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.
In an effort to provide a thrilling new twist to their legacy, Cinematic Titanic decided to plunge into the cherished vaults of their forefather “Mystery Science Theater 3000” to pluck a feature film to riff anew. Sounds a little strange, doesn’t it? I’m sure eye-bleeding sacrilege to some. However, the results snuff out the initial unsettling vibes, with Cinematic Titanic adding another energetic brew of laughs to their flourishing library.
“Australia” is not a motion picture odyssey for curmudgeons or cynics. Director Baz Luhrmann is stretching for classic movie poses within a film of marathon sweep and locale, and he achieves his lofty goals with this exhaustively enchanting romantic adventure, making the obscene wait between movies (seven years!) seem all the more easy to comprehend. Luhrmann isn’t desperate to rewrite the rules of cinematic spectacle with “Australia,” he only wants to play in the sandbox of yesteryear’s lavish big screen achievements, while drizzling on his own imaginative flourishes.
Since James Bond is currently clogging the pop culture air, allow me this comparison: “Transporter 3” is like watching “Casino Royale” right after heartily enjoying “Moonraker” and “Octopussy.” An attempt to butch the franchise back up after the thickly frosted, logic-free happenings of the last installment, “Transporter 3” actually prefers gloom and doom, thus creating a joyless machine of violence, absent the spark of delirium that made previous efforts barrels of fun.
OK, it’s obvious to me now that Vince Vaughn shouldn’t be let anywhere near screenplays that revolve around Christmas. Perhaps the seasonal fumes cloud his judgment, but for the second year in a row (remember “Fred Claus?”) Vaughn has created a disturbingly frantic holiday comedy that runs itself ragged to achieve laughs, quickly becoming an utter annoyance. I know Vaughn can be a comic dynamo, but good heavens, keep this man away from the holidays.
It’s hard not to feel an attack of the yawns with “I Can’t Think Straight.” After all, it’s a fairly routine story of newfound lesbian rapture told with draggy melodrama and general overemphasis. However, the film is cast well with striking actresses Lisa Ray and Sheetal Sheth, who provide some needed emotional buoyancy to an otherwise unsuccessful attempt to merge hazardous sexual identity with turbulent world politics.
Perhaps the least likely event movie in the history of cinema, “Twilight,” after a full year of fire-stoking from fangirls of all ages and lung capacity, finally hits screens to greet its adoring followers, leaving the uninitiated on the outside looking in. However, that’s a great place to be when it comes to this impossibly sloppy, incoherent motion picture; the outside leaves plenty of leg room to run screaming from Catherine Hardwicke and her absolute inability to direct a stirring motion picture.
Emerging from Disney’s wounded in-house animation arm, “Bolt” is as routinely arranged a tale as the Mouse House is capable of telling. However, the lack of screenwriting imagination is offset by the inherent charm of the picture, resulting in a pleasing arrangement of CG-animated action set-pieces and slapstick comedy to push “Bolt” beyond the repetitive family film norm.
Only taking a few trips to the Universal Studios Orlando Resort over the last month, it's easy to see construction on the Wizarding World of Harry Potter is coming along…just slowly.
The James Bond franchise isn’t known for its employment of top-tier action directors, but the series has made it this far with an agreeable roster of journeymen filmmakers. What I fail to understand is the hiring of Marc Forster to helm the 22nd installment, “Quantum of Solace.” Did I miss the kinetic mayhem of “Monster’s Ball?” The sexual electricity of “Finding Neverland?” The searing emotional complexity of “Stranger Than Fiction?” It floors me that Forster was even allowed to say the name James Bond in public, much less call the shots on this, one of the superspy’s lousiest outings. Yeah, yeah, I know: he’s good with actors. Well, good with actors with a terrible eye for action in a Bond film is a cocktail to be shaken, stirred, and immediately spit out.
BRIAN ORNDORF 