CACHÉ (France/Austria/etc., Michael Haneke)
Creepy drama about an upper-middle-class couple (played by French superstars Daniel Auteuil and Juliette Binoche) who start receiving, on their doorstep, mysterious videotapes taken of their home. (Shades of David Lynch's Lost Highway, only without the surrealism.) While innocuous enough in and of themselves, the tapes convince the couple that they are being stalked. Moreover, the tapes are often accompanied by crude drawings of grisly images - a chicken getting its throat cut, a young boy bleeding from the mouth. The images are disturbingly familiar to Auteuil, and he begins to suspect that the person behind this is a childhood acquaintance of his whom he had somehow wronged over 40 years earlier. But is it? Caché never fully lets on, even if the realistic explanation is that there is indeed a connection. Austrian director Haneke is no stranger to sadism, however (his most notable films Funny Games and The Piano Teacher are both extremely harsh), and there's a feeling that the psychological torture in the film is more about Haneke the filmmaker inventing a self-satisfied protagonist in order to punish him than it is about any conflict between the characters themselves. Unlike his earlier features, though, the violence here is muted (and almost - but definitely not quite - nonexistent), the cruelty subtle. Slow-moving and ultimately inscrutable, Caché may be off-putting to some. Personally it wasn't my cup of tea, though I will acknowledge it as a tense, unsettling film from an interesting director whose talents remain generally underappreciated outside of European film circles.

CALENDAR GIRLS (UK, Nigel Cole)
Though it's an all-too-obvious riff on the old Full Monty gimmick (a bunch of loveable English people doing something naughty for a good cause), Calendar Girls remains an entertaining diversion. Based on real-life events where the middle-aged members of a ladies' social club decided to raise money for their hospital by posing nude for a calendar (their private parts comedically covered up by household items), the film stars British acting treasures Helen Mirren and Julie Walters heading up an agreeable cast of giggling old birds. It's hard to really fault the film for doing anything wrong; it is intelligent, warm-hearted and sweet. But the script (by Tim Firth and Juliette Towhidi) is overly polished. The story hits its marks so perfectly that it's easy to see how calculated it is. But there are worse films you can take Mom to, and Helen Mirren is entirely watchable no matter what she's in.

CAPE OF GOOD HOPE (South Africa, Mark Bamford)
Amidst the crowd of studio blockbusters and Oscar-hopefuls released in December 2005 is this modest charmer from South Africa, about the multi-ethnic employees of a Cape Town animal shelter and their relationships with their families and romantic partners. It's refreshing to see so many unknown (to these American eyes, anyway) actors who take to their roles with conviction and brio. Especially good is Eriq Ebouaney as a Congolese immigrant who, despite a PhD in astronomy, is relegated to feeding dogs and volunteering(!) as a janitor at the local planetarium. His character sheds light on a little-discussed aspect of post-Apartheid South Africa, where both native whites and blacks are prejudiced against their African neighbors. There are a lot of other details, both poignant and bitter, about the subdued yet uneasy race relations that make up the reality of everyday South African life. But first and foremost this is a character piece, a comic drama about the travails of love and the difficult choices people often have to make. I was a bit disappointed by the last fifteen or so minutes of the film, where the story becomes needlessly melodramatic in order to hurry to a somewhat pat conclusion. Still, it doesn't stop me for recommending this enjoyable little gem, with its fine script and even finer performances.

CAPOTE (US, Bennett Miller)
At first, the title of this film seems inaccurate: This biopic doesn't encapsulate Truman Capote's entire life, from cradle to grave. It's solely about the five years in which the famous writer (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman) wrote his true crime masterpiece In Cold Blood. But on second thought, the film isn't about the creative process or the relationship between author and subject - though it appears to be on the surface. No, it is, absolutely, about the vain, insecure, ambitious, alcoholic author Truman Capote. So the title works. By using as its subject matter the writer's involvement with the 1959 murders of Holcomb, Kansas's Clutter Family, particularly with charismatic murderer Perry Smith (Clifton Collins Jr., very good), the film pinpoints the peak of Capote's career: a huge bestseller, In Cold Blood solidified its author's talents while at the same time paved the way for his downward spiral. It was his last book - his follow-up, a scandalous tome exposing the secrets of the New York literati, was never finished because word got out about the content and his friends abandoned him en masse - and he died in 1984, a drunken mess. So as Capote researches the murders, and grows ostensibly close to Smith, what's really revealed are Capote's manipulative tendencies, his dreams of success overshadowing any of the moral implications of befriending - and taking advantage of - the human subjects of his book. But although you may initially feel sorry for Perry Smith, who hopes against hope that his famous writer "friend" will save him from the hangman's noose, the reality was that he was a brutal slayer of four innocent people. So who's using whom? Capote brings up a number of intriguing questions, inspiring good post-movie discussion. It is a smart film about smart people; Dan Futterman's script (adapted from Gerald Clarke's full biography of Capote) never puts a stupid word in anyone's mouth. Capote's friends - namely, his childhood pal Harper Lee (Catherine Keener) and his companion Jack Dunphy (Bruce Greenwood) - are fully aware of his every dubious decision, and call him on it. (If anything, this happens a little too frequently: there are several variations on somebody saying "Come on, Truman, you're just doing this for yourself" while a lisping Capote vaguely denies their accusations.) Bennett Miller, whose only previous feature is the documentary The Cruise, about another squeaky-voiced Manhattan raconteur, directs with aplomb. Capote is slow and measured, quiet and serious, with intense attention paid to every period detail. It positively feels like the early 60's, from the hair styles to the constant smoking to the faces. (The only thing disingenuous about it is that Manitoba, Canada, subs for Kansas, New York, and even Spain!) As for Hoffman, his performance is one that people tend to rave about without having actually seen. In truth, it's good, no-nonsense work. No Oscar-ready monologues or scenery-chewing exercises. He is as quiet as the film. As such, he may in fact be forgotten come Oscar time, because he's just too subtle. In short, I liked Capote very much, though it only makes me want to know more about its own subject matter. (For example, Harper Lee turns from unpublished writer to heralded creator of To Kill a Mockingbird during the course of the film, but it's only brought up in historical context.) What's notable is that 2006 will bring a film with the exact same subject matter. It will be very interesting to see how differently that film will handle the story. With Sandra Bullock as Harper Lee, I don't have high hopes for it.

CAPTURING THE FRIEDMANS (US, Andrew Jarecki)
Engrossing documentary about a seemingly ordinary Long Island family that fell apart in 1988 after the father, Arnold, was caught with gay child pornography, and subsequently was arrested - along with his 18-year-old son, Jesse - for several counts of child molestation (Arnold taught computers to a number of preteen boys for a couple of years). The film is less an account of the events than a Rashomon-like examination of the subjectivity of personal experience, how one person's truth is another person's lie. Adding another layer of reality - or surreality - are the home movies that Arnold's oldest son David shot before, during and after the trial. Because of the subject matter, this can be dark, troubling stuff, but neither the film nor the family are off-putting. In fact, all three Friedman boys and their father seem like nice, good-humored people. The battle over the guilt of the father, and of the youngest son, takes a back seat to what seems to be a bigger and far more complicated war between the easy-going men of the family and the isolated, emotionally cool mother, Elaine. Andrew Jarecki - who, as a trivial aside, also invented Moviefone - shows himself to be an adept documentary filmmaker: his film brings up as many issues about family, sexuality and the legal system as it confronts, and there are more twists and turns in the narrative than a Hitchcock picture. In the end you start wondering just what is the truth behind this horrible crime, or if there is such a thing as "one" truth to measure. My own feelings are that Arnold and Jesse Friedman were probably unjustly accused, but there are enough disturbing details to throw that situation into a more cosmic sense of guilt and justice. A fascinating family portrait, well worth seeing.

CARS (US, John Lasseter)
Yes, it's another charming, high-quality production from Pixar, with well-conceived characters, a clever conceit, beautiful scenery and flawless animation. So why then doesn't Cars quite measure up to previous Pixar releases? It might be the two-hour length - it's too long by a good twenty minutes. It might be the overly familiar storyline (hot shot city boy gets stuck in small town, learns to slow down and enjoy life - Cars is basically a remake of the Michael J. Fox movie Doc Hollywood, only in a world filled with anthropomorphized automobiles). It might be its sleepy, even somber tone (abetted, perhaps, by the death of co-director/co-writer Joe Ranft during production - he was killed in a car crash, no less). It might be the story's predictability: each twist and resolution is telegraphed far in advance (usually a Pixar film is so frantically paced that the audience simply doesn't have time to notice the plot's seams), and Lasseter and his writers neglected to throw in any real surprises. Or it might just be that I am not a fan of car racing, car culture, car anything. But then I'm not a big ichthyophile either, and I liked Finding Nemo just fine. I guess it's just hard to make cars really personable, even if Lasseter and team do it as well as it can be done. Still, Cars has plenty of lovely moments, especially during an elegiac second act song number (Lasseter just adores them; there hasn't been one in a Pixar movie since Toy Story 2, the last feature Lasseter directed), an ode to Route 66's bygone days. It's the most poignant moment in an altogether inward-looking movie, even if they got James Taylor, for pete's sake, to sing it. (I was hoping they could at least work a song by The Cars into the soundtrack, if Gary Numan's eponymous tune was too much to ask for.) But it's ironic, if in retrospect probably inevitable, that Lasseter & co. have raised the bar so high on the computer animated motion picture that eventually they themselves can't meet it. Yet perhaps it's a good thing that Cars isn't going to top Nemo or The Incredibles in any sense. Every creative team needs a little slump here and there in order to make them want to push harder the next time. And I'm not saying that Cars is a bad movie. It's just, for want of a better term, not that much fun.

CAST AWAY (US, Robert Zemeckis)
As the trailer for this film gives most everything away, I feel no guilt in laying out the three acts of Cast Away, as it's important to touch upon each one separately. Act I: A chubby Tom Hanks plays Chuck Noland, a workaholic FedEx representative who is decent enough, but married to his job, and leaves his long-suffering girlfriend Kelly (Helen Hunt) on Christmas in order to tend to work. His plane crashes quite frighteningly into the Pacific, which leads us to a lengthy Act II: Chuck struggling to survive alone on a tiny deserted island for four years. Act III: A slimmed-down Chuck, now more world-weary and -wise than he could ever have imagined, is rescued and brought back home, where he tries to catch up with his girl and the rest of the world.

Let's take a look at each act, shall we? Act I is solid, though it doesn't need to do much beyond establishing Chuck as a clock-obsessed middle-class bore and showcasing Zemeckis' talent for suspense during a truly incredible plane crash sequence. Act II is where you'd think the film would get into trouble, as it's an entire hour of Hanks alone on the island, occasionally talking to himself (and to a volleyball that washes up on shore) but mostly just keeping quiet, trying to survive. It could have been boring. It could have been an annoying display of actorly self-indulgence. That it comes off as a rather gripping look at a human being trying to stay alive and sane in a remote wilderness is a great relief. (Most thankfully, there is no musical underscoring in this entire section.) Act III... Now this is where Zemeckis and screenwriter William Broyles Jr. make a big story decision that, well, I may not have: instead of displaying what would have most likely befallen the returning castaway - instant celebrity, false friends coming out of the woodwork - they keep it almost as simple as it was on the island. Chuck simply needs to make peace with Kelly, who has moved on with her life, and ask himself just what his place in the world is, now that he's been through the worst and grown to see how empty his former life had been. And while it still satisfies, I can't help but wonder what could really have been said about the world we live in had Zemeckis - a clever filmmaker who was once quite adept at satire - decided not to go soft. At least the last act is saved from cheesiness in two instances, as it aims for something deeper than the expected romantic happy ending. At the end of Cast Away, I felt that I had simply seen an earnest portrayal of what anybody - you, me, even a Hollywood superstar - might do if put in such an extraordinary situation. And I am very happy to report that.

CATCH ME IF YOU CAN (US, Steven Spielberg)
Enjoyable, if feather-light, dramatization of the life of Frank W. Abagnale, Jr., a teenage con artist who, for four years in the 1960's, evaded the FBI while writing millions of dollars' worth of forged checks and posing as an airline pilot, a doctor and a lawyer. Abagnale's story practically screamed "This would make a great movie!" and in the end, it makes for a good movie. It's nice to see Spielberg set aside his obsessions with computer graphics and World War II for once and just cut loose. Both he and his cast (Leonardo DiCaprio as Abagnale, Tom Hanks as the hapless FBI agent on his trail) are clearly having a lot of fun. That spirited attitude is infectious, too - you won't feel bored or insulted. But I do wish it could have been a little deeper. Though apparently Abagnale's autobiography is just as flippant as the movie, the real Frank must have gone through some paranoid, lonely times. The story only skims the surface, rather lamely suggesting that Frank's pathological need to keep running, and keep lying, was simply a reaction to his parents' divorce. It could have even depicted Frank's anti-authoritarian actions as a harbinger of the national unrest that unfolded so soon after his arrest, but no. So some missed opportunities there. I also didn't dig the cinematography by Spielberg's frequent DP Janusz Kaminski. He's a great talent, but this time he overlights everything. The early 60's should have been captured as squeaky clean, a better backdrop for Abagnale's crimes. Instead it's all hazy and backlit. Oh well. It's still a fun little movie, one that won't mean much in the long run, but will cleanse the palate before Spielberg's next big epic.

CECIL B. DEMENTED (US, John Waters)
The titular character (played by Stephen Dorff), a rough-trade Baltimore visionary who wants to not only subvert but destroy the Hollywood filmmaking empire, kidnaps bitchy, middle-aged movie star Honey Whitlock (Melanie Griffith) and forces her to act in his own underground movie, essentially a series of filmed sabotage, from spray-painting cineplexes to trashing the set of a Forrest Gump sequel. Eventually Honey gets into it, and by now you can see that it's Waters' winking nod to the infamous 1970's Patricia Hearst "kidnapping" by the Symbionese Liberation Army. Hearst has since become a good friend of Waters' and even appears in this film as a concerned parent.

And therein lies the central problem with Cecil B. DeMented: we now live in an age where everybody is more or less okay about making fun of themselves. Waters even claims this movie is really a satire of the John Waters of 30 years ago, when he too was a young Baltimore underground filmmaker whose films posed a legitimate threat to good taste. Jeez, who needs to see Waters satirize himself? I thought the real target was supposed to be mainstream cinema! I hoped there would be enough genuine bile and anger in this story (certainly Hollywood pap is an easy target) to elevate it above the playful comedy that it is and into the realm of genuine agitprop. But who am I kidding? Waters, now in his 50's, hasn't been "underground" for 20 years. He's made PG studio films and has been warmly accepted by the hipper factions of the American mainstream, just as Andy Warhol was, as a funny but ultimately harmless kook. I'd never accuse the guy of selling out, and he's wise enough to at least acknowledge that today's true "underground" is essentially porno, but he had the opportunity to launch a vicious attack on middle-of-the-road values and tastes, and despite the violence, profanity, and general amorality of his young heroes (DeMented's followers include an anal porn star, a man who ingests, on camera, every serious drug invented, and a dutiful Satan worshipper), at every moment Waters seems to intone, "Just jokin', folks - I love show biz!" Which, of course, he does. So while Cecil B. DeMented is pretty rude, and definitely funny, its own harmlessness renders its message impotent. After this and Fight Club, I am getting very anxious to see a film that genuinely and dangerously subverts mainstream culture. But how can that happen in these comfortable times when the filmmakers themselves are comfortable? I guess we'll just have to look to other countries for the true "fringe" films. Take Japan, for instance: Two days before I saw DeMented, I caught a film called Fudoh which featured children playing soccer with their teacher's severed head, 6-year-old assassins, and a woman shooting darts out of her vagina. Now that's entertainment.

THE CELL (US, Tarsem Singh)
A comatose serial killer (Vincent D'Onofrio) is captured by the FBI (led by agent Vince Vaughn) and, as only the unconscious murderer knows the location of his still-alive but soon-to-die final victim, the Feds decide to "pick his brain" with the help of psychiatrist Catherine Deane (Jennifer Lopez), who's been experimenting with a very sci fi device that enables her to literally enter the mind of somebody else and find the root of the problem there. Hooked on the gimmick, Catherine is more than happy to jump into the killer's mind, more for plot purposes than for any real character motivation, and the story begins.

Or, rather, two hours' worth of stunning, surrealist imagery begins. The singly-named Tarsem, who for The Cell has allowed "Singh" as a kind of surname, is best known for directing REM's "Losing My Religion" video, an impressive visual feast itself. As such, you're right if you guessed that the director would place story second - or third, or fourth - to the look of the film. And you know what? In this case, that's okay. Because the script is, to be blunt, chock-full of pretentious dialogue and convenient plot contrivances. I laud its twist on the serial killer genre - knowing that this murderer will remain forever unconscious, the old formula goes out the window. There is also an interesting idea in that all the characters are so incredibly isolated that they share an intrinsic understanding with each other (and am I the only one who sees a striking facial resemblance between D'Onofrio and Vaughn?).

Unfortunately, the story never runs with that. So forget it. Turn off your logic chip and enjoy some of the strangest visuals to ever grace a studio film. The Cell is an intense experience, and I was often giddy by the realization that I was sitting with an audience who came to see Jennifer Lopez in a thriller, and wound up witnessing some seriously, seriously freaky stuff. Not that Tarsem is a visionary genius; he is instead, like Quentin Tarantino, a master style thief, stealing from the best and most obscure filmmakers around: Tarkovsky, Paradzhanov, Derek Jarman, the Brothers Quay and even his own "Losing My Religion" video are all, er, "paid homage to" (i.e. ripped-off). But he's got good taste, and we are treated to gorgeously saturated cinematography, Eiko Ishioka's rich costumes (she won an oscar for Bram Stoker's Dracula), trippy sets, and a fine score by Howard Shore that incorporates a great deal of Moroccan music. In fact, of all things, The Cell reminds me mostly of a CD-ROM that I've been playing with lately called Peter Gabriel: Eve. The film's blend of stolen art, world music, religious imagery, surreal environments and psycho-sexual subject matter hit exactly the same chord as the remarkable CD-ROM. So while you might feel afterwards, as I did, that all the weirdness was only in service of a shallow and unsatisfying story, I still recommend The Cell, if only for the beauty of its vision and the intensity of its experience. In a decidedly lackluster year for cinema, The Cell is a rare and lovely thing indeed.

THE CENTER OF THE WORLD (US, Wayne Wang)
I actually went to this film as homework. Hearing that its central relationship was between an ambitious nerd and a stripper, I got a little nervous, as that is also key to Sharky Baby. Thankfully, after seeing it, I need not worry about any competition: Wang and his three cowriters (including Wang's former collaborator, novelist Paul Auster) are trying to make a Last Tango in Paris for the Internet age, with a dark spin on Pretty Woman in the process. Richard (Peter Sarsgaard) is a lonely young computer whiz whose company has made him very rich; Florence (Molly Parker) is a stripper to whom Richard makes a bold proposition: he will pay her $10,000 if she spends three days in Las Vegas with him. Florence accepts, but with certain rules: no penetration, no kissing on the mouth, no talk about feelings, and she "works" only from 10pm to 2am. Of course, we all know what rules are made to be.

It's hard to bother with writing a serious review of this film, mainly because it wants itself to be taken so very seriously - to the point of being ridiculous - and I don't want to encourage this kind of behavior. All I can say is that, an hour and a half after it starts, The Center of the World establishes nothing about the characters that we couldn't see in the first 10 minutes: Richard has very immature expectations about sex and intimacy; and despite her protestations, Florence knows she's essentially a hooker by exchanging sexual favors for cash. Wow, what revelations. Does it tell us anything about sex today? Not really. Nothing mature, anyway: the script (written by two men and two women, who should all know better) alternatively leers at Parker & Sarsgaard's kinky shenanigans, then makes them both look dirty for even thinking about it. (And although the film flaunts its bold "Unrated" status, Wang's camera is awfully shy about showing his stars' private parts - especially odd, as Parker has bared all before, most notably in the dreadful Kissed.) There's a creepy "sex is bad" aftertaste to this film, which I certainly hope wasn't its point.

Technical notes: the film's grainy shot-on-video look makes it a contender for the Ugliest Movie of 2001; Sarsgaard, in a complete 180 from his terrifying redneck in Boys Don't Cry, adds much-needed humor to the proceedings; I'm not impressed by Parker, who is just vague; Wang, despite (or because of) his prolific output, continues to show no distinctive directorial style. A great soundtrack and good choice of locales - Las Vegas is clearly ripe for a thoroughly sharp examination as the cultural toilet it is. The film inches near there, but it takes up too much time exploring the details of its boring characters' relationship. A teenager knows more about the subtle variances of sexual attraction and emotional longing than these two losers.

CHANGING LANES (US, Roger Michell)
Ben Affleck is an amoral and strangely incompetent hotshot lawyer who, one busy morning when on his way to court (where he's finagling a deal for his bosses to wrest the deeds to a dead benefactor's multi-million-dollar charitable trust from the deceased's granddaughter), scrapes his car against that of Samuel L. Jackson, an honest but short-tempered insurance salesman who is also on his way to court, to fight to keep his wife from taking his two young sons away from him. Affleck bolts, Jackson discovers that Affleck stupidly left some important court documents behind, then he misses his appointment and loses his family somehow, and decides to get revenge by holding the documents hostage. Affleck gets angry in return, and what you have is one long day of protracted road rage between the two.

Changing Lanes starts off promisingly - Michell's handheld, verite style (stolen outright from Michael Mann) supports a fairly compelling scenario (what would you do if this happened to you?), and the two stars at first seem well-suited to their roles, as does the rest of the cast (including a very scary Sydney Pollack as Affleck's intimidating boss/father-in-law). But the script (by "Chap" Taylor, assisted by the busy Michael Tolkin) tries to cram in too much, in all senses: the story takes place over one day, but the arc of the behavior and realizations of these two men is too huge. You have good men turning evil and then discovering the error of their ways, played out in a nearly epic urban battle, in less than 24 hours. There is also far too much mumbo-jumbo about ethics and morals (not to mention some useless blather about forgiveness: the story even takes place on Good Friday, and there's even a scene where Affleck wanders into a confession booth!). The script has an annoyingly self-congratulatory air about it, as if Taylor really believes that he is giving us mere mortals some profound moral insight into the meaning behind redemption. Changing Lanes, however, isn't nearly as deep or as troubling as it wishes it were. It's also hard to really like either of these men. They are supposed to be "flawed but essentially good," and wind up looking like a couple of overreative cartoons. And, of course, Affleck once more proves himself to be an utterly weak and ineffectual actor. He even bungles a scene (and shame on Michell for letting him) wherein he's convincing one of Jackson's long-term acquaintances that Jackson has become a criminal: as a successful attorney, he should sound absolutely convincing. Instead, he rants like a madman. And yet the woman believes this complete stranger over her trusted friend Jackson, and calls the cops on him when he next shows up. Ridiculous. This is one self-serious bit of cinematic flatulence that you can merrily avoid.

CHARLIE AND THE CHOCOLATE FACTORY (US, Tim Burton)
For two months I worked on the DVD for this film (should you ever buy it, I designed all the "Search for the Golden Ticket" games). While that doesn't make me biased in favor of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, it definitely got me interested. I'm not sure if I would have otherwise gone to see it. But staring at dozens of stills from the film throughout May and June made me a little obsessed. Just before the film's release, I even read the Roald Dahl book on which it's based, as well as renting the 1971 adaptation, Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, to compare and contrast. (I'm a dork.) To sum up, the book is an enjoyable enough litany of the excesses of spoiled children, shot through with Dahl's sharp wit and imagination. The 1971 movie, with the major exception of Gene Wilder's charismatic performance as Willy Wonka and Veruca Salt's show-stopping number, is lame. The kid who plays Charlie is a mopey whiner, the production values - even for the period - are abysmal, and there is precious little creativity on display. People who love this film are misled by their nostalgia.

But the reason we're here today, ladies and gentlemen, is to discuss Tim Burton's recent film of Dahl's book. Priding itself as a more faithful adaptation than the Wilder movie, it succeeds to a point, but loses track along the way. The first act, in which we spend time with little Charlie Bucket and his wretchedly poor family, is fully satisfying; Freddie Highmore (Finding Neverland) is the ideal Charlie: kindly, sensitive, sympathetic. The rest of his family is also perfectly cast; it's like seeing Dahl's vision truly come to life. As we're introduced to the four rotten children who will join Charlie on his tour of Wonka's chocolate factory, we see some modern updates to the characters (gum-chewing Violet Beauregard is now also a hyper-competitive athlete; Mike Teavee is addicted more to video games than TV shows) even while some alterations from the '71 film remain (Augustus Gloop, given no nationality in the book, is once again German). All is well and good - even the book's funny anecdote about Prince Pondicherry and his chocolate palace is included - until we get to the factory. Then Burton's gigantic $150 million budget announces itself, heralded by Danny Elfman's bombastic score, and Johnny Depp shows up to say "Right - it's my movie now." Depp, who has claimed that his Wonka was meant as a cross between Howard Hughes and Mr. Rogers, gets laughs for a while, but his shtick soon wears thin and, moreover, doesn't serve the story. More distracting still is the decision by Burton et al to "flesh out" Willy Wonka's character. Several flashbacks to Wonka's childhood as a stifled creative genius suffering under a priggish dentist father (Christopher Lee) are handled well, and may shine light on Burton's own bitter childhood memories, but they stop the story in its tracks. Still, my main issue with the film is simply its bigness. It's all so expansive and loud and hyperactive that the fun little details of the interaction between kids, parents, and Wonka are swallowed by all those huge sets and whiz-bang effects. As a result, the movie is woefully short on charm. (Gene Wilder's final line in Willy Wonka has more genuine warmth and feeling than all two hours of Charlie put together.) That said, the limitations of 1971 cinema have given way to the eye-popping visual standards of 2005, and Charlie shines whenever the effects serve the story: The scenes with the squirrels in the nut room are reason enough to see the film, and each horrid child's violent expulsion from the factory is played out in the most deliciously wicked way. And I can't end this review without mentioning the hard work of deadpan actor Deep Roy as all of the knee-high Oompa Loompas. He's great, as are the imaginative song-and-dance numbers he performs in.

CHARLIE'S ANGELS (US, McG)
A guilty pleasure if ever there was one. Charlie's Angels is, of course, based on the popular '70's TV series, which featured three sexy women doing detective work for their forever unseen boss Charlie (voiced, then as now, by John "Blake Carrington" Forsythe). "Charlie's Angels" was American TV's first true jigglefest, where viewers were less interested in the thwart-the-bad-guy plots as they were the inevitable scenes of Farrah Fawcett in a bikini. This big-screen adaptation is well aware of what made the first series work and what was ripe for lampooning: With such belovedly cheesy subject matter to work off of (hot women kicking ass!), there's plenty of room for thrills, titillation and laughs. Lots of movies made during the last decade have aimed for this level of thoroughly enjoyable kitsch, but have failed time and time again, mostly due to a lack of energy, inventiveness or humor. Charlie's Angels pulls it off, which comes as a big surprise considering its legendary production problems (budget overruns, an incomplete script, over a dozen writers and bad blood between several of the stars).

Of course, this isn't high art. But why does it work? Mainly because director Joseph McGinty Mitchell (working under the stupid moniker "McG" and yet another in a long line of TV commercial directors getting their turn at a feature) knows how to keep the energy up. Loads of Matrix-style fighting, slo mo shots of the girls shaking their hair in the breeze, plunging necklines, goofy boy-girl shenanigans, and wildly over-the-top action scenes keep the movie fresh and one step ahead of becoming a bad joke. And the cast is all fine (how can one not like a film in which Crispin Glover plays a speechless, sword-wielding maniac?), though Cameron Diaz is looking frightfully skinny these days, and Bill Murray acts like he's just in it for the paycheck. (He was reportedly the most contentious in the cast.) But the movie as a whole is smart enough - and dumb enough - for me to recommend it as pure, trashy pop candy.

CHARLIE'S ANGELS: FULL THROTTLE (US, McG)
Once upon a time, you'd have a nice little movie that becomes a hit, and then a couple years later they'd follow it up with an uninspired and unnecessary "Part II." (Think Ghostbusters, Romancing the Stone, Crocodile Dundee, City Slickers, etc.) These days the original films aren't that great in the first place, so sequels are pretty much more of the same. That goes for Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle, since it's basically the same setup only with a different (and well-chosen) supporting cast. The cranky Bill Murray is replaced by the hammy Bernie Mac; Mulholland Drive's Justin Theroux is funny in the bad guy part that Sam Rockwell played in the first installment; Demi Moore returns to the screen in a villainous role that she fares quite well in, maybe a little better than Kelly Lynch did in Part One. And, briefly and wonderfully, we have the return of the great Crispin Glover. But there must be some difference, yes? Okay: Whereas I was tickled by the first film's gleeful ridiculousness, it does wear thin the second time. It's like I said of Dude, Where's My Car?: just because a movie is aware that it is silly and stupid doesn't forgive it from being silly and stupid. There are some fun moments here - all of them involving impromptu dance numbers - but after a few minutes of Charlie's Angels: Full Throttle I wondered, "Is it really worth spending 130 million dollars to film three intermittently cute actresses goofing around?" The story picks up steam during the enjoyable last act, and in the end I didn't really mind sitting down for two hours of semi-campy nonsense, but honestly, I can't come up with any good reason why you should watch this movie.

CHARLOTTE SOMETIMES (US, Eric Byler)
Low-budget American independent which you may not see outside of the odd film festival. A low-key look at the romantic ins and outs of four Asian-Americans living in Los Angeles. Michael is a man of few words who secretly desires his tenant Lori, who in turn is involved with her yuppie boyfriend Justin. It's obvious that Michael and Lori are more likely than not meant for each other, but oh well. Enter Darcy, a mysterious stranger who hooks Michael like a fish while keeping him at a strange distance. Halfway through the film we learn just who Darcy really is, and while that does make for some interesting storytelling, watching poor Michael try to figure out what's going on while we know the truth about her, there isn't enough suspense to keep the story alive. Nor is there much else to the film. Michael Idemoto is a charismatic presence, the dialogue is spare and true, and it's nice to see a film where the characters' race remains incidental, but neither the other characters nor the actors who play them leave much of an impression. The film is also in dire need of a little levity to flesh out its sense of maturity.

CHICAGO (US, Rob Marshall)
One sharp cookie of a movie. Adapted from the catchy Kander-Ebb musical that Bob Fosse brought to Broadway in 1975 (from a 1927 play by Maurine Watkins, based on actual events) - can you follow all this? Anyway, Chicago is a fun, whip-smart musical about the allure and fleetingness of fame. Roxie Hart (Renee Zellweger) is a struggling singer who, outraged at her boyfriend's unwillingness to help her make it big, murders him. Sent to the Big House, she tackles with rival singer Velma Kelly (Catherina Zeta-Jones) who shot her own sister and husband. Both want their freedom, but above that, both want to be in the papers. Enter cynical lawyer (is there any other kind?) Billy Flynn (Richard Gere), a smooth talker that can work the press and the jury, who agrees to take Roxie's case and thus turns her into a media superstar overnight. A jealous Velma intermittently plots revenge. But this isn't really about the characters, it's about the music! The style! The glitz! The glamour! And underneath it all, the satire! Nothing could be more contemporary as a story about the thirst for fame - even if murder is the only way to get it - and yet all this really happened, folks, and it happened over 70 years ago. A lot of talented people did their homework over those 7 decades - Watkins, Kander & Ebb, Fosse, and now Marshall - so it's easy to see why Chicago is as smart as it is. The song and dance numbers are thrilling, the cast is perfect (even Gere, who finally comes to life for once in his career) - their singing voices aren't dubbed! - and blah blah blah. I loved this movie. It's rad. A perfect companion piece to Cabaret (another Kander/Ebb/Fosse concoction), and in fact I think it's a much better picture. It's too bad there are so few composer/lyricist duos as good as Kander and Ebb. Otherwise we might very well have a lot more great musicals ready to be filmed.

CHICKEN RUN (UK, Peter Lord, Nick Park)
I was shocked the other day when a friend of mine said she'd never heard of Aardman Animations, their Wallace & Gromit series of clay animated shorts, or their three(!) Oscars. So for those of you living in that cave with her, Aardman are these clever British folks who've been making excellent clay animations for over a decade, and now they've made their first feature, Chicken Run, about some "fowl schemers" (this movie is pun-filled) on a poultry farm in 1950's England who are trying to escape the clutches of their wretched farmowners before they are turned into chicken pot pies.

Have you noticed that the movies which consistently score the highest critical acclaim lately are all animated? Toy Story 2, The Iron Giant, and now Chicken Run have received far more universal praise than any live action feature around. Could it be due to this rare and magical thing known as "the well-told story"? Because animation is such a lengthy, detail-oriented process, the story must be perfected in advance, so that all the talented artists who work on the film will be on the same page. Animation can also be a headache, so plenty of people along the line will raise their hands and say "Does the scene have to be this long?" or "Do we really need that shot?" Any animator will agree that the tighter the story, the better the planning, the more time and care can be put into the details. Chicken Run is a shining example of such time and care, and is a clever, worthwhile - and very English! - diversion for smart adults as well as smart children. No deep emotional masterpiece, but highly entertaining and very funny. Go see it.

CHILDREN OF MEN (UK/US, Alfonso Cuarón)
Children of Men takes the classic Nativity story, adds a dash of Casablanca and a pinch of Brazil, then revs up the engine and lets it fly out of the gate at a hundred miles per hour. This tense nail-biter masquerading as a sci fi movie is set in 2027 England, some nineteen years after all the women of Earth have inexplicably become sterile (it's suggested that a flu pandemic in 2008 may have been the cause), where a former idealist turned bureaucrat (Clive Owen) is literally kidnapped into helping a violent anti-government group, who have enlisted him in transporting an illegal immigrant across astonishingly hostile territory and on to safety. What makes this immigrant so special? Well, you see, she's eight months pregnant. Which in a childless world becomes a very big - and, we learn, politically significant - deal. And though like many things in the film the "why" behind this crucial detail is never explained, one barely has time to wonder as Cuarón sets his protagonists off on one suspenseful adventure after another. I don't know yet if this is a masterpiece, as some critics are hailing it, but I sure enjoyed watching it. Cuarón's work as a director just keeps getting better, and although the excessive amount of screenwriters (no less than five are credited with adapting the P.D. James novel to the screen) still can't get rid of the occasional clunky or pretentious bit of dialogue, this film is all about the action. Mind you, this doesn't mean that it's lunk-headed in any way. Call it a thinking man's thriller. There are some genuinely poignant moments, plenty of social commentary, and loads of rich detail - so much of the latter that the film warrants repeat viewings to catch it all. The always-welcome Owen leads a great cast (including Michael Caine in a hippie wig - what terrific roles this guy's been getting at the twilight of his career!), but it's the talented Cuarón and his epic, single-shot set pieces who are the stars. Emmanuel Lubezki's celebrated cinematography isn't exactly chopped liver, either. Not nearly as depressing as it could have been, and fascinatingly - sometimes frustratingly - vague with the questions it brings up, Children of Men will likely be one of those movies that audiences will rediscover and cherish in the years to come, even if - hopefully - its predictions of a horrifying dystopian future never come to pass. If that makes it a classic, so be it.

CHOCOLAT (US, Lasse Hallström)
That this film garnered five Oscar nominations - including Best Picture - says more about Miramax's aggressive marketing campaign than it does the film's quality. Forgettably slight, this shallow tale of a free-thinking woman who invades a small French town in 1959 with her addictive chocolate recipes, and upsets the town's frumpy powers-that-be, is a predictable and pointless bore. Miramax is showing its conservative age; this is no longer the studio that once championed challenging filmmakers like Peter Greenaway and Steven Soderbergh. These days, if a Miramax film doesn't star Ben Affleck, Matt Damon or Gwyneth Paltrow (think I'm kidding? Think Bounce, Shakespeare in Love, The Talented Mr. Ripley, Emma, All the Pretty Horses, Good Will Hunting, etc.) then it better have a take-no-chances combination of art house cast and feel-good storyline. They played it extra safe this time by hiring Juliette Binoche (an Oscar winner for Miramax's English Patient), Judi Dench (an Oscar winner for Miramax's Shakespeare in Love), director Lasse Hallström (an Oscar nominee for Miramax's Cider House Rules), composer Rachel Portman (an Oscar winner for Miramax's Emma)... You get the idea. An altogether fine cast, in fact, does their best with this vacuous material. But who cares? There isn't an honest emotion or smidgen of personal integrity in this cozy lovefest. Not much story either. The cinematography for some reason really bugged me. The shade of blue used for Binoche's chocolaterie (which is seen throughout the film) was sickening. It sounds like I hated this film! I didn't; it provided some sense of facile entertainment for two hours. And it's hard to dislike that cast, especially Hugh O'Conor as the nervous young village priest, and the chameleon-like Alfred Molina as the repressed mayor. But I hate what it represents in the art house market. And I hate that countless films got passed over in the Best Picture category for this charmless bit of hack work. And I love Hallström's films, usually. Oh well. I should have expected trouble when an "artsy" film set in France forces its several fine French actors to speak English! Ooh la la!

CHOP SUEY (US, Bruce Weber)
As suggested by its title, Chop Suey is an exotic mixture of many things: something of a documentary, something of an autobiography, something of an essay about the relationship between photographer and model, famed shutterbug Bruce Weber's third feature (his previous work was Let's Get Lost, the moody documentary about late jazz trumpeter Chet Baker) is a wonderful mess. The two main threads throughout the film involve Wisconsin hunk Peter Johnson, who becomes Weber's muse for several years and provides him with many successful photo layouts (most of them featuring Johnson nude or near-nude); and Frances Faye, a once-popular but mostly-forgotten jazz singer who was considered the "entertainer's entertainer," a frequent guest on the Ed Sullivan Show and a comparatively (for her time) open lesbian. Which isn't to say that Chop Suey is exactly a "gay film," though some hetero guys may be uncomfortable at the frequent shots of Johnson's unclothed, muscle-bound body. It is that, but it's also a surprisingly personal display of Weber's own obsessions and eccentricities, cutting back often to his prize collection of famous photographers' work, then to interviews with a Brazilian jiu jitsu fighter and his family, even to a scene where Robert Mitchum records a bluesy tune shortly before his death. Weber's occasional narration sheds some light on the film's main theme, that of an artist and his/her muse (the clips of the late Frances Faye - who was a fantastic singer - are shown in the context of the memories of her younger lesbian lover), and the often unbridgeable gap of longing that a photographer has for all his models. (Johnson is straight, married, and content about it - Weber can only worship him with his camera lens.) As a filmmaker, I was moved to see somebody acknowledge this connection: I have found myself somehow similarly obsessed with the actors in my own films, only because I have to stare at every detail of their faces, their movements, their expressions, for weeks, months, even years on end, as I film them, edit them, and market them. I thoroughly recommend this film to those who work behind a camera or a canvas. However, those outside the art world may find Chop Suey little more than beautifully-photographed and self-indulgent.

CHOPPER (Australia, Andrew Dominik)
The first title screen of this biopic about the notorious Australian criminal Mark "Chopper" Read states: "This is not a biography." It's a cheeky foreshadowing of the film's attitude towards its titular character, a real-life thug who may or may not have killed many people, definitely went to jail a few times, wrote an entertaining if barely truthful autobiography which became a best-seller, and fell in love with the limelight. Australian stand-up comedian Eric Bana makes his dramatic debut in the lead role, and he is excellent: funny, scary and strange, his Chopper is the sort of person who will shoot someone and then ask, with genuine concern, "Are you all right?"

Though the film is stylishly directed and shot, with inventive use of sped-up film and filters that turn many scenes nearly monochromatic, Dominik betrays his background as a music video director helming his first feature: he doesn't have a good sense of pacing. Where there should be suspense, or drama, or a feeling of "what happens next," there are only scattered vignettes of Chopper's wild life. I also felt that I was missing out on a lot of details - the film jumps forward across several years a couple of times, without bothering to explain what happened in the interim. I'm sure Dominik isn't interested in analyzing his subject's motivations or background, and I give him credit for that. But it's also clear that this is an Australian film primarily aimed at an Australian audience who are already familiar with the story (or stories) behind Mark "Chopper" Read; as an American who had never heard of him before the movie, I wanted to know a little more. At least Dominik doesn't let his style get in the way of Bana's performance: Chopper is definitely a one-man show, and Bana plays it to the hilt. His watchable on-screen presence - with the creepiest giggle I've heard in years - alone makes for worthwhile viewing. However, I do remind the squeamish that there are some extremely bloody scenes in this movie. I'm sure the rest of you will now flock to see it. You sickos.

CHUCK & BUCK (US, Miguel Arteta)
One of the most memorable scenes from the disturbing but uneven Australian film Bad Boy Bubby involved a woman with severe cerebral palsy (played by a genuinely afflicted actress) who lusted after the main character. It was a brave, even dangerous move, as it reminded uneasy audiences that the mentally handicapped can and do have libidos. With Chuck & Buck, director Arteta and writer Mike White up the ante, taking the cliched "innocent manchild" character (ala Forrest Gump and Rain Man) and not only giving him a sex drive, but making him gay. White plays the titular Buck, a mildly retarded 27-year-old whose emotional development seems to have stopped at the age of 11. That not only includes a liking for Blow Pops and children's plays, but also a crush on his boyhood friend Chuck (Chris Weitz), who now calls himself Charlie, lives in Los Angeles with his fiancee, and has become a dull, insincere "player" in the music industry.

After Buck's mother dies, the two old friends reunite - rekindling Buck's obsession with Charlie. Things get sticky when Buck relocates to Los Angeles and, in his own well-meaning way, starts stalking Charlie and his fiancee. What follows is a very funny, slightly creepy, and occasionally touching look at past regrets and fears of being "different." I'm not sure what Chuck & Buck is trying to say - "face your childhood demons and grow up" seems too simplistic for such a smart film - but it nevertheless challenges the audience with bold questions about friendship and sexuality, and is very well-acted by its leads. White is, thankfully, non-precious as the confused naif, and Weitz is dead-on as the bland, soulless Charlie. The two are Hollywood insiders (White wrote for the late TV series "Freaks and Geeks;" Weitz, along with his brother Paul, who costars in this film, wrote American Pie) and, with Arteta, share an innate knowledge for the workings of Hollywood people. Though it's not the film's main thrust, Chuck & Buck is also the most accurate representation of contemporary (white) L.A. I've ever seen. If you still have dreams of moving out to Hollywood, I highly recommend you watch this film, for it paints a very true picture of what you can expect.

CHUNHYANG (South Korea, Im Kwon-taek)
Cannily released by its American distributors to arrive in the wake of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, here we have yet another lavish Asian period drama, only this time without the martial arts. Set in feudal Korea, Chunhyang tells the simple, fable-like story about the son of a provincial governor who falls for - and then secretly marries - the title character, the headstrong daughter of a local courtesan (that's "concubine" to you). When he is called away to Seoul to study for a government position, he must temporarily leave her behind, as his family's name may be ruined by his marriage to a woman beneath his station. Three years later, a wicked new governor takes over the province - one with designs to make the beautiful Chunhyang one of his own courtesans. When she refuses to submit to him on account of her loyalty to her absent husband, the plot thickens considerably.

Im apparently ruffled some feathers among purists in his homeland by taking this classic folk tale - a very Confucian fable about loyalty for loyalty's sake - and adding a bit of modern emotionalism to it by making Chunhyang's potentially tragic sacrifice an act of love, not duty. Still, it's a lively, enjoyable film, beautifully photographed in a golden light reminiscent of oil paintings. However, and this is a big however: Im also employs a very unusual structural approach by having much of his story told in running commentary by a pansori, which is this case is an elderly man who stands on a stage and describes the events in a singsong fashion, screeching and grunting and chanting the words out to the beat of a drum. It's an interesting approach that frames the story in an artificial, highly theatrical way (the performances of the actors are similarly stylized), but despite his frequently moving poetry, the pansori and his loud, gravelly voice quickly wore out his welcome to these American ears. There are many scenes which would have worked perfectly with just Im's lush visuals and atmospheric sounds. But instead of simply taking in the quiet audio cues - the creak of a swing, the rushing of wind through leafy trees, the plunk of water droplets in a river - we have to listen to this man howl and moan and sing. A Korean friend who was familiar with the dying pansori tradition didn't mind. As for me, after a few minutes, it drove me up the wall.