Perhaps not the most mesmerizing of love stories, “Last Chance Harvey” submits one of the most richly acted illustrations of attraction found this year. A performance showcase for Dustin Hoffman and Emma Thompson, “Harvey” slips into a tranquil mood of burgeoning chemistry, following an unlikely couple not energized by a sitcom screenplay basted in comedic coincidences, but an adult yarn regarding a couple of lonely souls eager to make a connection.
The performance that Mickey Rourke delivers in the remarkable motion picture “The Wrestler” is something that has been passionately mined from deep within the recesses of the spirit. To great delight and unspoken relief, the picture backs up Rourke’s effort to perfection. Certainly not an easy film to absorb with a single bite, “Wrestler” is a pummeling experience of raw intensity and dire futures, orbiting around Rourke and his astonishing pro-wrestling majesty; a splendid presentation of wounded ego within a feature of breathtaking observation.
Once upon a time Jim Carrey couldn’t tell a lie. Now he can’t stop saying yes to every opportunity that comes his way. Reshuffling a comedy concept a little to the left, “Yes Man” has Carrey trying to reclaim his bygone slapstick glory days, scraping the gunk off his comic timing and sprinting toward low-calorie bellylaughs. The effort is appreciated; however, the film still leaves much to be desired.
The tears flow like a raging river in “Seven Pounds,” the latest Oscar-baiting step from Will Smith to solidify himself as an actor for all seasons. A murky stab at articulating emotional paralysis, “Pounds” plays dirty, selecting a path of confusion to unfurl its ache, resulting in a near absence of psychological or emotional connection the movie is absolutely desperate to conjure.
Entering a cluttered marketplace of World War II-era Holocaust tales (joining “Good,” “Defiance,” “The Reader,” and “The Boy in the Striped Pajamas”), “Adam Resurrected” does enjoy the novelty of being the strangest film of the pack. A haunting, yet decidedly off-putting odyssey of psychological meltdown and crippling grief, “Resurrection” is built on a foundation of shocking dehumanization, yet doesn’t have the sense to pull back and let the images sink in organically.
“The Tale of Despereaux” is actually quite a misleading title. There’s so much oddity floating around this misguided film, it leaves little room for our hero to accomplish anything worthy of sole title ownership. He’s rendered a footnote in a cluttered fairy tale yearning for a sense of whimsy, only to conjure great bewilderment instead.
Never the ambassador of understatement, Clint Eastwood fits “Gran Torino” comfortably alongside the rest of his directorial oeuvre. A pleasurably performed character study of racism and redemption, “Torino” doesn’t have much nuance to soothe the demanding filmgoer; the pleasures of the picture emerge from the vigor of the acting and the manner Eastwood sticks to perhaps outdated storytelling techniques to preserve his version of tension.
On the unnecessary remake scale of brow-furrowed disgust, I would rate this new pass at “The Day the Earth Stood Still” fairly high; not only because the film endeavors to “reimagine” the 1951 Robert Wise classic, but because it dares to drag perfection in the opposite direction. Refusing to take Wise’s nuanced lead, the new “Stood” is a grotesque creation that prefers noise to thought, clumsily slapping together an eco-minded warning siren in the guise of a bloated Roland Emmerich creation. We already have one Emmerich, the world doesn’t need a second version running around.
Guilt is what drives “The Reader” to unsettling highs and low of conduct. It’s the essence behind Stephen Daldry’s latest film, his first since 2002’s “The Hours,” and a picture that isn’t easy to deconstruct at first glance. Daldry works the senses and emotions to build a striking sexually charged drama, taking specific interest in the interior of the characters and what compels them to swallow the anguish they obviously desire to expel.
Even in the cluttered battlefield of Academy Award-sniffing dramas, “Doubt” registers as something exceptional. There’s certainly enough dramatic meat to chew on for days after viewing, but the picture is made extraordinary by the performances, which all contain reverberating, harrowing depictions of the title burden. “Doubt” is a magnificent experience all around, but the acting, the gale force wind of top shelf performance, will leave you slack-jawed and hungry for more.
“Desperate Housewives” meets drive-in exploitation cinema in “While She Was Out,” another cringing reminder how the era of true sleaze dried up decades ago. Trying to merge a chase film with little bursts of suburban paranoia, the picture whimpers around, attempting to stall long enough to fulfill a contractual feature-length running time. The goal is achieved, but the movie is a chore to sit through.
“Milk” is compassionate, enraged, evocative, and upsetting. I can’t believe Gus Van Sant directed it. After eight long years of cinematically picking lint out of his bellybutton, Van Sant returns from the void of his scarf collection with this noble bio-pic, a film awash with colorful characters and a pinpoint recreation of a time and place in history that would forever change the world, all started with one man’s desire to feel acceptance in the most vulnerable of spaces: the soul.
“Nothing Like the Holidays” is a Puerto Rican Christmas movie, with emphasis on the PUERTO RICAN. A flavorful banquet of yuletide neuroses, a ticket to “Nothing” should come with a seat belt to best endure the roller coaster of melodrama that makes up the majority of this dramedy. It just wouldn’t be Christmas if there wasn’t a group of actors pushed into a room together with thin characterization, forced to fight for limited screentime.
Director Kelly Reichardt has established herself as a keen observer of behavior, preferring extended takes of actorly response to augment her overall goal of profound minimalism. Reichardt is a gifted visual composer and a dream with actors, but a little from this filmmaker goes an awfully long way. “Wendy and Lucy” steps further into Reichardt’s cinematic meditation, yet shows her straining to reach lofty emotional goals.
The background information for “Delgo” lists a production schedule of an astounding five years. After watching this offering of CG-animated fantasy fluff, I’m curious as to why it took so long to assemble what comes off as a routine family film experience; a film of almost dogged mediocrity. “Delgo” finally hits screens after such an extensive delay, but there still lacks a single compelling moment in the film to recommend an immediate viewing.
Parts of “Cadillac Records” surface as warm reminders of a timeless musical era. Most of “Cadillac Records” comes across as a miserable “Saturday Night Live” skit without the benefit of a sleep-deprived audience to feign approval. A musical bio-pic of the famed Chess Records blues factory of Chicago, “Cadillac” is a frustratingly thin depiction of songwriting euphoria and industry deception; the film preferring to convulse recklessly to paint a crude mural of legendary artists when an old fashion heapin’ of focus was in order.
One of the many complaints that greeted the 2004 adaptation of the Marvel Comics bruiser “The Punisher” was the lack of…ya know, punishing. Well, Hollywood has heard the cries of those dear comic book fanboys, bringing on “Punisher: War Zone,” and all this baby does is punish. Sadly, the real suffering is inflicted on the audience, who might respond to the sheer carnage of this update, yet are forced to endure directorial blunders sprayed all over the picture before the reward of the unholy hurt.
To best savor the intellectual showdown “Frost/Nixon,” one has to accept actor Frank Langella’s coagulated, faintly vampiric take on the disgraced 37th President of the United States. It’s a phlegmy, Herman Munster approach to an impersonation, bending the performance into near cartoonish realms of awkward mimicry. Fortunately, it’s the only hiccup in Ron Howard’s crisp motion picture; a literate, riveting war of minds that manages to examine a well-worn historical footprint without feeling fatigued in the slightest.
As a heroic figure of genre entertainment, it’s impossible to top Bruce Campbell for larger-than-life depictions of masculinity blended with a touch of cowardice. The charismatic star of the “Evil Dead” movies is perhaps the most self-aware of cult celebrities and nothing underlines his crooked sense of worth more than “My Name Is Bruce,” a spirited romp of self-deprecation and beheadings that might not hold appeal to the ordinary viewer, but remains absolute catnip to Campbell fans.
Matching the mess made of his August opener “Bottle Shock,” writer/director Randall Miller returns to cinemas with the equally-as-troubled “Nobel Son.” Well, return is a strong word, since “Son” was shot three years ago and is barely seeing a legitimate theatrical launch. Frankly, I can’t blame the distributor: this bogus cutting-edge thriller is obnoxious and repellent in any direction it stands, mistaking distasteful tonal changes for cinematic razzle dazzle.
BRIAN ORNDORF 