senior in the same prep school, and the daughter of a successful music entrepreneur, is similarly unlucky in love, but way better connected to the pop life they both thrive on. She comes from money, he drives the world’s oldest Yugo. They seem an unlikely match, but their taste in music makes them soul mates of sorts. As their Manhattan odyssey progresses, a clumsy and abrasive first meeting slowly turns into a mellow romance.

The casting doesn’t hurt. Michael Cera, who you may recall from “Juno,” and “Superbad,” is the reigning underdog of the moment. The camera loves his less is more style. Also he’s gifted with the sort of voice that adds just the right element of confidence to his retiring presence. Kat Denning, who played Robert Downey’s daughter in “Charlie Bartlett,” has huge eyes and lips, and a fleshy quality that could turn her into a major movie diva. In any case they’re both square pegs in round holes, which serves the movie well.

“Nick and Norah” has none of the bruising realism of “One,” or the sadly overlooked, “In Search of a Midnight Kiss,” both of which are anchored by the unsentimental, almost casual heartbreak of every day life. “Kiss,” and “One” are graced with well honed irony. Also their misaligned lovers are older, but not necessarily wiser. “Nick and Norah” as middle class teenagers, are so far, happily shielded from the hard knocks of the world beyond their i-pods. Most of their experience of heart ache has been channeled from the music they’re constantly referencing. They’re knowing, but sunny. And that’s probably why they’re so attractive to the teenagers packing multiplexes to hang with them.

“Baby Mama,” born of talent from “Saturday Night Live,” and “Forgetting Sarah Marshall,” the latest output from Judd Apatow’s comedy factory, give us the opportunity to reflect on the state of funny in American movies.

First “Baby Mama.” Here’s a sharp and funny premise; infertile executive hires trailer trash to carry her baby. So, two women with nothing in common are forced to share one fertilized egg. Add two proven TV performers, Tina Fey and Amy Poehler, along with a host of top notch supporting talent that includes Steve Martin. Pepper the stew with every plot element from an advanced seminar in screen writing. Top it off with a volley of drop dead jokes. Viola!

It made for a great trailer, but the movie is thin. Scenes flash by in a rush, perform their function and disintegrate. For the most part they exist as set ups for jokes. But when they don’t work, which is frequently, their transparency is almost embarrassing. The chemistry between the leads keeps the movie afloat, but the director, Michael McCullers, never finds and settles on a confident tone.

“Baby Mama” is the work of a first time director, and it shows. The box office, initially good, trailed off. For the studios this one’s a ground rule double. The point is once again made, as it is over and over; there’s a thirst in the market place for adult comedy. It’s just that the film wasn’t strong enough for those adults to entice their peers into seeing it.

A week after “Baby Mama,” “Forgetting Sarah Marshall” arrived. Again, this is the work of a first time director, written and starring supporting players from producer Judd Apatow’s well stocked stable of male nerds. The writer of the screenplay, Scott Segel, doubles as the lead, and he’s an appealing sad sack. But “Sarah Marshall” is deliberately slow, close to slack at times. And most of the physical humor is haphazard and ineptly staged. What’s new is an on screen appearance of Segel’s sex organ and some fairly graphic screwing. Director Nick Stoller’s touch for physical comedy is heavy handed, and yet the film’s amiable candor about relationships keeps it from going completely awry.

Apatow is a shrewd producer. Each of his pictures exploits another aspect of sex, pushing the boundaries of the R rating. “Knocked Up,” “Superbad,” “40 Year Old Virgin”; the titles speak for themselves. “Knocked Up” is probably the smoothest of the bunch; it’s fitfully funny and well cast. And despite the R rating, “Superbad” was last summer’s want to see movie for teenagers.

But “Sarah Marshall,” “Baby Mama” and so many others this Spring, have failed to truly take off at the box office, in spite of their inspired ad campaigns. They open well but then drop off. It took “PS I Love You,” “Over Her Dead Body” and “Fools Gold” big names and saturation advertising just to return mediocre grosses. If a movie costs 30 million to make, 20 million to release, and then does 50 million at the box office (which has to be shared with the cinema owner), it barely recoups half it’s cost. With DVD sales the title may break even, but it by no means supports huge studio overheads. (This is a problem for another column.)

My guess is that most adults, those who aren’t addicted to the movie going habit, find what passes for comedy today boring and take a pass. Teens, who can be satisfied by a hail of jokes and familiar sentimentality, are more easily amused and a better target for the studios. Hence the studios aim their comedies at the post teen crowd and hope everyone else follows.

The most successful romantic comedy this year, “27 Wedding Dresses,” did well, but that starred the indomitable Kathryn Heigl. “Made of Honor,” with TV heart throb Patrick Dempsey, failed. “Fools Gold” and “PS I Love You,” expensive movies that were heavily exploited, received horrible reviews and returned unexceptional grosses.

Two conspicuous box office smashes, “Juno,” and “Little Miss Sunshine,” made for a pittance by studio standards, point to the heart of the matter. Both movies are adult in concept. Both deal squarely with sexuality amid other domestic issues. Both portray middle class American lifestyles without exaggeration or condescension. And both are remarkably steadfast in tone. What I mean by that is that the films characters rarely deviate from their own truth for the sake of a joke or a shock. They deal a straight hand to the audience, much like comedies by Frank Capra, Howard Hawks, Preston Sturges etc. Both “Juno” and “Little Miss Sunshine” were huge popular successes.

Here’s what set them apart from the studio output. The set up and the style are established in the first twenty minutes and then remain within their parameters. Credibility and consistency are honored. Surprises are delivered, they don’t come out of left field; they’re organic. When things resolve you think, yes, that’s the way it should happen, only I wasn’t aware of that while I was watching.

“Juno” is a terrific example. A high school girl with a unique voice introduces us to her problem. She’s pregnant by a sweet, nerdy jock who she more or less seduced. She doesn’t want a baby and she’s not the least bit reluctant about giving hers up for adoption. But she does develop believable relationships with the couple she chooses to raise it. And as she gets to know them credible problems arise. Even better, these problems — and their tentative resolutions — become the film’s most important assets. Other elements are doled out in credible perspective. The humor, in healthy dollops, is character based. The people are grounded in their settings. Nobody sprouts wings for the sake of a joke. The result: 160 million at the box office.

The same held true for “Little Miss Sunshine.” And before that, “Sideways.” Note that all three are lower budget Indies. You can add to that “Napoleon Dynamite.”

It’s a commonplace myth in the film community that romantic comedy has become impossible to pull off in the new millennium. Critics remark that today’s world lacks the sort of obstacles that kept people apart in the 20s, 30s and 40s. The claim is that without economic tension there’s no wedge between the protagonists. But it wasn’t a cash crunch that kept Tracey and Hepburn at odds. It was their different natures. Most of the best screwball comedies were about the very rich, who hardly suffered the constraints of the pocket book.

Close attention to Turner Classics reveals the human heart as the greatest obstacle. The struggle to capture and hold that heart is what audiences have always responded to, and will continue to as long as movies are popular. The problem is that corporate Hollywood has lost the will or skill to seek it out.

An afterthought: The French seem to understand how to create romantic comedy without resorting to the absurd. For proof positive seek out “Happily Ever After” or the recent Audrey Tatou vehicle, “Priceless” on DVD.