Author: BO

I’ll give director Drew Barrymore this: she made Ellen Page appealing. “Whip It” takes the tart-tongued “Juno” star to the crashin’, smashin’ world of roller derby for a coming-of-age dramedy that bites off a little more than it can chew. Energetically woven by Barrymore, the film suffers from an acute case of the adaptation blues, trying to cram in as many plot points as possible to fill its belly with caloric melodrama. It’s a diluted journey of feminine self-realization, better with bruises and teamwork than it is with pliable matters of the heart.

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There’s no anniversary or birthday to celebrate here. Disney is just taking the “Toy Story” franchise out for a test drive, kicking the tires while “Toy Story 3” prepares to assault family moviegoing budgets next summer. Redressed in the trendy 3-D format, 1995’s “Toy Story” and 1999’s “Toy Story 2” are invading theaters again, this time as a snazzy double feature — a multiplex value meal if you will. This rerelease allows audiences not only a chance to reacquaint themselves with lovable old friends, but also to view the vibrant Pixar-crafted toy world with an extra dimension, refreshing dusty animation with a welcome high-tech polish. 

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Bloody, quippy, high tech, and pop culture savvy, “Zombieland” is a pre-packaged cult sensation. It’s a dizzying geek event righteously lubed up for heated message board debate, ironic t-shirts, and bountiful midnight screenings. Thankfully, the movie has ample cockeyed spirit to back up the exclusionary reaction it will undoubtedly generate. It’s a brief, barreling, jaw-cracking action picture, good for a few sizable laughs and some prime examples of splattery zombie-killing business. It’s a horror-comedy done proper, taking a far more endearing, freewheeling stance when it comes to busting open the undead, revealing there’s still some life left in the densely populated zombie genre.

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“I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell,” based on a book by author Tucker Max, spent a few weeks on the New York Times Bestseller List. Forgive the disrespect, but who in the heck is Tucker Max? Clearly the man has some sort of following, necessitating a feature film version of his successful novel (though let’s be fair here, both Artie Lange and Tori Spelling also scored time on the Bestseller List). After seeing the picture, perhaps it’s best to keep a safe distance from Max, since he comes across as a truly nauseating human being. Who knows how the man conducts himself in civilian life, but as a force of entertainment nature, he’s the worst thing to happen to cinema in a very long time.

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“Pandorum” is primarily sponsored by claustrophobia and glow sticks. Created with slippery, slicing European instincts, this sci-fi/horror voyage into the dark recesses of the mind is perhaps best appreciated with the sound off. A gorgeous production design can’t save the picture from trying too hard to dazzle with very little inspiration, and while “Pandorum” is easy to stare at, it can be a seriously punishing sit.

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Director Jonathan Mostow has never offended me as a filmgoer. His pictures have been routinely well constructed and visually interesting (“Terminator 3,” “U-571,” “Breakdown”), even in the face of underwhelming plots and misguided performances. “Surrogates” is undoubtedly a misfire for the filmmaker, but it’s an interesting failure, peppered with a few memorable sequences and an appropriate, timely message highlighting the acceleration of social disconnect. While ambitious, the rhythm is off on this limping picture, with the fingerprints of severe studio interference smudging up the movie from the start.

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While sitting on the shelf for quite some time now, Paramount Pictures recently figured out a way to properly sell the $11,000 chiller, “Paranormal Activity.” Playing up the film’s haunted house aspect and psychological grip on select members of test audiences, the studio is raring to fashion a fresh “Blair Witch Project” moviegoing event, to build something extraordinary out of an exceedingly modest motion picture. I’m not suggesting “Activity” isn’t effective, but those purchasing a ticket would be well advised to bring expectations down to a dull roar, allowing the movie a fighting chance to frighten.

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For his seventh feature film, Michael Moore assumes his prominent position of government watchdog, gathering fragments of corruption and humiliation to mold his latest attack on the powers that be in, “Capitalism: A Love Story.” Obviously there’s plenty of maddening evidence to work with, and while the picture comes off as overstuffed and unfinished, it still squeezes out incredibly forceful points on the diseased state of the union. Whatever it lacks in a red-target focal point, it’s still Moore doing what he does best: chipping away the layers of fraud that have calcified America, hoping to inspire others to storm the streets and question authority.

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Remaking the 1980 Alan Parker hit, “Fame,” makes sense to me. After all, every teenager in the world today seems to be primed for a career in stardom, weaned on “American Idol” and the string of stupidity that makes up the nightly programming blocks on MTV. It’s a story that offers ample elbow room to indulge fantasies of idolmaking, but I was plenty stunned to find the new “Fame” shallow and charmless, especially when it has not only a feature-film guide rail to work with, but a successful television spin-off as well. Instead of seeking reverence, the producers gave the film to an untested director and stripped all the grit right out of the material. What was once a neurotic, awkward climb to the summit of personal achievement has been molested into “High School Musical 4.” Coco would not approve.

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In 1993, filmmaker Jane Campion stunned the world with her soulful, harrowing portrait of warm-blooded lust, “The Piano.” Suffering a few creative setbacks over the years, Campion returns to fertile artistic ground with “Bright Star,” a similarly heaved portrait of love’s unforgiving boundaries. Lacking a certain spark that justifies its excessive length, “Bright Star” does manage to recharge the director’s creative batteries, with material that allows Campion to exercise her amazing ability to depict love’s ever scarring touch.

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Putting together a magazine has always appeared to me to be an impossible gauntlet of stress and dedication. Assembling the obscenely high profile fashion bible during its largest issue is a proposition fit for the loony bin. Enter Anna Wintour, the editor of Vogue, and a woman of precise temperament and icy control. Dispatching her underlings, photographers, and models early in the year, Wintour begins to assemble a phone-book-thick beast of a magazine, created for a prime, exalted month devoted to the next big waves in fashion and celebrity. It’s known worldwide as “The September Issue.”

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Had Jim Henson simply rested after giving the world The Muppets, nobody would’ve complained. After all, that Kermit-led revolution changed the face of family entertainment and restored some needed edge to G-rated comedy world. However, Henson was an energetic, curious creator, which led to a follow-up project that ate away years of his life, severely challenged the agility of his performers, and solidified him as an absolutely dazzling filmmaking architect. The picture was “The Dark Crystal.”

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There are certain decisions a film production can make that will immediately cast doubt on the mental capacity of those in charge. Hiring irritating actors Judy Greer and Dan Fogler to play buddy roles in “Love Happens” is a terrific way to state to the audience that filmmakers have little to no imagination, looking to the routine and the tiresome to squeak by with a minimal amount of effort. “Love Happens” isn’t a horrendous picture, but it could’ve been so much more vital and textured, and it could’ve done without the wretched BFF sleepwalking of Fogler and Greer.

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Grief, death, and rusty scissors collide in Lars von Trier’s “Antichrist.” A metaphysical sojourn with cinema’s loudest spoilsport, the picture stuns and sickens, almost daring viewers to keep watching as it articulates the ravages of the unwound mind, filling the frame with demented acts of unspeakable violence and deeply considered thematic stimulation. For fans of Trier, “Antichrist” is a return to his once irresistible provocative appetites, shamelessly exploiting suffering and misogyny to generate the outrage that fuels his daydreams (and bank accounts). It’s a pitch-black torrential downpour of pain, and should only be approached by those willing to allow Trier 100 precious minutes to play his madcap mind games.

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