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At the heart of every truly great science-fiction film there is an emphasis on character that aims to reflect on some element of the human condition usually intended to open our minds to thought provoking predictions or eerily warn of an impending reality. We've seen numerous examples of these contemplative films throughout the very existence of cinema stemming all the way back to Fritz Lang's haunting futuristic piece Metropolis and has inspired countless others in its thoughtful wake as seen in memorable cinematic creations such as Ridley Scott's Blade Runner, Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker, and even Duncan Jones' Moon. Never to be a director to back away from experimental presentation or psychological study, Spike Jonze's Her fully embraces this reflective science-fiction quality by peering into the deep sociable aspects of the human psyche giving us more of a prophetical reality than a fictional reflection. In his latest film Jonze creates a disconcerting yet equally endearing romance between a secluded depressive and his female operating system with an evolving consciousness, basically a HAL-9000 homage from Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, that brings to light a commentary on our dependency of programmed living and our need to maintain sociability when direct communication avenues have been stricken from life's normality. Rarely do ambitious films meet idyllically with their inquisitive potential, but Jonze has fashioned a delicately profound science-fiction contemplation that is depicted through the thoughtfulness of character alone that brims with wry humor, authentic pain, and charming revelation. Through the use of beautiful cinematography, impeccable production design, and subtle yet evocative performances, Her becomes a multilayered film experience where its character study of an isolated man afraid to become vulnerable again blends harmoniously with a truly unconventional yet naturally heartfelt romance. Jonze's affinity and ambition for presenting psychological challenges, as he has done before with Being John Malkovich, Adaptation, and especially in Where the Wild Things Are, finally collides with emotionally piercing conveyance within Her making it as thought provoking and as it is undeniably sweet. If the sole purpose of the science-fiction genre is to expound on societal, moral, and deeply psychological aspects of our human condition than Her fits soundly within that genre's capabilities by capturing our condition's essential need for sociability and love uncomfortably linking it with our antisocial dependency on technology.

"Go confidently in the direction of your dreams, and live the life you have imagined," stated author Henry David Thoreau expressing a naturalist sentiment that bemoans the vicarious escapism of pure imagination and pleads with us to discover life through direct experience. This is the central theme that surrounds the emotionless title protagonist in the newest film adaptation of the infamous James Thurber short story The Secret Life of Walter Mitty and though it's sound advice to be sure it seems oddly displaced to be a driving refrain for the dreaming power of cinema. Within the latest remake of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty we unfortunately see director, producer, and star Ben Stiller in rather weak form despite his admirable decision to branch out creatively messily guiding Steve Conrad's overstated script to never fully articulate the true meaning of intended self-discovery. The film reeks of overt desperation attempting to fully separate itself from the original Norman Z. McLeod adaptation in utilizing state of the art pristine visuals and engulfing panoramic surrounding but inevitably loses touch with the heart of the message by embodying in the end an all too generic presentation. It might be too gracious to even suggest that Stiller knows of the influences he's admirably trying to invoke, but his The Secret Life of Walter Mitty tries to bridge the life affirming discovery of Akira Kurosawa's Ikiru with the comedic thoughtfulness of John Schlesinger's Billy Liar without ever approaching the depth of either. Stiller's fifth film as a director sees him trying to lift himself out of the conventions of his overbearing low-brow comedic past and though his impressive visuals are skillfully conceived the film's message gets lost in inflated clichés and naively mistakes living for reckless endangerment. As it is with most adaptations it's clear that this version of The Secret Life of Walter Mitty leaves behind the intention of Thurber's original story about dreaming beyond the confines of the mundane by replacing that contemplation with a theme of actual life affirming self-discovery that unfortunately falls flat due to the indiscernibility of consistent impeccable imagery, the blunt underlining of obvious metaphor, and an inability to humanly connect with our more adventurous sensibilities. If there's anything to take away from this rather uninvolving film about making the implausibility of dreams a felt reality it's that Ben Stiller in his admirable attempt to grow as a filmmaker has given us a demonstration that perhaps imagining something is actually better than seeing it become a reality.

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An undeniable aspect of war, whether or not you make rationalizations on its regrettable purpose or demonize its existence entirely, is that it's an utter hell that tries the mentality and physicality of the courageous men and women who fight in the conflict. Most war films have captured the hellish and nonsensical brutality of war through challenging cinematic portraits, either through the allegorical heart of darkness showcased in Francis Ford Coppola's Apocalypse Now, the apathetic political influences in Stanley Kubrick's Paths of Glory, and even in cinema's first triumphant reflections with the adaptation of All Quiet on the Western Front. But while all wars impact people there aren't enough films that showcase true examples of wartime heroism which neglects a chance to embrace the humanity in the soldiers who are put into these tumultuous and life threatening circumstances. This is where Peter Berg's ominously titled latest film Lone Survivor differs from the a vast majority of the war film experience because rather than postulating on the reasons or criticisms for war it only seeks to depict the strong links of brotherhood involved in our armed forces ranks through an effective nonpartisan slant. Returning to his attention to detail roots showcased in The Kingdom and leaving behind an unfortunate deviation into the ridiculous with Battleship, Berg has concocted a relatively solid film in Lone Survivor that follows the real life events that happened in 2005 to Navy SEAL Mark Luttrell and his team in the Afghanistan Mountains when a secret operation is compromised. Though the film could have had deeper character development and interaction in the first quarter of the film, an aspect that slightly detriments the overall impact of the picture, its solid and intimate middle core of brutally authentic wartime conflict captured in real time is a technically astounding, emotionally engaging, and definite pulse pounding experience. To the film's creative credit in staying true to the events that transpired it demonstrates that the relentless pummeling of war doesn't always come with the Hollywood convention that is graceful relief giving the film a true experience of modern warfare. Lone Survivor might have its storytelling flaws, mainly due to a conventional structure and some fairly assumed character involvement, but when it erupts into the focused intimacy of soldier bonding amidst the chaotic brutality of battle in the middle of the film it becomes a relatively involving homage to the relentless dedication of spirit within our soldiers.

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Time is a peculiar yet universally felt concept whose effects can be seen in its numerous consequences either through the obvious traits of aging or the far more subtle and subjectively felt intangibles such as regret. In the heart of the Midwest there are depressingly poetic examples of this thoroughly felt concept of time how the vast stretches of what appears to be infinite plains of nothing are filled with monuments of ruin either in the ghost town cities or the deserted farmland all of which are consequences of economic hardship and familial anchors. This is the melancholic setting of Alexander Payne's new film Nebraska, a sad yet endearing road trip film that becomes a sort of modern Don Quixote influenced story where a regret filled, dementia gaining father resembling the infamous dreamer Quixote resiliently chases the remnants of a thin dream accompanied by his affably neutered son serving as the loyal Sancho Panza. Nebraska clearly resembles previous films that have captured the distinct American spirit and eccentric characters of the parched Midwest, including Peter Bogdonovich's The Last Picture Show and David Lynch's oddly accessible The Straight Story, but remains uniquely an Alexander Payne film containing his penchant for mixing whimsically dry humor with poignant humanity. At the center of Payne's film is an astonishingly subtle performance from experienced acting veteran Bruce Dern whose stern blankness and aging dementia makes for an intriguing parallel to the derelict environments throughout the Midwest setting which is captured brilliantly through cinematographer Phedon Papamichael's poetic black & white imagery. This whimsical yet mournful ode to Midwestern life, values, and legacy is aided through the lost art of subtle acting and the usually non-existent talent for subtle direction allowing the intended humor to land directly and the emotional heart to enter gracefully. While Nebraska might be an engaging, humorous, and sweet amalgamation of Payne's previous works where the road trip element of Sideways meets the intimate family dynamic of The Descendants it's definitely a transition film for the quirky storyteller as it embraces a far more poetic and humanist side to the director's incredibly heartfelt style of filmmaking. It's difficult to say where exactly Nebraska will fall in Payne's established film canon but as it stands on its own it's a deeply lyrical reflection on the loss of time and a credible affirmation on the long enduring existence of hope.

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Film's that seek to contemplate ideas on injustice or venture the blackest hidden fissures of society that influence the health of the human psyche certainly take on the risky but potentially rewarding task of making the purely bleak into something poetically involving. This seems to be the driving force behind the intention of director Scott Cooper's sophomore directorial effort, co-written by Brad Inglesby and Cooper himself, who is just coming off the high of obtaining Jeff Bridges an Oscar from his first feature Crazy Heart, the alcoholic slanted country singing film closely related to Tender Mercies. It's clear that Cooper is a student of cinema and his clear intention with Out of the Furnace was to capture the turbulent bleakness that was evident in the tone of reflective cinema in the 70s, such as the war, post-war, and employment struggles of say Michael Cimino's Deer Hunter, Martin Scorsese's Taxi Driver, and Hal Ashby's Coming Home, and applying their societal criticism through amplified drama in a film that tackles symptoms of the modern American nightmare. This film is also a frigidly bleak combination of a neo-war and neo-western that intended to contemplate the American tendency of descending into violence through desperate claims for retribution in the face of injustice. However, intention doesn't often find a link to effective drama and poetic engagement because the debilitating aspect to Cooper's latest film is the fact that it begins in uncomfortable morbidity and never leaves it lingering on a downward spiral of depressing occurrences keeping the film flat lining until a semi-rewarding final half hour. The assumption held within the incessantly bleak Out of the Furnace is that unfortunate circumstances themselves equal audience sympathy for oddly subtle semi- developed characters hoping that the utilization of weighty melodrama and overt depictions of modern societal ills pummels you into histrionic submission. There's something to be admired in Scott Cooper's ambition to tackle dark themes that attempt to depict a portrait of damaged humanity amidst what he sees as societal degradation but it seems his promising talent and the definite promise of powerful performances from a cast of exceptional actors just goes to waste as his eerily silent yet questionably confused ending comes to a steady halt. Out of the Furnace has the cinematic qualities of a reflective film of the 70s, including grainy cinematography and an uneasy yet powerful complimentary score, and while it attempts to be thematically high concept it lands flat through its unrelenting cynicism that possibly could have succeeded in a more matured director's hands.

The concepts of legacy and family tend to go hand in hand but that assumed positive link usually fails to recognize the potentially negative outcomes that can be handed down from generation to generation where dysfunction, bitterness, and judgment prevails over harmony, love, and understanding. This negative focus on the pure dysfunction that festers and spreads throughout the family roots much like a disease that damages the potential of fruitful growth is the deep focus in playwright Tracy Letts' play August: Osage County, which comes to the big screen through the literal and figurative sophomoric direction of John Wells (The Company Men). Being Wells' sophomore cinematic effort there are some deeply admirable qualities contained in his presentation of Letts' darkly humorous and dramatically impactful script but tends to often times drift away from perfectly balancing the two highly emotive extremes by also opening up the intentionally claustrophobic play. Adapting the written word of a play into the visual medium of cinema is an exceptionally hard endeavor and August: Osage County, while dramatically impressive in performance and not too much else, could be offered as a study on how plays often times are a preferable experience on the stage. However, John Wells' take on the family dysfunction revealed through unforgiving honesty, family secret twists, and melodramatic flair on equal scale as Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf is definitely an exhausting yet entertaining experience focused on deep character reflection, authentic performances, and acrobatic dialogue clashes. Compared to other Letts adaptations, the other two being Bug and Killer Joe both directed by William Friedkin and only the latter being superb, August: Osage County stands as a fairly strong cinematic addition to those attempts that relinquishes some of the play's more haunting claustrophobia for a visual openness and a relatively positive changed ending that doesn't necessarily work as intended. Letts' play brings to mind the haunting and poetic words of another writer Mitch Albom in his book "The Five People You Meet in Heaven" where he wrote, "All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of its handlers. Some parents smudge, others crack, a few shatter childhoods completely into jagged little pieces, beyond repair." August: Osage County demonstrates just how dark yet humorously familiar the raw and heartbreaking effects that damage the possible growth the family limbs encounter as they grow away from the equally damaged family tree and while Wells' film isn't pristine it certainly delivers a dramatically engaging experience.

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Through the progression of Scandinavian filmmaker Nicholas Winding Refn's cinematic career it seems as though narrative has slowly slipped into the backseat of his highly stylized, horrifically violent, and visually entrancing presentations. Beginning with his narratively contingent Pusher trilogy and the subjective narration heavy Bronson Refn then moved to an art-house focused delivery of mood and visuals with the likes of his Werner Herzog inspired Valhalla Rising and his American cinema debut of Drive. Unfortunately any filmmaker who sets aside narrative for visual experimentation will eventually exhaust his creative dependence and lose his audience's sympathetic interest which is what occurs in his latest film the deeply haunting yet incredibly callous Only God Forgives. This purely stylistic exercise includes Refn's signature taste for ultra-violence and monosyllabic protagonists that is at times horrifically entrancing but inevitably loses itself in the filmmaker's technical coldness and refusal to include any semblance of character development or coherent narrative. There's nothing likable about the surroundings, characters, or events that take place in Refn's hellish depiction of a corrupt Bangkok underworld and though it probably isn't meant to be it certainly makes the violent seizures, the morally empty characters, and the extremely slow paced surrealism hard to swallow. While Refn has confidently tapped into his most artistic based influences, including the surrealist violence of Alejandro Jodorowsky, the dreamlike horrors of David Lynch, and the Asian underground styles of Seijun Suzuki, Only God Forgives can't get by on technical achievement alone leaving behind a visually impressive but undeniably empty film experience that has suffocating atmosphere in an overall pointless narrative. Cinematic artists such as Refn should always be given some benefit of the doubt towards their work because the artistic process alone is a profound statement on vicarious consumption and violent context but it's just rather unfortunate that he has chosen to abandon relevant narrative in order to enhance his visual mastery and moody execution. Devotees of Refn will find it difficult to defend Only God Forgives as a fully formed cohesive picture because it's his weakest film to date but paradoxically also showcases his strongest visual attributes suggesting that this is a callous, hellish resting stop on the way to developing better cinematic greatness.

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Two words come to mind that are generally synonymous with Mexican director/writer Guillermo Del Toro, an undeniably creative auteur who has a familiarity with various pop-culture mediums, multiple mythologies, and a keen sense of original storytelling, and those words are passionate and imaginative. Whether it's the brooding vampiric mythos of his debut film Cronos, the dark escapism of his fantasy tale Pan's Labyrinth, or even the colorful superhero interpretation of the Dark Horse Comics character Hellboy there is a distinct feel, tone, and beauty that links all of his varying yet inventive pieces together. His latest passion project Pacific Rim, a blend of Japanese pop-culture influenced monster films with a live action anime intention, undoubtedly shares a great deal of characteristics a majority of his other films possess, including his odd humor deviations, impeccable detail, and a particular visual tone, and yet doesn't possess enough to distinguish itself from the rest of the summer blockbuster parade of mediocrity. Pacific Rim opens with the potential of a truly original and intriguingly conceptual work for the science-fiction genre but the film not only leaves behind the braininess early on for too much loud, abrasive brawn it also doesn't possess enough heart in the lumbering beast of a film machine to make a true link between the director's passionate fun and the audience's potential sympathetic investment. Del Toro's intentions with Pacific Rim are clearly about making pleasurable absurdity with self-consciousness towards the ridiculousness of his own premise but it is unfortunately anchored down by its stilted dialogue, inappropriate uses of humor amidst often times boring drama, and incredibly limited performances interpreting apathetically developed characters. Instead of getting a usual dose of Del Toro creativity through makeup artistry, distinct set designs, and beautifully imagined characters we've been given a rather hollow and undoubtedly dumb CGI-fest of giant monsters, giant robots, and giant destruction which for the most part is amusing though highly disappointing. Though Pacific Rim contains a myriad of blockbuster clichés they are presented in a humorously self-referential fashion through Del Toro's signature imagination but the final product feels limited by the expansive use of freewheeling special effects instead of enhanced which is the usual outcome for a majority of typical, loud, and expensive blockbuster films.

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Not many characters are as recognizable in designated look, familiar western setting, and even theme music as the "Lone Ranger" who started out his adventures on a campy yet endearing radio serial in 1933, with 2,956 episodes spanning over 21 years, and even continued on to an equally charming television run of eight years that can also be described as entertaining camp. Unfortunately one of those chosen words, specifically entertaining, can't be used to describe Gore Verbinski's latest interpretation of the iconic character that ends up being a tonally schizophrenic and exhaustingly unexceptional trek through the terrain of mediocrity. In the attempt to modernize the story there just feels to be an odd sense of denial as to what the character was and what it needs to be for any screen interpretation leading to an often times disrespectful and entirely mixed presentation from the very beginning to the tiresome end. The trouble with The Lone Ranger is that it has the stench of hubris coupled with blatant historic revisionism packed into a disastrously bland story that inevitably never embodies any of its desired influences, including the western and the brainless action summer blockbuster. No amount of eccentric jokiness, passionless homage to previous westerns, or Johnny Depp were able to save this lazy continuation of the Pirates of the Caribbean formula which has brought everything along including the overly lighthearted tone, the strange characters, and the bloated stunts and yet has refused to keep that initial sense of fun that made the first Pirates so guiltily entertaining. The claim from producer Jerry Bruckheimer that he would introduce the character in "a fresh and exciting way" becomes the best delivered joke of the existing film because there is absolutely nothing exciting or even fresh about Gore Verbinski's insanely expensive ($250 million), inconsistently toned, uncomfortably long, and implausibly messy Lone Ranger. When the best possible comparison to your lighthearted western can only be Barry Sonenfeld's Wild Wild West then you know the Lone Ranger has taken the more-is-better philosophy on action and inevitably becomes too loud, too tedious, and too pointless. The crux of the issue with Verbinski's chaotic tiptoeing around what is deemed a sacred cow, an interpretation that doesn't enter parody nor does it accept the subtlety of homage, is that he has delivered a neutered protagonist in a story where the stakes are never felt which gives us exactly what the "Lone Ranger" was not, charmless and unadventurous.

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It almost seems insulting to name the new apocalyptic zombie film World War Z after the highly acclaimed novel of the same name by author Max Brooks because there is not one ounce of accuracy in the film to the geo-political insight, thought provoking societal adaptation, or intelligent post-apocalyptic scenarios that Brooks' book contained in every riveting chapter. Mel Brooks' notably talented son crafted an incredibly intriguing novel that was a retrospect on how the world changed during the ten years battling an unknown zombie outbreak and yet Marc Forster's film, plagued by notorious rewrites, reshoots, and a relentless production hell, has only borrowed minor details in order to make a rather generic zombie feature. Critiquing World War Z on the merits of adaptation would result in an absolute failure of concept, execution, and character so the only other way of objectively reviewing the film would be an assessment in how well it fits in the post-apocalyptic and zombie genres on its own where it barely passes the minimum of critical standards. With a television show like "The Walking Dead" and films such as 28 Days Later offering superior options for the zombie genre of entertainment, where complex characters and human nature insight give us a fully conceptual and emotional experience, it's difficult to see desperate, minor efforts as anything but average. Unfortunately World War Z ends up being a drastically uneven affair with some occasionally solid action sequences featuring one dimensional characters we care almost nothing about and semi-intelligent concepts that are inevitably lost in the chaotic, physics defying fray that is practically relentless. The third act of the film has some uneasy atmospheric merit but the beginnings ambivalence to setting up complex characters and the middle's illogical and excessive middle make it a laborious trek to get through that has too much brawn and very little braininess for a post-apocalyptic film. Though the opening twenty minutes are hectically confusing enough to be engaging the remainder of the film feels incredibly fragmented in its tonal inconsistency and empty due to its lack of connection to a protagonist that never seems human, vulnerable, or complex. Considering the unevenness of Marc Forster's direction, the blandness in Brad Pitt's performance, the abandonment of adaptation accuracy from the original novel, and the crippling production problems the film encountered, World War Z can confidently claim the appropriate description of being mediocre.

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Pixar's creative soul has slowly begun to drain most likely due to its ill-advised marriage with the overbearing influential force of Disney as we're seeing their consistent quality and originality slowly disappear from existence with occasional reminders of what made them so unique. Three out of four of Pixar's last couple of films can all be categorized in the sequel department, including the excellent Toy Story 3, the annoyingly awful Cars 2, and their latest genial yet unoriginal Monsters University, with one original yet subpar effort in Brave that at least reminded us that despite weak plot they can make some awe-inspiring visual animation. Monsters University might be mildly humorous in its animated mockery of college life, whether it's the obnoxiousness of the frat culture or the awkwardness of social fits, but what it truly lacks is what Pixar is known for, which is meaningfully deep values, inventive inspiration, and original storytelling. This unnecessary prequel to Monsters Inc. simply borrows the template of Revenge of the Nerds and inserts the familiar characters of Mike Wazowski (Billy Crystal) and James P. Sullivan (John Goodman) in a rather typical underdog college adventure giving us an occasionally fun but more often tedious trek through their formative years. Nothing about the film even remotely justifies its own existence since everything from the unoriginal story to the gimmicky humor to the formation of the characters never feels organic. Ironically enough at the heart of Monsters University is the message that sometimes it's alright to simply be OK, which is the best word that can describe this arguably watchable but incredibly unambitious work of animation. Pixar has gone from creating exceptional original storytelling combined with gracefully executed pristine animation with the likes of Up, The Incredibles, and Finding Nemo to now churning out basic children's entertainment which is not only disappointing, it's practically shameful. Despite this relentlessly negative perception on the unnecessary existence of Monsters University there is enough guilty charm and likable scenarios featuring two favorite characters from the Pixar universe that will undoubtedly please most audiences at the basic level. But basic was never a word that would even enter a conversation about the quality of a Pixar film and it's unfortunate that this is the third consecutive film in a row from the company to warrant that description.

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Superman might be the iconic comic book hero that initiated the entire superhero wave after his initial arrival back in the 1930s, a time desperate for hope, justice, and truth, but a truly reflective take on the character's origin, pathos, and extraterrestrial challenges in the cinema has never been fully ventured quite possibly due to the potentially dated material but more likely having to do with a lack of understanding to what he means to us in our modern world. Even the lighthearted Richard Donner version in 1978 with all of its good intentions doesn't live up to the magnetism of the comic and it's usually wise not to even mention the cringe worthy Superman Returns from Bryan Singer who figuratively dropped a load of kryptonite on the poor unsuspecting hero. The latest addition in the canon Man of Steel comes from an odd combination of creative minds, including writer/producer Christopher Nolan (Batman Begins/The Dark Knight), screenwriter David S. Goyer (Dark City, Batman Begins), and director Zack Snyder (300, Watchman) all of whom attempt to ignite a newer, darker version of the Superman origin but inevitably become the film's own weakening kryptonite. Man of Steel is practically indistinguishable from your typical blockbuster variety where relentless action sequences have the destruction upped to the nth degree and narrative takes a back seat to the monstrous visuals, a quality to which director Zack Snyder is all too familiar. In all of Snyder's films from the light on story 300 to the unfortunate ruination of a graphic novel in Watchman plot substance and subtle characterization all get overshadowed by his visual palate, which is arguably his best quality and it continues in Man of Steel. However, despite the technically impressive sequences that also seem soulless there is also an apparent weakness that directly lies in Goyer's disjointed and arguably weak script that is devoid of the known charm, wit, and most importantly hope that is associated with the famed and beloved superhero. Overall Man of Steel becomes a heaping disappointment not only in its blatant disregard of the Superman canon, where the familiar seems bland and the unfamiliar becomes unwelcome, but also because the film's spectacle pummels its own substance into the ground with an outcome that feels disconnected, frenzied, and hopeless, which are qualities that shouldn't exist in a Superman film.

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It doesn't really seem like an odd question when you think about it but have you ever had a daydream fantasy of imagining what it would be like to experience the devastation of the apocalypse, either of religious origin, zombie led, or alien controlled, with all of your closest friends right beside you? Well it seems co-writers Seth Rogan and Evan Goldberg who have written everything together from the good (Superbad), the bad (The Green Hornet), and the ugly (The Watch) have envisioned such a scenario in their newest comedy This is the End, which also sees the two screenwriters sharing the directing chair to control their apocalyptic fantasy as it unfolds in all of its crudity, chaos, and humorous twists on celebrity personalities. And surprisingly this rabidly tongue in cheek, incessantly crass, and occasionally uneven farce, which initially seems like it's the most inside of inside jokes, ends up being a rather enjoyable and demented excursion into the hellish depths of two developing comedic minds. Not everything works throughout This is the End but it's a script that's filled to the brim with enough clever jokes, whimsical references, and biting social commentary to outweigh the occasional sense of pretentiousness and self-congratulatory trumpeting of its smug Hollywood private party. It seems the writing team of Seth Rogan and Evan Goldberg has found an inventive delivery to test the limits of their comedic vulgarity while also giving a swiftly refreshing breath of fresh air to the premise that gives us a unique combination of critical self-parody and humorously grotesque comedy. Taking the Apatovian usual suspects and placing them in the chaos of the apocalypse was clever enough but adding in rapid fire dialogue, clever twists on known and unknown personalities, and a comedic energy not seen in many disappointing comedies of our modern years certainly makes This is the End worth risking for more than a few laughs. When comedy becomes expected it ends up losing its necessary impact but that isn't the case for Seth Rogan and Evan Goldberg's directorial debut as they allow the uninhibited lunacy of their characters loose throughout their post-apocalyptic fantasy world that will inevitably surprise you in its humorous risks and solid comedic delivery.

Despite what idealized viewers might think when it comes to their beloved romance films there are numerous events and circumstances that can occur outside the frame that could strengthen, fracture, or challenge that particular relationship beyond the assumed happily ever after conclusion. This idea behind continued uncertainty is essentially called life and though the realist perspective might damage some optimist hopes there is a genuine beauty to the wonderful truth that is a relationship that cultivates or fissures in the face life's challenges. Eclectic filmmaker Richard Linklater, known for such diverse films such as his debut indie feature Slacker and his wide appeal comedy School of Rock, understood the idea of life beyond the ending credits once he reintroduced his two romantic leads Jesse (Ethan Hawke) and Celine (Julie Delpy) with a chance encounter in Before Sunset after their initial meeting nine years earlier in Before Sunrise. Before Midnight, the latest chapter of this ingenious film series, offers the creative staples that the romantic saga is known for with Linklater's consistently delicate observational style, Hawke and Delpy's engaged performances, philosophical witty banter relating to relationships, life, and more but this time unfolding the details of a relationship that has marinated beyond its initial romantic beginnings and changed into something far more palpable, strained, and relatable. The collaborative writing between Linklater, Hawke, and Delpy demonstrates their immense understanding of their created characters and deliver their most uncomfortably emotional and richly life-affirming vignette in this particular reflective road stop in the lives of Jesse and Celine. When poet John Keats wrote the famous last line "truth is beauty, beauty truth" in his poem "An Ode to a Grecian Urn" he realized that even the most unpleasant truths had intense beauty in its mere recognized existence and the Before saga is one of the purest cinematic exercises in revealing that kind of beautiful truth. Before Midnight takes the initially romantic setups in Before Sunrise and Before Sunset and expands them into their most logical and equally emotional prolongation where it expands the narrative strength, character vivacity, and philosophical importance of the series into a fully realized and painfully heartfelt whole that speaks uncomfortable truths in an engagingly entertaining way.

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A key aspect in achieving success in the entertainment industry, at least in terms of obtaining a dedicated audience following, is keeping a strong sense of what defines your product's particular genre or style and confidently presenting its strengths in full force but also accepting the weaknesses presented in self-aware jest. Ever since director Justin Lin took over the Fast and Furious franchise the series has taken the route of self-aware confidence where it has embraced its strengths for nonsensical, physics defying action as well as the weakness for having leaden dialogue coming from expressionless characters and fans have been thankful for the consistency. Fast Five might have been the franchise's peak because of its tongue and cheek attitude towards its Looney Tunes environment of unrestrained adrenaline and exaggerated stunts making it difficult for any continuing sequel to match it unless the creators upgraded the storytelling parts of this clumsily custom built machine. The latest in the Fast & Furious series, eloquently named Fast & Furious 6, remains consistent to fan expectations with its fondness for stunt driven spectacle yet it exists in a plot that thinks it's far superior than it is in reality, showcasing screenwriter Chris Morgan's wrongful assumption that more dramatic breathing room between implausible action sequences gives your writing more credibility. There is an existential quandary that lives within Fast & Furious 6 as an attempt at seriousness, either in the renewed relationships or predictable plot twists, in an environment of ridiculousness practically derails this speeding vehicle from its intention on being unadulterated fun. On face and in execution the Fast & Furious films are reminiscent of experiencing a live action version of an anime cartoon (a point of view a friend of mine has reinforced) with its cartoonish embellishment of its physical environment but with far dumber plot lines and exceedingly bland dialogue so when there's less of the latter it's for the better. As guilty pleasures go there are few as technically executed as the Fast & Furious franchise and though the sixth installment showcases some of the series dumbest dialogue exchanges through purely rigid performances it remains a consistent entertainment outlet for those who have been initially conned by the fast and furious appeal.

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More often than not people end up learning the hard way that it's usually better to leave a good thing well enough alone, which might be a lesson truly lived in regards to the quality of what can be deemed as The Hangover trilogy. When the exceptionally lazy Hangover Pt. II was released two years ago it highlighted the immense limitations of director Todd Phillips' storytelling capabilities as it traveled a carbon copy of the first film's intoxicated mystery and amplified vulgarity to different scenery but forgot to bring the laughs along for the trip. Now it seems the Todd Phillips created Hangover trilogy has taken to unintentionally embodying the stages of an actual hangover with the first installment's introduction serving as the party, the dirtier and lazier sequel acting as an unconscious blacked out sleep, and the newest final part becoming a nauseous, unbearable aftermath. The Hangover Pt. III: The End promises the conclusion of what could have been a respectable "adultolescence" comedy franchise and after experiencing the third installments descent into darkness and bitterness let's hope it's a promise that is inevitably kept. Todd Phillips and co-screenwriter Craig Mazin (Identity Thief, Scary Movie 3) have tossed aside all sense of wit, surprise, and genuine humor this time around replacing those qualities evident in the first Hangover with sociopathic cruelty, foreseeable plot changes, and zero sense of amusement diminishing any admirable attempt to change up the plot formula. All the fondness audiences have gained towards the characters of Alan (Zach Galifianakis), Phil (Bradley Cooper), and Stu (Ed Helms) will be tainted in this final chapter as a mixture of performance idleness, poor script follow through, and a lens focusing on their purely sober qualities makes these three characters less than sympathetic, even bordering on incredibly unlikeable. What's ironic is that Todd Phillips has gone out of his way to appease the vilest of criticisms towards his uncreative writing and yet ends up highlighting his true creative limitations by not being able to drift away from a familiar structure. Unfortunately for fans of the series and audience members hoping for a strong summer comedy The Hangover Pt. III: The End ends this less than comedic trilogy with a desperate whimper and through its mean-spiritedness becomes a barely recognizable thread to the humorous and delightfully ill-mannered film that started it all.

When director J.J. Abrams set out to recreate the beloved Gene Rodenberry television series "Star Trek" into a new cinematic franchise it was clear he didn't want to be dogmatically chained to the original material as if it were an untouchable gospel, a direction some die hard Trekkie fans found a tad sacrilegious. Setting up a rival timeline of events in his first Star Trek as the foundation within his film universe Abrams opened up the potential creative possibilities of rethinking the origins of the series but riskily teetered on the tightrope that balanced between modern audience accessibility and adored fan homage. The first installment of Star Trek was undeniably entertaining and kinetically exciting despite the fact that the highbrow philosophical humanist reflections of the original series were cheapened for space opera theatrics. This is the same expected fate for J.J. Abrams polished sequel Star Trek: Into Darkness, an energetic action blockbuster with chaos, laughs, and explosions to spare that still has momentary slivers of thin moral reflections on the differences between retribution and genuine justice. Returning screenwriters Roberto Orci and Alex Kurtzman are joined this time by LOST co-creator Damon Lindelof to construct a more than familiar plot line that may go where numerous other films have gone before but it does the familiar with a spectacularly assured confidence. Though there is some provocative content involving the threat of terrorism and the potential for losing one's conscience in the face of evil most of that intriguing premise is completely secondary to the immense spectacle of action that fills the screen. Comparing the dissimilarities between the original series and the new franchise would be a daunting task but it's unnecessary because this is a revision of the universe that keeps faith to the original characters, which is the only element that should have any nitpicky concern. Excessively logical Vulcan criticism might have to reserved for another time because Star Trek: Into Darkness fulfills most of the skeptical expectations through its nostalgic consistency to provide a mixture of thrilling action, shallow yet relevant contemplation, and an intriguing twist of character role reversals that makes it a summer blockbuster worth venturing.

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Auteur filmmaker Noah Baumbach has specialized throughout his career in humorlessly reflecting on the various purgatories in our lives, or rather those lost years of stasis where the unknowns of life's supposed plans hit the unknowns within ourselves head on. His study of post-collegiate malaise in Kicking and Screaming was the genesis of his uniquely quirky vision—a blend of Whit Stillman's observationally verbose wit and Woody Allen's hilarious yet humanist portraits—that has carried on to other notable character studies he's penned, such as the dysfunctional family drama The Squid and the Whale and the mid-life crisis comedy Greenberg. It was clear in the most sincere moments of the film Greenberg that Baumbach had a creative chemistry with one of its stars Greta Gerwig which has resulted in a new collaborative effort between them to create Baumbach's latest poignantly comedic film entitled Frances Ha, an energetically funny yet undeniably relatable contemplation on the aloof mid-twenties condition. Utilizing crisp black & white cinematography capturing the naturalistic backdrops of New York City, Sacramento, and Paris, Frances Ha possesses an alluring charm mostly through Greta Gerwig's charismatic performance but also in the film's embodiment of French New Wave revivalism that allows substance to shine in even the most monotonous of human interactions. This short and sweet tale on the ambiguity of adult life highlights the changing nature of responsibility, friendship, and love with a surprisingly modest and heartfelt genuineness rarely experienced in film. Though it might have some minor similarities to Lena Dunham's HBO show "Girls" there is no denying that Frances Ha is distinctly Baumbach in character design, cinematic style, and written cleverness. Protagonist Frances proclaims that she "loves things that appear as mistakes" which on its face is the eloquent sentiment that summarizes the film's genuine depiction of mid-twenties paralysis in the face of responsibility. Frances Ha ranks highly in Noah Baumbach's worthwhile filmography because it is probably his most accessible, authentically charming, and least pretentious film all thanks to the screen writing aid and engaging performance from Greta Gerwig.

There is certainly a timeless allure to the thin yet dramatically perceptive novel "The Great Gatsby" by F. Scott Fitzgerald that keeps bringing failed attempt after failed attempt to cinematically adapt its feverish tale of love amidst the backdrop of the Roaring Twenties. No one has ever really captured the novel's delicate intimacy, the time period's extravagance versus dispossession, or the thematic criticism of American decline in full leaving behind unfulfilling experiences much like with Jack Clayton's 1974 version, which starred Robert Redford in the illustrious title role. But no matter how ineffectual previous versions have been none are more misguided or more disastrously disappointing than director Baz Luhrmann's latest disparaging adaptation of "The Great Gatsby." Known for his excessively animated flair in films such as Moulin Rouge and Romeo + Juliet Luhrmann has always been the subject of interest in all of his films making them megalomaniacal exercises in overindulgence. One can ultimately imagine that this type of self-aggrandizing filmmaking would be drastically inappropriate for an intimately constructed story such as "The Great Gatsby," and that assumption proves correct in more ways than one. Luhrmann's The Great Gatsby becomes a divisive clash of tonally inconsistent scenes where the slim moments of dramatic sincerity are lost through the high energy chaos that is the Luhrmann style wasting a great deal of the novel's potential modern relevance. All of the poignant themes and dramatic sensibility from the novel are lavishly overstated through overly vibrant camera-work, disorganized editing, and disconnected performances distorting the very values that the original novel intended to highlight. Luhrmann's cliff notes grasp of the material translates into an incredibly hollow and artificial experience where the glitz and glamour of the time period receives the utmost detail in glamorous 3D while the characters slip away into one dimensional obscurity. In this version of The Great Gatsby it becomes increasingly hard to beat on, boats against the decadent current, borne back ceaselessly into wasted opportunities.

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Marvel's ridiculous dogmatic hold on their chosen formulaic plot structure for their films hasn't yielded the best products when it comes to their character specific adventures, especially in upholding untouchable comic book material and characters. After the atrocity that was Iron Man 2, where Jon Favreau tinkered with not only one but two villain interpretations Whiplash and Crimson Dynamo, it was clear that the reins of control might have to change hands in order to preserve the shreds of positive creativity that were rather limited. The decision to hire director/screenwriter Shane Black wasn't an odd one because his incredible sharp wit would definitely compliment the narcissistic persona of Robert Downey Jr.'s Tony Stark and has been evident before through penning the Lethal Weapon franchise and in his directorial debut Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. But not even the darkly humoristic additions or the frenetic action sequences could salvage the complete bastardization of the comic in relation to the utter ruination of Iron Man's devout nemesis, the Mandarin. Basically Iron Man 3 squanders needed guidance from its comic book source by completely ignoring its merits creating a storyline that is practically insulting to dedicated readers and longtime fans. What becomes crystal clear throughout the latest Iron Man installment is that Disney, with their unfettered franchise building of Marvel material, really doesn't care about original fans and seem to be quite antagonistic towards their love of the origins and characters in the comics themselves. There's no doubt that many desensitized moviegoers will find a great deal of enjoyment through Downey's witty banter and Shane Black's kinetic yet hollow action sequences, but the limitations posed by the Marvel formula is a creative barrier that needs to be eliminated. It never mattered who was piloting this cinematic suit, whether it was Jon Favreau or newcomer Shane Black, because the real villain behind the curtain is Disney and Marvel itself since their focus on potential merchandise in gadgetry has diminished the creative soul and drive of their pictures. Franchises might make money but sometimes, or most times when it comes to Marvel films, they make fools of us all when they claim ignorance to the original comics and create travesties of epic proportions much like Iron Man 3.

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Engaging an audience in a truly captivating sense of wonder is a lost art form in the realm of cinema, or at least it has become so rare that we begin to forget how magical the silver screen experience can be. One of those rare filmmakers is writer and director Jeff Nichols who made great strides in inventive filmmaking with his second feature Take Shelter, a deeply unsettling and atmospheric thriller that reminded us that the potential for original storytelling can have equally creative follow through. Writer/director Jeff Nichols' latest atmospheric drama Mud continues his notable prestige for dramatic filmmaking by creating a pure slice of Americana; an evocative and poignant coming of age tale that borrows the lyricism of Tennessee Williams works and mixes them with the harmonious sensitivity of a Sam Shepard play, who is ironically enough in a supporting role in the film, creating a witty and insightful modern day Mark Twain influenced adventure. Keeping his respectful gaze on rural America, Nichols creates an intimate reflection on friendship, unrequited love, and youthful discovery with a rhythmic, sensitive approach towards life's realizations during childhood. Mud is one of those films where all of the creative outlets from the ethereal cinematography to the haunting cinematic score come together in perfect unison to highlight the depth within the story being told. The film unveils its inner soul with a purposefully meditative pace that might deter some from experiencing a thoughtful approach but that would be a drastic mistake because it's one of the more authentically creative and emotionally opulent movies to grace the theaters in a long while. In Mud we're not only witnessing the artistic stamp of a director who has found his distinct voice but also the final stages of resurrection in the acting career of Matthew McConaughey who has never been more focused or impassioned on the screen. While Mud might not be as finely woven as his sophomore effort Take Shelter there is no denying his latest drama's penchant for compelling drama enhanced by the heartfelt nature of the writing, the clarity in the visuals, and the honesty in all of the acting performances.

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As it is true in many aspects of life, especially in the realm of crime, there is an infinitely fine line hidden between cleverness and stupidity, though in the realm of modern filmmaking it has become increasingly elusive. It's difficult to say which side Michael Bay's new film Pain & Gain lands on because it seems to shift from a semi-brilliant study of excessive American bravado to becoming the embodiment of the very social criticism it seeks to expose. Any legitimate creative farce diminishes at the hands of Bay's assaultive and frenzied cinematic style that seems as uncontrolled as the very protagonists in the film itself creating an unnecessarily embellished crime caper that could have used a subtler approach. Pain & Gain is reminiscent of the exaggerated social satire works of Paul Verhoeven with a dash of the Coen Brothers' comedy of errors, basically a Fargo for meatheads, but ultimately it's all Michael Bay meaning all sleazy style and absolutely zero substance. Because the film's script had enormous potential to deliver a biting satire of American life it becomes increasingly disappointing and frustrating to witness Bay's excessive style serve as a symbol of blatant hypocrisy to the film's message instead of having a true sense of irony which it required. This social commentary is about as subtle as a ten ton hammer to the back of the head and a film that is intimately about character needs a director who can focus on the human tragedy at the heart of it all without weakening the message. Any creative potential in this dark comedy about excess and jealousy is inevitably lost because it lacked a filmmaker who has a sensible and delicate approach to balance the film's clashing features. Despite the loss of potential there is a great deal to admire in Michael Bay's latest epic of stupidity because the humor rings true and it's clear the director is taking himself a little less seriously in the process. While Pain & Gain rests comfortably in Bay's filmography as a flashy steroid injected sleazefest it is probably his most artistically viable film with plenty of charm and style to slightly amplify the darker side of American culture, which ironically enough criticizes Bay himself.

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Science-fiction in film used to be the genre for exploring unfamiliar terrain relating not only to imaginative worlds but also in expanding our moral and contemplative horizons relating to the human experience. However, it seems science-fiction has become a comfortable excuse for only inventing visually captivating sets and technologies for repetitive action sequences instead of utilizing new worlds to widen our gaze into conceptual territory that has relation to our modern existence. This typical laziness can be witnessed in director Joseph Kosinski's sophomore film Oblivion which focuses on creating the architecture of the world rather than worry about the purpose of the structure and substitutes original storytelling for a hodgepodge of stolen plot devices from better executed and more intelligent science-fiction films from the past. Kosinski is known for his resurrection of Disney's groundbreaking cult film Tron with his stunningly visual yet overly stimulated sequel Tron: Legacy and though he repeats his aptitude for captivating visuals they are still inundated by a lack of original foresight by screenwriters Karl Gajdusek, Michael Arndt, and Kosinski himself. Leave it to a renowned commercial director to transform contemplative highbrow science-fiction narrative elements from Stanley Kubrick's 2001: A Space Odyssey, Duncan Jones' Moon, and Andrei Tarkovsky's Stalker into mere George Lucas inspired mindless space opera. Though Oblivion might be an inferior clone of familiar territory there are some entertaining qualities not only in the visual atmosphere but also in its admirably confident first half before it loses grip on its own unnecessarily convoluted reveals of influences. As an action film Oblivion suffers from its longwinded pauses and as an intriguing science-fiction film it suffers from an overstated sense of self just creating a newer model that we've all seen before. Kosinski does indeed prove that he can entice our imaginations with a lavish immersion into a full dystopian reality but doesn't have the compelling storytelling capabilities to match his visual inventiveness.

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Baseball icon Jackie Robinson was the true embodiment of a misunderstood Martin Luther King Jr. quote, "judge me by the content of my character, not the color of my skin." Though Jackie Robinson became a symbol of desegregation in post-World War II America where racism, Jim Crow, and prejudice were the home battlefronts he actually was a truer symbol for talent unsought due to the blindness of ignorance. Robinson is a figure already ripe for cinematic portrayal not only due to his incredibly inspirational story but also because of his sympathetic yet complex persona. While the new biopic 42 might not be as inspirational as the actual figure of Robinson himself there is a unique balance of baseball technicality, social commentary, and uncomfortable authenticity that makes it a slightly less than typical sports biopic. Director and writer Brian Helgeland—best known for his screen writing abilities for L.A. Confidential and Mystic River—never shines away from the threats and challenges that faced Jackie Robinson on his journey making the more brutally honest portions of his script that highlights the true drama. Though 42 drifts in and out of formulaic inspirational tripe those predictable moments are few and far between and are usually forgotten once you're fully engaged in the fine performances from the actors on the screen, especially relative newcomer Chadwick Boseman. At times charming and often times challenging in its realism, 42 is a relatively admirable biopic worthy of showcasing the man Jackie Robinson was and how he struggled to become the man he needed to be. This is a film case where the more interesting story of overcoming personal flaws is shadowed by the desire to only focus on the legend itself, which is admirable though a slightly wasted opportunity. While it never reaches the classic realm of previous sports films like Rudy or gets caught up in the detailed drama of a sport like Downhill Racer, Brian Helgeland's 42 is definitely a sports film worth pursuing despite the fact that it doesn't ever live up to the towering legacy of an extraordinary man and feels as though it's a tonal replica of The Natural.

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The art of parody has been diminishing from the limelight of the cinematic comedy for decades now and it's no surprise considering the awful abominations that are created in its name, such as the painful experiences in so called comedies like Epic Movie or Date Movie. One of the longest running spoof series is the Scary Movie franchise that has experienced highs and lows depending on the particular film's strengths and weaknesses. Though the franchise switched creative hands around Scary Movie 3 (arguably the best of the series despite stretching the term of best) the series has never really become a gem of comedic minds or inventive witticism perhaps due to the fact that comedy has devolved at a drastic rate in the last decade with partial blame going towards the original Scary Movie. The past three of the series have tried desperately to re-ignite the silliness of the Zucker inspired parodies of yore with the self-referential style of Naked Gun and the overtly ridiculous delivery of Hot Shots with David Zucker himself writing and producing each of the films. Unfortunately it's either the Zuckers are losing their touch or this particular style of comedy is becoming incredibly dated because Scary Movie 5 is a humorless bore that is filled with lazy satires and blatantly uninspired regurgitated gags. This unnecessary fifth installment of a laboriously unfunny comedy series is so devoid of wit and style that any attempt at revitalizing a nostalgic comedic delivery is completely lost. With modernized satires coming from the minds of Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz) and Scott Sanders (Black Dynamite) there can't be a dependency on lazy writing, gross out gags, and overt silliness when wit, coordination, and cleverness are needed for good comedy. While it isn't a surprise that director Malcolm D. Lee was helming this unforgivable waste of time it's truly surprising and disappointing that David Zucker—one of the minds behind Kentucky Fried Movie and Airplane—has Scary Movie 4 and 5 tainting his filmography. It shows an immense amount of laziness when the formula Scary Movie hasn't changed in a comedic culture that demands more inspiring risks.

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