SLUMDOG MILLIONAIRE (UK, Danny Boyle)
Boyle and screenwriter Simon Beaufoy's adaptation of Vikas Swarup's novel Q&A is a Dickensian melodrama set in contemporary Mumbai where Jamal (Dev Patel), an uneducated "chaiwalla" (tea server) from the slums, has just made it to the final round of India's version of "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" - and the show's host, and the cops, think he's cheating. After being arrested and brutally interrogated, Jamal explains, question by question, flashback by flashback, how he arrived at the answers, based on specific incidents in his rough life. I can see why Slumdog Millionaire is already a major crowd-pleaser: it's suspenseful, the actors are appealing, and Boyle's gritty Indian spin lends a City of God-like urgency to a storyline that is a potential minefield of cliches: the damsel in distress, the ne'er-do-well brother, the cast of shady grifters straight out of Oliver Twist. But it works, and that is no doubt the result of the built-in tension of the internationally popular "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" show, which figures prominently in the last act, as well as the exotic locales and fresh faces. Sure, the film is calculated, and cheaply manipulative at times, but it's still a lively, entertaining two hours, old-fashioned in mostly the best sense of the term.

SNIDE AND PREJUDICE (US, Philippe Mora)
My heart goes out to Philippe Mora. Snide and Prejudice was obviously shot a long time ago, as it features Brion James in a small role, James having died in August 1999. Only in November 2001 has the film seen the light of day - in a dingy Hollywood theatre. In a mental hospital in the middle of Los Angeles, a psychiatrist (Rene Auberjonois) who specializes in treating patients that believe they are historical figures focuses his study on one (Angus MacFadyen) who fancies himself Adolf Hitler. The doctor applies an unusual form of therapy: casting patients and doctors to help his patient re-enact the life of the Nazi dictator.

This is no character-motivated psychodrama, though; the set-up is merely to serve Mora's agenda: to detail the rise and fall of history's most famous madman. His inspiration is clearly German playwright Bertolt Brecht, specifically Brecht's frightening spoof of Nazism, The Resistable Rise of Arturo Ui. Mora applies many Brechtian distancing devices to keep audiences aware of the political message, and not to connect with the characters: actors play multiple roles, occasionally speak to the camera, and the story is often interrupted by crude farce. But Mora, who directed films like Mercenary II, Howling III and Pterodactyl Woman of Beverly Hills, is no Brecht. Also, the power of Ui was its timeliness; written shortly after Germany's defeat in 1945, its famous last line "Although the world stood up and stopped the bastard, the bitch that bore him is in heat again" resonated more when people were still counting their World War II dead. Of course we now have a new world-class villain to deal with, but because the film predates recent events, one can't say that it's really about how one deranged kook can lead the world into a bloody war, but just a primer on Hitler's cracked psyche. The cast, full of character actors in bit parts (as well as a before-she-was-famous Mena Suvari as Hitler's doomed niece), is mostly serviceable, though many seem lost between the realism inherent to feature filmmaking and the theatricality that Mora is aiming for. MacFadyen is inarguably the star, and he does a good Hitler, though that entails lots of shouting and ranting and that can get a little tiring after 2 hours. Mora's visual sense is rather flat, though by the looks of it, he managed to score Frank Lloyd Wright's gorgeous Ennis-Brown House as his chief (only?) location.

SNOW DAY (US, who cares who directed it)
A movie starring Chevy Chase, Chris Elliott, and a bunch of obnoxious kids. Why even watch this film, much less review it? You may well ask. Answer: It's a Paramount product, I'm a Paramount employee, so I got to see it for free at work. Besides, I always say every filmmaker should catch at least a couple films each year that he knows will be bad, in order to work his creative muscles afterward and ask, "how could I have made this any better?"

Snow Day, however, isn't a bad film. Just a waste of time. A joyless, formulaic yawner thrown together by a film team bereft of talent or inspiration. The plot, as if it mattered: a big snowfall in Syracuse, NY has closed schools down for the day. We focus on one family: weatherman dad (Chase) who don't get no respect; overworked mom (Jean Smart) who has no time for her family; romantic teen (a likeable Mark Webber) who woos some hot girl in his school while unaware of the affections of his own best friend (Schuyler Fisk, Sissy Spacek's daughter, gap-toothed but appealing); and finally a really horrible, strident little girl (Zena Grey) who, with her obnoxious friends (including a fat kid who farts in every scene and has to shout out lines like "Man oh man of La Mancha"), tries to thwart the local snow plow driver (Elliott) from clearing the streets, so they can get another snow day. Guess what happens. That's right - everything works out in the end.

Usually a film made by people who don't know what they're doing has some weird treats. Here you have a scene with a stop-motion (not computer!) animated action figure; a barely amusing cameo by Iggy Pop; and that teenage boy's crush, who'd better be 18 because her nipples poke out of her outfits in every scene she's in. I will give Snow Day credit for its uniformly strong and in-charge female characters. But I must reiterate, it really is a worthless film.

THE SOCIAL NETWORK (US, David Fincher)
I admit, I am a sucker for feature films about the very recent past. I thoroughly enjoyed The Queen, Breach, United 93, and to a lesser extent Invictus. Older releases such as The Best Years of Our Lives and All the President's Men retain a relevance even now, when one considers how fresh their subject matter was when they were made. So despite my admitted indifference to the work of David Fincher, and despite that clumsy title, I really looked forward to The Social Network, and I was not disappointed - even though I have a handful of reservations.

Telling the (somewhat fictionalized) story of the creation of Facebook and of founder Mark Zuckerberg's legal battles with former Harvard classmates, The Social Network's candor about the relationships and egos of these very real people is refreshing. Aaron Sorkin's script may be the true star of the show. Fast-paced and witty, it sometimes goes into a little too much expository detail, yet Sorkin is keenly aware of the nature of his characters, and so the occasional logorrhea is fitting. So too is the importance these characters place upon events that, to the casual observer, seem completely insignificant: a Harvard hazing ritual, getting dumped at a bar, "Caribbean Night" at a Jewish fraternity. That these trivial moments factor so greatly into Sorkin's story is a reminder not only of how young Zuckerberg and his friends/enemies still are, but of the adolescent nature of Facebook culture itself, where fully grown adults get into heated arguments in front of all their contacts, flirt with old classmates they haven't seen in decades, or even sever old ties because of petty squabbles or obnoxious statements. Sorkin's dialogue may take too many pains to explain just who Napster creator Sean Parker is, but he also knows when to step back and let the audience find the connections between Zuckerberg's ego and his online creation, now populated by over five hundred million users. It may sound strange, but I found The Social Network to be a sort of parallel to There Will Be Blood. Both tell the stories about cold, ambitious, often vindictive men whose flaws and obsessions formed the core of today's multi-billion dollar global industries. Jesse Eisenberg, as Zuckerberg, may not reach the heights of Daniel Day-Lewis's iconic Daniel Plainview, but he is perfect in the role, and it was truly a genius maneuver to cast pop idol Justin Timberlake as a rock star-like Parker, whose involvement in Facebook's success was something I, for one, didn't know about. I only had two problems with the film. First, it was wrapped up all too suddenly; I think Fincher and Sorkin could have extended their third act by a good fifteen minutes. My second problem lies with one of the main characters, Eduardo Saverin, Zuckerberg's former best friend and Facebook's initial CFO. I think Saverin is supposed to be the true protagonist of the story (after all, it was his view of events that informed The Accidental Billionaires, the book on which this film is based), yet he does so little on screen to help the fledgling website grow that, when Zuckerberg eventually shuts him out of Facebook's success, Saverin's outrage does not feel earned. But for all I know, this may have been intentional on the part of Fincher, Sorkin, and actor Andrew Garfield, whose Saverin is a small-thinking whiner. But neither of these qualms kept me from being thoroughly drawn in by The Social Network, so far 2010's most relevant Hollywood feature. One final bit of praise goes out to the impressive electronic score by Nine Inch Nails buddies Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross.

THE SONG OF SPARROWS (Iran, Majid Majidi)
Majid Majidi remains one of the more accessible Iranian filmmakers for American audiences. His films are paced, shot and edited like Western features, unlike those of most of his contemporaries. And after seeing his excellent The Color of Paradise (about a blind child and his intolerant father) and Children of Heaven (about a boy who enters a footrace in order to win his sister a pair of shoes), I was excited about The Song of Sparrows, believing Majidi to be Iran's Vittorio de Sica, a master at capturing the simple hopes and needs of the working class. This time out, the hero is a middle-aged ostrich farmer named Karim (Reza Najie, a fine actor who comes across as the Iranian Harry Dean Stanton) who loses his job and, in an attempt to raise money to replace his deaf teenage daughter's hearing aid, winds up as a motorcycle taxi driver in Tehran. The story moves on but the themes got muddled for this reviewer. I suspect that there are things about Iranian life and Islam in the film that I just didn't get. Majidi seems to have filled his story with symbols, but what do they mean? What does the lost ostrich represent? Is Karim's story the saga of a man whose religious faith is tested by his desire for material wealth? I'm not sure, especially as the third act pumps in a few new characters and a new subplot. It's not confusing - in fact, the film may just be a slice of life look into the daily triumphs and tribulations of a simple family - but it's not quite as affecting as Majidi's earlier efforts. Still, there are a lot of great images in the film and some lovely moments.

THE SON'S ROOM (Italy, Nanni Moretti)
Nanni Moretti is another of those Italian "treasures" that make a dozen films before anybody in America ever hears about them. Usually known for his low-budget, politically-tinged semiautobiographical comedies, Moretti does a turnaround - and wins American distribution, surprise surprise - by concocting a tender, apolitical tear-jerker about a middle-class Italian family torn apart by the sudden death of their teenage son. Writer/director Moretti plays the father, a successful psychotherapist who rethinks his career - as well as everything else - as he tries to deal with the loss. His wife (Laura Morante) loses it completely. Their teenage daughter (Jasmine Trinca) struggles to cope her own way. Moretti takes a laid-back, quotidian approach to his characters' lives even before the tragic accident, and adhering to this structure after the son's death underscores the point of the story, which is to show the day-to-day challenges one ordinary family goes through as they come to terms with the death of one of their own. The Son's Room is made up of dozens of affecting moments, some lasting just a few seconds on one shot, rather than a singular storyline. The focus is on the members of the family, collectively and individually. It's interesting to compare this to the similarly-themed In the Bedroom, an American film which deals more bitterly with death, and in its American way is more by-the-book, story-wise. The Son's Room is equally difficult to watch - an hour of deep grief is no fun for anyone to sit through - but it has a gratifying emphasis on real-seeming characters who suggest lives and thoughts that go far beyond the relatively brief (99 minute) running time. There's a lot of subtlety to these people and these moments, some of which only blossoms long after the film's supremely graceful conclusion.

SOURCE CODE (US, Duncan Jones)
Jake Gyllenhaal is a helicopter pilot whose last memory is fighting in Afghanistan. When he suddenly wakes up on a Chicago-bound commuter train - in another man's body, no less - he is understandably disoriented, and even more so when the train explodes eight minutes later, warping him into some strange armored capsule where an Air Force officer (Vera Farmiga) communicates with him over a TV screen. Told that he must be sent back in time and into the body of one of the train's doomed passengers, multiple times if necessary, until he finds out who the bomber is, Gyllenhaal is plunged into a thoroughly entertaining sci fi yarn that is two parts Groundhog Day, one part The Matrix, and several parts old Quantum Leap episodes. (A clever bit of voice casting, revealed in the end credits, confirms the beloved TV show's influence on the filmmakers.) Duncan Jones' first feature was the much-lauded Moon, and although that film was written by Nathan Parker (based on a story by Jones) and Source Code's fine script was written by Ben Ripley, both films explore similar themes of identity and free will through the use of repetition and creepy if well-intentioned government plots. In short, as with Moon, Source Code is pure authentic science fiction, though much more action-packed than its predecessor. Gyllenhaal and the rest of the cast are earnest and believable, and the story keeps you guessing along two fronts: not only how Gyllenhaal can find the bomb (and the bomber) on the train, but how exactly he got into this time travel experiment in the first place. Without giving anything away, the film's one potential flaw is in its conclusion. At first the story seems to close on a poignant, if eccentric, note of grace. Then it suddenly continues for another five minutes, wrapping up a little too tidily. It's not one tenth as disappointing as the infamously protracted ending of Spielberg's A.I., but some may still be annoyed by this coda, which almost feels as though it was tacked on by the studio. Even so, it still offers enough ambiguity to satisfy your smarter-than-average moviegoer. All in all, I found Source Code a finely crafted and emotionally genuine popcorn movie. Worth your time.

SOUTHLAND TALES (US, Richard Kelly)
First of all, I freely admit to being pretty much the only person I know who didn't go for Richard Kelly's 2001 debut film Donnie Darko. I found it a weak attempt at David Lynch-esque pop surrealism aimed at self-serious teenagers. Years later, I agreed to watch it again, after reading all the notes on the film and after Kelly, with his "director's cut," bent over backwards to convince his audience that what he really made was a complicated science fiction movie, not a typically Lynchian drama about a lonely loser's fantasy life during the moments before his death. It made more sense, but for me it also took away what little heart the story actually had. Now that Kelly's long-awaited sophomore effort Southland Tales has hit the screen, I am more convinced than ever that the emperor's not wearing any clothes. Richard Kelly is a bad filmmaker.

Set in a sci fi version of 2008 Los Angeles, Southland Tales is a muddled mess, tying together a trillion different plotlines that revolve around the Republican vice presidential candidate and his family, a Hollywood movie star (Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson) who has gone missing, a national security tracking system that keeps tabs on everybody, a porn star (Sarah Michelle Gellar) who is trying to sell a script she wrote with The Rock, Seann William Scott playing two characters, a mysterious alternative fuel, neo-Marxists, World War III, the Apocalypse, the Second Coming, and legions of cheesy B actors and former "Saturday Night Live" stars. And Justin Timberlake. It's ambitious, to say the least. Overly ambitious. Way overly ambitious. While Kelly continues to ape Lynch's trademark weirdness - Wild at Heart, Lynch's only self-congratulatory film, is the main influence, but Mulholland Drive is there too (Kelly even uses Mulholland's Latin chanteuse Rebekah Del Rio in a similar scene), and actually there's quite a bit of Kathryn Bigelow's mediocre, undeservedly admired Strange Days in this movie too - the life Kelly's leading as a director is more akin to that of George Lucas: Lots of half-baked ideas, some terrible casting choices, and nobody to lean over his shoulder to tell him "Make some serious script revisions, or have somebody else write your screenplay." Kelly seems overwhelmingly convinced that he is a genius, as his pretentious storyline shows - only the last three "chapters" of an apparent six-chapter saga are presented in the film (hey, just like the first Star Wars movies!), with audiences expected to buy the first three chapters in graphic novel form - essentially forcing people to once again do lots of homework in order to fully "get" the movie, just as with Donnie Darko. Man, what an ego this guy's got. But I'm not buying it. Despite the heavy-handed use of Biblical references (gee, that's a new one) and classic poetry (particularly T.S. Eliot's The Hollow Men, which Kelly paraphrases), the low humor and flat dialogue in this tepid satire are what betray Kelly's true sensibilities: Look, there's Kevin Smith dressed up like an old man! Haw haw, John Larroquette from "Night Court" got his private parts tasered! Tee hee, The Rock just called that slutty Bai Ling a "bitch" and then she fell on the floor going "Ooh!" - that'll show her! This is an awful film, devoid of any truth, emotion, intelligence or genuine creativity. (Kelly works hard to explain a lot of his story here, too, and guess what - in the end, it's kind of like Donnie Darko, with its parallel universes and temporal shifts and such.) The actors, most of whom are the sort who need a lot of direction to be good, recite their lines without feeling, as lost as the rest of us. (I assume Johnson, Scott and Gellar signed on for Kelly's hipster cred; the rest of the cast were surely just hungry for any work whatsoever.) Even the CG effects are poorly done! Even the cinematography's bad! I could go on, but what depresses me most is that there will doubtlessly be new fans who will defend all this shabbily-executed nonsense as "visionary," and the misguided cult of Richard Kelly will only grow.

THE SPECIALS (US, Craig Mazin)
An ultra-low-budget variation on Mystery Men, in which a ragtag group of unlikely superheroes does battle with... each other. Absent the huge sets, big-name cast and special effects of the not-very-good Mystery Men, this film must rely on its two assets: costar James Gunn's original, fairly witty (if overly vulgar) script and a likeable cast of mostly unknowns (except for Rob Lowe and Jamie Kennedy, both good). So what you get is an hour and a half of superheroes with really cool powers who spend all their time complaining about their jobs, their lovelives, etc. That's a pretty funny concept, but watching it is a different story. I found myself wanting to see some clever use of the group's powers. Some sort of visual energy. But Mazin's direction is flat, mired in mediocrity. Just because you don't have much money doesn't mean you have to bolt the camera to the floor! Also, Gunn falls into the trap that too many indie comedy writers get stuck in: he feels like he has to include romance, bonding, feel-good sentiment. It never works, especially within the cynical tone of The Specials.

SPELLBOUND (US, Jeffrey Blitz)
Thoroughly wonderful documentary that follows eight junior high school students from around the United States as they head for The National Spelling Bee Championship in Washington, DC. That these kids come from various ethnic and economic backgrounds is as significant as the fact that four of them have immigrant parents, for Spellbound is not only a portrait of kids in tension-filled competition, but is also a gentle examination of the American Dream. We are introduced, one by one, to each child and his or her families and spend time with them as they feverishly prepare for the finals, many of them spending several hours a day going over thousands of words in dictionaries, encyclopedias, medical journals and so on. While their backgrounds and goals are all wildly different, their stories are uniformly touching. And despite the cute soundtrack and graphics, the film never condescends - which is imperative for it to work; after all, the one thing that these children have in common is that they are exceptionally bright, and as such deserve a documentary that doesn't pander to them. These are, in fact, all great kids, and Spellbound makes you care for each and every one of them, so that as the second half of the film takes us to the Championship, you are biting your nails for them to simply get through their assigned words without hearing that horrible "ding" that indicates a spelling error and, thus, elimination from the competition. Those of us who have ever competed in spelling bees (in eighth grade I blew the word "coercive," which I could have sworn was spelled "coersive") can easily sympathize with the pressure these young people face, and yet they are all wise enough to know that winning relies as much on luck as on rote memorization. Blitz is also very realistic about his subjects' situation: most are, frankly, geeks, and are aware that what makes them special also makes them misfits. The film touches on this and on the larger picture, which reveals American ideals of success, ambition, and an unstoppable sense that anybody can make it if they try hard enough, and how these ideals affect gifted children and their families. In the end, what Blitz has accomplished is what many independent filmmakers only dream of doing: he's made the Great American Movie. I don't care what you think of documentaries. I rarely see them too. But run out and catch Spellbound. It's delightful, absorbing, humanistic, and also the most thrilling movie you may see all year.

SPIDER (Canada/UK, David Cronenberg)
Boring psychological drama about a mentally deranged Englishman (Ralph Fiennes) who, recently transferred from a psychiatric hospital to a halfway house, finds himself lost in the memories of his troubled childhood, in which he believed his father (Gabriel Byrne) was cheating on his mother (Miranda Richardson) with a prostitute (Richardson again). An intriguing premise that goes nowhere: even the plot twists are both delivered flatly and telegraphed well in advance. When it was all over, I sat there thinking "So what?" Handsomely made but forgettable, save for the showy display of Richardson's patented sinister sexuality in her multiple roles. Hands down, she's the best thing about the movie. Fiennes, for his part, simply mumbles and cowers throughout. It's hard to call it much of a performance, but it grew on me - though it would have been more potent to see an actual homely middle-aged actor in the role; I couldn't get past Fiennes's dashing movie star presence to believe the damaged, crazed loner he's portraying. This film is what most critics would call "minor Cronenberg." I just call it dull.

SPIDER-MAN (US, Sam Raimi)
Has everybody on earth seen this movie already? Good. Then I won't bother with any kind of synopsis. Suffice it to say, I enjoyed Spider-Man. As comic book movies go, it has wit, strong characters and some freshness about the age-old archetype of the dual identity crisis. The entire film really rests on Tobey Maguire's ability to create a sympathetic character, and thankfully he delivers (which, in my opinion, he doesn't always do). And Kirsten Dunst is undeniably cute. I'd probably have a crush on her if she didn't look so much like my older sister Diana. My only beef with the film is a big one: the costume designed for Spider-Man's arch-enemy the Green Goblin (Willem Dafoe) is awful. Not only does it look nothing like the original villain (who in the comic actually had green scaly skin and wore a tunic), but it feels as though it was designed specifically to be easily computer-animated. Spider-Man could have been a great movie, almost even on par with the 1979 Superman (though it never achieves that film's level of myth or scope), if only they gave Gobby a cooler costume. But the amount of love and care that Sam Raimi put into this film is clear. Like Peter Jackson, he is someone who truly adores making movies, who absolutely pours his heart into what he's doing, and, as in Jackson's work, it shows. These are the guys who should be making blockbusters with nine-figure budgets (if, indeed, anybody should), and I'm glad they are.

SPIDER-MAN 2 (US, Sam Raimi)
In brief: Spider-Man 2 is a fine sequel to a fine superhero movie, and anybody who enjoyed Spider-Man will find more of the same pleasures here. Now, not so brief: Taking care to preserve what made the first movie so special - comic book action taking a back seat to character - Spider-Man 2 further evolves the complicated story of guilt-plagued Peter Parker (Tobey Maguire), whose dedication to fighting crime as Spider-Man is taking its toll on his everyday life, where he still needs money to pay the rent, still pines over Mary Jane (Kirsten Dunst), and still tries to do well in school. He's so neurotic that he even psyches himself out of his own Spidey-powers. Enter a new reason to save New York from certain destruction: Dr. Octopus (the ever-serviceable Alfred Molina). But this story is actually something of a subplot, a device used mainly to showcase the special effects and juice up the movie with a bit of action. It's good stuff, but because Doc Ock has no secret identity, Spider-Man's battles with him lack the head games that they did with the Green Goblin (although the computer graphics for Ock's tentacles are much better than Gobby's cheesy design). In fact, Doc Ock doesn't even have that much use for Spider-Man; our hero is just a tool he uses to get what he wants. Who cares? The true pleasures of Spider-Man 2 are in its charming details: Peter's skinny neighbor brings him a piece of cake; a little girl Spider-Man saves from a burning building actually helps him over a perilous ledge; a couple of wonderfully awkward scenes with a guy in an elevator and a snooty theatre usher; finally, great use of "Raindrops Keep Fallin' On My Head" - complete with campy freeze-frame of a happy Peter Parker - when he decides to quit the hero business. These are all touches that only a goofball like director Sam Raimi can bring to a movie like this, and they're what make it memorable, along with its message about the hardships and rewards of heroism that, while corny, is still refreshingly unironic. I was actually moved by a scene between Spider-Man and a subway car full of New Yorkers, and if a Hollywood blockbuster can touch my jaded heart, it means there is still hope for big summer movies.

SPIDER-MAN 3 (US, Sam Raimi)
The latest entry in Sam Raimi's enjoyable series of blockbusters about the dorkiest superhero in New York, Spider-Man 3 pretty much works on the same level as its predecessors - no better, no worse. Even as more characters get added and more twists get worked into the story (more on that later), it adheres to Raimi's goal of delivering the quintessential summer movie: You get action, comedy, romance, tragedy, psychological insight and character development, and you leave satisfied. At first I was afraid that packing three, count 'em, three villains into this movie would bloat it, like the increasingly overstuffed - and stupid - Batman movies got in the 90's. Somehow, though, Raimi and his cowriters (brother Ivan Raimi and veteran screenwriter Alvin Sargent) manage to make it all work, though at times I wondered if Raimi's original vision was to deliver a Peter Jackson-style three-hour opus, mainly because some scenes feel like they're either missing or noticeably shortened. Also, Peter Parker's New York seems a little too insular (Bryce Dallas Howard, playing Gwen Stacy from the comics, not only happens to be the chief of police's daughter, she's also Peter's lab partner and also the girlfriend of Peter's photographer rival at the Daily Bugle). But Raimi still finds time for some wonderfully goofy, idiosyncratic moments, mainly in the scenes where a sticky black goo from outer space turns Spidey into an arrogant, vindictive show-off - call it "cosmic cocaine." It's a nice bit of character work and gives Tobey Maguire room to have some fun with the character. In fact it's the numerous comic asides that make Spider-Man 3 a winner. All too often it veers towards the maudlin and even the corny, so the funny business amongst the supporting characters (who all get a few good lines and a bit more screen time as a reward for their service to Raimi, from the skinny Russian girl across the hall to J. Jonah Jameson and his staff) is most welcome. Also, what I liked about Spider-Man 3 was that, in an age where seemingly every movie franchise has to be packaged and sold as a trilogy, this feels like just another chapter in an ongoing series of movies. Raimi knows that there's a lot of great stuff left to be milked out of the Spider-Man comic books, so if we don't see much of Gwen Stacy or Peter's lab professor Curt Connors, that's because we'll be seeing a lot more of them in Spider-Man 4. (Comic insiders will recognize that Curt Connors - played here by the terrific character actor Dylan Baker - is the alter-ego of famed Spider-Man foe The Lizard, so we can guess who is going to be the big villain in the next installment.) So it's not a perfect film, and I'm getting a little tired of Kirsten Dunst's whiny Mary Jane Watson, but it's a great choice for a summer matinee and I'll keep shelling out to see more Spidey movies as long as Raimi keeps making them so well. And trivia note: that's Foreign Correspondents star Steve Valentine as a fashion photographer.

THE SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS MOVIE (US, Stephen Hillenburg)
Why did I see this movie, you might ask? Well, first of all, my girlfriend wanted to. But the other reason - and I get so few opportunities to say this that this might be the only time I can - is that the film's director, Steve Hillenburg, is my old classmate from CalArts. There's only three people, so far, who have become fabulous successes about whom I can say "I knew them when": DJ Danger Mouse, superagent Rick Yorn, and Steve. What I can tell you about Steve is that when he came to CalArts, he had a degree in marine biology and had done some cartoons, but had never animated anything. You wouldn't know it when you saw the things he did in class: his timing was perfect. So I'm glad he found fame and fortune with this character that he created, the titular SpongeBob. As for the humor? Well, it's pretty much non-stop silliness, isn't it? SpongeBob SquarePants is a direct descendent of Ren & Stimpy, only a bit less subversive. Thus, it lacks bite. But the kids love it. So go Steve. I won't bother telling you about the plot, but I will say that guest voiceover talent Scarlett Johansson puts more energy into her performance here than I've ever seen out of her in a live action film. And I give one last round of kudos to Steve for letting our mutual friend Mark Osborne direct the live action scenes, for putting a song in the movie that he wrote with the other guys from our experimental animation class, Steve Belfer and Carlos Palazio, and for dedicating the whole shebang to our late mentor, Jules Engel. Aside from all that, you either find SpongeBob hilarious or annoying, and you've already decided whether or not you're going to see this movie based on that. So why review it? In short, I thought it was OK.

SPRING FORWARD (US, Tom Gilroy)
A deeply felt, unsentimental portrait of the growing friendship between two men over the course of 7 months, Spring Forward gives us Murphy (Ned Beatty), a soon-to-retire Connecticut city parks maintenance man who takes on as a partner Paul (Liev Schreiber), a talkative young ex-con new to the job. The story is told in half a dozen vignettes, each at a different time of the year, as we watch these men get to know each other, interact with assorted lost souls (including familiar faces like Campbell Scott and Peri Gilpin in small but rich roles), and quietly enjoy the serenity of the parks that surround them. It's simple, it's graceful, it's extremely well-acted by its leads (what a joy to see Beatty get a chance to sink his teeth into a character again; most of today's audiences have forgotten that he was one of the 70's finest actors, with outstanding performances in Nashville, Deliverance and Network), it's completely worth your time. Despite all the chatter, much of it quite funny, Spring Forward never feels stagebound or self-indulgent. It remains, above all, a film more about listening than about talking. A lovely experience, and proof positive that the soul of American independent cinema is alive and well.

THE SQUID AND THE WHALE (US, Noah Baumbach)
A year ago, an academic acquaintance of mine (which is to say, she has a PhD and teaches some sort of a class at a university) asked me, at a party, "So what are you reading these days?" It was an almost laughably pretentious question, and her phrasing seemed overly practiced and show-offy. I thought, So this is how intellectuals distance themselves from the rest of the crowd. Unlike "Seen any good movies lately?" which is a populist sort of question (even art house films aren't snooty anymore), "What are you reading these days?" is as much a challenge to the answeree's taste and intellect as it is routine small talk. Among other things, this exchange made me realize why I really don't like academics. That is, PhD's who work in the sciences may be nice, down to earth sorts, but almost every person I've ever met who has - or is working towards - a PhD in other, more esoteric subjects has struck me as both a flake and a snob, enormously self-centered, sheltered, neurotic and emotionally immature. But then, you may ask, why should anybody be surprised to find these traits in a person who literally refuses to leave school - who prefers to live a life with his or her nose buried in a book, living atop clouds of theory instead of in the real world? Such are the parental figures of Noah Baumbach's autobiographical The Squid and the Whale, set in 1986. Jeff Daniels and Laura Linney play a pair of selfish writer/professors whose casual attitudes toward raising their two sons (Jesse Eisenberg as Baumbach's arrogant teenaged alter ego and Owen Kline as his lost-soul younger brother) prove to be shockingly ineffectual after they announce their divorce and are incapable of helping their children deal with the fallout. Baumbach's film is fragmented in its editing and its storytelling, perhaps mirroring the fractured family whose agreement to split custody right down the middle is both comically and tragically short-sighted, but The Squid and the Whale is one of those films that's easier to admire than to actually enjoy. The performances are practically perfect, the family feels absolutely real (as well they should, as the characters are all based on Baumbach's own relatives), and the filmmaking is fresh and uncompromised in its intent. Maybe it's just my own personal bias against academics that kept me from caring for any of these characters, though I could empathize - from a distance - with the two boys' confused, defensive reactions to their parents' split: Growing up in an environment so permissive that they totally lack any sense of structure or morality, they don't have the tools to deal with the consequences of decisions as serious as divorce. And why should they, when their parents are so caught up in their own gargantuan egos that they are clueless as to how to gently lead their kids through such a mess? The Squid and the Whale aptly points out that just because somebody is an intellectual, that doesn't make them smart. Still, as Joe Audience Member I was unmoved by the film, and I find its critical acclaim somewhat undeserved. But if it stops even one more smarmy academic couple from making babies, I applaud it.

STAR TREK (US, J.J. Abrams)
I have a strange relationship with Star Trek. I never watched the shows growing up as they struck me as silly and boring, though I did see the first four features in the theater when they came out, especially enjoying Star Trek IV: The One With The Whales. Then I wound up art directing Paramount's official Star Trek site for four years. Most recently, in 2009 I had to write Blu-ray trivia questions for the first ten features, which meant that I spent about 12-15 hours picking apart each movie, often frame by frame. So I'm in the rare position of being a nonfan who nevertheless has a nearly Trekkie level of knowledge about the franchise, and thus curious enough to want to catch J.J. Abrams' so-called "reboot" of the film series, with young fresh faces in the familiar roles of Kirk, Spock et al. What Abrams has accomplished with his cast and crew is a real crowd-pleaser, judging by the opening day audience I was with. Star Trek is packed with action and spectacular special effects, and is goosed by a fine score by the dependable Michael Giacchino and impressive production design by Scott Chambliss. You get the feeling that, this being the first Star Trek movie given a truly blockbuster budget (at least since the bloated 1979 debut feature), Abrams wants you to see every dollar on screen. So for the first time, the starships look huge, not just outside but inside as well. No longer just simple sets for the bridge, engineering and a few hallways! The attention to detail is really phenomenal. This movie looks and sounds great.

That leaves two remaining issues: the cast and the story. Abrams has chosen mostly well for his Enterprise crew. Chris Pine wisely avoids any William Shatner impressions and makes for a good enough Kirk. Zachary Quinto is perfect as Spock. Among the rest of the cast, Karl Urban seems to elicit the most genuine joy for his spot-on impersonation of DeForest Kelley in the role of Dr. Leonard "Bones" McCoy. As for the story... Well, every film has a weak spot, and for Star Trek it is its script. The plot involves a vindictive Romulan from the future named Nero (Eric Bana, whose A-list status must be truly over now if he's playing Star Trek baddies) who's an amalgam of Khan in Star Trek II and the villain in Star Trek Nemesis. He's out to get revenge on a very old version of Spock for reasons eventually explained, and so employs some black hole/time travel science that I found confusing and unnecessary. In fact I strongly suspect that this plot device was developed primarily to justify Leonard Nimoy's involvement in the film. I don't think it works. It's not particularly compelling, and Bana's Nero is a bland, generic bad guy. Then there are some wild twists that declare rather too obviously, "This is not your father's Star Trek!" (Playing the Beastie Boys' "Sabotage" is the least of them.) For the most part, though, Abrams doesn't give you time to think about plot holes, as he rushes from one fast-paced scene to another. I enjoyed Star Trek, but I will agree with some fans that not only does it ignore Gene Roddenberry's vision of a peaceful Earth (really more defined by the humane Trek of the '80s than by the rough and tumble '60s show), but that it doesn't bother plumbing the depths of who we are or what our place is in the universe. In short, it's a great roller coaster ride for two hours, but it fails to resonate beyond that.

STARTUP.COM (US, Chris Hegedus & Jehane Noujaim)
Lively, timely documentary about the rise and fall of your average Internet start-up, in this case a New York-based outfit called govworks.com (which proposed for users to be able to pay their parking tickets online, instead of, say, the Herculean task of buying a stamp and mailing in a check). Rather than wasting our time detailing the obvious (the Internet industry's Gold Rush mentality of 1998-99, the layoffs and shutdowns of 2000), the film stays tightly focused on two things: the rigors of raising money to start a company that has a shaky business plan (shedding some light - but not enough - on that mystifying question of why so many companies with half-baked moneymaking schemes were fed millions of dollars by otherwise shrewd investors); and the testy friendship between the company's founders, Kaleil Isaza Tuzman and Tom Herman, who had been close since childhood. Smartly, as the 2 years of the film's story play out, the thrust shifts from the business (after all, Hegedus & Noujaim were as bamboozled as the rest of us, believing at first that they were making a film about hotshot entrepeneurs in a burgeoning new economy) to the friendship in a hugely appropriate way. It's a gripping story with two very complex characters - the money-hungry Tuzman, who never quite emerges as a likeable guy, and the humanist Herman, who sees personal relationships as more important than a successful company and comes to embody the filmmakers' (as well as this reviewer's) sentiment that the Internet frenzy turned decent people into overambitious, arrogant jerks, and that the crash was necessary to force those people into rethinking their priorities and their values. We'll always have obnoxious blowhards like Tuzman to put up with, but as long as they are tempered by the Tom Hermans of the world, there may be hope.

STAR WARS EPISODE II: ATTACK OF THE CLONES (US, George Lucas)
Pretty much anything I have to say about this film has already been said. It's not very good. But at least it's better than the execrable Episode I. Like everybody else, I'm happy that George Lucas got smart enough to cut Jar Jar Binks out of most of the action, and we don't have to deal with the insufferable Jake Lloyd running around saying "Yipee!" left and right. But this is a joyless film, not so much because of its darker storyline, but because Lucas has succeeded in making a film so sterile and prefabricated that there is a complete absence of wonder. It's like a two-hour-plus effects reel. And though the effects are, as expected, pretty flawless, they feel empty. Even the sand on Tattooine - which was, presumably, real sand in Tunisia - doesn't feel as gritty as it did in the past films. So the only thing audiences can really respond to (forget Hayden Christensen's bland Anakin Skywalker, though in his defense I allowed his silly, wooden statements because after all, in a couple of decades he's supposed to be Darth Vader, saying things like "Now the circle is complete" and "Luke, I am your father") is the fun fight scene where a CGI Yoda opens up his can of marketing-campaign-friendly whoop-ass on Christopher Lee (who I'm happy to see getting such high-profile work so late in his long career). Unless you are also the sort to go for Natalie Portman getting her shirt ripped half off by ravenous dino-creatures, and who isn't?

In fact, Lucas almost suggests an awareness of his own material's campy qualities in these scenes, but even though he injects much more life into Episode II than its disappointing (to say the least) predecessor, substituting lots of chase scenes and Perils of Pauline-style derring do, the magic is gone. The trash compactor scene in the original Star Wars still packs more tension and excitement than Episode II's flashy, video-game-like struggle on a conveyor belt, with pots of molten steel and limb-crushing chunks of machinery. More creative, too. Well, at least I will have my memories of being 7 years old and being thrilled by the first and only true Star Wars (all you Empire Strikes Back nuts will never convince me that that is the better film). I suppose it's better in the long run that George Lucas has lost his sense of fun; at least it helped put his entire saga in perspective - the man didn't create a myth, he made a few science fiction movies - some good, some bad. Now we can get on with our lives.

STAR WARS EPISODE III: REVENGE OF THE SITH (US, George Lucas)
The cult surrounding Star Wars makes people believe in things that aren't true. I'm not talking about light sabres and little green elf creatures. I mean things like "Episode III is way better than the last two films! This is the real Star Wars prequel we've been waiting for!" Folks, stop deluding yourselves. True, nothing can be worse than the horrifying inclusion of Jar Jar Binks in Episode I. But this outing - the last of all the Star Wars films, thank God - is hardly any better than Episode II. Which is to say, both are childishly-written, stiffly-acted, completely over-computerized special effects orgies. Sitting through Episode III was like being in a video arcade for two and a half hours. Let me rephrase that. Sitting through Episode III was like being in a video arcade, watching somebody else play games, for two and a half hours. Stimulating, but never actually engaging. There's no need to discuss the particulars of the story since you all have your opinions anyway. All I'll say is that Ian McDiarmid (as the evil senator-cum-emperor) is the only actor who acquits himself well and rises above the terrible dialogue - he has a couple of scenes in which he is so good that you get a glimmer of what this second trilogy of Star Wars films might have been. And I found it amusing how frequently diehard Democrat Lucas alludes to the current Bush administration - and Republicans in general - in his dialogue regarding the evil Sith. (At one point Anakin Skywalker, now speaking as Darth Vader though not yet in his final form, paraphrases Bush's infamous "You're either with us or against us" line.) But that's it. The old magic is long gone. You can call me a grumpy old fanboy, but I don't think it's just my nostalgia talking here. It's just that once upon a time, back in 1977, you saw craftwork up on the screen. Miniatures. Sets. Location shooting. Organic optical effects. It made the original Star Wars so human and alive. But how can you really find any warmth, depth or emotion within 150 minutes of computer programming? At least it seems that the CGI revolution is complete, for it's hard to imagine what more can be done with visual effects since everything you might ever want to see can now be visually generated with the right software and a slew of render monkeys. But does this mean there might one day be a return to old-fashioned filmcraft? Or are we going to have to sit through movies that look like video games for the rest of our lives?

STATE AND MAIN (US, David Mamet)
A Hollywood film crew invades the idyllic small town of Waterford, Vermont. With that log line alone, you can figure out what to expect in State and Main. But this being David Mamet, a cherished American dramatist and a fine filmmaker, there is, of course, a lot more here than the typical Hollywood vs. smalltown America scenario that we've all seen a trillion times. Mamet's central theory, and it's a true one: everybody is starstruck. Hollywood conquers all. And no, that's not a good thing, though the movie's delivery is light and frothy enough to make you believe it is. My feelings about State and Main are very similar to those I had with Wag the Dog (which was incidentally cowritten by Mamet): there are serious, even depressing statements here about the corrupting nature of show business, but the satire is kept so light that it barely even registers, and I get the feeling that Mamet isn't particularly outraged by the callousness of Hollywood people, he just accepts them for what they are. A mature point of view, maybe, but while watching this film it only comes across as a goofy joke. Which is especially dangerous as the plot begins to revolve around the fictional film's lead actor (Alec Baldwin) coming up against a statutory rape charge.

Anyway, the cast is excellent, as you'd expect from such a top-drawer group of actors (William H. Macy, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Sarah Jessica Parker et al); the story is very clever; there are lots of amusing one-liners. My only real beef with the movie is that Mamet fictionalizes some of the details of filmmaking: Parker's character is supposedly getting paid $3 million to do the film (which itself comes across as a low budget shoot), and when she suddenly decides to break her contract and not do a topless scene, $800,000 in cash is requested to be rushed to the set. Though important to the story, it's wholly, completely unlikely - if not impossible - that this would ever happen in real life, and this slip (among others) is particularly annoying when so much else is so hilariously, vulgarly true to life, and when you remember that Mamet is certainly no stranger to the film production process (he's directed 7 features) and was doubtlessly well aware that he was making all this stuff up just to suit his story. State and Main could have been really delicious if he had kept it all real.

THE STATION AGENT (US, Thomas McCarthy)
A Nice Little Indie Film, which is a rare thing these days (as always). I saw this at Sundance in January 2003 and was glad I did; it was the one true "Sundance experience" I had, where a sweet little movie with no stars and no budget but great writing and delicate direction receives standing ovations and audience awards. Though it's no big hit on the art house circuit, it's nice to know that at least it made it to theatres. The Station Agent tells the story of Fin (Peter Dinklage), a lonely, bitter young dwarf who unexpectedly inherits an abandoned railway platform in rural New Jersey and unwillingly attracts the friendship of a kooky local artist (Patricia Clarkson) and a motormouth catering truck driver (Bobby Cannavale). What could have been way too quirky for its own good takes the higher ground and looks at these characters as thoughtful, humane individuals, all dealing with their own isolation. A pleasant charmer, well worth your time.

STILL WALKING (Japan, Hirokazu Kore-eda)
In 1999, I chanced upon a new film by Japanese indie filmmaker Hirokazu Kore-eda called After Life, a wistful fantasy about the newly dead arriving at a way station on their way to eternity, where they're asked to choose exactly one memory from their lives to take with them and live in forever. It's a wonderful film and I urge you to see it. Kore-eda's debut narrative feature, Maborosi, was glacially paced but beautifully shot. Both pictures dealt directly with death and remembrance, and so too does the writer/director's latest offering, Still Walking, a gentle portrait of a middle-class Japanese family in crisis. Two grown siblings and their small families gather at the home of their parents one summer weekend in order to honor the twelfth anniversary of their older brother's accidental death. The drama that unfolds is one of great subtlety. Strong characterizations and warm, realistic performances, especially by veteran actress Kirin Kiki as the matriarch, are the best things about Still Walking, though Kore-eda also finds time for some gorgeous, if simple, visuals. I wasn't as moved as I was by another recent Japanese family drama, the more offbeat Tokyo Sonata, and so I'm not going to tell you to rush out and see this. But if you appreciate the tone of the great Japanese filmamker Yasujiro Ozu's domestic pictures, you will enjoy Still Walking, even if its style is far less formal.

STORYTELLING (US, Todd Solondz)
When I saw Todd Solondz's previous feature Happiness, my reaction to it was this: It was well-written, well-directed, well-acted, and I didn't like it. I wasn't offended by it (though I'm sure it meant to offend as many as possible), but I count myself among those who aren't convinced that Todd Solondz likes his characters, that his films aren't just exercises in sadism. Solondz is eager to defend himself in every interview that he really does have sympathy for all his characters - all wretched losers having wretched things happening to them, and behaving wretchedly - so much that you might think, "he doth protest too much." I almost think Todd Solondz is self-aware enough to recognize this, and Storytelling could certainly be a case of Solondz questioning his own judgment. But in the end I think he lets himself off the hook, pointing the finger at his audience instead.

The film is divided into two separate stories (gee why didn't I think of that?): the first, titled "Fiction," is about college student Vi (Selma Blair) in a writing class; the second, "Nonfiction," is about documentary filmmaker Toby (Paul Giametti) who decides to film an unhappy suburban family, focusing on its deadbeat teenage son Scooby (Mark Webber). Both the college writer and the filmmaker are clear stand-ins for Solondz; Giametti even looks and talks like the director. And much of their time onscreen involves them defending their nominally (and perhaps thoroughly) exploitive work against their critics, which too transparently suggests Solondz defending himself yet again. I don't know whether to respect the guy for being brave enough to look at why the cruelty evident in his films engenders laughs from his hip urban audiences, or whether to slap him for believing that what he's doing is so important that it's worth my paying $9 to see. At least Storytelling never preaches, and Solondz knows that the folks who will come to see the film will probably be aware of his previous work, and the controversy surrounding it, as well as of Chris Smith's popular documentary American Movie, which tracked misguided loser Mark Borchardt as he struggled to raise cash for his dream film. Toby's documentary ("American Scooby") is a take-off of Smith's film (Solondz even casts Borchardt's real-life burnout buddy Mike Schank as Toby's cameraman), and the public's smug reaction is similar, which bothers Solondz as it should bother us all. I can appreciate this film to the extent that Solondz definitely has more of a point here than in Happiness (I liked his second feature Welcome to the Dollhouse, by the way), but I'm not impressed by the way he deflects his own complicity in today's mean-spirited independent cinema by exclaiming "It's all the audience's fault!" At most, his only self-criticism might be found in the fact that his two alter egos are terribly untalented at what they do. I still thought this was well-written, well-directed and well-acted. And I didn't like it. Cool poster, though.

SUNSHINE (Hungary, Istvan Szabo)
Epic tale of one Jewish Hungarian family's journey through the first half of the twentieth century, as seen through the eyes of three central characters - grandfather, father and son, all played by Ralph Fiennes (though thankfully not at the same time; this isn't The Klumps). It's also a very complex moral and political portrait - indictment, really - of Hungary's less-than-heroic involvement in World Wars I and II, as well as through postwar Communism.

As the Sonnenschein family ages, consecutive generations stray further from their Jewish heritage, changing their surname to the Hungarian-sounding Sors, becoming Roman Catholics, even publicly denouncing other Jews. And yet ironically the rest of the country still sees them only as Jews, and is happy to crush them down whenever the cause calls for it. In fact, it seems that anti-Semitism is the one constant in twentieth century Hungary, whether the Emperor or Hitler or Stalin is in charge. Fiennes' characters, though radically different in their lives, share a common trait: they are proud but self-deluded men who obey their leaders, having an unfailing trust in their corrupt governments, and are consistently destroyed by their ignorance as one regime topples and denounces another, one generation's hero becomes the next's victim, and so on. Fiennes' characters seem to symbolize Hungary itself, at least in Szabo's view, and the result is an eye-opening saga of a nation's confusion as well as a family's struggles, and perhaps a cynical statement that every political era is essentially made up of violent thugs and cowardly masses who all simply do what they're told, while the only people to survive with bodies and souls intact are those who head for the hills when things get rough. All the same, Sunshine, passionate and brave, is one of the few truly thought-provoking films out there. Fiennes is strong in his multiple roles (and quite the ladies' man - he bags more babes than James Bond!), as is the rest of the cast. Though it took a while to adjust to the very serious dialogue and shameless high drama, the film sucked me in. By all means, take three hours of your life and spend them with Sunshine.

SUNSHINE (UK/US, Danny Boyle)
Danny Boyle has taken elements of the greatest science fiction movies, from 2001 to Alien, and created a stylish, suspenseful thriller out of them, only to come up short in the third act - which I'll get to in a moment. The plot of Sunshine: In the vaguely distant future, the sun is dying and Earth is becoming uninhabitable. So it's up to a small band of astronauts to carry a nuclear bomb the size of Manhattan literally all the way to the sun, in hopes of detonating it and thereby recharging its batteries, as it were. All this is established quickly through voiceover over the course of maybe twenty seconds, which is a nice change of pace from the usual dull exposition. For the rest of the movie, we're on board the aptly-named spaceship Icarus II (and what happened to Icarus I? Well, therein lies the film's real story) and its scruffy crew, as they ponder their fates and are forced to make the sacrifices they have to in order to save the planet from certain doom. Unfortunately, director Boyle and screenwriter Alex Garland sidestep profundity in favor of - and if you're dying to see this movie, I suggest you stop reading this review right now - a lame "twist" in the third act which turns the final twenty or so minutes of Sunshine into basically a slasher movie. What a waste of a good idea. (Also wasted is the great martial arts star Michelle Yeoh in a forgettable part.) Still, Boyle creates an authentic atmosphere, and Garland's script makes great, detailed use of the practical challenges of being in deep space. This is science fiction that doesn't completely ignore the science, and thus it could have been an excellent entry in a movie genre that's notably lean on great entries... if it weren't for that cliched, horror-inspired third act! What a shame. Still, it's bound to find its own cult following someday.

SUNSHINE CLEANING (US, Christine Jeffs)
I was actually looking forward to Sunshine Cleaning for over a year since it debuted at Sundance 2008, chiefly because it has my old Claustrophobia star Mary Lynn Rajskub in a featured role, but also because I thought it had a very intriguing premise: two struggling sisters (Amy Adams and Emily Blunt) decide to go into business cleaning up the mess left after crime scenes. I had hoped that such a movie might turn out to be a great dark comedy - cute girls mopping up brain matter! - or perhaps something along the lines of Six Feet Under: a wry look inside the death industry, balancing gallows humor with poignant (and pointed) family drama. However, when the film was finally released, reviews across the board were vaguely unenthusiastic, and so I waited until Sunshine Cleaning hit the cheap theater before I saw it. I now understand the lack of enthusiasm, but I will put it into more specific terms: the film is nowhere near as fun as it should be. With a cast like that (including Alan Arkin as the sisters' father, the eternally underrated Clifton Collins Jr., and Steve Zahn in a curiously underwritten role as Adams's married boyfriend) and a premise that somehow manages to work in sex, suicide, lesbians, amputees, gore and children with licking fetishes, how could it not be interesting? Yet somehow, director Jeffs and especially screenwriter Megan Holley have managed to make it all very dull. Holley infuses her script with the hoary old Sundance cliche of the Dead Relative, in this case the sisters' mother, whose death some twenty years earlier they are still coming to terms with, and it really drags the movie down. Whatever humor exists is strained; the grim cleanup scenes (just a bit of blood, really) are presented without shock; there isn't really even much of a story. It's mostly just a bunch of unhappy characters feeling sorry for themselves. The cast is fine, the dialogue is believable, and although Jeffs doesn't seem to be doing much directing, she appears competent. This isn't a terrible or even bad film. (The worst thing about it is Michael Penn's lazy, countrified guitar score.) But in a way, I'm angrier that Sunshine Cleaning was made than I am about so many more obviously idiotic movies because of the wasted potential. You could see how easy it would have been to have made a great film with such a wonderful cast and a concept rich with possibilities. That the results are so inoffensive, whiny and bland is a real crime.

SUPER (US, James Gunn)
The latest in an array of caped crusader spoofs, the gruesome comedy-drama Super is a decidedly mixed bag, yet I can't quite get it out of my head. The Office's Rainn Wilson stars as a certifiable loser who, after his indifferent wife (Liv Tyler) leaves him for a sleazy strip club owner (Kevin Bacon), has a religious vision that tells him to seek revenge by becoming a superhero. So he stitches together a pitiful red outfit, calls himself "The Crimson Bolt", and fights petty crime a bit too enthusiastically, bringing his pipe wrench down upon the easily-cracked heads of various perpetrators. The first half hour or so of Super is pretty disappointing, weighed down by lame jokes and awkward religious satire. But it picks up considerably once Ellen Page joins the fray as the all-too-willing Robin to Wilson's self-righteous Batman. She gives a fearless, wild, nearly psychotic performance, completely necessary in scenes that require her to go big or go home. Whereas Wilson remains an unconvincing leading man, the tone of his performance wavering and uncertain (like the film itself), Page offers proof that she is a genuine movie star. Indie stalwart James Gunn, who previously penned the similarly disjointed superhero satire The Specials in 2000 as well as the unfortunate Scooby-Doo live action pictures and several Troma movies, really hit the jackpot with his cast. It's a surprisingly glamorous roster of talent in an artless, unapologetically low budget movie. I don't know how Gunn convinced them, but I can say that without the participation of Bacon, Tyler, and especially Page (along with an enviable supporting cast of familiar faces, including Nathan Fillion), Super would fall flat on its face, coming across as a third-rate Kick-Ass knockoff. But Page's horny sidekick is far more interesting than Chloe Grace Moretz's star-making turn in Kick-Ass, the violence is significantly less stylized and more disturbing, and Super's conclusion is downright touching. It's definitely not without its problems, but it's likely to become a cult favorite.

SUPER 8 (US, J.J. Abrams)
It is the summer of 1979, and a group of aspiring filmmakers just out of middle school are shooting a zombie movie around their home of Lillian, Ohio when they witness a horrific train crash - soon to discover that the crash was intentionally caused by their old science teacher, that the incident involved an Air Force train carrying dangerous cargo, and that the cargo has... escaped. Super 8 is a fun, crisply directed amalgam of Steven Spielberg's various alien movies, from Close Encounters of the Third Kind to E.T. to War of the Worlds. It should be no surprise that Spielberg himself serves as producer of the film, for even though this is arguably writer/director J.J. Abrams' baby, it feels like a Spielberg movie through and through. (Abrams, who was the same age as his young protagonists in 1979, obviously identifies with his characters, though the identification seems limited to a love of Spielberg movies!) Were it not for some draggy 21st century scenes of adolescent angst and Abrams' trademark lens flares everywhere, this could have easily passed as one of Spielberg's own early '80s entries. Which isn't a knock against Super 8 at all. Despite its obviously being a pastiche of the summer movies that Abrams (and yours truly) grew up with, Super 8 remains a welcome original in our modern era of sequels, remakes, reboots, adaptations, and so forth. The cast of mostly unknowns is refreshing and the pace - excluding the maudlin scenes of kids talking about their dead or troubled parents - is brisk. Abrams also shows a talent for letting his stories play out on a grand scale: you really sense that an entire community is in danger here, which is a healthy contrast to the strangely insular feeling of most of today's blockbusters, even the ones that routinely put our entire planet in peril. I hope Super 8 inspires a new generation of pubescent film geeks, even if I suspect that the film's real fanbase - and perhaps its intended audience - consists of thirtysomething/fortysomething guys longing for the good old days when summer meant dark, funny, exciting movies like Goonies, Gremlins, and Temple of Doom (which all carried Spielberg's imprimatur as well). In fact, why this story is set in 1979 instead of 1984, where in a cultural sense it truly belongs, is the only inconsistency. But then I guess Abrams would have had to call it VHS.

SUPERMAN RETURNS (US, Bryan Singer)
While watching Superman Returns the other day, I felt guilty for allowing that Brett Ratner didn't muck up the X-Men movie franchise after Bryan Singer left to make this film. Because Ratner proved to be only mediocre instead of god-awful, I had basically tolerated his work, forgetting how good Singer's direction in the first two X-Men films really was. While watching Singer's masterful pacing, suspense, attention to detail and love for the filmmaking craft in Superman Returns (which admittedly showcases his directorial talents more than the X-Men movies did, or maybe he's just getting better with each film), I was instantly reminded of the difference between a talented helmer who truly calls the shots (Singer) and a studio hack who lets the rote mechanics of production dictate what he does with his camera and his cast (Ratner). Though I am still on the fence about whether, in the long run, it really was the right move for Singer and company to devote themselves so slavishly to Richard Donner's 1978 Superman. The storyline in this film (one of countless storylines, I suppose, over the decade of troubled Hollywood development snafus in bringing Supes back to the big screen) picks up where 1980's Superman II leaves off. So newcomer Brandon Routh gamely apes then-newcomer Christopher Reeve in the title role, composer John Ottman makes liberal and loving use of John Williams' iconic original themes in his score, and the look and feel of Superman Returns hews closely to Donner's vision, if updated for 2006. So although while watching the new film, it was lovely to see the devotion to all the things that worked in the first place - even the opening title sequence is an homage to the lightspeedy zoom of the 1978 film's end credits - now that I have had some time to think about it, I wish Singer pushed the envelope a little further than he did.

The one big improvement over Donner's film and first sequel is that Singer more fully explores the complex web of responsibilities and desires in the Man of Steel's life. Here you really feel how important Superman is to his adopted planet Earth, how much a part of the fabric of life he has become. So while it never really delves into why this godlike being, this literal savior of our world, would choose to rather selfishly take off for five years just to see if there are any remnants of his home planet of Krypton, it does at least touch on the all-too-human pain of being away from those we love, only to realize how they have gone on without us. In Superman Returns, this of course is personified by Lois Lane, who in Superman's absence has shacked up with her editor's nephew and mothered a young boy. Though in a subtle, clever moment, we learn that while Supes was off wandering around the universe, he was nowhere to be found when called as a witness at his arch-enemy Lex Luthor's trial, and so Luthor was released from jail - much, of course, to Superman's later regret. And herein are the things about Superman Returns that didn't quite work for me. Kevin Spacey is fine as Luthor, but only brings back memories of Gene Hackman's unmatchable performance in the part. Parker Posey, as an amalgam of the Valerie Perrine and Ned Beatty roles in the 1978 film, is an ill fit as Luthor's dimwitted sidekick. (The uncompelling Kate Bosworth is also just OK as Lois Lane; too bad in this day and age scrappy, raspy-voiced actresses like Margot Kidder and Raiders of the Lost Ark's Karen Allen no longer get cast in leading roles. In fact the only casting that really works here is Sam Huntington as a very funny Jimmy Olsen.) And Luthor's latest scheme to take over the world, with its Kryptonian sci-fi elements, lacks the real-life scariness of his hijacking nuclear weapons in Donner's original. Still, the star of the show is Bryan Singer, who delivers some intense, crowd-pleasing action scenes, real emotion, genuine derring-do and many beautiful moments of pure cinema. And in the end, a movie is only really remembered by how many of those moments it can give us.

SUPER SIZE ME (US, Morgan Spurlock)
Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you the latest trend in filmmaking: The High Concept Documentary. Much has already been written about Super Size Me, but if you've been hiding under the sink for the first half of 2004, the pitch is this: Director Morgan Spurlock decided to eat a McDonald's-only diet for 30 days in 2003, in order to see if all the brouhaha over fast food being bad for you is true. (He says he was inspired by the since-dismissed lawsuit two obese teenage girls waged against McDonald's, claiming that it was corporate mind-control, not personal gluttony, that made them fat.) Documenting every agonizing day of his "McDiet," and periodically checking in on his weight and health, Spurlock finds plenty of time in-between doctor's exams to squeeze in dozens of talking heads spouting opinions about the fast food industry, with some fun animations to add zing. The end result: well, I won't give it away, but let's just say that Spurlock's disturbing biological reaction to all those burgers and Cokes surprised even his doctors. But is it an important movie? Not really. Eric Schlosser's bestseller Fast Food Nation already covered the same ground, much more thoroughly. Super Size Me is perhaps aimed at those too lazy to pick up Schlosser's book. Which is fine with me, since those who really need to know this stuff might be more inclined to watch a movie (especially when it hits cable) than read a book. Spurlock's Everydude persona - both morally and intellectually, he positions himself somewhere between Michael Moore and Jackass star Johnny Knoxville - may help his movie appeal to teenagers, who I believe are the people who really should be seeing it. (The one true urgent point in Super Size Me, in fact, is that schools need to stop making deals with the junk food industry and start providing their students with healthy meals.) It's not particularly smart, and Spurlock misses a lot of opportunities, but it's a lively, entertaining film, worth seeing if only to make McDonald's and its ilk nervous about the public getting wiser about the crap they've been eating.

SUZHOU RIVER (China/Germany, Ye Lou)
Imagine Hitchcock's Vertigo directed by Hong Kong's preeminent film artist Wong Kar-Wei and you'll get a hint of Suzhou River, a dreamy, infinitely romantic drama set in contemporary Shanghai that tackles nothing so much as the bottomless mysteries of romantic love. Our unseen narrator, a freelance videographer who wanders the city looking for work, videotaping weddings and such, tells us about his love for Meimei (Zhou Xun), a sexy city girl who performs as a mermaid in a seedy local bar. The first parts of the film are boldly shot through the narrator's POV, with characters speaking directly into the camera (one of the only times this gimmick has ever worked) until he begins to spin the tale of a lonely motorcycle courier Mardar (Jia Hongshen), who, a few years earlier, fell in love with innocent teenager Moudan (Zhou Xun again) but was forced to betray her - with tragic consequences. The narrative shifts and shimmers so that we're no longer sure just which story is real, or which woman is real, or if Moudan and Meimei are the same person, as Mardar returns to Shanghai in search of her, and complicates the lives of both Meimei and our still-unseen narrator in the process. Suzhou River is tremendously exciting to watch, as it just feels so new, and there's nothing quite like the discovery of fresh talent: Ye is a member of China's so-called "Sixth Generation" of filmmakers (the Fifth included such lauded directors as Zhang Yimou and Chen Kaige) and although this is his debut, his maturity and sophistication in telling a story cinematically are clear within the first five minutes. Saturated colors, handheld camera, a beautifully broken narrative style, a lush, often Vertigo-like score and a genuine belief in the severity of love make Suzhou River soar into the stratosphere. Once again, I'm convinced that movies from mainland China are really at the so-called cutting edge of new cinema. Though there was a slump for a few years (at least in terms of which Chinese films made it to Western shores), here's hoping that Suzhou River reopens the doors to one of the most fascinating film movements in the world.

SWEENEY TODD: THE DEMON BARBER OF FLEET STREET (US, Tim Burton)
Tim Burton's ambitious cinematic adaptation of the cult Stephen Sondheim Broadway musical has been hailed as a "return to form" for the spooky director, whose film output has been erratic in terms of the quality of their respective screenplays. Burton + Sondheim + star Johnny Depp + adaptation of a classic musical = Formula for Success, right? Well, yes and no. For starters, it's no surprise that, as with all Burton films, Sweeney Todd looks amazing - the sets, the costumes and the cinematography are all eye-catching. And it's hard to knock a cast that includes not only Depp but Burton's soulmate Helena Bonham-Carter, Alan Rickman, Timothy Spall and Sacha Baron Cohen (adding much-needed levity). And they can all sing fairly well. But there's something missing in Sweeney Todd. Something flat and uninvolving. Could it be how the story stops in its tracks whenever young swain Anthony (Jamie Campbell Bower) swoons over Sweeney Todd's captive Johanna (Jayne Wisener), especially when he warbles the treacly ballad "Johanna"? Or maybe it's how the film seems to wrap everything up a little too swiftly, as if we're missing something? Perhaps it's just because the whole thing is treated so darn seriously. The blood gushes operatically as the vindictive barber Sweeney starts slashing the throats of his customers, and the musical's beloved undercurrent of cannibalism provides some rich black comedy - or, well, it should have, anyway. But what audiences have come to see is handled relatively briefly, taking a back seat to the tale of rescuing Todd's missing daughter Joanna so that she can live happily ever after with Anthony (a story which never reaches any firm conclusion in the film - I am assuming it's a faithful adaptation of the musical, but why this thread is left loose, I know not why). In the end, Sweeney Todd, for all its clever songs and outlandish costumes and squirting blood, takes itself far too seriously. I enjoyed it, but I guess it didn't live up to my expectations. For all its bluster, it feels strangely small. Not stagebound - in fact, Burton has done an excellent job at adapting the musical for the big screen - but oppressive. Not a fun time at the movies. And if I have to go with a Stephen Sondheim musical, I'd take his stellar work in Sunday in the Park with George or Into the Woods any day over having to listen to "Johanna" again.

SWEET HOME ALABAMA (US, Andy Tennant)
Reese Witherspoon plays a successful New York fashion designer who, after her sudden engagement to A JFK Jr.-like socialite (Patrick Dempsey), high-tails it to her backwater home in Alabama in order to secure her divorce from her white trash husband (Josh Lucas, coming across like a slightly more angry Matthew McConaughey). Already we're being asked to like a character who hides her past - her poverty, her wild youth, even her husband - from somebody she apparently loves enough to want to marry. Especially when he's conveniently the son of the Mayor of New York (Candice Bergen, awful). That Sweet Home Alabama is predictable - the very tagline of the film pretty much tells you who Witherspoon is going to wind up with - would be forgiveable if only the movie had some sense of energy, creativity or love. Instead it slumps along, morosely, its characters moaning instead of laughing, the story feeling like something you're supposed to watch instead of wanting to. It's this tiredness that makes me so angry that Hollywood keeps churning out product like this. "A Reese Witherspoon Vehicle" it was surely pitched as, and you get the idea that none of the studio honchos who green-lighted it even bothered to see if the script was any good. Which is a shame, because you could have made a delightful movie even from this stale premise. What Tennant and Co. have produced is just a joyless chore to watch. However, I will give expected, though well-deserved, kudos to my Claustrophobia stars Melanie Lynskey and Mary Lynn Rajskub, for actually having some fun with their too-small roles. (Ethan Embry also acquits himself well.) If only there were more of them, and less of Bergen, and frankly less of Witherspoon (who I usually like) and her unlikeable character, Sweet Home Alabama might not have been such a complete drag.

SWIMMING POOL (France, Francois Ozon)
Lacking a Hollywood studio's multi-million marketing campaign and the resources to open on 2000 screens across the U.S., independent and foreign films depend almost entirely on word of mouth to make any decent money. So I finally gave into peer pressure and saw Swimming Pool based mainly on how well it was doing at art house theatres, even though I had seen Ozon's previous feature Under the Sand (starring Swimming Pool leading lady Charlotte Rampling) and found it dull, meandering, and finally pointless. Swimming Pool is far livelier, if ultimately as pointless: An extraordinarily repressed British mystery writer (Rampling) is told by her publisher, who she seems to have a bit of a crush on, to take a solo holiday in his villa in the south of France, in order to recharge her creative juices. Soon after she arrives, basking in the sunshine and overcoming her writer's block, her peace and quiet is broken when the publisher's sexy, foul-mouthed French daughter (Ludivine Sagnier) shows up unannounced one night. The contrast between icy British spinster and lusty French vixen is so pronounced that the women immediately hate each other, before forming an inevitable bond. Swimming Pool is at its best here, while it explores the nuances of these two complex, fascinating characters. Unfortunately, the story takes a sharp left turn, and what substance is there completely dissolves in a series of bizarre and often unrelated scenes. I won't give anything away, but the twists and turns in the film's second half turn from intriguing to confusing to just plain obvious. In the end they negate what was interesting about the story in the first place. Rampling is great, however, as is Sagnier (whose frequent nudity might be the reason for the film's impressive box office).

SYNECDOCHE, NEW YORK (US, Charlie Kaufman)
It's funny. When Paul Thomas Anderson's breakthrough film Boogie Nights came out, everybody loved it - except me. When Magnolia came out, everybody loved it even more - except me. And then when Punch-Drunk Love came out, everybody ignored it - except me, who loved it. My relationship to the output of Charlie Kaufman is similar. Being John Malkovich? Didn't do much for me. Adaptation? I was slightly amused. Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? I was not really moved. All three films, written by Kaufman, earned a great deal of critical praise and became cult favorites. Now, for some reason, Kaufman's directorial debut, Synecdoche, New York, is being slagged off - or at least shrugged off - by critics and fans alike. And yet, even though I freely admit that I didn't understand all of it (no big surprise with Kaufman), I liked it much more than I thought I would.

I can understand the naysayers, though: for a debut, Kaufman's surrealist roller coaster of a film is outrageously ambitious, and it would be easy to say that he's bitten off more than he can chew. Philip Seymour Hoffman stars as a gloomy theater director whose life is stuck in fast-forward (literally) as he slogs through his complicated relationships with women and his various physical ailments while staging a city-sized theatrical production that, in its overreaching scope, probably intentionally mirrors the film itself. That's the easiest way I can wrap up the plot, which eventually involves actors playing other actors; sets within sets, and the usual goofy Kaufman non sequiturs, e.g., a house that is eternally on fire, which smacks of the forced zaniness of Malkovich's 7½ floor. On that note, Synecdoche could be called Kaufman's 8½ - a self-reflexive, semiautobiographical study of an artist struggling with life, death, love, sex and the creative process. The finer details may have mostly gone over my head, but there is an emotional truth to the film that I found at times very touching. It doesn't hurt that Kaufman has cast nearly every great screen actress working today: Catherine Keener, Samantha Morton, Hope Davis, Jennifer Jason Leigh, Dianne Weist, Emily Watson and Michelle Williams. Whew! The guy must have the same jones for pixie-faced actresses that I do. Their presence adds much warmth to the film. It wouldn't be nearly as effective without them. (And having Watson play Morton is possibly Kaufman's most genius move.) Otherwise, if critics deride Kaufman's directorial style as lacking the visual aplomb of his usual collaborators Spike Jonze or Michel Gondry, it's not something that I noticed. Definitely worth seeing for Kaufman fans who are up for the adventure. Others may find it baffling and pretentious. As someone who neither worships nor loathes Kaufman's work, I found Synecdoche, New York a unique, heartfelt and certainly unpredictable moviegoing experience.

SYRIANA (US, Stephen Gaghan)
Mercilessly complicated thriller about oil, politics, money, terrorism, and how they all relate. At the core of this patchwork quilt of a story is a merger between two major U.S. oil companies, a squabble over the rights to oil drilling in Kazakhstan, a conspiracy to "liberate" Iran, and a plot to assassinate the heir apparent to an anonymous oil-rich nation (Star Trek: Deep Space Nine actor Alexander Siddig - nice to see him landing a good role). Leading the large, jumbled cast of characters is George Clooney as a rumpled CIA assassin, Matt Damon as an ambitious financial advisor who befriends the aforementioned heir, and Jeffrey Wright as a corporate lawyer whose job it is to find - and then bury - any corporate malfeasance in the oil company merger. I must confess, even while paying strict attention (for Syriana is never boring), that I got lost somewhere along the way. Is Wright's character doing the right thing? Or is he doing the wrong thing while believing he's doing the wrong thing? Or is he doing the wrong thing for the right reasons? Or the right thing for the wrong reasons? And his is not the only character whose intentions I remain confused about. For example, could somebody please tell me who Christopher Plummer's character is, and what he wants? He seems to be the key connection between all the various sub-plots, and yet there's something murky about his motivations. Sure, the corrupt American oil tycoons are indisputably Syriana's bad guys, but which one are we supposed to hate the most? Or does it even matter, since the real villain is ultimately the West's thirst for oil? By the end I felt like I needed to read the Cliff's Notes version of the film, which is especially frustrating, as this is an urgent, intelligent work that feels impeccably authentic, down to the smallest detail. If you're up to the task of keeping up with its byzantine storyline, Syriana is a rewarding experience, a unique look at America's dependence on oil, and the price that the world pays - in money and lives - on this dependence. The cast and direction are first-rate (writer/director Gaghan covered similar territory with his script for Steven Soderbergh's Traffic, which less successfully blended multiple storylines in its depiction of the drug trade), as are the production values. Cynical though it may ultimately be, Syriana is a meaty film for smart adults that probably needs to be seen more than once in order to be fully understood. Only its recurring motif of parallel father-son relationships feels undeveloped, even unnecessary.