VALHALLA RISING (Denmark/UK, Nicolas Winding Refn)
I was a fan of Danish writer/director Refn's previous English language effort, Bronson, the highly theatrical portrait of the crazed British jailbird known as "Charles Bronson". So I was looking forward to Valhalla Rising, even though, my Norwegian roots notwithstanding, I have never held an interest in Viking movies. Different on almost every level from Bronson, Valhalla Rising is a brooding Dark Ages saga of a mute slave warrior (ubiquitous Danish actor Mads Mikkelsen - you remember him as the villain from Casino Royale) who is adopted into a small crew of Scottish Christians about to set sail for Jerusalem to fight in the Crusades. A mist envelopes their boat for days - possibly weeks - and they arrive on alien shores. Punctuated by sudden bursts of extreme gory violence and awash in a sludgy (but effective) soundtrack, nearly psychedelic imagery, and a strong anti-Christian message, Valhalla Rising is like Werner Herzog's Aguirre, the Wrath of God repurposed for the death metal crowd. I have no problem with that per se, but the film's often achingly slow story does not amount to much in the end. It will have its fans, but I was disappointed.

VANILLA SKY (US, Cameron Crowe)
I had low expectations walking into this film (another free screening for Paramount employees) as a) I think Tom Cruise is a terrible actor and b) I think Cameron Crowe is a terrible writer. Why terrible? Because everything they do is so obvious, so forced, so unnatural. So it's no surprise that for their first post-Jerry Maguire film together, they would choose an adaptation of Alejandro Amenabar's labored twist-ending Spanish movie Open Your Eyes. Crowe pads Amenabar's original story with all the witty, clever-clever dialogue he so likes to write, which nobody says in real life, ever. To make matters worse, whenever Crowe actually turns a memorable phrase, he can't leave it alone - he has to use the phrase over and over until any charm it might have had gets drained out upon its repeat. ("That is the saddest woman to ever hold a martini," "We'll meet in another life, when we are both cats," etc.)

Oh, the story. Tom Cruise plays Tom Cruise again, another filthy rich ladies' man with a hot car, a cool job, and everything going for him. That is, until the day he dumps his sex partner (Cameron Diaz, good but wasted) for the exotic Penelope Cruz. Diaz goes nuts and takes Cruise on a joyride over a bridge and smack into a brick wall. She dies in the accident; his beautiful face becomes disfigured. And for a little while, Vanilla Sky is interesting. Cruise Elephant-Mans himself around Manhattan with believable-looking scar makeup that distorts his face so that he can't rely on his two patented facial expressions - the "bad boy" smirk and the thousand-yard glare - and has to act a little. Unfortunately, then the story takes a left turn into, you know, that land where things are not quite what they seem, and the third act gets bogged down in unwelcome sci fi hogwash.

This is the A.I. of psychological thrillers: it has some good moments, and deep down some interesting ideas, but it tries to pack in too much story and is so far removed from any recognizable human element that it's impossible to connect with. Unless maybe you're a multi-millionaire. Crowe is trying to tell a dark, cynical story but he's the wrong guy for the job (just as Spielberg was the wrong guy for A.I.): he can't stay away from cramming his soundtrack full of rock songs, or from adoring Tom Cruise (whose character is meant to be a heel, his disfigurement karmic retribution for his callous treating of Diaz - and yet you feel Crowe doesn't really see Cruise's character as the jerk he is, or Diaz a victim; she's written off as a psycho who was better off dead anyway), or from shoveling out precious dialogue that are meant for you to think, "That Cameron Crowe is such a great writer." Wake up: He's not. He's a phony. Take back his Oscar. I only recommend Vanilla Sky to postmodernist cranks who could see the film as an unintentional metaphor for Tom Cruise's vanity, and the paranoia that comes only with so much wealth, fame and power. In that respect, he's well-cast.

VENUS (UK, Roger Michell)
Peter O'Toole plays Maurice, an elderly London actor of moderate renown whose cranky best friend (Leslie Phillips), another aged thespian, is beset upon by his grand-niece (newcomer Jodie Whittaker), a snotty Northern girl with a taste for alcohol. Maurice - a lifelong ladies' man - finds himself instantly smitten with the impolite young niece and, even as he acknowledges that he is at the end of his life, sets off upon one final conquest. Or at least he tries to. "The spirit is willing but the flesh is weak" best describes the horny old Maurice's situation as he vainly tries to score with the niece, whom he nicknames Venus. She's not as stupid as she looks, however, and agrees to an unusual and conditional relationship with Maurice where the boundaries are in flux - and constantly tested. Three years earlier, director Roger Michell and screenwriter Hanif Kureishi collaborated on a similar picture, The Mother, in which the tables were turned and an older woman embarked upon a sexual relationship with a younger man. The Mother was an angry, brutal film, more of an attack of the rotten state of the modern English family than a story about love or sex. Venus is far gentler, either because of our sexist society that is more forgiving of a dirty old man chasing around a young girl than an elderly woman asserting her sexuality, or because both Michell and Kureishi accept that this is really a vehicle for O'Toole, one last chance at a great leading role before he himself shuffles off this mortal coil. As a result, the film is pleasant, and while it's smart enough to accept that Maurice's intentions are both pitiful and creepy, it didn't leave me much to chew on. O'Toole, however, gives it his all, and it's an undeniably touching performance - all the more so when we know that he won't be with us for much longer. There are a lot of nice subtleties in both the script and the cast's work as well. But without O'Toole's legendary status, there would be little really notable about Venus.

VERA DRAKE (UK, Mike Leigh)
I never got around to seeing this film when it first came out because of some slightly negative word-of-mouth amongst snooty critics, calling it a good effort but finding fault with Mike Leigh's portrait of a cheery middle-aged abortionist, deriding the character as a bit too "saintly." But then the Academy surprised everybody by bestowing Vera Drake with Oscar nominations for writing, direction and leading actress, so five months after its first release, revived interest sent the film back into theatres. And I finally got around to seeing it. I could kick myself for not having gone sooner, especially since I've always appreciated Leigh's work. Here, in his first "period picture" since his Victorian-era Topsy Turvy, he expertly captures London in 1950 - fog, post-war rationing and all - as he depicts a working class family, presided over by the almost unbelievably kind Vera (Imelda Staunton). What makes Vera Drake so good is the cast: you'd swear you were watching a real loving, functioning family, not a bunch of actors. (Leigh is famous for developing his characters - and his dialogue - directly with his cast, over several months of improvisational workshops, in order for the roles to feel truly "lived in.") Through good times and bad, and unaware of their mother's then-illegal side job "helping girls out," they relate to each other as a true family would, frequently to highly moving effect. I grew to love these people. And Dick Pope's cinematography is so rich that the film feels like it was actually shot in 1950. Kudos as well to Eve Stewart for her evocative sets. The only real negative I have with the film is the score, which includes a most unwelcome chorus of atonal female voices. It's irritating, distracting, and, some might say, heavy-handed. (The voices seem to simultaneously suggest Vera's martyrdom, the howls of suffering women, even the cries of the unborn!) But the excellent cast makes the film worthwhile viewing no matter how you react to the score. As for his film's touchy subject matter, Leigh characteristically keeps his story nonjudgmental, concerning itself only with the varied reactions of Vera's family. Though it can safely be said that, by showing the limited and often dangerous options that women with unwanted pregnancies once had (particularly working class women), Vera Drake is Leigh's argument for why abortion must be kept legal.

THE VERTICAL RAY OF THE SUN (Vietnam/France, Tran Anh Hung)
From the maker of The Scent of Green Papaya comes another lush slice-of-Vietnamese-life. In contemporary Hanoi, four grown siblings go through their days running their cafe, lying exhausted in the summer heat, eating, drinking, and yearning for love outside their stifled lives. The two oldest sisters are having issues with their husbands' (and their own) infidelity. The youngest sister (Tran Nu Yen Keh, presumably the director's girlfriend, who also starred in Green Papaya as well as Tran's follow-up, the little-seen Cyclo) has yet to experience real love, and so she starts developing an uncomfortable affection for her brother. But The Vertical Ray of the Sun is less about any story than about the color green, the color blue, the sound of birds hidden in the trees, Lou Reed singing "Pale Blue Eyes," and water water everywhere - dribbling down a woman's back, splashing under a man's hands, mist in the air, ocean under a boat. It's the wettest film I've ever seen. Of course, this attention to texture and atmosphere should come as no surprise to anybody who saw Green Papaya, but this film forgoes the innocence of Tran's debut; after making his harder-edged Cyclo (which was considered such a disappointment by critics and audiences that a despondent Tran considered suicide), the director could probably never go back to making films about pure happiness, and so although Vertical Ray is as languid and smooth as his first film, the emotional themes are darker, sadder. Still, the camera loves Tran Nu Yen Keh: her acting has improved considerably, and her sensuality is as palatable as the film's.

A VERY LONG ENGAGEMENT (France, Jean-Pierre Jeunet)
Stylish filmmaker Jeunet reteams with his Amélie star Audrey Tautou to tell another tale of a puckish young woman obsessed with finding her man; however, those expecting the sweet comedy of Amélie will be disappointed: A Very Long Engagement is a mostly somber drama, set against the horrors of World War I, and while it contains many examples of Jeunet's trademark whimsy and surrealism, this time they seem an ill fit with the seriousness of the proceedings. The film opens with a grim procession through the rain-filled trenches of the French front, as five men who tried to get out of the army via self-inflicted gunshot wounds to their hands are condemned to die. The youngest of the men, a sensitive dreamer named Manech (Gaspard Ulliel), is beloved by his hometown fiancée, Mathilde (Tautou), a sweet-natured girl with a polio limp and, as we soon discover, a dogged determination: for three years later, after the end of the war, refusing to accept the news that her lover was killed on the front lines, Mathilde embarks upon a zigzagging search for Manech, enlisting a private investigator (Ticky Holgado, one of the many Jeunet regulars in the film) to help her find the surviving soldiers in Manech's battallion in order to unearth the truth about his fate. Through interviews and discoveries, Mathilde slowly starts to piece together the puzzle, but along with a subplot involving a murderous prostitute, lengthy battleground flashbacks, and a large cast of characters that are often difficult to keep track of, somewhere we lose the meaning behind Mathilde's quest. Clearly, Jeunet wants us to love this woman, feeling her loss and understanding what a bloody, brutal thing "The Great War" was, but his detective story - for that is what A Very Long Engagement is - is so convoluted that it sucks the heart out of the film. Tautou is distressingly straight-faced, so much so that I wasn't sure whether Mathilde really loves this Manech fellow or if she just wants to get to the bottom of things. Which I don't think is the point of the film. It's supposed to be a love story. You're supposed to take out your handkerchiefs by film's end. But for me, I was too distracted by the flashy visuals and the clever gimmicks and the cast of thousands. For much of the film, I was frankly confused as to who was who, or how they factored into Mathilde's quest, and while the script ties it all up nicely, by then I was more interested in how everything fit together than I was about whether this woman finds her missing man. Like all of Jeunet's films, A Very Long Engagement is visually stunning. And the script and cast (including a random appearance by a French-speaking Jodie Foster, who turns a glorified cameo into something sensual and daring) are first-rate. This isn't a bad film at all. But ultimately, for all its technical triumphs, I have to call A Very Long Engagement a failure, in that its primary purpose is to pull our heartstrings, but by spending too much energy on structure and style, it shoots itself in the foot. (Or shall I say in the hand.)

VICKY CRISTINA BARCELONA (Spain/US, Woody Allen)
It says much about the slim pickings of 2008's late summer movie season that this slight, though not insulting, comedy-drama would become one of Woody Allen's biggest hits. Vicky (Rebecca Hall) and Cristina (Scarlett Johansson) are two American tourists who decide to spend a few weeks hanging out in sunny Barcelona before Vicky's impending marriage to a rich, dull New York yuppie. Soon they meet local painter Juan Antonio (Javier Bardem), who comes on strong and attempts to seduce the both of them. After a couple of mild surprises, Juan Antonio's insane ex-wife Maria Elena (Penelope Cruz, who steals the show) enters the story, complicating relationships even further. Though not as funny as one might expect from Allen and his attractive cast and setting, Vicky Cristina Barcelona is still rather light, and its meditations on love and desire are nothing groundbreaking or particularly deep. There were two things that really bothered me about the movie. The first is the clunky third-person narration (by a little-known actor named Christopher Evan Welch). I found it mostly unnecessary and wonder if the film could have been stronger without the narration explaining all the characters' motivations and inner feelings. The second is that the movie takes place in the Catalan region of Spain, which has its own distinct language and culture that are definitely not Spanish. Vicky is even writing her dissertation on Catalan culture. And yet all the "Catalan" characters speak only Spanish to each other and exhibit stereotypical Spanish passion (as opposed to Catalan reserve), and this is never even addressed. Seeing as how most of Allen's erudite audience would recognize the difference, it's surprising that he didn't just write a line that could explain this dichotomy (e.g., "We're both from Madrid, but we decided to come here to Barcelona instead"). Finally - and make this three problems I had with the picture - the focus puller should have been sacked. Several scenes are noticeably blurry, and it wasn't the fault of the projecter in the theater I went to.

THE VIRGIN SUICIDES (US, Sofia Coppola)
Sofia Coppola (daughter of Francis, duh) went to CalArts with me for a year. One day in film history class she sat behind me, annoying me throughout The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari with her incessant popcorn munching. A friend later suggested that I should have turned around and shouted "YOU SUCKED IN GODFATHER III!" But could she cut it as a filmmaker? My hesitant answer is "yes," which isn't to say that The Virgin Suicides is a flawless film.

Based on the 1993 novel by Jeffrey Eugenides, the story unfolds in suburban Michigan, 1975, as we examine the Lisbon family: dorky math teacher father (a hilarious James Woods), strict mother (Kathleen Turner) and five beautiful teenage daughters. Not far into the film, the youngest daughter ends her life; I won't give away much about her sisters' fates other than reminding the reader of the plural in the film's title, which initially lends the otherwise sweet, sun-drenched nostalgia an air of sadness. In the meantime, the film revels in the general awkwardness of being in high school, as the curious neighbor boys spy on the Lisbon girls, focusing on the horniest sister, 14-year-old Lux (Kirsten Dunst), and her burgeoning romance with the cutest boy in school, Trip (Josh Hartnett).

The cast is perfect, and Coppola & crew expertly capture the feeling of the mid-70's: from Chinese Checkers to peach Schnapps, it's all there, without any added cheesiness. Unfortunately, Coppola loses the mood about two-thirds through the film. This is intentional; the film is subtly structured into two parts, divided by the central scene of the homecoming dance: a feeling of excitement as the repressed but lively sisters are finally allowed the freedom to escape their house and socialize with boys, and lethargic despair after that magic evening's sour aftermath. But at that point we move away from anything recognizable from American teenage life and into some sort of aimless psychodrama. The heretofore underplayed neighborhood boys start taking center stage, Trip leaves the story, Lux goes a bit nuts, and the other sisters' lives become shrouded in mystery even as they never emerge as actual characters. I never thought I'd say this, because it sounds sexist, but The Virgin Suicides might have been more potent at this stage if it were directed by a man. It's a voyeuristic fable, after all, seen as it is through the eyes of confused teenage boys as they unsuccessfully try to understand the foreign ways of girls. The hopelessness of this task is the story's central theme. But having a biologically female point of view, Sofia Coppola presumably never felt as mesmerized by the secrets of womanhood, and so when she aims for mysterious, she only achieves vague, and the energy is lost by the time we're really supposed to be moved by what happens. I get the feeling that Coppola, famously obsessed with 70's fashion, chose to adapt this material mainly for its time period and not for anything it has to say.

VOLVER (Spain, Pedro Almodóvar)
Charming chamber piece about a family of strong-willed working class women in the windy La Mancha region of Spain, outside of Madrid. While Almodóvar semi-regular Penelope Cruz is the official star, this is really an ensemble piece, with Cruz's character's sister, daughter, dotty aunt and even dead mother (Almodóvar's onetime muse Carmen Maura) sharing the story with her. Almodóvar has long outgrown the high camp of his earlier features, but the darkness he's known to explore is kept to the background in Volver (Spanish for "to return," referring to the sudden reappearance of the supposedly dead mother), despite subplots involving murder, incest, infidelity and more. Thanks to certain key plot points, I saw the film as Almodóvar's gentle tribute to the classic "women's picture" Mildred Pierce, only with Cruz making a far more likable leading lady than the brittle Joan Crawford could ever hope to be. With her impossibly raven-black hair and sauced-up figure (the cleavage-enhancing outfits accentuate Cruz's own chest - which is lovingly shot as though it was another member of the family - though the actress' bottom was notoriously padded for the film), she's a force of nature even as she walks across the screen. Which is useful, because Volver is generally low on drama. It's a small film, with a tiny cast and few locations. It's still expertly filmed - I don't think Almodóvar could ever make an amateurish picture - and as usual, the cinematography and music are as rich as the performances. But this light and airy concoction lacks the emotional impact of Almodóvar's classic All About My Mother and the gravity of his other recent films. It's still a sweet little movie though.