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I wonder how this film would be judged without Spielberg's name attached. My feeling is it would be hailed as a masterpiece. However, with great achievement comes great expectations. Most of those expectations will be exploded by the end of Munich, the least Spielbergian of Spielberg's films. Firstly, there is no obvious hero here, and that is the point. Terrorism and anti- terrorism drags all of humanity into an unheroic world. Witness Avner's reaction to the young Israeli soldiers who revere him when he returns from his mission: He doesn't believe he is a hero. Secondly, the pacing will alternately disorient, lag, overwhelm and frustrate. I would argue the beginning of the second act owes heavily to The Day of the Jackal, a film which also tried to demonstrate just how banal the days of an assassin can be. Tony Kushner, best known for Angels in America, writes scenes that disturb. They may irritate you at times, but you will remember them. In Munich, one such scene is the sex scene that ends the movie in which Avner is dreaming about the murder of the Israeli Olympians. It seems so ridiculous at the time, but days later you will still be haunted by it. Finally, Munich's point-of-view may come as a surprise considering it was directed by the man who won so much acclaim for Schindler's List. Of course, you would think Spielberg's sympathies would lie with the Jewish state created after the very Holocaust he set his most acclaimed film during. But Munich is a nuanced piece that takes a horrible event that solidified most of the world behind Israel and shows how Israel's response, to hunt down the planners of the kidnapping, turned into something just as unjustified.

Just perused the current list of top TV shows — CSI:Everywhere, Special Law & Order Unit, Crossing Jordan — and was wondering what ever happened to detective stories with detectives in them. Not that all the pretty faces on these shows don't do the job of detective (the late Jerry Orbach is the exception), it's just that they have all the personality of alphabet soup. I wonder if movies like The Thin Man could even compete with these flashy, juiced-up shows, or, for that matter, if Magnum P.I. would find a place on the network's schedule. But then I think — who cares? The Thin Man series (and Magnum, too) are there to be adored but anyone lucky enough to come across them. Such charm has rarely been seen in the movies, and I'm not talking about Marilyn Monroe, Marlon Brando showy charm. I'm talking about characters that are as comfortable talking to high society as they are to thugs and more comfortable with the thugs. I'm sure if The Thin Man were released today some alphabet soup organization, Dads Upset over Drinking (DUD) or some such nonsense, would be picketing over alcohol's prominent place in the Charles' lifestyle. As the other detective here would say, "Phooey." Drinks for breakfast, drinks on the job, nightcaps — these are important as any plot developments in these films. They give the pictures a gauzy atmosphere, as if by watching them, you might feel a little tipsy. But don't be fooled, the plotting here is like clockwork. If you check your watch at the first shooting, you'll notice it's exactly at 45 minutes. And then the fun begins. Beautifully realized performances down to the ittiest bit player, check out the decrepit butler for a comic touch later riffed on in Mary Poppins, fun production numbers — it's all here and none of it is show and tell — it all serves the king, in the case of any Dashiell Hammett, the story.

Those that complain that Philip Glass's scores are obtrusive, should watch Dark Blue. The music, a cross between porn music and bad sitcom music, ruins many scenes, making it difficult to get into what is otherwise a decent, sometimes brilliant, script. If you're going to spend all this money on a cast (Kurt Russell, Ving Rhames, Lolita Davidovich, Micheal Michele, Brendan Gleeson, Scott Speedman) and recreating Los Angles after the Rodney King riots, why hire such a hack? If the sound in a movie is supposed to create 30% of the emotional intensity, it seems silly to go through all the energy of producing a movie, when the highest score you can obtain with a bad score is 70%. The fact that it gets the 70% is a tribute to some fine performances and a fine job of capturing L.A. Collateral did a better job of capturing the city at night, but Dark Blue does a nice job of capturing it in the day. There are many imperfections here, especially the big speech Russell gives at the end, but the interesting ways things tie together overcomes them. Particularly impressive is Speedman, who plays the role Ethan Hawke played in Training Day. Maybe my expectations of his work were low and maybe working with Russell inspired him, but he turns in some nice work as the ethically challenged new guy. Maybe they should have hired him to do the soundtrack.

Even those who worship at the altar of Egoyan would probably admit The Adjuster needed a bit of, er, adjusting. The first half an hour of the film is so disjointed and gives so little information it's comical, almost like a parody of his later work. Of course, this movie came before Exotica and The Sweet Hereafter and is really only useful to those who enjoyed those films as an exercise to see where Egoyan came from. And it goes to prove that no one, not Egoyan, not Scorsese, not Spielberg, made their best pictures straight out of the gate. The Adjuster has many of Egoyan's signatures — explorations of photographic voyeurism, depraved sexuality, his wife — but in The Adjuster he forgets to cross his Ts and dot his Is. The editing is particularly jarring, with little flow within scenes and jerky transitions between story lines. There are some interesting images, especially of the model home in the middle of nowhere and an interesting contrast between suburbia and the urban motel where Elias Koteas' character houses his clients/victims. Egoyan deserves credit for pioneering this style of dreary, detached storytelling, which like it or not is truly original. Of course, he is also responsible for the clones who have copied this style (Last Night, Century Hotel, The Five Senses) to less-than-desirable results and given Canada the reputation of precious alternof---s. No, really, we're normal people who don't all have cold sex.

Perhaps I just answered my own question? Without a doubt the waxing scene in this movie is the most memorable and sure to become a movie legend. Steve Carell's reactions aren't so much funny as cringe-inducing and everyone from the waxer to his buddies give brilliant reaction shots. Of course, the reason this works is because it was real. In fact, all of The 40 Year Old Virgin's great scenes are borne out of reality, which makes you wonder why they felt the need to go all crazy nutso and bring down the picture? For example, the movie opens with Carell's character walking through his apartment with an erection. He then tries to go to the bathroom, but has to contort himself to hit the toilet. Funny. But later in the film he sits down to go to the washroom and pees all over himself. Not funny. Why? Because he's 40 years old, for crimeny's sake. He's been doing this all his life. It's just stupid. Similarly, there is a funny scene in which he can't seem to avoid a bus with erotic images all over it. Then later in the film, he crashes through a billboard with the same image. Coincidence? Symbolism? Or just plain lame. As with Wedding Crashers, which this film will be linked forever to the summer of 2005, there is a goldmine of comedic possibilities that arise out of the great premise. Which makes it particularly galling when the filmmakers choose to go for the easy, sophomoric gag over the easy, intelligent gag. No one is going to be quoting the foul-mouthed grandmother in Wedding Crashers nor should they be quoting the foul- mouthed East Indian in 40 YOV. Sometimes having the least obvious character do the swearing turns out to be the most obvious. That said, I really enjoyed the relationship between Carrell and Catherine Keener's character. It was real, it was touching and Carell especially showed a different kind of leading man. But I keep going over how lame some of these scenes were. The condom scene? Really. A heterosexual, non-religious guy who thinks he should blow a condom up or stretch it out on his toes. It's like these jokes came from the Acme Joke factory. And the screen time used on these lameties could just as easily been used on developing character. Why is this guy a virgin? I know guys like this and this film had an opportunity to really say something about the pressures and fears these guys have, but instead it spent time (a lot of time) setting him up for a "party" with what turned out to be a transvestite. I mean, come on, stop pandering to 18-year-olds, who I'm sure are a lot smarter than this film gives them credit for.

To put this film in perspective you must understand this about Canadian film: stories like this don't get made here. Stories about sex with the dead or badly maimed? Sure. Stories about allegedly charming Maritimers? Definitely. Stories about sex with allegedly charming dead Maritimers? Well, not yet, but just wait. Which is to say that although this country churns out more than its fair share of world-class comedians such as Mike Myers, Jim Carrey, Martin Short and the late John Candy, we don't make movies that showcase this talent. So Ham & Cheese gets full marks for attempting something so bold as a mockumentary in a land where government-funded agencies favour creepy. That said, thinking back on some of the scenes in H & C, there's plenty of creepy here. Such as the scenes in which Mike Beaver's character joins a fringe festival acting troupe, which includes a cancer patient, a silent fat guy and the omnisexual leader. Seriously whacked out stuff — having sex with the earth? I would argue Beaver's story and performance, though the guy has that lovable lug thing going, is the weaker of the two, falling back on Waiting for Guffman-like parody. Beaver's choice to play the guy as a Lennyesque retard backfires, the character is more pathetic than funny. On the other hand, Jason Jones should be coming to a American theatre soon. He's that good. His performance seems to fit between old Harry Shearer SNL skits and Steve Carell in Anchorman. There are a few scenes — the one in which he auditions for a mattress ad using an Aussie accent and the one in which he plays an extra on a cop drama — are particularly memorable. They also seem to bring out the best film-making — the director edits them to maximum effect, and finds a happy medium between funny and sad. Kudos also to the filmmakers for paying attention to detail. At the beginning of Mike Beaver's story there is a shot of a poorly punctuated wooden lawn sign that is indicative of the culture of small-city Ontario — The Wolanski's. Perfect. The picture also transcends its genre and has something to say about the acting craft and show business, and what it has to say is ppppmph!

Hey Brad Pitt! James Dean called and he wants his persona back. Seeing where Pitt's Thelma & Louise character came from is just one of the many treasures hidden in this good, often brilliant, epic. A few others: a wonderfully staged fist fight between Rock Hudson's Bick Benedict and Sarge, the racist owner of a diner. Fifty years later, they still don't make fist fights any better; the iconic scenes of the Mexican boy's return from war and subsequent funeral. Set up with the jubilant return of the white son-in-law, this is Riefenstahlesque in its capturing of American and Texas patriotism. When Bick hands over the Texas flag, try as you might you will have a lump in your throat. And all because Stevens is a master at withholding information. He shows Bick earlier at the flag case, but we don't know why. He shows the folding and presenting of the Stars and Stripes to the soldier's mother, then, without fanfare, Bick walks up and presents his Texas flag. Powerful, beautiful stuff; the scene in which Bick's tough-ass sister tries to break Liz Taylor's horse is a triumph of film-making, alternating between quick edits of the spurs digging in and a long shot of the horse bucking on the dusty ranch. The acting is too melodramatic, the film is too long and occasionally the anti-racist theme is a too obvious, but the tremendous film-making here makes up for it. An interesting comparison piece would be The Searchers. Ford obviously watched Giant and learned from its faults.

For those who like alternative for the sake of alternative, Me, You and Everyone We Know is a show-and-tell of all your favourite subjects. Childhood sexuality, suburbia as Hell, McJobs — it's all here, which makes one wonder how alternative these ideas really are if they keep showing up in so many films (Happiness, Ghost World, Welcome to the Dollhouse). The twist here is that the tone is dreamy rather than dark, which may have the reverse effect of making it more disturbing. I suppose any film that makes you think should be commended, but it's difficult to recommend something you have little emotional connection to. There are some admittedly beautiful moments of film-making — director Miranda July certainly understands the power of an image — but the screenplay tries to juggles too many characters. It drops most of them, and keeping one or two balls in the air in the same time is hardly impressive. Most distracting is the performance of July herself as the zany performance artist. Let's call her a hopeless romantic, emphasis on hopeless. She's really less a leading lady and more of a stalker. Maybe some people confuse this character's behaviour with being an artist, but I think it's a matter of a writer/director/actor biting off more than they can chew. Woody Allen could pull this kind of stuff off, and Ms. July is hardly as august a talent. Contrast her work with that of the lead actor, also a bit of a kook, but a kook who brought something charming to his role. Only desperation on his part could bring these two together. Far more interesting was the story of Richard and his sons. July does a great job of capturing the unpleasantness of this neighbourhood and the toll separation takes on children. It makes them grow up much quicker, exposing them to things they might otherwise have avoided. The actors who play the boys and the girls they interact with are the real revelations in this film, which would have been vastly improved had they focused on them instead. Their scenes of discovery, despite the touchy subject matter, seemed genuine. Rather than scarring them for life, the boys seemed pleased to be learning something since their father was never there for them.

Films this restrained can only be made by an experienced filmmaker, a guy who knows what he wants to say and how to say it and doesn't have to worry about impressing everyone with witty banter or fancy camera tricks. Broken Flowers is so restrained, I'm sure it will elicit some of the same responses Bill Murray's last two films (The Life Aquatic, Lost in Translation) received, mainly — what's the big fuss about? The big fuss is that like Jim Jarmusch, Murray's an experienced craftsman, who understands that true talent lies in how much you give to your supporting actors, not in how much spotlight you take. Movie acting is all in the eyes and subtle body language, not in bombast. but mostly it's in being able to listen to your fellow actors. It's counterintuitive, that a visual medium relies so much on quiet, but it's what separates the great performances from the over-hyped. Let's hope that a subtle movie like this one avoids massive media attention, as that would be missing its point. And what, many may ask, is the point of Broken Flowers. At the screening I attended many were confused, others disappointed by the ending. Indeed, if there is one niggling detail that separates this film from perfection, it is the ending. Of course, Indian rugmakers intentionally weave mistakes into their wares, because they believe only God is perfect, my point being that the theme of this film is that in a quest for meaning, sometimes we learn there is no answer or that the answer is complex. In this case, Jarmusch seems to be saying that meaning is already present, but you might only glean it if you are prepared. Murray's character, Don Johnston (with a "T"), only went on the road trip at his neighbour's urging, and clearly felt the whole thing was nonsense. His attitude may have caused him to miss the mystery, but discover new truths. Similarly, the audience may become too fixated with solving the mystery of who the mother of his son is and miss the other truths, namely that Johnston already has a family with his next-door neighbours, and he already has a relationship as good as he would have had with any of his past flames. The pink typewritten letter, the long-lost son, they are not the point of his life. As Johnston himself says, "The past is gone, the future's not here yet. All there is is now."

There's more to offer in the opening of The Odd Couple than in the entirety of most films. Felix Unger (the poor guy's monogram even curses him) checks into a New York hotel. A cleaning lady says "Good night." "Goodbye," he answers back. In his room he empties his pockets, then struggles to take off his wedding ring only to put the objects neatly into an envelope, addressed to his wife and beloved children. When the viewer finally puts it together — aha, he's going to off himself — we watch him struggle to open the window — oh no, he's going to jump — The poor guy injures his lower back. This is all you need to know about Felix Unger — his wife has left him, he's a compulsive cleaner and he's a hypochondriac. And all in one scene. This is the particular genius of Neil Simon's comedy — it's about situation and character. There are few obvious physical jokes — no kicks to the groin, no cheap gags — just funny characters in uncomfortable situations. And, of course, he is a master of manipulating the audience's expectations. Coming from the Swingers era, imagine what I thought in the date scene when Felix starts lamenting about the breakup of his marriage to the girls his roommate Oscar has worked so hard to get into his apartment. He's blowing it, right? Think again. The girls love his sensitivity, his ability to cry in front of them. They invite him back to their place since his meatloaf has burned because Oscar wasn't paying enough attention to it. He's in like Flynn, right? Uh, yes, but he doesn't want to go with the girls because he's feeling vulnerable. Great stuff. And it's made even greater with a style that minimizes editing and maximizes the wonderful eight-room apartment set. You've got Jack Lemmon and the slouchy, pouchy Walter Matthau for Chrissakes, why mess it up? The visual style reminded me of Breakfast at Tiffany's, in that great effect is made from a large depth of field and the interplay between the various planes of action. Particularly memorable is the scene in which Felix, fleeing from Oscar, closes a partition only to realize the partition doesn't cover the side where Oscar is coming from. You get a real sense of the layout of the apartment, and thus the proximity in which the two divorcées live. The twist here is that these two are really married — to each other. So the observations about married life that might be ignored in an ordinary romantic comedy are made all the more poignant since they are two guys.

Sometimes directors are like kids in a candy store. They love the idea of playing with shiny toys so much they lose their heads. The only reason Martin Scorsese agreed to make The Aviator was so he could do the flying scenes and recreate the old Hollywood films he loves so much. Similarly, Tim Burton could not pass up the chance to create the most wonderful candy factory ever imagined. Just think of the wonderful CG effects and a budget he would have died for to make Edward Scissorhands! But when directors forget what made them famous, they fail. It's the story, stupids. And both films go down in flames (albeit spectacular flames), because the directors sacrifice the integrity of story for the glory of the image. Burton's mistake is an unfortunate attempt at remaking a movie that really didn't need remaking (a disturbing trend, after Planet of the Apes). In fact, I would argue making any studio movie out of a book that pretty clearly has a negative opinion of overconsumption is missing the point. There's a character named Mike Teevee for fudgemallow's sake. The only way to be faithful to Dahl's ideals would be to take authorship of the screenplay and not worry so much about being truthful to the book. The Charlie this film really needed was Kaufman. A book is a book, a screenplay is a screenplay and never the two should meet. For example, in a book it is perfectly fine to veer off into the stories of other characters because a reader is making a time investment significantly greater than two hours. But in a movie, the main character drives the movie. You can have one, two, five or 20 main characters, but they must all have their own story arcs and not be abandoned for large chunks of the movie. In this case, the movie is called Charlie & the Chocolate Factory, but poor Charlie ends up playing second (and often sixth) fiddle to Willie Wonka and his shenanigans. All the emotional momentum built up in the first act is let out in favour of CG trickery and a most-puzzling performance by Johnny Depp. By ignoring Charlie's plight and focusing on the back story of Wonka and the demise of each child, the scenes lack any emotional punch. What does Charlie feel about his fellow Golden Ticket winners? What does he think about Willie Wonka's behaviour? The book and the original honed in on the boy's relationship with his Grandpa Joe. In the remake, the pair are just along for the ride, to be drudged up conveniently in the third act. Now this might work if Charlie were replaced by another sympathetic character. But Depp's Wonka is just plain creepy. He seems to know the plight of each child, yet allows them to suffer, even taking pleasure in their pain. Father or no father, this is just demented. C&TCC is supposed to be a morality play for kids, not a horror show. What kind of message does a film send when such sadistic behaviour is justified on the grounds that the character didn't get candy as a kid? Many have compared Depp's portrayal as being Michael Jackson like. And for good reason. Wonka is a wild success at what he does, locks himself off in a palatial property, behaves like a child and ends up buying himself the family life he couldn't achieve. Now just imagine a film in which children are sent to Neverland with their parent's permission and come out emotionally scarred. Does that sound like a movie for kids?

Everyone I've asked has maintained the sequel to Before Sunrise is superior. I disagree. Perhaps they related to Jesse and Celine later in their lives, or maybe they just prefer Paris to Vienna. In baseball, however, when the ball and the runner reach the base at the same time, the tie goes to the runner. In the case of originals and sequels, ceteras para bus, the tie should go to the original: without it, there would be no sequel. The characters, the tone and the structure were developed in Sunrise first. I suppose this is the place where I would review the film, but it seems unfair to divulge any of the lovely secrets embedded in almost each scene, lest the reader hasn't seen the film. You really ought to discover these things on your own. But for what they are — well-plotted, exceptionally well-written conversations perfectly synthesized by the actors and shot in a glorious cinematic style — these films are perfect. Frost once wrote that great art came from freedom within the reins. Linklater adheres to this, allowing his premise to guide him. THe result is his films never try to be too much, yet they build tension like no Michael Bay film.

Rarely do I like the post-modern device of telegraphing the ending of a film at the beginning. It usually reeks of pretension, as if the filmmaker is saying, "My film is so important, it doesn't need trivialities like suspense." But done thoughtfully, the technique can build tension and draw in the viewer rather than alienate. This is the Case in The Upside of Anger, which leads off with a scene with the main characters on their way to a funeral. Director Mike Binder uses this to advantage, however, so that each scene is imbued with tension it otherwise would have lacked. Of course the ending will be the hook that draws most into conversation about this film. Is it manipulative? Does it fit? I argue not only does it fit, it gives you two films in one; the one you just saw and the one which you will replay in your mind given the ending. The film is not without flaws. In family films, as with actual families, sometimes one child is given less attention. In Upside, it's Keri Russell's character who almost seems to be from a different family altogether. This may be Binder's point, but by not amalgamating characters, he is forced to balance too many story lines, neglecting more interesting relationships. For example, Binder's character, "Shep," is a gem in this picture and really has a unique point of view. The film seemed to be begging for a final scene between "Shep" and Joan Allen's character. The score is also weak, relying on clichéd cues to tell us whether a scene is comic or dramatic. The strength of this picture is that it defies labels — it is a drama with comic moments — and the music belies this. In any case, every single actor is exceptional — especially Costner and Allen's. Every time Costner seems to have slipped into parody, he delivers one of these sublime performances that remind you why he's a screen idol. And if Allen isn't nominated for awards aplenty for her work here, I suppose that would be the downside to The Upside of Anger.

Caught between a 7 and an 8, I'm taking the lower number here just because the material here is so unchallenging for Owen Wilson and Vince Vaughn. I realize this is like saying Michael Jordan was too good, but in the movies, especially in romantic comedies, actors must take chances, otherwise there is no tension. Even in a silly picture there are plenty of opportunities to say something about the romantic condition, and while Wedding Crashers wants to say something, it ultimately chickens out, lest it offend the mostly married or coupled people who will buy tickets. It's a great premise with two brilliant comic actors. You will have a good time as the script is one gag after another. It's got Christopher Walken and a cameo by one of the Wilson/Vaughn clique that I won't give away because he truly is funny here. I'm sure every one will choose their favourite line or gag (Grandma calling Eleanor Roosevelt a rug muncher, the touch football game, etc.). But my main criticism here is that the little details are not tended to. For example, when the two leads have a falling out, why don't they see each other at work? Why include the scene when the boyfriend hires private investigators to find out who Vaughn and Wilson really are when it turns out it's the priest who rats Vaughn out and Wilson was ready to come clean with the Rachel McAdams character. Just because the filmmakers wink at clichés, does not mean they aren't still clichés. Why does the stock boyfriend character get so much screen time establishing him as evil when that was established just perfectly with the touch football game and his nauseating stories about scallops and sea otters. We get it, he's a dork — now back to the gags. For a movie called Wedding Crashers, too much time is spent away from both weddings and crashing. Story lines seem to be brought up and discarded (eg. the opening scene shows the two mediating a divorce, but their occupation is never brought up again; Rachel McAdams' family loves sailing, there is a short sailing scene, which turns into hunting. They never said anything about the family loving hunting. It's just an excuse for a lame ass gag). Vaugn and Wilson know better. They've been in Swingers and Bottle Rocket respectively, comedies that stayed true to their premise. That may have meant fewer kicks to the groin, but it made for superior movies.

Thank goodness we live in a system in which films like this get made. Stolen premise? Sure. Amateur acting? Uh huh. Lousy production values? Guilty. But it doesn't matter. If you can rope Andy Dick, Ron Jeremy and a few of your closest porn actresses into playing along, you've got a movie many will watch. Ironically, the one thing a film about porn lacks is a strong female character — the actress here is cute, but her performance is reminiscent of, well, a porn actresses. The beauty of this set-up, which is really nothing more than a bar conversation ("Did you see Being John Malkovich? Wouldn't it be funny if it was Ron Jeremy instead?), is that since it's about porn all the lousy things about it can easily be construed as an homage to the industry. Unfortunately, comedy does require a deft touch, and the director (who I think was also the writer and star) may have taken off more than he can chew. There are some decent gags here that a more experienced comedic director would have milked. The guy is still charming, and one hopes he continues writing more material. Speaking of charming, how about that Ron Jeremy? He manages a rather difficult feat, playing a lovable guy who just happens to be a porn actor. Again, he could use some direction and needs to hone a more naturalistic style, but Hollywood loves a crossover and this, coupled with his stint on The Surreal Life and his role in the cult film Orgazmo show he's capable of one day playing a character other than Pizza Guy or Plumber.

How ironic that a movie that takes its name and basic thesis from the work of Christopher Hitchens and features interviews with Hitchens should go against all that Hitchens represents. I urge anyone who sees Thr Trials of Henry Kissinger to read Hitchens' review of Michael Moore's Fahrenheit 9/11 (http://slate.msn.com/id/2102723/) to get a real sense of what Hitchens believes about propaganda films. What would he make, for example, of the juxtaposition of Kissinger with Hess, Pinochet and other murderous dictators. I would further recommend the superior documentary The Fog of War to shed just a tiny bit of light on the context in which these alleged war crimes occurred. This is not to diminish the excellent work Hitchens did in chronicling U.S. foreign policy, just to make the point that this doc would have been improved if the director stuck with Hitchens and didn't go off on all these tangents. It is telling how enthralled these directors were with their alternative cult of personality that they should try to bring down Kissinger with their own charismatic nutbar — Michael Tigar. Tigar has little to say about Kissinger, but weaves a wonderful, if loaded, story about Pinochet's arrest by a London bobby. You can almost see the spittle forming at the mouth of this man, which kind of gives away all sense of objectivity the filmmakers might have had. We're going after right-wing political figures and we'll use all tools at our disposal to make the case. Never mind that Tigar's story has nothing to do with Kissinger, except to suggest this is the time to nail him. Never mind if we use pop songs (Mr. Bigstuff. No really, very subtle), rapid-fire editing of war images to illustrate points about diplomacy, the whole bag of tricks. I half expected a stuttering Charlton Heston to appear and defend Kissinger, although Alexander Haig is a good substitute. Note to documentarians: leave your agendas at the door. The only people who will be swayed by your pastiche storytelling techniques are the converted and the ignorant, everyone else can see right through you, even if they lack the sophistication to pinpoint their skepticism. Countering propaganda with more propaganda brings your arguments down to the level of propaganda. While I realize telling stories about people who won't co-operate with you is difficult, that does not make it right to sweep their side under the carpet.

Among comedic talents, only Jack Black and Will Smith have the ability to carry a picture solely based on their personalities. Ben Stiller needs a good script. Vince Vaughn needs a sidekick. Even Will Ferrell needs some guidance from a director. But put Black or Smith in front of a camera, get out of the way and you'll have a hit. School of Rock was a short film plus an hour of Black mugging with kids — and it worked. In Hitch, Smith is too perfectly cast as a charismatic date doctor who overcomes his alleged fear of love and some weak editing to rake in close to $175M on a $70M budget. The man has played a gay con man (Six Degrees of Separation), one of the most charismatic figures of the 20th century (Ali), an action hero (Enemy of the State, Independence Day) and now a romantic lead. If he chooses to I have no doubt he could become president. That's how much magnetism he has. But somewhere along the way, one hopes he will make some choices to do some edgier material. I mean, c'mon, he could have played this role high on Benadryl. That said, there are some things to recommend here, especially Smith's underrated value as a straight man. When you have the energy Smith has it must be difficult to play second fiddle to another actor, but that is what Smith does in his scenes with Kevin James. Even though I had seen the ads, trailers and TV clips for this one ad nauseum, I still found the dancing scene hilarious, and while obvious credit goes to James, it is Smith's generosity that allows this scene to work. Also interesting are the observations about modern dating that reminded me of an updated Alfie (but not the actual update). Unfortunately, the director working with a sketchy editor and some convoluted writing, got lost along the way and stopped giving us these moments. I'm still not sure why the talking-straight-to-the-camera approach was abandoned. It seemed to work well with this premise. The biggest problem with the story is that we are supposed to believe Hitch, who caught his college girlfriend kissing another dude, has sworn off love because of the incident. This is fine, although it seemed tacked on, but we never see how this transformed him into a guy who will only help men who truly love their prospective mates. How did he learn all these tricks? And how did he make the transformation from geek to stud? But more importantly, if he's sworn off love for himself, but not for others then why does he try to woo Eva Mendes' character? It's not for a booty call, since he went to all the trouble of an elaborate proposal and an even more elaborate date. When it comes down to it, not enough time is invested in these two seemingly perfect people to understand what their problems are. Thus their relationship never seems to be in doubt, a requisite for creating drama. The real story here is James' characters wooing of Allegra. It is sweet, makes a lovely point about being yourself and would have been paid off nicely had the editors not been in such a hurry to rush their moments to get back to Smith and Mendes. All the pieces were here to write a movie on the level of Jerry Maguire, the film they reference here, but they didn't all fit together. But don't worry, the dance sequence at the end will make it worth it and show why Will Smith will someday rule us all.

I'm not sure if a second screening would benefit War of the Worlds or detract from it, but since most of us only watch films once in theatres, I suppose it should be judged on the first go around. The most impressive thing Spielberg accomplishes here is effecting fear. You might think in our multimedia world that folks would be immune to the manipulation of cinema, but sure enough when I looked down my row, my girlfriend had her hand over her mouth, the guy next to her was absentmindedly chewing on a serviette, his girlfriend's mouth was agape, etc. Whatever you might think about Spielberg, this is an impressive feat. That said, with the weapons at his disposal I honestly think he could have done more if he was willing to take some chances. The Orson Welles' version worked precisely because the world he broadcast to was not plugged in to the media. Welles capitalized on this, playing to an audience that listened to radio for both news and drama. Because they couldn't see the events described they were forced to use their imagination, which we know can be more terrifying than reality. As Marshall McLuhan would say, the medium was the message. But in a world of 1000 TV channels, live Internet streaming and embedded war reporters, a film must truly do something remarkable to transcend the medium. Perhaps this is why Hollywood is in such a slump: they keep trying twists on the same narrative structures, and people are willing to stay home and wait for these stories. If ever a movie called out for some experimentation to rattle the audience's cage, this is the one. Films like Elephant, Gerry, 5 x 2, Memento, Irreversible and 21 Grams are the future of cinematic narrative because they challenge and force a viewer to participate. As impressive as the references and special effects are here, this is a movie you can set your watch to — even if some electromagnetic pulse manages to stop it.

I'm not sure if any movie that has an abortion scene like the one here should be termed a comedy, but whatever the classification if it's got Michael Caine in it you can be assured of a decent performance. I admit I'm on a bit of a Caine roll having watched The Italian Job, Get Carter, Alfie and Batman Begins, but this dude can act. And unlike others who have reputations as great actors (Pacino, Brando), he does it so effortlessly and within the flow of the film. It's never about MICHAEL CAINE THE ACTOR, it's about telling the story. The man just seems so comfortable in front of a camera, which is perfect here since he narrates the entire film into the camera. He's so good here, you almost forgive the strange British timing that prevailed at this time. Perhaps it's just my North American upbringing, but nothing in British films of this time (I would include Antonioni's Blowup) seems paced to please. Scenes seem less punchy, moments drawn out, giving the viewer more time to contemplate, or if you're not the contemplative type, to become impatient. This is not a criticism, just an observation. Another observation is that important characters in these films are introduced later in the films, almost randomly. I suppose this more resembles everyday life, but it makes for less tidy storytelling. In Alfie, for instance, I think the best scenes were between Alfie and Shelly Winters' character, but they are far and few between. Still Caine's performance vastly outweighs any plot shortcomings. I'm not one for superlatives, but this guy is the real deal, know what I mean?

This film sets up DJing as a hollow art form, which even a coked-out slob such as Frankie Wilde could become idolized for. I believe director Michael Dowse wants us to wonder what the big deal is about clubbing and to question the validity of Frankie's fame. And I think all of these questions are paid off when Frankie, now completely deaf, rediscovers the meaning of music. Dowse is really saying that in order to truly appreciate sound, you must first turn down all the noise around you. I thought the scene when Frankie finally matches the soundwaves on his computer and the subsequent comeback club scene were very powerful. I understood, for the first time, what people mean when they jabber on about an awesome DJ. Frankie is a bit of a parody in the opening of this picture, very VH1 Behind the Music, but his transformation is hardly standard. Dude locks himself in a padded room and kicks his coke habit, but only after lighting firecrackers attached to his head. This is not how most people deal with a physical disability. Those expecting a Fübar-type romp, which, other than an appearance by the Fübar boys, will be surprised. This is a dark, dark story with few laugh- out-loud moments. But that doesn't mean it isn't successful. In fact, I think the film is more successful as a tragedy than a comedy. Much of the humour is ripped off The Office, right down to the David Brent-like studio head. Also, the ending is very Pollyanna with Frankie teaching deaf kids to dance, marrying his teacher, having a kid, etc.

Instead of asking "will they end up together" Francois Ozon's latest asks "how did they end up apart?" Many comparisons have been made to Memento, but I think the narrative device is closer to Irreversible, another at-times-unwatchable French film. In Irreversible the rape scene is in the the middle, here it is at the beginning. Both films end (begin) with the couple in paradise. However, in 5 x 2, the cruelty is much more emotional than physical. Some critics have dismissed the backward storytelling as a gimmick, but I would argue Ozon does it to play with the audience's expectations, specifically the desire to assign blame to one or the other party. Most relationships, of course, are both, but we are conditioned to choose sides. Who cheats first? Who really cares? The end result is the same, and without knowing all the information who's to say cheating is bad. The order of the scenes is also closest to the way actual memory works, with the most-recent events taking precedence over older memories. It seems the device also works to stimulate a viewer's imagination to fill in the narrative blanks. Is the opening sex scene anal rape? Was Gilles making up the story about the orgy? Is the child the American's? Did Marion go to the spa expressly to meet Gilles? Will they get back together? These are some of the questions that have been interpreted different ways, much like the ending to Ozon's Swimming Pool. The way you answer probably has much to say about your outlook on relationships. The romantic would say it was coincidence they vacationed together, that Marion was perfect for him and that their wedding was a fairytale, except for the American who practically raped Marion. Gilles stayed away from the hospital because, like all men (including Marion's father), he was squeamish and unsure, He did apologize and showed his love for the boy in a later scene. The couple had troubles and sure, they divorced, but they obviously still love each other since they were willing to have sex one last time. The cynic might say Marion went to the spa to steal Gilles away from his girlfriend. Then on the happiest night of her life, she was so selfish she snuck away to cheat on him. The reason he stayed away from the hospital is because the baby was the American's, and the only reason he loved the child was to use him as a pawn to get back at her. They divorced, and he used the occasion to rape her. Any way you look at it, the story stays with you and brings up important questions about fidelity, repression and the institution of marriage. Very brave performances by the leads, who were not afraid to show the ugliness of life.

How do you build a legend, especially a legend that has already been built? That is the monumental task Christopher Nolan takes on in Batman Begins. And damned if he doesn't pull it off. Set pieces, acting, sound design — all impressive stuff, but most important here is the script. Nolan and his co-screenwriter manage to tell a story that transcends the genre — a more intelligent blockbuster you will not find. Perhaps because Batman is just that — a man — the screenwriters are able to avoid allegory and suspend disbelief. The superhero here is exactly that — Nietzche's ubermensch — someone who realizes his potential through discipline and singularity of purpose. He doesn't have any ridiculous powers, so he is always in danger, and his triumphs are all the more impressive. In particular, Nolan explores the concept of confronting that which one fears the most. In Bruce Wayne's case it is bats, but obviously it is much more than that. The man has some serious abandonment issues, which drive him to avenge the death of his father. The bats just symbolize these abandonment issues as his last memory of his father was of him saving him from a bat-infested well. Wayne finally becomes a man when is willing to destroy or seemingly destroy all that his father stood for, including, in the climax, his father's greatest legacy, the monorail. On a meta level, Nolan makes savvy references to historical incidences that symbolize fear in society. There are the shots of bats attacking, an homage to the master of fear, Alfred Hitchcock, to the Lee Harvey Oswald killing that symbolized the seeming anarchy following Kennedy's assassination and to the widespread panic that followed 9/11. (The overlying theme, I'm sure, is captured even more succinctly in the opera which precedes Bruce's parents' death and which is picked up in Hans Zimmer's score, although I'm not familiar enough with opera to place the reference.) These references are subtle so as to add a layer to the film, not subtract from it. They put the Batman legend in context — the act of creation, whether it be art or a symbol of justice, is the best device to cope with trauma. After directing the lower-than-low budget Following, the indie hit Memento and the low-budget- for-a-studio-Insomnia, you could make the case Nolan has confronted his deepest fears by taking on a complex, huge-budget franchise. Other than the miscasting of Katie Holmes and giving in to the blockbuster mentality in the third act, Nolan has succeeded.

Directed by Dennis Hopper. Now there are four words that you don't want to see in the opening credits. They evoke a feeling of helplessness, like the feeling I got driving with my grandfather in the latter stages of his life. He wore these wraparound sunglasses so you could never tell if he was looking at the road we often veered from; lanes did not apply. And when someone passed him he took it personally, cursing at them in his Scottish accent, then speeding up to catch them. He was like Mad Max for seniors. Come to think about it, a movie about good IL' Papa driving across the country in his New Yorker would make for an interesting movie. You know, man, about how America devalues its seniors. There could be a scene where Papa meets up with another senior at a diner and they pop their thyroid pills. Trippy. Yeah, and you could shoot the pill scenes in washed out 16mm, you know, to show how crazy the pills make them. And then at the end, some young punks who represent the youth that's always disrespecting their elders could drive Papa and his pal off the road. End of movie. I just checked and that plot took about eight minutes to think up. Which, since it is loosely based on Easy Rider, is about right. For all that it represents — rebellion, freedom, Peter Fonda's career — this movie is a stinker. Granted, Hopper, like my dearly departed Papa, does make it to the end without driving headfirst into oncoming traffic (barely), but the trip is so harrowing it hardly seems worth it. Take the characters (please). Hopper plays, well, Hopper, a drugged up ranting lunatic. This persona served him well, but in the service of other directors. But with his severe personality, it seems no one was willing to check his acting choices. The result is an intensely unlikeable character who, when he's not taking drugs or ranting, is pawing every girl he comes across. I guess sexual predators were just a part of the Summer of Love. Hopper's character might work if he was paired up with up a charismatic partner, but instead we get Fonda fils. Living up to the reputation of his father must have been difficult, but it might have been easier if he didn't choose the exact same vocation. Poor Pete just doesn't have much of a personality, certainly not enough to carry a plot less feature. So what we get is two losers travelling across the land, meeting other drugged-out, semi-literates. There are things to recommend about Easy Rider — Laszlo Kovacs is the real star of this picture; his cinematography is quite brilliant, especially his landscape shots. Fonda said he thought Easy Rider was like a western, but on bikes through John Ford's America, and while the comparison to Ford is ridiculous (Ford put more thought into one line than these clowns put into an entire movie), Kovacs captured the road beautifully. Another positive is Jack Nicholson, who doesn't arrive until 45 minutes into the film, does his best to save the picture, then gets bumped off. It's almost like the paranoid Hopper got rid of Nicholson before he could take over the movie. And what of the legendary ending? What does it represent? The end of an era? True freedom? The river that man built versus the river God built? I've always thought marijuana tends to dumb people down. It seems to turn off the switch that judges, so that everything is equally funny or interesting. It's almost like an attempt to revert to childhood, when cartoons and junk food were all you needed to have a good time. The script and the acting in Easy Rider were obviously fuelled my copious amounts of dope. And when it came time to end the thing, I think Hopper, Fonda et al. did what any kid would do — they blew it up.

I've never really enjoyed westerns. They just seem so cliché, all that landscape, dust and gun fighting. And how could they possibly pertain to my urban existence anyway? I doubt I could name more than five that I've seen (Shane, Quicksilver, The Lone Ranger, does City Slickers count?). But The Searchers has convinced me that maybe I should look deeper into the genre. (Of course, the only reason I rented The Searchers is because Paul Schrader said he based Taxi Driver on it.) Yes, the film has landscape, dust and lots of gun fighting, but it also has stunning cinematography, memorable characters and a complex story that put an interesting twist on all those clichés. Take the set-up for example. Uncle Ethan (John Wayne) moseys back to his brother's homestead after serving as a Confederate soldier. Everything seems just fine except that the returning hero really doesn't seem like much of a hero at all. He's curt, has his eyes on his brother's wife and is racist towards Indians, even his adopted nephew, who is one-eighth Comanche. Then his likable and accommodating family is killed off by the very Comanche he detests. This is akin to Hitchcock killing off Janet Leigh in Psycho. All bets are off, and the viewer can only guess as to who else will be killed off by the end, which is crucial when it comes to the climax. The final showdown with Chief Cicatrice is so nuanced, you might think it is simply another gunfight. But pay attention and you will see how every question the film has raised — how could the niece have betrayed them? is the nephew his own man or just Ethan's pup? — is paid off here. Ethan's subtle transformation is especially refreshing in light of the recent success of heavy-handed inferior films about racism such as Crash.

What is it about boxing stories that captivate filmmakers so? Because I am starting to feel like I've had my brain knocked loose watching these things. I realize they offer an easy device to externalize an actor's character, and they allow for lots of crazy hand-held shots in a smoky arena, but enough is enough. Do something different with the genre already. Million Dollar Baby substituted a girl for a man, but then fell into the same trap of clichés: the training, the rise to the big break, the title fight. Fortunately it wasn't really about fighting and transcended the average boxing sequences. The sequences in Cinderella Man are technically impressive enough, and so they should be: they were lifted almost directly from Raging Bull: one of the greatest films ever made. Russell Crowe's character is full of bull, too. His nickname is the Bulldog, and like De Niro, he studied the sweet science very closely and trained to look like a professional pugilist. However, out of the ring Crowe's portrayal of James Braddock is more staging than raging. The man is perfect. Doesn't have any bad habits, does all his fighting for his kids and wife, who have the happiest home life ever, even when they are destitute. And this is what makes Cinderella Man a contender that doesn't deserve a shot. In this film it's not the Great Depression, more like the Depression We Can Get Through If We Just Stick Together. The really interesting part of this story would have been if they showed us how this up-and-coming contender suddenly lost everything. We know he made some bad investments, but why didn't he reach out then to his boxing cronies? How did this affect his character? Because when we're thrust back into the story, now in the middle of the Depression, Braddock is just hunky-dory. Sure he's scrounging for shifts at the docks, and he breaks his fighting hand, but not once do we see him or his family break. Even when his son steals a salami, good IL' Dad makes him take it back, but then tells his son he understands that he was scared. Somehow, through a stacked, schmaltzy script, I honestly started wondering what was true about this "true story." Which seems to be to be a great disservice to the man, James J. Braddock, who really did accomplish these things. It was the Great Depression, for goodness sake, it's OK to show him really break down or have an argument with his wife. I'd admire him more, because he'd at least be more human. The film also does a great disservice to the Great Depression. Much like in Seabiscuit, another plucky character who spoke for the masses, the Depression is presented only in its appallingly worst and with no real analysis: For example, the stock market crashed, but no one can really tell you why, except for platitudes about greed. But the real reason crashes happen is because governments start insuring investors, who then over-invest (most recently in dot-com start- ups). Off topic I know, but the point is let's stop glorifying this one version of the Depression. I had no idea how great a film Grapes of Wrath was until watching these big-budget, studio films that miss the point: if you're making a film about the worst economic time in U.S. history, maybe you shouldn't be spending so much on extravagant boxing sequences and big-name salaries. Renée Zellwegger, a fine actress always, is not needed in the role of the perfectly supportive wife. Her casting only takes away from the real relationship in the film, that of Braddock and his trainer. Paul Giamatti really zings in this picture and his characterization is neither a grizzled, lovable old man ( Burgess Meredith in Rocky, Clint Eastwood in Baby) nor a shyster. He's somewhere in-between. Very strong work, back where he's best, in a supporting role. Crowe also does good work here, especially in the ring, but also in the unemployment lines. He's one of the best working, I just hope he tries picking more nuanced roles like his work in L.A. Confidential, and stops Oscar-baiting.