THE CIDER HOUSE RULES (US, Lasse Hallstrom)
Well-intentioned 1940s-era tear jerker about a young orphan (Tobey Maguire, voice cracking as always) who has been trained as a doctor at the New England orphanage where he's lived all his 20 years, and what happens when he decides to finally split and explore the world - which in this case means picking apples at an orchard near the coast, where he naturally falls head over heels in love with Charlize Theron, whose family owns the orchard.

Michael Caine is quite good as the doctor who trains Maguire and considers him a son, and the movie boldly takes a nonjudgmental approach to touchy issues such as abortion (Caine performs them regularly, Maguire refuses to) and incest (trouble amongst the migrant apple pickers) - Hallstrom's democratic Swedish politics no doubt flavoring John Irving's story. But despite innumerable grab-the-Kleenex emotional moments early on, I was left somewhat unaffected by film's end. It isn't a bad film, it just didn't grab me by the throat and make me realize anything new about the world we live in. That's not a requirement for all films, of course, but when one takes itself as seriously as The Cider House Rules, you'd expect something with a bit more staying power. I didn't think about it at all on the drive home.

THE CIRCLE (Iran, Jafar Panahi)
The Circle opens with a shot of an elderly woman at a maternity ward, deeply saddened by the news that her daughter has given birth to a girl, not a boy. The camera follows her downstairs as she bumps into another daughter and gives her the grim news to pass on. Then the camera follows that daughter down another flight of stairs, out onto the street, where she bumps into three desperate-acting young women at a phone booth. She runs off and we are left watching the three women and their own unfolding crisis. In one 5-minute shot, Panahi establishes the structure, visuals, and theme of The Circle. It's the sign of great filmmaking.

Following several different women lurking in the shadowy corners of Tehran for fear of getting caught for their various infractions against their rigid patriarchal society, The Circle paints a rather hopeless picture of female life in Iran and was subsequently banned in its homeland - not necessarily for stating that Iranian women are treated like dirt (the issue has been handled by other Iranian films), but for its frank discussion of Islamic no-nos such as abortion, prostitution, and - gasp - women smoking in public. Like most examples of contemporary Iranian cinema, The Circle has a rough, verite feel, employing non-actors and location shooting, but Panahi's direction is very sophisticated and assured. The Circle is nothing less than a suspense film, with its troubled women scurrying about like spies, not because they are plotting to do anything dangerous, but because, in the eyes of Iran, being a woman alone is dangerous enough.

CITY OF GOD (Brazil, Fernando Meirelles and Katia Lund)
This intense gangster thriller was originally released in US theatres in early 2003; it was brought back for a re-release a year later after earning four surprising Oscar nominations in major categories - direction, adapted screenplay, cinematography and editing - all of which turned out to be well-deserved. I felt like a fool for ignoring this amazing movie in 2003 and was happy I was given a second chance to see it in a theatre. In order to give you an idea of how much I liked City of God, I went to see it on a Saturday night and, when the power went out in the theatre with just 20 minutes left to go, I received a pass to the theatre and returned just two nights later, sitting down to watch the entire thing again instead of just showing up to see how it ended. Folks, I almost never see a film twice in the same year, much less the same week. It even made me change my "10 Great Films from 2003" list on this site.

City of God is a slightly fictionalized account of the gang wars in early 1970's Rio de Janeiro ("City of God" is the nickname for one of Rio's poorest slums, where much of the action takes place), seen through the eyes of Rocket (Alexandre Rodrigues), a good-natured teenager who lives on the outskirts of the worst of the gang activity, yet who manages to avoid most of the horror himself, saved by his talents as a photographer, which land him in the good graces of drug addicts, sexpots, and the very leaders of the gangs (Leandro Fermino as the intolerant 18-year-old "boss" Li'l Ze puts in a fantastic, underplayed performance as one of the wickedest villains of the year - he acts as though murder is his birthright). Managing to be both ultra-stylish and ultra-realistic, there's something inarguably new about City of God. None of its camera or editing trickery feels forced, or done just for kicks. Meirelles and Lund have a real feeling for the time, place and most of all the characters, among the richest I've seen all year. It's the film's biggest surprise: underneath all the violence is a wide array of fascinating, likable characters, so many that it's not unfair to call City of God an epic. This is exhilarating cinema, made all the more refreshing for its unique viewpoint, a glimpse into a world that most American audiences never see - a thoroughly Brazilian movie, with a pan-ethnic cast, rhythmic score and breathtaking pace. It is great. Miss it at your peril.

CLOCKSTOPPERS (US, Jonathan Frakes)
Innocuous sci-fi fantasy, aimed for teens and below, about a young man (Jesse Bradford) who stumbles across a wristwatch created by his aloof inventor dad that can slow time to a crawl - allowing the wearer to move at lightning fast speeds. The old "I have a device that can stop time for anybody but me" gimmick is at least as old as several Twilight Zone episodes, as well as Nicholson Baker's pseudo-porn novel The Fermata and a 70's TV movie called The Girl, the Gold Watch and Everything (which starred Robert Hays, Pam Dawber and even Morgan Fairchild). But, however shopworn, it's still a neat idea. And Clockstoppers, though no classic, is entertaining enough for the audience it's aimed at. Bradford is likeable, and has pretty good chemistry with his leading lady, the rather foxy Paula Garces. Frakes, in classic Star Trek mode, has a glowingly multiracial cast: Bradford's best buddy is black, one of the villains is an Asian woman (who knows martial arts, of course - oh well, you can't escape all stereotypes). French Stewart is also amusing as a "dude!"-spouting fellow inventor who knows the secret behind the wristwatch. Other than that, you've got some cool "bullet time" effects, a fairly predictable storyline, and some dumb jokes. There's no reason you should see Clockstoppers but if somebody brings home the video, don't feel too guilty if you find yourself briefly distracted by it. And in a few years it will definitely stand as a fashion and music time capsule for 2002.

CLOVERFIELD (US, Matt Reeves)
First, a bit of disclosure: I have very recently been hired to do some creative writing for the HD-DVD release of Cloverfield later in 2008, so I have actually seen this movie twice, but both times on video tape. Still, it's too noteworthy a film to let it go by without taking a few moments to review the thing. And I admit that, working on the DVD and thus having to study Cloverfield's filmmaking process intensely, I wound up liking it much more than I may have if I'd seen it in a theater, never taking the time to investigate what seem to be plot holes or logistics problems (but aren't). Studying the film deeply, I'm very impressed with the level of authenticity and detail displayed by the filmmakers (screenwriter Drew Goddard and director Matt Reeves, though producer J.J. Abrams, inarguably the only "name" associated with Cloverfield, does deserve a lot of credit for the film's concept and development - the three men have been friends since childhood). For those of you who have been living under a rock, the movie is about a giant monster wreaking havoc in Manhattan, shot entirely from a home video camera held by a member of a small group of twentysomethings surrounded by the melee. It's The Blair Witch Project meets Godzilla, as everybody's been saying. But what satisfies is that this isn't just another Hollywood remake of a successful old monster movie (King Kong, et al) but something actually original. A new and mysterious monster, and a fresh take on a beloved, if shopworn, movie genre. The actors may not be remarkable (the darkly appealing Lizzy Caplan stands out) but they are serviceable - and it's nice to see a studio film with actresses in leading roles, after 2007 gave us nothing but guys, guys, guys (and Juno). Cloverfield isn't a great film, but it's an intense roller coaster-ish experience - and that's not just a metaphor; watching the movie feels very much like being on a scary, well-executed ride at Disneyland. There is a story, but it is a mere clothesline on which the filmmakers hang plenty of thrills and spills. And like an amusement park ride, the handheld camera and frantic pace may make you a little dizzy. But it's clever, it feels new, and its many images of metropolitan destruction, filled with echoes of 9/11, continue to creep me out. I don't believe in giant monsters, but I sure am scared by the notion of my city being torn apart around me.

COFFEE AND CIGARETTES (US, Jim Jarmusch)
Jarmusch's collection of twelve short films about various people sitting around drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes has the problems you'd expect from a collection of twelve short films about various people sitting around drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Some work, some don't. Some are funny, some are boring. For fans of Jarmusch - and I'm a big one - watching this film is like studying, in miniature, his development as an artist over the course of his career, as the first short in Coffee and Cigarettes was filmed way back in 1986, when Jarmusch was still fairly new to the scene. Over the course of the next ten years, he filmed five more shorts seemingly whenever he felt like it. In 2003 he got serious and filmed six more at once, with the same crew, and the difference is fascinating. Jarmusch unspools the twelve stories in the order in which they were made, so halfway through the film everything perks up: the acting, the black and white cinematography, and most of all the tightness of each story. Back in the 80's, Jarmusch was considered cool because in films like Stranger Than Paradise and Down By Law, he favored non-actors sitting around talking about almost nothing. That style is evident in the early Coffee and Cigarettes shorts starring Steven Wright & Roberto Benigni and Tom Waits & Iggy Pop. But today the hipness of deadpan has faded, and so those shorts feel limp. After making the more visually mature and intellectually complex features Dead Man and Ghost Dog, the Jarmusch behind the latter six shorts is older and wiser, so his stories are both funnier and deeper. Since he has his actors mostly playing themselves throughout, Jarmusch even developed that idea into explorations of fame, so that whereas Roberto Benigni plays "Roberto," Bill Murray knowingly plays off his legendary standoffishness by playing Bill Murray, movie star, hiding out as a waiter. Better still is the tart encounter between British character actors Alfred Molina and Steve Coogan, and best of all is a downright transcendental exchange between Cate Blanchett and Cate Blanchett, playing both herself and her bitter, non-famous cousin. Taken as a whole, Coffee and Cigarettes is a shrug. It will probably be more effective on DVD where you the viewer can pick and choose which shorts you want to sit through.

COLLATERAL (US, Michael Mann)
You may not know this, but the current idol of film school students and other would-be auteurs is no longer Martin Scorsese, Roman Polanski or Stanley Kubrick. It is Michael Mann. A filmmaker known for his flashy style over the last 20 years (including the "Miami Vice" and "Crime Story" TV series), his significance as a director prominently rose with his landmark 1995 thriller Heat and was proven undeniable after 1999's The Insider. With that film he established what's become his signature look: severely off-balance compositions; gritty natural lighting; realistic, often handheld camerawork. After the misfire of the not-bad biopic Ali, Mann returns to Heat territory - both literally (the streets of Los Angeles) and figuratively (film noirish crime drama) - with Collateral. Tom Cruise plays Vincent, a hit man in town for the night with five targets on his list. Jamie Foxx plays the innocent cab driver whom Cruise hires to drive him to his "appointments." That's all there is to say about the story. As for Mann's direction, it's typically solid - interestingly, he shot the film digitally, and I wonder if it was so much an aesthetic decision as it was simply a practical one. (A lot of the film takes place inside Foxx's cab, so unless you're dealing with several "cutaway" cars to allow room for bulky 35mm camera equipment, a digital camera can squeeze into all kinds of tight corners inside a real moving vehicle.) He cranks out lots of good tense sequences and gets fine performances out of his cast. It's nice to see Tom Cruise playing an all-out villain for once. As some of you who read these reviews know, I think he's a rotten actor, and he seems like such an unlikable man in real life that I never can buy him as a hero. In this respect, he reminds me a lot of Joan Crawford, a despicable woman with grotesque, murderous eyes who kept miscasting herself as much-victimized heroines. As Vincent, Cruise is never given the chance to pour on the charm or play the decent man wrestling with his inner demons, like he usually does. He is cold, stiff, arrogant and heartless - and it's the best work I've ever seen him do. Take that as you will. As for Jamie Foxx, he delivers a perfectly realistic performance - if you didn't know he was a star, you'd think Mann just cast an average guy in the role - and yet he still has leading-man appeal.

It's no surprise, given the sad state of Hollywood writing today, that the weakest part of Collateral is the script (written by Stuart Beattie). It's the first time in years that Mann hasn't written his own material, and the film suffers from it. The tough guy dialogue is tolerable for a while, but Cruise's incessant philosophizing seems to be less about his character and more about Beattie trying to say Important Things. I prefer my assassins tight-lipped, thank you. But whereas the dialogue is still passable, the story itself is so full of contrivances and "Oh, come on!"-level unbelievable moments that it distracted me from simply enjoying the thrills. There's too many to name them all, but a favorite is how Vincent refuses to show his face to his own employer, yet thinks nothing of plunging into a crowded nightclub full of witnesses in order to blow away his fourth target. (And how on earth did his employer know his target would happen to be at that nightclub at that moment, weeks in advance?) Finally, for a movie about Los Angeles, I was consistently annoyed that the addresses and neighborhoods mentioned in the dialogue were clearly not filmed there. Vincent's second target is in West Hollywood, less than a mile from me, yet when we see him in his apartment, the highrises of downtown (over 10 miles away) are right across the street. All in all, Collateral is a minor disappointment for Mann. With his talents and his cast, he should have picked a smarter script.

THE COLOR OF PARADISE (Iran, Majid Majidi)
I didn't know much about this film when I went to see it, and I'm glad I didn't, so I won't share much of the story here: Suffice it to say that it concerns a blind eight-year-old boy (Mohsen Ramezani) whose happiness, generosity and warmth endear him to everyone he meets - except for his sad, widowed father (Hossein Mahjoub), who is deeply ashamed of his son's blindness and would rather do without him.

This simple setup lies at the heart of this beautiful film. The Color of Paradise has got to be the most visually exquisite movie I have seen in a long, long time. Majidi, who of the exciting new wave of Iranian filmmakers is probably the most accessible to Western audiences (his last film, Children of Heaven, was nominated for an Oscar), sets his story in the surprisingly lush and colorful northern Iranian countryside: those who expect to see endless desert will be in for a surprise as will anybody who assumes that Iranians are somehow incapable of love, joy, kindness, wisdom or grace. A real emotional stunner, with a truly heartbreaking performance by the talented young Ramezani, clearly blind in real life and thus acting with a total lack of camera-aware cuteness, The Color of Paradise is a very special film. It's a shame to think that most American audiences will automatically avoid movies like this while continuing to spend hard-earned money on obvious rip-offs like Mission to Mars, but those brave enough to make it to their local art house cinema to catch this are in for a deeply moving experience.

CONFESSIONS OF A DANGEROUS MIND (US, George Clooney)
In order to explain why I liked this movie so much, I have to tell you that a) I have long been a big fan of "The Gong Show;" b) I think Sam Rockwell is one of the most entertaining screen actors around; and c) I have always liked the notion of living a normal life while secretly employed as a spy. Since Confessions is an "autobiographical" account of "Gong Show" host Chuck Barris's supposed double life as a CIA assassin, I was predisposed to enjoy it, though that was tempered by my doubts about George Clooney's abilities behind a camera. Not that I have anything against him as a person, I just get skeptical whenever a movie star decides he wants to direct. So I was very much surprised by Clooney's confidence with staging for camera as well as how he works with his cast. Confessions is, visually, a vibrantly stylish and creative film. It is also a very dark film, a very strange film, perhaps the most intentionally twisted offering from a Hollywood studio in 2002. Screenwriter Charlie Kaufman (Adaptation) was a natural choice to adapt Barris's book, being as it is a murky mix of truth and fantasy as well as a meditation on the indefinable nature of fame. It's one of those movies that I have trouble recommending to most people, though, as I wouldn't be surprised if many find it too silly, too serious, too oblique (how many people even remember Chuck Barris, much less care?) or just too weird. And it's not perfect: a number of comic scenes fall terribly flat. Still, Rockwell, as Barris, is great in his first Hollywood leading role, Clooney is pleasantly restrained as his CIA contact, Julia Roberts is fun enough in a change-of-pace role as a fellow agent, but it's Drew Barrymore who impressed me most with a mature and thoughtful performance. Some moments between her and Rockwell are unexpectedly moving. Unfortunately this film is buried under all the raves that the (in my opinion) inferior Adaptation is getting. But I say if you're in the right frame of mind, you'll dig Confessions. Clooney gets extra points for having his late aunt Rosemary sing "There's No Business Like Show Business" during the closing credits, as well as for including a very funny and very well-used double star cameo (Brad Pitt and Matt Damon as bachelor contestants on Barris's "The Dating Game," both snubbed by the bachelorette for a fat loser).

THE CONSTANT GARDENER (UK/Germany, Fernando Meirelles)
The producers of The Constant Gardener, saddled with one of the least exciting titles for a thriller ever (thanks to John Le Carre, who invented the title for his novel on which the film is based), did the smartest thing they could have done by hiring Brazilian director Fernando Meirelles to helm this Africa-based story of murder and corporate conspiracy. Applying his third-world sensibilities (showcased so well in his last feature, the extraordinary City of God, shot in the slums of Rio starring local kids) to an otherwise disappointing whodunit, Mereilles injects the film with enormous bursts of color and life. I read an interview with Mereilles wherein he said he chose to shoot on location in Kenyan shantytowns rather than on sets built in South Africa, using handheld cameras so that, during downtime between takes while the professional actors were being made up or whatever, he could turn the camera around and "shoot a documentary," capturing the real life around the production. The results show: The Constant Gardener explodes with you-are-there cutaways to children walking the streets, birds flying by, a rusty truck careening down a dirt road, and suddenly you can believe in the story, because you see star Ralph Fiennes walking amongst normal Africans, not paid extras, breathing Kenyan air and smelling Kenyan decay. Thanks to this realism, as well as to Cesar Charlone's richly saturated cinematography, The Constant Gardener is incredible to look at. As for its story - about a mild-mannered British diplomat (Fiennes) who discovers his courage while investigating the murder of his activist wife (Rachel Weisz) - it chugs along at a good pace, slowly tightening the screws as Fiennes uncovers dark secrets about a drug company providing medication to poor Africans - only to peter out in the third act, with a string of predictable revelations wearily explained to Fiennes by the very men behind his wife's murder. Mereilles tries to cover for the weak climax by re-emphasizing that this is really a love story, not a thriller. And while he and Fiennes effectively show the character's love and loss, they nevertheless can't quite save the film from being a little dull in its last half hour or so, even with a couple of modest chase scenes. Still, the film is timely, disturbing, and so rich with the texture and rhythms of Africa that it makes Hotel Rwanda look like a TV movie in comparison. Meirelles is a hugely talented director, quickly becoming one of the best in the world. If you care about filmmaking, rush out and see The Constant Gardener just to admire Meirelles' masterful work. And shame on you if you haven't already seen his utterly brilliant City of God.

CONTROL (UK/US, Anton Corbijn)
When I saw Michael Winterbottom's 24 Hour Party People in 2002, a dramatization of the Manchester, England music scene from the late 70's to the early 90's, I remember liking the chapter on Joy Division and its front man Ian Curtis (who committed suicide at the age of 23, the day before the band was to embark on its first American tour) so much that I openly wished that the whole movie had just been about them. My wish has been granted with Control, an evocative portrait of the life and death of Curtis by noted rock and roll photographer/music video director Anton Corbijn. This film was a labor of love for Corbijn (who as a young photographer actually shot the real Joy Division); taking a risk on making a biopic about a somewhat obscure rock figure, and shooting it with a mostly no-name cast on black and white, Corbijn had to fund half of the $8-9 million budget out of his own pocket. Now that's dedication! While it's too early to tell whether the director will reap any financial benefits from his investment, his film itself is a beautiful payoff. Thanks goes first to Corbijn's drive for authenticity: he shoots around Curtis's actual Macclesfield neighborhood, gets the era's clothes and the hairstyles absolutely right, and brings out emotional yet no-nonsense performances from his actors. And while Samantha Morton (as Curtis's drab, stay-at-home wife) is the sole "name" in the cast, the strength of a film about Ian Curtis must rest solely on the shoulders of the actor chosen to play him. And as Curtis, Sam Riley is nothing less than outstanding. He not only looks and moves just like Curtis, he actually gets you to feel like you know this enigmatic figure. It is, frankly, the best performance I've seen so far this year. I highly recommend Control, especially to anybody who has even a passing interest in the tragic story of Joy Division. My only reservations with the film regard the use of the band's music. It's laudable that Corbijn has his cast actually play and sing the songs in most instances, but as he tries to find that narrow middle ground between those casual listeners who only know "Love Will Tear Us Apart" and those obsessive fans who have memorized every song, he fills the movie primarily with Joy Division's singles, occasionally to the detriment of authenticity. (For example, while faithfully recreating the band's first TV appearance, he chooses to have them play their high-energy hit "Transmission," with its "Dance dance dance to the radio" chorus, rather than the slower, moodier "Shadowplay," which is what they actually played on the TV show.) But since even the better-known songs may be unfamiliar to many in the audience, this is a minor complaint. Only the inevitable use of "Love Will Tear Us Apart" feels a litle forced. These are petty issues with an otherwise perfect movie. Please go and see the moving, highly effective Control. It's a wholly satisfying experience.

CONVERSATIONS WITH OTHER WOMEN (US/UK, Hans Canosa)
Two former lovers - played by Aaron Eckhart and Helena Bonham Carter - see each other for the first time in years at a mutual acquaintance's wedding, which reignites their attraction to each other. That's the synopsis at its simplest. The clever twist? The entire film is shot in split-screen. As a concept, it's not as annoying as it sounds. But ironically, while the cinematic trickery may be meant to disguise the staginess of the screenplay (lots of dialogue, scant supporting characters, and pretty much filmed in just two locations, not including flashbacks), the democratic nature of getting to choose which side of the screen we wish to look at, at any given time, gives the film the same feeling as in watching live theatre. And what saves the story from bogging down in dull chatter are the many subtle revelations and ambiguities that add increasing depth and complexity to the two characters' relationship, past and present. Bonham Carter and Eckhart are both fine as usual, and it's nice to get to see them flexing their acting chops in an open arena. Both turn in brave, touching performances. But while the film inspires a lot of post-screening discussion, thanks to the many things it leaves open, my wife brought up a gaping plot hole that is worth mentioning. If you have any interest in seeing the film and don't want any of your surprises ruined, then I'd simply say "This movie's pretty good; check it out" and demand that you not read the rest of this review until you've seen the film. Anyway, about halfway through the proceedings, it's revealed that these people weren't just brief, casual lovers, but that they were actually married - how long, exactly, is only implicitly suggested, as are many of the details about their marriage. (I think it's about ten years. The characters are both 38 when they remeet, and apparently were wed when they were just 18 or 19.) The problem is that we also learn, very early on, that the bride at the wedding is, in fact, Eckhart's sister, and yet Bonham Carter is one of the bridesmaids! Looking back, it seems awfully strange that Eckhart would have lost touch with Bonham Carter while his own sister knew how to find her, and even stranger that the appearance of the bride's brother's long-estranged ex-wife in the bridal party wouldn't have been a major red flag at the wedding. Gabrielle Zevin's script is so otherwise well-written, I'm surprised that she failed to work out this obvious glitch in the storyline. But if you can overlook that egregious boo-boo, you'll probably enjoy the film.

THE COOLER (US, Wayne Kramer)
Routine indie drama that stars the redoubtable William H. Macy as Bernie, a loser whose luck is so bad that it actually makes those around him unlucky. Consequently, he works in an old-school Vegas casino as the floor's "cooler," sidling up to anyone on a winning streak and immediately turning their good fortune sour. However, when Bernie meets a casino waitress (Maria Bello) and finds himself falling in love, his luck changes and his targets start winning - much to the detriment of the casino's mobster-like manager (Alec Baldwin). It's a great pitch; too bad there's ultimately little story to back it up. Once screenwriters Kramer and Frank Hannah establish the gimmick, they don't know where to take it. So the film wanders back and forth between subplots both interesting (Baldwin struggling to keep his casino out of the hands of yuppie developers) and trite (Bernie's no-good son suddenly showing up with a pregnant girlfriend). Macy and Bello are good, though not particularly remarkable - when actors are heralded as "brave" for simply taking their clothes off in a film, you know there's something missing - and Baldwin's work, while decent, doesn't quite deserve to be as celebrated as it is. It's really just an average tough guy role. I think all three performances would have been much stronger if given better dialogue to work with, a tighter storyline and more assured direction. (Kramer too often gets distracted by indulging in camera and editing tricks that are the hallmarks of a first-time director trying out all the toys: the old "zoom-in/truck-out" shot, et al.) But it's one of those mediocre movies with a good enough ending that makes it seem better than it actually was. If you see The Cooler, you'll probably walk away thinking it was all right, not great. Me, I found it thoroughly average.

CORALINE (US, Henry Selick)
Wonderfully weird stop-motion animated film from the director of The Nightmare Before Christmas, who adapted the "young readers" book by cult writer Neil Gaiman, immediately ranks among the creepiest movies ever made for kids. That's a compliment. Moving Gaiman's story from a London flat to a Victorian house on the outskirts of Ashland, Oregon (a nice touch; I like Ashland and find it a worthy setting for a spooky movie), Selick and his animators produce spectacular visuals (Selick also serves as production designer) while telling Gaiman's Wonderland-esque story about a lonesome girl (Coraline) who finds a secret tunnel leading into a mirror world that seems too good to be true. I saw this in 3D - the first "modern" 3D film I've ever seen, in fact - and while initially I wished I could just watch the film as is, without a pair of plastic 3D glasses uncomfortably squeezed over my normal spectacles, the 3D effect works well. There are a few "comin' at ya!" shots to delight the kiddies, but the gimmickry doesn't get in the way of the storytelling.

Anyway, while I am going to go ahead and say that Coraline is the first great movie of 2009, and while it may even make my ten best list at the end of the year thanks to the mountains of imagination on display and a satisfyingly dark storyline (three cheers for a children's film that will scare the crap out of kids!), it's not perfect: As the voice of Coraline, Dakota Fanning is kind of irritating, and Selick's pandering tween-age dialogue (Coraline to a not-so-scary black cat: "You're a wuss puss!") doesn't help, and in fact adds an unwelcome "kiddy movie" element to a film that, like the best of Pixar, should feel entirely like it's made for adults. But it doesn't much detract from the extraordinary animation.

THE CORPORATION (Canada, Jennifer Abbott and Mark Achbar)
Sprawling, fascinating documentary about that all-powerful contemporary institution, the multinational corporation, charting its growth from its origins in post-Civil War America to its status today as the driving force behind global politics, greed, pollution and human suffering. Mixing footage from campy old educational films, protest events, glimpses of first world boardrooms and third world factories and (mostly) intelligent talking heads supporting all sides of a complex issue, The Corporation feels epic, and at two and a half hours in length, its very size might scare away some. But I never found it boring, simply eye-opening. The doc is a fine blend of horror and humor, despair and hope, showing light at the end of the tunnel but making it clear that it's not up to the corporations to end their destructive ways, but to us. Yet it's never preachy, and though the filmmakers' point of view is obvious, it's less one-sided than it at first appears. Worthwhile watching, even more than Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11, because it does less finger-pointing and more reflecting. Moore appears as one of the numerous commentators, but here he is contemplative, explicitly aware that his own success is due to corporate support - the studios, the publishing companies, the TV networks that bring his work to the public. But the true hero of The Corporation is Ray Anderson, CEO of Interface, Inc., the world's largest carpet manufacturer, who saw the light and is determined to make his company environmentally responsible. His humble, penitent testimony is so affecting that all one can wish is that more corporate leaders come to his way of thinking - probably just a dream, but still. The Corporation does its part to educate even its largely-liberal audience about the myriad horrible acts that corporations do every day through a series of anecdotes, reminding us that we are all complicit as long as we unquestioningly buy Nike shoes, Coca Cola, Shell Oil, and just about everything else. Even the mightiest of companies is beholden to the consumer dollar, it says, so we the consumers need to find out where each dollar is going and ask ourselves if it's something we feel good about supporting. Seeing sweatshop workers making 17 cents to make a $50 designer shirt, it seems impossible for anyone to answer "yes" to this final question.

CORPSE BRIDE (US, Mike Johnson, Tim Burton)
(Technically the title is Tim Burton's Corpse Bride, but I hate it when movies do that. So I'm listing it under C for "Corpse.") A visually astonishing stop-motion animated feature with a formulaic but amusing script, Corpse Bride is the story of a nervous young Victorian man (voiced by Johnny Depp) who, on the eve of his arranged wedding, practices his vows in a spooky forest and unwittingly places the wedding ring on the root-like fingers of a dead bride named Emily (voiced by Helena Bonham Carter). Now insisting that they are legally wed, the corpse bride drags her hapless groom into the netherworld. Meanwhile, his real-life bride (voiced by Emily Watson) longs for him to return, as she's since been fixed up to be married to a villainous cad. Though the film provides some cynical commentary about dimwitted family and religious values, the story mainly serves as a clothesline for the (literally) eye-popping visuals to hang on, crisp, witty, and beautifully rendered as they are. While some of the gimmicks may be obvious (the priggish, materialistic "land of the living" is practically black and white, while the fun-loving afterlife is rich with saturated color) and the jolly dead souls reminded me a little too much of those in Burton's Beetlejuice, fans of the subgenre we'll call "gothic-cute" (Emily the Strange, et al) will undoubtedly adore Corpse Bride. As for me, I found it entertaining, enjoyed Danny Elfman's sporadic tunes, and was mighty, mighty impressed by the craftsmanship of the animators and designers. (The detail is so intricate that I don't know how some of the work will even be seen, much less appreciated, on the small screen.) In short, it's a wonderful piece of animation with a passable storyline, but for those already weary of Burton's Edward Gorey-esque visual gimmickry, this film will not change your opinions.

THE COUNTERFEITERS (Austria, Stefan Ruzowitzky)
2007's Best Foreign Film Oscar winner is yet another Holocaust movie, though it uncovers a strange bit of Nazi history little-known to the outside world, where, as Germany was losing the war, it engaged in a highly illegal program of counterfeiting English and American currency in order to stay afloat financially, and employed Jewish concentration camp prisoners with backgrounds in the financial and printing worlds to create the phony currency. Stefan Ruzowitzky's fictionalized look at those involved in "Operation Bernhard" is based on the true accounts of one of the film's main characters, Adolf Burger, who is still alive today. As such, Burger - portrayed as a hot-headed leftwing idealist - provides the moral conscience of the story, weighing in against the film's lead, the fictional Salomon Sorowitsch, a master counterfeiter who must find his own soul in the camps as he is faced with the decision to save his own skin or to sabotage the Nazis' plans for the greater good of his fellow victims. I was hoping for more of the moral ambiguity promised by the film, but without giving anything away, the story ultimately opts for the usual "Nazis evil and cruel/Jews tragic and heroic" stuff. And while that may have been the case, I suspect that, human relationships being what they are, there was a lot more gray area to mine in the story. I couldn't really buy Sorowitsch's arc from selfish cad to noble human because the character, though well-played by Karl Markovics, is rarely given any great moral dilemma. He doesn't seem like that bad of a sort to start with, and Ruzowitzsky misses a rich dramatic opportunity where Sorowitsch could have been gambling the life of one sick prisoner against the troublesome Burger, but instead all too readily takes the high road. (Of course, if Burger had been killed, then he never would have written the memoir on which The Counterfeiters is based, and we'd have no movie.) Still, it's an interesting chapter of World War II history, it's perfectly acted, and I'm glad to finally watch a Holocaust drama where everybody is actually speaking German, as they would have in real life. One's imagination can only stretch so far when watching Ben Kingsley or Adrien Brody hold forth in accented English, and the authentic language adds much immediacy.

COYOTE UGLY (US, David McNally)
Let me state outright that the only reason I went to see this film is because it features ForCor star Melanie Lynskey, and I wanted to support the lady. For fans of Mel, all I can suggest is that you watch the first 10 minutes of this film, go out and get lunch or dinner, then come back an hour later to catch her intermittently during the last 20 minutes of the film. If you have to. Heck, her finest moments are at the beginning, so just sneak in, watch her, and leave. She's actually quite appealing, Joisey Goil accent and all, and I can only wish that there was more of her in the film; seeing as how she's fourth-billed, something tells me (and okay maybe I have insider info) that her role was substantially reduced, to make more room for... well... does the image of 5 hot bimbos on the Coyote Ugly poster tell you anything?

So what, pray tell, is in that middle hour that you are not supposed to watch? Just some treacly mush about a girl named Violet (Piper Perabo), a struggling country-western songwriter - yikes, they spent millions on this?! - who leaves smalltown New Jersey for New York City to make it big. And of course this Big Apple is tough and scary and crime-ridden... and ridiculously outdated: practically the 1950's version of New York. These days a girl has less to fear from Rudy Giuliani's right-wing Manhattan than from suburban New Jersey and its Eminem-loving, date-raping teenage thugs. Anyway, to make ends meet, Violet gets a job at a bar called Coyote Ugly, based on an actual East Village dive that features babes with attitude dancing on the bar and spraying horny male customers with water. Hoo-hah! These sequences are actually rowdy, energetic and fun to watch. (Thank the editors for this.) They also make up only a small portion of the film. As you might fear, Coyote Ugly spends much more time forcing you to watch Violet sing (actually, lip-sync: country star LeAnn Rimes provides the voice, and even shows up at the end in an awkward "tonight's celebrity guest on 'The Facts of Life'" style cameo), struggle, fall in love, feel sorry for herself, etc. Seeing as how neither Mel nor the various supermodels are in the film that much, the bulk of the movie weighs on the shoulders of three people: director David McNally, writer Gina Wendkos, and star Piper Perabo. McNally is a hired hand, nothing more; his work shows no personality whatsoever. To say that Wendkos' script is formulaic would be an understatement. To say it HAULS OUT EVERY SINGLE FREAKING MOVIE CLICHE IN THE BOOK AND LAYS THEM ALL END TO END is more like it. Please, somebody take it out back and shoot it. The story gets so ludicrous that at one point it seems as though these cliches are dragged out simply because they're cliches: Oh no, the dad is in the hospital! Sigh, the boyfriend is caught with another woman! But look, it's all a misunderstanding! And yay, hooray, our heroine finally gets her turn in the limelight. Yuck! As for Perabo, poor thing, she seems like she's probably likeable enough in person, but there's little magnetism in her earnest but whiny screen presence, where she comes off as merely a blonde Julia Roberts wannabe. She's not a bad actor, but she's hardly interesting enough to hold a story. Maybe she'd be good in an ensemble. Otherwise, only Mel and John Goodman (as Violet's dad) survive this nonsense with any spark in their characters. This is the perfect example of everything that's wrong with Hollywood these days.

CRASH (US, Paul Haggis)
Every few years, some high-minded writer/director decides to make a "tapestry" movie about troubled Los Angeles, documenting the preternaturally intersecting lives of its fictional citizens. This year it's Crash, the stoic effort of Paul Haggis (best known for his screenplay for Million Dollar Baby) to explain What It's All About. Crash - and Haggis really should've chosen a title that wouldn't confuse his picture with the famous David Cronenberg movie - is a noble effort, not as glib as Robert Altman's sexist, whites-only Short Cuts, not as pretentious as Paul Thomas Anderson's overrated (and overly Caucasian) Magnolia, and, perhaps most importantly, not nearly as long as either film. Haggis's main triumph may simply be acknowledging that a bunch of blacks, latinos and Asians live in L.A. too. However, by using race as his primary focal point, the filmmaker tries hard to reveal uneasy truths about race relations, but his characters seem rather too comfortable with barking epithets at each other when the true insidiousness of L.A.-style racism lies in its subtlety - its furtive glances and locked doors. This disingenuous in-your-face ranting is a persistent problem with the script, and one that Haggis could have easily written around while still exploring his themes. But despite that - and despite the usual disbelief one must suspend with these "L.A. Tapestry" films, concerning the almost Dickensian level of interconnections between the same dozen or so people in a city of millions - Crash is a well-acted, briskly-paced drama with a story that consistently heads towards the predictable, only to take an ironic (and often touching) left turn at the last minute. With his film's penchant for moral ambiguity (many of the characters exhibit both heroic and appalling behavior - Matt Dillon is a standout as a racist cop), Haggis is clearly inspired by the late Polish filmmaker Krzysztof Kieslowski, particularly his Decalogue and Three Colors trilogy. I, for one, have no problem with that. I'd much rather see filmmakers - especially American ones - borrowing from Kieslowski than from, say, Quentin Tarantino. All in all, even though Haggis almost blows it with a self-conscious, everything's-gonna-be-all-right final coda, there's enough genuinely good stuff in Crash to recommend it, albeit with reservations.

CRAZY LOVE (US, Dan Klores)
Flashy documentary about a nerdy but successful Bronx lawyer named Burt Pugach who, in the late 50's, started dating a local beauty named Linda Riss, nine years younger than he and unaware that he was already married. Tired of his increasingly obsessive behavior and his inability to leave his wife, Linda dumped him and took up with another man. An enraged Burt, deciding that if he couldn't have Linda then no one would, then hired some thugs to come to Linda's house and throw acid in her face, blinding her for life. This despicable crime made headlines all over New York back in the day - and the story only gets weirder (and here you should stop reading if you want to see the movie and don't want any of the surprises ruined) for, after serving several years in jail, when Burt was released in the early 70's he - still consumed with thoughts of Linda - proposed marriage to her. Shockingly, she accepted. And thirty years later they remain married, a couple of characters who bicker like the Kramdens but seem genuinely fond of each other. Crazy Love's bright graphics and wall-to-wall pop soundtrack are so peppy in tone that director Dan Klores almost seems to forget the horrifically cruel and self-deluded act that ruined Linda's life and bound her to her tormentor out of what was probably pure loneliness, as she, blind and bald in her mid-30's, was too much "damaged goods" for any other man to desire. That Burt got exactly what he wanted may unfortunately serve as encouragement for certain men. I'd like to believe that Klores, aware of the appalling nature of Burt Pugach's crime, felt that he didn't need to rub our noses in it. But I do wish his film felt a little more responsible to Linda Riss. She comes across as a cranky old blind lady today, and if you didn't know the couple's past, you would swear that the kooky Burt and Linda were made for each other. But the story only touches fleetingly on the promise that the poor woman's life once held, and I for one was left wondering whether Klores even cared. Still, there's enough ambiguity in his presentation to engender some fine after-movie conversation, and it is an expertly made documentary.

CRIMSON GOLD (Iran, Jafar Panahi)
Crimson Gold has the usual elements of contemporary Iranian cinema: nonprofessional actors, deliberate pacing, little dialogue, minor story. What differs is that, rather than focusing on children or women, Crimson Gold is more or less a crime story. During the 4-minute-long opening shot, we watch as an obese man breaks into a jewelry store, kills the jeweler, then blows his own brains out. The rest of the film tracks the days leading up to this murder/suicide, where we get to know - sort of - the robber (Hussein Emadeddin), a poor, ugly pizza delivery man who, because of his looks and his economic status, is forever kept on the margins of society, ignored by those with wealth and power. His jealousy at being one of the have-nots grows over the course of several humiliating experiences (particularly with the pompous jeweler whom he will eventually shoot to death), and whose disillusionment with life in general sinks in once he has an unexpected taste of wealth and finds it to be just as unrewarding as being poor. The nearly speechless Emadeddin is fascinating to watch, his cold eyes doing much of the talking as he becomes fed up with the (sometimes ridiculously) unjust world around him. Slow-moving enough to turn away all but fans of Iranian cinema, but so troubling that it stuck with me for days, Crimson Gold shows a Tehran that is unsettlingly similar to any American city. Rather than the Mad Mullahs we see only on TV news, the real Iran, the film shows, is filled with self-absorbed yuppies, petty crooks, choking traffic and, yes, pizza delivery services. Written by Iran's most famous director Abbas Kiarostami, and directed with typical objectivity by Jafar Panahi (who made the much better The White Balloon), Crimson Gold is a Taxi Driver-like meditation on one lonely man whose descent into violence is so inevitable that it makes perfect sense for the very story to begin with his lone, and final, act of rage.

CROCODILE DUNDEE IN LOS ANGELES (US, Simon Wincer)
When I first saw the poster for this movie at work, with 80's icon Paul Hogan smiling in front of a smudge of fluorescent paint smears and a palm tree, I wondered, what decade are we in? Then I just felt bad: bad for the aging Hogan, as, after 13 years of trying, he obviously can't sell himself as anything but Crocodile Dundee; and bad for my employer Paramount, for claiming creative bankruptcy by releasing a sequel that absolutely nobody on earth was waiting for. The movie itself is harmless, bland, quiet, forgettable. Hogan at least retains his lazy charm, while his real-life wife Linda Kozlowski, whom he romanced on the first Dundee back in 1986, comes out of semi-retirement to play the girlfriend again. (Clearly just supporting the hubby.) I won't bother summing up the story; Crocodile Dundee in Los Angeles is that rare animal: a movie whose very title tells you everything you need to know about it.

CROSSROADS (US, Tamra Davis)
Britney Spears! In a return of the free Paramount screenings for employees, I sat through this junk, hoping that it would at least be trashy enough to be a guilty pleasure. No such luck. Crossroads is just another mechanical "follow your dream" movie that takes a win-win scenario - Britney Spears willing to dance around in her underwear - and squanders it on trite teen drama. The plot is about three high school girls (Britney, a token black girl and a pregnant hesher who looks and sounds like a young Holly Hunter) who decide to take a road trip out to California, each with her own formulaic reason (Britney wants to find her long lost mom, etc.). Some slightly older stud with a cool car inexplicably decides to drive them there. (At least if he acknowledged at the begining that he was hoping to score some teen tail, it would have been an honest motivation.) Britney, of course, gets to sing. And I must say, I find her voice amazing. I had never paid attention to any of her songs before, but having heard her gargle her way through a few of her hits (and even Joan Jett's "I Love Rock&Roll"), I am stunned by how horrible her singing voice is. It reminds me of this little girl who used to live next door to me. When playing in her front yard, she used to like to sing. And it wasn't the charmingly flat singing voice of a young child, it was the forced, phony "grown-up" vibrato you'd get out of all the girls at the "Annie" auditions. Creepy. Also creepy is Britney's preternatural tan. Sure she's cute, and she's got a great body, but her meager charms fade during those 90 minutes. I'm sure it's been said before, but she really is like a living Barbie doll. Appropriately, I found a soullessness behind those droopy eyes of hers, a plastic insincerity whenever she flashed those pearly whites. There are millions of girls who could fill her shoes; her success seems purely arbitrary.

CROUCHING TIGER, HIDDEN DRAGON (US/Taiwan, Ang Lee)
I suppose I was predisposed to liking this film, being a longtime fan of its stars Chow Yun-Fat and Michelle Yeoh, as well as its director Lee. I've also long enjoyed the Hong Kong-based fantasy martial arts genre, though I admit that part of its charm has been in its low-budget cheesiness: synth score, low comedy, stock characters and often baffling storylines. But what energy! I always wondered when somebody would work within that genre and make a serious, lovely art film out of it. Ang Lee must have asked that question as well, and fortunately for us he is able to answer it with the thrilling Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon. You get it all: amazing swordplay; male and female (mostly female) warriors flying and spinning in the air as they do battle with each other across rooftops and treetops; illicit - and unspoken - romance; thoughtful statements on traditional expectations for men and women in Chinese culture (no surprise coming from the director of Eat Drink Man Woman and Sense & Sensibility - the central relationship is even a sisterly one, between retiring warrior Michelle Yeoh and sexy thief-in-disguise Zhang Ziyi); comedy; tragedy; the works. The plot has something to do with a missing sword and a vengeful woman bandit, but it's of little importance in the long run (the story even comes to an abrupt halt right in the middle for a lengthy flashback detailing a wild romance between Zhang Ziyi's character and a rakish bandit); what Crouching Tiger is really about is charismatic performances, a moving love story (two, actually) and truly, truly amazing martial arts choreography that defies gravity. (When I saw it, the audience applauded at the end of every fight sequence: Michelle Yeoh kicks ass!) Grand entertainment for one and all. Rush out and see it.

CROUPIER (UK, Mike Hodges)
Ultra-cool pseudothriller about Jack (Clive Owen), a failed South African writer who accepts a job as a card dealer in a London casino in order to make a bit of money - and finds himself becoming addicted, not to gambling but to dealing. Highly original film bypasses all the cliches you might think you see coming. Though there is a sexy femme fatale (Alex Kingston), a worried girlfriend back home (Gina McKee, who could pass for Hugh Grant's sister), some shady gambler types, and sure enough the promise of easy money in exchange for Jack's taking part in a crime that "couldn't possibly go wrong," Hodges and writer Paul Mayersberg didn't create such a rich central character just to set him up for a fall. This film is filled with twists and turns that all feel natural, real, not planned or clever-clever. The characters come first. And kudos to Hodges and Mayersberg for making a film noir with a protagonist who is actually more interesting than the supporting players!

Warning: Owen provides voiceover throughout the film in the third person, a conceit that might scream "pretentious" at first, but is appropriate: as the story progresses, Jack starts writing a book based on his experiences, and he and his fictional character Jake become both split and shared personalities, so that Jack can no longer refer to himself as "I". There are themes of duality throughout the film, from countless mirrors to nice little details (Jack is a Gemini). Croupier is not fast-paced, and it takes itself rather too seriously at times, but it's a smart, refreshingly chilling alternative to all the overdone bombast out there.

C.S.A.: THE CONFEDERATE STATES OF AMERICA (US, Kevin Willmott)
Highly imaginative mockumentary, done in the style of a Ken Burns PBS special, about the last 140 years of American history... if the South had won the Civil War. Writer-director Willmott goes all out and includes imaginary slavery-themed TV commercials interrupting the "broadcast" of the documentary, ostensibly made in the UK and being shown with restrictions on a Confederate TV channel. While the film doesn't give you much more than you'd expect from its high concept, it's still full of clever ideas. Despite the tiny budget, its phony old film clips and commercials have a remarkable authenticity (though you never can get a modern-day actor to realistically look like he's from the 18th century, can you?), and Willmott seamlessly combines his invented material with actual stock footage to concoct a plausible scenario of what the country might be like had the Union lost to the Confederates back in 1864. For me, though, this was one of those films that was so good, it should have been better. I can't fault Willmott for focusing entirely on the slavery issue, as that's the story he wanted to tell. But a certain sameyness inevitably creeps in, especially after the fourth or fifth "commercial break," and I began to wish that Willmott took just an extra minute here and there to paint a broader and more detailed portrait of this alternate-universe America. We see that blacks are still held as property, but other major issues like women's rights, foreign policy and how an isolationist economy would look today are only glibly touched upon. The result is that, by fixating his story on white racism, Willmott too easily suggests that the entire culture of the antebellum South can be defined by its slavery policy. Considering that over 600,000 men died fighting over this very policy, and that it took a full century after black slaves were freed for them to truly be granted their civil rights, one could argue that this is essentially true. But it plays out as reductionist, writing off all Southern whites as cartoonish jackasses while letting the more discreetly racist among us off the hook. (The fact that many of the racist-themed items advertised throughout the movie are now-defunct real-life products such as Darkie Toothpaste and Coon Chicken Inn reminds us of how long it took to get away from the jigaboo stereotypes of yore, yet despite Willmott's last-second footnote that Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben's still exist, he doesn't convince us that these two brands really reflect current American culture.) But as it's said, an artist doesn't provide answers, he asks questions, and C.S.A. is one of those films where the conversation afterwards may be more thought-provoking than the film itself is, so for that I appreciate it and recommend it.

THE CUCKOO (Russia, Aleksandr Rogozhkin)
Mild-mannered anti-war fable that takes place in my ancestors' stomping ground, Lapland, the northernmost part of Scandinavia, at the end of World War II. A Finnish soldier and a Russian soldier, enemies by nature but both shunned and threatened with death by their own armies for speaking out against the war, each find themselves at the home of a young Lapp widow. None can speak the others' languages, but the isolation of all three people has increased their sex drives substantially. Though marketed as something of a sexy romp, The Cuckoo is notably coy about its few erotic scenes, keeping it all off camera. The story's main idea is, instead, the corrupting effect of war on ordinary people, the irony being that, while both the Russian and the Finn are pacifists, because of the language barrier the Russian nevertheless sees the Finn as a threat - though whether it's for political or romantic reasons is subjective. As expected, the no-nonsense Lapp woman clucks her tongue knowingly at the brutality of men, but it's balanced by her bold (and very funny) declarations of lust to the clueless Finn. Bogs down towards the end with some unnecessary mysticism, but some beautiful Arctic scenery, a refreshingly sympathetic triple point of view, and fine performances (newcomer Anni-Christina Juuso is my latest onscreen crush) filling out the characters' introspection color the film with dignity and a tinge of loss.

THE CUP (Australia/Bhutan, Khyentse Norbu)
Sweet, if slight, little film about a Tibetan monastery in exile in India, focusing on a mischievous, headstrong young monk named Orgyen, whose obsession with soccer spreads to several of his fellow monks as he attempts to catch the World Cup live on TV. That's it, that's the story. Aside from that, there is lovely cinematography, a cook's tour of Tibetan Buddhism, and an earnest if toned-down plea for understanding and action, regarding the current religious oppression happening in Tibet under Chinese rule.

The director is himself a Tibetan monk, as is apparently the entire cast of monks, all of whom are very photogenic and surprisingly at ease before the camera. It's hard not to like The Cup, and its heart and mind are certainly in the right places, but it is so mild-mannered as to render itself unremarkable. The kind of "safe" movie you'd take your grandmother to - unless of course your grandmother is a hard-line Chinese communist.

CURE (Japan, Kiyoshi Kurosawa)
Cure was released in its native Japan in 1997, and is only now making the rounds at American art theatres. It is the only one of Kurosawa's many films to be released here (even though he's already made half a dozen since), and although the director is perplexed as to why this film was chosen as his "breakout," the choice to release it commercially in the U.S. is no surprise when you consider that the film belongs in the same category as sick thrillers like Silence of the Lambs and Seven - only it's slower, not quite as sensationalistic and much more complex. So complex, in fact, that I didn't quite understand half of it. The setup: in contemporary Tokyo, a police detective (the ubiquitous Koji Yakusho, from Shall We Dance, The Eel and Eureka) is trying to find why a number of law-abiding citizens, none of whom know each other, are all suddenly committing identical murders that culminate in an "X" sliced into their victims' throats. Gradually a connection is established in the form of a mysterious young drifter who seems to be suffering from severe short-term memory loss (remember, this was years before Memento) but has a wicked talent for hypnosis.

I'm not giving much away; Cure is not so much a "whodunit" as it is a "whydunit" - Kurosawa (no relation to Akira) explores themes of the dark side of human nature, the possibility that we all have a murderous impulse inside us, a burgeoning culture of violence and disintegration of community in Japan, and questions of the supernatural that are not, and indeed can never be, answered. It's also a good introduction to the director's filmic style, consisting of long takes, darkened rooms and sinister industrial noises gurgling in the background. The ending provokes a "Huh?" but there is a sense that Kurosawa knows what he's talking about, even if we don't. Not as brilliant a film as some critics are raving, and not as meaningful as his later drama License to Live (fat chance of that getting a U.S. release), but it will definitely give you a good case of the shivers, and maybe that's enough. If that final image in The Blair Witch Project still disturbs you, then imagine 2 hours of that, and you've got Cure.

THE CURIOUS CASE OF BENJAMIN BUTTON (US, David Fincher)
It sounds like an oxymoron, but this is a modest epic, an intimate character drama that unfolds across decades and continents, with top-notch movie stars and top-notch special effects. Benjamin Button, as you surely know, is the tale of a man born elderly, who goes through his life aging in reverse. Based mostly only on the gimmick of F. Scott Fitzgerald's short story, it's hard to ignore the feeling that David Fincher et al decided to make this film mainly because of the nifty opportunities to age Brad Pitt using computers. And the results are pretty impressive, though what they're doing here - adding wrinkles to his face, then putting his head on a seven-year-old's body, for example - isn't much different than what was introduced in the Lord of the Rings movies. Still, there's a wow factor at work here, which sometimes benefits the story and sometimes detracts from it. I found myself frequently trying to guess what Benjamin Button's chronological age was, what his biological age was, what costar Cate Blanchett's character's age was, and what year it was. Maybe that's just me, but if this were a great film, I shouldn't have even stopped to consider such things. So no, I didn't find Benjamin Button to be a great film. But it's a reasonably good one. Others have made comparisons to 1994's Forrest Gump, and indeed, there are many, beginning with screenwriter Eric Roth, who co-penned both scripts, and continuing with the story elements: the innocent Southern boy born different; the flighty love of his life who pursues a stage career only to encounter tragedy; the saintly, doting mother; the passage of time and notable historical events, from World War II to Hurricane Katrina (the latter rather pointlessly inserted); even Button's repeated phrase "you never know what life is gonna send your way" brings to mind that infamous box-of-chocolates quote. But because Button lacks Gump's sneaky, offensive conservative message - that "do what you're told and you'll be successful; buck the system and you'll deservedly fail" philosophy that made Gump such a detestible thing - it almost takes away the bitter taste left by the earlier film.

On the whole, I liked Benjamin Button: the cast is fine, the cinematography is fine, the music is fine, the production design is fine. Fincher's obsession with detail works here, and whereas some may find that the director's trademark aloofness leavens the script's potential for sappy sentimentality, others may wish the film could have been a little more affecting. Me, I'm split. But the film's not important enough for me to wrack my brain about it. I'll just say that it's a sweet, old-fashioned time at the movies. You'll laugh a little, you'll cry a little, you'll probably feel satisfied when it's over and you race to the bathroom because you've been sitting on your ass for nearly three hours. But it's not one of the best films of 2008 or of any year.

CURSE OF THE GOLDEN FLOWER (China, Zhang Yimou)
For years, Zhang Yimou has been one of my very favorite directors, a expert at delivering both visual splendor and heart-rending tragedy. And even while recently adding action movies to his repertoire (Hero, House of Flying Daggers), he still showed a propensity for making great films. But Curse of the Golden Flower left me cold. Set in a corrupt imperial court in ancient China, it is the tale of a seriously dysfunctional royal family: The Emperor (Chow Yun-Fat) is slowly having the Empress (Zhang's onetime muse Gong Li) poisoned. Meanwhile, the Empress is having an affair with his oldest son, whose own late mother is apparently still alive... but I won't give any more away. It's a Shakespearian plot if ever there was one, hinting of Macbeth, Hamlet and King Lear, so it's no surprise that the film is based on a stage play (Thunderstorm, by Cao Yu). All this courtly intrigue eventually blows up into a gigantic, Lord of the Rings-like battle as the individual family members lead their own factions of the imperial army against each other. (I'm sure that wasn't in the stage play.) The cast of thousands is as visually impressive as the opulent, rainbow-hued palace itself, but the blood-drenched epic swordplay does not mix well with the intimate family drama that makes up the bulk of the film. Still, there's a lot of interesting stuff going on here. The final battle - I don't think I'm giving anything away - may allude to the 1989 Tiananmen Square massacre; its violent depictions of a futile attempt at revolution against a crushing, oppressive government feel very familiar. And then there's that final shot, which suggests something literally rotten at the core of China's "harmony." Zhang's gotten in trouble with the Chinese government for subversiveness before, so I wouldn't put it past him. The cast is of variable quality: as usual Gong Li delivers an intense performance, but Chow Yun-Fat is underutilized, and the actors playing the two younger brothers are weak. Aside from that, while the production design is overdone but wonderful, the costumes are simply overdone (especially the women's outfits, which are so overtly bosomy that some may forget to look up at the actresses' faces). Chief among my other complaints, Shigeru Umebayashi's pretentious score is a big liability, and the operatic drama doesn't quite have the subtle personal sting that Zhang's best films are known for. Curse of the Golden Flower is an intriguing experiment at marrying stagebound intimacy to a sweeping war movie, but it doesn't fully convince.