TheFamilyBerzurcher

No Country for Old Men is a faithful adaptation of Cormac McCarthy's novel. It was impossible to foresee such a remarkable fusion of genius between the Coen's and McCarthy. Both harness a proud idiomatic style, but down to the weird rhythms and pregnant pauses the two form one of the great literary/cinematic matches in recent memory. Perhaps long-term memory. The Coen's precise ambiguities blend perfectly with McCarthy's ability to fill one conversation between two strangers with the wisdom of the world. Especially in Tommy Lee Jones's monologues, we hear a type of earnest realism — somehow simultaneously so contrived and so faithful to our imaginations.

The denizens of No Country are not interested in us. They don't want to be our friends. Anton Chigurh is at once an animal and a god. He is on a mission seemingly more powerful than even he. And the mission is a spiritual one. There is a scene inside of a gas station that, not unexpectedly, pits old against young. The elderly clerk cannot come close to understanding Chigurh's deranged existentialism. Like many of the other scenes in the film, this one seems to hold the mysteries of the film — presenting an incomprehensible and unstoppable force with simultaneous belief and disbelief in mysticism. "It will become just another coin… which it is."

We are trapped into accepting Llewelyn Moss as our hero. We meet him looking through his own scope and endure a regular cycle of point-of-view shots until his death. Indeed, this is what makes his death so unbelievable. So frustrating, even. Some have complained about the offscreen death of our hero but we are never meant to see him die. We are led through a gripping, near-silent chase for 60 minutes — always aware of the sheriff lagging behind. Just as he is allowed to engage in the chase, we assume his point of view. One step behind the rest. Like the sheriff, Llewelyn is a man who understands the operations and mysteries of the land but cannot comprehend the ghosts. This is what makes them old.

One character calls it "The Dismal Tide" of youth coming in. We are meant to think of Chigurh and his final scene. He is a ghost, capable of enduring all. However, it is right to call it a "Tide." For the tides come in and go out regardless of our small plans. Youth force out the old regardless of theirs. But it isn't even that simple. Not only can the old not comprehend the young — they were once the young themselves.

The Coen's have presented a complicated perspective on their interpretation of the film's style. Thus, a flurry of nonsense has been written about No Country. However, it is impossible to deny the influences of silent Westerns, Sam Peckinpah, and Hitch. Hitch would have been proud of the Coen's and their astonishing mastery of editing to serve suspense. There are long chase sequences. Twenty to thirty minutes of minimal dialogue. But you never look away. The cuts are so specific. They are more than motivated. They're somehow essential. The impressive thing here is not the silence, it's the fact that you'll never notice if you're not listening. When characters do talk, their dialogue seems to drop away just when we least expect and least desire but always at the perfect time. Visually, it is impossible to deny Peckinpah's eye on the West. Horizon's are mostly in the middle of the frame, unlike Ford and Mann. Things are arid and empty. No Country harnesses the old idea of the West that has been lost on my generation — the existence of a place populated by another side of the human spirit; castaways, ghosts, gods, and prostitutes. The landscape isn't one that crushes or waits. It's merely the place where the coin is flipped and fate is decided.

What ultimately lends No Country with enduring greatness is its overarching simplicity. The Coen's are always looking back and revisiting formal structures. Consider how the plot breaks down — Good Guy finds Money. Bad Guy hunts Good Guy. The states are clear and so are the roles. These characters might be archetypes, but they inhabit a separate realm. Only something so simple can harvest the contradictions of humanity. Only in creating these timeless, ghostly creatures can we see so deep into ourselves. The film is a triumph of the highest order.

93.8

In a year of trilingual Basterds and three-dimensional Avatars, it's easy to miss The Informant! The film stars a bloated Matt Damon, portraying a the real-life price fixing scandal within ADM, a business that manages the sale and distribution of corn product. The subject is nothing short of vital. This type of business dealing has put a dent in our culture over the last decade. Instead of serving up an earnest dish of ironic criticism, Soderbergh throws a pie in our face. He reveals the best comedy of 2009.

Soderbergh reminds me of King Vidor in more ways than one. His visual style isn't intrusive, but there is a steady tendency toward the unexpected in the editing room. He relishes in the most misshapen moments, even if they blow by. Most importantly, Soderbergh seems to engage in the same "one for me, one for them," philosophy that governed Vidor's production schedule. Of course, in these days it's much easier to badger folks for money, but Soderbergh does have a tight list of trusting supporters that aren't likely to keep the pen in their pocket. His visual style bends toward popularity at the same time as being distinctive. His edits have a unique rhythm — offbeat but comprising some sort of pattern that deserves surrender. People aren't slaves inside of their environments, but they are less knowing than we are. Soderbergh loves that type of man — the one that seems in control when they rarely are.

Damon plays Whitacre with dizzy aptitude. We are only exposed to his process one layer at a time. Indeed, The Informant! is a film that deserves multiple viewings if I've ever seen one. Damon is convincing and oblivious at the same time. His capability for perpetual lying is made shameful but not without some understanding. From the beginning of the film, the audience is allowed inside of his head. We hear his streaming ribbon of thought as some kind of bored voice-over. Whitacre continues to interject throughout the film, often distracting us from critical business moments that we're not supposed to catch. It's outrageous and absolutely hilarious in each manifestation. The entire layout of this character banks on amusement and gravity. This doesn't even consider the awake, opportunist score from EGOT recipient Marvin Hamlisch. Soderbergh commits, even when he is uneasy or staggered, to a nuanced approach. Especially here, where he could have accepted any number of straight-faced interpretations of a contemporary tragic hero, the audience is given an amusing sequence of events that, in the end, forces us to reflect on corporate business with more concern and immediacy than any dramatic production. The Informant! passes along a rare type of comedic narration that, in small bites, has worked like a charm for any nominal summer blockbuster. However, when a film carries that naiveté through to the end, everyone becomes frightened and critical.

This film deserved far more praise than it ever received. On subsequent viewings, it holds up as the most original and vital comedy of 2009.

The Ides of March assumes, like the numerous films that form its ancestry, the plausibility of a naive Democrat who will never play dirty. That is something to which many can relate. I remember someone older telling me, as a fifth grader with grand social ambitions pushing for a Gore presidency, that "everyone is a Democrat until they get their first paycheck." Of course, I didn't know what that meant at the time, but there might be some truth to it. This film imagines that same claim. Ryan Gosling portrays a baby Dem with pure wishes who "needs to believe in a cause" in order to make a move. It's a tale of the Incest of the Left. Everyone floats somewhere between idealistic and cynical, usually representing both. Like Primary Colors and The American President did before, The Ides of March tells us little we didn't already know. Instead, it elects to dish out Clooney's political wet dream — a president who mandates two years of military service, has no religious conviction (but he respects yours!!!), and never plays dirty unless he knocks somebody up.

Directed by and co-starring Clooney, it is his predictable political antidote for the American Red/Right Infection from the very beginning. The first words of the film are "I am not a Christian. I am not an atheist." As a whole, the film shares the same non-committal. Every character but Gosling's is little more than a stepping stone. Visually, The Ides of March misses the methodical neatness of Good Night and Good Luck. Clooney's directing and writing styles are capable and wide. He is clearly interested in wordy pictures that search for meaning inside, not on the surface. Luckily for him, he found a balanced talent in Ryan Gosling, who also had a promising year with Drive and this picture. His masculine sensitivity and smoothness recalls the old masters, harnessing the cool charm of Cary or Gary. His quiet charisma also recalls Clint. The sum Dashing-ness of Clooney and Gosling is rich. You'll only need a couple bites of their cake, but it's good.

Unfortunately, Ides does little to advance a committed ideology. The stakes are low and cool jazz is playing in the background while these characters talk. I'm unsure whether Clooney was seeking to make a good movie or a political statement. Either way, it only swallowed half of the glass. Whether it's half full or half empty is your call.

The Descendants was written and directed by Alexander Payne (Sideways, About Schmidt) with Clooney in his most masterful performance, deserving to defeat Dujardin's silent romp. The story is smooth but not necessarily polite, detailing the wavy family dynamics of a grieving clan.

Though the two daughters are excellently played by a pair of talented young actresses, the real leading woman is Hawaii. While dealing with his comatose wife, Matt (Clooney) is also deciding whether or not to sell a large piece of inherited island property, enduring pressure from his cousins who are seeking to cash in. The Descendants uses the paradise for contrast. Matt even says in voice-over at the very beginning, "paradise can go f**k itself." Indeed it does! The film walks the common contemporary line between tragedy and comedy, often seeking progress in visual contradiction and dramatic irony. Inside of these universes, everything does seem to be lined up for one character or family. In a way, they are becoming more Movie by trying to become less Movie, if you catch my drift.

But Descendants tries to understand more than that. We are allowed to inherit Matt's difficulties and indecisions. No character gets a free pass. Even Sid, the bum tagalong, and Elizabeth's father, the closest thing to total opposition, are given moments of earnest explanation. The people who populate this island habitat are imbued with the completion that other movies aren't able to find. It doesn't stop at the notion that the human experience is both comedy and tragedy, it actually builds that duality into each character, no matter how marginal. When everyone says "Elizabeth is a fighter. She'll make it." we are allowed to see their error and their effort. The film doesn't only let us in on the joke.

Some of the best scenes are ones that sit in the gulf between our public selves and our private selves. The two big revelations about Elizabeth's affair (one involving Alex and the other Mr. Speer) have so much energy and construct an exciting amount of audience instability. The scene at the Speer house is a twisty counterpoint involving the characters x 2 — the public self and the private self. It rolls to a gentle but uncomfortable climax and stands up to most any great scene in recent memory.

Clooney's crinkled brow is just tired enough to never let us doubt his ability to pull through everything. In living through him, we are allowed to flirt with those moments of feeling that the movies can sometimes concoct. The Descendants is populated by complex, thoughtful characters and situations that feel so close and familiar even in these extraordinary circumstances.

85.0

It is impossible to see Napoleon without recalling several scenes from the film repertory. An unenlightened know-it-all might rave about the Odessa Steps and the innovative camera techniques in Barry Lyndon. The truth of the matter is that, "Abel did it first" might as well become a mantra in Film 101. Without ever achieving a level of even modest storytelling success, Napoleon manages to remain legendary on the strength of its imagery alone. In this way, the comparison of Gance to Eisenstein and Kubrick isn't far-fetched at all.

Now, I must concede that some of the mystique of the film is lost on me since I have never seen it in a theater and was re-watching the film from a Laserdisc on a 27″ TV. Thus, the famous triptych at the end was about the size of my foot and the "overwhelming power" of the piece, as one critic puts it, becomes harder to receive. Nevertheless, that fact doesn't stop me from wanting to advocate (as loud as possible) for the release of this film. I'm about to be unenthusiastic about it, but it doesn't change the fact that it really is a chunk of boss filmmaking that crosses the road long before many others would.

While the final triptych is certainly the most cited excerpt from the film, its best moments are undoubtedly on the other end. Napoleon begins with a short (meaning about 35 minutes in this context) series of scenes from Buonaparte's childhood. In depicting a large, organized snowball fight, we don't only learn of Buonaparte's precocity as a strategist, we get to play along. This segment, along with the following interpretation of Le Marseillais' proud beginnings, is the most organized and taut in the entire film. Slicing between moments of genuine chaos and big shots of Napoleon's face, the audience can do nothing but hold on for Dear Life. After the first 50 minutes of the film, I was thinking that if the pace held up, it would outrun virtually every multi-million dollar action movie ever produced. It didn't, but that doesn't overshadow the fact that there are portions of filmmaking bolder than your deepest imagination — even today. Segments remain modern and will for time to come. The breadth of setting and stylization is difficult to anticipate. The coordination alone is admirable.

Gance tries to tell this story in a number of ways. Indeed, it is one almost told in faces. Close- up's litter the bulk of the film, populating the most placid and erratic moments. Even without genuine character motion and acting, Napoleon is still a testament to how much bare expression lives on the surface of the human face. Andy Warhol and a few others have learned to trust the face, but more filmmakers need to take this page from Gance's book and paste the shaky camera pages back in. Another mildly shocking element is the degree to which Gance decided to tint and expose the film. At times, the contrast and color is so intense that it is very literally difficult to understand the images. It's not subtle and it's not tasteful, but who said it had to be?

The thing that knocks Napoleon down from A- to B is the substance — the meat. This argument has been made before and has been over-emphasized too much in criticism of the film. In fact, I wouldn't be nearly as upset about the storytelling if I didn't know that Gance was more than capable of sustaining a better narrative. As the opening of the second half proves, when he puts down his bag of tricks, the picture assumes a level of experience that is comparable to Intolerance and Birth of a Nation — you have to start working at it. Gance tells you that he's got the stuff. The scene where Napoleon sees Josephine's face in the globe and begins kissing it. When he begins to see the ghosts of the Reign of Terror. These are two brief moments of mature storytelling. But it's also TWO brief moments of mature storytelling out of about 2,000 possible. Unless I'm missing something (very possible), the general level of visual narrative is not high enough to sustain a 240+ minute film. Gance relies too heavily on flowery, descriptive intertitles and not enough on solid visual representation. If I'm willing to sit still for 5 hours, I want to travel. Not just drop my jaw. Of course, the counterargument would be that the dropping of the jaw must be the point and Gance probably didn't expect to get all 5 hours in the final cut. Great. I'm perfectly okay with getting WOW'ed for about 90-110 minutes. Longer does not mean better in Napoleon's universe. Which is why I find it legitimately surprising that so many cinephiles devote large segments of their lives to stretching out the picture. I know I'm being that guy. But the film mainly functions as an episodic treasure box. And treasure's they are! But, as a good friend says, "there's not enough there there."

But no criticism can push away Napoleon's deserving status as a must-see piece of art. The first 50 minutes will match the excitement level of any action sequence you'll ever see and there are some passages that will make you want to leap out of your chair and holler. The triptych is orgiastic French grandeur of the highest order. Moments of the film are on par with The Big Parade in measure of pure cinematic and patriotic ecstasy that surely would have been overwhelming to see in a theater 90 years ago. It should be required viewing in Film 101 and "Abel did it first" should begin to enter the rotation.

84.4

Burn After Reading is funny. After a brooding bout with some dense material in No Country for Old Men, the Coen's choose to engage in some rambunctious mimicry of the political spy thriller. Featuring a blessing of a cast, Burn After Reading tells the story of an idiotic ensemble, too lost in themselves to find anything worthwhile. The scariest part is -- the story is about us. And it's convincing.

Word has it that Joel and Ethan were particularly inspired by Advise and Consent and Seven Days in May. (The poster design is clearly modeled after the Saul Bass work on The Man With the Golden Arm. The same man did the title design for Advise and Consent.) The brothers' rich history of deft genre study is not absent here. In deconstructing the political thriller, we are shown a universe not far from our own -- one where everyone is too involved with their own desires to be bothered by anything happening around them. The score is full of dramatic percussion. Indeed, the story beats a hollow body. There's nothing to respond to these characters. Burn After Reading has the intelligence to exclude Washington bureaucracy out of this debate. The government employees are the most intelligent and reliable populace in the film. Still, they are clueless about the incomprehensible ambitions of their constituency. Burn After Reading manages to elaborate on a valuable insight regarding human folly without becoming bogged down by didactic crap.

In addition to the peripheral characters whom the Coen's occasionally allow to steal a scene, Burn is populated by a cast that is marvelous in name and in performance. It's full of exciting discoveries. Pitt, Malkovich, Swinton, and Jenkins deliver sensational work. The tradition of strategic director/actor pairing is as old as our technology. Burn is a testament to the virtues of adventurous casting. Pitt's stupidity isn't unlike his Tyler Durden, but it is more honest and, frankly, more revealing. Malkovich's vulgarity takes full advantage of his terrifying snarl. McDormand and Clooney are equally energizing and give their finest work with the brothers. McDormand's hesitancy and self-consciousness are a maturation of her sticky grin in Fargo. Clooney plays a character not far from Everett, but does so with more paranoia and swagger. A- list casts are cause for suspicion these days, but this is a marvelous example of how good an audacious Hollywood can be.

The Coen brothers have always relied heavily on quirky resonance to their detriment. Their comedy is strongest when played with extended takes and mannered photography. We see much of that in Burn After Reading. They allow us to witness a more natural interaction with some marvelous actors and their expressive faces. However, these filmmakers seem to lean on wide shots as a punctuation, not a narrative fact. Their compositions have such a rich sense of space, but the shots stay in the can. It's a shame, really. The humor is built on interaction and interplay, not crafty visual manipulation. I only pick nits, though. They can stack up as many close-ups as they want as long as they retain the appreciation for long takes. It's a lost art in dire need of preservation. Drama is born of the long take.

The brothers function on the assumption that Comedy + Tragedy = Reinvention. It's a hopeless aspiration, but is it possible that they do it better than anyone else? Their best work does float in the land between straight-faced seriousness and banana-peel slapstick. This seems to be a corollary of insistent genre study. In an effort to subvert and deconstruct classic models, the Coen's manage to create scenarios with a greater complexity and density than is present in most popular contemporary filmmaking. Burn After Reading doesn't even seem like a spy film. It has such a deep respect for the dignity of classic convention that the subversion reads like an entirely new creation. Perhaps the slight lack of center in the film is a result of their appreciation for these conventions. Regardless, the Coen brothers are one of the most respectable filmmaking parties at work for precisely this reason.

Burn After Reading functions on steadfast but unforgiving fatalism. This is a common trope in Coen films, but only here is it made entirely explicit. To these filmmakers, human choice is independent of a crushing omnipotence. A CIA agent remarks, "Well, we don't really know what anyone is after" when presented with a summary of the film's puzzling event sequence. If there is a thesis to Burn After Reading, it's that we're all helpless creatures, floundering and philandering, smothered by our own desire. Like most of the Coen ouevre, the film ultimately becomes a thick tragedy. These characters, idiotic as they may seem, stand in for all of us.

Set against the backdrop of shrugging U.S. bureaucracy, we are all deemed incapable of governing ourselves.

79.3

To begin a not-so-warm evaluation of our American interpretation of The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, it is important to congratulate Rooney Mara, Christopher Plummer, Stellan Skarsgârd, and Daniel Craig on fine work. Mara is imagining a character that is ripe for praise and potentially less difficult to portray than immediately evident but she does so with precocious poise.

Elements of Fincher's visual style are commendable. His sense of space and focus lend a volatile but complex depth to every scene. Indeed, certain moments can only remind us of Nick Ray's unequaled perception of bodies and their relationship to the frame. Only Ray didn't blur out his backgrounds with such energetic whimsy. Nonetheless, Fincher frequently locates the viewer, both spatially and temporally, by giving an unusually profound gravity to properties and objects. Anything from a set of keys to a lipstick stain can be imbued with moral and informational subtext. There is a scene where a villain (unbeknownst to the audience at that point) pours out a bottle of wine. It's so mild, but it's a genius hint. Watch the scene. It's a marvelous addition. These images are fleeting though, and this director has yet to reach the point where visual keystones are given sustained energy. Fincher's relationship with technology is ripe with opportunity for a more nuanced interaction -- we can only hope that he grows into that connection. Moviegoers will be familiar with the color palette in Dragon Tattoo. Digital color grading has made for a host of gray-blue films. Here, shades of gray have become the status quo. The film does take place in the winter and in Sweden, but the absence of color becomes tiresome by the end of the first act. Fincher's team of editors and designers do give two scenarios vibrant yellows -- flashbacks and Lisbeth's ultimate swindle. While the shift in color does serve to locate the viewer like the objects do, it doesn't compensate for the general lack of energy within the frame. The yellows seem to pull from Harriet's hair and Lisbeth's wig, making a dubious evaluation of fantasy and history.

The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo qualifies as a thriller/mystery, replicating the events of a wildly popular Swedish novel by Steig Larsson. It involves a middle aged journalist who is hired to solve a private murder case. He enlists the help of a troubled but gifted young woman. They develop a certain type of relationship. The location of the film within Sweden inspires a shrug. Why not move it to America and change the names? This would be much preferable to the strange international accents that populate the film. Does British English substitute for all European nationalities now? I love the Swedish language. It's haunting and broad. But the interjections of signs and specific words during Dragon Tattoo are nothing short of alarming.

The film lacks a healthy center of gravity. The dual protagonists deprive it of urgency, as there is no pivot for 80 minutes, a long time. Novels can accomplish this narrative with diligence and patience, but there isn't enough time for that here. The material is simply too ambitious for a film -- Swedish or American filmmakers. Something has been lost in literary adaptations of the post-studio blockbuster era. Filmmakers seem determined to include as much of the full scope of detail as possible. Literary adaptations were more thorough many decades ago. And this was done by being more concise -- having someone around who doesn't know anything about literature to say "Cut it." While the characterization is quick and successful, the mystery falls apart because of this lack of gravity. In Plummer's first appearance, he dictates the terms of the plot in precise detail. Fincher's talent is beyond spoonfeeding. It's no longer necessary. The frenetic energy of the book is lost in the forceful explanation of the material.

Dragon Tattoo also lacks the energetic montage sequences that highlight Fincher's best work (Se7en, The Social Network). His education in the distracted tempi of the music video applies itself only when the imagery is a careful collage, of which he is very capable. Dragon Tattoo plays more like a fractured series, functioning at breakneck speed. Indeed, some transitions of scene and critical information sets are lost in this unnecessary visual haste. Even in the credit sequence, we are greeted with rhythmic editing to an interpretation of Led Zeppelin's "Immigrant Song," as arranged by Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross. The song is a fine choice, working in textual and textural contexts. This team of composers have certainly established themselves as bold and stylish inventors. By now, it has come to seem like their hard, information-aesthetic is married to Fincher's deep grays. But their gnawing pulse could be precisely what a filmmaker like David Lynch or Paul Thomas Anderson could blossom into a revolutionary context.

It seems imprudent to comment on the thematic content of the film, as that would be better suited for literary review. But in a story with so much potential for speaking critically and deeply about the nature of sexual abuse, it is sickening to see triumph created out of a genuine rape, no matter how disturbing or deserving the victim may be. I'm speaking, of course, about the encounter between Lisbeth and her guardian where she get's more than the upper hand. It speaks volumes about our relationship with film when savage revenge inspires an enthusiastic response from an audience. In fact, Dragon Tattoo seems to miss a bold opportunity to comment on film and voyeurism in the numerous instances of photographed or recorded violence. Were the filmmakers more intentional about this, the project could have revealed much about the very real and very scary human fascination and preoccupation with observing sex and violence. In our lives, there's no mystery to that story. It's a fact. And we all pay money to see it every day -- on our TV's, computers, and at the movie theater.

68.600

It should have been apparent when "Written by Aaron Sorkin" appeared on the screen, but government is only a tool in this film. Sorkin uses it with his usual degree of shrewdness, but political concerns are nothing more than an impetus - a joke. THE American PRESIDENT focuses on the most powerful man on the planet. To what is his power relegated? Jokes. Examining the film reveals that most references to political topics are implemented as gags. Shepherd's position of power is a running line, joined by federal disasters, Tel Aviv hostility, assassination, corruption, and dead Japanese leaders, only to name a few. These references are often planted into the script as irony, encouraging the audience to feel that the President deals with Middle Eastern militants like we do the dishes.

The larger point of this is also tied to the remarkable success of the film. Sorkin knows every trick in the book and he is shamelessly employing them. Reiners directing is completely unremarkable, but it would be impossible to fail with this script. Why do the conservatives look bad? Because they care about family values. THE American PRESIDENT is the pinnacle of Hollywood Liberalism, or "safe" liberalism. Shepherd is: the same as most people and entirely different from most people. The jokes and the sweetness all bank on Shepherd appearing as one of us. But he's not. The worst things people can do in this film are prioritize something that conflicts with a man who seems not to conflict with anything.

THE American PRESIDENT, while being a terribly successful Rom-Com, teaches us something interesting about how Hollywood operates. This movie could hardly anger anyone. And that is precisely because of the script's perpetuation of contradiction and fantasy. The less political, the better.

Michael Douglas and Martin Sheen both deliver knockout performances that manage to become something more than Sorkin's mouth.

62.0000

Often marked as "one of Renoir's greatest films," LE CRIME DE MONSIEUR LANGE is a platform for us to witness how a director can convert propaganda into memorable art. The script is full of wit but Renoir is the hero, here. He allows for multiple perspectives and concise characterization to produce a quick, jaunty, and bright film.

LANGE is dense with insightful staging. Renoir had learned by 1936 that everything serves character. In some ways, he recalls the swift attitude in Hawks's comedies. The camera work is clearly more radical, but they both succeed with abundant charm and aim every device at the service of character. Visually, some usual complexities are reserved for the end where the street allows for at least two excellent tracking shots. LANGE presents some of the most precise and concise characterizations in the Renoir repertoire. Batala is given superior attention. If we compare him to the capitalist villain in something like STRIKE, we find that Renoir believes in the complexity of thought even when working with a simple and economic script. In his frequent manipulation of women, Renoir illuminates the tight bond between money, power, and sex. His metamorphosis into a priest is loaded with dubious criticism, but is still the source of comedy.

The best component of LANGE might be the frequent allusions to Americana and westerns. It asserts that the American frontier was imbued with absolute freedom and the characters use it to focus their socialist fantasies. This parallel between socialist idealism and dreams of the West play incredibly well as an object of cinema. LANGE even gets its own joke -- "It's only a movie." The film is dense with the inimitable charm of Renoir, consistently exquisite photography, and forceful characterization. The comedy is presented with ease and subtlety. It is only unfortunate that so much of the commentary is excessively heavy. Capitalism comes back from the dead only to be defeated by Socialism. Socialism gets away with murder and walk happily out into infinity.

79.7

PLAY TIME is a film of astonishing complexity. Tati's performance of this mammoth piece succeeds as both a satire on the absurdity of modern tourism and an unthinkable demonstration of fulfilled imagination. It is famously unwatchable in one sitting. That's not true, but it does yield magnificent insights for those who brave this new Paris.

Tati constructs PLAY TIME in unflinching diagonals. Like Hitchcock's NORTH BY NORTHWEST, from which it clearly takes influence, the film revels in the construction of right angles but is always photographed from a diagonal. This is the source of subtle visual tension which Tati is able to sustain throughout the entire process. It is a touch that renders PLAY TIME with that elusive coherence and consistency usually absent in the presence of absurdity. Another component to the consistency is character. Barbara and Hulot share our curiosity and confusion. We are grounded in their solid construction like we would be in any more conventional narrative. Hulot is the perfect character to take us through this labyrinth. Tati, acting as Hulot, plays both our emotional (Hulot -- curiosity, confusion, exploration) and physical (director -- mise en scene) tour guide. Ultimately, the style is arresting. Angular tension binds with bold consistency to create an entirely watchable film.

In addition, Tati out-Altman's Altman years before M*A*S*H made him popular. The sound is layered and marvelous, not unlike the visuals, and just as dense with gags. Primary focal points are invariably covered up. English speaking audiences will be rewarded by numerous auditory jokes in both foreground and buried deep into the background. The visual gags are numerous and often simultaneous. Scenes involve incredibly dense, complex, precise comic choreography. Not unlike Keaton, Tati possesses unshakable artistic control and a belief in the subtle comedy of location.

PLAY TIME is an astonishing ballet of cinematic possibilities. One only has to think of someone like Malick to realize that Tati imbues every frame with electricity and spirit while making it look effortless. Is it a perfect film? If not, the accomplishment is nothing short of being, quite literally, an absurd miracle. PLAY TIME is a grand fugue of the cinema with lighthearted subject and angular answer. It is capable of anything -- arresting crescendi, subtle sequencing, revealing comedy, and simple beauty. How Tati managed to fulfill this dream will forever remain an object of fascination and a testament to the potential of genius.

98.8 (The highest rating I have yet assigned)

Faith has been made complicated in the 21st Century. It is economic. It is sociological. It is classist. Above all, it is politicized. Christ's message has been manipulated and warped so that people can justify hate with His words. Mention of the Republican party or the Right will undoubtedly conjure images of frenzied worshipers, people shouting in tongues, and probably Rick Santorum. How many votes in this election will be made with a spiritual basis? Belief has been exorcised from political discourse. It's like your "personal life," something you leave behind when going to work. For many, Christianity has been made a joke - a punchline that everyone knows will never land.

It's mental segregation. A religious conviction has been made into shorthand for particular socioeconomic ideas. And wrongly so. Educated liberals offer factual objections to the most basic assumptions in the Holy Bible. In fact, the simple virtue of education has been politicized as well. Believing in a God is now associated with being stupid or uneducated.

All of this is equally upsetting. It makes AU HASARD BALTHAZAR so vital.

The Christ imagery is not hard to see. BALTHAZAR is about the eponymous donkey and his struggles. It is a touching arrangement of image after image, sound and story. Bresson was a French Catholic and, like those of us with a strong faith, couldn't leave his convictions at home. In art, this fact somehow becomes a virtue again.

Bresson's tale is full of impeccable photography and a tremendous script. The pictures are so astoundingly crisp and focused that Bresson teaches us where to look with less labor than Hollywood is every able. It's so subtle, but we have been trained to lie with depth, especially now as we are dancing with three dimensions. He famously said that the only way to photograph was from close and in front. At times, this consistency is redundant, not beautiful, but only when employed in rapidly edited passages. Most of the time, however, his photography is sublime - perhaps more evocative of the Italian school than other contemporary French work. In addition, there is a magnificent script, spending a gorgeous majority in silence, respecting the potential of the image. It owes equally to the formality of mass and the subdued ecstasy in Dostoyevsky.

So many remark on Bresson's radiant visual style, but he also makes thoughtful use of sound. Some noises, like a cricket or a creaky wheel will gradually migrate from peripheral to dominating. He constructs these tableaux in layers, but unimposing ones. They are simple, but never insulting. His discipline informs the counterpoint rather than eliminating it.

A difficult film, but entirely rewarding. Don't ignore the religious imagery and symbolism. Instead, appreciate the intimacy between Bresson and his material.

93.3

Cocteau holds one of the more intriguing positions among history's directors. The few films that he felt compelled to make have been retooled by so many, often of them finding improvement. In the case of LA BELLE ET LA BETE, what is the consensus on Disney's interpretation? The love narrative is much more energetic. The effects and tricks adapt incredibly well to animation. Cocteau had such a rich appreciation for animation that he would undoubtedly be ecstatic about BELLE's younger cousin. It's undeniable that Disney created a real masterpiece in their rendering. But where did the magic come from? I argue that they and so many others have pulled it from Cocteau.

His fingerprint is immediately visible. Even the credits are absorbing. Cocteau formed a unique connection between the mainstream and the avant-garde. His imitation of Renoir is absolutely clear but, at the same time, his uninhibited and adventurous spirit created an organic variation in nearly every frame. In addition, the interaction between an intellectualized but sexual adulthood and childish fantasy is not tiresome here. As quickly as any other director, Cocteau came to possess the most vital characteristic a director can ever harness -- a trust in the magic of the medium. Though today we have been disenchanted by such frequent indulgence and belief in cinematic force over magic. This is what revives Cocteau and renders him so watchable today. We need not look further than Belle's first slow-motion entrance to the castle for an example of astonishing work. However, this ornate fable of transformation is, at least photographically, simple. Cocteau apparently instructed his DP to restrain himself and act against his adventure. The combination - and conflict, if you will - that results is exactly what makes BELLE so enchanting. The co-mingling of restraint, Renoir-like precision, and a wild, poetic imagination create one film that will remain in the canon for my lifetime at least.

NOTE: This viewing was accompanied by the Glass opera composed to match the film. Glass is a magnificent composer and human. He forges a carefully indulgent score that conflicts with Cocteau in an engaging way, but still doesn't access the character of Auric's initial scoring. However, he rediscovers the extraordinarily high responsibility placed on "movie music." It creates a different film, in a sense. Ultimately, I would argue that Glass produced a more interesting piece to analyze, hear and understand, but Auric frames Cocteau's childish vision with a greater compatibility. The answer to this equation is to buy Criterion's latest edition and hear both. It's worth it.

87.04

It's impossible to approach SOME LIKE IT HOT without noting how timely it must have been in addressing the gender confusion barrier. "Nobody's perfect" could have been the motto of the hip liberalism that would hijack the next decade. It is slick, it is fun, and it is directed and written with Wilder's trademark arrogance. But does it deserve such a formidable spot among the ever-memorable comedies? Maybe so, for the unexplored timeliness alone.

Wilder's most entertaining characteristic, once one gets used to seeing it, is his belief in universal idiocy. SOME LIKE IT HOT settles into some kind of saucy contempt for Y chromosomes before introducing Monroe's enduring archetype. I am reminded most in HOT of how her busty figure is an icon of days gone by. She is undone by the study in transsexuality, but still radiates even under the usual suppression of her brain. The plot tries to slyly maneuver her curves as if seducing her, but in stepping back we realize how surprisingly weak the story and characters are. The script - the ultimate Wilder - is 90% joke with a not-so-veiled dirtiness. Instead of spending dialogue time developing character, Wilder takes us on a 130 minute, cyclical, comedic joyride around the block of dramatic irony. Endlessly. We keep expecting the twist ending that we never get. It's a genius idea, one that wasn't his. And it doesn't convert into motion so well.

Though it is aided by the fascinating experimentation with sexuality. Jack Lemmon's erratic hustle is enough to exhaust you. And we are met by Tony Curtis and his imitation of Cary Grant. It is Monkey Business without the complexity. But it is an astonishing impersonation and his subtlety comes as a welcome gift while being battered by Lemmon's anxiety. Lemmon might seem more comfortable in the dress, but which one do you notice throwing off his (her?) wig?

But in the enormous dearth of character we see just how exceptional Wilder's writing had to be. And perhaps how magnetic the three primary players were.

I'll also take this time to mention how refreshing it is to see musical realism. Actors gyrating in rhythm and actually passing off the impression that they can play their instruments is all too rare in Hollywood.

75.3

Allen breaks a miserable dry spell with MATCH POINT. Since DECONSTRUCTING HARRY, of 1997, he very much earned the popular criticism of material regurgitation. He stepped outside of his comfort zone and outside of the United States, creating a crafty homage to Hitchcock.

First of all, it was nice to see Allen working in London. Among working directors, he is the most capable of capturing the truth in a town. It would eventually come to full fruition in the recent MIDNIGHT IN Paris, but his love for orgiastic civilization translates to film just as well in London as it does in Manhattan.

It was in stepping outside of his modus operandi that he pulls out of the rut, but so many of the trademarks are there. The usual preoccupation with fatalism and truth are pinned onto an amiable troupe of Upper Crust Brits. That is, except our protagonist. While Allen is not the only writer capable of successfully building a main character of such loathsome quality, he is the most fancy about it. Chris is played remarkably by Jonathan Rhys Meyers - a casting decision that quite possibly vaulted the picture from mediocrity to definition. His glib manipulation is, at first, difficult to understand. But by the end of MATCH POINT, we are the audience to his every thought. The deposition with the detectives is a fascinating example of filming the thoughts, not the words. We see into his self-loathing and it looks great.

So much cannot be said for Johansson, whose struggling actress character was probably looked at with some irony by Allen. She is the archetypal Allen Sexy Nymphette. In a performance that begins with such intrigue and fantasy, it rapidly devolves into a schizomaniacal tour of her body and methods of anger. I don't blame this on Allen. I've yet to be impressed by her, and I am beginning to think that Hollywood feels the same way.

Finally, it is worth noting how MATCH POINT is so much of a charming tip-of-the-hat in Hitchcock's direction. A witty use of Checkhov's Gun. A wedding ring MacGuffin. Allen succeeds admirably in imitating the shapes and structures of an inimitable force. MATCH POINT ends up being like a sissy backwards version of FRENZY with much more wit and character. Certainly not Allen's most monumental effort. And not one that demands much rewatching. But it broke perhaps the worst cycle of work by a respectable director. Too bad he didn't sustain the tradition of avoiding expectation.

74.2

THE CANDIDATE is a fascinating piece of work. Viewed this week with MEDIUM COOL -- Which one poses the greater criticism of television? MEDIUM COOL soaks in faked realism, THE CANDIDATE does the same. But they are such different pictures. In the end, CANDIDATE ultimately forms a more electric and buzzing indictment of Communication Age politics and it does so at a predictably steep price.

CANDIDATE revels in a backstage, "candid" approach to political procedure. It harnesses a very active camera - moving, zooming, panning. Evidenced immediately in the credit soundtrack, this isn't meant to be a deft evaluation of Americana, it's a mockery. McKay has his sleeves pulled up, he's eating, he's unbuttoned, he's untucked, he's incorruptible. And the picture is presented as such a slick piece of entertainment that it's just about impossible to disagree. Here's the really interesting part. Whether or not CANDIDATE was aiming for it -- was it? -- it shows television as the most formidable political gamechanger in history. So many of the lines tailor to it -- "they" cut your hair. So many scenes are Television Training Camp. There's the self-satisfied shot where the camera pans into the viewfinder of the TV camera while McKay compromises on his crime policy. In essence, CANDIDATE demonstrates a radically different and devolved political landscape than earlier pieces. Is McKay a Jefferson Smith of the 70's? I think he is -- thanks to the script.

This celebrated script. It stacks Politicians against Non-Politicians and has Redford migrate from the former to the latter. And how it abuses Redford! Possibly the best thing about the film is Redford's amicability and his tangible love for filmmaking. Three years after Sundance, he is ready to be cool for the adults. But what about this script they hand him? The liberalism is so piquant that it smells like we would be better off without government. Like politics is somehow more corrupt or convoluted than anything else in the age of television. The one thing it gets right -- accidentally or not? -- is how the equation of celebrity and politics equals power. Towards the end, the script wallows so much in its own sagacity that it is enough to make me seasick. My biggest question is this -- is the ambitious and potent critique of television incidental or not? And another, how connected are Bill and Barack?

Jefferson. Bill. Barack. America evolves, doesn't it?

59.00

I am compelled to rant for a moment. Anyone familiar with the "Reviews" system in the Rotten Tomatoes Community knows about the little sidebar that shows up when you write. It shows the three most recent user reviews for that particular picture. At this moment, I'd like to share the kind of unfortunate crap that people think about movies:

"Watch it, that is all." "Probably the first of the westerns with slapstick humor" "One of the best Westerns ever made, Paul Newman and Robert Redford make one of the best pairings in cinema history."

...what?

I honestly want to see a list of the pictures these people have seen that they would consider "Western." BUTCH is about as much of a Western as NO COUNTRY. It's an homage from a much different time. BUTCH is what happens if you take a bunch of cocky youths out of their VW Rabbit, give them a joint, make them watch THE TIN STAR, and then hand them a camera.

Indeed, this is precisely what makes BUTCH such an enduring picture. It preserves both a tested cinematic format and the edginess of 1969. But is it deserving of the label "one of the best Westerns ever made"? No way. It is a shameless carbon-copy of BONNIE & CLYDE. The second half of the film is remarkably slow. And, those who have seen it will understand, it is too damn pretty.

I will agree that Newman and Redford make an endearing couple. Redford's passion for cinema is tangible and Newman follows his impossibly charming lead. But there's something else. I never pick up on cinematic homoeroticism. But here? Even Little Ms. Robinson can't calm them down.

Those who point to DAYS OF HEAVEN as some kind of cinematographic landmark need to take another look at BUTCH. The picture-taking is so under-appreciated. Perhaps it is so because it is remarkably out of place. The camera is outrageously active. It plays around with weird and aimless focus lengths, puzzling apertures, and every zoom opportunity in sight. It doesn't fit. But that doesn't change the fact that some of the darkest, most dazzling photography of the second half of the century lies dormant in this picture.

None of my evaluation changes the fact that I watched this movie with my father. I remember him recommending it to me years ago and we finally looked at it last night. He saw it in on the big screen when it came out in '69 and there is no substitute for the joy a movie lover can feel when he or she enjoys their favorite hobby with someone so close and who shares the real connection we seek.

58.5

Wellman seems to work in extremes. He either makes a broad, difficult piece of social criticism (HEROES FOR SALE). Or he makes something that does little to challenge the audience. THE PURCHASE PRICE is, unfortunately, the latter of the two.

It does have some moments. The pre-code circumstances encourage some rough violence at times and do allow for a more complicated relationship between Stanwyck and Brent. Brent is one ideal counterpart for Stanwyck's iron will. She always seemed too smart and shrewd to be a real sexpot, but Brent can bend through that and get some genuine feeling out of her. Something by which some much better actors are defeated.

Wellman isn't particularly adept at photographing Stanwyck, although the pictures of her against the expansive farming landscape are Fordian. When not worrying about photographing ladies, the pictures are very clear and beautiful for 1932. The restoration also deserves credit for the wonderful preservation of imagery.

THE PURCHASE PRICE says little and does so with nice pictures. It's always a joy to watch young Stanwyck, especially in her Pre-Code years. You might not learn anything, but you will see one version of love come to life.

49.799

I will spare you the details of how universally influential STAGECOACH was. It set the framework for 70% of westerns made after 1939 and, most importantly, became the artistic model for Orson Welles first little production, CITIZEN KANE.

More on KANE later, but for now lets look at Bert Glennon's cinematography. This is the man who would later work on numerous Ford productions in addition to such projects as THE RED HOUSE, SHADOW OF A WOMAN, and RUTHLESS -- all in the Noir tradition. This suggests an intriguing interplay between John Ford's westerns and the Noir style. Fritz Lang was already developing the Noir narrative during the late 30's, but, surprisingly and inarguably, Ford was forging the early stages of Noir design. It couldn't be more evident in STAGECOACH. Powerful single lighting sources, long black shadows, and high contrasts. The whites are real white. The blacks are real black. Orson Welles said that he learned how to make KANE by watching STAGECOACH over and over and over again. What's this about KANE creating the ceilinged set? It's all over the place in STAGECOACH. Where did he get the sound idea for the opening tracking shot of TOUCH OF EVIL? Watch STAGECOACH. I don't think Welles would deny this and I don't think he would have rather lost the Oscar to anyone but Ford that night in 1942.

Indeed, STAGECOACH is all over KANE. Everywhere you look. Ford's style is at its most pure and unadulterated here. It is done with his usual degree of technical virtuosity. The graceful camera motions are subtle beyond all others but possibly Murnau. Ford left so little to the editor in terms of choices, thereby exerting extraordinary artistic control over the picture. By giving so much artistic power to the natural surroundings, Ford allows Monument Valley to ornament his shots and they are thus illuminated by this dwarfing presence.

The expanse of the west rightly plays a starring role in STAGECOACH. It's a Western's Western where outcasts can be redeemed by the expanse of the unexplored. The lawless and unruly land encourages entrepreneurship and thrift. Here, the west is the land of misfit cowboys, ready to take their chance and wake up from that American Dream.

Of course, I can't finish this review without giving credit to the ensemble of decent actors who turn a stagecoach into a courtroom of extraordinary personalities. Wayne isn't strangled by his own image yet and his exuberance is tangible. Ford directed him with one side of the whip and Hawks with the other. Both directors drew some of this century's greatest moments out of Wayne. Unlike Hawks, who had a trove of his own gifts, Ford could pull more feeling and direction out of a human eye than anyone else. It's so evident in STAGECOACH.

STAGECOACH, aside from being the mammoth standardizing western that it is, possesses a style that crosses boundaries and prepares the way for Orson Welles and Film Noir. If it isn't the best from Ford, it's at least a testament to his formidable output.

96.8001

I can hear a Showtime executive saying, "Did you see this THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT thing? The material just isn't there. They might be able to make a movie of it."

Voila. That seems to be the case.

The material is progressive. It is presented, as I am told, honestly. And to be frank, that is the most terrifying thing about the film. If this is truly how "progressive" (of any type) families act, I have never been more proud to have been raised in a middle-class rural Catholic family. If we manage to wade out of the abysmal sludge that is the script, we get a set of characters who are presumptuous blowhards, apparently holding the secrets of the universe in their Whole Foods tote. THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT is a universe of pretense, judgment, and just plain anger. How people are construing this as a positive message is unimaginable to me. The false positivity that marks the ending is crafted from guilt. In fact, I resent little more than the suggestion that homosexual individuals can be somehow held less responsible for heterosexual cheating, which KIDS makes.

Thankfully, Annette Benning properly utilizes her formidable gift for meltdowns. That's about as much praise as I can give.

Terrible script. Mediocre acting. Aimless and facile direction.

I loathe having to say this, but THE KIDS ARE ALL RIGHT is time wasted. The kind of fodder that scares old critics into feeling like film is dead.

Woody Allen has never made a film worthy of enshrinement in the Pantheon. ANNIE HALL? Not quite. MANHATTAN? No. His early comedies? Pretty close. PURPLE ROSE OF CAIRO? The closest. However, no discussion of late-20th Century film is complete without mention of his personality, his formidable output, his Bergmanesque preoccupations, and his style. Indeed, maybe he has made so many 'nearly good-enoughs' with such panache and duty that he will last forever. We look at MIDNIGHT IN Paris, another movie that no one else could have made, and the feeling is only strengthened.

Allen must have been waiting to shoot the opening montage of this film since he made MANHATTAN. It is a portrait of Paris no painter could have done. Full, gorgeous, serene, textured, candid glimpses of the great city of light. MIDNIGHT is undoubtedly the most visually mature Allen picture. The deep and bold tones illuminate the magic and skin, enough to make you yearn for Rachel McAdams' Inez (Sartre reference anybody?) while she is terrorizing every scene she inhabits as the most unforgiving witch of 2011. MIDNIGHT also makes clear that Allen has matured so much as a writer, always his best skill. It is his most visually expressive script after DECONSTRUCTING HARRY or possibly MATCH POINT. I've often wondered how his writing might illuminate the work of a director other than himself - a Coen or a Scorcese.

As the Woody-Hero enters Golden Age Paris, we begin to discern the obligatory fable. But in MIDNIGHT there is something else twisted in from Owen Wilson's performance. The look on his face before submitting to the fantasy is striking; more striking is to what he eventually submits. It's exactly what makes MIDNIGHT the best Allen work since CAIRO. Gil subdues himself to a will other than his own. He relents. This is remarkable in the history of Allen stand-ins. Allen imbues Wilson (a likely puppet) with his own jittery aimlessness, but also commitment and less ego. Wilson takes these revolutionary Allen traits and creates a Woody-Hero that is so fresh and so likable. Something we have never seen before.

The cameos inside of Golden Age Paris are magnificent, if fleeting. Adrien Brody's Dali is better than you can imagine and Hemingway is a bright caricature. It is hard to describe the genuine treat of seeing these wonderful heroes of the past in such color. One thing we can always grant Allen is his steadfast ability to employ his fables for a double meaning. Yes, there is joy in MIDNIGHT, joy is one of the new and exciting characteristics. But his pessimism is not so far away. In taking us one layer deeper into the Belle Epoque, we understand his point. It's impossible to be happy. Even our dreams of real happiness are false. We imbue times and figures with an unquestioned brilliance. Allen shows us that these feelings are no better than Paris in the rain. Gil's speech about a city being a work of art creates another poignant conclusion. It is Allen reconciling the Hollywood Hack (non-art) with the novelist (art), to understand that beauty is beauty. A rhinoceros is a rhinoceros.

There are flaws. Allen creates so many incredible characters and barely employs them. His haste is his error. In some cases, it ends in crude or abrupt plot developments. MIDNIGHT could have been 20 minutes longer and it would have been a better picture, possibly one for the Pantheon.

But Allen has created another work of wit, charm, and poignancy. It doesn't escape his obsessive pessimism, but it does show us a side of him that we have never seen. One not cloaked in hateful sarcasm. One not bleak or humorless. Not so relentless. MIDNIGHT allowed his humor to be real. So maybe we will always remember Woody for his winding career. As there are peaks and valleys, it is safe to say that here we have a marvelous peak and perhaps the highest.

91.443

THE HELP has proved critically divisive and rightfully so. When it gets it right, it's marvelous. When it gets it wrong, it's shameful. Still, a magnificent group of actresses render this film as sweet as chocolate pie -- made not by Octavia Spencer.

The first decisive critical split comes in the characters. Just like so many nostalgic period works we see, writers forget to develop characters - only archetypes. These women are divided into two groups, White Racist Hussies and Color-Free Saintly Perfections. There is Black, there is White, but there is no Gray in THE HELP. Morality is so sadly made into an on/off switch any three-year old can figure out. In dealing with an issue still so pungent as American racism, Tate Taylor (writer-director) should know that things are much more complex than are presented here. However, so much praise is due to Octavia Spencer and Viola Davis. Their individual performances easily stand alone, but in tandem they create a tangible energy and ambition. Moments they share provide some hope for contemporary cinema. Emma Stone is also great. I hesitate in evaluating her because she hesitates in her own role. She is so well-crafted for modernity and self-referential comedy. Visibly, she was working hard to adapt to the period style. It paid off. The rest of the company does as well as possible in their stereotyped restrictions with special applause for Jessica Chastain as Celia. It's a long way from THE TREE OF LIFE, but here she brings to life THE HELP's most vivid and realized character.

The photography is fine. The colors look like a children's book and some of the bright hues do breathe life into an otherwise deadened 60's suburbia. Sound, design, make-up, and costumes all do well enough jobs that I don't feel like complaining and I can't find a reason to commend. Not so in the editing room. The picture is long. Towards the end, it isn't bothersome at all. However, the opening of the film could have lost five to ten minutes of footage as introductions drag on and on. Sure enough, rewatching the first half-hour uncovers one unnecessary scene and two that are egregiously long. Also, the final confrontation between Aibileen and Hilly seems an appendix. It does nothing for the film but offer one a chance to shout at the other. As if Taylor were trying to tie up the film with a nice bow regardless of the fact that Aibileen had just lost her job. Here again, THE HELP ends on a strangely certain note. Civil Rights was only a dream in 1964; the movement only beginning to gain speed. If there was a happy ending for Aibileen, it wasn't at the denouement of THE HELP.

Disregarding the archetypes, the bad coda, and some numbness, THE HELP did beautifully conjure age-old imagery of White kids being raised by Black women. It's one that so many of our parents remember. Was that a way to improve race relations? Were those awful days polishing silver the seeds of a great improvement? THE HELP might mean many things here. It might mean Skeeter writing a revolutionary book. It might mean Hilly "helping" herself to a nice slice of pie. It might mean Aibileen raising children while hers is at home. The point is that help needs to come from everywhere "and it needs to start with the truth," as they say.

Black ladies will raise the kids. Black ladies write the books. Black ladies clean the kitchens. Black ladies write the newspaper columns.

But the most unfortunate flaw in the film is that a White lady saves the Black ladies. Perpetuating the thankless circumstances that need to end.

74.5

Does SPLENDOR IN THE GRASS really take place in the Twenties? It doesn't.

Everything looks like the Twenties. There's no booze. Decadence has overrun the town. The people are indulgent, waiting for the next big paycheck. They have oil. Its pumping. Pumping. Pumping. Pumping. Pumping... Problem is -- so are the kids.

The opening shot of Warren Beatty and Natalie Wood getting hot in the car right next to the waterfall is trademark Kazan. Sometimes the kissing is interrupted by a shot of the giant swell of water falling off the cliff. It is a metaphor for their passion, if you didn't take the hint. Not only is the water pumping, but the oil, too. It is a part of the story. The adults are obsessed with pumping oil (it's a sexual relationship), and making money (which harnesses obvious sexual power).

Natalie Wood goes crazy from jealousy. Understandable. She is an infatuated young girl. Will virginity make you crazy? Is that what Kazan is saying? No. But she is deprived of a primal physical need by her parents. This repression cultivates hatred and impatience in every area of the brain. Her parents are telling her to reserve her reckless desires for marriage. Apparently this isn't possible in Wood, and she goes bananas. She can't stack up to the wealth of her family and her family will not allow her to have sex with Bud. The older generation traps her into madness. It is their fault.

With Bud, in a thrilling and exact performance from Warren Beatty, we see some of the same thing, but met with a strength able to overcome the foolishness of his elders.

Here lies the genius of Kazan. The story is set in 1929ish. He distances himself from the present. However, the ideas are burning with contemporary relevance. Baby Boomers start asking questions in their teens. They start looking around for some sex. Their parents try to stop the behavior. They fail. Revolution is born. The youth revolution comes from this. It begins at the home, rejecting the merit of parental guidance. In fact, I assert that Elia Kazan's films, specifically, embody the shift from Code to Rating. He might be the crux. He makes movies without fear, encourages wild, uninhibited behavior, and domestic violence that may one day turn into the knife that sinks into Marion Crane. His energy revitalizes an otherwise bland 50's cinema. But it is important to remember that Kazan isn't commenting on the 1920's. He's commenting on the 1960's. THIS is where the youth movement begins. In these attitudes.

Some brilliant qualities of the film are in its' sound and composition. The sound is aggravating at times. It buzzes during silence. It makes noise. But it acts as the prototype for a style Altman would eventually use regularly. Background noise played an integral part in the narrative. We heard gossip. We heard secrets. No one was safe from discovery. It was a fascinating way to create dramatic irony and suspense.

As far as composition goes, SPLENDOR was perhaps the best of all Kazan's efforts. His primal and animalistic acting style was contained. The spaces were beautiful. The sets were full and bright. They were right without attracting attention. Inside of these neat spaces, Kazan's animal acting created controlled and precise pandemonium. No space is safe. Hospitals, schools, hallways, everything becomes an insane asylum. Here, we see the madness in human behavior. Kazan shows us how primitive we are. How love is such a private and animalistic game. Really, it creates a SPLENDOR IN THE GRASS.

A brilliant and wild film. It's sloppy, it's gritty, and it's great. It demands multiple viewings. It may be the apex of a magnificent career.

96.7

It's all true. Everything you've heard. MONEYBALL is "not just another baseball movie." But, Lord, give me FIELD OF DREAMS, give me LITTLE BIG LEAGUE, even give me ANGELS IN THE OUTFIELD. But keep MONEYBALL away.

I will concede that the film looks wonderful. It has rich darks and infinite blacks, excellent shadows, and pale whites. The shots down long bending stadium corridors are magnificently focused and clean. The film even has an incredibly underrated script. It is full of natural dialogue with organic pauses, repetitions, and idiosyncrasies. The words have such strong rhythm.

Why doesn't the story? MONEYBALL is the story of a great film that was murdered in the editing room. At least 15 minutes could have been edited out of the second and third acts. The analytic neatness embedded in the theme is destroyed by disjunct editing that recklessly jumps from scenario to scenario with wobbly confidence. It's as if the editor was just following the script and putting in the first take he or she could find then letting it play until another switch was necessary. It results in a very sloppy picture. I don't like complaining about this, but the movie is ABOUT NUMBERS, MATH, AND ANALYSIS.

Also, MONEYBALL frequently attempts to employ the inspirational music device while talking about using players who have been numerically overlooked by other franchises. First of all, it is cheap emotion. Second, it is cheap metaphor. Third, it is a bad metaphor. The underdog theory and the BPitt/JHill vs. Everyone bout becomes exhausting. The real problem is that there are no stakes.

No stakes. No personal relationships. No attachments. We are even told that the GM isn't supposed to have close relationships with players. The audience is not full of players. We are never given access to anything interesting or sympathetic about these characters. We see a touch of Billy's past and his failure. In fact, Brad Pitt does a fairly good piece of work in this role. It is understated and precise, a much more difficult character than he might generally see. Either way, as the pressure and focus turns onto the players and the game during the final act, the audience is left with nothing on which to hold. MONEBALL fails to establish any kind of emotional pivot and, as a result, a great adaptation and a great story lose popular sympathy even in a brilliantly shot, lit, scripted, and acted work.

54.9

Oh, the melodrama! Oh, the self-indulgence! Oh, the decadence! Oh, the bare assumptions!

BLACK SWAN tells us little more than we already know -- art is difficult, (absolute) perfection isn't possible, and pressure can kill you. Despite these cliché's and the indulgent, Romantic segments, BLACK SWAN is intense. It harnesses a type of psychological depth of which only Aronofsky is capable of achieving. First of all, he makes anxiety palpable. In scenes where Nina is among all of the dancers warming up, the editing shifts in rhythm; not too quickly, not too slowly. It is like our brain switching direction. We are changing our minds with her. We are seeing our competition and knowing we are inferior. Aronofsky has a unique gift to pass stress on to the audience, especially when they're in the dark. This transferred anxiety is the price of creation. The price of beauty. In fact, what is BLACK SWAN aside from the question -- how much does perfection cost? It isn't an indictment of eating disorders and aggressive teachers, but it is an intimate document, albeit fictional, of creativity and hard work -- and what that combination is capable of. Is it in opposition to all creativity? Is Aronofsky telling people to stop working so hard? Those are all the wrong questions. The real question is: are you willing? How far are you ready to go? BLACK SWAN is ultimately a celebration, in bright white bliss, of creation and having a fatal devotion to it. The mirror. Her vanity. Her incessant desire kills her. Not work.

Aside from the thick thesis of BLACK SWAN, it is right to commend so many components. The camera motion is some of the best in recent history. It is as choreographed as the dancers, moving with precision and beauty. It is also a psychological unit. The camera is always on the fringe of Nina's head, a bird of prey ready to abduct her sanity.

Natalie Portman performs with humble brilliance. The role is an impossible one. A child. A genius. A masochist. So sheltered. The scene in which she masturbates on her bed only to see her mom sleeping close by is a nugget of gold. It shows such profound loneliness. It illuminates her sexual need for her mother because her father is gone. Was she imagining her father? It is a cinematic moment that makes movies the thing that they are. It says a million words in thirty seconds. In addition to Portman's career best, we have an encouraging performance from Mila Kunis, real or not.

BLACK SWAN and Aronofsky understand how much we need to understand ourselves. And how destructive that can be. Nina meets fate in the form of a mirror. It is nothing but her own vanity and obsession that kill her. Not hard work. Not looking for perfection. Nina dies for her inability to be both black and white.

83.8

After we are finished talking about the gross moments, the riotous laughter, and a few knockout performances, there is going to need to be a fair evaluation of this movie. I think it is going to be a good one.

There were numerous LOLian moments. The fitting room. The airplane. Air Marshall John. John Hamm. "Hold On." And McCarthy and Wiig turn in some magnificent acting and substance. Wiig does a good job harnessing the propulsion of the movie, even when it becomes a flaw. There are large pieces of material that could be edited out, but Wiig still manages to fill the screen with the same lovable awkwardness that audiences have started to appreciate. One of BRIDESMAIDS' best qualities is the ensemble energy. The women work well together (and the unnecessary material should have been swapped for more time with them) and every character has unique energy. This is exactly what makes BRIDESMAIDS crucial as genre evolution. This level of female ensemble acting in contemporary comedy has not been produced to this extent. It's a marvelous group performance and a big step forward.

The script is owed a certain due. The use of repetition and stop-start dialogue is commendable, but the silence is what drives BRIDESMAIDS. They seem to know every smart-ass retort, but nothing can stand up to silence when they just have nothing to say. It's used very well. The scene where Ms. Wiig makes and eats a cupcake is one of the most arresting examples of loneliness, loneliness amongst everything, that has been recently seen. In fact, Ms. Wiig crafts herself as a repugnant character, wasteful and constantly waiting for pity. Her jealousy towards the enigmatic Helen is taken much too far (even in the film) and, like Woody Allen writing his own flaws into his own characters, here we see an embarrassing character in need of a Rosebud (baking shop).

As the main themes are clearly lined out as "change v. same," we never end up seeing a title bout. There are some apologies and everybody gets to the wedding. But will they be any better off when the sequel comes out? Will Helen still be the clueless self-righteous turd that she is? Will Annie be baking? and not being the most subtly evil twirp that she was here? Maybe we will find out.

Until then, enjoy something very close to Judd Apatow. Enjoy some truly unique comedy coming from a great gaggle of females. And Enjoy seeing girls be girls, cycling through dismay and distaste.

63.232